Redfall: Fight for Survival (American Prepper Series Book 1)

by Jay J. Falconer

In truth, he was too tired to care. He needed his morning sugar rush to recharge his batteries after a night without much sleep. He knew from his years of experience in the mud that tradition and routine were stronger than glue, keeping sanity and logic working together, even as the world is unraveling all around you.

  He might change his schedule at some point in the future, but not now and not today. Not when his brain needed the comfort and stability of his long-standing daily face-stuffing at Belle Mae’s.

  The chair was already sitting ajar from the table, allowing him to wedge his backside into it without having to put the tray on the surface to free his hands. The wooden legs screeched across the tile floor as his momentum slid the chair to make room for the rest of him—mainly his gut, the ever-expanding orbit around his middle.

  He wasn’t proud of the recent weight gain, but ever since he broke his ankle the previous summer, he couldn’t jog his usual four miles a day. At least, that was the excuse he told his family and friends. The official reason he hadn’t been exercising was due to the lack of sleep. There was a stabbing pain in his gut, just above and to the right of his now-sunken navel, keeping him up most nights and perpetually exhausted. He planned to visit old Doc Marino—a competent, retired Lieutenant General—when he got a chance but hadn’t had the time with President Cooper ringing him every five minutes.

  He cut the bagel in half, lathering one side of it with a bounty of cinnamon spread. The butter began to melt as soon as it landed on the warm surface, making his mouth water and his throat tingle. He brought the slice to his lips and was about to bite down, but stopped when a suite of black-colored SUVs pulled up with a skid outside the bakery.

  The five vehicles promptly blocked access to the eatery as the doors opened and a squad of security personnel surrounded the SUV stationed in the center.

  A small, slender person stepped out of the middle truck with her head lowered. Rawlings assumed it was a woman based on the VIP’s small stature and length of hair, but he couldn’t see her face. She was wearing head-to-toe rain gear while being escorted by four of the men, one of whom was holding an umbrella over her. She moved briskly and came inside, turning right and cruising straight at Rawlings, as if she knew exactly where he was sitting. She pulled back the hoodie to reveal her face. It was Director Wiggins.

  “Nancy?” he asked.

  “Why aren’t you at your desk?”

  He paused, choosing his words. “I needed a break. A man can only work so many hours straight before the walls start talking. And trust me, they were about to do just that.”

  He waited for her to respond, but she didn’t. He continued. “I’m sure you know the drill. When your blood sugar gets low, your brain stops working and your hands shake. We all need to eat once in a while, even you by the looks of it. How did you find me?”

  “It’s common knowledge you frequent this establishment every day, General,” she said, flashing a glance at her watch. “Let’s face it, a blind monkey could’ve tracked you down.”

  He smiled, amused at her choice of words. “You mean like Director Haskins?”

  She laughed, though it didn’t appear she wanted to. “Yeah, he’s a real piece of work. I don’t know how he keeps his job with an attitude like that. He never used to be that way.”

  “I’m sure he has dirt on everyone by now, and I’m betting he isn’t afraid to use it to save his own hide.”

  “No doubt. But seriously, Nate. You should consider varying your schedule now and then.”

  “Duly noted. But honestly, I didn’t think anyone was watching, or cared where I grabbed a cup of joe.”

  “Trust me, someone’s always watching. At least they used to be before this rain took out our eyes and ears,” she added, sounding like a woman on a mission.

  “I assume this is about Jeffrey Hansen?”

  “Among other things,” she said with a grim look on her face. She held out a hand in the direction of the door. “Please come with me. We have a lot to discuss.”

  He craned his neck down, admiring the red-colored tray of food and coffee, none of which had hit his lips yet.

  “Please, General. It’s urgent,” she said, tugging at the back of his chair.

  He stood and walked to the coat rack where he snatched his raincoat and umbrella, then turned and followed Wiggins and her chicken legs out of the store and into the back seat of her SUV. The driver hopped out of the vehicle, then the open doors closed around them.

  The second they were alone, she twipped her fingers in the air, entering a series of virtual commands into the console that had been installed on the back of the seat in front of her. A millisecond later, all four doors and the rear hatch locked themselves with a loud, simultaneous click, then the floorboard area filled with red-colored ambient light.

  The SUV’s control system spoke in a soft female voice, “Counter-surveillance protocols initiated. Interior secure.”

  Nancy flared her eyes at him. “Director Haskins and his young analyst, Thompson, paid me a visit. The TravelNet hack was a success.”

  “They found Simon?”

  “Yes, in Lancaster County.”

  “Where?”

  “On a farm owned by a couple of senior citizens. I have the exact address.”

  “I wonder what he’s doing in Amish country?”

  “Only he can answer that.”

  “What about Hansen? Any luck? So far, my staff’s come up empty.”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. My sources tell me he’s at his secret Deepwater Research Facility in the Bahamas.”

  “I wasn’t aware he had such a facility.”

  She gave him a stern look. “Hence the word secret.”

  “Have you briefed President Cooper?” Rawlings asked, ignoring her jab and wondering what his Commander-in-Chief might be expecting.

  “A few minutes ago. That’s why I’m here. He wants my agency to lead the mission in the Atlantic for Hansen.”

  “That’s not SOP!”

  “Those were my words exactly. But apparently, this crisis has POTUS changing protocols and duty assignments across the board. Why? I have no clue. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t know if he’s running scared because of the issues with the drones or the rain, or possibly he’s privy to information that I’m not. But regardless, it’s not my place to question the motives or decisions of POTUS.”

  “Nor is it mine. What the President wants, he gets, even if it’s a little unusual.”

  “I take it you’ve noticed his odd behavior, too?”

  “Yes, I think we all have. But considering what we’re facing as a nation right now, how stable would you be if you were in his position? Being responsible for the fate of nearly four-hundred-million Americans can’t be easy.”

  “Good point. I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said, letting her words tail off in volume.

  Rawlings winced in pain, feeling the bulge in his stomach press against something inside.

  “You okay, Nate?”

  “Yeah. Just my stomach. Been acting up lately.”

  “So has my back,” she said, letting her face sag, looking like the old woman she really was. Her layers of makeup couldn’t mask the ravages of time. “These jobs of ours, they’re taking a toll on all of us. I hope it’s all worth it.”

  He gave her a quick nod, not wanting to keep the focus on their respective health issues. “What about Redfall?”

  “You need to handle it,” she said, “while I take care of Hansen.”

  “I’m curious, was that your idea or the President’s?”

  “I never told him about Simon. I think it’s best if you and I handle the Redfall situation on our own. With all the world’s focus on his wife’s crimes and subsequent execution, I’m sure POTUS would never sanction the involvement of someone so notorious.”

  Rawlings was pleased she was on the same page. “No, you’re right. It would be a geo-political nightmare,” he told her, visualizing the G20 leaders coming unglued.

  “U
ntil we have a sit-down with Simon, let’s keep this between us. POTUS has enough on his plate and frankly, I don’t want to run the risk of Simon being tasked to someone else. We could lose containment of the one asset that may be the solution to all of this.”

  The general nodded, thinking it through. “I agree. Something doesn’t feel right.”

  “Yeah, my gut’s been naggin’ at me, too. There’s more here than simply a DOD contractor gone rogue. Granted, Hansen is brilliant and has the means, but I question whether he has the balls to pull off something this big. And do it alone. If my team misses on Hansen, Simon may be our last, best hope to bring him in—”

  “—or to stop him.”

  She nodded in rapid succession, like her mind was coming to the same conclusion. “If it comes down to that.”

  “What do you suggest, Director?”

  “Since we’ve agreed to keep this off-book, I’m guessing you’ll want to use Nighthawk to handle the domestic action.”

  “Is that a question or a suggestion?”

  “Maybe a little of both.”

  “Well, we both know NSG is capable,” the general told her, choosing his words carefully. “Though I have genuine concern about NSG’s tendency to employ more force than is necessary. If this mission were overseas, we could spin it while looking the other way. But at home, a more delicate touch is needed to minimize any potential collateral damage. You know as well as I do that Simon will resist if Nighthawk comes at him hard. Innocent people may get caught in the crossfire and none of us wants that. Especially now, with everyone on edge because of this weather. So far, the general public has been relatively calm, but that could change at any minute. We don’t need NSG sparking a country-wide panic.”

  She hesitated, obviously mulling it over. “Let me make a call to Nighthawk’s CEO. I do have Blake Anderchuck’s ear. I should be able to soften him up for you.”

  “I’d appreciate that, Nancy. While you’re at it, can you arrange a face-to-face for me? The details of this op need to be handled one-on-one as I lay out the rules of engagement.”

  “Consider it done, General.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Wicks raced upstairs on her way to the ham radio to chat with her brother, worrying he was hurt or in trouble. After her brutally honest chat with Simon about his wife and what it meant to be part of a loving family, her heart had softened a bit toward her brother.

  She nudged G out of the way in the second-floor home office that her grandfather had built. The custom workspace featured a horseshoe-shaped oak desk with cabinets and file drawers, where Wicks took a seat in front of the base station sitting in the center. Simon stood next to her as she wrapped her fingers around the vintage desktop microphone and squeezed the transmit button.

  “WX6FR, WX6FR, WX6FR this is ZS5BD, Zulu X-ray Six Foxtrot Romeo calling and standing by.”

  The frequency cracked and hissed, then a voice was heard over the airwave. “Hey sis.”

  “What’s wrong, Stretch?”

  “I suppose you think this is funny?”

  “What?”

  “The shipment from Devil Dog’s. Is this some kind of joke?”

  Her voice hesitated; so did her brain. “Huh? What are you talking about?”

  “The guns. The ammo. The tactical gear and explosives you sent us. Jesus, sis, you must have spent a fortune. What did you do, cash in your entire stash?”

  Wyatt was referring to her extensive collection of silver eagles—roughly half of her inheritance. She looked at Simon, wanting to explain to him what Wyatt meant. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt compelled to let Red know her half of the coins was worth over two million now that the spot price of silver had reached $145 an ounce.

  But she decided against it. There were other, more impressionable ears in the room who didn’t need to know that type of confidential information. She decided to tell him later, when they were alone.

  She squeezed the mic again. “Wyatt, what the hell are you talking about? I didn’t send you anything.”

  “Seriously? You didn’t?”

  “No. I promise. I didn’t. Neither did my team. I give you my word.”

  “Then who the hell did? And why?”

  Simon tapped her on the shoulder. “Ask him what kind of weapons and explosives were sent.”

  Wicks did as he requested. They waited for an answer.

  “Fully auto AKs, AR-10s, short-barreled shotguns, top of the line suppressors, and a frickin’ stockpile of Tannerite,” Wyatt said. “Plus there’s a shit pile of boxes we haven’t even opened.”

  “Tannerite? Binary explosives?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Hundreds of pounds of it. Enough to start World War III.”

  Simon leaned in and wrapped his hand around hers, speaking into the mic. “Wyatt, this is Simon. Whose name is on the manifest? Does it show who ordered the shipments?”

  “No,” he responded. “I checked every page carefully. Just my name and address on all four packing lists. That’s why I called Tally, figuring she was screwing with me, big time. Trying to make one of her points, again.”

  “Four packing lists?” Simon asked him.

  “Hell yeah. Four long lists. Imagine my surprise when a caravan of UPS trucks rolled up with a ton of stuff we never ordered.”

  “I need you to look at the paperwork. Do they show an order number?”

  Wyatt didn’t respond for a few seconds. “Nope, I don’t see anything that looks like an order number.”

  Simon looked at Tally, then back at the mic, pressing the trigger. “The BATF tracks the sale of these types of weapons closely, meaning extra paperwork, tax stamps, and a waiting period on each. That narrows down the list of buyers quite a bit.”

  “Plus here in PA, the Sheriff has to sign off on their purchase first,” Wyatt said on the radio.

  “I thought those types of weapons could only be shipped to a registered FFL dealer?” Wicks asked, while the microphone was still active.

  “Correct,” Simon answered.

  “But neither of us is licensed,” she said.

  Simon didn’t respond.

  “It wouldn’t take much for someone with skills to hack in and change the delivery address,” G said.

  Simon let go of the microphone trigger and stood straight, looking at Wicks. “An order of this size rules out a weekend warrior, or someone stocking up for hunting season. There must be an organization behind this—a private organization since the Feds and the military don’t use UPS—or Devil Dog’s, for that matter.”

  Her face pinched. “What does all this mean?”

  Simon exhaled, letting his nerves calm a bit. “I think someone is trying to set your brother up.”

  “For what? Do you think it’s related to the rain outside?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But arming civilians—“

  “Militants, in Wyatt’s case,” G interrupted.

  “Yes, arming militants has a specific strategic value. That’s assuming someone wanted to spark an uprising,” he told her, chewing through his memories. “Back when I was with military intelligence, I distinctly remember a tactical training scenario involving this very thing. However, unless another faction is armed as well, it’s much less effective.”

  G shot a panicked look at Wicks. “The Carnegie brothers!”

  “Who?” Simon asked her.

  “Sean and Sebastian Carnegie—twins. A couple of mullet heads we went to school with. Complete assholes. Their family controls most of the moonshine business around here. Wyatt’s had run-ins with them before. They can’t stand each other.”

  “Plus, they’re the true meaning of militants,” G added.

  There was more to tell Simon, but she didn’t want to share the entire backstory. Some of it was her fault and all of it painful, so she decided not to read him in. Maybe later, when the time was right. For now, she wanted to keep Simon on their side and not give him reason to reconsider helping them.

  “Their camp is west of
here, in York county, and it’s five times the size of Wyatt’s,” she said with a worried look on her face. “They’re a pair of inbred hillbilly-types and end-of-the-world fanatics, just looking for a reason to hurt people.”

  “I think we need to consider the strong possibility that the Carnegies may not be the only ones. There could be more. Someone may be sending truckloads of guns and ammo to groups all around the country.”

  “Then all hell’s about to break lose,” she said, grabbing the microphone. “Wyatt?”

  “Yeah, sis?”

  “We think the Carnegie brothers may have received a shipment as well.”

  “You got to be kidding me. Why?”

  “Someone may want us to start shooting at each other. You need to be prepared. The Carnegies may not be the only ones.”

  “Fucking government,” he said over the frequency, with thick hatred dripping from his words. “I knew it. That’s why they sent the rain. To distract us from their real agenda.”

  “Simon doesn’t think the Feds are involved,” she transmitted.

  “Why not?”

  “They don’t use UPS and don’t order from Devil Dog’s. They have their own trucks and suppliers. He thinks a private company is behind what’s happening.”

  “That’s a little hard to believe, sis. Then what about the rain?”

  “Maybe it’s to blind the Feds. We don’t think their satellites are working right now.”

  “Jesus Christ! What the hell is going on?” Wyatt said.

  “I don’t know, bro. But I’m really scared.”

  “We should join forces, Tally. Like I’ve been telling you all along.”

  She didn’t answer him.

  Simon turned to G. “How good is your mojo?”

  “You mean my voodoo?”

  Simon agreed, but held his tongue.

  “The best. What do ya need?”

  “A database hack.”

  “Easy-peasy. Who’s the target?”

  “Actually, it’s targets,” Simon said, turning his focus back to her. “Ask your brother for the tracking numbers. G might be able to follow the order back through UPS and into Devil Dog’s system.”

  “What do you mean, might?” G asked with eyebrows pinched and a wrinkled nose.