Dark New World (Book 3): EMP Deadfall

by J. J. Holden

  Taggart read and then reread the message. He looked at Eagan, a grin spreading across his face. “So, shitbird. It seems this Operation Backdraft is a go any time in the next seventy-two hours. No idea what it is yet, but the message ends by saying, ‘Precaution: faraday’ and repeating it three times. It must be important. Any idea what a faraday is?”

  “Yeah, I know. Why don’t you, Cap?”

  “Eagan…”

  “Okay, fine. You have no sense of humor these days, Captain. Faraday means ‘faraday cage,’ which is a fancy way of saying we should put all our electronics into a metal enclosure so that the energy of an EMP will move around our gear, rather than through it. This spares our circuits from the effects of electromagnetic pulses. They’re gonna EMP the enemy by EMPing everybody.” He frowned. “There are a hundred ways this could backfire on us.”

  Taggart eyed Eagan warily, but he showed no hint of insubordination. “So, we need to find metal enclosures… And where do we find those?”

  Eagan grinned. “Throw ’em in the trash, sir. Metal trash cans with tight-fitting lids will work, especially down here. Or a working microwave—just put the gear inside, and it’ll keep the EMPs out just like it keeps the microwaves in. I read that somewhere.”

  Taggart nodded. “You know some weird things, Eagan. Very well. Send a detail for one of those. Now another problem. We have received coordinates from this 20s guy, Dark Ryder, and he says the straight poop is that our old friend, Spyder, is bunkered up at that location. Apparently, he and the Koreans are on unfriendly terms and internal conflict between them is considered imminent.”

  Eagan shrugged. “Yeah, Cap. We got those two dogs barking at each other with our little PsyOps raid. Glad to see your brilliant idea worked. Sir.”

  Taggart ignored the private’s attempt at banter. Some other time, maybe. “I’m thinking we need to organize another raid—”

  They were interrupted by a fresh-faced private, one of the survivors of another unit that he’d picked up some time ago. “Sir,” the private said as he saluted, “we have a situation at Beta Portal.”

  “The south manhole cover?”

  “Yes, sir! At least a dozen soldiers requesting entrance. American, sir. One has a radio, and they said they were directed to us by the 20s.”

  “Very well. Show me.” Taggart followed, and they arrived in minutes at an entrance.

  Twelve Army soldiers—regulars, from their insignias—stood in the alcove in formation at attention. “Why were these soldiers granted access before I was advised,” Taggart said to Eagan.

  “They came down while we were in conference, sir. Security breach—coulda been a total FUBAR, and I’ll deal with that later.”

  Taggart nodded, then strode into the alcove. One soldier in front of the others saluted, and Taggart returned the salute. “So you’ve been reassigned to my command?”

  “Sergeant Beaudoin reporting for duty, sir. I have eleven surviving soldiers. They’re yours now, sir, if you can use us.”

  Taggart smiled. “I certainly can. Very well. Put your men at ease, Beaudoin, and we’ll get some chow for your boys and girls. I’ll return after you’ve all eaten, and we can debrief you then.”

  Taggart turned without waiting for more saluting silliness and walked away with Eagan on his heels. He still hadn’t gotten used to people saluting him and really didn’t like it much even in this subterranean safety where no enemy could see it and mark him as an officer.

  “Shitbird, as I was saying. We need to organize a new raid. Obviously, we have to leave our electronics down here, but we have what, forty-five people now? Roughly. God bless the 20s for that. Have someone map those coordinates we received, and let me know where it is.”

  “Happily, Cap. Time to crush the Spyder. If we can hit him in time, we can probably use his bunker as a COP.”

  “If it’s in a good tactical position, then yeah, we’ll definitely use it for a combat outpost. The area’s bound to be highly kinetic, so we’ll need something to fall back to anyway. Then, when this Backdraft op goes up, we’ll press the OpFor and their Korean masters from their own lapdog’s base.”

  “Sir, I thought the U.S. Army doesn’t fall back, sir. Don’t you mean retrograde?”

  “Don’t be an oxygen thief, shitbird. Enough of the mil-speak. Now go follow my orders, pretty please and with cherries on top, before I bust you back down to private.”

  Eagan didn’t bother to make his usual reply—that he was already a private—before veering off to follow orders. Taggart was a bit disappointed. Maybe Eagan was actually getting used to Taggart’s field promotion being essentially permanent. He hoped not, as Eagan gave him his only real sense of camaraderie these days.

  - 19 -

  2200 HOURS - ZERO DAY +32

  JAZ STOOD ATOP the hill and, though the intervening food forest blocked her view, she stared down toward the farm with narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw. “Soon I’ll kill every last damn one of them,” she muttered.

  Choony frowned. “So much hate will eat you from the inside, my good friend,” he commented. It was a shame to watch Jaz growing harder, colder. Of course, he’d never met “streeter” Jaz before, the hard-eyed survival-first young woman she’d had to become in the city, so he feared this new world had destroyed the girl’s innocence. But Choony still saw the beautiful person inside her, and he did his best to nurture that, to keep it alive in her. She deserved better.

  Jaz exhaled a long sigh. “I know, Choony, and I hate that, but not as much as I hate Peter and his goons. They totally deserve the whirlwind that’s coming for them.”

  Joe Ellings, on Jaz’s other side, shrugged. “It is what it is, Jaz. But with these knives and pistols you’ve brought, me and my friends reckon we can arm up your people. When the time comes, Peter won’t know what hit him.”

  Choony said, “So how are you going to deliver these weapons to the Clan? You said you had a plan.”

  “Easy,” Joe replied. “We’ll stash them behind the outhouses, in the reeds.”

  Choony considered this for a moment. The farm had three outhouses, which led to 220-gallon concrete cisterns. Worms ate everything that went in, and their castings—along with urine and any water—drained into a long, gravel-filled trench that acted as a grow bed for some sort of swamp plants. Overflow went into a second trench, which in turn overflowed into a swale and soaked into the ground. He’d seen the water as it left the trenches, and it was crystal clear.

  “So the Clan will pick up the weapons as opportunity allows?” Choony asked.

  Joe nodded and opened his mouth to respond, but his radio crackled: “Hey, Joe, status check.”

  Joe clicked the button on his radio and it chirped, letting him know he was broadcasting, but then the little red power light went out. He tried again, but nothing happened. “Battery died,” he said to Choony and Jaz, “so y’all best hightail it out of here afore someone comes to check on me.”

  Choony nodded. Yes, that sounded like a great idea. “Alright, Joe. Good to see you again, and I thank you for the help you’re providing to my new family down there.”

  Jaz motioned to one of the two Marines who had accompanied them to the farm. “Alright, let basecamp know we’re heading home.”

  The young man pulled out his handheld, but frowned. “No power on it. When we get back, I’m definitely going to square away whoever was on charging duties.”

  Choony felt a tiny spider of doubt in the back of his mind. Both radios? At the same time? That didn’t bode well, but nothing was yet certain. “Alright, Jaz. Let’s get back and grab another radio so we can let Ethan know the plan.”

  They shook Joe’s hand, and then they headed north while the White Stag sympathizer walked south toward the farm.

  * * *

  Taggart stood with his command staff—Eagan, another soldier, and one of the Militia members—looking at the operational area map. It was just a folding paper map from a gas station, but it showed the streets around Spyder’s b
ase. Six pennies were spread around to show the general location of each squad under his command for the current operation. An unused stack of nickels would be used for enemy positions. Eventually. So far everything was quiet, and that made Taggart nervous. “Where the hell is the OpFor?” he asked Eagan, but it was rhetorical.

  Eagan, ever the smartass, shrugged and said, “Maybe they realized what douchebags they are and, overcome with remorse, they all killed themselves.”

  Taggart fought the urge to grin. “And deny us the satisfaction of killing them ourselves? That would just be adding insult to injury. No, they’re in there somewhere. Those few blocks are a maze of rubble now. We just have to figure out where they are.”

  He looked again at the map. Spyder’s three blocks—no, now five, the bastard—were outlined in red pen, and his outposts outside the red zone were noted with X marks. “We’ve already cleared his outposts, all four of them. They were empty. Eagan, status checks.”

  A minute later, Eagan returned and nodded. “They’re all now in position at the perimeter and awaiting furthers. Still no contacts. Maybe Spyder’s guys are at the dee-fack.”

  Taggart kept looking at the map, but replied, “Neg. It’s after 2200 hours so they aren’t taking chow. And our latest intel said Spyder is once again being a good little lapdog, so I doubt he’s been wiped out by our Hajji visitors and their DPRK masters. Do we see any civilians?”

  “No, sir. No reports of civvy contact. But RumInt says Spyder has a dusk curfew for civilians, so that’s not out of order.”

  “RumInt? Eagan, rumors are not intel. But you’re right, he does have a curfew. Still, I don’t like how quiet it is. Advise all units to maintain a slow op tempo. Slow and steady, stay alive, converge on the objective together. I need live soldiers, not dead heroes. Something ironic about using the enemy’s own radios against them.”

  Eagan grinned, saluted, then moved aside to get on the radio leaving Taggart to his worry and his map.

  Taggart’s radio, tuned to the all-units channel, crackled to life. “Zipline, Zipline, this is Bravo One. We have visual on six Hajjis, small arms only, twelve meters east of Oscar Four, unaware of our presence. They’re in a bagged emplacement.”

  Taggart glanced at the map. Second Platoon, First Squad had visual on six Arabs in some sort of a firing nest east of a major intersection—objective four. But that intersection was a poor tactical location. Spyder’s HQ was thought to be at Oscar One, and this intersection was only of secondary interest. Something felt wrong.

  Eagan’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Cap, that doesn’t make any sense. Why would they put troops there? And why Hajjis instead of Spyder’s gangbangers?”

  Taggart stared at the map, and then it came to him. “Crap. Yes, it does make sense. Look, if we had just made a beeline for Spyder’s HQ we’d have had to go right through that intersection. They’d have flanking fire on our guys. So, there have to be other enemy positions there. And stationing Hajjis there means Spyder’s either been reinforced or replaced. I’m betting on reinforced. If I’m right, it’s a trap.”

  Taggart picked up his radio and clicked. “Bravo One, this is Zipline. Take cover and hold in place… Bravo Two, Bravo Three, divert east toward Oscar Four to scout for additional enemy positions. Go easy and avoid contact. Something’s not right; keep your asses wired tight. Alpha, did you copy?”

  The Alpha commander acknowledged, and then the next ten minutes seemed to tick by at a snail’s pace. It felt like the seconds hand on Taggart’s mechanical watch moved in slow motion.

  Finally, his radio came to life again. “Zipline, this is Bravo Two. We’ve got eyes on another emplacement, corner November Echo at Oscar Four, second floor window emplacement.” Immediately after, Bravo Three squad reported in the same information but at November Whisky corner.

  So. Three emplacements at that one intersection. One on the ground just west of it, one in a building to the northeast, and a third in a building to the northwest. Anyone walking into that intersection would have been cut to ribbons. But why there? Taggart had deemed it the least likely objective they’d have to assault, which is why it was objective four.

  Eagan returned and saluted annoyingly. Any time they weren’t outside, Eagan went through this stupid routine, forcing Taggart to salute him back. Damn shitbird. “As you were. What now?” Taggart snapped, not bothering to return the salute this time.

  “Sir, Alpha One reports all units have found nothing. They’ve scouted the other three objectives. Oscar One was clearly Spyder’s HQ, but no one is there. There’s even chow there, still warm. They must have left in a hurry. It’s a bug-out.”

  Taggart clicked his radio again. “Alpha, this is Zipline. Converge on Oscar Four, but recon each block en route. How copy?”

  Alpha’s commander acknowledged, and Taggart nodded. Their commander would be breaking the squads into fire teams right now to speed the search, probably, but that was her decision. Taggart didn’t care how she got it done, as long as they swept the area and converged on objective four.

  Eagan suddenly grew serious, losing his usual smirk. “Captain, I gotta tell you, the little lizard part of my brain is screaming ‘danger!’ at me. I don’t like this one bit.”

  Well, no shit. “Yes, Eagan, I know. I feel it, too. But with those outposts empty, we had no one to question, no chance of getting paper intel. We’re blind. They know we’re here, somewhere. They left their little self-styled castle in a hurry. I don’t know if they had scouts or if the Koreans are using their satellites or spy birds, but whatever they’re doing we know, we don’t have surprise anymore. We have to assume it’s a trap.”

  “So why don’t we just retrograde the hell out of there?”

  “Eagan, I hate that word. It’s ‘retreat,’ not ‘retrograde,’ got it? But the reason is simple. We need information. Those are Hajjis down there, at least some of them are. We need intel.”

  Taggart then clicked the radio again. “Alpha and Bravo, this is Zipline. SITREP.”

  Both units reported their situation, but nothing much had changed. Bravo was in place, and Alpha was sweeping through Spyder’s now-empty turf to converge with Bravo. Alpha thought they’d be there in ten mikes. Taggart waited. And waited.

  His radio chirped. “Zipline, this is Alpha. We are rendezvous at Oscar Four, with eyes on two emplacements.” She then gave coordinates that put her squad covering the gap Bravo had left to the west of the intersection and two squads to the south and west to reinforce Bravo platoon.

  Despite the late hour and cool night air, Taggart felt himself begin to sweat. Adrenaline was a bitch, but it could be controlled. Not stopped, but channeled into something useful. He took a moment to gather himself. It was time for his troops to either ‘get kinetic,’ as he thought of it, or get out. But they badly needed intel—the situation had somehow changed dramatically, and he was in the dark about it. Changing that would require someone to question, enemy locations, paperwork… Intel. Very well. Time to get kinetic.

  “All units, this is Zipline. I have TOD 2247 hours, repeat, 2247… mark. Bravo One, at 2250 engage. Repeat, 2250 engage. Alpha One, hold position unless you see another emplacement or Bravo needs support. Alpha tune Tac 2, Beta tune Tac 3. How copy?”

  Both platoon commanders confirmed the orders. Then there was again nothing to do but wait. Taggart frowned. War time was like being in garrison: Nine-tenths of the time was just waiting. The difference was that final tenth. On base, it was spent training. At war, it was spent in terror, screaming, killing, and dying. This war was no different than the Sandbox had been, except bloodier and harder.

  “Eagan, thirty seconds. Get to the radio room. Grab our Militia guy to relay if you need to. I’m on channel Tac 1 still.”

  More waiting. Seemed like forever. Again. But really it was ten forever-long seconds. This part of war always sucked, but this time it was worse—he was the captain, now, in the rear with the gear. Before all this, he would have been Alpha One’s right-h
and man and in the thick of it. More dangerous, but better able to keep an eye on his boys and girls in the fight. Back here, he was helpless to do anything of much use except stay alive so his unit could maintain command integrity. What a damn oxymoron that was. Command Integrity. Being an officer officially sucked balls, not that he’d ever talk like that around Eagan again. Shoot, that was a tragedy in its own right. He and Eagan had been friends before. Weird, dysfunctional friends, but Eagan was like his own lost little brother, and Taggart suspected Eagan thought of him as a father figure. Eagan’s dad, he knew, had skipped out when the boy was seven—

  DING! Taggart’s alarm chirped. 2250 hours, and time for his people to live or die. He heard the abrupt chaos of unit chatter emanating from the “radio room,” and Eagan’s steady voice droning in reply, though Taggart couldn’t make out the words. If anyone needed him, his radio would sing; until then, Taggart was just ornamental.

  For long seconds, he heard the faint chatter from Eagan’s room, a steady back-and-forth of lifesaving information. Abruptly, Taggart’s radio squawked into life, making him jump. “Zipline, Zipline, it’s Alpha One,” it screamed, though Taggart didn’t recognize the man’s voice. So, their commander must be dead or pinned. She was effective, and he hoped she was just pinned down. “We got rumble in the jungle, sir! Armor coming down the main road from north and south toward us.” There was a pause and then the voice screamed, “Are you sure? Goddammit!” He’d obviously been too stressed to remember to stop transmitting. “Zipline, we got three, no four birds inbound to the west, and the Hajjis are going full retrograde, sir. They’re squirting all over themselves!”

  Taggart cursed. Tanks or some other hardened vehicles were coming in from both sides like hammers. The enemy was “squirting”—running the hell away—and four enemy helicopters were coming in from the side. Helicopters were his worst fear as a soldier.