by J. J. Holden
He reached for the radio, but as his hand touched it, it chirped again: “Zipline, Alpha One. Bravo One has overrun, um, Tango One”—that’d be the first enemy position they’d found, on the ground level—“and got their fitty! He’s chased off one of the birds—”
The voice was cut off mid-sentence. Two seconds later, the same voice clicked through on Taggart’s radio. “Zipline, Alpha One. Bravo One dropped a Hajji bird with the fitty, but we’re being overrun. Tanks are almost on us, and the birds are banking east and west of us. They’ll have us lit up in moments. I’ve ordered everyone to bug out, but there’s nowhere to go. God bless America. And, sir? God bless everything you’ve done. If we win, find my fam—”
The radio went silent. Taggart ground his teeth, his lips raised in a snarl. His left eyelid wouldn’t stop twitching, and he felt his face flush red with rage. His men. His people. America. Taggart clutched his radio and strode toward the radio room. He couldn’t save his people, but he could hear them at their last. They deserved to have someone with them when they died, to remember their sacrifice. As he entered the room, he saw Eagan sitting at the table with one of the platoon-channel radios.
“…say again?” shouted Eagan. The Militiaman stood to Eagan’s left with shock on his face.
The radios were silent. Actually… Not even a crackle came from them.
Taggart shouted, “SITREP,” and stared at Eagan’s radio, willing it to come to life. To show that any of his troops still lived.
Eagan spun in his chair and stood tall. He always slouched, except in combat, but not right now. The boy was rigid with tension. Eagan saluted—crisply, for once—and said too loudly, “Sir, I had multiple reports that the birds were taken out, someone shot them down or something. They were falling from the sky. The armor—it was APCs, sir—stopped in the middle of the road. We got that SITREP from both Alpha Two and Bravo One. Then the radios died. Not even static.”
* * *
The slant-eyed pendejo had told Spyder that his satellites found a “rebel” nest with both soldiers and armed civilians, but they couldn’t find out exactly where before he’d gotten satellite access because Ree’s drones kept getting shot down by—get this—other drones whenever they went out looking. When Spyder’s crew caught one of Angel’s gangs scouting his territory, Spyder learned that Angel and his soldier tagalongs planned to invade and that they’d been behind the mystery raid on his turf by Ree’s raghead pals. Spyder passed all that along, repairing his “loyal servant” status, and Ree had come up with the plan for this ambush.
Spyder stood in the slant’s “T.V. Tent,” as he thought of it. It was a command center that General Ree had set up just north of Spyder’s turf. Ree stood with his back to Spyder, watching the ambush unfold with obvious glee.
Next to Spyder was the hulking, reassuring presence of his pitbull, Sebastian. They both watched the many monitors—and Ree himself—with fascination and fear. Fear because this setup showed him how stupid his idea of taking Ree out had been. Oh man, so fuckin’ happy he hadn’t found the right time to try, because it would definitely not have been the right time. There would never be a right time. He might be able to kill the man, but he’d never get away alive. His crew, scattered around the ’hood waiting for the signal, would have swarmed the command center as soon as he fired off the flare gun he’d hidden outside, but in seeing all Ree’s power, he decided he’d never pull the trigger. Better to be a live servant than a dead rebel.
On the screens, Spyder saw swarms of Americans with serious hardware—M4s, M16s, a few AKs—rushing all over the intersection where General Kimchee and his sand-eating followers had tried to set the ambush. Ree’s men were getting overrun right before his eyes. A glance at Ree showed that the bastard didn’t give a crap about his soldiers. “Huelebicho,” he muttered and saw Seb nod in agreement.
Four blank monitors lit up, showing a rising aerial view. “The helicopters have risen,” Ree said in English, then began spitting instructions in Raghead.
Spyder said almost under his breath to Sebastian, “Perro que huele carne.” Like a dog smelling meat…
“Yeah, man. Angel’s gonna get his ass handed to him.”
On the monitor, the helicopters banked dizzyingly, moving into a circular pattern. Like sharks closing in. Spyder’s heart beat faster in anticipation, and he licked his lips.
General Ree turned to face Spyder, grinning. “You are here because your information was correct, and this is happening in your kitchen. My units are about to engage the rebels. You will see what happens to American traitors to Great Father’s noble cause.”
Spyder watched enraptured as Ree turned back to the monitors and raised one hand. A moment later, he chopped down through the air and spat a single word in Sand-eater.
And everything in the tent went dark and silent. Nothing on the monitors. Nothing from the radios. Spyder looked around in confusion, but saw that everyone else was doing the same. That couldn’t be good. “What the hell is going on,” Spyder demanded, and felt—rather than saw—Sebastian grow tense and wary. He could almost feel his man’s aura change from calm-but-alert to “mothafuckers are about to die.” Spyder put a hand on Seb’s arm. “No te rochees, Seb,” he said almost under his breath.
As the people in the command center—a canvas pavilion tent—quieted down, Sebastian nudged him. “Bichote, listen to that noise.”
“What noise?”
“Yeah. The generator outside is quiet. The vehicles Ree kept running? They’re quiet. All is quiet. We’ve heard this silence before, yes?”
Spyder froze. Seb was right… The man was a meathead, but cunning. He’d never miss seeing advantage when it showed itself. Spyder hissed, “Ése salió por lana y llegó trasquilado,” and Seb stifled a chuckle. Ree had gone out looking for sheep but came back sheared. Asshole.
Seb nudged Spyder and tossed his head toward the door flap. “Si se puede. Que ahora Motín, bossman.”
Spyder felt his lips pull back into a snarl. Time to riot. Yes we can. Seb was right. “Send it up,” he said simply, and Seb left the tent like a shadow, almost seeming to disappear. More loudly, he said, “Stepping outside, General Ree. It’s pitch black in here.”
Without waiting for a reply, Spyder stood tall and proud as he walked out of the tent. Overhead, a single flare drifted lazily with the faint breeze casting flickering, red light over the small compound. It made everything look coated in blood. Totally appropriate for what was about to happen. Ree could try to run, that little slant-eyed bitch, but the gang was coming for him and his lapdogs. Spyder felt the edge of adrenaline and the serene, peaceful feeling he always got when killing time arrived. He took his time walking the twenty yards where he had hidden his AK behind a crate.
From somewhere inside the compound, the first shot rang out, followed by a guttural cry of pain, and Spyder grinned.
* * *
Ree looked around the darkened room, and a shiver ran down his spine, leaving his scalp tingling. He took a deep breath and put the fear into a box deep inside. Fear accomplished nothing and didn’t serve the Great Leader’s purposes, unless that fear belonged to the enemies of the People. Ree ignored the American gangster leaving. It hardly mattered now.
“Check your watches,” he commanded. All were electronic—and all were as dark as the monitors. Now what? Obviously, he’d have to get back to base to be of any use to his Leader, but none of his vehicles were likely to be operational if this really had been a retaliation EMP.
He pointed at one of the now-useless radio operators. “Go and get the American gangster’s car. He didn’t have it the last time we summoned him, so he must have found it.”
A single shot came from somewhere fairly nearby. Ree recognized it as an AK, but had no way of knowing whether it belonged to his own men or someone else. The barbarian Americans had more firearms among their lazy, selfish citizens than in all of the DPRK’s mighty military. They only lacked the conviction to use them, despite their absurd “
mightiest nation” empty rhetoric before the war.
Then another shot rang out, and someone screamed in Arabic, calling for their god. As if there was a god who might help him. Fool. “Everyone up. Move together. We take the American gang member’s vehicle, if it remains where it was. If it is gone, we will move northward, toward our base, and pick up our soldiers as we find them. Do not slow for the wounded. The Great Leader requires your obedience in this! We do no good for anyone if we become trapped out here in this urban wasteland. Move!”
As one, his soldiers rose and moved toward him. They stepped outside the tent, and his people surrounded him, providing cover. Eight soldiers against the hordes of barbarians who lived here. He noted that light covered everything; a flare still drifted downward. He used the last of the light to look for the car and found it still parked. It was beautiful, black, mean-looking. Clearly what the natives had once called “American muscle.” He wasted no time before moving toward it.
All around came the noise of firefights. Small clusters of men fighting and dying. Ree sneered. Whoever engineered this disorganized attack was no soldier, that much was certain. He skipped a step as a realization struck him, but kept moving. “This is the American gangster’s work. Kill anyone who is not one of us. For Korea!”
The men cried out, repeating that most noble of words as they rushed with him toward the vehicle. All around him now was the noise of battle. How many barbarians would it take to overrun the sons and daughters of Korea and their Islamic allies? Americans were like rats, always scurrying around. And they all had guns. If they saw a weakness in the invasion forces, there were more than enough to overrun every base the Liberation Forces had set up, but only if they could muster half the courage of a Korean farmer. If they perceived weakness, well, Americans could be brave if they thought they had the advantage. Bah.
They were ten feet from the car now, and Ree began to hope they wouldn’t have to fight their way back to the main base in north Manhattan. His rising joy was cut short when a half dozen of the American gangsters rose up on the car’s opposite side. They fired their rifles without hesitation.
All around Ree, his men fell. He felt something large and heavy strike him from behind, forcing him to the ground. The breath was knocked out of him when he landed, with the heavy weight still on him. He tried to roll over to see his attacker. It turned out to be a loyal Islamist on top of him, now dying and bleeding out. He mouthed the name of his god, but no words came out—only a bubble of blood.
Damn. His men were dead or dying, patriots every one of them. He looked around for a way out, assessing the situation, but any hope of escape was crushed. A circle of American criminals was slowly closing in on him from every direction, with rifles and pistols pointed at him. Damn Spyder, and damn disloyal allies…
A mechanical hum was suddenly heard. Ree looked for the source and saw that his attackers also looked for the cause. A moment later the source became apparent; dozens of small drones whirred in every direction. Each had a tiny weapon under it that looked like the gun mounts on a helicopter. The drones stopped abruptly, hovering in place. Then the drones’ weapon barrels whirred into life, spinning like a Gatling gun. All around him, the gang members cried out and fell where they had stood, each becoming a bloody mess. There had been no sound of gunfire. Ree wondered what those weapons were and marveled at how they had torn up the people surrounding them. They looked like they’d been flayed.
The drones moved as one toward the car, and stopped. Ree watched, confused. Why was he still alive? The drones moved back toward him and then back to the car where they rose up to twice the height of a man and simply hovered. They all faced outward, their weapons covering every direction.
Ree wasted no more time. He sprinted the last ten feet to the car and vaulted into the driver’s seat. The keys were in the ignition. Spyder must have wanted a fast way out if his treachery failed. Well, it had not failed, and this was no time to wonder about unexpected gifts. He shifted hard into Drive, slammed the gas pedal down, and the wheels spun for a moment before catching. Then the car vaulted forward, and Ree cheered in his heart. He wove back and forth, avoiding people, supplies, and anything else in the way. The little drones kept pace and pulverized anyone nearby whether American or Patriot. It would have felt good to run down some of Spyder’s people but returning to base was the priority.
A minute later, he was clear of the battle and screaming down the broad, empty boulevard headed north toward the main base, the sounds of battle petering out behind him.
Those drones had not been his, nor Islamist—too small and too armed—so there was someone out there helping him. And whoever they were, they had to know the EMP was coming in order to keep the drones hidden until it was safe to bring them out. He’d escaped with his life, he realized, but whose drones had made it possible? To whom did he owe his life?
Ahead of him, the rubble walls of his base rose out of the darkness, lit by his approaching headlights. Inside the base, beyond the wall, all lay in darkness.
- 20 -
0230 HOURS - ZERO DAY +33
CAPTAIN TAGGART WALKED through the building, staying as quiet as possible. The enemy units had been defeated quickly once their birds had gone down in fiery glory. None of the soldiers they’d captured spoke English, so Taggart gave them a short trial and shorter execution. He’d spent the time since then tending to his own dead and wounded the best they could under the circumstances. He’d sent Eagan and some soldiers to retrieve the big radio and such, which had been left in the tunnel system, and they would return soon. Taggart owed a debt to this “Dark Ryder,” whoever he was, for alerting him of the EMP. It had come sooner than expected, and the “Dark Ryder” warning was the only reason the radio hadn’t been fried again, this time probably for good. He’d lost his handhelds, but they were acceptable losses.
Now he found himself in command of five squads of able-bodied soldiers and a squad of the dead, dying, or wounded. It didn’t really matter that he’d inflicted terrible losses on the enemy—some thirty bodies and who knew how many wounded—because they had more, and more, and still more. He had only his squads and there wouldn’t likely be reinforcements soon. Six to one, seven to one, it didn’t matter. Each of his own soldiers was irreplaceable.
He walked into the room Spyder had set up as his office and closed the door. After checking the heavy drapes to ensure no light would escape to give away their location, he lit the cheap oil lamp they’d found on the desk. He sat, put his feet up on the desk, and let out a weary sigh. Looking around the room didn’t cheer him at all. Spyder had kept his office Spartan at best, preferring to keep his loot and trophies elsewhere, no doubt.
A light knock on the door roused him. “Enter.”
Eagan came in and closed the door behind him. He looked weary, but then, so did everyone right now. “Sir, the comm is secured. Two more dead since I left. The medico thinks the other four wounded will live, but one might lose an arm first. Watches are in place, I checked on them myself. The fires north of us are spreading northward, not toward us, so we don’t expect a horde of freaked out civilians fleeing through our positions.”
“At ease, Eagan. Sit.” Taggart pulled out a pint of Wild Turkey—his favorite whiskey—and two plastic cups. “One drink, to mourn our dead. Then hit the rack.”
“Yessir. But I wasn’t done with the SITREP. We’ve had radio contact on the big comm, Captain. Two other Army units have come out of hiding to where they can hear our signal, finally. They were holed up in the subways and sewers…”
Taggart grimaced. The whiskey looked really good but would have to wait a minute. “Very well, Eagan. Out with it.”
“One unit is well south of us, a reinforced platoon in size. They have a lot of food in wagons, sir, but they’re black on ammo.” Taggart frowned, but Eagan kept going. “The other unit is to the east of us, and they’re about our size, but under a lieutenant. They’re good on rations and supplies. Both units are moving to rendezvous wi
th us, sir. Platoon should be here by dawn, the squad by about 0700 hours.”
“Alright. Pass it on to the others. We don’t want any accidents. I think if we can convince them to join my command, we’ll be far more combat effective.”
“You could just order them to take it and grin, Cap.”
“Technically, yes. But you know damn well that right now—”
Bang! Bang! The sounds of weapons firing interrupted Taggart. Eagan sprinted out of the office. Taggart grabbed his rifle and was close behind. The shots came from the roof, on the north side of the massive building. Eagan darted away to rouse the other troops, and Taggart vaulted up the stairs three at a time. When he reached the top, he went straight to the window of the nearest north-facing room, heedless of the slowly-rousing soldiers sleeping within.
In the distance he could see the still-raging fires caused by some of the falling helicopters earlier, and the backlighting let him easily see what the soldiers on the roof were shooting at. Not a block away, there were a dozen figures. Most were armed with pistols, but a couple of them carried rifles. They were clustered together and had clearly not expected to be engaged with small arms fire—they had only just started scattering for cover when Taggart got eyes on them. Slow. So, not soldiers. Gangbangers, then. Which meant they were likely to be Spyder’s goons. That suited Taggart just fine; Spyder was everything wrong with the world, as far as he was concerned. And he was owed some payback for past wrongs.
Out the window, Taggart saw a stream of his own soldiers pouring from the building, moving by twos as they flanked the now-pinned gangsters. Heh. This wouldn’t last long… He watched as the gangbangers were whittled away. His troops set up crossfires that eliminated their target’s cover and gunned them down one after another. The enemy’s return fire was chaotic, with no fire discipline; they shot at everything and nothing in their panic.
