Project Terminus: Destiny

by Nathan Combs

  Randal and Wade sat in the makeshift RV hanger that housed the Apache, watching the requisite afternoon rainstorm, which was accompanied by pea-sized hail that hammered the metal roof of the building.

  Randal yelled, “I have to admit I was a little nervous when I flew her here, Dad. Wasn’t sure I’d remember everything, but it’s like riding the old bike.”

  “Hang on a minute, son. I can’t hear a damned thing.”

  Randal grinned and looked at the roof.

  Two minutes later when the hail eased up, he repeated his statement.

  Wade said, “Yeah, I went over the procedures this morning. It’d be nice to get in some flight time, and while we could use some of the fuel we were gifted from Kirilov’s patrol, I’m reluctant.”

  “Regardless, Stu’s guys did a damned good job. She’s like new.”

  “Munitions?”

  “Could always be better. We have more than enough 30mm cannon rounds, forty Hydra rockets, and eight Hellfires.”

  “We’ll have to make them count, son.”

  “Yep. Ty’s team is ready to head back to Corpus. We have to meet him in the CC in ten. We’re gonna get wet.”

  They stood in the doorway, looked at each other, grinned, then ran for the command center 100 yards away.

  Bill stood lurking in the corner of the Powwow Room, waiting for the meeting. Days earlier, he had found a 33-rpm turntable and a stack of records in one of the foray trucks returning from the Clewiston area. Sporting a sinister grin, he held the needle above the wax and waited for Tyler, who entered the room at the exact moment a brilliant bolt of lightning filled the sky.

  “Jesus, it is really coming—”

  The thunderclap shook the walls of the room and echoed into the distance.

  Before the last rumble receded, Bill dropped the needle and strains of “On the Road Again” ricocheted off the walls.

  Tyler yelled, “What the hell is that noise?”

  Bill grinned and yelled back, “That’s not noise, Tonto, that’s Willie.”

  Tyler walked to the turntable and turned it down. “What’s a Willie?”

  “Willie Nelson, dipshit. He’s the king of country music.”

  “You mean, king of the old potheads.”

  “Who cares? He’s singing a song especially for you. Listen.” He turned the volume back up and sang along, grinning a cheesy grin.

  Soaking wet, Wade and Randal entered the Powwow room and stood gawking at Bill jamming with Willie.

  Wade said, “What the hell is this, karaoke day? Shut that damned thing off.”

  Bill made a sad, childish face and lifted the arm from the record, and Willie stopped wailing.

  Wade shook his head, toweled his face, took his seat, and began the briefing. “I talked to Kirilov. The man’s a soldier, not a politician. He’s intelligent. I don’t believe he has any ill will toward us. Overall, my take is that while he’s not in favor of a confrontation, he’ll do what he’s ordered to do whether he agrees with it or not. He didn’t confirm or deny, but there’s little doubt they’re planning an invasion. Nothing I can hang my hat on. Just a feeling. Bottom line, he’s the real deal, so whatever form the attack takes will be professionally planned.” He turned to Tyler. “Are your men ready to go, Ty?”

  “Yeah. We’re heading out when we’re finished here.”

  Wade nodded. “Good. Randal has additional orders.”

  Randal said, “You’re taking extra C-4 in case we decide to take out their refinery and cripple their supply line. And since Chris is our best sniper, he’s going with you. Targets of opportunity are Shelton, McNulty, and Kirilov. You’ll be our eyes and ears, Ty, so don’t take unnecessary chances. That’s it. Questions?”

  Tyler shook his head no.

  Bill slapped him on the back. “Stay safe, Squaw Man. When you return, I’ll have Willie rigged so you can listen to his best song continuously.”

  “Yeah? And what would that be?”

  “‘The Party’s Over,’ but I call it ‘Turn Out the Lights.’”

  Tyler grimaced as another booming thunderclap shook the room. “Thanks for the heads up.”

  Kirilov and McNulty sat across from each other in the communications center discussing the invasion.

  “I will not make plans that will not bear fruit. Regardless of what Shelton wants. Do you want to win or not?” Kirilov said.

  “Well, I most certainly do not wish to lose, Misha.”

  “You assured me the proper decision would be made regarding a battle with the Floridians. I do not consider invasion to be the proper decision.”

  “Noted, but I was unable to convince Sir Shelton otherwise.”

  Kirilov nodded once.

  “I assume you will comply with your orders.”

  “Of course.”

  “How long before we can commence? I have to give him something. He’s chomping at the bit.”

  “There is much to be done. I must upgrade the weaponry, train the troops, and prepare logistics. It will not happen overnight.”

  “How long, Misha?”

  “Perhaps by early autumn.”

  McNulty started to protest.

  Kirilov cut him off. “If that is unacceptable, you have the option of replacing me.”

  Kirilov spent the next two weeks refining his invasion plan and configuring the old den into a new command center. He had often thought about upgrading the room but since there was no enemy and no need, he’d tabled the thought. Now, he installed modern desks and lighting and upgraded the ham radio and other electronic equipment. The room was refurbished with a conference table, three chairs, and a small lounge area. Soft blue lighting filled the room and illuminated the north wall where a continuous map of the Gulf Coast from Corpus Christi to Florida was highlighted with arrows from red markers.

  Kirilov was scheduled to present his plan at 1300 hours and waited patiently for Shelton and McNulty to arrive. At 1330, he was annoyed. By 1400, he was agitated and looking out the window. A hundred yards away, McNulty’s bulk dwarfed Shelton’s as they strolled, unhurried and unconcerned, toward the command center. His jaws locked. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, turned, took four steps, and stood at parade rest in front of the wall map.

  Shelton and McNulty sauntered in and took their seats. There was no sorry I’m late, or even I’m sorry. Shelton’s mood was sour, the anger in his flushed face visible as he glared daggers at Kirilov.

  McNulty, on the other hand, voiced his approval of the new room, and his face beamed. “This looks very much like a situation room, Misha. Well done.”

  Shelton rolled his eyes and looked at McNulty. “Jesus Christ, David, shut up.” Then he turned to Kirilov. “Get on with it, General.”

  Kirilov’s expression didn’t change as he grabbed a pointer, stepped to the map, turned, and said, “The invasion will begin in late October. We will utilize two strike groups. Group one will consist of 880 troops, ten Strykers, ten armored Humvees, four Bradleys, troop transports, tanker trucks, and requisite support vehicles.” Using the pointer, he followed the red arrows that flowed across the map. “They will travel north of the route the Jacksonville patrol took, proceed south on the Florida Turnpike, and stage in Okeechobee. When the order is given, they will advance down this road, Highway 78, and split into two columns just before Moore Haven. Column one will continue down Highway 78 and attack from the north.” Tapping the map with the pointer, he said, “The second column is going to follow this road, alongside the canal, and strike from the northeast.”

  He looked back at his audience, confirming that Shelton and McNulty were paying close attention, then he continued, tapping the map with the pointer as he spoke.

  “Group two will consist of 620 troops, eight Strykers, two Bradleys, two armored Humvees, both Blackhawks, and the Little Bird, along with transport, t
ankers, and support vehicles. They will cross the Gulf of Mexico on boats and barges and land in Fort Myers, then proceed east on Highway 80 to Labelle, then east on Highway 78. When they are close to Moore Haven, they will also split and attack from the west and southwest.”

  Looking more entertained than angry now, Shelton jumped up and walked to the map where he stood staring at the red arrows. “Is that going to be enough men?”

  “Yes. Combined with the armor and air support, it will be sufficient.”

  “Outstanding. Continue.”

  “The assault will take place simultaneously. It is a pincer movement, designed to split their forces. It is doubtful they can fight on four fronts.” He looked directly into Shelton’s eyes. “You must understand that you will not be able to assimilate the Floridians into the Texas Nation. They will never acquiesce. You could never trust them. Therefore, I will give them no quarter. I will spare as many civilians as possible, of course, and you may wish to attempt their indoctrination at a later date, but it is my belief that they will resist as vigorously as their warriors.”

  Shelton was beaming. “Well, I’m not worried about assimilation right now. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I am impressed, General, but…October? That’s almost half a year from now.”

  “The Gulf force is critical to success, and I do not wish to attempt the crossing until the risk of hurricanes has abated. In any event, the time will not go to waste. We will practice the assault. The troops will be competent.” He moved closer to Shelton and locked eyes again. “However, they must have a reason to fight well.”

  “Reason? They’re soldiers. They do what they’re told to do, General.”

  “There is a difference between fighting and fighting well. Soldiers will fight well if they have a reason. If they believe their families are jeopardized, that their way of life will be compromised, or that the enemy is evil. They will fight well for what they believe in and for each other. They will not fight well because they are told to.”

  McNulty grinned. “That is not a problem, Misha. I can make all of that happen.”

  Shelton scowled. “Is there anything else, General?”

  Kirilov hesitated a moment. “There is one thing you should consider.”

  When it was apparent Kirilov was not saying anything more until the question was asked, Shelton rolled his eyes. “Well, what is it?”

  “I can win this battle for you. But it is my opinion that the spoils of war, in this case, will not belong to the victor.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “We will not be adding citizens to Texas Nation. The population will be decreased.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Escape from Cathay

  Chen could have picked any building in Macau for the villagers to stay in, but he chose the Guia Lighthouse and Fortress in the park, between St. Lazarus and St. Anthony parishes. The 100-foot elevation provided a sense of security, and the wooded parkland provided a facsimile of their life in the forested mountains of home.

  Chen briefly thought about the weeks long journey to this place while being greeted with early morning sun that warmed his face as he looked to the sky. Minutes later, a gentle offshore breeze wafted across the hilltop, gently kissing Ya’s cheeks as Chen escorted her to the pallet he had set up for her on the veranda of the lighthouse. She was not doing well and was always cold. In the weeks since they’d left the village, her health had taken a turn for the worse. She had good days and bad days. Today was one of her good days.

  Chen eased her onto the mattress and kissed her forehead. “The sun will warm your bones, Ya.”

  “Hmm. Yes, I suppose it will. You do realize that Cathay is poisoned, do you not? The country is dead.”

  He grinned at her. “Why do you choose to use so many different names for China, Ya?”

  “It does not matter, Chen. She has been called many things. Cathay is but one.”

  “Yes, you are right, of course. Personally, I like the Middle Kingdom. It has a romantic connotation to it.”

  Ya ignored his attempt at humor. She was not finished. “We still do not have a food supply, Chen. And what of the fish in the sea? Do we dare to eat them? We cannot eat all our animals in order to survive, Chen. What are we to do?”

  “Grandmother, everything is not dead here. Shenzhen is destroyed and Hong Kong is poisoned, but Macau is not. We will find enough food to sustain us. And the smaller fish do not travel great distances. They are safe to eat.” He bent and kissed her forehead again. “I am working on a plan. You must be patient. I will return soon. We have just begun to search the buildings. All will be fine.”

  Two days of searches produced usable gear but little food, and Chen stood by and watched as the tenders led the hogs from the confines of the lighthouse to the park where they rooted for something to eat. Others herded the ducks, geese, and chickens down the steps to the parkland, and clucking, quacking, and honking, they scratched and pecked the earth for bugs and grubs.

  Chen shook his head. He knew it was not sanitary to keep the animals in the same building the villagers lived in, but it was their way, and he did not want to subject them to change. Familiarity was one of their few comforts.

  To communicate with other survivors, he had sent Jiang in search of a ham radio system, and since the day was ending and the afternoon thunderstorm had passed, he climbed the steps to the lighthouse and sat on the top level waiting.

  An hour later, Jiang limped slowly up wearing an ear-to-ear grin. “I have found one, Chen.”

  Chen jumped up. “Excellent, Jiang. Where is it?”

  “It is in the truck. We need to connect it to the generator to ensure it functions.”

  Between the two men they had enough electrical and mechanical expertise to hook the ham radio to the generator. Thirty minutes after they began, Chen keyed the mic. “This is Macau, China, calling any station. Come in, please.”

  The response was crackling static.

  Chen repeated the call several times with the same result.

  “It appears to be functioning correctly, Jiang. I believe the problem is the antenna. We will need a larger one. Tomorrow I will go with you, and we will find one.”

  The next day, they found a dipole antenna at an electronic parts store and that evening, with a large, long wire antenna in place, Chen tried again.

  “Station calling, I am receiving you, but your signal is weak. Please repeat,” came a voice breaking through the static.

  Jiang sat up straight, bright-eyed and smiling widely, and clapped his hands. “They hear us, Chen. They hear us.”

  Chen grinned and keyed the mic. “This is Macau, China. Can you hear me?”

  “This is Texas Nation. Your signal is weak. I say again, your signal is weak. Where are you calling from?”

  “Macau, China. I repeat, I am calling from Macau, China.”

  “You are broadcasting from China? Is that correct?”

  “Yes. Yes. That is correct. Macau, China.”

  The mostly one-way conversation ended minutes later.

  Chen sat back in the chair, bowed his head, and closed his eyes. Jiang stared into the distance. Lost in thought, they sat without speaking for several minutes.

  “The world is in worse condition than we imagined, Jiang. It appears we are but a few of the people left alive on the planet.”

  “Yes. What will we do?”

  Chen stood. “We must make plans to leave Macau.”

  “And go where?”

  Chen grinned. “Have you ever been to Texas?”

  A wan smile crossed Jiang’s face. “I do not even know where Texas is, Chen.”

  “It is in the United States.”

  Jiang’s eyes got big, and his mouth flopped open.

  Chen nodded to himself. “Yes. We will make plans to go to Texas, or to England.
Perhaps both. There is strength in numbers, and we must find our way to the others or we will surely perish on our own. You are a capable sailor, are you not, Jiang?”

  “Yes, but I have not been to sea for many years, Chen.”

  “Nor have I. The Americans have a saying. It is like riding a bicycle. We will remember. We must locate two seaworthy junks and make them ready to cross the ocean. We have much work to do.”

  Two days later, just before dusk, they located two modern Chinese junks berthed side by side at the end of a pier off Avenue Marginal Do Lam Mau, in Our Lady of Fatima’s parish.

  Ya stood to stare at Chen when he told her of his plan. “I have never sailed on the sea, Chen. I must admit, I am fearful. Can we cross the ocean safely? I do not like the name Texas. The name does not come off my tongue easily. What of the people? What—”

  Chen put his arm around Ya and politely interrupted her. “You have more questions than I have answers, Grandmother. These ships are very modern yet allow for the ancient Chinese junks’ ability to sail into the wind using a combination of tacking, sheeting, beating, and jibbing. They can also be sailed by one person, if necessary.”

  “You may as well be speaking a foreign language, Chen. I know nothing of nautical terms.”

  He smiled. “I will attempt to keep it simple. These particular ships have diesel turbine engines. They are capable of making the journey. However, there are many preparations to be made before we can depart. I will answer your questions as I find the answers. There are few people left in the world, Grandmother, which means there are few places we can go. The Americans in Texas and the English in Liverpool have electrical power, and the Americans have a refinery and many of the comforts of civilization. It will not be easy, but I believe that is our best chance for survival.”

  For the next two weeks, Chen refined his plan. It was 15,271 kilometers, or 9,489 nautical miles, to Liverpool, England, via the Suez Canal, and 10,362 kilometers, or 6,439 nautical miles, to San Diego, California, in the United States. From San Diego, they would have to travel an additional 2,615 kilometers, or 1,625 miles, to get to Corpus Christi, Texas.