Apache Dawn: Book I of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  Swede let go of the door to take up a covering position. The bulky metal door swung inward and squealed loudly, steel grinding on steel. Cooper dropped to the deck in surprise. If there were any North Korean soldiers within twenty yards, they had to have heard that awful noise. He glared at Swede, who shrugged and pulled his own rifle forward.

  Cooper heard a shout, followed by another. “Shit,” he hissed. “We’re made. Get ready to fall back.”

  A shadow crossed over the gap in the rubble on the other side of the door and the blue sky disappeared. “Sarge! Over here! I got a door!”

  Cooper and Swede exchanged looks. That voice sounded like it came from Kentucky, not Pyongyang.

  “Hey! You three—yeah you, knucklehead—get your asses over there and help Bonner. Clear that debris away,” barked a voice that could only belong to a drill instructor from Parris Island.

  Cooper held up a fist for Swede, then gripped his rifle and waited. Rocks shifted and dust trickled into the open hatch as many sets of hands attacked the pile of rubble from the other side. The sliver of blue sky began to grow as rocks and bits of the ruined base were removed. He could hear bits of radio chatter and chirps. None of it was in Korean.

  When the last big rock moved to the sounds of three sets of curses, sunlight flooded the little chamber Cooper and Swede occupied. He squinted and tried to make out the silhouette that filled the sky.

  “That’s far enough!” he called out.

  “Holy shit! Friendly! Friendly! Don’t shoot!” said the kid from Kentucky, falling backwards into the rock heap in surprise.

  “Identify yourself!” barked the drill instructor’s voice. Cooper heard weapons brought up and chambered. They were definitely outgunned.

  “You first!” he hollered back. Someone chuckled nervously.

  “Gunnery Sergeant Benjamin Rickston, United States Marine Corps. And you are?”

  Cooper held a tight grip on his rifle. His mind raced—what were the chances that these Marines would want him and his refugees dead, like Colonel Molton? Had President Barron gotten to them as well? An idea occurred to him.

  “Who’s the President?” he yelled.

  “Chesterfield Denton,” hollered the D.I.’s voice, without hesitation.

  Cooper sighed and lowered his rifle. He stood, shaking the dust from his clothes. He took a step forward and met the Marine coming through the hatch with an open hand. “Damn glad to see you.” They shook hands, warrior to warrior. “Master Chief Cooper Braaten.”

  The stocky fireplug of a Marine looked Cooper up and down. “You sure as hell don’t look like any jet jockey I ever seen.” When Swede appeared out of the shadows and startled the other Marines, the Gunnery Sergeant grinned. “You boys must be them SEALs we been lookin’ for.”

  “Want me to call it in, Gunny?”

  The D.I. in front of Cooper made a display of rolling his eyes then turned around to face the young Marine who spoke. “What the fuck do you think, Chavez? Get on the horn and let the Ell-Tee know we found our boys. Go on, git!” He looked back at Cooper and sighed.

  “Round up everyone you can, they told me. Take the greenhorns, they said. It’ll be fine. Invasion or not, they’re gonna get me killed, Chief.”

  Cooper grinned. He liked the Marine already. He introduced Swede as a commotion outside grew louder. Over the constant drone of the engines, he could hear a group of men approaching.

  “The hell is going on out there?” Swede asked, shielding his eyes from the bright light outside.

  “The Reconquista, brother,” grinned the Marine. “The Old Man himself—the Commandant. He arrived on base yesterday like a pissed-off honey badger and stirred up every asset we had. We got the training air-wing out there with half a brigade of infantry and armor. All rolled out of Twentynine Palms about sunset yesterday on a one-way ticket here. The Commandant said he was on a personal mission from God to rescue the President and the SEALs that were protecting him. You’re famous, Chief.”

  “Who the hell said we needed rescuing?” said Cooper, frowning. “We’re SEALs, Gunny.”

  The Marine laughed. “Well, President Denton’s speech sure fired up the Old Man. Hell, it fired up the whole damn country.” The D.I. smiled. “It’s like the NKors hit a damn brick wall. Lots of people took that ‘rise’ speech to heart. And now we’re starting to hold the line. We’re the tip of the spear, brother.” He put a hand to his helmet and listened. “Commandant’s comin’ in to see Denton.”

  “That won’t be easy…” muttered Cooper.

  “Why’s that?”

  “He died right after the speech,” Cooper replied. “The flu.”

  “Well, fuck me sideways.”

  “Where are they?” growled an older man as he pushed his way through the growing throng of Marines gawking at the door into the bunker. “Make way!” Marines snapped to attention and fell over themselves to clear a path.

  Cooper waited for the Commandant to clamber down through the rubble and step into the dusty chamber. He wasn’t sure what to do—after all, these were Marines. In the end, he saluted. “Master Chief Cooper Braaten, US Navy SEALs, sir. Awful happy to see you, sir.”

  The Commandant’s face split into a camera-cracking smile and returned the salute. The older man’s weather-beaten face, his disregard for personal safety—he wore no helmet—his impressive physique…the man was Marine through and through. He had a strong handshake and clapped Cooper on the shoulder, sending a cloud of dust into the air. “Outstanding job extracting the President, Chief—out-fucking-standing.”

  “Sir, pardon my asking, but aren’t you supposed to be in Washington?”

  The Commandant laughed. “Son, there comes a time in every man’s life when he’s got to make up his damn mind and choose a side.” The voice was hoarse from decades of bellowing orders.

  “Sir?”

  “Barron—that little shit—is doing his best to destroy this country. I swore an oath to protect and defend the Constitution, and I intend to keep that oath. And, as long as I’m the Commandant, then by God, the United States Maine Corps will keep it, as well. I’m done containing the North Koreans. We’re going on the offensive—orders or not.” He glared around, as if daring someone to object. “We’re gonna roll these little rice-eating, slant-eyed, backstabbing fucks right back into the Pacific.”

  “Oorah!” barked Rickston, standing at attention next to the Commandant. The call was taken up by the recruits clustered around their Commandant.

  “What about President Barron?” asked Cooper after the cheering died.

  “What about him?” snuffed the Commandant. “I heard President Denton last night. As long as he breathes, he’s the President. Barron just grabbed the reigns.” He waved the idea off. “Besides, I think he’s fixin’ to shitcan my ass anyway. Everything is a completely FUBAR in D.C. Now—where’s President Denton…?”

  Cooper shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry, sir. The President is dead.”

  The old man put a gnarled, yet strong hand on Cooper’s shoulder and sighed. “I’m sorry, son, I really am.” He sighed deeply. “Well, I figured it was a long-shot. He didn’t look so hot during that speech. I just had hoped…I had hoped he would have survived long enough for us to reach you all.” He rolled a shoulder and shook off the melancholy. “You did well, Chief—better than anyone else could have done. Almost as well as a Marine.”

  Cooper wanted to smile but couldn’t. “So who’s the real President, then?”

  “Well, son, I guess my Commander in Chief is now Orren Harris.” The Commandant looked around the rubble at their feet, the dust in the air, and the debris left over from the Korean attack. “I’ll wager he’s got better digs at NORAD than you got here, Master Chief.”

  Cooper’s radio broke squelch: “Chief Braaten,” said Arol’s voice.

  Cooper held up a finger for the Commandant to pause. “Go ahead,” he replied.

  “The base is ours. The CO is weak as a kitten—but spitting mad.” Cooper co
uld hear the smile in Arol’s voice. “I think he’s gonna be all right.”

  “That’s great. I got someone here who’ll want to speak with him.”

  “What did he mean, ‘the base is ours’? What’s the sit-rep?” asked the Commandant, motioning for Cooper to lead them into the bunker.

  Cooper started walking, the Commandant at his side. “The base XO took a personal phone call from President Barron and gathered up the hotheads here,” said Cooper. “He locked up General Williams—the base commander—and tried to take over. They had a heads-up that we were coming and attempted to take us prisoner. Said he had orders—direct from Barron, to execute us.”

  “Mutiny,” growled the Commandant. He pointed at Cooper. “I’m willing to bet those desk jockeys back at the Pentagon are behind this mess. We haven’t seen much in the Corps, but from what I understand, the Army is dealing with a pretty significant amount of desertion. Probably going to get worse now that Denton is gone.” He sighed, as if to say ‘ah well, nothing I can do about that’.

  “So, where is this son-of-a-whore base XO?”

  “He tried to pull a gun on me, sir, so I personally authorized his dishonorable discharge,” Cooper said matter-of-factly.

  The Commandant laughed again as he ducked under a florescent light hanging by a single wire. “You ever change your mind about bein’ in the Navy, you come see me, son. You’d make a damn fine Marine.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Washington, D.C.

  The White House.

  Presidential Emergency Operations Center.

  WHAT THE HELL DO you mean, ‘you can’t get a hold of the Commandant of the Marine Corps’? Find him, you idiot!” hissed the Vice President. She slammed the phone down on the conference table and composed herself.

  President Barron smiled dreamily. She was more than capable of taking over for him for a while. He could go spend some more time with Jayne…

  A side door opened and Jayne entered, carrying a stack of papers and folders. The President lost all thought for his VP and incompetent staffers. All he could smell was her. All he could see was her. He felt his pulse quicken and his groin stir. Jayne winked at him and ignored the VP.

  “They’re ready for you, Mr. President,” Jayne purred. She held the papers across her chest and nodded to Vice President Hillsen.

  “Ms. Reynolds.”

  “Madam Vice President.”

  It was easy for anyone to see there was a distinct animosity between the two women in the room, but the President could care less what Senator—Vice President—Hillsen thought or wanted. He patted his lap and smiled. Jayne peered at him over the rims of her fake glasses—she wore them just for him. The seductive twinkle in her eye made his toes curl. She walked over, hips swaying in her graceful, catlike walk of hers, and lowered herself demurely onto his lap with a sigh.

  The President closed his eyes as the weight of her settled onto his lap. He leaned back in bliss and wrapped his hands around her lithe waist. He rolled his head to the side, as if drunk, and smiled at VP Hillsen. The look of indignation on her face was priceless.

  “Mr. President!” HIllsen hissed. “We—we are about to have a Cabinet meeting. You…you can’t have this…woman…sitting—I mean—it’s just not done…” She was getting more and more flustered by the minute.

  President Barron barked a laugh and tucked one of his hands under Jayne’s blouse, his fingers tingling at the contact with her soft, warm, skin. “Let ‘em look,” he murmured. “Might get a rise out of ‘em, eh?”

  Jayne giggled, the Vice President frowned.

  “Uh,” said someone’s voice from across the room. The President looked around Jayne’s back and saw the bank of monitors were lit up with the faces of the Joint Chiefs and the rest of the Cabinet. One screen—for the Commandant of the Marine Corps—was conspicuously dark.

  Jayne waved coyly to the heads on the screens. More than one flushed pink. The Secretary of State actually grinned before he caught himself and cleared his throat, his face souring.

  “Sir, is this really appropriate−” began the Chief of the Navy.

  “Am I the President of the United States?”

  “Well…of course, sir.”

  “Then I shall do as I please, or I may start looking for a new man to run the Navy. Am I clear?”

  “As a bell, sir.” The Admiral’s neck and jowls turned red.

  “Now,” said the President, as he tickled Jayne's taut belly. She tittered behind a hand and playfully slapped at his roaming fingers. “I thought it high-time to bring our new Vice President up to speed.” He turned to the Chief of the Air Force. “Let’s start things off with China. I believe you have some good news?”

  “I do. If you’ll direct your attention to the middle screen, sir,” said General Andrews in a stiffly formal voice. A screen in the middle changed from the Secretary of Homeland Security’s face to what looked like a satellite image of an urban center somewhere.

  “What is that?” asked Jayne, pointing at the screen. She sounded like a high school girl, her voice full of innocence and curiosity. The President could feel the old comfortable heat in his groin begin to spread through his body. He wanted her. Badly. But he had to suffer through this meeting, at least for appearances.

  The General cleared his throat. “That, Miss…ah…” the loose flesh under his jaw began to turn red. He cleared his throat again. “That’s downtown Pyongyang. This is footage from one of our stealth bombers. We sent in a flight of three out of Wright-Patterson as soon as you gave the green-light.”

  “Looks like a video game,” the President chuckled.

  “General, is this live?” asked the new Vice President.

  “No ma’am,” the General said, his face showing signs of relief in talking to someone that was actually supposed to be attending the meeting. The President frowned. It was clear the General didn’t approve of Jayne, either. He’s no different than the Admiral. That puts him on the shit-list, for sure. I think I’ll just replace all of the cabinet…

  “This was taken about an hour ago.” The face on the wall looked down. The image started to move, clouds winking in and out of the picture, the ground slowly, ever so slowly, rolled by. The President whistled. The plane taking this footage has to be way the hell up there…

  “Roger, Hightower, authentication received. We are go for deployment.”

  “Who said that?” asked the President. His mind was enveloped in a thick fog of Jayne’s scent. She squirmed again in his lap, sending waves of pleasure rippling through his body.

  “That’s the pilot of the stealth bomber, sir,” said the Air Force Chief.

  “Time to target, thirty seconds. Opening the doors.”

  “Doors open,” replied a second voice. A green light flickered to life in the upper corner of the display.

  “That’s the co-pilot’s voice, sir,” said the General.

  The President closed his eyes. “I gathered that, General.” He winked at his new Vice President and chuckled at her embarrassed look.

  “Target acquired. Twenty seconds.”

  “Guidance spooling up. GPS locked on. Payload is locked and loaded,” announced the co-pilot.

  “Ten seconds. Final arming. Lights are green, we’re good to release. On my mark…three, two…one…release.”

  It was all so business-like. So casual. The President stopped paying attention to the voices on the speakers as the pilots announced the bomb was away and they were high-tailing out of North Korean airspace. After the release, the view switched to a 3D display from the nose of the bomb as it tipped down and was pulled by gravity toward a violent death.

  The clouds began to grow larger, then everything went white as the massive ordinance sliced through a cirrus cloud and emerged on the other side. The view of the ground came back abruptly, rushing up to meet the screen. The President leaned forward in his chair, nearly dumping Jayne off his lap in an effort to fight the vertigo rising in his inner ears. He felt as if he were falli
ng forward and down with the bomb.

  Faster still, the bomb raced downward; the factories, the buildings, the roads growing ever larger by the second. A beeping started as the bomb counted down to its own demise, locked on target and guiding itself home. The President gripped the arms of his chair with white knuckles. He could feel the sweat on his forehead. Ever downward the bomb fell, spinning first one way, then the other as it sailed through the air and stabilized it’s trajectory. The numbers counting-down in the upper-left corner of the screen indicated America’s response to the invasion was less than five-thousand feet away now.

  A little radar dish symbol appeared in the upper right corner. The President pointed at the symbol, his other arm wrapped tightly around Jayne’s waist. “What’s that mean?” he gasped.

  “Okay, right now, the North Koreans are attempting to lock on to the bomb with their missile defense system. It won’t work, though—the bomb has already attained terminal velocity. Besides, it’s got jamming and counter measures on board. Once it’s released from the plane, the target is as good as gone,” responded General Andrews from his monitor.

  The President watched the numbers spin and disappear: 900 feet, 800 feet, 700 feet—they turned red, his pulse quickened. Five hundred, four, three—two—one—

  The last image he saw was of a large, industrial building. It must have occupied four city blocks and the roof was littered with satellite dishes. The GPS-guided bomb honed-in on a ventilation shaft in the center of the roof and punched right through before the image went to static.

  On impact, the President’s body jerked with tension, causing Jayne to squeal in surprise.

  “Good kill,” reported the pilot. “Good kill.”

  “Target destroyed,” announced the co-pilot. “Large secondary explosions.”

  “What was it?” asked the President, loosening his tie to get some more air. What a ride! “Can I get a copy of this?”

  “That was the North Korean…well, the closest equivalent is a Parliament building, sir—but it’s largely symbolic. Kim Yon Sul is not in residence. He’s in his bunker, but this will be just as effective. We need the party-elite to be scared for their lives. Kim Yon Sul is absolutely certifiable. He’ll never back down. You said to send a strong message—I think the hardliners in Pyongyang will understand things a little clearer now, Mr. President.”