Last Stand: Turning the Tide (Book 4)

by William H. Weber

  The suggestion caused an immediate knot in John’s belly. Sure, she was the enemy. But killing for killing’s sake was never a good policy. If anything, it only threatened the lives of their own citizens caught behind enemy lines or in some cases in North Korean concentration camps. A sickening image of Gregory and Brandon starving and pleading for help flashed before him.

  “That’ll only offer the Chinese a justification for even worse atrocities.” John turned to Moss. “Any word on those leaflets Emma was working on?”

  “I think she’s only just started,” Moss replied, leaning back in his chair. “My guess is if we put a few more people on it, we can have enough for a drop by tomorrow.”

  “What drop?” Brooks asked.

  “Over the Jonesboro concentration camp,” John said. “We need to let them know we haven’t forgotten about them.”

  The expression on General Brooks’ face made it clear offering hope to imprisoned Americans wasn’t high on his list of priorities. “Anything else?” General Brooks asked, annoyed.

  “The detonation of that EMP will surely cripple the enemy’s ability to wage war. Now we wait for word from General Dempsey on what to do next.”

  “If he knows anything,” Reese said, “he’ll launch an attack as soon as possible.”

  “It would be wise if we leave the strategic decisions to those in charge,” General Brooks snapped.

  The look in Reese’s eyes was calm, but John could tell the sniper was battling the urge to jump over the table and throttle the man.

  “All right. This meeting is hereby adjourned.”

  They all rose from the table and filed from the room. All except for John and General Brooks, who was still gathering his papers. John went to him. “I think it’s time we began getting Oneida on a war footing, don’t you think? And I’m not only talking about soybeans. Once we get that power back on, as limited as it might be, we’ll be able to create a small munitions factory and pump out mortars and Molotov cocktails.”

  As usual, Brooks looked skeptical. “Where are we going to get the metal and components for that kind of thing?”

  “We have all the components we need.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Mortar tubes can be made from schedule 80 steel pipe, the same stuff used as the electrical weatherhead on the houses in town. Another option is axle tubes from old trucks. Listen, everything we need is at our fingertips as long as we’re open and creative enough to recognize it’s there. All that’s missing is power. And whatever we lack from wind, we can get from using engines from trucks and abandoned military vehicles. We’ve been on the defensive for so long we haven’t had a chance to use what we’ve already got to get back on our feet.”

  “And what’s to stop the Chinese from catching wind and bombing our factories into the ground?”

  “Nothing,” John said. “But my guess is right now they’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

  “Hey, if it’ll get you off my back for a while, then go ahead.”

  John left and headed for the radio room, where he found Rodriguez reinstalling the equipment they’d kept sealed in the Faraday cages during the recent operation.

  “I have a message for General Dempsey I need you to deliver to Wilbur.”

  “The pigeon man?” Rodriguez asked, plugging his earphones in.

  John scribbled down the message on a small slip of paper: Mission successful. EMP detonated with noticeable effect. Awaiting further orders. He folded it up and slid it into a tiny pouch Wilbur would later attach to the bird. “About that other thing we discussed earlier…”

  “About suspects?”

  John nodded.

  “Nothing so far.”

  “Roger that. Keep looking.”

  John turned to leave the radio room only to find a female soldier standing in the doorway. She was a redhead in blue and black fatigues. The name tag on her chest read O’Brien.

  “Colonel Mack,” she said sheepishly.

  “Yes. What can I do for you?”

  “I believe I met your son at the front.”

  John’s eyes grew wide. “Gregory?”

  “He was with an older boy.”

  “Brandon.”

  “Yes, they were both very eager to fight.” Her eyes fell. “I was there when the whole center line folded in on itself. It was pure chaos. We fled the front lines, but not before I saw that whole part of the trench surrender to the enemy. I hesitated to tell you before in case you were upset that they surrendered, but I figured, if it was me, I’d want to know the truth no matter what.”

  John swallowed hard, fighting back the tears. “So they’re alive?”

  O’Brien nodded.

  He cupped her shoulder. “You did the right thing.”

  She smiled. “You’re not disappointed in them?”

  “Not in the least. They did the only thing they could. But it also means there’s still a chance we can get them back.”

  Chapter 12

  Knoxville, three hundred and sixty-five days before EMP

  A month after returning from his final deployment in Iraq, John found himself at the Back Door Tavern on Kingston Pike, seated at the bar and working on his fifth beer. The mirror behind the bar showed a grizzled and tired man looking back at him. John’s dark, normally neatly cropped hair hung past his ears, pulled back from his forehead with nothing more than the sweat of a man who hadn’t washed in a handful of days.

  The place wasn’t so much seedy as it was small. Behind John was a row of booths and in the corner a pool table where two men cracked balls back and forth, a noise which made John jump whenever he heard it, although nowadays just about any loud noise set him on edge.

  The tavern door opened, letting in his friend James Wright along with a burst of mid-afternoon sunlight. Lanky but powerful, Wright had served under John as First Sergeant while they were stationed at Camp Stryker in 2006, around the time that PFC Steven Hutchinson and PFC Ryan S. Davis had been abducted and murdered by insurgents.

  While on deployment, the men in his regiment had taken to calling the sergeant Johnny Cash on account of his deep voice and obsession with striking it rich. Like so many other vets, Wright had also changed significantly since returning from Iraq. The most noticeable difference was that he hardly smiled anymore. James slid into the seat next to him.

  Next to his empty beer mug, John’s cell phone started to vibrate. Diane was calling him again.

  “You gonna take that, LT?” James asked, watching the phone buzz away.

  John glanced down at Diane’s smiling picture on his display screen. “Not just yet. And stop calling me LT. It’s John or nothing.”

  James nodded. “I can drink to that.” He waved the bartender over, a fiftysomething in a tank top three sizes too small. “Two beers.”

  “I thought the wife told you not to come back here, that if she caught you drinking again she’d toss you out on your keister?” John asked.

  “She did. Heck, I’m supposed to be at Jack in the Box, getting food for the fam. I’ll just eat a mint on the way home and tell her the car ran outta gas.” James’ hand was on the bar, his fingers twitching. John pretended not to notice, especially since his often did the same.

  The two drank in silence for a moment, but James wasn’t able to sit still. His gaze kept returning to those two men playing pool, then to the entrance and back toward the emergency fire exit in the rear. John recognized immediately what he was doing. He’d done the same the minute he entered the bar. Wright was making a threat assessment and searching for possible routes of escape.

  Over in Iraq, the risk of coming under attack had been a constant concern. It didn’t matter if you were back at base or on a patrol. Death could be around every corner, behind a smiling face or a double-parked car. IEDs detonating under your vehicle, snipers shooting you in the throat, or insurgents lobbing mortar rounds into the base and running away—those were the forms that threat normally took. Never-ending danger and extreme frust
ration at an enemy who refused to fight toe to toe were just a few of the realities men like John and James had faced overseas, many of which they’d brought back with them into civilian life.

  By comparison to a combat zone, the need for operational security in a tiny bar in Knoxville was slim to nonexistent, and yet the compulsion remained and, for John at least, was growing stronger every day.

  John finished his beer just as his phone began to ring again.

  “One more drink,” he whispered to himself.

  James was watching the phone as well, two men lost in completely different thoughts.

  “I gotta go,” James said suddenly. “You got this?” He was speaking about the tab. Like John, James still hadn’t found a job.

  “All good,” John replied.

  “I may be back later.”

  John laughed sardonically. “If I’m still here do me a favor and shoot me, will ya?”

  James slapped him on the back, rolled off the stool and headed for the door. “Roger that, LT.”

  John bit his lip.

  The tavern door peeled open, burning John’s corneas again. When it swung closed, John found himself alone once more with his own dark thoughts and the sound of cracking billiard balls.

  “You all right?” the bartender asked. She was blonde, or at least this month she was, her harsh features softened only slightly by too much makeup and the dim pools of light around the bar.

  John glanced up. “Couldn’t be better.”

  The bartender looked over at one of the pool players who’d sauntered over to order a drink.

  “Two Budweisers, Viv,” the man said, winking. He was smacking his lips on a wad of gum, made him look like a cow.

  The bartender smiled. “Sure thing, Stan.” She went to the fridge.

  Stan leaned closer to John. He was somewhere in his forties, dark curly hair and a goatee. “I couldn’t help catch that friend of yours called you LT.”

  “That’s right,” John answered, struggling to focus through the beer haze.

  “You a Marine?”

  John shook his head. “Army. 278th Armored Cavalry.”

  “Cavalry? I thought they got rid of horses and buggies a long time ago?”

  John remained quiet.

  “Cowboys and Indians, get it?”

  “Yeah, I get it.”

  The smile on Stan’s face wavered. “Hey, friend, loosen up, I’m just joking with you.”

  Staring down into his drink, John said, “See, friend, the problem is jokes are supposed to be funny. So forgive me if I’m not rolling on the floor busting a gut.”

  “Hey, if you can’t take a joke, that isn’t my problem.”

  “And it isn’t mine if you can’t tell one.” John’s voice was rising and now the pool player’s friend was coming over. This guy Stan had been trying to antagonize him, had waited until Wright had left the place before having some fun with a guy who’d had too many beers. John’s fist tightened around the handle of his beer mug.

  “I’m not here for trouble,” John told them. “Just back outta my space and we’ll chalk it up to a misunderstanding.”

  “I’m not backing outta anything,” Stan said. “You vets think just because you fought in Iraq it gives you the right to cuss off anyone you like.”

  “I’m warning you.”

  “You’re warning me?” Stan laughed. “Now there’s a good joke.”

  He stepped closer and was in the process of raising his hand to jab a finger into John’s chest when the beer mug shattered over his head. Stan’s legs gave out at once and he flopped onto the floor. His friend looked on in horror, eyes wide, his lips parted.

  In John’s hand was what was left of the beer mug, the handle and a serrated edge which he held out in front of him.

  “Get outta here before I call the cops,” Vivian the bartender screamed.

  John snatched his phone off the bar and staggered for the door, stepping over Stan’s unconscious form in the process. The light outside was near blinding as he wobbled outside. His F-150 was out front and he went for the keys in his pocket before realizing his fingers were still laced through the remains of the shattered beer mug. He let it fall to the ground with a clink of breaking glass and noticed for the first time that his right hand was dripping blood. He wiped it on the leg of his black jeans and a thin gash appeared across his right palm.

  In spite of the stinging pain and the shame he felt for what he had just done, John was also dimly aware that when he was drunk, he wasn’t thinking about the past. He stumbled into his truck, started the engine and marshalled his powers of concentration to back up and work his way home.

  He was driving down Kingston Pike when a call from Diane came in. John answered it.

  “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for more than an hour.”

  “I was interviewing for a job,” John lied, adding to the already horrible way he was feeling.

  “Really? You never mentioned anything about that.”

  “I’ll fill you in when I’m home. Did you need something from the grocery store?”

  “No,” Diane said. “I just got a call from Christopher Lewis’ wife.”

  “My old JTAC?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.”

  “I got that part already. What’s wrong with Christopher? He in trouble?”

  “No, John. He’s dead.”

  “Dead? But how?” he asked, although part of him already knew the answer.

  “He hanged himself.”

  John didn’t say a word after that. The beer haze which had been hounding him since he got behind the wheel of his truck was suddenly gone. In fact, all John felt was a numbness, creeping up his legs and into his head. That was the only way he knew how to keep the pain at bay, to prevent it from taking over his soul, from destroying him.

  Chapter 13

  Oneida. Present.

  The next morning, John awoke to find Henry in the radio room. All of the equipment was back in place and fully operational.

  “Is there a message you need to get out, sir?” Henry asked, removing his headphones.

  “It’s four in the morning,” John said. “Why are you up?”

  Henry grinned. “I might ask you the same thing. The truth is, I don’t usually get more than a few hours’ shut-eye a night. I prefer to scan the airwaves, searching for other communities out there in all this mess. Many of them are isolated and afraid. Sometimes I’ll find a family in a cabin somewhere behind enemy lines who’ve spent the last three days watching Chinese supply convoys heading east. After that latest EMP, it’s been a good opportunity to get some data on damage assessment.”

  John couldn’t help but be impressed. “There was something I’d been meaning to ask you.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “I can see how passionate you are about reaching through the airwaves to Americans on either side of the battle lines. Have you ever considered starting a radio program, one we would broadcast every day with updates from the front and tips on living off the grid?”

  Henry practically beamed. He reached into a drawer and withdrew a sketchbook, flipping the pages until he arrived at a series of three-dimensional letters he’d drawn. Together they spelled The Stand Against Tyranny.

  John stared down at it. “What’s this?”

  “My radio show. At least the one I’d been planning to start once the war was over.”

  “Why wait for the war to end? This is something we need now. Maybe even something we can use to help organize the resistance.”

  John was referring specifically to the Allied use of radio stations like the BBC during the Second World War. Members of the resistance would be given orders to hit specific targets or gather for larger operations by listening for key words spoken during an otherwise normal broadcast.

  John started to leave and then planted his feet. “You know, my only problem is the name,” he said.

  “You don’t like The Stand Agains
t Tyranny?”

  “It sounds too angry. You want something that’ll motivate and inspire. How about The Voice of Freedom?”

  •••

  John was heading back to their living quarters when he saw Diane was awake.

  “I can’t say I’m surprised to see you up so early,” she said, rubbing her tired eyes. “I came to find you after the debriefing with General Brooks and you were sprawled on the bed, passed out.”

  He smiled. “It was only supposed to be a quick nap.”

  “Maybe, but your body said otherwise.” She went up and slipped her arms around him. “I’m glad to have you back in one piece.”

  His expression changed.

  “I heard about Jerry,” she said, holding him tighter.

  “I wanna say he knew the risks, but he was practically shaking during the flight to Oak Ridge.”

  “He went out making a difference, John. Isn’t that what most folks dream of?”

  “I still can’t wrap my head around the timing of that Chinese attack.”

  Diane loosened her grip and stared into his eyes. “Ask any good detective and they’ll tell you there’s no such thing as coincidence.”

  “That’s what’s bothering me.”

  “Need I remind you your only proof Phoenix exists is the word of a single POW who was being tortured?”

  John frowned. “Not when she mentioned the spy she wasn’t. I could understand if we were in the middle of waterboarding her and she threw it out there to get us to stop, but that confession happened long after.”

  Wringing her hands behind his back, Diane let go and pulled away. “I’ve been going back and forth about something, but after what you just said, I feel there’s something I should tell you.”

  “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

  “Oh, stop. Of course I’m not. It’s about Phoenix.”

  John grew more serious as Diane told him how she’d seen Rodriguez acting suspiciously yesterday.