by Nathan Combs
He slowly shook his head up and down, then continued. “My suggestion is that we continue with our initial plans. We finalize a safe haven for the noncombatants and set up multiple monitoring posts and ambush points. Also, Dad, I think we should initiate a disinformation campaign.” He sat back down.
Wade thought for a moment. “I agree with your assessment, son. Does anyone have anything to add, or another option?”
Bill stared. Everyone else shook their heads no.
Wade nodded and said, “Okay. We know Shelton’s a megalomaniac, but we don’t know if he’s willing to risk everything because someone whipped his ass. Let’s give him something to chew on. Stuart, you haven’t talked to McNulty since you told him we were going to relocate, right?”
Stuart nodded.
“Call him and tell him we completed the relocation to Tampa Bay. Choose a location close to I-75 and give it to him.”
He turned to Bill. “I want you to have a little tête-à-tête with whomever answers their first patrol’s sat phone. In your own Shakespearean words, inform him that you’re part of a military survivor group of five or six thousand, that you have air assets, M1 Abrams tanks—the works. You’re quartered in southern Georgia, and although you don’t want war, if they come as far east as Pensacola again, you’ll annihilate them.”
Bill’s grin spread ear to ear.
Shelton stared daggers at McNulty. “Do you believe them, David? That they didn’t answer your calls because they were in the process of relocating?”
McNulty shrugged. “It’s possible. The time frames align.”
“And you, General Kirilov, what’s your best guess regarding the existence of a military garrison in southern Georgia?”
“I do not guess, Mr. Shelton. I deal in facts. Someone with military expertise and equipment executed my patrol with military precision. Someone took out the I-10 bridge over Escambia Bay. And someone blew the bridge on US-90 over the Escambia River. Amateurs could not have perpetrated those events. Those are facts.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I suggest we stay west of Pensacola. If they do not want war, perhaps we can coexist.”
Shelton jumped up and screamed, “Coexist? Co-fucking exist? Are you insane, General? Texas Nation does not coexist. I want these wannabes integrated into my fucking nation. Make it happen.”
Chapter Eight
Detection
McNulty waddled while Kirilov marched the short distance from Shelton’s office to the comm center.
McNulty had long suspected that Kirilov knew who was actually in charge of Texas Nation, but the man was forever unreadable. His face was a perpetual blank. Until now, the topic of the leadership of the nation had been unnecessary.
The radio operator took his cue from McNulty’s face and left the room when the two men entered. Sighing heavily, McNulty sank into the vacated operator’s seat, fiddled with the microphone for a second to gather his thoughts, then swiveled the overmatched chair to face Kirilov, who was standing at ease, hands behind his back.
“Please, Misha, have a seat.”
“I am fine, Mr. McNulty.”
“Suit yourself, General. I’ll get straight to the point. It seems Sir Shelton has presented us with a most interesting dilemma.”
He waited patiently for Kirilov to respond and was rewarded with a stoic Russian stare.
Shit. He decided it was time to be blunt. “Misha, I know you are aware of the, uh, actual hierarchy within Texas Nation. And I understand why you play your cards close to the vest, if you will, but what Gabriel wants us to do could very well end up being disastrous.”
Kirilov said, “Continue.”
Monosyllabic ass, McNulty thought before saying, “As it exists, the Texas Nation’s command structure suits my purposes. Gabriel takes care of the minutiae and odds and ends, which allows me to focus on the bigger picture. That works for everyone. I have absolutely no desire to change it. I would most certainly appreciate your thoughts on this crisis so we can come to an equitable solution regarding Florida.” He sat back and waited.
Kirilov shrugged. “While I do not share Shelton’s enthusiasm for confronting a capable, armed force, I am a soldier. I follow orders.”
“Yes, you are a soldier. And by any measure, you are a great one. Which is why your input is necessary. Please, Misha, you must trust me. I do not have an ulterior motive. And I most definitely do not seek to overthrow Sir Shelton. I need to know what the options and potential liabilities are for doing battle with Florida.”
Kirilov nodded. “Someone took out two of our patrols. Someone also says they have thousands of fighters and air support but claiming it does not make it so. None of the claims have been verified, and until I can substantiate them, I am unable to provide you with the information you desire.”
McNulty considered Kirilov’s response for a full five seconds, then nodded and stood. “Yes, I understand. Will you take it upon yourself to determine the facts, or would you prefer an order?”
“If I am given an order, I will follow it.”
McNulty smiled and nodded. “I would like to know if there is, in fact, a military enclave in Georgia and if the someone you alluded to is one and the same. I would also appreciate knowing the actual location of the Florida group, plus any and all military capabilities of the players involved.” He looked at Kirilov and raised his eyebrows.
Kirilov’s face showed no emotion. He stood like a statue.
“Misha, if you can provide me with that intelligence, I will see to it that Gabriel makes the proper decision regarding Florida. It is in both of our interests.”
Disimpassioned, Kirilov nodded. “As you wish.”
A remembrance of Zeno’s philosophy flickered briefly in McNulty’s cortex. “People should be free from passion, unmoved by joy or grief, and submit without complaint to unavoidable necessity.” He smirked to himself. That axiom precisely defined the Russian general.
Without further ado, Kirilov about-faced, exited, and marched to his office. He turned on the reading lamp, pulled out maps of Florida and spread them on his desk, then moved his finger from Sebring west to Tampa Bay.
The timing of the alleged move was too convenient and made no tactical sense whatsoever. Other than gaining immediate access to saltwater, it made no logistical sense either.
He sat in thought, staring at the instruments of death, his armor and choppers, lined up on the tarmac.
Long before he’d enlisted in the Russian Army, Kirilov had been a devoted student of military doctrine and spent countless hours studying the results of every significant battle since antiquity. He was convinced the reason some commanders earned great victories while others were defeated was the result of knowing everything there was to know about the enemy. He considered the lessons he had learned and applied them to this operation.
Knowing all there was to know about this particular foe would be challenging to accomplish, but he could find out where they were, and once located, he would at least be able to assess their capabilities. He was positive there was no military command in Georgia, but he had no choice but to prove or disprove the claim before he could concentrate his efforts on Florida. He also didn’t believe the Floridians had relocated to Tampa. It was a deception.
It took two weeks, but Kirilov’s aerial drone survey of southern Alabama, southern Georgia, and northern Florida showed no evidence of human occupation, military or otherwise. But he didn’t sit idle while the drone mission was underway. He pieced together multiple sat maps of Florida, studied them intently, and concentrated on the Sebring area.
At the end of two weeks, he concluded with a 99 percent certainty that those who had taken out the patrols were the same people.
He went to the den to see McNulty but was informed by the operator on duty that Mr. McNulty was in his quarters.
K
irilov didn’t feel comfortable in McNulty’s abode. The room smelled foul, a by-product of the man’s large gut and fondness for red meat. He also didn’t like McNulty’s decorating skills, or lack thereof. The purple and green color scheme was garish. Thankfully, he was seldom subjected to its annoying ambiance.
He stood at ease on a royal purple rug, bordered in hideous neon green fringe, while McNulty debriefed him.
After Kirilov finished reporting, McNulty said, “Very impressive, Misha. If there is no Georgia military to be concerned about, what is your final assessment?”
“I have concluded that the elimination of both patrols was the work of the same group. The Floridians. And I am quite certain that they did not relocate to Tampa.”
“Very good. What do you suggest we do now?”
“I suggest that we begin our own disinformation operation.”
Bill had the floor in the command center. “That is total bullshit. No way did a Texas Nation patrol check out Tampa. Unless they crossed the Gulf of fucking Mexico, it didn’t happen. They damned sure didn’t come across I-10 or come down I-75. We would have seen them. What did you tell him, Stu?”
“I told David that—”
“David? You’re on a first-name basis with the asshole now?”
Stuart laughed. “Honey versus vinegar. I told him his patrol was either blind or went to the wrong location.”
Wade said, “It appears that Shelton, or McNulty, whichever one is in charge, has concluded our Georgia command was a fabrication. Going forward, they’ll concentrate their efforts on Sebring. I want updated and projected scenarios and battle plans by tomorrow morning.”
Kirilov told McNulty, “Since you are positive the man continues to lie about relocating to Tampa Bay, it is obvious they did not take the bait. But that does not mean the cupboard is bare. I have found that initial statements are closer to the truth than proclamations made at a later date. I believe they are within a fifty-mile radius of Sebring. I will concentrate my efforts on that area. I am sending another patrol on a boat across the Gulf of Mexico. They will land in the Fort Myers area and approach from the west. I will find them within the week.”
Randal addressed the NFT staff. “This is not North Carolina. There are no reliable, safe areas available. That’s the way it is. We’re reconfiguring the Southern Gardens Citrus plant to house the noncombatants. It’s not perfect, but in the event of an attack, they’ll be safer there than at the fort.”
He looked at the faces looking back at him, then continued, “We’ve kicked around every conceivable possibility. We have outposts at every access point for a radius of forty miles. Our biggest problem might be man-portable drones. We probably won’t see them. Especially if they’re night-vision capable.”
As an afterthought, he said, “On the bright side, they can’t consider or plan an invasion until they know where we are, and for now, that’s our mandate. To keep them from locating us. Any questions?”
When there were none, he continued. “If they attack, we have an operational Apache. It’s in the RV garage. The first they’ll know about it is when it rains fire on their sorry asses. Unfortunately, we can’t spare the fuel for training flights, but both Wade and I can fly it. Dad?”
“It’s been two weeks since Tallahassee. I know it’s hard to maintain a constant state of alertness, but we can’t afford to drop the ball on this one. Not even for a second. Those on watch have to stay awake and alert. Cole, adjust the watches from four hours to two.”
Kirilov knocked on McNulty’s door, stepped back, and stood at attention.
McNulty answered the door with a grin. “Ah, Misha. Please come in.”
Moments later, McNulty asked, “You are quite certain of this?”
“Yes. The Floridians are in Moore Haven, twelve miles south of Lake Placid, in a sophisticated fortification. They have armor, but no air assets. I estimate a population of 4,000 with about 1,000 fighters.”
“Excellent, Misha. Excellent! Your recommendation, please?”
“I recommend we leave them alone. I do not believe the Floridians are a threat.”
“Perhaps not at the moment, but that could change. It is our tenet to incorporate everyone into Texas Nation, is it not?”
Kirilov stood, stoic as always.
“Allow me to put it another way, Misha. The Floridians have value, knowledge, expertise, and assets that would be of great value to the nation. Is that not true?”
“Yes. That is true.”
McNulty smiled. “I will pass this information on to Gabriel, but before I do, I need to have an idea of what it would take to bring the Floridians into the fold.”
“If you decide to go to war with Florida, we will suffer many casualties. This is not a group of Mexican peasants.”
McNulty nodded, then smiled broadly. “Granted, but if it becomes necessary, do you believe you can win a war with them?”
Kirilov smiled sadly. “If they don’t go on offense and attack us first, then it depends on what your definition of the word win is.”
Kirilov’s choice of words made McNulty chuckle as he remembered Bill Clinton’s words during his impeachment. It depends on what your definition of is, is. “I am sorry, Misha, please forgive me. Your statement reminded me of one made by a different man, many years ago. I was not laughing at you. However, I must ask, you don’t honestly believe they could attack us? Here?”
He shrugged. “We have not established a defense against attack because there was no need. We did not have an enemy. But to answer your question, yes, it is possible. I believe the man that escaped…what was his name? Randal something, was it not?” He nodded to himself. “Yes, it was Randal. I believe that Randal was from Florida and was here on a recon mission. If that is true, then they know a lot more about us than we know about them.”
McNulty hadn’t considered that, and for once in his life, he was momentarily speechless. He plopped into his chair and blabbered, “But, but…how could that…” After a moment, he stopped sputtering and regained his composure. “If that is true, Misha, that could be problematic.”
He broke eye contact with Kirilov, stood, walked to the kitchen, and returned with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Black. He held the bottle toward Kirilov.
“No, thank you. I do not drink.”
Of course, you don’t. McNulty took two swigs, exhaled slowly, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Allow me to make a suggestion, Mr. McNulty. Why don’t you simply ask your man, Stuart, if Randal was the man in question? A lot of intel can be gained even from a denial.”
“Hmmm. Yes. Very interesting.” He sat on the couch, put the bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, picked up an open map of the southeastern United States, turned it so Kirilov could see, and said, “l will consider discussing our friend Randal with Stuart and see what his response is. In the interim,”—he traced a route with his finger—“what if we were to send a patrol of moderate size to test them in battle? It would require extra time, but if we send the units through southern Georgia, then down I-95 from Jacksonville, we could surprise them and attack from the east-northeast.”
“I have provided you with the intel you asked for and given you my assessment and recommendation.”
“Surely, Misha, you agree that knowledge of their expertise in combat is vital to the ultimate decision?”
“Yes, but I do not believe testing them is necessary. The Floridians have already proven their ability.”
“Well, yes, but that was an ambush.”
“I disagree, but if you want me to attack them, I will do so. How many men and how much equipment are you willing to sacrifice?”
Ten days later, in impenetrable early morning fog, a patrol of eight Stryker AFVs containing forty Texas Nation troopers, followed by two Humvees, a tanker truck, and a support vehicle, advanced cautiously east from West Palm. Their missio
n was to capture a small group of survivors in the town of Moore Haven.
The team leader, an ex-supply sergeant in the USAF, now a lieutenant in the Texas Nation, consulted the sat map for the third time in the past hour, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not make another entry point into Moore Haven, or another bridge, materialize. It was a burg with two ways in and two ways out, protected by canals on the south and northeast sides.
He ordered the driver to stop, exited the vehicle, and stood to peer into the fog.
He was apprehensive, mainly because he was unable to make sense of the pre-op briefing he had received from General Kirilov. Pass through southern Alabama and Georgia, to Jacksonville, and then down I-95 to West Palm Beach? He also didn’t like the vague mission parameters. Capture a group of survivors in the town of Moore Haven for indoctrination into Texas Nation. Some resistance could be expected. Call before the inception of hostilities and upon completion of the mission.
Regardless of his misgivings, he was closing on his objective. He shook his head and climbed back into his Stryker.
The sun was hungrily munching away at the fog by the time the convoy approached the city limits of Clewiston, and the team leader stopped again and launched his drone. Moore Haven was to the northeast, two miles outside the drone’s visual range. Nothing moved within its field of view, and after ten minutes, he retrieved the drone and ordered the convoy west.
The sniper team six miles south of Moore Haven at the intersection of Florida Highway 80 and US-27 in Whidden Corner saw the drone and radioed the information to the New Fort Terminus command center.
Five minutes later, Randal in a Bradley, along with one Stryker and an armed Humvee, joined the missile team at the A1 salvage yard east of the city limit and took up position. Cole, in the other Bradley, with two Strykers and two armed Humvees, set up on the Moore Haven side of the Caloosahatchee Canal Bridge, near what was once the Mattress Depot.
