Invasion

by James Rosone

  “Van Gogh-One. I’ve got movement on US Highway 131. The vehicles are approaching the Meijer supermarket.”

  “Good copy, Dragon One. What kind of vehicles do you see?” asked the Dutch commando on the other end of the radio.

  Hmm…good question. He looked at the vehicle identification sheet they’d given him and then back at the vehicles. There were two Abrams tanks, three JLTVs, four M1117 Guardians, and eight Stryker vehicles.

  Depressing the talk button on his radio, he relayed the type and number of vehicles. He also made sure to tell the commandos that several of the Stryker vehicles had pulled off into the Meijer parking lot, and a lot of soldiers were starting to get out of them. Some soldiers had moved to the store to check it out while other soldiers began to set up a perimeter.

  Martin continued to relay what the soldiers were doing. He explained that a small cluster of vehicles was heading toward the Walmart parking lot down the street.

  “Dragon One, we’re going to start the fireworks,” the Dutch soldier on the other end replied. “I need you to help adjust them once they start.”

  Sixty seconds later, Martin heard a soft whistling overhead. An instant later, a loud explosion broke any sense of morning calm.

  Boom, boom, boom.

  The three mortar rounds landed on the highway, a hundred or so meters in front of the Walmart parking lot.

  The armored vehicles that were driving down the road broke off into two groups as they moved out of the way of any future mortars that might land near the highway.

  Martin heard more whistling as the next three rounds flew overhead, slightly off from the last three rounds. These mortars landed practically where the vehicles had just been. It was as if the drivers of those vehicles had anticipated that the next set of rounds was going to impact right on top of them.

  “Dragon One. Did we hit them?” asked the Dutch commando. “If not, tell us how to adjust fire.”

  Martin spent a few tense seconds explaining where the enemy vehicles were and what was going on. A minute later, he heard more whistling overhead right before the next set of mortars landed. One of the rounds managed to hit one of the federal vehicles and blow it up.

  Many of the federal soldiers dismounted from their vehicles, searching for targets to shoot at. However, several of the Strykers expanded their search for the mortar teams; they drove in different directions, their turret gunners at the ready.

  As he looked through his spotter scope at the soldiers down near the Meijer, Martin saw two of them throw something small into the air, almost like a model plane or something. Doing his best to follow the object, Martin saw the little devices zoom off in a couple of directions.

  Oh, crap! Those are the drones the commandos warned us about, he realized.

  “Van Gogh One, I just saw one group of soldiers launch some of those small drones. You guys better get a move on before they find you.”

  A short paused ensued before he heard them reply that they were moving positions.

  Martin returned his attentions to his scope. Some of the federal soldiers were working on something in the back of one of the Strykers. Martin zoomed in a bit more and saw an elongated tube pivot and turn in his direction. In that instant, he knew his mortar team was in trouble.

  Martin didn’t have time to radio in his warning before the soldiers in the back of the vehicle dropped their first mortar round. In the blink of an eye, it flew out of the tube and was on its way to its target. Before Martin could even register what he was seeing, the soldiers fired a second round, then a third.

  Snapping himself to attention, Martin grabbed his radio. “Van Gogh One. They’re firing mortar rounds at you guys. Get out of there!”

  In the distance, Martin heard a couple of explosions. Looking back to where he knew his friends had set the tubes up, he saw a massive blast and a lot of black smoke.

  Oh man. I think they just got our mortar team, he thought in horror. He hoped his friend George hadn’t gotten hurt.

  Martin looked back down the road. He saw several troop trucks pulling into the Meijer parking lot. There had to be more than a hundred soldiers getting out of the vehicles. They were starting to break down into smaller groups as they moved toward the apartments and other buildings near his position.

  He began to relay where they were headed over the radio. The commandos had given him a map of the city, broken down into squared sectors. All he had to do was name the sector and estimate how many troops were headed that way, and the commandos would take care of coordinating which ambush teams should engage the enemy and when. Martin had to hand it to them; it was a simple stupid way to keep things easy for a newly trained militia force.

  Crack, crack, ratatat, ratatat.

  Gunfire erupted near the Walmart. Martin swept his scope over there to see what was going on. One of the vehicle turrets had turned toward the parking lot and had opened fire on a handful of abandoned cars. Many of the soldiers joined in shooting at the vehicles. The first ambush team had struck.

  Then, Martin saw two of the rocket teams pop out of the Dairy Queen less than a hundred meters from two of the armored vehicles. They aimed their Panzerfaust at the Strykers and fired.

  Swoosh…boom.

  Swoosh…boom.

  Both vehicles exploded, killing the soldiers inside. Martin saw one of the soldiers in the turret get thrown into the air. The man’s legs were missing as his torso flew high into the sky. Then his body thudded on the ground, bouncing once. Martin nearly threw up. He had to turn away from the gruesome image, or he knew he’d vomit.

  A couple of federal soldiers turned and killed both of the attackers before they could duck back inside the building for cover, taking one of their rocket teams out before they could carry out a second attack.

  Two more projectiles flew toward the last two armored vehicles from one of the other rocket teams further down the street. One of the rockets missed and hit something behind the vehicles while the other one nailed what Martin had identified as an M1117 Guardian.

  The federal soldiers reacted quickly to the new attack and started firing at the KFC building. The volume of fire from their heavy machine guns shredded the building until something exploded inside and blew the entire structure apart.

  Back down by the Meijer parking lot, Martin saw several Strykers start racing down the road. They drove past the three burning vehicles and continued toward the KFC, which had been reduced to a fiery cauldron. When they got within a hundred or so meters from the Spartan Motel, two more guys appeared with Panzerfausts and fired at them.

  Both guys managed to duck back into the hotel to reload as the façade of the building was lit up by the Stryker gunners. One of the rockets impacted against the side armored rocket skirt of the Stryker and blew up. Sadly, it did not penetrate the vehicle’s armor. The other rocket missed entirely and exploded when it hit a building on the opposite side of the street.

  One of the federal soldiers nearby leveled some sort of rocket launcher at the hotel and fired. A second later, Martin saw an explosion as the room the two militiamen had run into blew up.

  Martin cringed. He hoped the rocket team had died swiftly. Twisting on the roof of the building, Martin saw a lot of soldiers fanning out into the neighborhoods nearby. They were running up to houses and apartment buildings, kicking down the doors and searching each building.

  More gunfire rang out from some of the apartment buildings as small pockets of Martin’s militia unit started their attacks. For the most part, their unit had broken themselves down into two-man rocket teams or three- and four-man ambush teams. They had set themselves up in homes, apartment buildings, and businesses all around the highway and the key bridges in the town.

  Many of the civilians living in Three Rivers had either fled the town when the UN invaded or when the federal forces approached the state lines. That left very few of the town’s residents around, which was a good thing considering how many gunfights were taking place.

  As Martin c
ontinued to observe what was going on, he realized the federal soldiers had now passed his position, and he was now inside their perimeter. He kept radioing in what he was seeing and where the enemy soldiers were to the various teams that were still alive. As the day wore on, more and more of his militia unit was taken out. Eventually, he had no one left to report to. He heard small pockets of gunfire, yelling, screaming, and the occasional explosion—but no one was responding to his radio calls. The silence unnerved him. He wondered what he should do next.

  Time crept by. Martin saw strings of federal soldiers helping to carry back some of their wounded to the Meijer parking lot. He spotted several vehicles with a red cross on them. A lot of soldiers were being laid down near them. He watched as a few people in uniform worked on the wounded, moving between them. Then he heard the familiar sound of a helicopter.

  Soon, Martin saw a chopper with a bright red cross painted on its sides land in a cleared portion of the parking lot. When it did, small groups of soldiers ran out with some stretchers, carrying their wounded comrades. Then the wounded soldiers who could walk on their own climbed into the helicopter. Once it lifted off, another chopper landed in its place, and the soldiers rushed the next set of wounded up to it.

  Then Martin heard a loud, thunderous explosion not too far away. He twisted his body around on the roof and looked north. Just across the river on the Main Street bridge, Martin saw that the Shell gas station had blown up. A lot of gunfire erupted in that area, but he couldn’t tell which side was winning or where most of it even was. All he could do was listen to it unfold and continue to spread across the town.

  Looking over the lip of the roof, Martin saw his .308 rifle with his deer scope on it. He wondered if he should have tried to do more to help his comrades out. He’d been told his job wasn’t to play sniper. He was supposed to observe and report—but now he didn’t have anyone to communicate his information to. Martin tried desperately to raise several of them on the radio, but no one responded to his calls.

  He looked back at the Meijer parking lot. It was probably around a three-hundred-meter shot to where those helicopters had previously landed. Martin figured he could do one of two things: he could try and slip away in the darkness and hope he was able to get away, or he could wait until the next medical or transport helicopter landed, and he could try and shoot the pilot or the engine and disable it.

  He heard the thudding of helicopter blades approaching the parking lot. He picked up his hunting rifle and looked through the scope. The Blackhawk hovered briefly before it settled down on the ground.

  Martin sighted in on the front part of the helicopter. He saw the pilot looking out his side window as some of the medics rushed the next set of wounded soldiers to the back of his bird. Then, doing his best to control his breathing, Martin zeroed in on the pilot’s body and gently squeezed the trigger.

  Bang.

  As soon as his rifle fired, Martin immediately worked the bolt, ejecting the spent round and ramming the next round into the chamber. He looked through his sight to the helicopter in time to see the pilot droop forward.

  Hot damn. I actually hit him, Martin thought.

  Some of the soldiers nearby started looking around to try and see where the shot might have come from. Martin immediately lay flat, doing his best to try and stay small and hidden under his IR blanket.

  After a few moments, he peeked above the lip of the roof. The helicopter was fully loaded. It took off with the co-pilot flying. Martin regretted that his attack hadn’t had the intended effect.

  Thirty-some minutes later, another helicopter approached the parking lot. This time it was a CH-47 Chinook. When it landed, a lot of soldiers got off through the rear ramp. Martin sighted in on the pilot in the front, placing his target over the man’s center mass. Once again, he gently squeezed the trigger.

  Bang.

  Martin saw some red splatter hit the windshield. The pilot grabbed at his throat and face.

  Got another one. This is almost too easy.

  The soldiers around the parking lot looked for where the shot had come from. They fired at a few different locations. Then a squad’s worth of soldiers ran toward one building, believing he must be hiding in there.

  Looking through his scope again, Martin saw he had a good view of the co-pilot and figured he’d try and take him out as well. He placed the red dot of his scope on the man’s chest area, just as the co-pilot applied power to the engines. The helicopter got about twenty feet off the ground before Martin fired his rifle.

  The bullet struck the co-pilot in the chest. A fraction of a second later, the helicopter tilted sideways and fell over on its side. While it didn’t explode, it thudded pretty hard on the parking lot and threw a lot of debris everywhere as the blades tore at the asphalt around it.

  Someone pointed in Martin’s direction, which sent a shiver down his spine. His stomach tightened as the soldier pointed again, and several other soldiers joined him. Aiming his rifle at the soldier who had spotted him, Martin fired his fourth shot. The round hit the man at the base of his neck, knocking him to the ground. The soldiers around him dove for cover, anywhere they could find it.

  Time to get the hell out of here! Martin realized.

  He grabbed the rifle, his notepad, and the IR blanket, and darted to the stairwell that would lead him off the roof and down to the ground floor. He raced down the stairs as quickly as he could. As soon as he made it down to the landing, he swung the door open, hoping to make a break for it.

  Before he knew what had happened, something struck him right in the face. He immediately lost consciousness, and his body slumped to the ground.

  *******

  Martin wasn’t sure how long he’d been knocked out, but his face sure hurt. He tasted blood; he was pretty sure that whatever had hit him had broken his nose. Opening his eyes, he looked around and saw a couple of familiar faces.

  “You’re awake,” one of them said.

  Martin shook his head. “How long have I been out?”

  His friend shrugged. “You were out when they brought you here. That was probably around three hours ago.”

  “Where is here, exactly?”

  “The Walmart parking lot. They’ve been bringing all the prisoners here.”

  “What are they going to do with us?” Martin asked as he gently rubbed his face and around his nose. He did his best to wipe away some of the blood and clear his nose.

  “I don’t know, but you can bet it won’t be good,” one of the other prisoners responded.

  Another hour went by, and then a couple of federal soldiers walked over to the prisoner pen, escorting two more militiamen. Both were wounded in one form or another.

  “Hey, can we get a doctor or medic to help these guys?” demanded Charley. He was one of the militia team leaders.

  One of the soldiers stopped and sneered at them. Then he went back to whatever he was doing earlier.

  For better or worse, they were prisoners. The soldiers had set up some concertina wire in a somewhat large circle and placed them inside it. Three federal soldiers stood nearby, watching them, smoking cigarettes, and talking amongst themselves.

  Martin got up. “Hey. Where are you guys from?” he asked.

  One of the soldiers stopped talking with his friends and looked at him. He took a pull from his cigarette, finishing it off as he flicked it to the ground. He stood up and walked over to them. “We’re from Virginia,” he said as he surveyed the nine of them in the pen.

  “What are you guys going to do with us?” Martin asked.

  Shrugging, the soldier replied, “I honestly don’t know.” The soldier was about to turn and go back to talking with his friends when he paused, as if weighing whether he should speak. He sighed and then asked, “Why are you guys fighting us? We’re all Americans.”

  The question took Martin by surprise. In a way, he hadn’t given it too much thought. He didn’t vote for Sachs and felt the man was using the courts as a means to stay in office beyo
nd his term. He believed it was wrong, and he needed to stand up and be a part of history in stopping him.

  He looked the soldier in the eye. “I think Sachs is a dictator who won’t leave office. I suppose that’s why all of us are fighting you guys.”

  One of the other soldiers guarding them got up and walked over to them. “You realize our country is being invaded by more than two hundred thousand Chinese soldiers, right? We should be down there, repelling them, not having to fight you guys. Hell, you guys should be down there with us, sending them back to China.”

  The Chinese invaded? Martin asked himself. When the hell did that happen?

  The soldier must have seen his perplexed expression. “You guys didn’t even know that, did you?” he asked. “Well, the UN forces also nuked Guam, Arizona, and Oklahoma. They used a nuke on one of our carrier battle groups in the Pacific and hit San Diego with an EMP. More than two hundred thousand Americans were killed in less than ten minutes.” He shook his head. “You all have been duped. You’re fighting on the wrong side of this conflict.”

  Martin felt like a deer caught in headlights. He didn’t say anything else; he just sat down. Judging by the looks on the other prisoners’ faces, they probably felt the same way he did.

  If this is true, then what have we been fighting for? he asked himself. He sure didn’t want the Chinese running the country. He felt compelled to spread this news to others so they could put an end to the fighting.

  *******

  Washington, D.C.

  White House

  Situation Room

  President Sachs zeroed in on his NSA representative, Deputy Director Tony Wildes. He took his seat at the head of the table, then motioned for everyone else to take their seats.

  “Tony, I want to get right down to business on bullet six of the agenda. What are we doing to counter these Deepfakes and the horrendous misinformation taking place on social media and in the news?”

  Tony stumbled for a moment with his response, seemingly caught off guard that his item would be the first one discussed. “I…Yes, Mr. President. Our organization has been doing our best to try and identify where this misinformation has been originating, as well as how it’s being disseminated. We’ve tracked down several of the largest producers of these Deepfakes to a company located in Shanghai, China.”