Killswitch Chronicles- The Complete Anthology

by G. R. Carter

  Fredericks took another glance at the observation balloons relaying more information. He continued: “Hit the assigned firebases on your map. The Raptors are going to give them grief from above and hopefully they’ll surrender as soon as you pull up. Today is a great day, Red Hawks! Fall before the crawl!”

  The reply thundered: “Fall before the crawl!”

  Fredericks mounted his Turtle, still favoring the speed and maneuverability of the wheeled vehicle instead of the more heavily armed Razorback. He said a silent prayer for a chance to end to the fighting here, and then sent another one out to the other half of their plan. Come on, Eric, catch this guy. Let’s get this over with for good.

  *****

  Task Force 49 sat idling along their namesake highway, waiting for the order to proceed north. The wireless telegraph operator assigned to Eric Olsen’s personal staff scribbled furiously as dots and dashes came in over the wood and metal machine in front of him. Wires sprouted like hair from the back of the base, each one wrapping over and then down to spikes inserted into the soil below. Eric sometimes joked that nothing about the precautions against the lingering solar storms worked, they were just there to make people think the Wizards had a handle on the problem.

  Red Hawk troopers honestly liked their Lieutenant Commander. Eric knew they did. He hadn’t achieved his rank just because of who his father was. The early battles at the side of Alex Hamilton solidified his place as a leader of armed men, and the loyalty the men now felt for each other was unwavering. He joked with some, relieving some stress to stay a little loose. All were excited about the prospect of taking the fight to the enemy for once, and though most didn’t know what their actual mission was today, they knew it was important enough to leave home behind in a big hurry.

  Home still nagged at the back of Eric’s mind, though. Vague whisperings of an attack from the west had filtered through the SDC rumor mill to reach his ears. Nothing too serious, he was sure. Alex would have never greenlighted the invasion of New American territory if there was a serious threat to the capital. Besides, Fortress Farms like his parent’s Tower Hill stood like a rock in the way of any attack. If it really were a mass of ditchers like the rumors said, they’d be no match for the firepower and defenses of the Red Hawks anyway.

  “LC,” the radio operator called out to Olsen, “we got the go-ahead to set up a line at rally point Gamma Six. We are ordered to head east along Route 16 to highway 150, then north on Route 1. We are to bypass Route 49, there is heavy fighting there.”

  “Are you sure, Fuller? Why wouldn’t we punch through where the bad guys are? We can tear some stuff up on the way through and still get to our rally point.” Olsen looked at his map: the rally point given was a good 20 miles east of the original plan. And this was the first he had heard of fighting to his north. The highway he sat on now was only about twenty miles south of where the fighting was. A cluster of Fortress Farms like Hank Tripp’s Shiloh sat in that area. If the Grays broke through that, they’d be on top of Old Main within a couple of hours.

  “Those are the orders, LC. In fact, they’re repeated and your authorization code is requested for confirmation.”

  Thanks Fredericks, checking up on me. Very reassuring, he thought to himself.

  He looked down at the map again. He could head north from here instead of east, and then cut across east from Fortress Brocton on the county blacktop that was still passible according to the map. That route would actually be quicker and would give him the chance to get a quick assessment of the Grays' attack on Shiloh. Alex and Fredericks are always telling me to use my head and my gut when in the field, he assured himself. This feels like the right thing to do, and it’s still within orders.

  “Give the acknowledgement, Fuller. We’ll be waiting for them at Gamma Six.”

  Olsen climbed out of his Turtle and trotted back to the cluster of vehicle commanders waiting for his orders. Thirty of the newest version of the armored vehicles sat in a neatly spaced line along the highway, cold metal rattling as their engines idled in the crisp air. A tanker truck finished topping off biodiesel for the run north. Crews squirmed underneath checking for any leaks, or making sure that hatches and boxes were secured. These were all well-trained crews, pointing to the importance placed on their mission.

  “Ok, listen up, tin-heads,” Olsen ordered. “We’ve got our orders, and we’re going to be slicing deep into Gray territory.” He paused and let the excitement sputter out from the smiling men. “There is a high-priority target headed east out of Lincoln City, and our mission is to keep that target from getting into safe Gray land over towards Indiana. Get my meaning?”

  The men guessed at what the target meant, and a wave of excited disbelief rippled through them. Olsen continued. “Only problem is that our path is blocked by the eastern prong of the Gray attack. They’re hitting farms just north of here. In fact I think I can spot some smoke right now. So here’s the thing, I want to get a look at what’s going on up there. I got a bad feeling about what might happen if they break through and head for Old Main. So we’re going to head up a few miles to Brocton, and then cut east if they have everything under control, ok?”

  Heads nodded all around, and Olsen finished the briefing. “I want to take Alpha group and Bravo group with me. Charlie group, you are to proceed to rally point Gamma Six right now. Take this path…Route 16, Highway 150, Route 1. Got it? We’ll be just a few minutes behind, so set up an ambush for our Gray friends.”

  Olsen looked at the men and women gathered around him and shouted, “Fall before the crawl!”

  The chorus screamed the reply and every vehicle commander ran back to their crews, a final leap onto the platform of their idling armored beasts allowed by plastic-shielded knee pads. They strapped on old American-style ‘Fritz’ helmets with a Red Hawk symbol across the front. The logo appeared everywhere on their equipment and vehicles; the outstretched talons, spread-open wings and narrowed eyes over a sharp beak gave a sinister appearance. The symbol gave strength to these warriors. They were part of something bigger. This was their tribe, their family, and their actions today would be the stuff of legend around the Great Halls for generations.

  Olsen always led from the front and today was certainly no exception. His Alpha group, with Bravo group sitting just behind, waited until all ten of Charlie group’s Turtles slipped past, heading down the path laid out in the orders. Then Olsen gave the signal to his driver, and the EO Ironsides lurched forward towards the battle raging up ahead. The name was painted on the side of the vehicle as a gift from the crew, combining his initials with a famous Viking warrior’s name. Mary Anne Olsen combed the Republic Archives, providing historical heroes for the young warriors of the SDC to look up to. The Olsen family gravitated to the Swedish kings and their Viking predecessors, in line with the family’s heritage.

  As his column gained speed, he wondered if this was how those old kings felt, riding horses of flesh and blood instead of steel and diesel. He could picture himself there in the middle of chaos, hacking and leading like an iron giant. A smile crossed his face and he began to search the horizon for clues of the battle ahead. By the time they reached Brocton, he could see what the day and night before had wrought. Wounded men and damaged vehicles sat interspersed in an assembly yard just outside the fortress walls.

  Eric spotted a man jumping and waving, unable to be heard over the roar of the twenty diesel engines around him. As he jumped down, the man ran over and grabbed him by the shoulders: “Are you the relief column? We’ve been waiting and fighting all night! There’s not enough of you, are you recon?”

  “Okay, okay, we’re here to help you. Who’s in command here?” Olsen calmly replied.

  “That depends, it’s minute by minute. They keep getting killed or wounded. Hank Tripp is still holding Shiloh and trying to coordinate the farms. But he’s lost all of his air, I mean all of it. So we’re each fighting on our own now. Are you going up?”

  “I have other orders, I was just c
hecking in to make a report back to HQ,” Olsen told the man.

  The man’s eyes welled up with tears, streaking the suit and grime. “You gotta help us! We’ve been fighting for over twenty-four hours straight. They just keep coming! You gotta go up and help us! You can make a difference!”

  Eric looked around at the carnage, trying to make some sense of what he was seeing. Every fiber in his being said he should focus here, not on some cat-and-mouse game with a tin pot dictator who was already running for his life. I’m sure if Alex or Martin knew it was this bad, they’d do the same thing, he told himself. I’d be acting against our code if I left these men behind.

  “All right, friend. I need you to get every able-bodied Red Hawk up on their feet. Any vehicle that runs, get it going. You’ve got five minutes. We’ll hit those Grays so hard they’ll be begging for mercy, got me, tin-head?

  The man just nodded, a glimmer of hope returning to his oak-colored eyes.

  Eric turned and gave the round-up signal to the commanders perched on top of their vehicles. He was about to change their orders for the second time in less than an hour. This time more serious and definitely outside his plan of attack. But he knew in his gut this is the call his father would make. A calculated risk that Charlie group could catch a few scared runaway officers trying to save their own skins. Not like him, he’d stay and fight to the end with his men, just like Dad. “One quick punch at the Grays,” he thought out loud. “Give the farms a chance to regroup, then on with our mission to catch Walsh.” They could do this, they just needed a little luck.

  *****

  “That’s four for four, sir. Each checkpoint abandoned…looks like maybe even before the Raptors hit them,” Lieutenant Beasley said to Fredericks. The young officer had a confused look on her face.

  “Remind me to write that prayer down, the one the Reverend said last night. I’ve never seen prayer work so well,” Fredericks said as he scanned the area ahead. Lieutenant Beasley looked even more confused, and then jotted something in her notebook. Edgy nerves made her miss his attempt at historical humor, not something she would have expected from him anyway.

  A scout on a d-cycle sped up to their location, screeching to a halt just inches away from their Razorback's tracks. The stretched four wheel motor bike made a perfect scout vehicle after Wizards collected them by the hundreds from all over Republic territory. Some simple modifications for a compact diesel powered engine and a reinforced suspension allowed Republic Recon forces to range miles out ahead of the heavier armor.

  “We found them, sir!” the scout shouted.

  “Slow down, scout. Take a breath. Who did you find?” Fredericks said with a calming tone.

  “The Americans. There’s hundreds, or maybe thousands of them all behind barricades at the hospital on the other side of town,” the scout reported.

  “Weapons? Troops? Vehicles?” Fredericks asked testily. He expected more details from his recon units, but the young scout’s excitement briefly overrode his training.

  “I didn’t spot a single weapon! But sir, there are several white bed sheets tied up everywhere. On sticks, out of windows, even over the barricades. Do you know what that means?”

  Fredericks felt a sudden wave of relief, then suspicion, then relief again. The Grays weren’t above using a trick like this, but his instincts told him this was different.

  “Get back there, tell them we’re coming and we intend no harm. We’ll be armed but our intentions are peaceful. Go ahead,” Fredericks said.

  The scout sped off to comply and Fredericks picked two Razorbacks to follow him to the hospital. He gathered the crews together, giving them very specific instructions about what they were to do and rules of engagement.

  “Be careful,” Fredericks told them. “If this is a trick then button up, go weapons-free and start backing up. I’ll be in the lead. The rest of the group will be waiting for our signal. We’ll level the place if we have to. Now let’s go.”

  Nerves were again on edge as they creeped towards the hospital. The beautiful tree lined streets seemed oblivious to the conflict of men. Fredericks searched intently for any sign of ambush, trying not to be distracted by the unkept gardens and decaying homes. The Colonel Walsh he knew would never have allowed that. He began to wonder what happened to his former commander to lose focus.

  Barricades preventing access to the block holding the main hospital buildings finally came into sight. Fredericks instructed the Razorback crews turn their weapons to the back, hoping to offer their own symbol of truce. Moving ever closer, he could see three figures standing in front of the main entrance of the complex. Two bandaged men held their rifles pointed down. They flanked a tall woman in patched jeans and a long-sleeved white button-down. Some sort of surgical apron was thrown over her shoulder, marked with dark red and light brown streaks. She stood with her hands on her hips, as though the appearance of enemy armor was an inconvenience more than a threat.

  Fredericks popped up from the commander’s hatch, still wearing goggles and a fritz-style helmet. As he began to remove the gear, he recognized the face in front of him. Sudden shock held him for a moment. Though once based here in Lincoln City – he was here even before Walsh changed the city’s name – it never crossed his mind he’d have to face anyone he knew during the fight to take the city. He realized that presumption was very wrong as his vehicle ground to a halt thirty yards away from the entrance.

  More hastily than was prudent, he jumped down from the firing platform and walked briskly toward the three people facing him. The two guards tensed and gripped their weapons, causing Fredericks to raise his hands in the air, proving he meant no harm.

  “Maggie! Maggie Kemble!” Fredericks yelled. “It’s me, Martin Fredericks!”

  The stern look on the woman’s face melted in an instant. She suddenly looked as though she would burst into tears. “Oh, Freddy! What are you doing here?” she cried out.

  A moment of awkward silence met them both as they embraced. Fredericks wasn’t sure what to say in response to her question. In truth, he was here to capture the very place they stood and potentially kill her and everyone with her.

  The instincts of a veteran Army spouse kicked in and she realized she asked a question that Fredericks wasn’t able to answer. She dried the tears from the corner of her eyes and stepped back to look at him. “A better question, Captain Fredericks, is what you intend to do now?”

  “That depends on the people in charge here, Maggie,” he replied honestly. “We are here to secure the town, hopefully with no further bloodshed. I can call that shot for us; I’m the Commander in charge of the Red Hawk forces now. But whoever Walsh left in command here is going to have to agree.”

  “Well, you’re in luck, Commander,” she said with a tired smile. “You are speaking to the one left in charge here. And as long as Martin Fredericks' word is still good…like when I knew him…back when the world made some sense, you have a deal. You agree not to kill us, and we’ll agree not to kill you. Deal?”

  Fredericks nodded his head and smiled. “Deal.”

  *****

  Eric watched in horror as two and then three of his Alpha group Turtles veered off from their spearhead, smoking. He had all ten in a wedge shape, aimed at the dug-in Grays up ahead of him. Bravo group was taking a wide loop around, trying to circle the American flank. The armor of the new Turtles was supposed to withstand everything up to a rocket-propelled grenade, and even then be effective against that except at close range. Whatever weapon the Grays had developed found a weak spot in the armor. But Eric pressed his men on; knowing the best way to get out of murderous fire was to get inside the enemy’s lines.

  The Grays hadn’t been able to dig in too deep; Eric’s Turtles had been an unexpected arrival for them all. Hank Tripp had known just how to use the fresh forces to turn the tide for Shiloh’s defense. Even though the Turtles lacked the offensive firepower of the heavier Razorbacks, Tripp was convinced the Grays would see a large force of Turtles and a
ssume they were an advance recon for the main Red Hawk reinforcements. Somehow, Eric sensed Tripp still believed that his Republic hadn’t left him to fight alone, like there really was heavy armor just over the horizon – the cavalry coming to save the day.

  Eric knew better, and seeing the carnage left him confused. Why hadn’t they reinforced Tripp and the other farms? That was the right thing to do. His military study classes and his experience in a family devoted to law enforcement said you went to where the fire was first, you didn’t go arrest the arsonist until after everyone was safe.

  Thuds and clanks of metal striking metal brought him back from the brief distraction. It was time to kill some Grays. Targets appeared left and right, and then disappeared in dust and debris as the Turtle guns chewed up the light-skinned American vehicles. In an instant they were in amongst the shallow foxholes. Legionnaires jumped up to run for the supposed safety of whatever was to the north. Eric smiled with grim satisfaction as they crumpled and fell, shot in the back by gunners with blood in their eyes and adrenaline in their veins.

  More flashes burst to his right, and he turned to watch Bravo group slash into the flank of the now disorganized and quickly panicking Grays. Eric speculated the Lead Centurion and most other senior Gray officers were probably dead or incapacitated after twenty-four hours of trying to break through the stalemate. Breakouts required leading from the front, a position with a significantly smaller survival rate. Junior officers would be desperately trying to follow orders, which meant going forward, not back. All Gray officers were well trained, but senior commanders had authority and experience necessary when a plan went pear-shaped.