by James Tarr
The four squads, twenty-nine men and three women, made their way into the dark tunnel, their feet kicking up thick dust. Brooke stationed her youngest (and presumably fastest) squad member at the mouth of the tunnel, divvying up his gear with the rest of the squad, leaving him just his rifle and his body armor. “All right, get us to that walkway,” she told Rico the guard.
Ed walked slowly through the tunnel, stifling a sneeze from the dust. He wasn’t using a light—he didn’t need to, as seemingly half the people clustered ahead of him were using theirs.
“Shut those goddamn lights off,” he hissed, wading his way between the men toward the far end of the tunnel. He stopped an arm’s length away from the wood, and as the last flashlight beam flicked off he could see an dim outline of light around the sheets of plywood in front of him. He couldn’t see the men around and behind him, but he could hear them breathing. And smell them. He sighed and tried to calm his heartbeat. All four squads, clustered together like that…the tunnel would be a death trap for them, if something went wrong, if there’d been a betrayal. Three grenades and a long burst of automatic weapons fire would kill them all.
After an agonizing several minutes he heard a faint sound close on the other side of the plywood. A soft voice, the words murmured so low he couldn’t make them out. Then four knocks against the wood. He knocked back four times.
Ten seconds later the sheet of plywood was peeled away, and a man and a woman were standing before him.
“Golf ball,” Ed challenged her, probably unnecessarily, blinking in the light.
“And you’d be Felix, the pretty young woman said. “I need a pistol.” Her voice was firm, without a hint of hesitation. The hallway behind her, through the tint of glass doors, was empty.
Someone passed up a handgun, a ghost Glock, as Ed raised the radio to his lips. “Jackrabbit, jackrabbit, jackrabbit,” he said, and heard a double-click in response.
She told them, “As of three minutes ago, you’ve got two Tabs in the south lobby, and two in a Growler outside the front door. There’s a Growler and four soldiers at the Cadillac building. One on foot down near the Saint Regis. Not sure where the rest are in the area, but I’m sure they’ll find you. Fastest way up is the main stairs about halfway down on the right.”
She was everything he’d been hoping for from Morris’ “agents in place”, professional and focused on the mission. Ed stuffed the radio back in a pocket and took a step to the side, out of the way. “Roger that. Go,” he said, waving the men forward.
Colonel Parker was in his office with his S2, Major Cooper, going over the morning reports, when the phone on his desk rang. Cooper answered it. “Major Cooper for Colonel Parker.” He stood there and listened for a few short seconds. “We’ll be right down.”
“Operations?”
Cooper nodded. “Reports of an ARF attack in the Blue Zone.” The two men headed toward the stairs.
“I don’t hear anything.”
“North end.” Parker nodded. That would put the action two, maybe two and a half miles away.
They were down in the command center two minutes later, and from the noise and activity it was obvious something big was happening. “Major?” Parker called out.
Mike Chamberlain, his S3, held up a hand, said something into a radio, then turned to his commander while handing the radio handpiece to a subordinate. “Sir, looks like we’ve got that attack you were worried about. Our forces on Washboard are being engaged.” He turned to the big digital map and ran his finger along West Grand Boulevard in the New Center area. “The Lieutenant I just spoke to said the ARF hit them in several places at the same time, in a coordinated attack, and maybe as many as half our forces there are already KIA, and they’re still taking a lot of fire. Rifles and grenades. Unknown numbers, but at least a dozen, maybe twice that. They were all on foot, and he said they seemed to be focused on this building, where VOP broadcasts from.” He tapped the map, then gestured to a nearby monitor which was currently just displaying static. “I turned this on, and Voice of the People was there, but two seconds before you walked in it went to static.”
“Seizing the broadcast facilities?”
“It’d be a great propaganda victory for them, if nothing else,” Cooper observed, frowning. “But then what? They’re stuck there.”
“I’ve got ground units en route,” the S3 said.
“Do we have satellite coverage?” Parker asked.
A Sergeant standing nearby was expecting the question, and she had the printout in her hands. “Sir, we will in two minutes. Nearly continuous coverage for twenty-two minutes, then nothing for eighteen, then coverage for twenty-four.”
“What about drones?”
“I’ve got one en route already, and there should be another one ready to go in just a few minutes.”
“What kind of drones?”
“Recon. Unarmed, mid-size, about two feet across, we can get two hours of flight time.”
Just then the static on the monitor disappeared, and they were rewarded with a view of the VOP newsroom backdrop. A man they didn’t recognize, obviously an enemy soldier from his body armor and magazine pouches, was sitting behind the desk. He was looking to the side. A battered rifle lay on the desk next to him. “Is it on? Are we on?” He looked around and found the live camera. “My fellow Americans,” he said, “you’ve been lied to for too long. Voice of the People does nothing but spew hate and lies. You need to rise up and fight with us, this is not just—” The screen went to static again.
“Did we lose it? Or is that on their end?” Parker asked.
“Their end, I think,” the S3 said. The ARF soldier had been skinny and sweaty. He’d also looked tired and old, and his rifle looked like an antique, all of which made the Colonel inordinately happy.
They stood and stared at the monitor, waiting to see what would happen. After a short time the static flickered, then disappeared. The ARF soldier was back, half out of his seat, looking off-camera. “Are we back? What happened?” He glanced at the cameras, then back to the side, visibly angry. They heard shouting in the background. “Lock down what’s causing that. You said you knew what you were doing, how their system worked. I’ve got—” the feed cut to static again.
“Morons. What reinforcements have you sent?” Parker wanted to know.
“I’ve got a full platoon heading that way. Six Growlers and two IMPs, forty men. If they’re not already rolling they will be within minutes. I’ve got two Kestrels rolling out of the barn. Ten or fifteen minutes ‘til they’re overhead.”
“Sir, I’ve lost contact with the Lieutenant, and haven’t been able to raise any of the others on Washboard,” the soldier manning the radio announced.
“How many were stationed there this morning?” Parker wanted to know.
Chamberlain pulled up the duty roster. “Twenty-two. And I’ve got two vehicles assigned out, both Growlers. They were probably parked on Washboard for visibility.”
“Surround the building and wait ‘em out? Even if the ARF only has a dozen people, our troops could take serious casualties trying to assault up staircases and elevators,” Major Cooper warned.
The Colonel knew that, but he also knew that ARF broadcasting from the local Voice of the People TV station would be very bad on a number of levels, including for him, professionally. “Send another platoon,” he told his S3. “And two Toads. Surround that place but do not enter. I don’t want to take any chances. Once they’re on site, and we get a sitrep, then I’ll decide further. If these bastards are actually, finally, going to take a stand, let’s do everything we can to take advantage of their mistake.”
“Yes sir.”
“Um, sir?” The tentative words came from the soldier manning the radio hub.
“Yes Corporal.”
“All units were ordered to switch over to the alternate frequency as soon as we lost contact with Washboard.” The soldier swallowed. “But I’m getting something on the original channel.”
C
hamberlain frowned. “Getting what? From our men?”
“I don’t think so sir.”
“What is it?”
“Music, sir.”
“Music?” Chamberlain and Parker exchanged a confused look. The S3 told the radioman, “Pull it up, let us hear it.”
The Corporal flipped three switches, and then loud rock ‘n roll blasted out of the speakers. He hurriedly reached for the volume knob and turned it down. “I don’t think it’s us, sir,” the Corporal said.
“What is that?” Parker asked. It sounded very familiar.
Major Cooper had a bemused expression on his face. “Led Zeppelin,” he announced.
“Is it supposed to mean something?” Parker asked. Just then the windows outside the command center rattled from a staccato burst of explosions nearby. “What the fuck was that?” Parker wanted to know, his eyes going to the monitors showing feeds from the numerous security cameras mounted around the building. Then he saw the flowering blooms of fire at the aircraft hangars.
PART IV
BOOGALOO
Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.
The Declaration of Independence
And you will hear of wars and rumors of wars. See that you are not alarmed, for this must take place, but the end is not yet.
Matthew 24:6
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Thor, we’ve got to go.”
Thor was on his hands and knees, panting harshly, his eyes stinging from sweat. “I know,” he gasped.
Harris’ breath was harsh in the narrow tunnel. He was ten feet back. They’d been told that was far enough. “I mean now, boss, shit’s probably already popping off.”
“Fuck, I know,” Thor growled. He staggered to his feet. He could sense the bodies stacked up behind him. “Give me some more light up here.”
The tunnel was four feet tall and three wide and had been hacked through the earth by hand with shovels and picks. It stretched for fifty-seven feet from the sewer trunk line to the wall of concrete before him. Four holes had been drilled in the concrete, two high and two low, stuffed with explosive, and sealed over. Wires trailed from all four charges to the switch in the center.
Morris’ people had dug the tunnel, drilled the holes, and set the charges, the last done two days earlier, so the moisture in the tunnel wouldn’t have enough time to affect the wiring or small charges of C4. That just left the four squads of Alpha to get to the tunnel at their appointed time, blow the wall, and get to work.
But nothing had gone right in the move into the city. One section of sewer line that was supposed to be open had collapsed since the last time Morris’ people had checked it. As a result they’d had to do an extra three-quarters of a mile above-ground they hadn’t been planning on, and that had taken them over two hours as they’d had to go to ground to hide from a random patrol that seemed to be circling.
Then, not long after getting back down into the sewer, they’d walked right into an encampment of rag-clad crazy people, apparently, as they’d attacked the lead element of Alpha on sight. Joker was in the lead, and two of the squad’s dogsoldiers had been stabbed in the close-quarters struggle.
One man had died almost immediately, and they’d spent over fifteen minutes trying to save the second, but he finally bled out. They’d nearly killed themselves doing the last two miles at a jog, laboring under sixty and sometimes in excess of ninety pounds of gear each.
Thor had to blink several times to get the sweat out of his eyes. “All the wiring looks good,” he gasped. He carefully grabbed the detonator switch, which was on the dirt tunnel’s floor beside the wall, and began backing up. The wires only stretched ten feet, which didn’t seem nearly enough, no matter what Morris had said. Harris was right behind him, and the remaining twenty-nine members of Flash, Joker, Donald, and Mickey, including Morris’ four loaners, were packed in tight to his rear.
“Fire in the hole, fire in the hole, fire in the hole,” Thor said, but not loudly. Even though he was about to touch off an explosion he didn’t want to give away their position, not that anybody should be able to hear him. “Everybody cover your ears.” He looked at Harris. “I hope to God this doesn’t kill me. You’re up if it does.” He was serious, and Harris knew it. He stuck one thumb in his ear, turned his back to the wall and the charges planted there, looked at the switch, closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and hit it.
The muffled crump behind him barely made his ears ring. At first he thought there’d been some sort of misfire, but when he looked over his shoulder he saw there was now a rough rectangular hole in the concrete wall, the air thick with dust. “Shit, that was it? That wasn’t that bad.”
Rifle up he hurried through the tunnel and jumped down, his boots landing square in the middle of an unoccupied parking space. His weaponlight illuminated a small underground parking garage for the residents of the apartment building. There were only a few vehicles in the garage, which was well lit. He scanned the area and spotted the vehicle ramp angling up, and the pedestrian door for the stairs. He moved in that direction and covered the door as the four squads exited the tunnel one at a time, led by Harris carrying his gear and Thor’s backpack.
Thor grabbed his backpack and lifted it onto the hood of the closest car as the remaining dogsoldiers exited the fresh hold in the wall. “Is that it? Last man? That’s it!” he called out to the other squad leaders. He turned around and fought his way into his backpack, then stood up under the weight. It felt like lifting a small car.
“Go, go, go!” Sanders, leader of Donald, shouted.
The dogsoldiers surged forward, and up. They poured into the narrow lobby in a wave of bodies. There was one soldier in the lobby, late heading to his office post in nearby Echo. He was unarmed, without armor, and the burst of rifle fire that sent him to the floor caused the other residents to scream and scatter.
Thor was one of the last to pile into the lobby. He heard the thud of boots heading up the stairs, and saw heads bobbing down a side hallway as two-thirds of Alpha detachment headed toward the parking garage next door. His back was killing him, he was pretty sure he’d shredded a disc jogging nearly two miles while carrying eighty pounds, and he felt nauseous as he eyed the stairwell door. Then a polite ‘ping!’ grabbed his attention and he looked over to see an elevator door opening. The elderly woman who exited nearly skidded to a stop in her heels as she saw the dogsoldiers before her.
“What are you doing!” she demanded, glaring at them. She was well into her seventies and skinny as a rail, clad in a very classy, well-maintained dress that had to be thirty years old. Thor had no idea if she had mistaken them for Army troops, but he shoved past her into the small elevator.
“You coming?” he asked the three dogsoldiers who hadn’t yet charged up the stairs. “Work smarter, not harder.”
Randa, the number two in Mickey, eyed the small elevator dubiously, then shrugged her shoulders. “Sure, what the fuck.”
As the remainder of the dogsoldiers packed the elevator, Thor looked past a shoulder at the elderly female resident, who appeared very confused. “Making the world a better place, ma’am,” he assured her.
The elevator was not fast, but still they arrived on the seventh floor before the soldiers working their way up the stairs under their heavy loads. The hallway was carpeted, and narrow, and ended in a short T intersection. A gray-haired woman appeared at the end of the hallway as they drew close, rifles up. She stood in the open doorway of the apartment to the right. She had one hand up, and empty. There w
as a pistol in her other hand, held down along her leg.
“You’re late!” she snapped at them, looking nervous and angry. She was dressed in a uniform shirt and pants—apartment building maintenance.
“Yeah, yeah,” Thor panted.
She pointed at the doors in front of them. “Those are already unlocked.”
“Go!” Thor said, pointing. Everyone knew their place, and men poured past him, two and three per apartment. Thor strode past the woman to find a dead man on the floor of the apartment. He was in an Army uniform, and his throat had been cut. He looked surprised.
“He’s too heavy for me, you’re going to have to drag him out of the way,” she told them. “I cleaned up the blood a little so you didn’t slip.” She looked past Thor. “Randa.”
“Hey Barb,” Randa replied, panting. She unslung her backpack once again.
“Plan B’s good to go,” Barb told them.
“Right, thanks,” Thor said. “Things are going to get real loud real quick,” he warned her, dumping his backpack on the wood laminate flooring.
“These open?” Randa asked her, tossing furniture out of the way to get at the windows.
“No. I got to go, I got more shit to do for this thing.” Barb stuffed the pistol into her waistband.
“Shit. Shit! SHIT!” Randa exclaimed, looking out the window, as Barb disappeared through the open door. “Thor!”
“Yeah, yeah, coming.” The AT5 Spike was strapped to the outside of his pack. Once he had the straps undone he was heading to the window with the rocket launcher in his arms, muttering the deployment steps even as he did them. “Pull the safety pin, shoulder stop to the shoulder, grab the front sling strap with your left hand and pull back, pop the covers on the iron sights….” As he did the last, and the sights of the weapon popped up, he got to the window and looked out. “Jesus Christ.”