A pause over the line. “I know you can, Abe. But we’re juggling a lot of balls right now. We let one of ‘em fall, and the whole damn thing is screwed. I know this ain’t what you wanna hear, but you gotta wait. Hold position. Let me figure out how best to accomplish this without fucking Sam’s chances to get into Greeley.”
Abe craned his neck back, feeling a smattering of kinks suddenly sharpen in the absence of forward momentum. God, he hated waiting. “Alright, Lee. We’ll wait for the greenlight.”
“Get on comms with the recon elements. Relay what I just told you. Tell them we’ll have resupply to them in the next thirty-six hours at the latest.”
“Alright. Will do.”
“Stay strong, brother.” A breath. “Wish I was there with you.”
“I know you do.”
“Stay frosty.”
They hung up.
Breckenridge seemed to have lost his appetite for jerky. “Sounds like Hotel Hilltop just became an extended stay.”
Abe didn’t even answer. His gut was gradually tightening and tightening with every thought of the long, terrible wait ahead of them. It wasn’t the wait that was the worst part. Abe was used to waiting…when he knew what the endpoint was.
But just sitting around, with no clue as to when you were going to go live—could be twelve hours, could be a goddamned week—was like having your motivation clubbed like a baby seal.
He took a breath to fight down the shaky pain of an unknown wait, and keyed his comms. “All units. Go ahead and switch to the main channel. We’re going to go live with the recon elements. Stay tuned. Got some wonderful news coming your way. And by wonderful, I mean, don’t get so excited about it that you shoot yourself in the head.”
***
“The long and short of it, Mr. President,” the new Cornerstone COO said, in that special, hesitant tone that the bearer of bad news always speaks in. “Is that we don’t have enough boots on the ground.”
President Briggs sat at the head of his table, his head propped up by the splayed fingertips of one hand. He stared at the figures on the paper in front of him, but didn’t really read them. He didn’t need to. He understood well enough.
Greeley was currently defended by a skeleton crew.
Which was to say, not really defended at all.
In the glow of his victory over the United Eastern States, it had been easy to whitewash over this particular shit stain on the otherwise perfect wall of his life. But then Briggs had received a phone call and discovered, lo and behold, no dead Lee Harden.
No dead Lee Harden.
The man was like herpes. You just couldn’t get rid of him.
The COO—a likeable, but not very fierce, individual by the name of Javier—raised his hand and pointed at the papers. “If you flip over to the next page, I’ve gone ahead and outlined where our current manpower is dispersed.”
Briggs shot his eyes up to Javier over the top of the paper. Cornerstone Military Applications was largely peopled by former warfighters. But if you wanted to run a company, you had to have number crunchers as well. Which is where Javier came along. Though he wore a gun on his hip, Briggs didn’t think the man had ever fired a shot in anger, and probably couldn’t hit a whale if it landed on him.
Briefly, Briggs considered not flipping to the next page out of pure petulance, but then relented and turned the leaf over.
“You’ll see that we have approximately fifty operatives on rotation at the store houses,” Javier narrated the contents of the page, as though Briggs were incapable of reading it for his damn self. “Another hundred assigned to various checkpoints throughout the zones, only seventy-five on roving patrols within our perimeter. But you’ll notice, down at the very last section, that we have a hundred-and-fifty on rotation for securing La Salle and the checkpoints going in.” Javier seemed to think this was big voodoo. “We have more people guarding La Salle than we have guarding the store houses. Which is where our flashpoint is, at the moment.”
Briggs bent the paper over with his thumb so he could look at Javier again. “What the fuck’s that mean?”
Javier’s face did a queer little dance, as though he wasn’t quite sure how to put this without insulting Briggs’s intelligence. “Well. Sir. The populace is on fairly strict rationing at this point in time. The civilian-to-military ratio in Greeley is nearly thirty-to-one. If enough of the civilians get angry about the rations…well…” Another strange facial jig. “We might struggle to hold the store houses.”
Briggs laid the paper flat on the table. He drummed his fingers—all but his right index, which still had not recovered from its recent degloving, courtesy of Colonel Lineberger, that ratfuck bastard.
Briggs arched his eyebrows. “And?”
Javier blinked a few times. “And what, sir?”
“What was your point about La Salle? You said I should look at it. You seemed to have a problem with it. What’s your point?”
“Right. Well. If we can reduce—or better yet, even just completely nix—the manpower holding La Salle, we can push that into holding the store houses and be much more secure.”
“And what about the perimeter?”
“Uh. We could borrow from the patrols.”
“The patrols are already barely able to handle the shit they have on their plate. We can’t take from them. What else?”
“We could reduce the manpower from the checkpoints. The Green, Yellow, and Red Zones are mostly just old monikers. It’s all Greeley at this point in time.”
Briggs interlaced his fingers. “Do you know what a bulkhead is?”
“Uh…”
“It’s a wall. In a ship. It partitions one section from the other. It’s able to be sealed. So that if one section of the ship gets damaged and starts taking on water, it doesn’t flood the entire ship.” Briggs leaned forward onto his elbows. “The checkpoints are our bulkheads, Javier. I don’t give a shit about security in the zones—they’re all secure at this point. What I do give a shit about is that if one zone goes to shit—either by civil unrest, or because of an invasion force—it doesn’t sink the entire goddamn thing. Do you understand?”
Javier swallowed. “Yes. I understand.”
Briggs leaned back again, feeling his chest starting to burn. “What’s the current calorie count for civilians?”
Javier frowned, dove for a stack of paperwork off to the side. Rifled through it. Came up with a page. “Adult males, one thousand calories. Adult females, eight hundred.”
Briggs nodded, his lips pursed. “You see, the problem isn’t that we have too few soldiers, it’s that we have too many useless feeders.”
Javier didn’t respond. Perhaps he, as a Latino, didn’t appreciate Briggs’s use of Third Reich terminology. But truth was truth. Even Nazi fucks had a few things right.
“We’re going to lower the calorie count.”
Javier’s mouth blubbered for a few stuttered syllables. “But it’s already at starvation level.”
“We have more guns than we have hands to hold them,” Briggs snapped. “If people want to eat, they need to pull their weight. I’m going to lower the calorie counts to a flat five-hundred per person, I don’t give a shit about gender. Five hundred. That’s what you get for sitting around on your ass and doing nothing. You wanna suckle the tit? Well guess what, the tit’s running dry. No free rides anymore.” Briggs had the urge to move and stood up from his chair, facing the window of his Not-So-Oval Office. “Soldiers’ rations will remain the same. If anyone wants to eat a full day’s calories, then we have a rifle for them to hold. And you can start with all those sad saps down in La Salle. Clear out the fucking Tank. Any able-bodied man or woman above the age of…” Briggs considered it for a moment. “Fifteen? Let’s say fifteen. They’re getting conscripted no matter what. If they don’t like that, they can get the fuck out.”
Briggs stationed himself at the window, hands on his hips, nodding to himself. In the pale reflection of the room, he could see Javier staring at him.
> “Time to separate the wheat from the chaff,” Briggs said, almost to himself at this point. He was brainstorming aloud, not really looking for Javier’s opinion. “Once La Salle is empty, you can reduce the manpower used for guarding it and send them to the store houses. I still want checkpoints around La Salle, but from here on out, anyone that comes to Greeley is either on our short list—doctors, engineers, etcetera—or they’re taking up a rifle. All others will be turned away.”
Briggs frowned and spun on Javier. “Are you getting all this?”
Javier jumped. Seized a pen. Began writing on the back of one of his papers. “Yes, sir.”
“As for those already in Greeley, they have the same option. We won’t kick them out—that’d cause too much of a stir. But their options are to try to survive on five hundred calories, or join up and have a full belly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and Javier?”
“Yes?”
Briggs shook his head. “No military conscription from this point on, do you understand? I’m moving towards unifying our military under Cornerstone. All new recruits will be Cornerstone. Any of the branch faggots have a problem with that, they can take it up with me.”
Javier scribbled it down. Briggs wondered if he’d written down branch faggots.
“Understood, sir. I’ll get right on it.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Sir?”
“Get everything in place, but don’t clear out La Salle or start the conscription until tomorrow morning.” Briggs faced the window again, unable to keep a sneer from his face as he looked out at Greeley and thought of all the useless feeders down there, draining them dry like parasites. “You know how ornery everyone is at night. Better to break the news after they’ve slept.”
EIGHT
─▬▬▬─
GREENLIGHT
Corporal Nguyen—AKA Nug, Nugs, or The Nug—settled into his sniper’s hide for the late shift. Private Ferro, who was deemed a decent marksman, relinquished the spot, removing his DMR from the little keyhole in the edge of the brush.
“Fuckin’ tired,” Ferro mumbled, almost to himself.
The spot on the ground was now a worn concavity from Nug’s and Ferro’s bodies. The ground was still warm from four hours of Ferro’s belly being pressed against it. It also smelled faintly of his body odor, but Nug didn’t mind. The warmth was actually kind of nice, and they were all well accustomed to each other’s stink by this time.
Nug spied a crumple of white off to his right. He grimaced and snatched the piece of paper up. It still smelled like jerky. “Goddammit, Ferro.” Nug wadded it up and threw it at the other man. “Stop leaving your trash in the hide.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” Ferro stooped and grabbed the balled up paper. “Forgot.”
Ferro always forgot. Ferro was a messy fuck. Everywhere he went he reduced to shambles.
“Gonna start calling you Pigpen,” Nug commented as he thrust his scoped rifle through the keyhole and settled into position.
Ferro yawned, no longer concerned. “Alright, man. Have fun.”
He slipped back into the darkness, leaving Nug to his business.
Nug rested his cheek on the buttstock and tried to relax his body. It was getting harder and harder to do that, though. He’d been a latecomer to the military game, at least by Army standards, joining up when he was twenty-two, when most others in his basic class were eighteen. Now past thirty, Nug found it harder and harder to ignore the aches and pains.
He did his yoga every day upon waking. But he still had a crick in his neck, and a pinch in his lower back from spending the last two days laying in the sniper’s hide. There was no amount of vinyasa that would reverse the hands of time, it seemed.
Oh well. Nothing to be done for it.
Nug rubbed the crust from his eyes, blinked them, then focused through the scope.
All was dark and quiet. His hide was directly to the east of Triprock, a little more than a quarter mile out. 1,452 yards, according to his rangefinder. Right at the edge of his comfort zone with the Mk 20 SSR.
He took a quick peek at the lay of the land. Triprock was dark—they didn’t have much electricity, and it was midnight now. A few small solar panels kept some electric lanterns charged, but they’d since been extinguished.
The settlement lay there, the sides of the buildings a deep blue in the half-moon that occasionally winked at them from behind a thin layer of gauzy clouds. The shadows as black as ink. The reticle of his scope was a dimly luminous cross that scoured the scene, searching for signs of life.
There was one. Standing in the hayloft of a barn that looked like it had taken a grenade at some point in time. The sentry faced south. NODs over his eyes. Black polo shirt. Cornerstone.
Nug took note of the positions of the other Cornerstone sentries. There were four sentry positions, at all the points of the compass. And two roving sentries that conducted a constant circle of the fenceline.
Once he had everyone accounted for, Nug keyed his comms and spoke into the silence of the radiowaves. “This is Nug at Position Two. I have overwatch.”
“Roger that,” came a response that he thought was Sergeant Breckenridge. He’d only met the man a handful of times, but his voice on the radio was distinct—always soft and calm, with a slight Midwestern accent.
Positions One and Three—to the northeast and southeast of Triprock, respectively—checked in a few moments afterward. Midnight was shift change for everyone.
Down in Triprock, the sentries continued their watchful rounds, oblivious to the reticles that hovered over their hearts and brains.
But, according to the news they’d received earlier in the day, there would be no reckoning for the Cornerstone asshats tonight. They were free to live another day, it seemed.
Nug zoomed his optic out so that he could see the entire perimeter and keep tabs on both roving patrols. Then he settled in and started to practice his deep breathing techniques. That was about all you had to do while you were waiting around for nothing to happen. It kept him focused on something besides his physical discomfort, the constant hunger, and the thoughts of his dead family which always liked to rear their heads in the small morning hours when the night seemed big, and vast, and unending.
In for four. Hold for three. Out for eight. And so it went. On and on.
It was nearly one o’clock when the radio crackled in Nug’s ear.
“Hiram at Position One. Can anyone advise on when that resupply is getting here?”
Nug’s nose curled in irritation. That was an asinine question. It would get here when it got here.
Breckenridge answered. “It’s not due until tomorrow morning. After daylight.” A pause on the open line. “Any reason why you’re asking?”
The line remained empty for a moment. “Uh…” Hiram sounded tense now. “Yeah. I’m on perimeter duty at Position One. I got shapes on the thermals, about a thousand yards directly east of Position Two.”
Nug blinked. Came up out of his scope. He turned his head to look over his shoulder and saw Sergeant John “Scots” McCollum stirring from his nook against the trunk of a tree. Nug could only just make out his shock of red hair in the darkness.
“Highlander Six,” Scots transmitted, using his old Hunter-Killer moniker. “I copied thermal signatures to my east? Is that right?”
“Affirmative,” Hiram answered. “I’m counting five…six signatures. Moving in your direction.”
“Can you identify?”
“I don’t want to be an alarmist…but I think they’re teepios.”
***
Abe awoke with a violent start, his grip tightening on his rifle.
“Ssh.” A black shape hovered over him. A patch of moonlight through the branches above illuminated Breckenridge’s face. He had a hand up to calm Abe, the other hand with its index finger over his lips. “Your comms fell out.”
Abe frowned, reached up, realized the acoustic tube of his earpiece was no longer in. He sh
oved it back in place. Silence greeted him. “What’s going on?”
“Position One just ID’d six teepios moving towards Position Two.”
Abe came upright from his slumped position against his pack. “Shit.” He keyed his comms. “Darabie to whoever’s got eyes on those teepios. How far out are they?”
It took a moment for the voice to come back. He didn’t know who it was, and they didn’t ID themselves. “Yes, sir. Estimating about a thousand yards. A little less now. They’re not moving too fast. I don’t think they’ve caught the scent yet. But they’re definitely closing the gap with Position Two.”
Abe rubbed his face rapidly with both hands. “Darabie copies. All units standby. Keep me updated if they get aggressive.” He released the PTT and looked hard at Breck. “We gotta shit or get off the pot.”
Breck nodded in the darkness. “Call Lee. If we have to engage those teepios, this op goes down the shitter.”
***
Lee didn’t sleep anymore.
Not for any length of time anyways. And not at night. The night was too dangerous. Too full of unknowns. He would lie there, as he did that night, trying his damnedest, but every time his mind began to sink below that delicate plane of consciousness, adrenaline would dump through his system, like a stew in his gut boiling over.
He’d given up around eleven. Maybe he would’ve slept if he was in the bunker, but he doubted it. And they’d given the bunker up to the families that had children to keep safe. Those families packed the underground fortress from the elevator all the way back to the little common area with the shower—which no one could use because they’d drained the bunker’s water tanks already.
He’d chosen instead to try sleeping under one of the MATVs. At first he thought it might work out—the bulk of the vehicle over him was like a protective cage. But the world out to all of his sides, beyond the tires, was still open and endless, and his mind wouldn’t let that go.
He decided that sleeping through the night was not going to happen, as it had not for several nights running now. He would nap in the early morning hours, or during the heat of the afternoon. Whenever things were calm and still and the potential for disaster was mitigated.
Lee Harden Series | Book 5 | Unbowed Page 7
