The Fall
Burning Skies
Book 1
Devon C Ford
Copyright © Devon C Ford 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior written permission from the publisher.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No affiliation is implied or intended to any organisation or recognisable body mentioned within.
Published by Vulpine Press in the United Kingdom in 2018
Cover by Claire Wood
ISBN: 978-1-910780-89-3
www.vulpine-press.com
Dedicated to SJ, my military advisor: a man of bountiful knowledge and fearsome facial hair.
Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.
J. Robert Oppenheimer, from the Bhagavad Gita
[Of a nuclear war:] The living would envy the dead.
Nikita Khrushchev
PROLOGUE
Friday 12:30 p.m. - New York Stock Exchange
Cal walked quickly around the corner onto Wall Street in a state of shock, eyes darting left and right but returning to focus resolutely on the ground in front of him. The uniformed police officers were dashing back and forth, guns raised toward an unseen threat, dealing with casualties, and shouting into their radio mics without success.
All around him people were running and shouting. A screech of tires and a loud smash from behind, echoing from another street, made him jolt instinctively as he glanced back to see a pillar of smoke and flames rising over the roofline of an ornate stone building. Glancing up and behind him, he saw another pillar of smoke and dust, which he guessed was four or five streets away, and the cause of this first rush of desperate foot traffic to escape the area. A uniformed soldier, a national guardsman, thumped bodily into him as he looked away. The soldier looked very young, and scared. Almost as scared as Cal felt.
Returning his eyes to the gray concrete in front of his feet, he sped up as much as the crowded street would allow, his rapid breathing competing for space in his ears over the chaos and multiple sirens. Reaching the access to the subway station, the only way he knew to get back to his hotel and not wanting to check the map of the unfamiliar city he had in his back pocket, he joined the back of a pushing, shouting crowd trying to get below ground.
His genetic code, that of being British, dictated that he could not push through the crowd to get to the front; the unwritten rules of queueing were blindly followed the world over and even more so during a crisis. He was thirty or more pushing, shouting, and panicking people back from the green metal railings funneling the mass of bodies below street level.
He was far enough away to escape the main impact of the blast, but close enough to suffer horribly.
It started as a low rumble, as though the street under his feet was growling at the chaos above, and rapidly became an impossibly loud crack followed by a roiling cloud of dust and black smoke and pieces of debris ejecting from the top of the staircase leading down. The half-dozen people at the threshold of underground and over-ground were catapulted upwards and backwards, their clothing smoldering where it hadn’t been torn clean away from the heat and the flames of the blast.
Cal was flattened on his back, cracking his head painfully on the hard ground. He lay there blinking, deafened, trying to make sense of the huge pressure wave he felt before he saw body parts erupt over his head. The concussive wave, the incredible pressure change he felt, had hurt every organ in his body as though they had all been forcibly relocated. Looking up at the tops of the tall buildings in silence—not complete silence but a high-pitched shrieking in his ears—he watched as the slow-motion dark cloud of boiling, black smoke billowed out of the underground portal which so many people saw as a sanctuary from the disorder above.
The stench of the explosion—like rotten eggs and burning plastic—caught in his throat and made him convulse in a racking, gagging coughing fit, which he felt but could not hear. Struggling to his feet, he staggered and wavered until he steadied himself.
In the gaps between the skyline of buildings, he saw similar pillars of dark smoke rising from other explosions across the city.
Inside of thirty minutes, his miserable solitude had become abject terror.
He turned and fled as fast as he could, shuffling on unsteady feet and resolutely sticking to the middle of the street amongst the terrified crowds, hopefully keeping himself away from any other blasts he might come too close to.
SOLITUDE IS PLEASANT, LONELINESS IS NOT
Tuesday 10:30 a.m. - London Heathrow Airport, 74 hours earlier
“To your knowledge,” said the bored-looking young woman behind the counter, “has anyone placed anything in your luggage without you knowing?”
She didn’t make eye contact with him, and he doubted if she even cared about his answer. He also doubted that she would appreciate him asking her how he would know if someone had put anything in his luggage without his knowledge, as he obviously wouldn’t have knowledge of it.
“No,” he replied simply, keeping his passive aggressive sarcasm shut up tightly.
The young woman, apparently called Haylee—quite why people were choosing to spell their children’s names phonetically nowadays was beyond his comprehension—finally made eye contact with him through layers of thickly applied makeup and smiled falsely. Hidden behind a dense row of fake eyelashes, her eyes didn’t mirror the smile as she handed him his boarding pass and directed him toward security.
Yeah, Cal thought to himself, I’d be bored as shit doing your job too.
Boarding pass and passport in hand, backpack over one shoulder, he shuffled toward the back of the queue to be directed through a gate only to wait in line again until he was called forward to strip himself of anything metallic.
Shoes, phone, belt, loose change, wallet, watch all went into the dull, gray plastic tray on the squeaking rollers in front of him as a suspicious, but equally bored-looking, security guard eyed him coldly. The last item from his pocket, a small dark box wrapped in velvet, nestled securely alongside his other possessions.
“Any computers/laptops/tablets in your hand luggage?” the guard asked autonomously as he put his backpack in a separate tray. With a sigh, Cal opened the bag and removed the tablet, only to be asked to place it in the tray next to the bag.
His anger and irritation bubbled just below the surface at the pointlessness of this; being treated like a terrorist because he didn’t know he had to have his bag and iPad scanned separately irked him, but then again everything got on his nerves recently.
Despite going through wearing only socks and with empty pockets, he still set off the metal detector and was subjected to a personal search, having a hand-held metal detector waved pointlessly fast over his body and having his shoes swabbed. Finally, doing the rushed dance that all Brits did in airport security, he tried to put his belt and shoes on whilst simultaneously stuffing things back into his pockets in haste so as not to cause any disruption to the person behind him in line.
He shuffled through the snaking aisles of the duty-free shopping, ignoring all the offers for the latest fragrance to be doused over him and the slightly cheaper alcohol, and pulled up a stool at the nearest bar and ordered himself a breakfast beer.
After all, he was supposed to be on his honeymoon.
The girl serving his pint looked similarly bored to the girl on the check-in desk and the security guard
s, and served him wordlessly as the price showed up on a small digital screen in front of him. He paid the exorbitant price with his card by waving it over the card reader and regarded the swirling bubbles of his cheap lager; cheap anywhere except in an airport bar on the wrong side of security. For what he paid for a single pint he could’ve bought six cans from the shop near his house.
Sod it, he thought again, I’m on my holidays. His hand absent-mindedly went to his pocket and to the small box. He retrieved it and ran it between his fingers, pausing with his thumb in the crease to pop open the spring-loaded lid. Instead, he clasped it in his fist and thrust it back into the pocket.
Finishing his beer, he nodded to the unfriendly bartender and stepped down from the stool. He wandered to yet another uncomfortable seat at his departure gate not relishing the eight-hour flight. He looked down at the folded paper in his hands and smoothed it out to reread his itinerary for the hundredth time. She had always organized these things, so he was swimming in the dark by doing it alone.
The printed sheet showed details of the outbound flights, complete with the seat allocation, for Mr. Owen Calhoun and Miss Angela Holt. She should have been Mrs. Angela Calhoun by now, but when they booked their honeymoon—her choice of destination, not his—they had to use their names as they were, not how they were going to be, but she would never be Mrs. Calhoun now.
He was broke, having been strong-armed into exhausting his entire savings on both the wedding and the honeymoon, all of which was non-refundable, non-returnable, and a total goddamned waste of time and money.
As the electronic board changed above him, he saw the other waiting passengers rushing to be first on board.
Sheep, he thought nastily, all the seats are allocated and it’s not like the bloody plane is going to leave without you.
Shuffling with resigned feet, he joined the line of excited holidaymakers and stressed businessmen and women, the latter making their final calls and texts as the queue inched forwards.
Handing over his passport and boarding pass to another young woman struggling under the weight of multiple coats of makeup, he saw her opening her mouth to inform him that not everyone in his party was present. Seeing the sad look of veiled hostility on his face, she closed her mouth and silently handed back his documents after scanning them, flicking her eyes and her best corporate airline smile to the person behind him.
“26E,” said the flamboyant and ebullient male member of cabin crew with a flash of brilliantly white teeth as he handed back Cal’s boarding pass and waved him forward. He found his seat, retrieved his tablet and headphones, and stuffed his backpack under the seat in front to save the annoying ritual of getting his bag back from the overhead lockers at the other end. He strapped himself in and shot an unkind look to the empty 26F next to him.
Bitch, he thought, before putting in one earphone and swiping open the tablet to pass the time with a book and some music.
Tuesday 10:40 a.m. – Near Underwood, Upstate New York
Over 3,500 miles away from Cal’s plane as it soared upwards to turn west and cross the Atlantic, crossing the Dix mountain wilderness, a man in faded but pressed military fatigues drove a pickup along a rutted track through the woods, kept clear of snow by the heavy tree canopy.
Leland Puller’s eyes darted to his rearview mirror intermittently, his counter-surveillance training being second nature after spending his entire adult life honing them into something more intrinsic than a skill. He had been alert the whole time travelling north on Highway 87 before hitting the off-ramp and heading west into the wilderness.
As he often did, being infinitely more careful travelling to their headquarters compound hidden in the woods, he stopped the truck and got out, leaving it blocking the trail just around a sharp bend obscured by the heavy tree line.
He hefted his rifle from the passenger footwell and moved quickly into the woods, legs pistoning efficiently until he was on high ground with line of sight on the road.
Anyone following him would round the bend and be trapped. If he didn’t recognize the vehicle or the occupants, he would unload the AR15’s entire magazine, slap in another, and empty that too. There would be no warning, no questioning. Even if it was a genuine mistake and he gunned down some lost hikers, then that was just too bad. The sign on the track told anyone who could read that this was private property, and that firearms were in use there.
After ten minutes without sight or sound of anyone, he made his weapon safe and clambered back down to the cab of his truck. He stole a whimsical glance upwards, knowing that the heavy tree canopy would shield him from any prying eye in the sky.
The truck itself was legal, fully registered, as were the AR15, the Springfield in the pancake holster on his right hip, and the Ruger in the ankle holster on his left leg. If stopped by law enforcement he would keep his hands on the wheel and calmly declare to the officers that he was in possession of weapons, which he held valid permits for, and, after they had found he was doing nothing wrong, they would let him go on his way.
Carrying on along the bouncing track, he turned uphill and crested a rise which would ground anything but a tough off-road capable vehicle, before dropping down into the headquarters of the Free America Movement.
They naively believed themselves to be patriots: carefully selected, checked, courted, and recruited.
Almost all of the inner-sanctum members were former or, in some cases, still serving in the military, experts in so many numerous fields that they were effectively a small covert army by themselves. Over the years they had absorbed other organizations, small militias from various towns and cities, and held territory in a half-dozen states.
The second layer of their organization held positions of power or influence, as well as performing job roles in key locations such as working for the power grid and in airports.
They made no noise about their organization or their goals. They posted no vitriolic videos on social media, and the Department of Homeland Security had no idea who, or what they were.
They were off-grid, off the radar, and on-mission.
Leland drove toward the collection of single-story buildings and killed the engine, sliding the gear lever into park. Men and women milled around the camp, dressed similarly and all busy. Leland skirted the large satellite dish on a raised dais of concrete and walked into a wooden hut.
“Morning, Leland,” said the gray-haired but robust man sat behind a desk, his broad Boston accent dripping with comfortable confidence.
“Morning, Colonel Butler sir,” replied Leland, stiff military obedience and respect for senior ranks as ingrained in him as his counter-surveillance skills were. He didn’t salute, as Colonel Butler demanded the Movement soldiers no longer did so after his retirement.
The two men had never served together, even though both had been in-theatre at the same time in both Iraq and Afghanistan. Pullen was in his late-forties and Butler closer to sixty but both men were still fit and formidable. Leland Pullen, former Gunnery Sergeant in the United States Marine Corps, regarded the man before him with something approaching awe.
Colonel Glenn Butler, US Army, retired, was a bitter man behind his smile. He had served his life as a soldier, risen quickly to the rank of colonel and resented that the higher echelons of military command never saw his full potential. He often remarked that had he been promoted to general and been given control of troops in a war zone, then he could have easily defeated any enemy. He saw himself as a role model, a father figure to his boys, and a shining light in the future of his blessed United States of America. He was, although he hid it well, a megalomaniac with a destructive impulse to cleanse his country and purge all the perceived evil influences from it.
“I need you to head to the city, son, get our ducks in a row,” he said, rising from his chair and wasting no time on small talk.
“Yes, sir,” replied Leland, eager to comply before he fully knew what task was required of him.
“I have someone else overseeing
phase one.” He paused, not needing to explain that he wouldn’t give their name due to OpSec—Operation Security. “And I want you to head up phase two. You know the details?”
Leland did know the details. There were, as they spoke, a hidden army of Movement soldiers in the city ready to perform their role in the revolution.
“Good,” replied Butler. He leaned his gaze around Leland and shouted toward the door. “Suzanne?” he yelled. Seconds later the door opened and a woman walked in. Leland knew little about her, other than the fact that she wasn’t ex-military but worked in an office which dealt with building planning permissions and regulations before she abandoned the decadent city lifestyle and devoted herself to the Movement. She wore cargo trousers and a drab green T-shirt with a heavy sidearm strapped to her right thigh.
Suzanne handed Leland a Manilla envelope, which he took and guessed it held all but twenty sheets of paper. She nodded to him, smiled, and left the room.
Colonel Butler sat at his desk again, leafing through papers as his attention was already moving on to the next item on the agenda.
“Your contact details are in there,” he told Leland, “and, son?”
“Sir?” he said, turning back from the door with his hand paused on the handle.
“We are T-minus seventy-two hours and change until Go. Make us proud,” he told him over a steely gaze.
“Yes, sir,” he said simply, returning to his truck to make the 250-mile journey to New York City.
~
Just after Leland left the Movement headquarters, Suzanne changed into a smart skirt and jacket over a white blouse, suggestively left with one button too many undone. She knew how to blend in, and how to be seen by men at the same time. She was driven out of the woods by another fit-looking young man in fatigues to the town of Underwood, where she got out and switched her muddy boots for a pair of glossy high heels.
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