Colonel Artan Mota and Colonel Vala Baghnalia were standing at the front of the two-regiment formation. Mota was commander over all units assigned to Fema Region VII, while Baghnalia was the commander over all units assigned to FEMA Region V.
Muhaimin landed and was met by both commanders. He was happy to see the two Iranian commanders he had appointed over his Midwest regions.
In his native Persian language, he said, “I’ve had about all I can take from the Russian pigs. After we finish this little task, we’re going to purge them from command ranks. I don’t want any direct contact with any of them.”
“Yes, sir,” they replied.
Looking out upon the formation, he could see Russian captains standing at command point in front of the companies.
“Colonel Baghnalia.”
“Yes, Executive Commander?”
“I need a good spot to hold a meeting.”
“I think that school building would be an excellent spot, sir.”
“So do I.”
“Colonel Mota.”
“Yes, Executive Commander.”
“Hold an emergency meeting, at 19:00 hours, with all the officers and command their presence.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mota began to walk away.
“And, Colonel,” Muhaimin said, stopping Mota in his tracks. “Make sure nobody misses the meeting.”
“Yes, Executive Commander.”
Just a few minutes before 19:00 hours, the Russian and Iranian commanders over companies of the Midwestern FEMA Regions came walking into the school building. The men were directed to check their weapons in at the door and then they were walked to the gymnasium, where they sat on the bleachers in a tight formation.
Colonels Mota and Baghnalia entered the gym and stood in front of the group. A squad of Iranian riflemen came in after them and secured the doors, then marched over behind the colonels and stood in a row with their rifles at port arms.
“Gentlemen, the executive commander commands that you pledge your allegiance to him as the supreme power of the land and the fist of Allah. If you are willing to make this pledge, stand and repeat after me.”
Many stood out of fear, but of those who didn’t were two Russian captains. Alexander Zacharov and Erik Babatyev of the Russian UN assignments to the US.
Mota gave the command and the squad of riflemen ran to the front and took the two Russians out of formation and placed them on their knees in front of the bleachers.
“Are there any other Russians who do not wish to swear their allegiance to the fist of Allah?”
The room was quiet.
“We do not have time, in these days, to worry about our allegiances. If you are not with the executive commander, then you are against him.”
Mota looked at the riflemen and nodded. The men executed the two Russian captains and their blood flowed from their lifeless bodies towards the bleachers and eventually ran underneath them.
Those who remained recited their allegiance and affirmed commitment to the cause of their executive commander. They were free to leave and rejoin the executive commander in the classroom he had selected. After all the officers had taken their seats, Muhaimin began his speech.
“Tomorrow will be the dawn of a new era. The patriot resistance seems to be gathering enough leadership to reform its military. A regiment-sized unit of Marines has been gathering in South Dakota, where they are making plans to retake these lands. Your job is to insure their annihilation and to suck the life out of their patriot cause. I want their ambitions of freedom and liberty to die with them. I want the news of their demise to reach the borders of every rural area and every city where hope can still be found. There’s no need for hope, just like there’s no use to run or fight. This is my will; see it through.”
Muhaimin turned and walked out.
CHAPTER XIV
Champaign, Illinois, 100 miles south of Chicago
Sergeant Banks was leading the convoy north on I-57. The group had made it to the northern parts of Champaign without incident, until the driver of one of the HMMWVs happened to look into one of his side mirrors and saw a stream of cars and trucks pulling out onto the I-57 north exit.
“Guys, we have a pool of incoming POVs.”
The passenger grabbed his mic and announced to the convoy, “We have incoming.”
Everybody that heard the radio traffic was looking over their shoulders, trying to get a view of what was behind them. Others were confused at the comment and were looking skyward for an incoming air attack.
The gunners mounted their turrets, taking positions behind their heavy guns. They were traveling 50 mph, making a TOW weapon attack improbable. The .50-caliber machine guns were locked and loaded. Each gunner was waiting for a command or for the unidentified convoy to make the first move.
“I need a SITREP, back there,” Banks said on his radio.
“Thirty Victors, zero weapons, maintaining consistent cruise speed.”
That bit of information told Banks that there were thirty vehicles that appeared to be unarmed, not taking an aggressive posture.
“They have a Bravo Hotel Mike Charlie Uniform,” the voice relayed back to Banks, informing him of a UN Mobile Command Unit.
“Pull over and take an offensive position,” Banks commanded on the mic.
The lead vehicle slowed and did a U-turn, which prompted every vehicle to follow into a tactically offensive position. With the heavy guns pointed at the convoy, which had slowed to a near stop, the men and women of the POV convoy slowly stepped out of their vehicles with their hands in the air.
“Don’t shoot,” some of them shouted.
The Marines waited for commands from Banks, who watched them closely as they were stepping out of their vehicles.
“We’re on the same side,” one of them shouted.
“Secure these people,” Banks shouted.
When Nathan, Denny, Jess, and Tori caught wind of what was going on, they stepped out of their HUMMWVs and pointed their rifles at the men and women.
“Don’t shoot,” they shouted once more.
“Get on the ground,” Nathan commanded.
Denny, Banks, Nathan, and other Marines joined in on forcing the people to the ground at gunpoint.
“Who are you? Why are you following us?” Banks questioned.
Nathan studied them closely and recognized their patches and their demeanor.
“It’s cool, Sergeant. They’re with us.”
“Do you know these people?”
“Not these people, but I know of them and what they stand for. Frankly, if they’ve survived this long, they might come in handy. They’re members of a three-percenters group.”
“Like a militia group?”
“That’s it.”
“We’re with you guys. We’re on the same team,” a man on the ground said.
“Okay, get up,” Banks said and motioned to the Marines to lower their weapons.
“We’ve been fighting against some blue hats for weeks. Then they just left,” the man said.
“What’s your name?” Nathan asked.
“Troy, what’s yours?”
“I’m Nathan. This is Denny, Tori, Jess, and those guys have name tags.”
“Glad to meet you guys. So are you on mission? We’d like to join.”
“Yes,” Banks answered. “What do you have over there?” he asked, pointing to the mobile command unit.
“We captured it from one of the blue-hat skirmishes.”
“What kind of intel did you manage to secure?” Nathan asked.
“We’ve got some good stuff. It was a good capture. Until recently, the UN traffic was all English. Now it sounds like Persian. I’m guessing they’re starting to see that they can’t communicate without us capturing their radio traffic. Before they went Persian, we overheard information suggesting that US forces were capturing key strategic power grid points.”
Everybody in the group was looking around at each other in awe and disma
y.
Troy saw their faces and continued his monologue. “It’s true. This MCU has picked up communications from all over the US. From what we have gathered, the western states are not only without power, but their electronics are down, their cars are down, nothing with an electronic signal works.”
“Would they have nuked the West Coast?” Nathan asked rhetorically, looking at Banks.
“Wait,” Tori said. “Did you say we were nuked?”
“Not necessarily,” Denny interrupted. “A nuclear attack would fry anything electrical, but we don’t have to head straight for the worst-case scenario. They could have seen that we were beating them on every front. Maybe they employed an EMP-style attack?” he suggested.
“I’m voting that they nuked us,” Jess said.
“Why would they nuke us, Jess? They want this land inhabitable. That’s why they’re here. Don’t you remember all the hubbub about the global community and the Agenda 21 initiative?”
“I thought Agenda 21 was hocus-pocus,” Banks said.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, guys, but we’ve been listening to a great deal of communications. There’s no indication that we were nuked. The West Coast, from what we’ve heard, is inhabitable. It’s just like their electronics went out. We were thinking EMP, too,” he said.
Denny nudged Jess as if to say told you so.
Troy continued, “They were driving around inside the area. No signs of a nuclear attack anywhere. Even the FEMA compounds and the UN control points were without power. Oh yeah, and an outbreak of some kind.”
“Outbreak?”
“People are getting sick and they’re starting to quarantine areas around some of the FEMA compounds.”
“And the hits keep coming,” Nathan quipped. “Well, we’re on our way to Chicago. We’re supposed to meet a friend with more firepower. I don’t have a problem with you coming along with us, as long as Banks is cool with it, too. As you can see, we already have several POVs tagging along.”
Banks appreciated the inclusion. He knew Nathan had been running the show for most of their trip from Gorham. “I’m good with it. So, you say they’re speaking Iranian now?”
“Yeah.”
“We should’ve kept the skinny guy,” Banks said.
“You made a deal with me,” Tori said. “How was I supposed to know he’d ever come in handy?”
“Okay, we just need to get another translator.”
Troy grabbed his own face and said, “Man, I don’t know why we didn’t think of this earlier.”
“What?”
“We left a wounded Iranian blue hat back in town.”
The group all looked at each other and smiled big.
“Well,” Nathan said, “go get him.”
EPILOGUE
Decades before the Flip, the federal government had been buying up American soil, even though Article 1 Section 8 of the US Constitution limited this to ten square miles for the purpose of needful federal things such as forts, dock-yards, and buildings. The amount of land owned by the government was alarming. At any time, these lands could have been posted and controlled by the government, where events unfolded outside of the American eye and away from public knowledge. This image shows all land owned by the federal government (seen in gray), as of 2005. The current federal land mass is even larger:
As of mid-2015, US presidents have issued 18,450 executive orders, bypassing congress, to force their will upon the people, even though this power was not enumerated among the powers listed in the US Constitution under Article 2 Section 2, but on the contrary stated in Article 1 Section 1 that congress had all legislative powers.
For years, the CIA, FBI, NSA, DHS, and other government organizations had been collecting and storing data, belonging to Americans, without probable cause and without warrants, despite the fourth amendment of the Bill of Rights. The amount of data collected daily was so much that the government had to build a multibillion dollar domestic surveillance center to store it. The address is N 11600 W, Saratoga Springs, UT.
These seemingly worriless events had yet to touch the bellies of the American people. The gradual decline of American rights were so incremental that it was not felt as a whole. It would have seemed that America was at peace knowing that the government was taking care of them and presumed the welfare of the people were at the forefront, but the truth is this: The bigger the government gets, the less liberty the people will enjoy. When the government grows so large that is has control over every aspect of individual liberty, then it ceases to be freedom, and becomes privilege, a temporary benefit issued to the people as a license.
ENDGAME
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Copyright © 2016 L. Douglas Hogan
No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
All rights reserved.
Opinions alter, manners change, creeds rise and fall, but the moral laws are written on the table of eternity.
– John Dalberg-Acton
PROLOGUE
September, 2031
Belleville, Illinois
Albert Thompson used to have a factory job before the Flip. After just a couple months of martial law, he, like nearly every American, was now struggling to survive. He found himself in a street fight with a couple of thugs from the east side. He had made a routine of plundering for food and whatever else could ease the stresses of survival. Winter was coming, and the urge to fill up the pantry for the winter was overwhelming. His life was now in jeopardy.
One of the men was armed with a pistol and the other with a knife. Albert didn’t know if he would survive the situation, but he knew he wasn’t going to die begging for his life. He carefully sized them up.
The man with the gun was an African American and had a clear commanding presence. He was intense and intimidating, especially with that pistol pointing at Albert. The man with the knife was a Caucasian follower of the man with the gun. That much was clear to Albert, who now stood with his hands in the air.
Albert was afraid, but his courage came to him when his captors commanded him to get on his knees. It wasn’t an issue of ego that kept him from taking a knee. It was more of a sense of self-worth and awareness. He didn’t believe in playing the part of the victim. He felt that if he was going to meet his maker, he would do it with his head held high.
“I told you to get on your knees, honky,” the man commanded.
Albert didn’t argue, he just didn’t respond.
“Put him down, dog,” he commanded his minion.
The man with the knife strolled to the side of Albert and hit him in the back of the head with the butt of the knife.
The impact was painful and dropped Albert to his knees. He almost went unconscious.
“Search him.”
The man with the knife searched Albert, but came up empty-handed.
“He’s clean,” the follower said.
“He can’t be clean. I’ve been watching this boogeyman for days,” he said.
The man with the gun walked up to Albert and kicked him in the ribs.
Albert winced.
“Pick him up,” he commanded.
The man with the knife struggled to lift Albert, but did so because Albert was picking himself up at the same time. Albert, seeing an opportunity, took it immediately. It meant survival of the fittest. He had never killed a man before, but was absolutely certain he was going to die this very day.
The man with the knife failed to put it away as he lifted Albert to his feet. The knife was still within Albert’s arm’s reach when he grabbed the knife out of the white man’s hand and sliced the black man’s throat.
Dropping the pistol, he groped for his neck, but there was no sto
pping the arterial spray.
Albert threw the knife and grabbed the pistol. The minion was now at Albert’s mercy. He had made up his mind.
If I’m going to kill once, I’m going to kill as much as I have to.
He pulled the trigger and dropped the minion where he was standing; one moment, two kills, and a changed man with a pistol that would change the lives and alter the outcomes of many future events.
Later, Albert would gift this pistol to a damaged young wife of a murdered husband and two murdered daughters. The pistol—handed to her in her moment of weakness—gave her strength and resolve. It became her go-to when she was feeling vulnerable. It embodied strength, power, control, and vengeance. Bubba was a shiny 1911 .45 caliber Smith & Wesson.
CHAPTER I
December 15, 2032
Somewhere North of Mount Vernon, Illinois
Jessica Miller was more than a little intimidated by Tori Cunningham. It wasn’t Tori’s past relationship with Nathan Roeh that ate at Jess’s jealousy, or her strong personality; it was more than that. When Jess looked at Tori, she saw a woman who was dangerous. Yes, Tori had been through quite a bit, but it was the apocalypse, who hadn’t?
Tori had lost her husband and one of her daughters in a raging fire set by brigands over a few morsels of food. Her other daughter was cannibalized by an elderly man in the Belleville, Illinois, area in a trade-off for some liquor. Jess was under the assumption that Tori had nothing further to live for. This thought drove Jess’s mind almost constantly. She wanted to feel sympathy for Tori, but Tori had a way of driving wedges into any given situation. She felt that Tori was a liability more so than an asset. She had spent countless hours weighing her pros against her cons. The cons seemed to carry the most weight, at least in Jess’s mind.
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