by Payne, T. L.
When everyone had safely reached the second row of vehicles, the soldiers took off toward another. The high beds on the military trucks made it impossible to see what or who was on the other side. Hollingsworth stopped, pressed his shoulder against the vehicle, and peered around the back toward the front of the museum. A second later, he gestured for them to move again. As soon as he stepped from behind the truck, a bullet cracked somewhere to their right, sending Wallace diving back behind the vehicle. More rounds peppered the vehicles to their right.
Will and the others squatted, trying to keep the truck’s engine and tires between them and the bullets flying.
“Keep your heads down!” Hollingsworth shouted as he stuck his head up and returned fire overtop the hood. He dropped down and grabbed his head with both hands. “Shit! Shit! I’m fucking hit!” he yelled.
Wallace moved forward and returned fire, shooting around the front of the vehicle. After a few rounds of automatic fire, he stopped and helped Hollingsworth remove his helmet. He held it up to him to see. “Your helmet saved your ass.” The side of the helmet had a small hole, and blood spotted the interior. “Are you bleeding?”
Hollingsworth touched the side of his head. His fingers came away damp.
“Let me see,” Wallace said. He probed the wound with tactical gloved fingers. “Just a scratch,” he declared.
Hollingsworth strapped the helmet back on, grabbed his rifle, and moved to the rear of the truck. As he disappeared, Will’s heart flipped in his chest. A moment later, the gunfire concentrated on the back end of the vehicle. It was terrifying being pinned down with rounds striking nearby and not having a weapon with which to defend himself. He prayed nothing happened to Hollingsworth and hated that he and Wallace were Will’s only hope of making it to find his son.
The shooting stopped, and Hollingsworth reappeared. “Let’s move!” he said as he took off for the next row of vehicles.
Stephens tapped Isabella on the shoulder. “Follow him.”
Isabella’s head pivoted to face Stephens. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She looked like a deer caught in headlights.
“I got her,” Wallace said, taking hold of her by the shoulder. He stepped in front of her. “Stay on my left.” The two took off for the next row.
Pop! Pop! A cacophony of gunfire erupted.
Wallace dropped to the ground in a heap, his helmet bouncing off the pavement. Isabella froze, staring down at him. She looked up in the direction of the gunfire and screamed.
Will ran to her. “Get his arm,” he said, grabbing hold of the soldier’s vest. Isabella stared blankly at him for a second before sliding her arm under Wallace’s armpit. As they struggled to pull the soldier out of the line of fire, Stephens and Betley ran past and dove beside a shipping container at the end of the next row.
“Isabella, I got him,” Hollingsworth yelled as he ran up.
He quickly grabbed hold, and they dragged him to the cover of the twenty-foot container. Hollingsworth immediately began ripping the man’s vest off to find the wound. Will picked up Wallace’s rifle and moved to the end of the storage container. Stephens was there, returning fire.
“I’m out,” she said, dropping back.
Will stepped around her, pulled the soldier’s M4 up, and began firing to his left in the direction he thought the insurgents were firing from. Rounds bounced off the heavily armored vehicles. Will didn’t believe any of them had found their target, but the enemy stopped shooting.
“I’m hit, man. I’m hit,” Wallace cried out.
Will stole a glance to see how bad the wound looked. Hollingsworth was applying tourniquets.
“Am I going to die, Hollingsworth? Oh, man, I’m going to die, ain’t I,” Wallace said, lifting his head and staring at the wound in his side. The round must have struck under his arm where the vest didn’t cover.
“You're going to die an old man, at home in bed with a twenty-year-old above you, remember?” Hollingsworth said.
Will returned his attention to the military transport truck about fifty feet from their position. He couldn’t see anyone, but he was reasonably sure that was where the rounds had come from. A moment later, he spotted the barrel of a rifle on the top of one of the hoods. Will watched through his scope and waited for a head to appear. When it finally did, he squeezed the trigger. The pink mist he saw was confirmation that he’d hit his target. He felt relief and then guilt. He’d shot a man. It wasn’t something he wanted to celebrate.
“Let’s move out,” Hollingsworth said.
Isabella pointed to Wallace. “What about him.”
“He’s gone. We have to go,” Hollingsworth said.
As Hollingsworth checked the next aisle for insurgents, Will rushed to Wallace’s side, removed the man’s vest and tactical belt, and then grabbed the ammo from his pockets. It was like robbing from the dead, but he no longer needed them, and Will did. It was about self-preservation at that point. Will was keenly aware of how much they’d abandoned civilized behavior already.
“How many mags did he have left?” Betley asked as he leaned against the container.
Will pulled three empty thirty round magazines from a pouch from the belt and then counted the full mags remaining in the tactical vest. “Four mags.”
“Grab his knife,” Betley said, pointing to a thigh holster.
Will removed it and handed it to Betley. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.
Will scanned the distance between the containers and the northeast corner of the museum as he pulled on the vest and adjusted it to fit his smaller frame.
“It’s clear,” Hollingsworth said, taking off toward the building.
Isabella stood with her arms across her chest, holding herself. He wished he had a weapon to give her. She’d shown so much more confidence when they’d battled the Chinese mafia, but he understood the vulnerable feeling of being in this situation without a means of defending oneself.
Will tapped Isabella on the shoulder. “We’ll go first. You stay close behind me.” Will let his rifle dangle on its sling and grabbed Betley’s arm, lifting him to his feet.
“I got him,” Stephens said. “You get her.”
Will released his grip on Betley and reached out to Isabella. “Take my hand. We’ll go together.” Slowly, Isabella extended her hand. Will wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and they took off behind Hollingsworth. The gunfire came from the left this time. The insurgents had either moved around the museum to flank them, or these had come from somewhere else. An unknown number of hostiles were firing from the cover of vehicles in the parking lot of a building to the left of the museum.
Will returned fire as he and Isabella ran. As they approached the building, Isabella broke free from Will and raced ahead. Stephens and Betley appeared in Will’s peripheral vision. The three of them reached the corner of the museum simultaneously and dropped down behind the four-foot wall of sandbags for cover. Hollingsworth returned fire, emptying a magazine before stopping. While he reloaded, Will poked his head up and fired until he was out of rounds. It slowed the enemy’s return fire, but only temporarily. When a bullet hit the sandbag in front of his face and kicked debris into his eyes, Will was forced to stop firing and drop back down.
“We can’t stay here. There are too many of them. We have to get inside and make it around to the west side of the building,” Stephens said. She still clutched the computer case in her arms. She’d abandoned her empty pistol.
Hollingsworth sprinted to the door and yanked on the handle. It didn’t open. He fired, and the glass shattered. “Hurry!” he yelled.
Rounds slammed into the steel walls to the left of him as he flung open the door.
Will fired on full automatic as Stephens and Isabella helped Betley reached the doorway. Will felt a tap on his shoulder, and then Hollingsworth dropped down beside him. “Go with them. I’ll hold them back.”
“No!” Will said. “We need you to get us to the hangar.”
The soldier glanced back toward the museum. “Okay. I’ll cover you while you get to the door. You cover me when you get there.”
“Deal,” Will said, moving toward the door.
Twenty-Four
Will
Day Six
Once they’d made it inside the building, Hollingsworth spoke into a radio attached to his vest.
“Bravo one-niner. This is Bravo two-three.”
Will and Hollingsworth ran to catch up with the others as he waited for a reply.
“Bravo one-niner. This is Bravo two-three,” he repeated.
A knot formed in the pit of Will’s stomach. What did it mean that there was no answer? Was the base overrun? Were they doomed? His pulse pounded in his ears as he ran. He was like he was going in slow motion. It was all so unreal. Was this really happening?
While Stephens helped Betley onto the floor just outside a bathroom, Isabella paced back and forth in front of the elevator, chewing on her thumbnail. She was breathing hard. Will hoped it was from the running and not the infection getting worse.
“Bravo two-three. This is Bravo one-niner.” The next words were drowned out by heavy gunfire, and then “sitrep” crackled through the radio.
“Bravo one-niner. This is Bravo two-three. We’re in the northeast corner of Building F. We’re taking heavy fire from two teams of six to ten hostiles. Requesting additional support. Over.”
“Bravo two-three. Hold your current position. Sending Alpha two-six to your location. Over.”
“Roger that. Holding current position. Bravo two-three out.”
Will felt a rush of relief at hearing that help was on the way. He hoped they’d be able to hold out until they arrived. Stephens didn’t look all that relieved though.
“How long, Hollingsworth?” Stephens asked.
“They were at the checkpoint at the freeway. Ten. Fifteen minutes.”
“Ten or fifteen minutes?” Isabella asked, her voice pitching high.
“They’re on foot and have to fight hostiles to get here.”
Isabella’s face contorted. She opened her mouth to say more but didn’t, then she pivoted and stomped down the hall. Will understood her concern. They were trapped like cornered animals. But all he could think about was Cayden and what would become of him if he didn’t make it out.
“How much ammo do you have left?” Hollingsworth asked as he ejected a magazine from his rifle and replaced it with a fresh one.
Will counted the magazines in the pouch on the vest. “One.”
“We’ll have to make each shot count, conserve ammo. Don’t shoot unless you see someone, okay?”
“Got it,” Will said. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He prayed the hostiles wouldn’t try to get inside. The minutes crawled by as they waited for Sharp and his team.
“You watch that door there,” Hollingsworth said, pointing to the door they’d just come through. “I’m going to check the other doors on this side of the building.”
“What? No. What if they break in?” Isabella asked, stepping in front of him.
“I won’t go far. I‘ll be right back.”
Isabella slid down the wall and sat on the floor beside Betley who reached over and took her hand. She winced and pulled away. She needed to see a doctor, not be running around being shot at.
“Maybe we should find something to barricade the door,” Will said, remembering when they’d been able to use a barricade to escape from the Chinese mafia. But the museum had multiple entrances and a big hole in the front of the building.
“Hollingsworth will find a way out, and Sharp and his team will be here shortly,” Stephens said. Will heard her confident words, but her face said something else entirely. He could see the tension in her entire body.
Will found it hard to resist stealing quick glances over at Isabella and Betley. When he tried to put his arm around her shoulder, Isabella removed it and stood. If that didn’t cause Betley to get the message, nothing would. She was obviously pissed that he’d given them her address.
“I’m going to use the restroom. Will, please don’t let me get shot on the potty,” she said.
“Make it quick,” Stephens said. “We need to be ready to move when Hollingsworth returns.”
Isabella acknowledged Stephens’ statement with a thumbs-up gesture and slipped inside the restroom.
“What happens when we reach the hangar, Stephens?” Betley asked. “Do you expect to hop on a plane and fly that computer out of here?”
Stephens said nothing.
“What do Colonel Edwards and Staff Sergeant Woodward have to do with the insurgency?” Betley pressed.
Stephens pivoted slightly as if about to say something and then shifted her weight to the opposite foot. Her focus returned to the door.
After a long silence, she said, “I think they’re being run by an army general by the name of Dempsey. His name has been on all the intelligence briefings regarding the Chinese Consulate here in Houston. We intercepted a call between Dempsey and Edwards. You and I both know how unusual that is. Colonel Edwards isn’t in Dempsey’s chain of command.
“Wait. You think a four-star general is working with the Chinese?” Will asked.
“Until I received the thumb drive that Kim Yang took, I didn’t have proof.”
“Now you do?” Will asked.
“Won’t do any good. They won’t find him. If he’s involved, he knew this was coming. He’s likely on some beach somewhere with a generator and a well-stocked bunker,” Betley said.
“I don’t believe that’s the case. Dempsey had been working hard with the president’s advisors to get him to adopt a new continuity of government plan. One that would benefit Dempsey. Fortunately, the president didn’t take that advice, and Dempsey has no authority outside of taking orders from his military superiors, but it shows me where his aspirations are.”
“This continuity of government plan, that was for in case the president and vice president are killed or unable to serve? Isn’t that spelled out in the constitution? I mean, the speaker of the house becomes president in that case, right?” Will said.
“Can’t you just contact the Pentagon?” Isabella asked.
Stephens’ face flushed. She glanced away.
“What aren’t you telling us, Stephens?” Betley asked.
Stephens said nothing.
“Stephens?” Betley repeated.
“Everyone was there.”
“Who was where?” Will asked.
“All of them. The entire government was in DC. The president, vice president, both the house and senate as well as all nine justices of the Supreme Court.”
“So, what happened?” Will asked.
Slowly, she turned to face them. Her back straightened and her shoulders stiffened. “Washington’s gone. The East Coast is gone,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Gone? Nuked gone?” Betley asked.
She nodded.
“What do you mean Washington is gone? You can’t reach them?” Will asked.
Stephens’ gaze fell to the floor. “After they launched the nukes into the atmosphere causing the EMP, they launched nuclear strikes on D.C. and New York City.”
It was too horrible to contemplate. The idea that their entire government could be wiped out in an instant was unfathomable. What would that mean for the country and its ability to recover? Was it even possible?
“What about radiation and fallout? Are we all going to die?” Isabella was nearing hysteria.
Will’s mind went blank. It didn’t feel real. None of it felt real. This couldn’t be happening. America could not have been brought to her knees like this. Not like this. Not this easily
“How do you know?” Isabella asked. “How can you be sure?”
“One of our Coast Guard cutters in the Gulf received word from the Fourth Fleet off the coast of Latin America,” Stephens said.
“Was South America affected by the EMP? Were we the only ones?” Isabella asked.
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�As far as I know, Central and South America weren’t hit,” Stephens said.
“Well, that means that our military down there wasn’t either, right?” Will asked.
“That’s correct. They are on their way home now, but they will be concentrating most of their attention on the West Coast, I’m told.”
“Why? Don’t they know about the insurgents here?” Isabella asked.
“I’m not sure. I wasn’t part of the briefing to them,” Stephens said.
“You have to get word to them,” Will said.
“So, back to my original question, what good is the information contained on that thumb drive? Even if you have proof that this General Dempsey is collaborating with the colonel to aid the insurgency, what can be done about it under the circumstances?” Betley asked.
“I need to alert the military commanders in the Midwest. Right now, that is the biggest threat outside the insurgency. I believe that the forces here can get this situation under control soon. After over twenty years of fighting insurgents in Iraq and Afghanistan, our military knows how to eliminate them.”
Will wasn’t sure what difference any of it made now. No one was in control. Will pictured mass chaos—the wild, wild west—if they weren’t invaded first, that is.
“How can you do that with comms being down?” Betley said.
“Comms aren’t down everywhere,” Stephens said. “I need to get to Fort Hood.”
“You’re going to fly?” Betley asked.
“If one of those old vintage planes can take off,” she said.
Some of the older vehicles still worked. It was plausible the older planes would as well. There were several on display around the base, but that didn’t mean they were operable. Even if she could fly somewhere, how could she get a message out to the rest of the country? Will knew nothing about electromagnetic pulses or what damage they could do. It was clear that some vehicles still worked. Older ones, maybe some new ones too, but he had no clue why. Hollingsworth was able to communicate with someone on the base, so some short-range radios worked. It was the United States military, and they supposedly prepared for something like this. No doubt they’d planned for alternative communications.