Dark New World (Book 5): EMP Resurrection

by Henry G. Foster

  Ree pulled a map and a notepad from his desk drawer. Time to begin planning.

  * * *

  Taggart looked at the spreadsheet again, its rectangles on the laptop monitor silently taunting him. He would have liked to smash the damn thing, but of course he couldn’t. Working computers couldn’t be easily replaced, there being painfully few left.

  “Eagan, no matter which way I go, no matter what plan I try, I can’t see a way to feed everyone until harvest time. We have lots of land, but most of it was the stuff Ree hadn’t cleared yet. We’ve captured lots of fortifications, all of those little mini-castles Ree built, but they were mostly already empty when we took them away from him.”

  Eagan nodded. “It’s as though he has all his supplies gathered up somewhere in the middle of his territory. Our scouts haven’t found it yet. Lately, we haven’t sent scouts more than half a mile into the gook’s territory without them going missing, presumed dead.”

  “Don’t call him a gook, shitbird. When you belittle your enemy like that, you underestimate him. It’s comforting, but we can’t afford to fool ourselves that way. Leave self-comfort to the troops.”

  Eagan shrugged. “You got it, sir. But you know, he really hasn’t done very well as a military leader. I’m not sure I could underestimate the man in that regard if I tried.”

  Taggart’s eyes glittered with mirth. “Funny. And flattering, maybe. But I actually don’t believe it. We’ve been lucky so far and a lot of things fallen our way. The NorKors wouldn’t send an idiot for a theater as important as this one.”

  “Better to be lucky than good, they say.”

  “Yeah, until the luck runs out. Skill wins in the end, given enough time. Every time, Eagan.”

  “So don’t give him time, sir. Let’s flank him and get to where the good stuff is. He has seeds and livestock somewhere. A surprise raid deep into his territory, seize his goods, and then return to our own territory.”

  Taggart chuckled. “I see someone’s been reading my railway condition reports and hypothetical operations notes.”

  Eagan smirked. “No, sir. I’d never read the stack of hand-written reports you keep in your locked drawer, the ones you never have me send out to Dark Ryder or the 20s.”

  Taggart let out a long breath, put his hands behind his head, and leaned back in his office chair. “That’s not a bad idea you came up with,” Taggart said, playing along with the game and pretending there weren’t reports squirreled away in his drawer. “I suppose you think we should use the railways to move our entire force north of Ree and then push south, and hit him when he’s travel-weary.”

  “That’s my idea, yes sir, I thought about it all night,” Eagan said with a poorly suppressed grin. “But seriously. If we could hit them hard enough by surprise, we could dislodge them, push them south out of midtown, and take over their operational area. It’s got better land, more debris cleared, fields already plowed. It might not be farming Cassy’s way, but if we took Ree’s depots…”

  “…we’d have enough food and seeds to see us through the year, and buy us time to show people how to put her radical ideas into practice.”

  “Yes, sir. It would be a shame, giving up all the earthworks we’ve done. Contouring, retainer ponds, all those things. But on the other hand, I don’t think Ree would even recognize what the hell it was all for. He’d see it and laugh about how stupid we were, because as everyone knows, the best way to farm is to make everything flat and lined up in neat rows covering thousands of acres.”

  “You talk too much, Eagan. And I think all of that would look pretty familiar to the peasant farmers among his troops. But yeah, I think he’ll just be pissed at how much work it’ll take to undo what we did. He’ll want quick-producing regular farms, not Cassy’s thing.”

  “Yes, sir. I would love to be here when General Kimchi sees all this. He’ll be super pissed.”

  Taggart leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “We have to dislodge the enemy from his positions, first, so we can occupy his op area ourselves. And he’s taking all the food he can carry for a reason.”

  “True. But your plan—the one that you didn’t hide in your drawer—is a good one. A three-pronged attack that allows us to envelop a third to a half of his remaining forces and defeat that portion in detail, leaving us to face the rest of his forces at odds that favor us. Surprise is the key. It’s also the biggest risk, because they’ve been spotting our scouts somehow. Why wouldn’t they spot us and report to Ree? If that happens…”

  “We’d have to send in the most experienced troops first to infiltrate and envelop. Then the less experienced troops can follow in part and smash into the pockets of enemy forces the more experienced troops created. We risk the core of our army at first, but if it all went sideways those are the same troops best able fight their way out, which our scout teams lacked the manpower to do. We wouldn’t lose most of them, I think.”

  It would work. It had to work, because if they didn’t try then Taggart would lose a significant portion of his forces to starvation and desertion before the end of summer, before the big harvests could begin. It was do-or-die for his half-civilian “army,” but unfortunately Ree was in the same do-or-die situation. There was nothing easy about it, as Eagan knew perfectly well, but they really had no alternatives. Okay, failure not permitted.

  Taggart nodded. “That’s what my report would say, if I had written one.”

  The two men glanced simultaneously toward his desk drawer, then at each other, smiling.

  - 18 -

  0700 HOURS - ZERO DAY +250

  SAMUEL LOOKED AT his raiders, sitting on their bikes lined up in three rows. Morning light filtered over the top of the hill but hid the rising sun. On the other side of that hill lay not just a clear view of the sun but a small settlement—close to Clanholme, capital of the enemy.

  Brett nudged Samuel’s arm with his elbow. “This ought to be a piece of cake, Captain,” he said with a grin.

  Samuel nodded. He had roughly one-hundred raiders, while the village had maybe forty people from what recon had revealed. Not all of the villagers were even armed. And Samuel would have the element of surprise. Best of all, the dipshits hadn’t finished their wall, yet. The whole place was wide open.

  “Only if we get in quickly. They have sentries, and they’ll see us and raise the alarm. We have to get in there and buzz around like a swarm of bees before they can get their act together. Bust in doors, torch the buildings, the whole nine yards.”

  Brett lost his smile. He scratched his elbow as he said, “It sucks that some of their kids will get torched. I’d rather just shoot them, you know.”

  Samuel shrugged. What could he do about it? “I know what you mean, yeah. But we don’t have time to screw around in there. It’s gotta be a lightning raid. If you see any, kill them quick, but don’t fuck this up. Go in, torch the place, kill everyone. Leave nothing but a memory that this place ever existed.”

  “I know, man. I know. We’re too deep in Confed turf to screw around.” Brett looked down at his handlebars, lips pursed.

  Samuel understood Brett’s feelings. He didn’t like the idea of kids burning up either, but there was no way around it. Just as messed up, the strike-and-burn raid wouldn’t leave any time to play with the pretty young ladies who were sure to be in there. Oh well, he’d had plenty of playtime at the last homestead they hit. Usually they left the buildings and supplies for the units who’d come after, and the settlers who’d come after that.

  Samuel said, “Screw it. Might as well have some fun. I bet you half a coin that I can shoot more kids than you.”

  Brett grinned. “Fine, you’re on. I get to spare some kids from burning, get some easy target practice, and take your money. Hells yeah.”

  Some of the lined-up troops, close enough to hear the conversation, chuckled at their exchange. Someone spoke up and said, “That half-coin’s mine, sir!” and as news of the bet spread through the line, the words rose like a hushed chant,
repeated over and over.

  Samuel realized the troops were probably hating the idea of burning the buildings with children in them. What kind of monster enjoyed hurting kids? Samuel didn’t, and even Brett hesitated unless they were pretty and almost adults. Every one of them knew shooting a kid was saving some little boy or girl from burning or starving. It was a way out from guilt.

  Samuel let the chant go for a while, knowing they needed the release, before he raised his hand for silence and the voices trailed off to nothing. “Alright, you’ve all been briefed,” he said when he had their full attention, “and you know what’s expected. These guys are some of the Clan’s best allies. On top of what we did to those people at the railway station, this blow will take the fight right out of the Confederation. It’ll secure an alliance with Elizabethtown’s survivors. And it’ll clear the path for a direct strike against Clanholme when our army shows up. We can’t afford to screw this up. Anyone who doesn’t throw a torch, doesn’t shoot their rifle, I will personally cut off your nuts and stuff them down your throat. Got it?”

  “Yes, Captain,” they said in unison.

  Samuel smiled. This unit had become top-notch since this mission began. Tight-knit and a lot of combat experience. When they got back to the rear, they’d probably all get their own squads. It was a nice thought. “Well then. Ready arms, ready torches. Make sure you got your lighters handy. It’s showtime. And—attack!”

  Wordlessly, one hundred men and women pushed off and began pedaling up the hill. As they reached the crest, they pedaled even harder and, with gravity’s help, they were soon going full speed. None made a sound, other than the faint clanging of gear bouncing around on mountain bikes.

  Samuel himself reached the crest and stopped, three of his troops with him. Brett continued on, his right hand man making sure everyone did their part quickly and brutally. Samuel watched the cloud of bikes swarming toward the large homestead. Two-hundred yards. One-hundred-fifty yards.

  He heard the crisp, clear sound of a rifle being fired, and cursed. Whoever shot early would be—

  Wait. The puff of smoke came from one of the buildings’ upstairs windows. Then another and then a dozen. Samuel lifted his binoculars and scanned the scene. His troops dropped like flies, at least a dozen down. They began returning fire, but they were far from close enough to torch anything, yet.

  He stopped, took a deep breath. At least two dozen people in various positions in the buildings, firing at his troops. They had cover and elevation. His people were on bikes and out in the open. Speed might have saved them, but they had slowed almost to a halt under the hail of gunfire, leaving them standing up and exposed.

  Screw it. Best to lose a dozen fighters than a hundred. He whipped his air horn from his handlebar bag and blew three short, ear-piercing blasts, the signal for retreat. He waited two seconds, then did it again.

  Through the binoculars he saw his people turn to run. More fell, shot in the back as they rode for their lives. And then they were beyond the one-hundred-meter mark, and fewer fell as the defenders’ lack of real training showed—they weren’t able to hit much at that range. He scanned the death ground between him and the village and counted about twenty people down. Not all were dead, but there was no way to go back for them. Sorry, people. He hoped Brett wasn’t one of them.

  * * *

  Frank rode at a canter to keep his horse fresh for the actual battle charge. All around him, the hooves of one-hundred-twenty horses nearly deafened him. Every one of Taggart’s soldiers who could hang on to a horse, and as many Clanners as could be spared. When the urgent radio call from Taj Mahal came in saying they were about to be attacked, Cassy hadn’t wanted Frank to go. She had wanted to do this herself, but the Clan could lose him and the Confederation couldn’t lose Cassy. He had put his foot down on that one.

  He grinned at his choice of words, and glanced at his amputated foot, now a stump tucked into a special leather stirrup Dean had whipped up for him. That grumpy old man could make almost anything from scraps of nothing, just like Frank’s best friend Jed had done before he got killed by ’vaders early on. Jed would have loved this Ride of the Valkyries. Then the notes of that old classic piece of music echoed through Frank’s mind: Bum-dada-duuum-dum…

  Ahead, possibly over the next rise, Frank heard the faint, random tic-tic-tic of distant gunfire. A chill ran up his spine as his heart pounded faster, eager for battle, eager to get payback on some Empire assholes. There would be no damn mercy given.

  His horse galloped over the crest of the hill, and he saw below him several hundred yards away, the cluster buildings that made up Taj Mahal.

  Frank saw what must be every able-bodied teenager and adult, up in the windows and on the roofs of the buildings facing east, pouring on heavy fire. They were shooting at dozens and dozens of people on mountain bikes, who were fleeing to the back side of a hill. From Frank’s angle, he could see both the front and back of the hill, a side view, and saw a cluster of people there on the back side.

  “Those must be their leaders,” Frank shouted over the hoofbeats and wind, and he saw Michael turn his head where Frank was pointing.

  Michael nodded, and turned his horse a bit east to make a beeline for the smaller group. “Follow me,” yelled Michael, his gruff military-trained voice carrying over the din with ease, and the entire Clan wedge pivoted crazily.

  Frank thought he could see one of the people on the hill’s back side pointing toward him and his Clanners. A second later, both the cluster of retreating cyclists and the smaller group turned bikes southward, away from the oncoming cavalry, and pedaled furiously.

  The Clan rescuers had already ridden hard for two miles, but at a pace that wouldn’t wear out the horses. No doubt terrified, the enemy had all the adrenaline they needed to get moving, and quickly. They veered onto White Oak Road heading south, and Frank and his troops struggled to keep up. He only hoped the raiders would exhaust themselves before his horses did. A mile later, he and his cavalry had closed the distance quite a lot, now only a quarter mile behind, before Michael had insisted on slowing for the horses’ sakes, saying that the horses would wear out the bike riders before they wore out, if they kept to the right speed.

  So this was to be an endurance run, it seemed. Frank settled into his saddle and tried not to get too mesmerized by his horse’s rhythmic gait.

  * * *

  Samuel felt his forehead grow damp despite the early morning chill, now that the sun was truly up. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that the horse mob behind him was trailing a little further back, now that he and his troops had hit a long, slight downhill stretch. He felt relief wash over him as Brett pulled up beside him, but knew he was far from done. His only real hope was to exhaust those horses in the chase, but had no idea whether bikes could wear out horses. He imagined they could—after all, that French bike race was, like, a thousand miles or something ridiculous—but some of his less fit troops were sure to fall out before that and would no doubt face a quick death at the hands of those Clan bastards.

  A mile ahead lay Manheim, another Confed settlement. Scouts had said they were well armed, but had only a few bikes of their own. They had plenty of horses, but scattered in stalls near the farming areas outside of town. Manheim had some weird system where a few people owned all the land and had sharecroppers under them. Their military was a militia system, with the officers being those landowners. The sharecroppers had to serve in the militia when called, if they wanted to eat. Feudal, really.

  For a moment, Samuel thought of grabbing some horses from one of their farms, but decided against it. He didn’t know exactly where they were, the horses chasing him would go much faster than he could off-road, and half his troops would probably shoot him themselves to get a horse. Screw it—he rode onward.

  In the distance, he saw Manheim and was close enough to make out the individual buildings. The land leveled out and he began to slow a little, but as long as they didn’t have to go uphill they should be fin
e.

  Movement ahead. A jolt of alarm ran through him as he watched what appeared to be a dark, spreading mass emerge from the town—people, dozens and dozens, crawling out of their disgusting backwoods hole to get in his way. Samuel hissed at them through clenched teeth, and feverishly wished he could kill them all, beating them to death one by one.

  There was no way his long, snaking column of bikes was going to get through that. He had hoped to punch through the deserted outer rim of the city, ditching the pursuing horses and losing only a few of his own people, but that option was gone. On his right lay a river, so he couldn’t go that way, and to his left, he remembered, was a network of streams or rivers. If he went that way, he’d only be corralling himself and his people.

  Just as he was about to give the order to charge, hoping some of his people might make it out alive, he spotted a bridge ahead on his right. A sign said “W. Henley Rd.” Samuel grinned. That road led east to Old Line Road, and that road would take him to Elizabethtown. If they could get there, the burnt-out and abandoned northern half of the city would be the perfect place to lose his pursuers. Hell, the Confed troops might be unwilling to chase them into Liz Town’s turf, and he knew the occupants weren’t going to involve themselves. They were halfway to being Empire subjects, after all. He shouted, “Column right, at the bridge!”

  The column slithered to the right, but had to slow almost to a halt in the rear. In a minute it turned from an orderly crossing to utter chaos as people struggled to get through, getting in each other’s way and slowing the whole process. Samuel grit his teeth. Those were his troops… But to hell with it. At least they’d slow the chasers, and he and Brett were already across. He kept riding.