CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Sayre, Oklahoma
Day 4
Standing in the dirt area behind the All Star Service Center, Steve Sommer smiled. The men that Judas had delivered were gathered before him, awaiting his instructions. Nearly every one of them was armed to the teeth and looked ready for action.
The lone exception was Captain Fitzgerald, the helicopter pilot, who looked as if he could throw up at any minute. It was fine, though, according to Major Cotton, who’d accompanied the men to the rendezvous point and facilitated the handoff before heading back to the Protective Zone to ‘deal with other pressing matters,’ the Captain’s family was currently in the company of Colonel Walters. If the pilot failed to perform his duties in anything less than expertly, there would be consequences, the type of which would leave scars on a man’s heart and soul for the remainder of his days.
Next to the Captain was a mountain of a man named Patrick O’Sullivan, who would serve as copilot in the Apache helicopter. Big, ruddy, and with a head of red hair that was barely in regulations, the man towered over the rest of the group. To get anywhere close to him was to risk getting a strong whiff of alcohol that emanated from the man’s pores, though his behavior was anything but that of a man who was inebriated. Apparently the man’s sheer size enabled him to consume copious amounts of alcohol while still maintaining all of his faculties. The good thing was, unlike Fitzgerald, the man was here willingly, anxious to assist in Walters’s takeover. Apparently, he was unhappy with how the Army had overlooked him during the last few promotion boards and saw this as an opportunity to ‘shove it up the bloody bastards’ arses.’
When the Apache had landed earlier that evening, Sommers had been excited to the point of being giddy. Aside from the fact that the helicopter was the more advanced AH-64D Longbow variant, the aircraft was armed to the teeth. Mounted between the main landing gear was a 30 millimeter M230 chain gun, while on each of the aircraft’s two stub wings held eight AGM-114Hellfire missiles inboard and Hydra 70 rocket pods, which each held 19 rockets, outboard.
It would literally shred anything in the way of them achieving their objective.
Sommer smiled.
Looking to the other men, he was pleased to see that each of them looked attentive and ready for action. As requested, there were ten of them, with nine of them ranking from Corporal to Sergeant First Class.
The last one, Major Cotton, was one of the few officers in the group of men that had sworn allegiance to Colonel Walters (aside from the Warrant Officer). Lean and medium in height, he wore what seemed to be a permanent scowl that Sommers had originally mistaken for being directed at him. After nearly coming to blows with the man, it had become clear that the scowl was simply part of the man’s state of mind. Cotton basically hated everyone he met from the start. If you proved worthy of his time, that hate gave way to tolerance. Whether or not it could move into a more friendly state than that was unknown, but Sommer felt certain that a person could easily move back down to the hated category.
“Alright,” he began, dragging a stick along the dirt in front of them. First, he drew two widely spaced, winding lines that extended from where they stood towards him. “This is the river,” he explained. Next, he drew two lines that crossed over his sketch of the river, left a gap, and then drew two more lines that crossed as well. Next he drew arrows on the end of each. The one closer to the men pointed to their right, while the one closer to him pointed to their left. “This,” he said, pointing at the pair of lines closer to them, “is the westbound Forty. This,” he said, pointing at the lines near him, “is the eastbound Forty. They’ll be coming from this direction.” Moving his stick to their left and his right, he drew a relatively small perpendicular line next to what represented the I40 East. “This,” he said, referencing it, “is that billboard sign down there next to the freeway. You all will be in the Humvees behind the sign.”
He drew a pair of lines across the ends of the lines that represented the freeway. “This is that overpass right there,” he said, pointing at the road behind them. “The helicopter will be positioned there, on the ground and ready for takeoff. Captain Fitzgerald and Warrant Officer O’Sullivan will be in it, geared up and ready to go.”
“About a mile west of the bridge, about right here,” he said, drawing a small circle in the dirt near what he’d designated as the eastbound route, “is a small outcropping of rock. That’s where I’ll be.” He extended the stick out further and touched the ground. “Over here is a long curve. When I see them enter the curve, I’ll pass the word. At that point, the helo should start spinning up. You got that, Captain?” he asked, turning to fix his eyes on the young Army pilot.
“Yes, Sir.”
“You sure?”
“Yes,” the man replied, locking his eyes on Sommer with hatred burning in his gaze, “Sir.”
“Good,” Sommer replied, smiling. “Because your performance will determine the condition of your family when you’re reunited. Give me one hundred percent, and they’ll be one hundred percent…” he looked up, trying to think of the right words. After a moment, the words came to him. “...intact.” Locking eyes once more with the man, he continued. “Anything less...well, you get the idea.”
Without waiting for a response, Sommer returned his focus to the rest of the group. “Alright, so, as I was saying, I’ll send the word when the caravan is here. The helo will start up, and so should the Humvees. Now, I don’t care if you’re all out of the vehicles, stretching your legs, having a smoke, or whatever, but when I pass the word that the caravan is here,” he said, tapping the earth once more, “I expect you all to get in your vehicles and be ready to go like that,” he said, snapping his fingers. “If you’re stretching your legs, stop. If you’re having a smoke, put it out. If you’re taking a shit, pinch it off. When they’re here,” he said, tapping the ground once more, “it’s go time.”
Looking around, he made eye contact with each man before continuing. “Alright, so then, I’ll track them. Once they’re abreast of my position, I’ll begin calling out the distance between them and the bridge in hundreds of yards. When they get to five hundred yards, the helo should take off and head for the bridge at max speed.”
Pointing at a young, muscular white man with a shaved head (which apparently had been an attempt to hide male-pattern baldness), he said, “Sergeant First Class Byrd, you’ll be in the lead Humvee. When you see that helo take off, head for the bridge. Your focus will be the eastbound lanes.” He pointed at a different man, one with a ‘high and tight’ haircut. “Sergeant Conway, you’ll follow and head for the westbound lanes.”
Conway frowned and cocked his head. “But they’re heading east.”
Sommer nodded. “Yes, but when they see the helo, we don’t know how they’ll respond. My intention is to focus on the eastbound lanes, but there’s a chance they could try to use these lanes to get across,” he said, tapping the dirt. “If we built some kind of roadblock or something, they’d see it and get suspicious. We don’t want that. We want the element of surprise.” Nodding, he said, “That’s why I need you to cover this side of the freeway.”
“Got it,” Conway said, nodding.
“Good,” he replied. Taking the stick, he drew three X’s on the part of his diagram that indicated the eastbound lanes of the I40, over where the river would be. “Alright, so, now, based on my time and distance calculations, the caravan should be on the bridge by the time the helo is airborne and able to generate a firing solution. HOWEVER,” he emphasized, “I don’t want you firing from until you’re basically near the opposite side of the bridge. Precision is required, because there are three vehicles and we only want to destroy two of them.
“The APC with the girl will be the middle vehicle. As predictable as that is, it does create challenges for the attack. O’Sullivan, you’re to fire a missile ONLY upon the first and last vehicles, got that?”
The man nodded.
“Good. Fire low and towards the f
ront of the vehicle for the sake of safety. I don’t want the second vehicle to be hit accidentally, got it?” he asked, before continuing. “Alright, so, the second vehicle should be forced to stop when they see the lead Humvee destroyed.” Pointing at Fitzgerald and O’Sullivan, he said, “You’ll move past the first two vehicles, then light up the trail vehicle with the chain gun, UNLESS they break away from the main group. That’s a possibility if they try to regroup and re-engage. If they do that, you’re cleared to use a Stinger.”
Hard faced and stoic, O’Sullivan nodded.
Looking up at Major Cotton, Sommers continued. “When the strike occurs, you should be about five hundred yards from the bridge. Move in a max speed and engage the Stryker. Aside from the driver, you shouldn’t have much to worry about. The group is counting on the Humvees to provide protection. Take out the driver, then head to the back. Pop the door and toss in a flash bang. Get the girl and the doctor - it’s a tall, light skinned Black guy - and kill everyone else. Once you’ve done that, get out.”
Pointing at Sergeant Conway, he went on. “Your job is to cover the westbound lanes. If they head that way, take care of them in similar fashion. If not, stand on and fall back once you see Byrd’s team head back. If you see anyone stirring in the wreckage after the initial strike, loop around and head east on the eastbound lanes. Start with the third vehicle, since that one will likely be the less damaged of the two. Take ‘em out. No survivors. When you’re finished with that, verify there’s no one left alive in the first vehicle. I’m not too worried about that, the Stinger missile should pretty much reduce it to a burning heap, but check anyway. Once it’s clear, you can head back.”
“Sounds good,” Conway replied, before asking, “do you need us to wait for you?”
“Thanks, but no. I’ve got my bike. Before I head back I’m gonna say ‘hi’ to an old friend that should be in the second vehicle. He and I have some unfinished business.”
Sommer’s face morphed into a sinister smile.
“I’m gonna make sure it’s finished.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Oklahoma City Protective Zone, Oklahoma
Day 4
Anfernie Jeffries couldn’t sleep. It didn’t surprise him, it was just how he was. Post-mission, he was always a bundle of nerves, maybe even more than he typically was before a mission.
When the junior members of the squad drank and celebrated the successful completion of the mission, he’d joined them for a single beer strictly for the sake of camaraderie. He knew they needed to know he could have a beer with them and be comfortable, and he’d done so, but his mind had been elsewhere. Namely, what had happened at the home in Tennessee. Did it have to go that way? Should he have said or done something differently?
They shot first, Anfernie.
Yeah, that was the issue. That first shot was the line that they couldn’t allow to be crossed without overwhelming response.
It was how you survived. It always had been. If the enemy uses deadly force, you respond forcefully. Make it known to others that that course of action would be a mistake.
Ultimately, he and his men had successfully completed the mission, escorting Doctors Bowman and Chang to the safety of the OKC Protective Zone, but he’d learned in the past that there was more to being a Marine than just ‘finishing a mission.’
It was about standing up for the ideals of the country.
Perhaps because of that belief, everything that happened on the road during the journey from the Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center to OKC had left him too ‘wound up’ to find the sleep that evaded him.
They’d simultaneously been through as much and more than they’d expected, during the trip, especially during the attack they’d thwarted in Tennessee. That, along with the roadblock they’d had to dismantle earlier in the day, had been disturbing.
Attacking the U.S. Military?
Robbing and assaulting fellow citizens?
Who were these people?
Did they even believe in the values the country had been found upon?
Although he didn’t want to make excuses for them, he did understand that times were beyond crazy. Perhaps the introduction of a vaccine could bring back some sense of normalcy.
Time would tell.
In the meantime, lying in bed in the dark with his eyes wide open wasn’t helping at all. ‘This is pointless,’ he thought, exhaling loudly. The sound filled the small, single person quarters he’d been assigned. Pushing back the thin bed covering, he sat up in bed and looked at the clock.
1:22
Maybe I should have had a second beer.
Moonlight shone in brightly from a gap in the drapes that covered the window, drawing his attention. Slipping out of bed, he padded to the window, his bare feet making no sound as he did. Reaching out, he pulled the fabric aside and looked out. The moon was huge; full and bright, it dominated the night sky.
Well, that’s something.
‘Probably looks even better from the roof,’ he thought. Standing there in nothing but his underwear, he figured it’d probably be frowned upon if he was standing on the roof nearly naked, especially with the current level of illumination being provided by the moon. Moving to the hutch that provided both a desk and a lockable closet, he opened the doors and opened the drawer on the bottom, which held the meager amount of ‘civilian clothes’ he’d brought. Removing a t-shirt and cargo shorts, he quickly pulled them on before donning his ‘go-fasters’ (running shoes) without bothering to put on socks. He hated wearing them that way, but figured he wouldn’t be up on the roof long (he hoped).
Leaving his room, he walked to the end of the hallway and opened the door to the stairwell. He took his time heading up the stairs, not wanting to get his heart going anymore than necessary.
When he stepped out onto the roof, he was surprised to see a figure standing several yards away, near the small wall that marked the roof’s edge. Looking back towards Jeffries, the figure pulled a cigarette away from its mouth.
“Evening, Gunny.”
“You need to give those things up, Snyder,” Jeffries replied, smiling slightly.
“I’m guessing you’re not up here for a smoke, then, Gunnery Sergeant,” Snyder replied, grinning. Dropping the cigarette on the roof, he stomped it out, using the sole of his flip flops. Like Jeffries, he was in a t-shirt and shorts. Unsurprisingly, Snyder’s t-shirt had a massive logo for George Dickel Whiskey on the front. His shorts, on the other hand, were borderline obscene: a pair of the infamous ‘Silkies’ that barely extended past his crotch and left the bottoms of each cheek exposed. Jeffries wondered what the man had weighed when they’d been issued to him. Whatever that number was, it was a certainty that it was less than the current number.
“Been trying to quit, but felt a bit wound up tonight,” he said, shrugging.
Jeffries walked over to where the other man stood. “Understand,” he replied. “I’m feeling a bit wound up, too. Couldn’t sleep, so I figured I’d come up and check the moon.”
Snyder nodded. “Yeah. Fucker’s big tonight.”
Jeffries chuckled as he shook his head. Snyder’s language wasn’t going to get him invited to many dinner parties, assuming dinner parties ever came back. In any case, the man was right. “Yeah, it is,” he replied, nodding, before adding, “the only thing brighter up here are your thighs.”
Snyder laughed as he looked down at his legs, twisting each one back and forth in turn. “Yeah, ain’t had much time to go for runs in my favorite shorts here, lately.”
“Jesus Christ, man. You run in those shorts?”
Snyder grinned widely. “Hell yeah, Gunny.”
“I hope you make sure there aren’t kids around when you do.”
Snyder shrugged in response. “It is what it is,” he offered.
The two of them stood there in silence for several minutes, before Snyder asked, “It’s weird, ain’t it?”
“What’s that?”
“Dunno. Just somet
hing seems...strange here.”
Jeffries nodded. “Yeah, it does seem a little different. Like, why aren’t we in the same barracks as the other military here?” he asked, turning to look at the thickly muscled man.
“I was wondering that, too,” Snyder, replied. After a moment, he added, “And I definitely wasn’t a fan of having to turn over our firearms to the armory.”
“Weird rule,” Jeffries said, before adding, “Reminds me of the rules when I was teaching at the Depot in San Diego.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Guess there was always a concern that some Recruit could get a hold of a weapon and off themself.”
“Like some Full Metal Jacket shit.”
“Exactly.”
Snyder exhaled. “Well, it is what it is.”
“Yup.”
“Mind if I light another one?”
Jeffries gave the man a side eye, then sighed. “Go ahead.” As the other man took out a cigarette, he looked up at the moon. It shone down on the area like a massive spotlight.
It feels like God is watching.
The sound of a large engine broke his train of thought. Curious, he moved to where Snyder stood at the edge of the roof, looking down towards the street.
“What’s that?” Snyder asked, bringing his lighter up to his mouth.
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Wait.” Looking in the direction of the noise, he saw it was not one, but two large troop carriers. Both were headed towards their building, and as he watched them approach, Jeffries was filled with a sudden sense of unease. Something was not right.
“Are they gonna make us move to another building?” Snyder asked. “‘Cause I ain’t even unpacked yet.”
“Wouldn’t need two trucks for that,” Jeffries answered, frowning as he watched the scene unfold. As the first truck turned towards the curb in front of the three-story building they’d been housed in, the second accelerated slightly so that it could arrive simultaneously. Within seconds of trucks stopping, a dozen men jumped out of the back of each truck. Heavily armed and moving with weapons drawn, the men converged on the building.
Surviving Rage | Book 5 Page 28
