Whiskey Black Book Set: The Complete Tyrant Series (Box Set 1)

by L. Douglas Hogan

  Her face was scarred in at least two locations as if she had been cut with a knife. His plan was to forcefully take her, but he was shocked. Not by the scars, but the fact that they were fresh and his servants had dared to bring him a subpar female specimen.

  He turned around and looked at the servant closest to him, which was now the one that had not been there to assist him in standing up. The servant was scared and shook his head no. Muhaimin responded by walking over to a small lamp stand and pulling the drawer open. Inside the drawer was a knife and a small pocket-sized pistol.

  “Is this what you think to bring me?” Muhaimin shouted at the man and pointed to the lady.

  “Executive Commander—”

  Muhaimin slapped the man in the face, interrupting his explanation. “I don’t want or need to hear your excuses. If this is what you feel your executive commander deserves, then you deserve worse because your commander is better than you. You are a servant and nothing more.”

  Muhaimin handed him the knife. “Now make yourself look like her.”

  The servant hesitated.

  Muhaimin slapped him with the pistol. “I said make yourself look like her.”

  Muhaimin’s anger was now more pronounced.

  The servant looked at the woman, who was hiding her face out of shame. Firstly, she was forbidden by her religion to show her face to anybody that wasn’t her husband, and secondly, she was scarred and considered unclean.

  The servant walked over to the woman and asked her to lean her head back.

  Muhaimin interrupted. “Is that how you would speak to a horse? No,” he answered himself. His questioning was rhetorical to prove a point to his servant. “You command it,” Muhaimin continued.

  The servant grabbed the woman by the back of her hair with his left hand and pulled her head backwards, revealing her face.

  The young lady whimpered.

  “Now cut yourself,” Muhaimin commanded.

  The man ran the blade deep into the flesh of his face, tracing a cut that matched the woman’s. His blood was running down his cheeks and onto the floor. The other servant saw the blood spill and ran to clean it up, but Muhaimin stopped him.

  “This is not your mess. He will clean up after himself.”

  The second servant back away.

  When the first servant was done cutting himself, he spoke to the executive commander.

  “What would the executive commander have me do with his soiled knife?”

  Muhaimin thought for a moment.

  “Give it to your associate.”

  The servant handed the knife to his associate, and Muhaimin commanded him to go home for the day.

  The servant walked out of the door. Muhaimin turned toward the second man and said, “Go finish it.”

  The servant, with knife in hand, left the room. The executive commander turned towards the woman. His thirst for blood had been abated, for the moment.

  “Now what shall I do with you?”

  The woman was scared and hiding her face from the sadist.

  He turned towards the large picture window and walked over to it. Peeking out through the divide in the large heavy curtains, he said, “I suppose what I need you for does not require words.” He began unbuttoning his dress shirt. The lady began to panic to the point that she was hyperventilating. Muhaimin walked over to her and pulled her up out of the dining room chair and pushed her with great force down onto a soft leisure chair.

  The chamber door pushed open suddenly, and there stood an agent of the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence. He was winded and pretended that he did not see the executive commander in his awkward position.

  “What is it?” Muhaimin asked.

  “Executive Commander, the advance party you sent to Region Seven has not been heard from and they cannot be reached.”

  “And what of the preliminary attack on the Marine regiment?”

  “It’s as if they have vanished, Executive Commander.”

  “Have you heard from NORAD?”

  “No, Executive Commander. They have not reported their victory over the regiment.”

  “What about the two regiments I sent?”

  “They are advancing as scheduled, Executive Commander.”

  “Good, warn them that the Marines know we are coming and that the advance party has failed in their objective.”

  “Yes, Executive Commander.”

  The man pulled the door shut, and Muhaimin turned around to face the woman. He walked over to the table and grabbed her veil. Once he had turned back to face her, he threw it at her face.

  “In the name of Allah, cover yourself.”

  Hot Springs, South Dakota

  Lieutenant Colonel Cox had spent the last several minutes cleaning up his area of operation when he and his men were stopped in their tracks at the sound of thunder, or what they believe sounded like thunder. The thunder sounds were actually the roaring engines of several tons of UN troop-carrying firepower. Cox was caught off guard as the sound of thunder switched from a natural occurrence to a man-made event.

  The highly mobile multipurpose wheeled vehicles rolled around the bend in the road and made their debut as being officially the largest UN convoy seen since the initial days of the Flip. In the front of the convoy appeared to be mounted heavy weapons systems and armored personnel carriers. Cox had little to no time to deliberate a strategy.

  “Back into the hills, now,” he commanded as loudly as he could.

  Still lying in the crevice of the rock face and beneath the body of the fallen UN soldier, Ryan Lee heard the shout and all the commotion that ensued following his command. He saw this as his opportunity to evacuate his hiding place.

  When he arose from his obscure location, he fell in behind several others that were running for the hills. As he ran, he passed several Marines. His thin light frame allowed him to move a little quicker up the hill. One Marine saw his uniform and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, but it was too late. Rounds were zipping downrange from the heavy guns of the UN convoy. He immediately let go of Ryan and took cover. His body took two high-caliber shots that left him immobile. He screamed, “Corpsman,” but was cut short by a round to the head.

  Ryan, who was also taking cover, saw several of the Marines take similar impacts from what appeared to be .50-caliber rounds. The holes the rounds made in the Marines’ bodies were enormous. Ryan saw the head shot of the Marine who had grabbed him. It stunned Ryan because of the hollow sound the round had made upon entry. The exit wound reminded him of the sharpshooter videos he used to watch, where the watermelons would explode in slow motion. That was the general description of what he was seeing on a large scale. The bullets were shredding through small trees and still making their mark.

  Ryan regained his composure and kept running up the hill with what he hoped would be his new unit. They were Marines, but surely they could use his knowledge and experience with the UN to their advantage. At least that was the thought predominantly running through his head, besides surviving the slaughter.

  The sounds of fighter jets were distinctly heard in the skies above. NORAD’s fighter jets had arrived and were about to engage the convoy when one of them was suddenly destroyed. A missile from an incoming enemy jet hit its mark. The friendly jet exploded into flames and fell to the earth. Looking up, Cox could see there was a battle in the skies for air superiority. Dozens of fighter jets maneuvered through the skies. The battle ensued as Cox took his attention from the skies to the convoy below.

  The convoy was now perfectly situated on the road in front of the hillside that gave cover to the retreating Marines. Their attack on the hillside was relentless. They kept firing until their barrels became too hot to shoot any further. When the cease fire was called, TOW missiles from an unknown location came raining down on the armored personnel carriers and the mounted crew-served weapon systems that were previously tearing up the hillside.

  When the TOWs blew up their APCs, the UN forces repositioned themselves and si
tuated tighter to the hillside, away from the line of sight of the hilltops. They again opened fire on Cox’s men. Anybody that straggled was shot and killed. The Marines would occasionally stop and return fire, but this seemed to only give away their location.

  Cox continued to yell, “Fall back, Marines,” as he lingered to make sure every last straggler was accounted for. He knew he had lost men, but didn’t know the exact number. His support was minimal, and his radioman was missing. Identifying one of his captains, he stopped him to ask, “Captain, I need you to call Eagle’s Nest ASAP and get us some support.”

  “Yes, sir,” the captain replied.

  About that time, Cox saw a UN soldier running up the hillside.

  He pulled his pistol on the man and was surprised at the response.

  “Don’t shoot, Lieutenant Colonel. I’m an American.”

  Cox grabbed the man by his uniform shirt and pulled him down.

  “Explain yourself, Lee,” Cox demanded. He had already identified him by his name tag.

  Ryan began telling his story, but was cut short when the sounds of heavy artillery rounds began tearing up the highway below.

  “Danger close,” Cox shouted. Every remaining Marine, along with Ryan Lee, stood up and began heading for the top of the hill. Danger close was a term that signified air support, artillery fire, and any other close-proximity assistance provided by friendly fire. In this case, the UN forces were being bombarded. The weapons company commander had a vantage point from his position where he would be able to provide impressive and overwhelming fire support to his battalion commander, but given the size of the enemy force, opening a suppressive and continued fire from his concealed position would give their location away. In essence, he would be signing their death sentences. It was the forward observers that John James sent for that had found Cox’s weapons company.

  The enemy forces began their retreat into the town of Hot Springs. Their intel showed that it was still occupied with Americans. Enemy command knew that the Americans would not engage the town with artillery if it meant destroying their own.

  NORAD

  “No word yet on the attack?” Major Hodges asked the controller.

  “They’re still engaging enemy fighters, sir.”

  “How many of ours are down?”

  “Three.”

  “How many tangos have been destroyed?”

  “Seven. Their skill level is obviously inferior, sir.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  “Sir?” another controller called out.

  “What is it?” Hodges asked as he moved into position behind the man.

  “The main force is retreating into Hot Springs. It has a few remaining civilians. Unknown population, sir.”

  “Get me Whiskey Black.”

  An Undisclosed Location Near Black Hills, South Dakota

  Rick was still monitoring the radio when it erupted, “Whiskey Black from Iron Horse, come in. over.”

  The general grabbed the mic and responded, “Go for Whiskey Black.”

  “Whiskey Black, withdraw your troops from Hotel Sierra. Large incoming. Over.”

  The general knew he was referring to Hot Springs, and pieced together the large enemy force was inbound to Cox’s location, or what he believed to be Cox’s location. The general still had no knowledge that Cox had not reported back to the Hot Springs area, where he was supposed to rejoin with Howard to secure the Super Stallions.

  “Copy that,” he responded and handed the mic back to Rick.

  “Get me Lieutenant Colonel Cox.”

  Rick called out on the radio, “Whiskey Black Three, come in. Over.”

  The radio was silent. All the men in the room waited and anticipated a return call from Cox, but there was just silence. Cox’s radioman had been killed in action, his body and his radio mixed together in a jumbled hillside mess somewhere along South Dakota Highway 18.

  After several failed attempts, they finally received a call, but it was from Weapons Company.

  “Eagle’s nest, Whiskey Black Three is down. Over.”

  “Did he just say down?” John asked Hensworth.

  “It sounded like he said they were down, sir.”

  John snatched the mic from Rick’s hand. “Whiskey Black Three, repeat. Over.”

  Anticipation built as they waited for the clarification that wouldn’t come.

  “Whiskey Black Three is down. Heavy casualties sustained … requesting—”

  The signal went dead mid-sentence.

  “Whiskey Black Three, come in. Over. Whiskey Black Three, come in. Over,” he repeated himself, but the signal was lost.

  “We’re spread too thin, sir. We have the regiment parsed to cover entry points. Now we know where they are. Exactly where they are. I recommend we shell Hot Springs into oblivion,” Hensworth said.

  John slammed his fist down onto the table and took a close look at the map. Hensworth could see he was deep in thought as if some sudden revelation had sprang into his mind from the netherverse.

  “Get Howard out of there and recall the regiment. It’s going to be dark soon.”

  The Old Steelworks Plant, East Chicago, Indiana

  Darkness had moved in quickly for the posse. Anticipation had a way of slowing down time, but it was the moments when you wanted time to slow that it went by all the quicker.

  Everybody was in their positions. Denny, Jess, Tori, and Nathan were moments away from breaching the compound. From what Richards could tell from his position, the guards were sitting on their posts. He needed to distract them in such a way that they would be lured outside. Taking his binoculars in hand, he looked through to find Nathan, Denny, Jess, and Tori were in position. Security was weak, and the physical structure would be an easy breach because the perimeter wall was surrounded by trailers and power poles. Getting in would be the easy part; not getting spotted would be slightly more difficult.

  “Troy, from Richards, we’re a go. Over,” Richards said, now looking through his binoculars at Troy’s position on the southeast side of the wall. He watched Troy through the binoculars as he spoke into his mic the response, “Ten-Four.”

  Troy looked at his men and said, “All right, guys, it’s showtime.”

  Each of them moved into position and took cover behind whatever they could find. The object of choice for most of them were broken-down vehicles just off the interstate. There were plenty of them, too. East Chicago, Indiana, once boasted a population of thirty-five thousand people at the moment of the Flip. After that, the population steadily declined as the United Nations continued to follow through on their Agenda 21 action.

  Troy had a night optic mounted to his AR. It was loaned to him by Sergeant Banks, who knew the importance of the mission. The optical sight took available atmospheric light and had a form of technology that amplified it, giving the appearance of a brighter day. The downside was that everything he saw had a green hue to it.

  Once Troy was ready, he looked through the sight and found a guard sitting at his post. He took aim and placed his finger on the trigger of his rifle. The crosshairs of the sights were situated on the head of the tower guard. Troy took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He began the slow and steady process of pulling the trigger to the rear of the well. A millisecond before his round exited the barrel, the compound’s lights came on, blinding him temporarily and rendering Troy’s shooting eye useless. The round missed its target and harmlessly bounced off the bulletproof window. He wouldn’t have hit the guard anyway. The lights were amplified in the optical sight and caused the shot to impact a few inches away from what might have been a fatal shot, if not for the bulletproof glass.

  The guard jumped to his feet and called out on his radio. With the lights from the compound shining onto the ground around it, Troy and his men were unable to see what they were shooting at with any precision.

  “Just start shooting towards them,” he called out. “Maintain your cover.”

  The men started shooting towar
ds the wall. They weren’t paying attention to much of anything else except their targets.

  Captain Richards and his men were not in a position that rendered them incapacitated from the perimeter lights.

  The tower guard above Troy’s position gave his attention to the shooters, allowing Nathan, Denny, Jess, and Tori to make their way over the concrete structure, using a tall supply trailer that was parked near it. Nathan had a long rope with a grappling hook that was supplied to him by Troy. They didn’t need it going in, but they had no way of knowing what kind of escape they might have to make, or how hastily, upon their exit. Once they were inside, they would be unseen by Captain Richards.

  Now that Nathan, Denny, Tori, and Jess were inside the compound, he gave the call to Troy to cease fire. He did so and disappeared into the darkness. With the tower guards now focused on finding the attackers, Richards gave the order to the snipers to take their shots. He provided the countdown.

  “On one,” he said, beginning the count. “Five, four, three, two.” Four simultaneous shots rang out into the night, and then there was silence.

  Once Nathan, Jess, Tori, and Denny were inside, they noticed a strong pungent odor of rotting flesh. There were also formations of ash blown up against the wall and in the corners, very similar to snow drifts. The air was especially moist that evening, and that assisted in controlling the movement of the ashes. As they looked upward toward the main structure, they could see the plume of smoke as it dissipated over the entire southwestern area of Lake Michigan. The soft snow-like flakes fell upon their faces as it had been for the past few hours. Only now it seemed all the more real.

  They hunkered down against the interior wall. Each of them had their backs resting against it, facing outward. They were covering their noses and breathing through their mouths.

  Tori reached out and scooped some of the fine ash into her hands, then blew it out into the air.