Dark New World (Book 5): EMP Resurrection

by Henry G. Foster

  It occurred to Choony that Jaz had opened up over the last week, and was again her flirtatious, cheerful-but-warped self. But there was something different, too, something new about the way she played word games with him, teased him, played pranks on him. A new confidence, an added measure of trust. And he loved every second of it.

  The next few miles were filled with the most pleasant thoughts, and his heart raced. He only hoped she didn’t notice the flush he felt in his cheeks.

  * * *

  Taggart looked down at his map, where little colored wooden blocks showed the locations of his units as well as known enemy positions. Two civilians he had rescued during a major raid two days earlier had told him about a tremendous troop movement scheduled to get underway today or tomorrow. A large part of Ree’s forces were apparently clustered now, up in the rough terrain northeast of Ridgefield, New Jersey. They could go around Taggart or fight snipers and raids all along their lines for most of their journey. They were going to march into New York City. Taggart figured they would head east to Norwood near the mighty Hudson River before heading south, to avoid Taggart’s territory.

  Betting on this, Taggart had stationed thousands of his fighters in a wide arc of intermittent, heavily-wooded areas. Closter Nature Center. Alpine Park—complete with a wooden and stone fortress at the Scouts camp nearby. Rockleigh. The dense woods all over within a half mile of Norwood. There were more, but those held his largest units for this operation. He had many fallback positions south of those—Ree’s troops would either push through a strong defense-in-depth or turn back and face continual assaults and raids.

  Either way, the trap would close around the invaders when they reached Broadway and Piermont Road, where dense woods surrounded a cluster of suburbs close to the Hudson River. Units north would move laterally to encircle the invaders from the rear, and then positions before and along the invader line would surge forward. If the battle went well, they’d press the assault. If the invaders maintained unit cohesion and assaulted together in one direction—the worst case scenario—his units would melt away and rally at fallback points, where the invaders would have to rally and assault again.

  Ree’s troops would have to maintain a high-intensity assault with good unit cohesion to stand a chance, but they’d become more exhausted with each position they had to assault. And Taggart’s troops would simply melt away each time, replaced by fresh troops as needed. It was the advantage of the native homeland defender.

  That was the plan, anyway. If Ree stupidly tried to cross the reservoir east at Old Hook instead of at Broadway to the north, then Ree would be slaughtered with nowhere to retreat. Taggart was certain that Ree was smarter than that. He had been an intelligent opponent so far.

  One of their messengers ran up to Eagan to report. His messengers were drawn mostly from people they had just rescued, the same group that had told Taggart of this troop movement. Taggart didn’t have weapons and gear for the additional thousand who had joined his forces, but he needed runners and lots of them, so he had told Eagan to assign them that duty.

  Out of breath, the runner handed a slip of paper to Eagan. “The invaders been spotted moving down Broadway,” he said between breaths.

  Eagan looked at the paper and nodded. “Well done, private. Get some water and catch your breath, then stand by.”

  Eagan turned to Taggart and said, “General, rough estimate is ten thousand troops under arms, and the forward elements are just now passing the trap entrance perimeter.”

  Taggart nodded. “Excellent. Stand by for more runners, and get ready to relay orders.” Taggart had a system of paper slips for both reports and orders to unit commanders. The code they were using had been simple to explain, and simple to decode in the field, but if the invaders got hold of a slip they wouldn’t be able to decode it right away. They wouldn’t have the time and by the time they did, it would be outdated information.

  Over the next ten minutes, more runners came in with reports. It turned out they were moving a huge supply of food and ammunition to Ree’s position in the City—wagon after wagon loaded with goods. Too ripe a plum to pass up.

  When Taggart estimated enough time had passed for the invaders to get into position, he issued his go orders to all five of his top field commanders for the operation. They’d relay to their subordinate unit commands, and so on down the line.

  Taggart frowned, a bit worried. Without radios, big operations like this one were like Napoleonics but with automatic weapons and battle rifles. Heck, Napoleon’s era had more advanced systems for relaying orders and information than what Taggart was using. They had used bugles and flags, mirror flashes from hilltop to hilltop, and shouts down the line. Even smoke signals sometimes. Taggart was reinventing the wheel, and trying to stay one step ahead of Ree’s own reinventions, to boot. It was worrying—and very Napoleonic-era.

  Taggart watched the swarm of runners take off in different directions with their slips of paper and anticipated the din of battle that would begin in ten minutes—but wasn’t looking forward to the chaos of receiving intel and issuing orders, all while moving his cute little wooden blocks around on his map. He’d almost rather be in the thick of combat himself. Things got simple in combat.

  He wished he had spent some time playing those miniature war games like that Clanner Ethan talked about playing on weekends over beer and barbeque, before the war. It might have come in handy now.

  - 14 -

  0445 HOURS - ZERO DAY +225

  NESTOR CROUCHED IN the predawn darkness with five of his fighters. That left five on guard duty at their encampment—with one hundred fighters now, he kept ten on rotating two-hour night watch, and two of those patrolled farther out to ensure their perimeter was clear. It had been sheer dumb luck that his two roving scouts had found this campsite just before dusk the evening before.

  The encampment was well hidden among tall bramble bushes—two pup tents on either side of a Dakota fire hole and four bicycles in the dirt on the other side of the fire hole. Two men and two women, no children, all armed with AR-style rifles. They had those big hiking-style backpacks, loaded with supplies, which sat adjacent to the tents. The rifles were in their tents with them. Nestor was positive these were yet another group of Empire scouts.

  He had watched the encampment for the last half hour for any sentries or activity, but there had been none. The campers had trusted that their concealment would keep them safe. Nestor whispered to the woman beside him, “We’ll approach from the fire hole side of the tents. They’re sure to have weapons, so no screw ups. I don’t want to lose anyone—we kill them, then search them for those damn gold coins the Empire uses.”

  Later, he would need to let Clanholme know about all these infiltrators. Fake settlements, fake homesteads, swarms of these two- and four-person scouting teams… Confed territory was swarming with Empire, and Nestor’s Night Ghosts had spent days and days killing them. Yet there were still more, and he had no doubt that for every group he killed, two more were on the way. This was the prelude to war.

  Well, if they wanted war, they’d get it…

  Nestor’s people got into place, he and four of them forming a semicircle facing the camp with their AK-47s at the ready. The fifth, Ratbone, moved with amazing silence to the tents’ rear with a jerrycan of gasoline and methodically applied fuel to the back and top of each tent. Nestor could imagine the disturbingly gleeful smile Ratbone would have while doing it. The guy was definitely disturbed. A complete nutjob.

  Ratbone used a simple lighter to ignite both tents. With a menacing whoosh, the backs of the tents ignited, the flames quickly spreading up onto the tops. It turned out the tents were canvas, so they didn’t just go up in a fireball like Nestor had imagined, but that’s why he and the other four were ready with their rifles…

  From within the tents, a man screamed, “Fire!” A second later there were more shouts, and the noise of frantic people struggling out of their blankets and the entry flaps. The four presumed Empire
scouts came tumbling out of the tents still shouting and sleep-confused. Two had brought their rifles, but they were looking only at the tents.

  Before they had the chance to do anything, Nestor said, “Guns.” He squeezed his trigger, firing one round that spread his target’s brains over the now fully-engulfed tent.

  Two more shots rang out from Nestor’s fighters and the other armed scout, a woman, collapsed in a heap without uttering a word.

  Confused, the last two scouts—a man and a woman—stared dumbly at their companions lying in the dirt. Behind them, Ratbone was moving their backpacks away from the inferno.

  “Don’t move,” Nestor shouted, “you’re surrounded. Put your hands in the air.”

  The woman raised her hands quickly. The man looked toward the voice and saw Nestor and his four fighters, then at his dead companions’ hunting rifles in the dirt. A second later, his hands rose slowly into the air and he said, “Don’t shoot. We surrender.”

  * * *

  “Now then,” Nestor said, “what unit are you with?” He paced back and forth behind the two surviving Empire scouts, who were on their knees. Their wrists and ankles were bound with rope, and they each had a shemaugh wrapped around their heads to blind them. Nestor had his revolver in hand and every so often he spun the cylinder to make a clicking noise.

  The woman answered readily. “We’re just refugees from out west,” she said, and her voice cracked. She sounded about ready to cry.

  The man nodded vigorously. “We lost most of our friends to the cannibals a month ago and we’ve been hiding out ever since.” His voice was steady.

  Nestor nodded to Ratbone, who stepped behind the man, pressed his shotgun barrel against the man’s head. Nestor said, “Try this again. Mister, what unit are you with?”

  The man tilted his head down, away from the steel barrel jammed against him, and turned his head toward the sound of Nestor’s voice. “Please, man, we’re just trying to survive the best we can. We haven’t hurt anyone, I swear it.”

  There was a sudden deafening roar as the shotgun went off, the angle of Ratbone’s barrel causing some of the gore to splatter onto the woman. The man’s head was half gone, and he flopped forward into the dirt amidst a growing pool of red. The woman screamed, tried to rise to her feet to run despite being bound and blind.

  Nestor gripped her roughly by the neck and shoved her back to her knees, then pressed his pistol against the back of her head. “You have one chance to live. This information is not vital to me, so I have no problem letting you join your friend. Let’s try this one last time. Tell me what unit you’re with, or die. You choose.”

  The woman’s head and shoulders shook as she sobbed, and Nestor pushed his barrel against the back of her head even harder. “Crying won’t save you. Talking might. Five. Four…”

  The woman cried out, “Stop, I’ll tell you!” She gasped for air for a moment, then grew still. Finally, she said, “Mister, we’re just scouts for the Midwest Republic’s Third Division, First Regiment. We mark up maps and bring it back to them, and they give us food. Supplies. We’re not soldiers, we’re just scouts.”

  “At last, she shows a will to live. How many divisions does the Empire—your Republic—have?”

  “At least three that I’ve heard of. Different regiments are given territories to control and defend, but Third Division is the one that does all the fighting. They get the best gear, the best fighters, the most food. And rumor has it they’re coming this way, though I don’t know when.”

  “You’ve heard nothing? Tell it true.”

  “Just rumors. Everything from two weeks to three months. Who knows? Even the division commander won’t know until they get the order to go, so it’s all just gossip.”

  Nestor thought on that. It made sense. She was probably telling the truth, or most of it. He eyed the woman for a moment, then said, “Take off her blind and hold her down. Hold her tight.”

  His followers roughly removed the shemaugh and pinned her to the ground by her shoulders, wrists, knees and ankles. Nestor pulled out a large folding tactical knife and approached her.

  Eyes wide in terror, she screamed, “You said you’d let me live!”

  Nestor nodded, jaw clenched tightly. This would be unpleasant for him, but he dare not hand the job to the Other inside himself. “Oh, I’m going to let you live. But I can’t have you infiltrating some survivor group, can I?” This next part would no doubt bother him for days to come, but he consoled himself with the fact that she would at least be alive…

  With his fifth fighter pinning her head to the ground, he used his knife to carve into her forehead the word, “Spy.”

  Her screams of pain echoed across the landscape.

  * * *

  Midmorning, Cassy was in her HQ, hand-writing in the Clan’s supply ledgers, when Ethan found her. It was good timing, as she’d have another training video conference with Taggart’s people in an hour, around lunchtime. “Hey Ethan. What do you have for me?”

  “I spoke with Liz Town. It’s bad news. Adam, the Speaker of Liz Town, is dead.”

  Cassy froze and her jaw dropped. She stared at Ethan while her mind worked through what he’d just told her, pushing through the shock. Her forehead creased. “Dead?”

  “That is what they said, yeah.”

  “Who’s in charge over there now?”

  “They have an Interim Speaker at the moment.”

  “So why the hell aren’t they patrolling?”

  “They said Liz Town isn’t in a position to meet their Confed duties right now. They’ll resume as soon as they can put together another election to confirm the new Speaker. I don’t know for sure but I get the impression that they are having some kind of internal strife. Wouldn’t be surprised if the Speaker was killed.”

  Cassy blinked three times rapidly. “They aren’t pulling out of the Confederation, are they?”

  “They said they’d resume their responsibilities, so I assume not.”

  “The timing could hardly be worse,” Cassy said. “The Empire will roll right through them, and they’re going to get caught with their pants down.”

  Ethan shrugged and held up his hands, helpless. “This will put even more pressure on Lebanon and Manheim—the front lines—if Liz Town falls. You’ll need to let them and Lititz know what’s up.”

  Cassy closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “How many cars do we have working, and how many are new and improved?”

  “We now have twelve cars running on woodgas, and ten of them are rocking the ’80s post-apocalyptic vibe.”

  Cassy nodded, but his cheerful slang didn’t do much to raise her mood. “Keep them hidden from now on. Horse patrols only, until I say otherwise. There are too many Empire spies around these days and I want them to be a surprise when we mow them down with our pretend tanks.”

  Ethan left to go pass the word and would no doubt be back in his bunker in twenty minutes. The guy was practically a hermit, though everyone liked him when he was out and about. Her mind turned to their fleet of cars.

  Ten “battlecars,” each a two-person operation—one to drive the car or truck and one to man the weapons and swap out the nearly air-tight cylinders of wood clippings and toss wood into the rocket stove oven. It was the interchangeable canisters, extended fuel for the engine, that had been Dean Jepson’s genius addition to the basic system they had first received from the Falconry traders. Those spare fuel canisters had changed everything—even made independent operation with extended ranges possible. And they didn’t show from the outside, so even if people knew about the gasifiers they wouldn’t suspect Dean’s improvements.

  The cars also had quarter-inch metal plates added over the doors and windows, and between the trunk and the hollowed-out rear seat area. These would stop most rounds short of a .50-caliber rifle, but they weighed a ton and took the range of the cars back down to only one hundred miles or so on the wood they could carry.

  The last two vehicles were unarmored half-ton pic
kup trucks that carried loads of wood in the bed and pulled additional wood on special trailers, extending the battlecars’ range to about five hundred miles before the fuel truck needed to restock. Brickerville was their main refueling station for that, since they had tons of wood already cut, cured and stacked for ready use. Clanholme had a couple full loads as a reserve, as well, though it still had to cure awhile.

  Thoughts of Liz Town wouldn’t leave her alone, though. She hoped she wouldn’t end up using those battlecars against Liz Town, but if they fell to the Empire, she’d have to.

  * * *

  Carl walked between four other men, each armed with AR15s, the civilian version of the military’s M16 rifle. They passed under the Liz Town wall into Kodiak Band territory via a narrow tunnel, which Sunshine’s people had put in place. The entry from the wildlands outside the wall was hidden by a burnt-out car.

  His guardians hadn’t disarmed him, which was a good sign. Still, he didn’t trust them, or anyone for that matter, so he kept alert for any sign of betrayal. When Sunshine had gleefully told him there was a Kodiak who had the support of Carl’s own Timber Wolves band and their leader was maneuvering to become the next Speaker, he’d shared her joy. The Kodiak leader was a staunch supporter of the old Speaker and his policies about resisting the Empire, joining the Confederation, and more.

  In a hushed voice, Carl said to one of his guards, “I thought you Kodiaks believed I killed the Speaker.”

  The man glanced at Carl. “Yeah, we did, but when your whole Band vouches for you, we gotta figure it was a setup. And that Diamondback asshole who set himself up as Speaker has argued before that we should join the Empire. Your ex, Pamela, is tied in with them. You do the math.”