Project Terminus: Destiny

by Nathan Combs

  “You’re a stubborn fuck. I’m gonna grab another cup of that shit we call coffee. You want one?”

  “Yeah, I—”

  The trilling of the sat phone instantly captured both men’s attention.

  Wade answered, “Randal?”

  “Sorry for the delay, Dad. We’re forty klicks east of Beeville. Have you found their patrol yet?”

  “No. I assume there’s no pursuit?”

  “None. Anything I should be aware of?”

  “No.”

  “All right. I’ll call at 1300 hours.”

  Bill grinned at Wade. “Go take a nap. And for the sake of my nostrils, take a shower. On second thought, since it’s you, take a douche.”

  Wade laughed and then headed home. He went straight to the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, wrapping himself in the top sheet.

  Four hours later, Maggie woke him. “Randal called. They’re east of Victoria. He wants the staff in the CC at 1500 hours with the phone hooked to a speaker. Stuart’s set that up. We have an hour. I’m making you something to eat. Why don’t you jump in the rain-room?”

  Wade sat up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and then took a quick shower. After wolfing down the steak-and-egg breakfast Maggie made him and getting a second cup of coffee, he and Maggie headed for the Powwow Room.

  Fifteen minutes before Randal’s scheduled call, the conference room was filled to capacity.

  Wade answered on the first ring, “Randal?”

  “I assume the staff is there, that they’ve been briefed to this point, and that they can hear me.”

  “Yes. Go.”

  “This is the real deal. Texas Nation has the manpower and technology to cause us serious grief. Shelton’s an upgraded version of King Jackson, but my gut tells me he doesn’t have the smarts to run the show. McNulty does. Keep that in mind when you talk to him, Stuart. The man is highly intelligent. Regardless of who’s calling the shots, when we take out their patrol, it won’t be long before they send another.”

  There was a loud knock on the door.

  Wade yelled, “Come.”

  Chris and Cole bustled into the room, and Chris handed Wade the Texas Nation sat phone, saying, “They’re history, Dad. No calls.”

  Randal’s voice came over the speaker. “Dad?”

  “Sorry, son. We took out their patrol. They didn’t get off a call.”

  “That’s a relief, but we’re not out of the woods. For now, they think we’re 500 derelicts. They’ll reevaluate when it dawns on them their patrol is toast. They won’t know why or how, and that’s to our advantage. And they still don’t know where we are. That buys us time. The next patrol they send—and they will send one—won’t be a few guys on horseback. We need to get ahead of this and think outside the box. Concentrate on what if. Don’t assume they’ll send riders again, because it’ll likely be armor or even a bird. Maybe both.”

  He spent the next few minutes describing what he’d discovered in the Texas Nation. “We need to have a solid game plan in place ASAP.”

  Bill asked, “Did you get a chance to evaluate any of their military leaders?”

  “No, but Shelton said he had some capable guys tied up with the Mexican coup. Realistically, out of 10,000, there have to be a few.” He paused. “We need to ride. I’ll call back at 2100 hours your time.”

  When the transmission ended, Wade said, “Two groups. I want suggestions and recommendations before Randal calls back. Stuart, get me an update on the Apache.”

  At precisely 2100 hours, Randal called. “Is the staff in place?”

  Wade answered, “Yes.”

  “What’s the game plan, Dad?”

  “We believe the next patrol they send will be armored, with access to drones or the Little Bird for aerial surveillance. They could put the chopper on a flatbed and send a tanker along.”

  Randall concurred, and then Wade continued.

  “Stuart’s guys found eighteen Javelins, six Stingers, and three Raven portable drones at Patrick while they were scrounging parts for the Apache. Cole and Chris are en route to Tallahassee with twenty men in two Strykers and two Hummers. Cole has a raven and will post up on I-10 in Tallahassee. He’ll set charges in the roadway and use Javelins to take out anything that survives. Chris will back up at the intersection of I-75 and the turnpike. They’re not getting a drone or a bird in the air. And they’re not calling home.”

  Randal said, “That’s good, Dad, but tell Cole to set explosives on both the east and westbound lanes of I-10 just in case.”

  “Good thought, son.” Wade nodded to Bill, then turned his attention back to the sat phone. “Bill’s passing that on to Cole as we speak. We have sniper teams as far north as south Sebring. A Raven will look north from there. We’re on full alert, and we’re in the process of setting up a safe haven for the women, children, and noncombatants. Stuart assures me the Apache will be operational soon.”

  “Good. But this will not end with a second patrol. I suggest you start making plans to defend against a full-scale invasion.”

  “Understood. Where are you?”

  “About 100 miles east of Houston. We’re switching the horses every three hours. If the animals hold up, we should be in Tallahassee in five days.”

  McNulty fretted about the fate of the Florida patrol for the next twenty-four hours. He knew Stuart was lying, and now the man couldn’t, or wouldn’t, take calls. The question was, what did his lies consist of? McNulty was 100 percent certain the patrol did not go over to the dark side and the thought that they had succumbed to nature in a storm was absurd, so he ruled out both scenarios. That left only two possibilities.

  One, their sat phone was inoperable, and he chastised himself for not having the foresight to send a backup.

  The second, while a stretch, was that the Neanderthals had taken them out. But he couldn’t rule out that possibility. And if that was true, then maybe Stuart and his people weren’t as primitive as they’d pretended to be. The more he thought about it, the more plausible it became since the only intelligence he had about the Floridians was what Stuart wanted him to have.

  On March twenty-fourth, McNulty decided he was out of time. He went to Shelton’s office, knocked, and waited for the door to unlock. Entering, he said, “Good morning, Gabriel. I trust you had a pleasant evening?”

  Sitting at his desk, Shelton looked up. “Of course I did, David.”

  “Excellent. May I be so bold as to ask what you’re writing?”

  Shelton shrugged. “All famous leaders wrote a manifesto, didn’t they? Hitler wrote Mein Kampf. I’m writing mine.”

  “That is awesome, Gabriel. What is the title?”

  “Hmm. I’m thinking of calling it Nunya.”

  “Nunya?

  “Yes, David, Nunya, as in nunya fucking business.”

  “That’s funny, Gabriel. I assume the Mexican merger is proceeding according to plan?”

  “It is. The leaders have been replaced quietly and efficiently, and the new citizens of Texas Nation are in the process of indoctrination as we speak. They’re nothing more than peasants, really, but they’ll provide us with cheap labor and at least 1,000 troops. Plus, some of the women are beyond hot.”

  “That’s wonderful, Gabriel. You deserve a hot señorita.”

  Shelton grinned. “Or two, or three.”

  McNulty was asexual and thought Shelton’s preoccupation with sex was somewhere north of Uranus. On the bright side, at least he wasn’t a pedophile. “Great. That is great news, Gabriel, but unfortunately, I am the bearer of bad news.” He held up his hand. “Wait. Allow me to rephrase that. I am the bearer of potentially bad news.”

  “What?”

  “We may have a problem in Florida.”

  “Has the patrol checked in?”

  “No, and while that is definitely part of
the problem, the more significant issue is that I am convinced Stuart is lying through his pearly whites.”

  Shelton screwed up his face and said, “Stop beating around the fucking bush and say it.”

  McNulty shrugged. “I have narrowed the reasons why the patrol has not checked in to two. One, and still the most likely, is that their sat phone is inoperable. The other option is very disturbing, indeed. Stuart and his group may not be who they say they are.”

  “Are you saying the Floridians are responsible? You don’t honestly believe a bunch of fucking cavemen took out our patrol?”

  “In truth, Gabriel, the only information we have about them is what they told us. And if they are not who they say, then we were told what they wanted us to hear.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Why, indeed? I believe we should send another patrol forthwith. Has General Kirilov returned from Mexico?”

  “How do I know, David? I have more important things to do than to keep tabs on Kirilov.”

  “Yes, of course. I understand. With your permission, I will talk with General Kirilov and come up with a new game plan for the Sunshine State.”

  Shelton didn’t look happy. “Whatever, David. Handle it. I have to interview a couple of señoritas.”

  Mikhail Kirilov, AKA Misha, had enlisted in the Russian Federation Army at the age of seventeen to fulfill his one-year mandatory military obligation to his country. Twelve years later, at the age of twenty-nine, he had attained the rank of Senior Sergeant and spent his last eight years of military service as a member of GRU, Spetsnaz, Russia’s Special Forces.

  Kirilov had been on leave and on January twenty-fourth, 2011, was at the Domodedovo International Airport in Moscow awaiting a flight back to his unit when the infamous suicide bombing occurred. He was severely wounded in the attack, and his military career ended.

  In 2015, he obtained a visa for the United States. He never returned to Mother Russia.

  He now held the title of Supreme Military Commander, Texas Nation.

  Kirilov didn’t talk much, but when he did, people listened. At six feet tall, his close-cropped brown hair, implacable face, muscled body, and confident bearing commanded respect. He was intelligent and articulate. He was also an outstanding soldier and a formidable tactician.

  He entered the den, took two steps, stopped, stood at parade rest, and said, “You wished to see me, Mr. McNulty?”

  McNulty held up one finger and motioned for the operator to leave. When the door closed, he told Kirilov, “My office is not soundproof, and this conversation has to remain between the two of us for now.” Then he briefed Kirilov on the missing Florida patrol.

  “So, there you have it, Misha. That is all the information I have available. For what it is worth, I am starting to believe there is nothing wrong with the patrol’s sat phone.”

  Kirilov nodded. “Why was I not consulted on this?”

  “You were in Mexico overseeing the merger. Gabriel authorized the Florida mission and picked the men.”

  Kirilov nodded. “I will ready another patrol. They will leave in the morning.”

  “To satisfy my innate curiosity, what type of patrol will you send?”

  “Mr. McNulty, if your Floridian is indeed lying, there may be more than 500 people—perhaps many more. I will not assume the Neanderthals, as you call them, are cavemen. This will be a recon mission. When we know where they are, how many there are, and can assess their capabilities, we can make suitable plans for integration.”

  “Of course. I was referring to what the actual patrol will consist of.”

  Kirilov didn’t hesitate. “I will send fourteen men in three armed Humvees, a tanker truck, and a support vehicle. I will also send a man-portable drone, plus a backup, and three satellite phones, not one. I will have the information you seek within the week.”

  Cole arrived in Tallahassee at 0005 hours. Fifteen minutes later, his men began setting charges on both the east and westbound lanes of Interstate 10, at the eastern end of the Ochlocknee River Bridge.

  The moon was full and smothered the area in soft bluish light. The cooler night air confronting the warmer waters of the river produced a two-foot layer of ground fog that complicated mining the road.

  Cole watched, fascinated by the moonlight reflecting off the cottony layer of ground clouds and onto the heads of his men as they worked. It appeared as though self-aware, severed heads were moving on top of the velvety blanket of fog. The eerie vision was straight out of a sci-fi flick. After gawking for a moment, he shook his head to clear the image from his mind, then radio-checked with the scout team he had sent to the roof of the Hampton Inn in Quincy. The team had the Raven drone, which was night-vision capable, could fly at an altitude of 500 feet, and could see for five miles. The little drone would provide Cole with real-time intelligence and several minutes of advance notice.

  At 0145, Cole was ready and the missile teams took up station in the woods.

  Another spring storm was in progress as Wade met with Bill, Chris, Cole, Stuart, and Sara in the Pow Wow Room.

  Stuart appeared tense as he stood, and Wade asked him if he was okay.

  “Yeah, Wade, I’m fine, just concerned about these daily storms. They’re not normal, you know that. When the weather radar’s operational, I think we should factor weather into our battle plans.”

  Wade nodded his agreement and turned to the staff. “If Texas Nation sends another patrol, Cole and Chris are on station and ready to rock. We need to plan for the next phase. If a second patrol fails to check in, they’ll know they’re not up against 500 derelicts. Randal’s positive Shelton will mount a full-scale invasion. Thoughts?”

  Bill said, “Let’s start by slowing them down. When Cole finishes in Tallahassee, send him to Pensacola to blow the I-10 bridge over Escambia Bay and the US-90 bridge over the Escambia River. That’d force an invasion force to detour north. Better yet, what if we mined both ends of the I-10 bridge and blow it when their derelict army is on it?”

  “I like that, Bill. That’s an option. What else? Stuart? Anybody?”

  Sara stood and started pacing. “I’m not saying Bill’s idea isn’t good. It is. But I’m thinking there’s going to be a lot of carnage if Cole takes out a second patrol in Tallahassee. Visual evidence. Would we…would you send another patrol looking for a second missing patrol down the same highway?” She stopped pacing, shrugged, and spread her hands. “What if a patrol looking for the missing one has orders to check in every hour? Every half-hour? If that patrol doesn’t call in at the designated time, wouldn’t it be possible to determine where they should have been at the next scheduled call? That would narrow the search area. What if they have drones? If they do, they could see where the assault took place from a safe distance.”

  Wade grinned. “Excellent, Sara. I knew we kept you around for something.”

  She laughed.

  Wade said, “Let’s wait and see what happens in Tallahassee. Assuming we engage a second patrol and Cole has enough C-4 left, blowing the I-10 bridge over Escambia Bay, whether they’re on it or not, will buy us additional time.”

  Kirilov assigned an ex-US Army sergeant who had seen combat in both Afghanistan and Iraq to lead the patrol.

  “We do not know what we are dealing with here, Sergeant, so do not assume. I want your report on the hour, without fail. When you locate them, do not engage them. Gather intelligence and await further instructions. Is that clear?”

  At 0800 the next morning, Kirilov watched the patrol pass through the main gate of the Corpus Christi International Airport. As the rear vehicle disappeared from view, a sense of foreboding swept over him, and he shivered.

  As Randal and his team neared Mobile, the sound of powerful engines could easily be heard in the all-encompassing silence of the night, so they covered in woods on the southside of I-10.

  Tyler
was dumbfounded. “Jesus, they have their headlights on.”

  Randal chuckled. “Maybe they don’t have night vision.”

  “Yeah. Or maybe they’re idiots.”

  After the convoy slid past, Randal called Cole and passed along the intel. “They’re doing approximately fifty. They should be at your position in about four hours.”

  At 0130, the advance team sent up the Raven drone, and fifteen minutes later they watched the convoy approach, headlights still on, and notified Cole.

  At 0200 hours, the Texas Nation sergeant was on the sat phone, making his hourly report to Kirilov. In the middle of a sentence, there was a loud bang and the phone went dead. Repeated attempts to reconnect were fruitless.

  Kirilov nodded to himself, exited the room, and went to wake up McNulty.

  “Wade wants me to pick you up ASAP, Randal. We have a new mission. I’m sending the scout team to get you. Can’t take the horses, though. If Tyler can wrangle them for a day, I’ll send a trailer for them.”

  “Understood. What’s the mission, Cole?”

  “We’re gonna blow a couple bridges.”

  The staff in the Powwow Room wore somber faces as Wade brought them up to speed.

  “They can’t use the I-10 bridge over Escambia Bay, nor the US-90 bridge over the Escambia River. If they’re going to invade, they’ll be forced to make a lengthy and time-consuming detour. That buys us what we need most right now. Time. How much time remains to be seen, so let’s take advantage of it. Randal, your assessment, please.”

  Randal stood. “You all know what I know. What none of us knows is how Shelton, or McNulty, will react to the reality that they’re not dealing with 500 derelicts. We have two choices. Defend or go on offense. There are pros and cons to both options. We know where they are and have a reasonable idea of their capabilities. We could attack and take out their armor. But that’s risky. And the logistics are not in our favor since we don’t have the necessary fuel. Besides, if whoever’s in charge is remotely capable, he’ll likely anticipate an attack and plan accordingly. Defensively, they don’t know where we are and have no idea of our numbers. The warrior section of my brain screams attack, but the logical part tells me that wouldn’t be in our best interests.”