by Nobody, Joe
Nick was the first to dart from cover, scurrying toward the tall, earthen works that protected New Orleans. A moment later, he turned and flashed two “thumbs up,” toward the pumphouse, a sign that the devices had performed as designed. The levee was intact. The fraud against Blackjack had been initiated.
After waiting for any substantial debris to fall from the sky, Bishop turned to see an enormous column of blackened air boiling toward the clouds, threatening heaven itself. It reminded him of the effects of a 500-pounder he’d seen the US Air Force drop in Iraq, a churning pillar of smoke at least 200 feet across and several hundred feet high. Nodding, Bishop acknowledged, “If Blackjack’s men don’t see that, they’re blind.”
A loud cheer rose up from the men gathered around the plan’s instigator, everyone realizing they were one step closer to freeing their city.
“Stay frosty and diligent, guys,” Bishop commanded. “Any of Blackjack’s boys in the neighborhood are going to be curious. Remember, we can’t let them see the levee, no matter what the cost.”
Bishop’s words had a chilling impact, the jovial mood quickly evaporating like the noise from Nick’s bombs. Almost as one, the team returned their attention to the streets and buildings in their respective zones.
Ketchum had awoken early, the events of the past few days weighing heavily on his mind.
He’d been performing a series of stretching exercises, a necessity given his healing wounds from the skirmish at Forest Mist… when the explosion had rattled the windows of the Royal Hotel’s Presidential Suite.
“What the hell?” he grumbled, plodding toward the floor-to-ceiling glass and pulling back the thick curtain.
The ex-Ranger’s first thought was the same as Bishop’s, wondering if the United States Air Force was so pissed about the stolen barge they had decided to start bombing him into submission. Against the standing advice of his security team, he stepped out onto the balcony to scan the horizon and sky.
The plume of Nick’s IED was clearly visible from his vantage next to the ornate rail, Ketchum’s mind plotting the location instantly. “The London Avenue Canal? There’s nothing of ours over there?”
The next possibility he considered was that a gas explosion had occurred.
In the months following the collapse, such events weren’t uncommon. There had been pockets of natural gas trapped in some buildings after the food riots, and occasionally, a random spark set off the trapped vapors without warning.
Methane had also been an issue at least once when rotting food produced the gas. Blackjack could remember losing two men who were raiding an abandoned restaurant, having opened a freezer while smoking cigarettes. Both had been badly burned.
He quickly dismissed both of those potential causes, however, the size and intensity of this detonation far, far too massive.
Before he could re-enter his suite, an anxious knock shook the door.
“Boss, you okay?” Grinder’s voice demanded from the other side.
“I’m fine,” Ketchum replied, unlocking the deadbolt after tucking a pistol into his waistband.
“Something just blew up,” Grinder reported. “We all heard it.”
“I know,” Blackjack replied, waving his second in command to the balcony. “It looks like ground zero is located at the London Avenue Canal. You better get somebody over there right away. We don’t have anything in that area, but one of our warehouses is situated only about six blocks down. If there’s a fire, we’re either going to have to move our assets, or put out that blaze.”
“Roger that, boss. I’m on it,” Grinder replied, pulling a radio from his belt.
As his subordinate pivoted to leave, Blackjack’s gaze returned to the pillar of smoke still reaching for the morning sky. It was in his nature to be suspicious, probably one of the main attributes that had allowed him to survive combat zones, prison, and his rise to power in the underworld. He’d learned a long time ago to pay attention to his instincts. Heeding the nagging awareness that something was wrong had saved his life more than once.
Now, the paranoid voice in his head was jumping up and down and shouting at the top of its proverbial lungs. Whoever was out there trying to take him down had no doubt caused the explosion at the meth lab. His nemesis was somebody who liked to make things go boom. Two major detonations in less than a week were just too much of a coincidence.
“Lay me out some clothes,” he turned and snapped at one of the blondes still curled up in the king-sized bed. “And get your shit packed up. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. We might be moving again sooner rather than later.”
By the time Grinder had rushed halfway down the hotel’s passageway, the radio in his hands was squawking like a wounded rooster. “What was that?” thundered one concerned voice.
“Everybody okay?” another compadre broadcast, the anxious voices now talking over each other.
“Get off the damn airwaves,” Grinder shouted into the microphone. “Stop talking!” he tried again.
Still, all of Ketchum Jones’ enforcers were determined to transmit at once, dozens of the police radios having been distributed across Blackjack’s organization.
Frustrated, Grinder burst into the security team’s ready room where he found several of the boss’s bodyguards pulling on their gear and readying for action. “At least you guys are holding your shit together,” he grumbled.
After trying again to clear the channel, Ketchum’s right-hand man finally gave up in frustration. Pointing toward one of his team, he ordered, “Ike, you’re with me. Grab the keys to one of the trucks. The boss wants to know what just got blown to hell.”
Nodding, the tall, thin man pulled the sling of an AR15 over his head and then dangled a key ring in front of Grinder’s face. “Let’s roll.”
A Chevy 4x4 was soon racing out of the Royal Hotel’s parking garage, its engine pointed toward the still-rising column of murky fumes obscuring the horizon. “Whatever it was, it’s still burning,” Ike noted. “I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the surrounding buildings caught on fire.”
Three blocks north of the Royal, Grinder slammed on the brakes. “What the hell?”
Half a block away, water was bubbling up from the center of the street, joining a serious flow from the two drains embedded in the curbs. “What the hell is that and where is it coming from?”
Exchanging looks of horror, Ike spoke first. “Oh my God! Did somebody just bomb the levee? Do you see this shit gurgling up through the storm drains? That’s just what happened with Katrina, man. I know; I was here. The first sign of real trouble was when the flood waters boiled into the streets from the sewers, and it looked just like this. Less than an hour later, I was screaming at the old lady to help me move our shit to the second floor!”
“They blew the damn levee? But how? Where would they get…,” Grinder began, and then abruptly stopped as the pieces all fell into place.
“The diesel tanker!” both men exclaimed at the same moment.
The two sat for silence for a few moments, the neurons inside their brains firing in rapid succession as they struggled to understand the events of the last few days in this context. Ike soon added, “That must be why they stole that truck. They’re trying to flood us out!”
Trying to regather his wits, Blackjack’s best man realized the radio chatter had finally quietened down. Now, he had the opportunity to assert leadership and gain control. “Everybody, this is Grinder. Stay the hell off the airwaves. I only want to hear reports of water in the streets, or armed men moving through our turf.”
“Water in the streets? Is it raining over there?” a static-laced voice asked.
“No, you dumbass, it’s not raining. There’s a chance the explosion was somebody blowing the London Avenue levee. Now get your asses outside and start checking around,” Grinder ordered.
After waiting to see if anybody else wanted to earn his wrath, Grinder then turned to Ike and said, “We’d better get back. Blackjack is going to want to see this fo
r himself.”
A quick turn had the Chevy rolling back toward the Royal Hotel. For the second time that morning, Grinder fretted over the news he was about to deliver. Blackjack was one of the smartest men he’d ever known, but his boss was also prone to violent reactions when things didn’t go his way. It was an interesting mix of fear and respect that kept the entire organization in line.
As he drove, it occurred to Grinder that the post-apocalyptic life he’d come to enjoy might be readying for a drastic turn. Not even Blackjack and his considerable collection of shooters could defeat a foe as mighty as Mother Nature. He remembered Katrina and the horrible devastation caused by the rising water. For the first time in his adult life, he had trouble controlling the terror that was swelling in his core.
“Maybe we should stop by the hotel, get our stuff and keep going,” Ike ventured from the passenger seat. It was as if he could read Grinder’s thoughts.
“What are you saying?” Grinder demanded, trying to keep his own fears in check.
“I’m saying that sometimes you get the bear, and sometimes the bear gets you. If this city floods, we might not be able to get out… and that, my friend, would suck. Do you want to live like all those poor homeless bastards, grilling sewer rats and buzzard wings?”
“Mount up,” Blackjack ordered. “I need to see this breach in the levee for myself.”
Grinder didn’t like the idea. “But boss, we know there is an armed, hostile party operating in the city. The incident at the DOT garage was proof of that. We know they’re out to ruin our operation. They could have organized an ambush waiting on your approach. I would strongly advise against exposing yourself any more than necessary.”
Blackjack’s eyes indicated he appreciated his lieutenant’s concerns, but his mind was made up. “I know a lot about explosives,” he began as he shoved spare magazines into the pouches on his load vest. “I learned the hard way in Iraq during the insurgency. Blowing that levee would be extremely difficult with an IED; I don’t know that even an entire tanker of diesel fuel could cause substantive damage. I need to see this with my own eyes.”
“But water is flowing through the streets,” Grinder explained, surprising even himself by backtalking Blackjack Jones. “I just don’t want to see you hurt or trapped here without resources, Boss,” he quickly added, hoping to dull the edge of his transgression.
For his part, Ketchum seemed to take the debate in stride. “I believe your report, Grinder. I’m quite certain you saw water in the street. What I want to see is the extent of the damage. If there is just a small hole, maybe we can figure out a way to plug it. I also need to examine the pumping stations. Perhaps we can preserve our treasure troves and everything we’ve managed to salvage by pumping out the water. I’m not just going to run away because there are a few puddles gathering on the sidewalks!”
Realizing he was not going to change his superior’s mind, Grinder turned and began issuing orders to the remainder of the bodyguards. After his team had left to execute his wishes, Blackjack’s second then started broadcasting additional orders over the radio. “Everybody converge on the London Avenue Station,” he broadcasted. “Come ready for a fight.”
Chapter 16
As he stepped toward his team of defenders, the police radio on Nick’s belt squawked with the grumble of a gruff voice. “Everybody converge on the London Avenue Station,” the barked command sounded. “Come ready to fight.”
For a second, the Alliance leader wished he had given Bishop the hand-held unit they had found in Lefty’s pickup. His friend would have known Blackjack’s voice. Still, the recovered piece of equipment afforded a strategic advantage. Just keep on talking, boys, Nick mused, monitoring the communication lines to and from Blackjack’s command and control.
Approaching the group of anxious faces assigned to him, Nick instantly selected the youngest man to carry a message, “Go find Bishop and Charlie. Tell them I heard a transmission. Company is on the way… a lot of company.”
“Yes, sir,” the kid nodded, rushing off to find the other team.
Turning back to the rest of the huddled men, Nick introduced himself in a formal voice. “My name is Nick Williams. Before the collapse, I was Master Sergeant Nick Williams, 6th Special Forces Group, US Army. I was a Green Beret stationed at Fort Bragg for eighteen years. Now, my official title is Secretary of Defense, Republic of Texas.”
Confident that he now had their attention, the big man continued, “My job in the Army was to recruit and train indigenous forces, drill them until they could fight like Satan’s own stormtroopers, educate them regarding America’s offensive military capability, and most importantly, live to tell their grandchildren about the experience. I was very good at my job.”
Pausing, Nick scanned every face, making sure his words were understood. “We don’t have much time together before all hell is going to break loose, so I am going to teach all of you the most valuable lessons for the type of combat you are about to experience.”
Every man in the group stared intently at the speaker, Nick holding their full attention. This was life and death.
“The first thing you must learn is that there is a rhythm to combat. Every gunfight, every clash, every force on force engagement has a tempo. I’ve learned, after being shot at on four continents, that the force that controls this rhythm holds the field at the end of the battle. Today, I am your band leader. If you follow my lead, we can win this engagement, keep most of you alive, and give you back this city.”
Without waiting for any reaction, Nick marched along the line of men, making eye contact with each one. He continued, his message delivered with the charismatic fervor of a street corner evangelist. “Don’t doubt. Don’t hesitate. Don’t debate or ponder or question. When I tell you what to do, execute my orders without thinking. If we control the tempo of this fight, we will emerge victorious. It’s really that simple.”
Several heads were nodding now, the ragtag band encouraged. Nick was melting the ice that was fear. He was chipping away at their doubts. He was building their confidence.
“Secondly, and almost as equally important, is to get your weapon into the fight. When the time comes, it will be critical that you aim well and pull the trigger. Again, don’t waver, pause, question, vacillate, or try to wait for the perfect shot. Bullets do not have to hit their targets to be effective. We can deny the enemy the terrain he wants without striking a single foe. We can suppress his own lethality by forcing him to keep his head down. When the time comes, I will show you how to do this.”
“And lastly, I want to talk about the men you will be facing today. I have learned over the years that your enemy is never as strong as what you think he is. The men coming at us today are just men. They are not ten feet tall. They are not crack shots or elite troops or fearless warriors. Right now, as I speak, they are wondering if they will see the sunset, just like you are. They are afraid. Their knees are weak, and their hands are shaking, just like ours. Just remember this: anyone, myself included, who enters a battle should be scared. If you’re not, there’s something seriously wrong with you, and you’re probably not going to make it anyway.”
Spreading his hands wide, Nick continued, “What the difference is… what will control the outcome of this bout, is how you control that fear. You must overcome. You must persist. You must force your legs and arms to move, no matter how frightened or terrified you are. If you push through that barrier, the city of New Orleans and your own lives will belong to you once more. How do you accomplish this? How do you push aside the dread that is surging through your core? You must all convince yourselves, right here, right now, that New Orleans is yours, not theirs. You must commit your heart and soul to the belief that this city belongs to you! That our cause is just. That our fight is for the good. That this community is not going to be held hostage by thugs and criminals any longer, and that we are going to take it back!”
An exhilarating cheer rose from the crowd, smiles breaking out among the de
fenders. Several men stepped forward wanting to shake Nick’s hand. Others exchanged hugs or slapped each other on the back.
Nick let them celebrate for two minutes, then his booming voice reestablished control. “Let’s get moving, gentlemen. We have work to do.”
Bishop was disappointed when the first SUV rolled into view. He could detect only two men inside.
Slowly, the vehicle approached, the Texan’s optic focusing on the front windscreen, his thumb moving toward the carbine’s safety. At five blocks distance, they stopped, the passenger jumping out and stepping to the curb. There, he craned his neck, trying to gain a perspective on an intersection several blocks away.
Following the fellow’s gaze, Bishop noticed standing water blocking an intersection a few blocks away. The plan was working. Blackjack’s boys were worried.
A radio appeared in the man’s hand, his other arm outstretched and pointing to the location where the water was covering the pavement – as if anyone listening could see his grandiose gestures. “He’s more interested in the flood than us,” the Texan whispered to the anxious Charlie at his side.
“Makes sense,” the local responded. “Hell, I would be. If every member of the United States military joined forces against Blackjack, they could not hold a candle to the damage inflicted by a few rainclouds on this little, low-lying speck of earth we call New Orleans.”
After making his report, Blackjack’s henchman returned to the SUV, and soon the vehicle was moving again. “Everybody, hold your fire,” Bishop turned and ordered. “Spread the word.”
The security professional’s team was sited in a two-story building, six blocks away from the pumping station and levee. Bishop was positioned on the top floor, making sure the barrel of his carbine didn’t extend beyond the window’s opening. The sign out front had indicated the facility had once been Jackson’s Department Store, but from the look of things on the inside, the place had gone out of business years before the collapse.
