His men ran on foot, and the combined UN/FEMA forces gave chase. They sent a barrage of bullets after them and killed three of Richards’s men in the pursuit. Once Richards had entered a tree line of his own, he gave the command and his men went into defensive positions and returned fire at the advancing enemy group. Once the UN-FEMA group saw they were being shot at, they returned to cover of their own.
“We’re sitting ducks,” one of the corporals said.
“Smoke,” Captain Richards called out.
One of the soldiers unclipped a colored smoke grenade, normally used for target identification, and pulled the pin. He tossed the grenade upwind, toward the enemy, and it unleashed a screen of red smoke, which blew across their position, concealing their movement. A hail of gunfire tore through the smoke as they ran westward. The sound doubled in intensity, giving the illusion that the number of attackers had more than doubled in strength. This caused Richards to pause his retreat. Continuing to take cover behind the trees, he peered towards the smoke screen while he, Rory, and the others watched and listened as the increased gunfire slowed down and eventually faded into silence.
When the smoke had cleared and Rory had regained his composure, his eyes looked upon several familiar faces; and not only his, but Captain Richards’s also, who looked in awe as his nephew, Nathan Roeh, stepped through the fading smoke screen with his friends and a company of Marines.
CHAPTER II
The District
“Keep me informed of every movement,” Muhaimin commanded his intelligence officer.
“Yes, Executive Commander,” the man said before he hung up the phone.
Muhaimin’s trip home from Independence, Iowa, was uneventful. He had left clear instructions to his confidants that they were to annihilate the regiment-sized gathering of troops near the base of the Black Hills in South Dakota.
Before the North Korean attack, just off the western coast of the United States, Muhaimin was using Chinese-supplied technology to monitor the whereabouts of post-2018 active-duty troops and veterans. Each of these vets had an RFID chip implanted into their buttocks for satellite monitoring a real-time recording of events on the battlefield. Later this technology would be used to gather intelligence on veterans, even after they had ended their service.
Executive Commander Abdul Muhaimin was not a man to be trifled with. For generations the men in his family had been battle-hardened members of the Islamic Republic of Iran Army Ground Forces. Abdul served in this army during the Middle Eastern conflict known as the Jihadi Wars. He was the captain of a ground forces unit applicably nicknamed Black Death, due to their lack of obedience to the rules of engagement and the laws of the Quran, as it applied to Sunnis serving in combat roles.
In the mid-2020s, a religious civil war developed in Iran, which threatened a much greater instability in the Middle East than the West was used to. After years of refusing involvement, the US Department of Homeland Security and many intelligence agencies within the US realized the cost of ignoring the situation had proven far weightier than direct involvement. The US asserted itself, and in doing so, Muhaimin, a Sunni, turned his hatred from his Shiite enemies and redirected his frustrations toward allied forces from the West.
After several months of engaging fellow Muslims and watching the Sunni team with the West to fight against Shiites, he converted. Muhaimin hated the West. He renounced his faith, surrendered his unit to the Shias, and swore allegiance to that cause. After sharing intelligence with his new allies, the Middle East wars took a turn for the worse. Shia rule gripped Iran, and the loosely respected Iranian constitution was abandoned. Muhaimin maintained his commission as an officer, and the war effort turned its focus to the Western invaders. This mishandled war continued until the US went bankrupt. Lady Liberty could not support the overwhelming number of entitlement programs together with the cost of war. Eventually, US forces were called home and martial law was declared, giving a surprise victory to the jihadists.
Muhaimin was now comfortably lying back on a couch in the White House. It was a comfort he was not used to. And to relax, for Muhaimin, was almost unheard of. He had just kicked his boots off and rested his head back onto the arm of the couch when his phone rang. Pulling his cell phone from the inside of his jacket, he answered in Persian, “Yes, Colonel.”
Colonel Artan Mota, commander of the UN forces over FEMA Region VII, was on the other end.
“Executive Commander Muhaimin, our forces are not far from the location of the American resistance in South Dakota. We are requesting the preliminary attack sequence be initiated.”
“Request granted,” Muhaimin said, pushing the end call button on his phone.
He touched his finger to a button on the screen and spoke into the microphone, “Dial NORAD.”
The digital voice spoke back to him, repeating his command.
“Dialing Northern American Aerospace Defense Command.”
NORAD was, and had been, located within the Cheyenne Mountain Complex not far from its counterpart USNORTHCOM (United States Northern Command), which was located at Peterson Air Force Base near Colorado Springs, Colorado. Carved from the granite mountainside in the 1950s and activated in the late 1960s, NORAD was hardened against many forms of unconventional warfare.
At the time of the Flip, NORAD’s purpose was surveillance of the skies and reactionary support from anything incoming. Budget cuts decommissioned many of its assets.
USNORTHCOM’s role was to provide civil authorities with the necessary military support in the event of a natural or man-made crisis. Nothing forbade it from reacting to a government-made crisis.
NORAD, Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado Springs, Colorado
Outside of the huge mountain complex sat a dozen UN troop carrier trucks, three hard-back HMMWVs, two armored personnel carriers, and a FEMA mobile command unit. General Muhaimin had taken advantage of the intelligence he had gained, becoming the executive commander of the UN forces in America. He had sent the emissaries to Northern Command not long after he had received word of the gathering of troops at Black Hills. Now with the power of NORAD at his command, he was set to dominate any and all resistance on the front lines of South Dakota, and doing so would be his defining moment and set the pace for the fall of American patriotism.
Deep inside the hollowed tunnels and through the labyrinth of rooms and hallways, bodies were littered about the floor, and blood was seeping onto the tiles beneath the dead UN troops and FEMA personnel; all but one.
William S. Dixon, admiral in the US Navy and commander of North American Aerospace Defense Command, had dispensed of the unwelcomed envoy. He was safely nestled beneath the security of the mountains and surrounded by the US Army’s 4th Infantry Division, of which remained six thousand soldiers. Those soldiers were a remnant of the division that existed prior to the Flip. They were once a highly organized unit called a Stryker Brigade Combat Team (SBCT). In their arsenal was more than three hundred Stryker armored vehicles capable of antiarmored support, antiair support, infantry carriers, and other armored emergency situation vehicles. It was nothing Executive Commander Muhaimin wanted working against him.
Admiral Dixon had his pistol planted firmly against the back of the FEMA mobile commander’s head. The frightened mobile commander was leaning over a microphone, which protruded from the desk, amidst all the high-tech gadgets and computer systems.
“Answer your executive commander, Lieutenant, or you’ll end up like your comrades,” Dixon commanded.
The mobile commander’s name was Vadik Sagadeyev. He was a Russian communications specialist and had no love for his executive commander, but was loyal to directives and orders. The last order he was given was to report to the North American Aerospace Defense Command and to relay to the current personnel that he was taking command. Little did he know that the grit of a thirty-year sailor could not be easily overcome by a few empty threats and a hundred UN soldiers. He and his men were welcomed into the facility, where they were ambushe
d. Admiral Dixon had heard from Muhaimin previously and vowed his unconditional support. His Army division easily outnumbered the Marine regiment, but Dixon had ulterior motives. Dixon kept to himself a Persian translator.
“I’m not telling you again, Captain,” the admiral said, pushing Vadik’s head forward with the muzzle end of the pistol.
“This is NORAD. Identify yourself,” Vadik said, holding down the button that offered him communication to the executive commander.
“This is Executive Commander Abdul Muhaimin, of the UN forces of America. I have dispensed thirty Z-10 attack choppers retrofitted with bunker busters and anti-tank missiles to extinguish a regiment of Marines that are taking shelter in a location north of your position. Your orders are to launch a preliminary attack on Black Hills Army Depot to soften the area and to make the area viable for a follow-up attack. Your men should already be in position.”
Vadik might have been a fluent bilinguist, having learned Persian early in his career as a communications specialist, but there was another language he was familiar with, a third language that most men could understand. It was violence, and he wanted no part of it.
“Yes, Executive Commander. The men are in place and they are awaiting your command.”
“Launch the first attack wave, and inform me of the outcome.”
“Yes, Executive Commander.”
Dixon pulled Vadik away from the computer console by the back of his collar and swung him over to Major Devin Hodges.
The major released him into the custody of a squad of infantry soldiers, who took him to the corner of the room and forced him to sit on the floor.
“What’s the plan of attack, Admiral?” Hodges asked.
“We knew the power was down in the west; we knew it was coordinated by a North Korean battleship; we even knew we were supposed to move a few units to South Dakota, but we didn’t know we had a regiment of Marines taking refuge at the old abandoned army depot. How is this possible?”
“Sir, there was no way of translating Persian radio chatter into intelligible English. We’re equipped with all types of technical deciphering gizmos for decrypting codes and even translating software for every known language in the world, but there was nothing handy, until now, to bend a foreign radio wave into English.”
Hodges could see that Dixon was thinking hard about a plan of attack. One that rescued the Marines from impending doom. A joint task force comprised of US Marines and his Stryker brigade was enough to risk just about anything.
“Are thirty attack choppers enough to take out a regiment of unsuspecting Marines?” Dixon asked.
“It depends on how much notice they have of the incoming attack and how heavily fortified they are. There are hundreds of possible bunkers they could be in. There’s not enough firepower on thirty choppers to take them all out.”
“We have the CHAMP missile system. We could launch that above the choppers, and it would render their targeting systems useless.”
Looking across the room, Dixon could see several men hard at work monitoring the skies, each of them waiting for direction.
“Launch the CHAMP,” he commanded.
CHAMP was an acronym that stood for Counter-electronics High-powered Microwave Advance Missile Project. Its function was to fly over enemy technology and emit bursts of electromagnetic pulses.
One of the second lieutenants at the controls acknowledged with a smile and proceeded to push a button. This gave him access to a panel that opened. Using the information he had heard and a satellite that located the incoming choppers, the necessary information was punched into the relay. It uploaded instantly to the onboard computer system located on the CHAMP missile. The launch sequence started and the CHAMP missile left the Cheyenne Mountains in a northerly direction.
Undisclosed Location East of Provo, South Dakota
“Sir, we’ve just intercepted another transmission,” Sergeant Rick Hammel announced to General John James.
“Was it more babble like the rest?”
“I was able to discern NORAD and Black Hills.”
“They must be coordinating the attack from Colorado,” Hensworth presumed.
“I’d say that’s our angle,” Admiral Belt McKanty added.
“I agree. We’re mostly situated southward from the mountains. There’s nothing much north of us. We know they won’t come on wheels from the north. I want some forward observers south of us, enough to give our howitzers the range they need to be effective and to take the fight to them when they come barreling in,” John added.
“Sir, we’re being hailed on a high-frequency channel,” Hammel shouted.
McKanty, James, and Hensworth ran over to Hammel’s position.
From the radio, they could clearly hear English greetings.
“Warriors of the Black Hills, from Iron Horse, do you copy?”
The military commanders just stared at each other as it was repeated.
“Warriors of the Black Hills, from Iron Horse, do you copy?”
“Sir?” Hammel queried in a voice that emphasized the question.
“Go ahead, Sergeant, but be careful what you say,” John authorized.
Hammel carefully brought the mic up to his face and spoke into it. “Iron Horse, from Whiskey Black, do you copy?” he said, putting a spin on the already cool name.
“Whiskey Black, be advised, you have several tangos flying in from the west. Over.”
“Ten-four, Iron Horse. Whiskey Black copies. Over and out.” Hammel leaned back and looked at General James. “Who’s Iron Horse?”
Belt McKanty, admiral of the US Navy, stood up from his kneeling position and said, “It’s the 4th Army Division, NORAD’s backbone, and we need their help.”
Northwest of South Holland, Illinois
“Doth my eyes deceive me?” Captain Richards jested when he saw his nephew, Nathan.
Equally surprised was Nathan, who was not only looking into the face of his mother’s brother, but found himself once again weaved into the life of Rory Price, an old friend from the Gorham, Illinois, days.
Nathan, not knowing what to say initially, told the posse to lower their weapons. Denny and Jess had already lowered theirs.
“Uncle Lewis?” Nathan spoke with a tone of confusion. “Rory?” he continued.
Nathan, Denny, Jess, Rory, and Lewis slung their weapons over their shoulders and walked equal distances until they met in the middle of the two groups. The captain’s men came out of the tree line and lowered their weapons. They owed that much to the group that had saved them.
Nathan and his uncle, Captain Lewis Richards, embraced one another with a quick manly embrace.
Nathan pulled away from his uncle and gave a quick hug to Rory, who in turn gave hugs to Denny and Jess.
“Where’s Buchanan?” Nathan asked Rory. He spent no time getting down to the important questions.
“His plans changed.”
“Changed, how?”
The tone in Nathan’s voice had changed to frustration. Rory picked up on his change in demeanor.
“Once we got far enough north, we received some radio traffic from a bigwig Marine and a unit of Marines out of Fort Wayne, Indiana. They requested we meet up in Valparaiso, so we did.”
“Who was the bigwig, Rory?”
“It was the commandant of the Marine Corps.”
Nathan went from frustration to awe and disbelief. He looked back at his friends and then to those with Rory and his uncle Lewis and then back over his shoulders at the other members of the posse.
“I take it this is a big deal?” Jess said, breaking the moment of shock and awe.
“This is bigger than big,” he replied.
Tori stepped into the conversation. “If the commandant is with us, then that means we’re dealing with a fractured government.”
“How so?” Jess asked.
Tori was a Marine and had a degree of knowledge regarding things military. “He’s a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”
&n
bsp; “If there’s a living Joint Chief of Staff—”
“Two living Joint Chiefs of Staff,” Rory interrupted.
“Two living?” Nathan asked, now even more surprised.
“That’s right. From what I was able to gather, there was a Navy admiral. I don’t remember his name.”
“The admiral’s name’s not relevant.”
“John James,” Sergeant Banks said. “The commandant’s name is John James. The admiral has a funny name. I can’t recall it, either.”
“The bottom line,” Rory said, “is that we have a formidable fighting force in the making, but it’s far from here. There’s a more pressing matter at hand, and it’s the reason I refused to go with Buchanan.”
“The entire reason we’re here is to shut down FEMA Region Five.”
Nathan turned and looked at Jess. “You were caught … captured, and stuffed into one of those giant metal shipping containers. You were on your way to only God knows where.”
The group paused to look at Jess.
Denny continued. “Ash, Todd, Zig, and many others were killed for this very mission. The preacher’s right. We have to stay on task. FEMA Region Five has to burn.”
“I’ve seen it, Nathan,” Rory said with a solemn voice.
“Seen what?” Tori asked.
The rest of the group stood stationary, waiting for Rory to share what he had seen.
“The crematorium.”
CHAPTER III
San Diego, California
“Eagle’s Nest?” Briggs repeated. “Is that supposed to be the president?”
“It stands to reason,” Edwards replied.
“That dumb cow is the reason all this came about.”
“We can’t put it all on her, Briggs. This soup sandwich has been in the making for years. Kennedy laid the groundwork for this government takeover. Him, Clinton, and Obama. All they managed to do was prep the stage for big brother. Now we’re reaping what they sowed.”
Whiskey Black Book Set: The Complete Tyrant Series (Box Set 1) Page 59
