Harden

by D. J. Molles

  “You have a good time?” Angela asked.

  A simple enough question, but Sam sensed an underlying curiosity. He stopped and turned when he felt he was a safe enough distance away that she couldn’t smell his liquor-breath.

  “Yeah. Just tired. Gotta work tomorrow. Gonna get some sleep.”

  “Marie made some dinner, if you’re hungry,” she called after him.

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  Actually, he realized he was very hungry, but felt the need to be hidden in his room.

  He made it to his room and closed the door behind him with a sense of relief.

  It wasn’t until he was lying in his bed five minutes later, staring at the dark ceiling, that Charlie’s words came back to haunt him again.

  Just weird stuff. Like stuff it seems they don’t want us to know about.

  What the hell had Colonel Staley been doing here this late at night?

  TWENTY-TWO

  ─▬▬▬─

  BEST LAID PLANS

  They buried Tomlin in a quiet corner of the cemetery on Cedar Street.

  The old cemetery was across the road. Its stone and concrete monuments visible.

  In the new section of the cemetery, there was very little to mark the graves accept for the sunken ground of the old ones, and the raised ground of the new ones, and occasionally a crude wooden cross.

  There had been a lot of death in the last two years.

  Lee thought there would continue to be.

  How long? Lee wondered. How long is it going to be like this? Are things ever going to be normal again? Or will it be like this forever?

  Mitch and his team arrived close to midnight the night before. They woke up early enough to do the heavy digging. Julia insisted on helping them dig, and further insisted that her three wounded teammates not worsen their situation with heavy labor.

  Lee, Abe, Carl, and Julia took the honor of lowering the body into the grave.

  Lee stood, sweating in the mid-morning sun, looking down at Tomlin’s form in the grave. Ed had provided them with a white bedsheet in which to wrap the body. Spots of it had turned brown as the oil still on Tomlin’s body soaked through.

  Lee swallowed gummy spit and cleared his throat. “Brian knew he was going to die. Just like all of us know we’re going to die. Eventually.” He kept his eyes on the form in the grave. Didn’t want to look up into anyone else’s gaze. “He told me that when he finally went, not to do the thing where everyone says a bunch of sappy bullshit. His words, not mine.” Lee wanted to smile at the memory of Tomlin’s blunt manner, but couldn’t. “He told me that all he wanted was to know that whenever we were together around a campfire, and especially if we had something to drink, that we just pour a bit out and remember him, and that would be enough.”

  Lee took a deep breath that stretched his heavy chest. He nodded to the departed. “And we will.”

  Then Lee bent down, tossed a handful of dirt in. And then everyone else did as well.

  We are born surrounded, Lee thought. And spend our lives fighting to the death.

  Mitch and his guys shoveled the dirt back in.

  Lee walked away from his friend’s grave, speaking to a ghost.

  What am I going to do now, Brian? What’s the team going to do? Without you to pick us up, all they got is my gloomy ass. We needed you, Brian. I have no fucking idea what we’re going to do now.

  But he knew what they were going to do. It was the only thing that they could do. It was the only answer to the question. It was the only solution to the problem. It was the punchline to every god-awful joke. It was inescapable for them.

  For him.

  For who he was.

  It was the tidal pull of violence, like it was all the oceans of the world, and every river led to it eventually.

  ***

  They met in the roll call room of Ed’s sheriff’s station-turned-headquarters.

  Mitch’s team included the old Huckleberry Hound, Rudy, as well as Morrow, he of the wild mountain-man beard and hair—topped by his ancient Multicam ballcap—and their two younger operators from the 82nd Airborne, Logan and Blake.

  Ed and Paolo were also in attendance. Ed, because he wanted to know what was going on, and Paolo, because he was their only source of local intelligence for Alabama.

  The roll call room was small, because the department had been small, but they all fit in. There was a single long table at which all of them were able to sit, shoulder-to-shoulder. Lee stood at the head of the table and looked at Paolo.

  “How much do you know about Nuevas Fronteras?”

  “We had some ties with other local groups,” Paolo said, thinking as he spoke. “The ones further south were the first to go under. Which I think supports your theory that they’re coming out of the south.”

  Carl put his elbows on the table. Steepled his fingers. “What do you mean ‘go under’?”

  Paolo shrugged. “They were taken over by this cartel. Or what I now assume to be this cartel. It makes sense that it would be the same people, but I can’t tell you for certain.”

  “I think it’s a safe assumption,” Lee said. “What do you know about how they took over?”

  “Same way they took over my place at Bullock County Correctional. They swooped in. Made threats to the folks that lived there. And the folks that lived there either went with it, or they went packing. Or they were killed.” He raised his eyes to Lee. “Honestly, I think most of the people just went with it. I only heard about one instance where they might’ve just wiped the whole settlement off the map.”

  Lee planted his hands on the table and considered. “Here’s what we need. Ultimately, we need to confirm the location of a place from which we can steal their fuel. That might be the location where they took Carl. Or there might be a better place to hit. But that’s what we need to find out.”

  Mitch leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. “How confident are we that they even have the pumps running? That they even have refined oil?” He arched his eyebrows. “I mean, it’s not like the oil rigs are just taps you can turn on and out comes JP-eight, you know?”

  Carl nodded. “You’re right about that. All I can say is that it was definitely a pumping station, and it was definitely pumping. Now, all I saw was crude oil.” A pause here. A flash of grimness across Carl’s features. “But they had that much running. And it’s obvious that they themselves have access to fuel. It’s possible that they’re getting it out of old fuel reserves, but…”

  Lee picked up where Carl trailed off. “Look. Here’s where I stand on it: If the UES had the wherewithal to get a nuclear power station up and running again, then I suspect that a powerful cartel could get people working for them to get the oil rigs running again, and the refineries pumping out fuel. It’s not that big of a stretch for the imagination.”

  Mitch scratched at his beard. “I suppose that’s true.”

  Lee turned back to Paolo. “What we need to figure out is where the fuel is coming from. Is it all stored in one location? Or do they have the infrastructure in place to be pumping it through the pipelines? We need to know how they’re keeping their people fueled up.”

  Paolo shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lee, I can’t really speak to that.”

  “I know you can’t. I’m not asking you to. What we’re going to need is someone who does know, and in my mind, that means it has to be one of these cartel motherfuckers.”

  Mitch raised his head. “So you wanna snatch one of them.”

  “Yes. But the problem is, the most likely place to find one of them is going to be from one of these settlements that they’ve taken over. And when word gets back that one of their guys got snatched, that’s going to come back on the settlement. And I don’t want to burn these people. We’re going to need them working with us. And if they know that they’re going to get massacred for helping us, then we’re going to get a lot of doors slammed in our faces.”

  Carl frowned. “Back when we were Delta, we did a f
ew operations in Central America.” He looked at Lee. “The cartels rule these places through fear. And it is not easy to get a local populace to work with you. They’re fucking terrified. And understandably so. The things that these animals do to people that betray them…”

  “I know,” Lee said. “And that’s why we need to do this fast. We need to get in, get what we need, and secure the people that helped us before word can get back to whoever this El Cactus guy is. We have an advantage here, and that’s that people can’t just pick up a cell phone and dime us out.”

  “They might have satphones like we do,” Carl pointed out. “In my experience, they’re typically very well equipped. And, if they are in league with Briggs, who knows what kind of hardware they’re getting from Greeley.”

  “They might have satphones,” Lee acknowledged. “But if we select the right settlement, then we limit our chances of one of the locals using it against us.”

  Paolo blew a breath through his lips. “What constitutes the ‘right settlement’?”

  “Someplace that doesn’t want them there,” Lee answered.

  Paolo shook his head. “Hell, Lee. I don’t think anybody wants them there.”

  “Someplace where the people are pissed. That’s what we need. If there’s a settlement that got made an example of, then, yes, they’ll be living in fear, but there’s also going to be some folks whose family and friends were murdered. They’re going to be the people that won’t turn around and give us up.”

  Mitch flicked his fingers into the air and then gestured at Paolo. “What about his old place? The correctional place?”

  Paolo made a negative noise in the back of his throat. “Shit. As much as I’d love to kick their asses out of my place, I just don’t think it’ll work. There’s too many of the guys there that were a little too quick to accept their terms.”

  Lee looked at Mitch. “It’s too hard of a target anyways.”

  Mitch smiled. “Too hard?”

  “Too risky. I’ll put it that way. I’m sure all you hellraisers could take the place. Eventually. But how many are we going to lose in the process?” Lee shook his head. “No. Truth is, there are no acceptable losses for us right now. We’re already behind the eight ball. We can’t afford to take that kind of risk.”

  “Well,” Paolo said. “I think I might have a good target for you.”

  Collectively, the group turned their eyes to him.

  “You remember Eileen, right?” He asked Lee.

  “The ornery old lady from your group?”

  Paolo smirked. “Yeah. That’s her. She came from a different group. Group that got hit by the cartel. That settlement’s still there. But…they’re no friends of the cartel, I can tell you that. And neither is Eileen.”

  “Where’s the settlement?”

  “Not real far,” Paolo said. “Little closer to the Mississippi line, I think.”

  Julia leaned forward to see Paolo around the bulk of Mitch. “Will she go with us? And will her people still trust her?”

  Paolo looked at Julia. “Yeah, I think they’ll trust her. And yes. She’ll go with you. I think she’ll do just about anything to get back at those people.”

  Lee pushed himself up off the table. “Sounds like we need to go get Eileen.” He looked at Mitch and inclined his chin. “You said you brought some hardware from Bragg?”

  Mitch smiled and nodded. “Oh yeah. We brought you some goodies.”

  Lee jerked his head to indicate the outside. “Well, I’d like to go see those goodies.”

  ***

  Lee pulled a long, tan Pelican case from the back of Mitch’s truck, and set it on the tailgate. On the side of it was scrawled in magic marker, HARDEN.

  “Honestly,” Lee said over his shoulder to Mitch. “This is all I was hoping for.”

  “Yeah, I figured,” Mitch drawled. “But we also brought plenty of extra ammo and mags. And a bit of ordnance.” Mitch leaned over the truck bed and patted another, large Pelican case. “Brought my baby. You know. Just in case.”

  Lee managed a smirk. “It can’t hurt.”

  Well, it could hurt. But mostly other people. Mitch’s “baby” was an M32A1 multi-shot grenade launcher, with a revolving cylinder for six 40mm grenades. He’d used it to devastating effect in the past. And you just never knew when you might need to blow something up.

  Back to his own cased weapon, Lee unsnapped it and lifted the cover. Packed into the foam interior was his M14, outfitted with a scope and a high, adjustable cheek rest. The rattle-can paint job he’d put on it still held the marks of its long usage. The handguard, grip, and cheekrest were all worn down to the original black. The polymer magwell chewed up from numerous reloads.

  Lee typically stuck to his M4 and his trusted Aimpoint optic. But every once in a while, you needed to reach a little further, or hit a little harder. And for that, the .308 rifle, and the magnified optic mounted on it, were called for.

  Lee snapped the case closed again. “Don’t need it right now,” Lee said, sliding the case back in amongst the rest of the goodies. “But, I got a feeling that as banged up as I am, I might be more useful on overwatch than on assault.”

  ***

  Major John Bellamy sat in his office in the Greeley Green Zone.

  He stared at his computer. Stared at the prompt asking him ARE YOU SURE?

  Am I sure? What a stupid fucking question.

  The first shipment of fuel had arrived that morning, driven all the way from Louisiana. A convoy of ten HEMTT trucks with the fuel tanker attachment, dispatched from Greeley the week prior. Thirty-five thousand gallons of diesel, and thirty-five thousand gallons of jet fuel.

  They were pumping their payload into fuel cisterns at that very moment. And then they’d be off again, to make the same round trip.

  By the end of the month, Greeley would have enough fuel to run their tanks and helicopters again. Depending on how their relationship with Mateo Espinoza blossomed over the coming months, they might be fueled up for the foreseeable future.

  And all John had to do was sign his soul over to the devil.

  ARE YOU SURE?

  No, I’m not fucking sure.

  But it wouldn’t be the first time in John’s military career that they gave massive stockpiles of weapons to a contingent of people that might not be so friendly to them in the long run. For a military that was supposedly so good at strategy, it didn’t seem like they thought about the consequences of their actions very often.

  John’s gaze rose from the insipid question on his computer to the large map of the United States that hung on his wall. On each state was the picture of a face. Each face belonged to a Coordinator from Project Hometown. Beneath each face was a single sticky note, and on those notes were written one of three things: GREELEY; NONVIABLE; or just a question mark.

  His own face looked back at him there, posted in the center of the state of Wyoming.

  The sticky note under his face read GREELEY.

  Over in North Carolina, Lee Harden looked back at him, and under his face it read NONVIABLE.

  Below that, in South Carolina, Brian Tomlin hung, and his sticky note also said NONVIABLE, except that now there was a big black X written in marker over Brian’s face.

  Dead.

  The most NONVIABLE that you could ever be.

  Most of the interior states—the Dakotas, Nebraska, Missouri, etcetera—said GREELEY. All of those Coordinators had heeded the call of President Briggs. They abandoned their original mission and signed their numerous bunkers full of resources over to the powers that be.

  The northeastern states were all dead. Died when everything had gone to shit. The populations too dense. Too many people got infected and went mad all at once.

  A few of the southeastern states, such as Florida and Georgia were labeled NONVIABLE, but their pictures had also been X’d out. They were dead because President Briggs had ordered them so.

  Most of the West Coast was a question mark. No one knew about them. Had they
made it? Were they NONVIABLE? Were they trying to get to Greeley? Or were they dead too?

  His eyes then drifted down to Texas.

  Oklahoma. New Mexico. Arizona.

  All question marks.

  He looked back to his computer.

  To the prompt there on the screen.

  ARE YOU SURE?

  In the end, it wasn’t about whether he was “sure” or not.

  It was about whether he would follow his orders.

  He clicked the button that said YES, and transferred control of eight bunkers full of weapons, ammunition, ordnance, food, and medicine, straight into the hands of Mateo Ibarra Espinoza. All eight bunkers in Alabama.

  On the map, the face posted to the state of Alabama was Captain Perry Griffin, and his sticky note said GREELEY.

  In fact, Perry’s office was three doors down from John’s.

  He closed the laptop computer with an irritable snap.

  He rose from his seat and walked to his office door, which hung open a few inches. He closed it, then went to his desk and unlocked the bottom drawer. He pulled a box of files out of the way and picked up the satphone that lay underneath. He extended the antenna. Dialed a number.

  It buzzed twice on the other end before a voice answered: “Hello.”

  Not “Hello?” like a question.

  The person on the other end already knew who was calling.

  “Tex,” John said, keeping his voice quiet. The walls around here could be thin.

  “Whatcha got?”

  John stared at the map on his wall as he spoke, low and clear and careful. “Lee is in Alabama. I think he’s going to try to move on the Nuevas Fronteras.”

  There was a pause on the other end, as the information was absorbed.

  Then: “Roger that. We’ll find him.”

  And that was it.

  John shut off the satphone. Collapsed the antenna. Put it back where he got it. Put the file box over it again. Closed and locked the drawer.