Hope Of The World

by Boyd Craven III

  “Don’t forget, the former DHS who weren’t with them are working with us now,” Michael said, trying to be helpful.

  “Yeah, Hun,” Shannon said, looping an arm around his waist, “but we can’t trust everybody. This is just what we now know about this base and facility.”

  “She’s right,” King said, pointing to her and giving her a smile.

  Shannon slid slightly behind Michael unconsciously, and the big man noticed and flashed her a toothy grin. When King smiled, it reminded a person how much a guy his size needed to eat to maintain his bulk of muscle and sinew, and Shannon was more than a little intimidated by the big man that radiated good health and physical power.

  “Ok. It makes sense. Let’s get her boss in on it, though. When’s Smith pulling out?” Michael asked.

  “An hour ago,” John told him, “I just wish I’d gotten Mike on the horn before he did. He hasn’t shown up at the drop point.”

  “What do you need Mike for?” Caitlin asked, sitting on one of the bottom bunks in the block they had been sleeping in.

  “He’s about to go to war down south, at least that’s the word I got from Sandra, and has been passed to our contacts in El Paso. They want a way to break into the New Caliphate’s communications, and the Mexican Cartel connection has been deemed the easiest way.”

  “He’ll check in,” Tex said, “gotta have faith. Now, let's go have a look see for these fellows who have gone missing.”

  “What do we do when we find them?” Michael asked.

  “Well, we can’t keep feeding and watching all of our prisoners, so we’re gonna have to turn them in, let them go… or…”

  “Sugar, don’t make the words out loud,” Caitlin said before he could finish his thought.

  “Nobody turning them loose,” King said, his smile from earlier gone, “They knowingly went off the reservation. They will have a court martial to decide their fate. I’m sure we can find somebody here.”

  “What if it means a firing squad?” Michael asked, and then winced as Shannon poked him in the ribs hard.

  “They are traitors, and this is war,” King said simply and stood, the bed moving noticeably when his weight was removed. “I don’t like it either, but that’s law. Law doesn't say it has to be us doing the deed.”

  Shannon and Michael were holding a sheet of paper with the three images and profiles for the unaccounted for DHS agents.

  •Melinda Bates –

  Age: 42, Agent with DHS for the last five years. Formerly of the ATF. Widowed on 9/11/2001 when the twin towers came down.

  •Paul O’Brien –

  Age: 54, Senior Agent and Base Commander. Formerly Cia Analyst and Formerly ATF.

  •Carl Bates –

  Age: 27, Agent of DHS. Language specialist. Formerly ATF.

  Neither of them recognized any of the agents, and what they had been finding was that for the most part, the agents who were in the treasonous plot had largely kept to themselves with the exception of the guards topside, the kitchen staff, and the medics. When the evacuation had forced everyone out, it had been pretty easy to figure out who was who by the uniforms, but not everyone evacuated in uniform.

  When Caitlin had wiped the computer to prevent the rogue DHS from bringing it back online, it had contained the information that had been saved by all the new agents who were sheltering in place until further orders. Her wipe erased that portion, and when she re-created the server’s disk image, it was a revision that didn’t have that. That was why they were walking around the facility with a dozen other agents of the Kentucky Mafia looking for the three who were unaccounted for. Michael was armed, and Shannon had been given a carbine to use while she was working with them.

  Both were wary, and many of the DHS Agents looked at the group holding the facility on lockdown with either awe or mistrust. They had been given information, but they had no way to verify it, just that they’d been ordered to stand down and many of them had been attacked by groups for one reason or another. It wasn’t that the agents not involved in the treason were innocent, but they were innocent of that particular crime. There were agents there who had worked with FEMA and with some camps, while other groups, like Shannon’s, had been doing work with ICE or the DEA.

  “Excuse me,” an agent clad in the same sweats that everyone had been issued approached them.

  He was in his early thirties, slim built, but with a military-style haircut and a jagged scar that ran down his right cheek from his ear to his chin.

  “Yes?” Michael asked, stopping, the printed sheet in his left hand to leave his more dominant hand free should things go south.

  “I, uh… This is going to sound bad, but we’ve heard on the shortwave that the President has been assassinated.”

  “What?” Shannon asked.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Michael said, “I thought we were in a communications blackout?”

  Which was true for the DHS, but not the Kentucky Mafia.

  “Well, see, a few of us have a small handheld set, and there’s rumors flying around on some of the higher bands. Me and some of my guys were wondering, if that’s true, are we free to go soon?”

  “I don’t know,” Michael admitted, “I haven’t heard anything myself, and my buddies are pretty plugged in, all the way to the White House. You know why the stand down order was issued?”

  “No, sir, I just know when things went south, y’all seized power and rounded up a small amount of people. A lot of people at first thought you were terrorists, but there’s been rumors that you were sent in here acting as counter terror operations.”

  “Yeah,” Shannon said, “they were tasked with getting in here and disabling and capturing the agents who were working with the New Caliphate.”

  “Traitors,” Michael said.

  The man looked at them and then gave them a nod, “So you’re just sorting through who’s who?”

  “Yes, actually, and there’s three agents left. Depending on the orders we get, once we find these three, there will probably be some debriefing/interrogations before we make a determination of when people should be dismissed, or where they will be reassigned,” Michael told him simply, echoing something John had mentioned.

  “You’re awful young to be doing this kind of work, aren’t ya?” the agent asked.

  “Yes, it was more of a necessity than choice, if you know what I mean.”

  The agent grinned, and Shannon put a comforting hand on the back of Michael’s belt, but she was careful to stay out of his arm’s way in case Michael needed to move. Her own carbine was slung over her shoulder, so if something happened, it would be up to Michael to make a move first.

  “I suppose since the EMP, there’s been a lot of that. Who all are ya looking for?”

  “These three,” Michael said, handing the man the sheet.

  The agent studied it a moment, then his hand went up to scratch the scar. A nervous habit if Michael had to guess, but the man’s eyes widened and he handed the sheet back to him.

  “They’re in the sick bay, the medical… you know? They are patients.”

  “Are you sure?” Shannon asked.

  “Yeah, I’ve been helping out with cleanup and laundry services. Being stuck in here with no job to do makes me jumpy. I’m used to having something to do, anything. That’s what drove me crazy about the Army, hurry up and wait… so when my time was up, I applied to—”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it,” Michael told him.

  The agent nodded and started to walk. They both watched, to make sure he wasn’t going to go running to medical, but instead he headed toward the mess hall.

  “Want me to call it in?” Shannon asked, pulling out her handheld.

  “Yeah, get King and John on the horn,” Michael told her quietly, his voice almost lost to the sound of humanity.

  “You going to wait for them?” Shannon asked, following as Michael started to stride forward purposefully.

  “No, I don’t think we have time. They
’ve been here in plain sight all along,” he said over his shoulder.

  Michael didn’t mean to leave her in his wake, he thought she was right behind him but somebody bumped into her, and she turned to apologize, and when she turned back he was gone. She hurried after him, but with everyone from all floors stuck on the top level, it was crowded, and many folks were sharing the beds and sleeping in shifts. Still, there were a lot of people around.

  Michael strode into medical to find that it was half full of people. The senior doctors had been ordered to stay and work, but they were under guard by Tex.

  “What’s going on, kid?” Tex asked.

  “They’re here,” he said, smacking the sheet to his chest as he walked past him and around the counter where the secretary/receptionist/scheduler was at.

  “Excuse me, the doctors are seeing a patient—”, she started to say.

  “Out of my way,” Michael told her coldly.

  She tried to get in front of him with an angry frown, and he paused half a second to draw his Colt and put it under her chin. Her eyes went wide.

  “Tex, show her the picture and ask her what room they are in. If she so much as even speaks anything but that room number, I’m going to redecorate the walls,” Michael said coldly.

  Tex walked up behind him, his carbine in one hand, and he held up the sheet of paper Michael had passed to him.

  “Four,” she said quietly.

  “Room four, all of them?” Michael asked, his eyes boring into hers.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Sit down.” He motioned with the gun.

  She did, and Tex fished in his pocket and found two large zip ties. He fastened each wrist to the chair and then followed as Michael went back to the patient care rooms. They both knew from the files there were two doctors, and Michael figured he’d slow things up a bit.

  “You want to take the lead?” Michael asked.

  “Yeah, considering I know the layout. You cover me. Door swings left, I go left, you go right,” Tex said.

  “Got it, but, Tex?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I only see three patient rooms,” Michael said as Shannon ran into the room, almost out of breath.

  “King, John, and the rest…” she paused and took a deep gulp of air and saw the bound receptionist who was now silent and looking like she was ready to soil her pants, “…on their way. There’s too many people to move fast…” gulp of air, “so I had to run around the outer edge.”

  “Girlfriend there,” Michael said pointing to the receptionist, “says that the three agents are behind door number four.”

  “So let's bust in and arrest them,” Shannon said directly.

  “There’s no number four, just the three patient rooms and the staff bathroom…” Tex said, pointing at the four doors in the short hallway behind the reception desk.

  Michael stiffened and nodded.

  Tex walked over to it and jiggled the handle to see if it was locked. It was, so he stood to the side.

  “Where’s the keys?” Shannon asked.

  “The doc—”

  Her words were interrupted as door two opened and a doc walked out, running into Michael, smacking his face on Michael’s forehead. Michael pushed the doc back hard, and he went sprawling on his ass as he slid across the commercial tile floor.

  “What’s the meaning of…” his words trailed off as Michael showed him his Colt.

  “Where're the keys to room four?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Don’t jack around with this one, doc,” Tex said. “He’s too young and hot-headed. Just give him the keys and you and your patient…”

  Another door opened, and the other doc poked his head out. Michael drew the other Colt and was covering both docs in a move you only saw in movies.

  “Do you have the keys to room four?” Michael asked.

  “I told you, he’s got a temper and his gun’s likely to—”

  Michael fired off one shot. It startled everyone but Tex who had seen the young man wink at him. The waiting room of the medical clinic started to empty, and people screamed. A man ran out past the doctor from one room, still wearing a paper robe, and a woman screamed behind door number two, where he had knocked the doc on his ass.

  “Patient’s out,” Shannon yelled, her voice wobbling.

  They ran, but when the doc on Michael’s left went to move, he lowered the pistol so the next shot wouldn’t go cleanly over his head. Shannon advanced to where she was standing in front of Michael, though the doctor never looked at her. She almost brought up the point it was misogynistic to dismiss a woman with a loaded gun as a threat, but she held her tongue.

  “This is… you can’t… I didn’t…”

  “Give me the keys to room four, or I’m going to start shooting the lock off and maybe hit whoever’s hiding back there.”

  “You can’t do that, the law says…”

  The doc on the left took another two steps toward Michael, probably figuring on attacking what he thought was the weaker arm, but before he moved, Shannon made her own play. She reversed the grip on her carbine as she was swinging. Michael swung both guns at the doc and her swing connected with the doc just as he was putting tension on the triggers. Michael let up and took a step to his right as the doc crumpled, his wind knocked out of him from where he’d been stroked in the sternum.

  “You don’t wanna keep playing games with these young fellers,” Tex said calmly to doc number two and raised his own carbine. “Now give me the keys before I let these two start using you for a punching bag, or worse.”

  He was beyond the point of speech, and he reached into his pocket and came out with two keychains. After looking at them for a second, he tossed one to Tex, who caught it with one hand and held it up. A single key dangled from a lucky rabbit's foot keychain.

  “Well, isn’t that special?” he asked with a grin.

  10

  The retired marine known as Mike, and formerly Dick Pershing, approached the old church with more than a healthy bit of caution. It had been disgustingly easy to penetrate the cartel’s perimeter. The men were well armed and, by the look of things, their Jihadi buddies had brought some toys with them. They all had newer AK-47s or AK-74s, he couldn’t tell from the distance, but they had a very loose kind of discipline. They never altered their perimeter walks, there was no noise or light discipline in the waning light, and they often called out loud to each other.

  The one thing he hadn’t seen yet was evidence of hostages being held, just some heavily armed cartel bully boys. Mike used the growing shadows once he’d memorized the never changing pattern of the patrols, using parked or disabled vehicles for cover. He’d gotten close to a small fuel tank that had probably started life as an agricultural fuel system for a local farm and put a package there. He checked his watch. Five more minutes till that one went up and then the rest he’d been putting around the compound would go off.

  Hopefully, it would provide enough cover and cut down numbers a little bit. Mike didn’t have any problem getting rid of bad guys, and from what he could see, these were dressed the same way as the three banditos who’d taken pot shots at them in the Hummer, and they were in the location the dying man had told them about. That was when Murphy of Murphy’s Law decided to step on Mike’s toes, literally.

  Dick was crouching next to a vehicle he’d put a package of C4 and a timer on and knew he had forty seconds until the chain of events started, when a big, bronzed man walked around the corner, quiet as a cat, and stepped on Mike’s foot. He almost moved but the man seemed to not have noticed and, to be fair, the concrete and asphalt of the church’s parking lot were mostly gone, with deep potholes and chunks sticking up here and there.

  The man unzipped his fly and was about to let loose his bladder, when Mike pulled his foot back, making him stumble forward a bit. He grabbed him by the hair and, before he could make a shout, he raked his KaBar across his throat before yanking him down. Th
e loudest sound was the man hitting the ground and his AK clattering to the concrete while the man feebly tried to kick and hold the blood in with his hands.

  “Ernesto?” the man on patrol called from twenty feet away.

  “Don’t have time for this,” Mike whispered to himself, checked to make sure his carbine was ready, and did a last second pat down on his tactical vest almost out of habit before moving out of a crouch.

  He made it thirty feet to behind a row of broken down cars. The windows had been beaten out, a lot of the sheet metal parts removed, and what was left of the engine was mostly the block. These cars didn’t have inflated tires, and he’d mentally planned on using them for cover when the bombs went off, but at the last second, he was spotted by the patrolman who shouted as he slid in.

  “Time to improvise,” he said, and then closed his eyes and opened his mouth.

  The first explosion almost sounded like a monstrous heartbeat, but it was two explosions. The charge had ruptured the fuel tank, and the fumes and gasoline inside made a much larger blast than the small package of C4 he’d used there. The pressure wave was enormous, and despite his closed eyes, the sun down was lit up like a demonic Molotov cocktail. He waited two seconds and looked up over the side of the hoodless car as shouts lit the air. The first target he saw was the man who had been walking the patrol.

  “Boom,” Mike said as he was running past the next car that was ready to go.

  It went up in flames, the explosion nothing like the one the gas vapors had ignited, but it was large enough to lift the car and throw it on its side, right on top of the cartel member. His shouting turned into screeches for a second, and then stopped. Like kicking a wasp nest, cartel members boiled out of the church, guns raised. But they were looking in the wrong direction, and it cost them.

  The next car exploded, this one a shiny low rider that was obviously somebody’s pride and joy. As that went up, Mike put three bursts down range, cutting down cartel members in the back of the bunched up group. They scattered toward Mike, and he held his position another few seconds until the next car exploded, hitting the bulk of the group with the flash and shrapnel. This had been an older Buick or Oldsmobile; its hood, doors, and glass were gone, but the engine on it shone as if it had just been installed. Not any more, the motor flew a good ten feet past the body.