“I understand your frustrations, sir, and that’s why I’m going to ask those of you who have confidence in not only yourself but also your equipment to step forward. All the rest of you can be given alternate tasks. We can all have a role to play, and nobody will be deemed insignificant.”
Nathan, Denny, Jess, and Tori volunteered themselves to scout the crematorium, as it had accurately been titled by Rory. He was with the group as a guide to the location. Rory led them to East Chicago, to the top of a building that sat near the corner of Columbus and Kennedy Streets. The entire area had a thin layer of soot that blanketed everything in sight. Even their footsteps left imprints wherever they walked.
Below them and to the east, there were hundreds if not thousands of empty train cars that had come to a stop at some kind of interchange. Even farther east, there was a building with a cloud of smoke that was billowing up ash. It was those ashes that rained down across the city and the surrounding suburbs. The building was hopping with activity. They could see cranes hard at work lifting shipping containers and carefully lowering them into a position where they connected with the main structure. Then there was another machine that was driven into place by an operator and used to attach to the end of the shipping container. It was a tractor-looking device that was driven forward, forcing anything or anyone that was inside of it to empty out into the main structure.
“That’s gotta be it,” Nathan exclaimed.
“All I see are four guard towers,” Denny added.
“We can put snipers into positions overwatching each of the towers.”
“Take them out at once?” Tori said. “I like that.”
Jess and Tori made eye contact. Jess was starting to be more accepting of Tori, despite her random nightmares.
Tori gave a hint of a smile at Jess, then added, “Whatever we do, just make sure I’m on board for the infiltration portion of phase two.”
“We can discuss that when we get back to the others, but yeah, I’m definitely in as well,” Nathan responded.
They sat on top of this building for a couple hours and cautiously watched to determine any plausible threats that might arise within the compound. Nathan was dismayed at the fact the security was so minimal. Every once in a while, armed guards would walk out of the main structure. They always exited in pairs and then made rounds together. One faced inward and the other toward the fenced perimeter. The guards appeared to be different people for each round that was made.
“There’s something about this whole thing that makes me uncomfortable.”
“Like what, boss?” Denny asked.
“It just seems all too easy. If this was my outfit, I’d definitely have more security.”
“You’ve got to consider there’s been a serious drawdown of troops recently,” Rory said.
“And we don’t know how many guards are in the main building,” Denny added.
“Munsaf,” Tori said out of the blue.
“Huh,” Jess nastily said back at her.
“Captain Munsaf might be the key to why we’ve been seeing less troops. I say we get back to him and ask him some more questions.”
“You mean so you can ask him some more questions,” Jess bantered, referring to her bloodthirsty desire to interrogate.
“Well, yeah.”
“She’s got a good point,” Nathan said. “Let’s get back to the others, share what we have, and then develop a plan of attack.”
“Let’s do it,” Jess said.
NORAD
“Sir, we’re confirming reports of mass movement south from Rapid City, South Dakota,” a second lieutenant at the controls called out.
Major Hodges was sipping a hot fresh brew of coffee from his favorite mug. He had been taking turns with Admiral Dixon in overseeing the UN activity. He and the admiral had agreed to send an emissary to Black Hills. They figured it wise and prudent to have a private meeting rather than to relay their plans for a counteroffensive over the radio.
“What do you mean by mass movement?” he asked.
“A convoy of several hundred vehicles, comprised of buses, HMMWVs, ACPs, etc.”
The major put his coffee mug down and rushed over to where the second lieutenant was sitting. He looked over his shoulder and tarried while taking in the size of the movement.
“If those vehicles are loaded down with troops, we can expect a force of four thousand, sir.”
“Have you been able to determine their course? Destination? Anything?” the major asked.
“Sir, they appear to be on a direct path to Hot Springs. Estimations show they will arrive in less than an hour.”
Startled by the turn of events, Major Hodges hurriedly turned about and pulled his walkie-talkie up to his mouth.
“Sir, you might want to come up a little early.”
“What is it?” The voice rang out from the speaker of the handheld device.
“The troops the Ospreys brought in appear to have been an advance party. Satellites are showing advancing troops. At least the size of two regiments. They’ll make their destination in less than an hour.”
“What’s their destination?”
“Sir, Hot Springs.”
No sooner than Hodges spoke the previous two words, Dixon came roaring in. He took his place before the screen that displayed the satellite imagery.
“Hot Springs must have been their predetermined rally and staging zone for their attack on Black Hills.”
“Orders?” Hodges asked.
“They’re over an hour away. We can’t send troops, so that’s off the table. We have to send fighters in.”
“But once we revealed ourselves, they’ll know our location and what side we’re on.”
“We don’t have any other choice, Major. Four thousand men against two thousand! That’s what we’re looking at here. We have to soften those transports, and that’ll give our Marine friends a fighting chance.”
“Should we advise them of the impending attack?”
“Yes, get me Whiskey Black.”
An Undisclosed Location near Black Hills, South Dakota
“Whiskey Black from Iron Horse. Over,” General John James’s radio blasted.
Belt McKanty was closest to the radio. Sergeant Hammel’s job was to monitor the radio, but he was indisposed. Belt grabbed the radio and picked up the microphone.
“This is Whiskey Black. Over.”
“Whiskey Black from Iron Horse, our envoy is still hours away from your location, and you have incoming from the north. Approximately four thousand bravo hotels. They’re heading in from Rapid City. Over.”
Belt was taken aback by the sheer number of incoming fighters. His microphone hand lowered from his face as his look went blank. Belt wasn’t experienced in ground combat, so naturally, the force sounded overwhelming. He collected himself and turned about to see John and Rick returning to the room. The general first noticed the flush look on Belt’s face.
“What is it, Admiral?” John asked.
“It’s the blue helmets. They’re on their way to our location, and they’re bringing with them four thousand men.”
“Excellent. That simplifies things,” the general said.
“Simplifies things, how?” Belt asked inquisitively. “They’re double our strength.”
“Double our strength? Where did you hear that?”
“They have double our numbers.”
“Oh.” John chuckled. “That’s very different than having double our strength.”
Understanding only partially what John was trying to say, Belt requested that he elaborate.
“Well, my old friend, we’re Marines and they’re not. We’re better at marksmanship; we have better weapons, training, and, most of all, purpose.”
John looked at Belt and saw uncertainty.
“Don’t tucker out on me now, Belt. Those blue helmets are walking to their death.”
“How so?”
“Where are they headed?”
“From Rapid City to Hot
Springs.”
John had a large map of the area spread out on a table in the room. Using a China marker, he drew a circle around Rapid City and traced Highway 79 all the way south to Highway 18.
“They’ll have one way to get here from that location, and that’s right down this highway. How far out are they?”
“They didn’t say.”
“Gimme the mic,” he commanded.
Belt handed Rick the radio and put the mic in John’s hand.
“Iron Horse from Whiskey Black. Over.”
“This is Iron Horse. Over,” the radio returned.
“Iron Horse, do you have an ETA on the bravo hotels?”
“Estimates are in at forty-five mikes. Over.”
“Whiskey Black copies. Over.”
John gave the mic back to Rick.
“That gives us very little time.”
Hensworth walked in the room as John finished his last sentence.
“What did I miss?” Hensworth asked.
He saw the table and the markings on the map that John had laid out.
“We’ve got visitors about forty-five minutes out, Hensy,” John answered.
“What’s the plan?”
“I was just thinking one out as you walked in.” John turned to look at Hensworth. “Did you keep somebody back from artillery platoon to help call in these locations?”
Hensworth paused.
John realized Hensworth had failed and looked at Rick and said, “Get me Lieutenant Colonel Wright on the horn ASAP.”
Twelve Miles Northwest of the Depot, South Dakota
Lieutenant Colonel Wright was at ease in the passenger seat of his truck when the radio went off.
“Whiskey Black Alpha from Eagle’s nest. Over.”
Wright sat up from his position of relaxation to answer the radio. “This is Whiskey Black Alpha. Over.”
“Whiskey Black Alpha, fire discipline is lacking at Whiskey Black Three. Send one capable fireteam to assist ASAP. Over.”
The general had just commanded Wright to send a team of four Marines that could communicate to the howitzers and direct them with words, phrases, and locations of attack. This was specialized training that most Marines did not possess.
“Whiskey Black Alpha copies. Over.”
Wright turned to his captain and said, “Get some men back to the nest ASAP.”
Barreling down SD Highway 79 were fifty buses, ten armored personnel carriers, ten HMMWVs with crew-served weapon mounts, and ten troop-carrier HMMWVs. The convoy had in its company 3,762 UN soldiers. Their orders were to join the advance party at Hot Springs and set up a command point with the mission of destroying the Marine regiment that was held up at the old abandoned bunker sight. Word of the advance party’s destruction failed to make it back to the two incoming regiments.
Six Miles Northeast of Hot Springs, South Dakota
Lieutenant Colonel Cox had his men removing the bodies of the defeated blue helmets from the roadway. It was going to be hard for him to police the area in such a way to make it appear they had never been there. They had opened fire from an elevated position and sent thousands of rounds through the bodies of the invaders. Some hit, and some didn’t, but all made impact craters on the asphalt road as they tore through their targets. Gear was strewn all over, as the UN soldiers had begun dropping their weight so they could run faster.
Cox’s orders were to destroy the UN unit and then return to Hot Springs and provide security for the Super Stallions. Being an officer, his mind was trained on the attention-to-detail aspect of everything he did. This was a war zone, a battlefield, and the fact that such a tiny thing like policing the area after a massive slaughter mattered to Cox came at a steep price.
John James was happy about the two recent victories against the UN invaders. His mind was on a great many things, including the placement of every unit under his command, their welfare, and little-known allies from the south. The fact that he had established a successful counterattack against the UN attack choppers and properly deployed 3rd Battalion 21st Marines against the 360 UN ground soldiers didn’t cloud his judgment. He had given Cox orders, and now Cox was about to find out that two regiments of UN fighters were overwhelming odds, even against the well-trained Marine Corps battalion. They were scattered across the area of attack, piling up corpses, collecting weapons, ammunition, and gear, when the sound of thunder came rolling in.
Every Marine in 3rd Battalion stopped what they were doing. The sounds of thunder bounced off of the surrounding cliffs and hills. The skies were a hazy late day color, it was December, and the season for storms was still months away.
CHAPTER V
The Old Steelworks Plant, East Chicago, Indiana
The posse had split up into fireteams, squads, and platoons for the operation. Each fireteam consisted of four people. Three of these fireteams made up a squad, and four squads made up a platoon. Troy maintained leadership over the three-percenters group; Nathan, Denny, Tori, and Jess opted to stay together as a fireteam; and Banks took E-3s, also known as lance corporals, to lead the rest of the fireteams. Each squad had an E-4, or corporal, as its leader.
Captain Richards set the platoons into companies. It wasn’t customary for a captain to command a battalion, but there was nothing ordinary about the new world, nor was there any other option. He had no qualms being untraditional given the current state of affairs. The civilians were also separated and then integrated into units. They had little to no formal training, excluding those who were veterans.
Just about every veteran and active-duty military person that was present grumbled about the civilians’ participation. It caused a heated argument between Sergeant Banks and Troy.
“This is our fight, too, Sergeant,” Troy shouted, pounding his chest. His eyes dilated from the adrenaline surge.
“I’m not saying you can’t come, I’m just saying your mortality rate will be much higher.”
“We’ve seen some fights of our own. Don’t underestimate us.”
“You might want to give them another shot at backing out.”
“Go to—”
Nathan jumped between them and interrupted, “Easy, guys. We’re in this together until the bitter end. If you can’t get it through your head that we’re on the same team, then you need to sit this one out.” Nathan made no eye contact to purposefully make a declaration that he wasn’t speaking to any one person. Nathan knew the task at hand would be an impossibility without the Marines and the Army. He certainly didn’t want to set Banks off. On the other hand, he knew the greater fight was going to be in the hands of the common man. It would be their America when the dust settled.
Captain Richards was in the background, watching the events unfold as he stood near his HMMWV and sorted his gear. All the while he had a watchful eye on his nephew, Nathan.
Nathan took one last look around at the posse. His eyes full of determination, he said, “Let’s do this,” as they stepped off to their individual tasks.
Each group was assigned a separate responsibility. Sergeant Banks coordinated the sniper positioning, Troy’s group was to rattle a few cages and start a firefight with the guard towers to make sure they stepped outside so the snipers could get their shots off. Nathan’s fireteam was to infiltrate the perimeter and get inside. From there they could open the main gate and lower the mechanical barricades.
The walls of the complex were about twelve feet tall and appeared to be poured concrete. The guard towers were built into the structure of the perimeter wall. There was a guard tower on each corner. From the ground, it was impossible to see inside the complex. That was where Captain Richards came in. His job was to maintain a visual over the area from the building top that Rory had previously taken Nathan, Denny, Jess, and Tori to. They were each equipped with short-range walkie-talkies that they had looted from the UN units during one of their previous combat engagements.
Besides this role, Captain Richards was also providing overwatch for Nathan’s fireteam. They
had a vantage point from atop the building. Sergeant Banks provided the shooter and the spotter. Those who didn’t have a specific assignment remained in the rear, where their task was to act as backup and respond to calls for reinforcements.
The District
Executive Commander Muhaimin was sitting at a table in the White House, enjoying an evening glass of wine with a young Muslim lady that he had ordered be brought in to him for his own leisure. The authorities working under Muhaimin knew and understood his taste for luxury and women. She was arrayed in a beautiful white lacy fabric and was covered from head to toe. Her eyes were beautiful and mysterious, even without a hint of eyeliner, shadow, or lash extensions. She was not permitted to drink of the wine, but he lavished himself with it in her presence. All the while, his lusts were being emboldened. She showed no interest in him, and to a sadist that was never a good thing.
“Why won’t you speak to me when I compliment your beauty?” he said, angrily throwing down the facial towel he used to wipe his lips.
The lady just looked downward. She modestly flinched when he tossed the towel, but in no other way seemed amused by his performance.
The jaw muscles in Muhaimin’s face tightened then relaxed, just to be tightened again. He was grinding his molars, a telltale sign that he was extremely aggravated. It was usually the last sign one would see before being killed.
The heavy wooden chair prevented him from standing up without the chair being pulled out. That was what his servants were for. He looked over his shoulder at the servant to his right. The servant stepped forward and grabbed the tall corners of the chair and gently began pulling it to the rear. Muhaimin stood up.
“Very well. If you won’t participate willingly, then you will participate unwillingly. Either way, you will do what I say, when I say to do it. You will see, my beauty,” he said as he walked over to her end of the table and stood behind her. His hands were now on her upper arms and working their way toward her face. He ripped the veil off her head, revealing a scarred face. His intentions were to shame her by revealing her face to the men in the room; he succeeded, and then some.
Whiskey Black Book Set: The Complete Tyrant Series (Box Set 1) Page 62
