Peacekeepers

by James Rosone

  Jake found an empty handicapped spot and pulled in. He made sure his placard was in the window so he wouldn’t get a ticket. He and Marcy got out of the truck and walked over to grab a cart. Marcy showed the greeter at the door her membership card and was waved in.

  As they walked past the giant TVs on sale, the two of them saw a news program playing. “Hostilities between the US and UN forces seem almost inevitable at this point,” one anchor commented. A small group of people gathered around the television set, speaking to each other in hushed tones and glancing at each other with nervous looks.

  Jake decided not to linger. They made their way down the main walkway toward the meat department and the bakery. Jake had his eyes set on some New York strip steaks for tomorrow’s dinner.

  As they headed deeper into the store, Marcy touched him on the shoulder. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, babe, but I’m glad you aren’t in the Army anymore,” she remarked. “Not with all these talks of a possible war with the UN.”

  The Army was still a sore subject for Jake. He’d spent ten years on active duty as an explosive ordnance disposal guy before deciding to get out, burned out after all the deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan during the height of those wars. When he’d returned to Washington, his mother had suggested he get a job working for Whatcom County, where she worked. There was an opening for an assistant city planner, and since he did have a BS in civil engineering, he was very likely to get the job. Sure enough, he’d applied, interviewed, and gotten the position. While he liked working for the county government, it had been boring him to tears. He’d gone from defusing IEDs on the side of roads to navigating endless red tape just to get a pothole filled or a new children’s park built.

  Three years after leaving active duty, Jake had decided he didn’t want his ten years of federal service to go to waste, so he’d joined the Washington State Army National Guard, which also had an EOD unit. Three years into his stint with them, he’d been deployed to support Special Forces in Iraq and Syria fighting ISIS. During the last month of his deployment, Jake had been nearly blown up trying to disarm an IED. The explosion had sadly cost him his left leg just below the knee, and he’d sustained a traumatic brain injury from the blast.

  After four months at Walter Reed, he’d been sent home for continued care. Unfortunately, his time in the Guard had to end. He’d been granted a one hundred percent disability rating from the VA and had used some of the money to buy his truck. After that, he’d done his best to put everything behind him and focus on his job at the county.

  Jake looked over at Marcy, who nearly had tears in her eyes. “I know, babe,” he answered. “I’m glad I’m out of the military as well. I am concerned about this UN army invading our country, though. You know, our city will fall behind enemy lines pretty quickly if a fight does happen.”

  When they entered the bakery section of the store, Marcy grabbed a container of the freshly made butter croissants and placed them in the cart along with some assorted muffins.

  “Hey, what’s with all the pastries?” Jake asked.

  “Um, because it’s our small group’s turn to bring snacks to church tomorrow,” Marcy answered, chuckling.

  “Oh man. I forgot about that. Thanks for remembering.”

  As they continued through the store, Jake saw a lot of people stocking up on water bottles and other bulk items one typically associated with preparing for a long winter storm. Marcy asked, “Do you think we should buy anything in case stuff does go down between the US and the UN?”

  “Are you telling me you’re concerned too?” he said playfully.

  “I’m just trying to be prepared, that’s all,” she shot back.

  Jake shrugged his shoulders. “Sure. We can stock up on some items, but they aren’t going to be the type of items you’d normally think of,” he replied. He took over pushing the cart and headed down a couple of aisles that didn’t have a lot of people in them.

  First, he grabbed two types of coffee—a couple of brands of instant coffee, and about twice as many bags of the regular coffee you make with a filter. Next, he grabbed a couple boxes of coffee filters.

  Seeing that the cart was nearly full, he told Marcy, “I’m going to go grab another cart. Be right back.”

  She gave him a quizzical look but didn’t say anything. This was his wheelhouse and she knew it. A moment later, he returned with one of those large flatbed carts.

  “Whoa, cowboy. What are you doing?” she asked, flabbergasted. “I said we could get a few items, not stock up like it’s the end of the world.”

  He laughed at the comment. “I’m not stocking up for the end of the world. I’m just rounding out my stash of goods I already have.”

  “With what, like ten years’ worth of coffee?”

  “Hey. What you don’t know about coffee is that it’s one of the most tradable luxury items you can have. You have to think about bartering, babe. You need something of value that people want. That my dear, is coffee, along with a few other goods we’ll be grabbing.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, I’m glad we brought your truck, then.”

  For the next two hours, they wandered through Costco, stocking up on a host of dry goods and canned items that Jake knew they could trade for other goods should there come to be a shortage. When they left the store, he loaded everything up and told Marcy, “I need to make one more stop at the liquor store next to the building before we leave.”

  He returned with several cases of hard alcohol and a box of their favorite red wine.

  “Tradable goods…right,” Marcy said sarcastically. Clearly, she wasn’t buying it.

  Shrugging his shoulders, Jake finished loading up the back bay of his truck and hopped in.

  “Seriously, what’s with all the booze?” she pressed.

  “Alcohol can be used for a lot more purposes than just getting drunk,” he explained. “You can use it to disinfect a wound or help cut down on the pain if you have to stitch something up. Heck, you can even use it to run a generator if you have to. Besides, it is a valuable trading item.”

  The rest of their drive was relatively quiet. The further outside of town they got, the less traffic they encountered until they came to their little subdivision. It wasn’t anything fancy, but at least the houses weren’t stacked on top of each other.

  Jake drove the truck around to the back, where he’d had a small two-car garage shed built. It was his unofficial man cave and workshop. He’d also had a false floor built inside, which led to a buried twenty-foot shipping container he had turned into his “end of the world” supply bunker. That was where he stored most of his valuable prepper gear, along with his rifles and ammunition. Inside the garage, he maintained five shelves of dried goods and a small supply of ammo, to give the appearance that this was his main stash, but in reality, it was meant to act as a ruse should anyone actually try to search the place. Jake figured if he gave up something they might be looking for, they’d assume victory and leave.

  Chapter 7

  Bishop for a Pawn

  Kingston, New York

  New York Army National Guard

  Captain Jay Peeler was anxious as they turned down North Manor Avenue, near the National Guard armory. The 1st Battalion, 87th Infantry Regiment had been tasked with securing the various National Guard armories around the state. The last thing the federal government wanted was for these weapons and equipment to fall into the hands of the New York Civil Defense Force. They were already having a problem with close to thirty percent of the National Guard members going AWOL.

  “We’re coming up on the armory now,” announced the vehicle commander. A moment later, he abruptly let out a stream of obscenities. “Hey, I think we’ve got a problem, sir.”

  “What do you mean we have a problem?” asked Captain Peeler.

  The vehicle then came to a halt, and the driver called out, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Stand by while we figure it out,” the vehicle commander ordered.

&
nbsp; “Sir, it looks like they’ve moved one of their Guardians to block the entrance to the armory,” the driver observed.

  Captain Peeler looked at the monitor and promptly realized this was going to be an issue. “Give me the radio, would you?” he asked.

  A soldier handed him the handset.

  “All Warrior elements, prepare for possible contact. Break.” He released the talk button for a brief moment. “I want Warrior Four to pull alongside my vehicle. I want Lieutenant Drake and Master Sergeant Willis to come to my vehicle. Out.”

  Captain Peeler handed the radio back to the soldier next to him, then he looked at the soldiers sitting in the back of the Stryker vehicle. Their faces betrayed their nerves.

  “Listen up, soldiers,” he told them. “We’ve been given orders to secure this facility and make sure the weapons and equipment don’t fall into the wrong hands. We can’t afford for the New York militia to take these weapons and vehicles. If they do, they’ll most likely use them against us at a later date. I need you all to stay calm but ready for action. If those National Guardsmen decide to fire on us, then you guys need to return fire and try to end this swiftly, OK?”

  The soldiers reluctantly nodded, unsure of what might come next.

  The vehicle commander lowered the rear hatch, which let in the cold winter air. While there wasn’t snow on the ground yet, it was certainly cold enough for it. Master Sergeant Willis and Lieutenant Drake both walked up to him. At least two squads of soldiers had dismounted from their vehicles and were now milling around behind them.

  “Drake, Willis. I’m going to walk up there and try to sort this whole thing out. If by some chance they shoot me or try to shoot at us, then I need you to take over, Drake. Listen to Willis here and seize that armory. Go ahead and send one of your squads around to the rear of the building. We don’t know how many Guardsmen are there or what their intentions are. For all we know, they could have deployed that vehicle to guard the place against possible militia units, but we need to find out.”

  “Sir, if you don’t mind, I’d like to move Warrior Three in place of your vehicle,” asserted Master Sergeant Willis. “It’s equipped with the cannon. If they shoot at you with that vehicle, then I’m going to tell our gunner to take it out.”

  Nodding in agreement, Lieutenant Drake added, “I think he’s right, sir. With Warrior Three and my own vehicle, that gives us the 105- and the 50-cal, if we need it.”

  “OK. Do it while I get some sort of white flag rigged up to walk out there,” Captain Peeler replied. “Make sure we send at least one squad, if not a platoon, around to the rear of the armory. I don’t want them to try and stall us while guys are running out the back with weapons in hand.”

  The next couple of minutes were tense. They saw several Guardsmen come out of the building and take up defensive positions, which made the 10th Mountain guys nervous that this might actually turn into a shooting match.

  Meanwhile, one of the platoons took off at a trot into the nearby woods. They’d move a few hundred meters into the woods before they turned north to get themselves tucked away behind the armory. It being winter, there wasn’t a lot of underbrush to keep them hidden, so they had to move further away than they wanted to before they turned to head north.

  At this point, a lot of civilians were coming out of their homes to see what all the commotion was. The soldiers shooed them away, telling them they needed to stay indoors. One of the women said she was calling the cops.

  Captain Peeler finally got a white oil rag they had in the truck tied to one of their spare radio antennas. When he walked outside the back of the Stryker, he heard a police siren. A police cruiser approached but stopped maybe a hundred yards away from them.

  I’d probably stop too, if I saw sixty or seventy heavily armed soldiers and ten Stryker vehicles, Peeler thought, holding back a chuckle.

  “Captain, you want to deal with this before you head up to the armory?” asked his first sergeant.

  Peeler sighed, then walked toward the rear of their position. When he got to the last Stryker vehicle, a second squad car had shown up. The four officers got out of their car, guns drawn but not aimed at the soldiers, at least not yet.

  The fact that the police officers had their guns out of their holsters and in their hands caused a platoon’s worth of soldiers to bring their weapons to the low ready. If these cops thought they were going to order them to vacate the premises, they had another thing coming.

  Walking towards the police cars, Peeler called out, “I’m Captain Peeler from Fort Drum. We’re not here to cause you guys any trouble, but I’m going to need you to stand down.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw at least one civilian with their smartphone out, probably recording everything that was going on.

  Great, all I need is for this to get posted to YouTube, and God knows where else, Peeler thought.

  “What are you guys doing here?” shouted out one of the police officers.

  “We’re here to secure the weapons and vehicles at the armory. We’re not here to cause any trouble.”

  One of the officers called out, “The governor said those weapons and vehicles belong to the people of New York.”

  Almost laughing at the statement, Peeler replied, “Really? Because last time I checked, those are military vehicles and military-grade weapons. They belong to the US Army, not the State of New York. Now, we’re going to go up there and secure the armory, and you guys are going to leave. If you opt to interfere with our operation, we’ll be forced to disarm you and hold you until we’re done.”

  A couple of the cops looked nervous. One of them looked super agitated and angry. That officer said something to his fellow officers before he raised his sidearm toward Captain Peeler.

  From somewhere behind Peeler, a shot rang out and the officer dropped dead from a bullet directly to the head.

  As soon as the officer was shot, two of the other officers instinctively raised their own sidearms. They were both cut down by a series of shots fired by Peeler’s men before he could even yell out for everyone to remain calm.

  The last police officer dropped his pistol and raised his hands high, obviously hoping he wasn’t about to get ripped apart by these soldiers.

  Captain Peeler could hear several urgent calls taking place over the radio as the soldiers near the front of their little convoy called out to find out what was going on. Then, out of nowhere, he heard the unmistakable sound of a 50-cal heavy machine gun, firing a dozen or so rounds.

  Turning around, Peeler yelled out, “Who fired those shots?”

  Before anyone could respond, the Stryker equipped with the 105mm cannon fired, piercing the air of this quiet neighborhood, probably unlike any noise they’d ever heard before.

  Boom.

  The Guardian vehicle exploded, further rocking the neighborhood. Then rapid gunfire ensued as at least a dozen soldiers began firing at the Guardsmen around the armory.

  The shooting lasted for maybe two or three minutes before someone called out for them to stop. Several of the Guardsmen who hadn’t been killed threw their weapons down and held their hands up. The soldiers advanced on them as they moved rapidly to secure them and the building.

  Captain Peeler walked past one of his Stryker vehicles and saw that it had sustained a fair bit of damage from the Guardian’s fifty-caliber machine gun. Then he turned his attention to the Guardian and discovered a burning wreck. Five or six dead National Guardsmen lay dead on the ground nearby, and a handful of his soldiers were grouping the remaining Guardsmen together and zip-tying them.

  This is a freaking disaster, Peeler thought to himself as he made his way into the armory.

  He started barking orders to his men to start securing the weapons, military vehicles, radios, night vision equipment, and any other military equipment at the armory. While his guys were busy doing that, he grabbed his smartphone and placed a call back to battalion headquarters. He needed to let them know what had happened here. It wouldn’t b
e long before this was blown up all over the internet.

  Why did that cop have to try and shoot at us? Peeler thought in disgust. The Guardsmen had probably fired because they thought his men were firing on them. What a mess.

  *******

  December 30, 2020

  Fort Stewart, Georgia

  Major General Robert Dickman had his hands on his hips as he watched the M1A2 Abrams main battle tank get loaded onto the last railcar. A handful of soldiers and contractors guided the driver as he deftly maneuvered the 71-ton monster onto the flatcar. Once it was strapped down, the long line of railcars transporting the 2nd Armored Brigade Combat Team would begin their journey across the country to Syracuse, New York.

  The destination had been chosen because it had a major railhead and it would place the division close to Fort Drum, which was near the Montreal-Ottawa side of the Canadian border. Another group would go to Buffalo, which was closer to the Hamilton and Toronto side. These were the two most likely routes where the UN peacekeepers would try to cross into the US and where most of their military buildup was taking place.

  Turning to look at the train engineer standing beside him, General Dickman asked, “How many days did you say it’ll take to get to Syracuse?”

  The engineer briefly looked down at his clipboard before he replied, “Day and a half. We’ll pretty much be driving nonstop. I was told you guys have a crew up there ready to handle the offloading.”

  Dickman nodded. “Yeah, we sent an advance party up there three days ago. They’ve been getting the camp ready.”

  The engineer sighed. “Well, if you don’t have anything else for me, General, I’ll head on up and make sure everything is ready. We should be underway within the hour.”

  “That should do it. Sorry you guys pulled this kind of duty,” General Dickman said in a conciliatory tone. “Hopefully all this posturing will be just that—posturing.”

  The engineer snorted. “Well, if the UN decides they want to cross into our country, you guys give ’em hell. We don’t need no foreign military in our country if you ask me,” he said in a thick Georgian accent. He spat a stream of tobacco juice on the ground and then trudged off to do his checks before he got underway.