The Storm Rises (The Solar Storms Saga Book 0)

by Kyle Pratt

  The general grabbed his radio and followed Franklin. When they stepped outside, the radio crackled to life. “…attackers … main building … wearing ACUs.”

  The men stood in formation when Franklin arrived at the vehicles.

  Sergeant Keller saluted. “Buddy checks and PCI completed. The platoon is ready, but ah, sir, what about Katie and my boy?”

  With all that had happened, Franklin had forgotten them. “They’ll need to stay here. We’ll come back and pick them up.”

  Franklin moved to the front of the formation and stared at the young faces. Tonight they would go into battle, but most of his twenty soldiers were young and untested. Nearly a third of them were computer specialists, nerds, not infantry. Sure, they had fired on people at the airport but out of fear, not on orders. This time they would need to fire with the intent to kill. Franklin tried to find just the right tone, serious but not worried or scared. “Traitors, wearing army uniforms, have attacked and probably killed fellow soldiers. We need to stop them. We may need to kill them. When I give the order, you will shoot to kill these traitors. Any questions?” His gaze moved along the line of wide-eyed and frightened young faces. “Okay then, tonight we earn our stripes.”

  “Hooah,” the soldiers shouted.

  “Mount up,” Franklin ordered.

  General Gordon followed Franklin to his Humvee. As they climbed in, Franklin looked to the back seat and asked, “What’s the quickest way there?”

  Gordon thrust an arm forward. “Go straight ahead to the next intersection and turn left.”

  Franklin relayed the information over the radio to Keller.

  As the convoy sped down the road, the radio erupted into static that then gave way to a frightened voice. “Any station … guard unit at … Anderson … under fire … forty or fifty … unknown … Any station …”

  The voice faded and the static ceased. Franklin turned to Gordon. “How many people do you have at armory?”

  “A twelve-man squad.”

  Franklin grabbed the mic as a dozen ideas fought for attention. The enemy might also have a radio. What could he say? What could he ask? What was the forty or fifty reference? Would they be going into this fight outnumbered? He decided to keep it simple and pressed transmit. “Anderson armory, this is army convoy. Maintain position. We’re en route to your location.”

  “Roger … attackers are in the main building.”

  Thomas turned down the next street. “Are these guys soldiers? Why would they attack an armory?”

  “Probably a militia group,” Gordon said from the back seat. “There are everything from M4s to rocket launchers and night-vision gear at that armory. They may see this as a good time to take it.”

  “Army convoy,” the scared voice again sounded over the radio. “I’m on the roof with one other soldier. Five others have retreated to the arms room. I don’t know the location of the others but believe they are combat-ineffective.”

  “Whoever they are, they’re now our enemy,” Gordon cursed. “Major, we need to eliminate them before they kill more soldiers or civilians.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gordon leaned forward. “The armory is less than a mile ahead.”

  The sound of gunfire echoed among the buildings.

  “Convoy, lights off,” Franklin ordered over the radio. “The vehicles crept forward in near total darkness. He hoped the clamor of battle concealed the noise of their engines.

  Gordon pointed ahead. “There! On the left. Muzzle flashes.”

  The convoy pulled to the side of the road and squads hurried through the darkness toward the fury of combat. Four men positioned behind cars fired at two soldiers on the roof of the gray three-story stone building.

  Using binoculars, Franklin located the men in the parking lot. They did wear ACUs, but two didn’t have helmets and one wore what looked like a German pickelhaube. “Anderson Armory, hold your fire on targets outside. We’re coming in.” Franklin pulled the pistol from his holster and ordered his men to fire on those in the parking lot, and then took the first shot.

  On either side of Franklin came the bang of gunfire in quick three-round bursts that left the four attackers sprawled on the pavement.

  Franklin ran to the four where blood and trauma confirmed all were dead. He grabbed an AR-15 from one of the bodies and borrowed a magazine from one of his men.

  A young soldier slumped to a knee and puked.

  Franklin waved the others forward and all hurried across the parking lot toward the main entrance. Nearing the glass doors, he spotted a young man apparently left behind to guard the entrance.

  The boy lifted his rifle.

  Franklin fired first, shattering the glass of one door. Another shot followed from Keller and both hit the boy in the chest. The kid dropped with an audible thud.

  Inside the lobby, Franklin tried not to stare. He had killed a child not much older than his son.

  Bursts of gunfire continued from somewhere in the building.

  “The arms room is in the basement.” Gordon gestured down a dark hall. “This way.”

  Franklin clicked transmit. “Anderson Armory, we are in the building and proceeding to the arms room.”

  Shots tore through the blackness. General Gordon stumbled backward and fell to the floor.

  Keller returned fire down the hall.

  Franklin joined him, firing at the muzzle flashes as others joined the fight.

  * * *

  The tiny battery-powered lamp cast dark shadows across the armory commander’s office where Franklin sat alone. Using a hot pack, he warmed the coffee he had saved from the MRE. Only minutes ago they had captured the last terrorist in the building when he ran out of ammo. How many had escaped from the building? Where did they go? Perhaps the prisoner could provide answers.

  He leaned back in the chair and struggled to remember details and the sequence of events that occurred during the night. Exhaustion rolled over him like waves on a beach, but he needed to write his report. Good soldiers had died, including General Gordon. There would be an investigation. Where was Keller? He needed the list of dead and wounded.

  The events of the night seemed foggy and disjointed. His soldiers, along with the remnants of the armory squad, had secured the building. That was clear, but exactly how they had achieved it faded from his mind like a dream. No, a nightmare.

  Bile rose in his throat, but he resisted the urge to puke.

  Keller entered and saluted. “Here’s the list. General Gordon is dead, along with four others from the armory squad, one is wounded, and two are missing. From our platoon we have three dead, Burns, Allen, and Garcia.”

  “I thought Garcia was wounded.”

  “He was.” Keller frowned. “Now we have two wounded, Thomas and Palmer, but Corporal Bickel thinks they’ll be okay.”

  Franklin pointed to a bloodstain low on Keller’s right leg. “Are you wounded?”

  “Oh.” The sergeant pulled on a rip in his uniform. “I guess so.” He winced and cursed as he examined it. “Looks like a graze. It’ll be fine, but it really stings now that I see it.”

  One of the soldiers from the armory squad darted into the office. Franklin struggled to recall his name, Hanford … no, Hansen, Corporal Hansen.

  “Excuse me, sir. We found Private Clark, one of the missing soldiers; his body was in a nearby alley.” He paused and bit his lip. “The militia … they slit his throat.”

  Anger flared in Franklin. “What about the other missing soldier?”

  “She’s still missing?”

  “She?”

  “Yes, sir. Private Jessica Davis.”

  Franklin imagined his wife, Carol, captured by these thugs and anger burned within him. “Bring the man we captured here. I want to talk with him.”

  The two returned with the prisoner, wearing a frayed and faded army uniform.

  “You don’t deserve to wear that uniform. Take it off,” Franklin ordered.

  The man cursed. “Try and take it
off me!”

  Franklin smiled. “You heard the prisoner.”

  Keller and Hansen threw the prisoner to the floor. He wrestled with the two soldiers until Franklin walked around the desk and pressed a gun to his head.

  Moments later, wearing only socks, T-shirt and underwear, Keller and Hansen zip-tied the man’s wrists to the chair.

  “He had an AR-15 modified for full automatic,” Keller said as he worked. “That’s probably why he ran out of ammo. He also had this.” He pulled a combat knife from his pocket and passed it to Franklin. “Should we stay while you interrogate him?”

  Franklin nodded as he examined the knife. Without looking up, he asked, “What’s your name?”

  The man spat on the floor. “I want a lawyer.”

  Okay stupid, if that’s the way you want to do this. “Where did your friends take Private Davis?”

  “Lawyer,” he said slowly.

  “Sure, what’s their phone number?” Franklin held the phone receiver to his ear and then faked a frown and disappointment. “Sorry, no dial tone.”

  Keller chuckled.

  “You should just let me go. It won’t be long before guys like you are swept aside. We’re going to be part of the Sovereign Militia, and we’re going to rule in the days ahead. You’re part of the weak and decaying old system. We are the power and the future.”

  Stupid was right. The storms had swept away the old order. A new society would rise out of the present chaos, but right now force ruled. He stared at Stupid. This terrorist and his cohort wanted to rule by force and they could.

  The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. The quote from Edmund Burke rolled around in Franklin’s mind along with worries about his own wife and family. He needed to find Davis, eliminate this militia group, and return home with his men as quickly as possible. He didn’t know exactly how, but he would get the information he needed from this man by any means necessary.

  Any means necessary. What did that mean? How far could he go? He decided to leave the philosophical questions for later as an idea formed in his mind.

  Franklin pushed the cup of coffee forward. “I just made it. Would you like some? Perhaps we can come to an understanding.”

  “Now you’re talking.” Stupid grinned and looked down at his wrists.

  “Release his left arm,” Franklin ordered.

  When free, Stupid reached for the coffee.

  Franklin slammed the knife through his hand, pinning it to the table and spilling the coffee.

  Keller’s eyes flared open and Hansen’s mouth hung agape.

  Stupid screamed and cursed. “Take it out! Are you crazy?”

  “Maybe. Do I have your attention now?”

  Stupid stared as blood flowed from his hand, mixing with the coffee. With ashen face, he nodded.

  “Good.” Franklin rested his hand on the butt of the knife. “What’s your name?”

  Stupid’s gaze darted from his hand to Franklin. “Huh?”

  “Your name?” Franklin wiggled the knife.

  “Uh, Rick.”

  “Good start.” Using one finger, Franklin jiggled the knife. “Your full name.”

  “Rick.” He grimaced and cursed. “Richard Dean Harlan.”

  Franklin grinned. “Okay, Dick. Do you mind if I call you Dick?”

  He shook his head.

  “Where did your friends take Private Davis?”

  Day Three

  Salem, Oregon, Tuesday, September 6th

  As the gray light of a cloudy dawn filtered through an office window, Franklin believed he had extracted all the information Dick Harlan could provide.

  All of the blood and death had been on his own authority and those decisions might mean prison or at least the end of his career. Still, Franklin felt he had done the right thing. If he hadn’t come to the aid of the armory squad, all of them would have been killed or captured and the weapons taken, making the militia group an even greater threat.

  Even interrogation of Dick … no torture … that’s what it was … what the charge would be at his court-martial … even that brutal act seemed to have been the right choice. After some initial reluctance, Dick had eagerly answered every question.

  Franklin wiped the bloody knife on the prisoner’s T-shirt. “How old is Private Davis?” he asked Corporal Hansen.

  “Eighteen. She graduated from high school in June.”

  Franklin thought of his son. This would be his senior year of high school, if the school opened. For a moment he imagined his own son as an army private in this collapsing world. He shuddered.

  “I had nothing to do with kidnapping that girl or killing that other guy you found.” Now with both arms free, Dick cradled his bloody hand against his T-shirt. “I need a doctor.”

  Franklin stared at him for a moment. “You’ll get one—when we get Private Davis back.” As he continued to glare at Dick, Franklin could almost see the slow cogs of the man’s brain working. What would happen to him if they didn’t get Davis back? Franklin decided to answer that question. “If you’ve lied to us or left something out, I’ll let that hand rot. But if you’ve been honest and complete in your answers, we’ll take care of you.”

  “I told you everything I know. All of it.” Dick nodded vigorously.

  Franklin believed him. “Handcuff Dickey in one of the trucks heading south with us,” he ordered Keller and Parson. “And have the medic bandage his hand.”

  Moments later, alone in the office, Franklin finished his report, signed it, and sealed the pages in an envelope. His fate and that of the prisoner rested with General Sattler. Bulging envelope in hand, he walked to the parking lot.

  Franklin stepped outside just as Keller finished the pre-combat inspection. “The platoon is ready, sir. I added the armory soldiers in with two of our squads.”

  “Form up the men,” Franklin said. “I’ll speak with them in a moment.” He continued on to the deuce that would transport the wounded back to Portland.

  Thomas leaned out the passenger window and saluted. “Ready to leave when you say so, sir.”

  “I thought you were wounded.” Franklin raised an eyebrow. “What’re you doing sitting up here?”

  “I can’t walk, but I can shoot if it’s needed.”

  Franklin nodded and handed him the envelope with the after-action report. “Pick up Keller’s wife and child. Then don’t stop for anything on your way back to Portland. When you arrive, take this report directly to General Sattler.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The truck rolled from the parking lot and down the street. The moment it disappeared, Franklin thought of his family. He hadn’t been gone long but should have included a letter to them. He should have allowed all the soldiers an opportunity to send notes home. Cursing his slow thinking, Franklin walked back toward the remaining soldiers and vehicles.

  “Attention!” Sergeant Keller ordered.

  Looking over the soldiers that he would lead on the rescue mission, Franklin marveled at their youth. Some were barely out of high school, but, in the last couple of days, all of them had seen combat. He didn’t see fear in their eyes, only anger, and determination. They were few, less than forty in number, but they were ready. “Soldiers, we are not going to leave Private Davis or anyone else behind. Let’s go find her, bring her back, and deal with those who took her.”

  “Hooah,” the soldiers shouted back.

  Pride surged within Franklin. They were young, but they were soldiers. “Mount up!”

  * * *

  Franklin and the rest of the convoy rolled south out of Salem along the route Dick had said the militia traveled on their way up to Salem. Dick said they had used trees, shrubs, and gullies along the roadside to hide much of their movement and would likely use the same as they traveled back to their compound.

  Picking up speed, the convoy soon rolled through the small town of Turner and continued south toward Jefferson along a two-lane highway through the farms and fields of the
Willamette Valley. A beautiful setting, but Franklin focused his gaze like a hawk in search of prey. The fields, vines, and fruit trees were of no interest to him today; he sought one thing, the militia that had attacked and killed his comrades. As they drove south, Franklin continued to scan the surroundings that soon changed from farms to a large forest of evergreen trees.

  The radio crackled with Keller’s voice. “Gunfire and smoke ahead.”

  “Convoy, stop! Deploy as planned,” Franklin ordered. With binoculars in hand, he exited the Humvee and hunched low in the gully beside the road. He hoped the noise and confusion of combat hid his approach, and that of the rest of his soldiers, as they moved toward a bend in the road.

  Two squads followed Franklin on the right side of the pavement. On the left, the other two squads hurried forward with Keller.

  Ahead, men shouted, gunfire boomed, and bullets pinged as Franklin crawled into position to observe the battle. A convoy of two police vehicles and six pickups and vans were pinned down along the curve in the highway by a group firing from a blockade of abandoned vehicles and from a roadside knoll.

  Over the radio, Franklin explained the situation to Keller. “My two squads will attack the hill. You flank the group on the road and attack the opposite side.”

  The moment his men were in attack position, Franklin shouted, “Fire!”

  A thunderous cacophony of gunfire erupted.

  At that moment, Franklin spotted a female soldier leaning against a rock near the crest of the knoll. Gagged and handcuffed, she struggled to stay low and move away.

  The militia on the knoll continued to return fire but then, in a flurry of activity, scurried back toward the forest, like animals returning to the safety of their lair. One militiaman grabbed the woman by the hair, pulled her up, and shoved her forward.

  Franklin pointed toward the edge of the forest. “Cut them off. They have Davis!” Soldiers ran toward the tree line as Franklin gave orders for Keller to flank the militia from the other side, and then followed his soldiers into the woods.

  Rifle fire thundered among the trees.