The Line of Departure: A Postapocalyptic Novel (The New World Series Book 4)

by G. Michael Hopf

  Conner climbed up and took Schmidt’s spot in the turret. “Let’s go, drive forward,” he barked.

  Baxter looked at the tank with Conner riding high and shook his head at the bravado that Conner was displaying.

  When the crowd saw the massive tank, fear and disbelief spread through their ranks. Many stopped chanting and yelling as they started to step away from the gate.

  The tanks lumbered toward them, through the heavily guarded and barricaded checkpoint, then stopped with a jerk. Conner’s protective detail came running alongside the tank and stood ready.

  Inside, Conner took a breath, closed his eyes in preparation for the tense exchange he was about to have with the group. When he was ready, he climbed out of the turret and stood upon the top of the tank.

  Gasps and chatter erupted from the crowd as many recognized Conner.

  Standing like a giant, he bellowed, “I’m Brad Conner, President of the United States! Who’s the leader of this mob?”

  Heads turned and the chatter grew louder after Conner’s question. An uncomfortable moment passed before a man raised his arm. “Here, I represent the Republic of Lakotah!”

  “What is your name?”

  “My name is Mark Ironside; I’m a facilitator for the government of the Republic of Lakotah!” shouted the elderly man of Native American decent.

  “Mr. Ironside, there is no government of the Republic of Lakotah, because no such country exists!”

  “President Conner, we don’t need you to validate our existence.”

  “No such country exists and this mob needs to disband immediately!”

  “We are here today to formally present our declaration of independence. Today we declare ourselves a free people once again. The United States invaded our lands many years ago, and through force, we had treaties thrust upon us. Your government violated those treaties, which make your claims over our lands null and void. We are here today to tell you to leave our lands and to fully recognize us as a free and independent state!”

  Conner smiled, his confidence buoyed by the platform he was speaking from. “Mr. Ironside, the country you speak of does not exist; we will not recognize your secession. I am now asking you again to disband this mob immediately.”

  Almost on cue, the rumble of tanks was heard behind the crowd.

  Conner looked up and saw a dozen M60 tanks heading down the road toward them, flanked by hundreds of armed men. The show of force was incredible. He looked down at Major Schmidt and winked.

  Schmidt’s tanks and men spread out behind the crowd, effectively boxing them in.

  Ironside whipped around and watched in fear as the tanks lined up behind his people. The anxiety in the crowd intensified as they began to stir, and the pitch of conversation escalated.

  “Mr. Ironside, you have one chance to go in peace. We do not wish for this to become something that cannot be reversed.”

  Baxter couldn’t believe the direction this was going. Conner told him he was only coming down here to talk, but clearly he had other ideas about how to handle this. By the look of the crowd there was a mix of what looked like fighters and non-fighters. He wasn’t concerned that they’d lose a physical fight; he was concerned they might lose the political one if there was bloodshed.

  “President Conner, we are not going to leave! We will not until you free those you have imprisoned and formally recognize us!” Ironside yelled. A few dozen in the crowd cheered.

  “I don’t know where all of you come from, but I am asking you to disband and go home. Do not be a part of this, you can’t win. If you don’t leave, I can’t promise your safety!” Conner yelled.

  “We will fight if need be!” Ironside yelled.

  Conner again ignored him and hollered, “Please open up to allow those who seek peace with us to freely go home!” he yelled out to Schmidt’s men.

  Baxter stepped closer to the tank and said, “Mr. President, what are you doing?”

  Conner looked down and replied, “Taking our country back.”

  “Sir, what are you prepared to do to those who don’t leave?” Baxter asked, clearly concerned.

  Conner didn’t answer Baxter; he didn’t have time for a debate on the matter.

  Ironside turned to his people and yelled, “Do not leave! We can do this. We can’t let them run over us like they did when they first invaded our lands!” His words were falling on deaf ears as droves of people in his group began to leave.

  Conner watched the group’s size melt away to no more than a hundred. He looked out on those hardliners who remained and knew that he had to go forward on his threat and take direct action.

  “This is the last warning. You have thirty seconds to disperse or else!”

  “Why won’t you talk with us? Why are you resorting to violence so quickly?” Ironside yelled at Conner. He turned to those who remained and commanded them to lock arms.

  “Your movement is violent in and of itself. Your desire to break away from the United States is a direct threat to its security and therefore must be dealt with harshly. Movements like yours weaken our nation and we will not negotiate with the likes of you. Like we did in Montana, we are taking a stand against all separatists!” Conner bellowed.

  Unmoved, the group sat down and began to chant, “Lakotah, Lakotah, Lakotah!” over and over.

  Conner was fully committed now to doing what he had to do. A burning desire now raged within him to crush those opposed to the United States. For too long he had used the strong opposition to his nuclear strikes to temper his responses to those he perceived as a threat, but seeing these people before him, daring to challenge him, that temperament disappeared. Unfortunately for the Lakotah, they had picked the wrong time to make a stand. Today was Conner’s reemergence as a decisive and firm leader.

  With a nod to Schmidt, soldiers marched on the Lakotah protestors. Those who had stood with Ironside rose with makeshift weapons and began to fight.

  Conner watched with a glimmer in his eye as the soldiers and Lakotah clashed violently.

  “Sir, we should go!” Baxter hollered.

  “I won’t retreat to the comfort of my office. This is where I belong.”

  The fighting was brutal but it took only a few minutes for Schmidt’s men to subdue the Lakotah.

  Schmidt walked into the fray with a collapsible baton extended and began to hit some of the protestors. Whoever got in the way of his reaching the leader, he struck. When he reached the old man, now cowering on the ground, he bent down, grabbed him by his bloodied T-shirt, and pulled him to his feet. Schmidt dragged him to the tank where Conner stood overseeing the fight.

  Conner looked down on Ironside and smiled. He jumped off the tank. “I gave you a warning and you didn’t heed it. You had your chance. I’m a fair and equitable man. I gave you a choice,” Conner said, and snatched Ironside by the collar and turned him to face the aftermath. “You see what you caused? It didn’t have to be this way.”

  Blood dripped from Ironside’s chin and nose. “We will not surrender, we will fight for our freedom,” he spat at Conner.

  Schmidt struck Ironside on the head with the butt of the baton.

  Conner wiped off his face and smiled. “You are no different than the other opportunists who seek to destroy our great country while we’re in a weakened state. I will not allow it.”

  “We will never surrender, never!” Ironside declared, his voice garbled as blood filled his mouth.

  Conner leaned in and stared into his dark brown eyes. “You’ve already lost. Right now, we are sending teams to clean homes out, and we are not stopping there. We will arrest anyone who proclaims allegiance to your group. We will try them and if they are found guilty we will execute them for treason.”

  Ironside’s eyes ballooned.

  “I got your attention, didn’t I? Just remember that this is of your doing, not mine.
Major, take him away from me,” Conner ordered.

  Schmidt forcibly took him to a truck and loaded him onboard with others from his group, many of whom couldn’t walk. Their limp bodies were being carried and tossed in the truck.

  Baxter walked up behind Conner. “So, this is the new strategy?” he asked angrily.

  Conner pivoted and answered him. “Not by choice but by necessity.”

  Schmidt ran up and said, “What are your orders, sir?”

  Conner patted him on the shoulder. “Great job today, Major. Great job!”

  “Yes, sir. Your orders?”

  “Just clean up. I trust you have it under control,” Conner responded.

  Baxter looked on as both men talked. Now more than ever, he was feeling isolated from how things were being conducted. He wasn’t sure how to process his emotions but he felt jealous of Schmidt. Conner had without a doubt taken a liking to the young officer and was now confiding in him. Baxter never thought of himself as an envious man but for a multitude of reasons this emotion was overtaking him and he didn’t like it.

  Schmidt saluted, turned, and walked off.

  “General, you look . . . shocked.”

  “Actually I am, sir. I don’t think this operation with Major Schmidt was a coincidence. This was coordinated.”

  Conner took a step toward him and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Today we took a stand against the enemies of the United States. You may not agree with some of my tactics or even the strategy, but what happened here today was necessary.”

  “I thought you were going to include us in these decisions,” Baxter said, reminding Conner of his earlier pledge.

  “General Baxter, you’re just going to have to trust me.”

  “Yes, sir. Sir, if you’ll excuse me, I want to go help Major Schmidt process our new prisoners.”

  “Good man, go do that. I think I’m going to go back and—” Conner said, then stopped himself short when he saw Pat in the distance.

  Pat was staring in his direction, and when they locked eyes on each other, his face expressed disappointment. Conner thought about speaking to him, but he hesitated. He wasn’t in the mood to hear objections, even from a friend. He wanted to keep the high he was riding for as long as possible. He raised his arm and gave a slight wave, then turned and headed back to the capitol flanked by his security detail.

  Coos Bay, Oregon, Pacific States of America

  Gordon and Finley sat pensively as the armored Humvee wound its way through the lifeless streets of Coos Bay. Samantha and Haley had been on Gordon’s mind more and more. He hoped that soon he’d be on his way back to McCall. Each day that passed added to the pain he felt being separated from them.

  “Is the phone turned on?” Gordon asked.

  “Yeah, don’t worry, Prince Charming, it’s on. If we have coverage and she calls, it’ll ring,” Finley sneered.

  Gordon ignored Finley’s comment and stared out the window as they passed one empty house after another. After clearing the last checkpoint, the activity on the streets went from barely detectable to nothing. His assumption was that they were in a secure area, meaning that Barone must be close by.

  “What are you going to do if it rings while you’re talking with the good ol’ colonel and it’s your wife?” Finley asked.

  “You’re going to give me the phone is what’s going to happen,” Gordon said.

  “Ha. You know something? I’m going to be a nice guy today. Here, take it,” Finley said as he offered the phone to Gordon with a broad smile stretched across his face.

  “Serious?”

  “Yeah, take it. Don’t ever say I never gave you anything.”

  Gordon took the phone. He immediately looked to confirm it was turned on. He unbuttoned the top pocket of his long-sleeved shirt and slipped the phone in.

  • • •

  The Humvee pulled up to a small white house with black shutters at the end of a cul-de-sac. Two armed Marine guards approached and escorted Gordon and Finley to the front door. There they were told to leave all weapons and then were frisked to ensure they didn’t carry any guns. The guard frisking Gordon felt the phone and took it out.

  “Sorry, no weapons, phones, or recording devices.”

  Just as the Marine reached for the phone, it rang.

  The wrenching feeling in Gordon’s gut was gone and replaced with excitement.

  “Samantha?” Gordon asked into the phone.

  “Gordon, oh my God. I . . . believe . . .” Samantha said, her voice breaking up.

  “Sam, you there?”

  “. . . ordon, it’s Hal . . .”

  “What’s wrong, Sam, you’re breaking up!” Gordon spoke loudly into the phone; he could hear the urgency in Samantha’s broken voice.

  The phone suddenly went dead; he looked at it and pressed the button to redial.

  “Sergeant Van Zandt, you need to go, the colonel is waiting.”

  “Hold on, I need to try and reach her,” Gordon answered. Frustration built in him as the call wouldn’t connect.

  “That beep means no signal, boss,” Finley said.

  “Damn it!” Gordon exclaimed.

  “Sir, the colonel is waiting,” the Marine said firmly with his hand out.

  “But I need . . . this call is important,” Gordon pleaded.

  Finley stepped in and said, “Really, Van Zandt? I’ll go in first.”

  Gordon pushed the concern out of his mind, knowing that getting the meeting over with Barone was critical to completing the mission. He could not allow Finley to go in first; he needed to explain to Barone who Finley was. “No, I’ll go. Here,” he said, handing the phone to Finley. “If she calls, find out what’s going on, please.”

  Gordon turned to the guard and held up a bottle of scotch. “Is this fine to bring in?”

  The guard grabbed the bottle and examined it, then handed it back. “Sure.” He hollered to his colleague. “He’s clear.”

  Another Marine came out and escorted Gordon inside. He looked around and was surprised to see the small living room was empty except for two lawn chairs. The only light emanated from underneath a door at the end of a long hallway. The guard stopped him just before he entered the hallway. He was surprised that with all the troubles, Barone didn’t have more men guarding him.

  “Go ahead, it’s the door at the end of the hall,” the guard instructed.

  Gordon nodded and walked the remaining distance down the creaking wooden hall until he reached the door. He paused a moment before he knocked. He wasn’t sure what he’d be encountering on the other side but he needed this meeting to be successful. With his nerves calm, he tapped on the door.

  “Yes, come in!”

  Gordon recognized the raspy voice; he grabbed the cold brass handle and opened the door. There in a queen-sized bed, Colonel Barone was sitting up, with half a dozen pillows stuffed behind him. He was wearing only a green T-shirt with matching green shorts. His leg was wrapped with a thick bandage. Papers, binders, and books were spread across the bed. The nightstand was overburdened with half-empty glasses, medicine bottles, tissues, bandages, and a Beretta M9 pistol.

  Barone looked up from a pad of paper he was drawing on and said, “Come in. Sit down over there.” He squinted and then added, “Van Zandt, what the fuck!”

  “Hi, Colonel, good to see you,” Gordon said, still standing.

  “Close the fucking door and take a seat,” Barone barked.

  Gordon did as he said and sat down in a small chair against the wall. He surveyed the room, which resembled any ordinary bedroom. Chest of drawers and a dresser against the walls, small runner carpets at the foot of the bed. The most important thing he studied was Barone’s leg.

  “Did you trip?” Gordon joked.

  “Motherfuckers were lucky last night. I took a round, but it will take more than
this to stop me. You should’ve seen me. I kept fighting like a good Marine,” Barone said proudly.

  “Is it bad?”

  Barone rubbed the bandage and answered, “Nah, stings a little but the meds help with that.”

  “This might help too,” Gordon said, holding up the bottle of scotch.

  Barone was clearly in need of bifocals, as he held the bottle at arm’s length and read the label. “This is a very nice bottle of scotch. You’re a good man and this is another example of that.” Barone opened the bottle. He grabbed the half-full glass on the nightstand, took the last gulp, and filled it with his new gift.

  “Sir, you know why I’m here. Meaning why I’m in Coos Bay.”

  “Out fucking standing, that is top notch!” Barone yelped after taking a long drink, ignoring Gordon’s comment.

  Gordon watched him in amazement. It appeared that the man just didn’t give a shit about anything.

  “I was sent here by President Conner. He wants to know what’s happening with you. I wouldn’t have done it if my brother and his wife hadn’t needed medical care that could only be provided in Cheyenne,” Gordon said. His voice cracked a bit; he couldn’t help his nerves.

  Barone finished the glass of scotch and returned it to the nightstand. In one quick motion, he picked up a pistol and pointed it at Gordon.

  Gordon jerked in his chair as he stared down the muzzle of the handgun.

  “What are you doing here, Van Zandt? Are you here to betray me too?” Barone bellowed.

  Gordon held his hands high and said, “Colonel, if you shoot me, you’ll never know why I’m here and what’s going on.”

  Barone didn’t flinch.

  “Please put the gun down,” Gordon pleaded.

  “Ha, ha, ha, I’m fucking with you, Van Zandt,” he said, laughing, then tossed the pistol onto the bed.

  Gordon exhaled heavily and relaxed into the chair.

  “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, I already know,” Barone said.

  Gordon raised his eyebrows, surprised by Barone’s admission that he was fully aware of Gordon’s mission.

  “What do you know?” Gordon queried, curious as to what Barone might divulge.