Invasion

by James Rosone

  The next five minutes went by in a blur as Sergeant Higgins went through three belts of ammo. After several attempts by the Chinese to take the school, they fell back to tried and regroup. Higgins and the other fireteam had done it—they had held the enemy off from taking their position, at least for the time being.

  *******

  Fountain, Colorado

  Chip Peterson sat in his Dodge Ram, parked on the side of the frontage road that ran alongside Interstate 25, just south of Colorado Springs. He grabbed a strip of the beef jerky he’d picked up a few hours earlier and took a bite. Then he watched the cars zip past him as he waited.

  After a few more bites of jerky, he grabbed the Bing energy drink he’d purchased and guzzled half of it down before he turned on the radio. It was time for his favorite show. Tim “The Professor” Long, who hailed from the University of Colorado-Boulder, held a three-hour block on Saturdays during which he usually gave a political and economic analysis of what had been going on in the world during the last week. The program had started out as a local affair, mostly followed by students who were stuck having to listen to it, but it had taken off during the primaries and election cycle in 2020.

  When President-elect Marshall Tate called for the formation of a Civil Defense Force in every state, the Professor had jumped right on board. The man had been a recruiting genius on the college campuses, rallying thousands of people to join the Colorado CDF. When the governor opted to stay on the side of the federal government instead of siding with the man Chip saw as the true president, the Professor’s popularity rose even more. He and officials from the CDF often postulated about ways to remove the Colorado governor and replace him with other state legislators that had sided with Marshall Tate’s camp.

  As Chip sat in the truck listening to the Professor go on about how more people needed to rise up against the federal government, Chip’s phone chirped, letting him know he had a new text. One of his scouts had spotted the Army convoy leaving the base.

  A smile crept across his face. It won’t be long until they pass through our ambush.

  Chip polished off the rest of his energy drink, and then he finally spotted what he had been waiting for—a convoy of JLTVs, Humvees, Stryker vehicles, and FMTVs was heading right for him.

  The 4th Infantry Division’s 3rd Armored Brigade Combat Team had redeployed from the Dakotas. Now they were moving down to reinforce the Army in New Mexico and Texas. Chip knew that if they reached their destination, they would blunt or at least slow down the Chinese liberating force.

  Chip continued to scan the advancing convoy with his binoculars until he spotted a long line of M1070 heavy equipment transporters moving toward him. The HETs were massive tractor-trailers and flatbeds that the Army used to transport the sixty-two-ton Abrams battle tanks cross-country when not using the railroads.

  Chip reached for his smartphone and placed a quick call to Dusty.

  “Hey. The trucks are on the way. Tell Jimmy to deliver the package.”

  “Roger that,” came the reply, and then the line went dead.

  Chip turned his truck back on and pulled a quick U-turn so he could see down the opposite direction of traffic. He wanted to witness the results of their handiwork. He also pulled out his phone and got it ready to record what was about to happen.

  This will make for YouTube gold when I’m done with it, he thought.

  Lifting his binoculars to his eyes, he saw Jimmy’s fuel tanker head down Sante Fe Avenue. At that point, Chip put his binos down and started recording what was about to unfold.

  Once Jimmy’s eighteen-wheeler and fuel tank drove over the southbound lanes, he pulled the truck over to the shoulder as best he could and stopped. He hit the hazard lights and went to work. Chip watched as Jimmy got out of the rig and walked around to the passenger side of the trailer. Chip couldn’t zoom in to see exactly what he was doing next, but he knew from what they had talked about earlier that he’d take a packet of matches out of his breast pocket and affix a lit cigarette to it. He’d then place it on the ground near the front tire. It would take a few moments to burn down to the matches, but once it did, it would give them the needed flash to make things go boom.

  Chip continued to follow Jimmy as he made his way down to the center of the trailer and unscrewed the caps on the fuel outlet valves. He then opened the tanks up, releasing the eleven thousand gallons of diesel and gasoline stored in the four different storage tanks.

  At this point, Chip pulled the image back a little bit so the viewer could see the fuel running over the bridge and spilling onto the southbound lanes below.

  With this last task completed, Chip watched as Jimmy ran to the old Chevy on the opposite shoulder of the road that was waiting for him. Chip returned the camera to the tanker that was leaking fuel everywhere. Knowing that he was still recording, Chip used his best radio voice to say, “You don’t have to be a soldier or own a weapon to help the CDF. Even this truck driver was able to do his part. We need more people like this—people willing to stand up to tyranny and fight for this country. Fight against this fascist dictator that won’t leave office.”

  As he finished his little recruitment speech, Chip watched as the first HETs began to pass underneath the bridge and were thoroughly dowsed with diesel and gasoline.

  Meanwhile, traffic on the bridge was starting to back up behind the truck as people realized it was now leaking fuel everywhere. The fuel continued to roll onto the overpass, and a steady stream of it spilled off the bridge to the interstate below, splashing on the vehicles and trucks passing underneath.

  Many of the drivers below began to apply their brakes, while others did their best to either pull over and see what had dowsed their vehicle or try to move around to avoid getting hit with the unknown liquid.

  A police car approaching the area spotted the mess and immediately turned on his lights as he sought to gain control of the situation and figure out what was going on. Chip felt a moment of panic as he saw the police officer get out of the cruiser and head for the truck, looking for the driver. He kept the smartphone recording though, waiting for the flash that would ignite the entire thing.

  The third and fourth HETs passed under the overpass, and then it happened—the cigarette had finally burned down to the packet of matches, igniting them. A fraction of a second later, the entire bridge blew up in a massive fireball of flaming liquid. Burning fuel was thrown in all directions from the force of the blast, including onto the interstate below. The Army’s tanks were covered in liquid flame.

  Dozens of vehicles and trucks slammed on their brakes, trying to escape the flaming cauldron that had become the overpass. The multivehicle pile-up that ensued would take hours to unravel.

  God only knows how long it’d take to put the fires out, Chip thought happily.

  He kept his smartphone recording for another five minutes. He wanted to make sure he had plenty of footage for them to cut and use later. If they were lucky, this single act would inspire many more people to carry out similar attacks on the military.

  For his part, Chip and his motley crew of five CDF members had just delivered what they hoped would be the first of many blows against the fascist in the White House.

  Chapter 12

  The Hunt

  February 20, 2021

  Bakerton, West Virginia

  Master Sergeant Bruce “Deuce” Wilder shivered. The night air felt extra cold as it whipped through the open bay of the Blackhawk. Their helicopter raced along, just above the tree line as they sped their human cargo toward the target.

  Deuce pulled his earbuds out and turned off his fight song as they got closer to the objective. He liked listening to Rob Bailey’s song “Hungry” right before a kill mission—something about the lyrics got his blood pumping.

  Looking across the jump seat, Deuce saw his partner and friend, Sergeant First Class “Larry” Flint, going through his own pre-mission ritual. Each man on the team had their own thing they did prior to a mission like this, on
e that was explicitly designated as a kill mission. They’d been instructed there were to be no prisoners during this op.

  It had taken the NSA several weeks to track down the Russian Spetsnaz unit that had devastated their ranks during a brazen attack on the industrial park opposite their headquarters. However, through an extensive electronic collection of traffic cameras, home security cameras, business security cameras, and then some good old-fashioned human intelligence, they’d finally tracked down the Russians to an Airbnb in the small West Virginia town of Bakerton.

  Given the intelligence, the President had authorized JSOC to terminate the threat with extreme prejudice. Brigadier General Lancaster, who’d led the missions in Kosovo, tasked Delta with the job.

  “Five mikes!” shouted the crew chief to the Spartans in the back.

  Looking out the door, Deuce saw the two Little Birds flying in formation with them. Further back were two Apache gunships, which would be responsible for any direct fire support they needed.

  The pilot banked the helicopter hard to the right, gaining some altitude as they climbed over a ridge. The Blackhawk twisted slightly in the air as it dove back down and headed for the farmhouse.

  “Here we go!” shouted Deuce over their team’s internal coms system.

  The pilot pulled up hard on the helicopter, bleeding off speed at an incredible rate before he leveled out and landed on the front yard of the property. In seconds, Deuce and the six operators in the helicopter had dashed off, guns aimed at the farmhouse.

  A hundred meters to their right, the two Little Birds landed, dropping the four-man team that would clear the barn and the outbuildings on the property.

  As the helicopters lifted off, the front window of the farmhouse erupted in shards of glass. Flame spat out from the barrel of a rifle that began firing at them.

  “Contact front!” yelled Deuce. He aimed his weapon at the window, then sent a couple of three-round bursts that way.

  “Engaging!” yelled Larry as they continued their charge. While still running forward, he fired his Mk 48 into the front room of the farmhouse, shattering the window and splintering the walls with 7.62mm bullets. The covering fire would force the enemy down while they advanced.

  Deuce rapidly closed the distance to the house and bounded up the front stairs, taking them two at a time. He slammed against the wall near the door from his momentum. He and another team member waited to the side as Sergeant First Class Pedro “Spider” Santos, their breacher, slapped the stick of explosives on the door. As soon as they were on, Spider pulled back to the rest of the team, who were stacked along the side of the wall, ready to assault the house.

  “Breaching!” Spider yelled as he detonated the small charge, blowing the door inward. Then he tossed in a flashbang, and they all shielded their eyes for just a moment.

  Bang.

  As soon as they heard it go off, they dashed inside with guns at the ready.

  “Clear!” yelled Deuce as he finished sweeping the front room. He’d found two bodies, but no active threat.

  “Movement in the kitchen!” shouted Spider from the opposite side of the house.

  Deuce swept his SCAR in the direction of the kitchen and fired a dozen rounds into the wall and door frame, hoping to catch whoever was in there. Two other members from his team fired their own rifles into the kitchen and eating area as they charged forward to clear the rest of the first floor.

  Deuce was about to head upstairs with his partner Larry when he heard footsteps above them. Pointing his SCAR to the ceiling, Deuce fired a string of shots into the room above them. Plaster rained down on him. Larry ran to the next room and lit up the ceiling there as well, in case another shooter was up there waiting for them.

  Deuce made a beeline toward the staircase to try and catch whoever was up there by surprise and take ’em out. He tossed his now empty magazine into his drop bag and slapped a fresh one in place to get ready.

  He bounded up the steps but stopped just short of the top when a string of bullets flew right in front of him. Deuce dropped down to a knee, then popped up to fire his SCAR at the attacker, hitting him several times in the chest and face.

  Sensing something coming up behind him, Deuce turned right as a burly man pounced on top of him with a large hunting knife in hand. Deuce caught the man’s arms just in time to prevent him from driving the blade right through the side of his body armor. The two of them fought on the ground for a moment, grunting and screaming at each other as they struggled for their lives.

  The fight lasted less than ten seconds. Larry had run up the stairs to aid his friend, and when he reached the landing, he kicked the attacker across his face with his steel-toed boot.

  The man was flung off Deuce from the force of the kick. He appeared stunned by the blow to the head, but his eyes went wide for the briefest of seconds as Larry leveled his Mk 48 at the man’s chest and fired a dozen rounds into him.

  After rolling onto his knees, Deuce jumped up with his SCAR still attached to his rig and proceeded to finish clearing the rest of the rooms on that level.

  “Top floor cleared.”

  “Ground floor cleared.”

  “Cellar cleared.”

  With no more Russians alive in the house, Deuce’s team headed outside to make sure their other comrades didn’t need any help. They heard some shooting coming from the barn, and they rushed to assist their fellow soldiers. Seconds later, they heard the call.

  “Barn cleared.”

  “Outbuildings cleared.”

  The two Apaches circled the farm, using their thermal scanners to make sure no one had escaped. They hovered in opposite ends of the property, eventually calling an all-clear over the radio.

  With the location now cleared, the operators started dragging all the dead bodies outside to the front of the farmhouse as a sensitive site exploitation team landed. The SSE team would go through the farmhouse and the surrounding buildings on the property, collecting evidence and biometrics on everything they could. All of this information would be fed back to the NSA for further analysis as they sought to determine if the group of ten bodies constituted the entire Russian team or if more of them may still be alive out there somewhere.

  Slowly and steadily, the NSA and FBI were tracking down the enemy Special Forces teams operating within the country while the Unit systematically wiped them out as they were found.

  *******

  Starke, Florida

  Camp Blanding

  Lieutenant Colonel Seth Mitchell sat at his desk, looking at the mountain of paperwork before him. He sighed. Shifting his gaze out the window, Seth saw that the sun was creating a beautiful dawn display. The orangish-red hues were mixing with the white clouds and the blue hues of the new day. Sunrises in Florida were always beautiful; at least, that’s how he felt about them.

  Over the early morning chirping of birds, Seth could hear the morning cadence calls of the NCOs working the new batch of recruits over on the parade field. One group of recruits was being run hard by their platoon sergeant. Another group was being smoked, doing endless front-back-goes until they vomited their guts out. A third group was doing a CrossFit routine while a fourth group was participating in morning yoga.

  Seth snickered at the yogis. He gave his NCOs a lot of latitude in how they wanted to PT their recruits. His only guidance was to get them fit without breaking their bones or excessively injuring them. In a way, this new assignment General Royal had given him was an ideal Special Forces mission. Instead of training up an indigenous force in a foreign country, they were helping Homeland Security train up a federal law enforcement force to put down an internal rebellion growing within their own country.

  The training they were putting the recruits through was rough. The first week of training focused a lot on stretching and cardiovascular training. They gradually worked them into more physical exercises. It was challenging because they only had four weeks with the recruits before they shipped them off to wherever they were being assigned.
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  The recruits’ days were long, beginning at 0430 hours with ninety minutes of physical training. They were only given sixty minutes to get a shower, change, and eat before they started class at 0700 hours. One platoon would be handed off to a group of federal law enforcement training instructors from the FLETC academy, who’d spend a few hours going over the law enforcement procedures they’d be responsible for as a member of the Federal Protective Service. Then the platoon would rotate back to their Special Forces instructors for weapons training, patrolling, combat maneuvers, or other military tactics and training they may need to perform their new duties.

  It was slow going, but Seth’s training brigade was now fully running. They were churning out a thousand new FPS officers every week. His training command had initially started with a couple of FBI, DHS, and FLETC trainers and fifty Special Forces soldiers. By the end of their third week of operations, the FBI had sent another eighty instructors, and the DoD had finally seen fit to provide with him with an additional three hundred soldiers to help run the training and a hundred more to fill in a lot of the support functions. In the span of seven weeks, they had transformed Camp Blanding into a world-class training facility.

  Seth realized he’d spaced off looking at the sunrise long enough and refocused himself on the mountain of paperwork before him. The packet he opened first contained the personnel files of four of their new recruits that one of the first sergeants had singled out. The individuals had prior college or showed a level of leadership that would make them prime candidates to become sergeants or officers at the end of the training course. Seth’s unit was under a lot of pressure to not only get these recruits trained but also identify potential leaders to lead them.

  Once approved, the candidates would stay to receive additional training: sergeants would be given three weeks of training, and officers would receive four. During those courses, they would learn advanced small unit tactics, communications, and some necessary administrative functions they’d need to know as first- and second-line managers in what was essentially a very military-centric force.