Apache Dawn: Book I of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  One of the Russians said something and was quickly silenced by the others. Chad turned his head to try and hear better.

  “It is with a heavy heart that I relay the news that President Denton has left this earth to watch over this land that he loved from a better place. I ask all Americans to not only pray for his salvation, but for the salvation of this great land, indeed for the very survival of ourselves and our loved ones and−”

  The radio snapped off. A new, louder voice dominated Chad’s sightless world. He barked out Russian gibberish and by the way feet were scattering in all directions, Chad assumed this new speaker was the man in charge.

  Someone gripped Chad’s face in their hand and pinched painfully in order to turn his head left, then right. They’re examining me like a horse. Someone laughed. More Russian talking. In the distance, he heard the tell-tale whine of heavy machinery coming to life. The hand left his face with a grunt of approval.

  Chad was hauled up to his unsteady feet and carried off to his destiny.

  God, help me…

  COOPER TOOK A LONG pull from his cup and nodded his thanks to the young man that held the water jug. He and Charlie stood with the local Sons of Liberty leadership, staring down at the map of Occupied Boston. They were in the local headquarters—an abandoned Brownstone on the edge of Cambridge.

  They had been discussing the strategy the Sons were using to harass and disrupt the German supply line. Cooper was impressed by the Colonel’s boldness so far. The Sons of Liberty had been such a thorn in Jerry’s side that they had been forced to erect forward operating bases—like the one taken out in JFK Park—all around the city. It was spreading the German presence thin.

  “So, you can see,” said the Colonel, pointing at the map. “We’ve got positions here, here, and here.”

  “It’s not enough, sir,” said Cooper. He hated to say it, but there it was. “On our way in we observed transport ships out in the Bay—and they were using Logan to fly materiel and most likely troops in from Europe.”

  The older man grunted. “Don’t I know it. I’ll give ‘em one thing, they’re wicked efficient. As soon as we take out an outpost or steal a load of supplies, they replace them with two more somewhere else.”

  “How are you set for manpower?” said Charlie, looking around the room. “I didn’t see all that many shooters.”

  The Colonel grinned. “Most of my men are out on patrol—it’s night time, and that’s our time—and Jerry knows it. We’re getting new recruits every day. It’s just a trickle now, but the more they tighten their grip on the city, the more our ranks swell. Mark my words, Master Chief, we’re gonna take back this town, with help from outside or not.”

  “I believe you will, sir. But my priority is bigger than Boston.”

  “Yes, the Professor.” The Colonel crossed his arms. “I don’t know the man,” he shrugged. “But hey, we’ll put the word out. We’ve lost a lot of good people to this damn flu. Must be half the town is in bed sick, now. From what we can tell it’s really taking a toll out west.” He shook his head. “Damn Koreans.”

  “Hey! Everybody shaddup!” someone shouted. A radio was turned on in the background. “It’s the new President!”

  “—likely know all too well, we are beset by a host of trials: the North Korean invasion of the West Coast, the starvation and suffering of our people across the land, and above all, the influenza which is gripping our nation and sickening so many of us.”

  Cooper set his cup down and leaned over the map, willing the location of the Professor to appear to him. He stared at the labyrinth of streets as he listened to his new commander in chief.

  “Let me assure you, I will not rest until we as a people have utterly destroyed each of these threats. In order to do this, we must have a functioning government again, not the tyrannical boondoggle that has been created by Vice President Barron.”

  “Preachin’ to the choir, brother,” muttered Charlie.

  The President’s voice rose in strength: “He illegally seized power in a time of national emergency to advance his twisted political ambition—this runs counter to everything our founding fathers fought and bled for, and insults the sacrifice that every patriot in uniform has made for this country since the Revolution. “

  Cooper looked up at the men gathered around the radio. Modern day Minutemen. Scions of the Revolution. He grinned.

  “I will not stand for this affront to our liberties and will stop at nothing to bring this criminal and his conspirators to justice!”

  “Colonel, thank you for the refreshments. I think it’s time me and my boys get on with our mission. You’ve seen the radios and gear we brought…?”

  “Yes, thank you, Lieutenant. We’ll put them to good use. I’ve already started to distribute the good stuff to the boys in the field. You be sure to spread the word about us and what we’re doing when you get back to…wherever you came from.”

  “Will do, sir.” Cooper picked up his rifle. His Team gathered gear and put their game faces on. “Let’s go find us a professor, boys.”

  YOU SON OF A bitch!” hissed Harold James Barron, President of the United states, as he listened to Orren Harris, President of the United States. Harold was lying on a bed, draped in sheets and blankets that bore the Presidential Seal and were far too heavy to be comfortable. He lay there sweating through President Harris’s speech. Harold was too weak—no thanks to Jayne—to lift an arm and shut off the damn radio.

  Jayne left it on…bitch did that on purpose, he groused to himself.

  “To that end,” continued that imposter’s voice. “I am hereby declaring that in Denver, a new seat of power shall be established during the current crisis. I urge any and all military units and commanders who are loyal to the Constitution and to the America of your birth—join us, as we formulate a strategy to take back our country. Patriot forces are growing daily in number as more and more of our brothers and sisters in arms throw off the shackles of Mr. Barron’s illegal reign and join the fight.”

  “Stupid…sanctimonious…stuck-up…” Harold sputtered in an impotent rage. “Arrrghh!” he roared in frustration, unable to move. She left me so weak…her and Reginald, he fumed in silence.

  “Our brave men and women in uniform, scattered now around the globe, fighting for your very lives, now have a new mission. Get home. Get to Denver. Take back your country. I, as your Commander-in-Chief, therefore order each and every one of you to take control of whatever assets you can and make all speed for home. “

  “Well isn’t that nice,” Harold spat.

  “Commandeer aircraft and fly, capture boats and sail—steal a submarine—I don’t care, just come home. Leave nothing but scorched earth in your wake. I will not tolerate countries around the world rejoicing over our misfortune, after this great nation has done so much, for so many, for so long. Leave your bases and destroy anything you can’t take with you…”

  “So help me, when I get out of this bed—when I’ve dealt with Jayne and Reginald—you…are…next!” screamed the bed-ridden President.

  CAP, SOMEONE WAS DEFINITELY here,” called out Zuka. He was across the airfield by an open hangar. The small airfield was evidently for private planes—the hangars were far too small for even a single-seater fighter jet.

  Captain Alston walked away from the burned husk of the stolen Apache and the body of the blond pilot laying on the ground. She was stone cold dead and had been so for a while, judging by the number of flies on her corpse.

  Captain Alston had been happy to track the transponder on the Apache thanks to the geeks at NORAD, but the trail went cold here in Iowa. It had been a long journey from Salmon Falls, jumping from civilian airport to civilian airport with a couple Ospreys and a squad of Marines on loan. But they were getting close to finding where Chad went. He could feel it.

  “Look,” said Deuce, holding up an empty ammo can. “Russian.” He tossed it to the Captain and went rummaging around inside the hanger.

  “All kinds of map
s and shit in there, too. Definitely Ivan,” said Zuka.

  Captain Alston looked up from the ammo can in his hands with Cyrillic letters and watched the squad of Marines enter the adjoining hangars looking for clues. The two Ospreys assigned to his mission by the Commandant himself were idling at the far end of the runway, the flight crews already hooking up fuel tanks for their next jump.

  “Captain! Think you ought to hear this…” said Deuce from inside the darkened hangar.

  As he approached, Captain Alston could hear the radio Deuce was playing with broadcasting a speech:

  “You are hereby authorized to use whatever force you and your officers deem necessary to get home. Do what it takes and destroy anyone or anything that gets in your way. If you can hear my voice, know this: You are on your own until you reach American soil. Just get home!”

  “The hell is that?” asked Zuka.

  “New President,” said Deuce.

  “Turn it up,” said Captain Alston.

  “I want to urge the good people of America to heed well President Denton’s dying wish to rise-up against Mr. Barron and his European Allies. As much as we appreciate the generosity and support of our European friends, we as a nation grow more and more apprehensive over what is taking place in our cities.

  “The United Nations is sending more and more security personnel to patrol American cities—cities where the Constitution of the United States no longer is the supreme law of the land! Yes, I said it! It is abundantly clear that the United Nations is and has been in an alliance with Mr. Barron for some time.”

  There was a dramatic pause and Captain Alston found himself holding his breath. When the new President’s voice returned, it was quieter, more constrained. More dangerous. “It is unthinkable that a bloated and incompetent organization such as the United Nations could have acted with such speed and coordination as they have shown, without extensive preparation in advance.

  “Now—I know—you and I have heard all the excuses—the riots in the cities are forcing World Health Organization doctors to ask for military escorts. Food distribution locations have been mobbed. People are stealing from one another. While there have been disturbances in many of our larger cities, it is clear to me that these are merely thinly-veiled excuses to increase a military presence. For truly, this large an international operation could not have been anything but pre-meditated. In my book, my fellow Americans, that’s an invasion—an act of war.”

  “That President Harris?” asked a Marine Lieutenant, trotting in from outside. “We’ve been picking up his speech out there—well, the pilots have. It’s on every channel for public broadcast.”

  Captain Alston raised a hand for silence.

  “You good people of New York, Philadelphia, Boston, and all the other occupied cities, fear not—we will not forget you, we will not fail you, will not give up until we have pushed all the invaders—from whatever country they hail—back into the Atlantic…”

  “Sir!” cried Zuka, behind an overturned crate. He stood up holding a partially unfolded, well-used map.

  Captain Alston took the map and looked at the title: Street Map of Charleston, South Carolina. He looked up at Zuka. “This is it,” he said.

  “How you figure, sir?” asked the Marine.

  Captain Alston turned around. “You know those little towns the Russians have been conquering in the south? They’re all marked on this map.” He held it up and showed the Marine the little red circles around the cities unfortunate enough to be under Russian control.

  He spun his hand over his head. As his Rangers began to file out and run for the Ospreys, he called in the news.

  “Overwatch, Hammer 2, Actual. The package is being delivered to Charleston, South Carolina. I say again, the package is being delivered to Charleston, South Carolina! We are moving to intercept, requesting immediate assistance…”

  DENNY PUT DOWN HIS rifle and picked up his binoculars. He was lying on a ridge to the north of town, peering down on the scrub brush that dominated the landscape north of Salmon Falls. After the Battle, the last of the Russians had fled north, hoping to escape the wrath of the citizen-soldiers in the wilderness of Idaho’s Bitterroot Mountains.

  “Picked the wrong town to fuck with, Ivan,” Denny muttered, watching the small figures jump and run in the bushes. He shook his head.

  Damn near the entire town hunts big game here. We can track and shoot, probably better than the Russians. You don’t stand a chance, now that we’ve got momentum.

  He squeezed his throat mic, a parting gift of Captain Alston and the Marines who came to hunt down Chad. “I got my group. Just north of town. They’re heading toward the river.”

  “Okay, Denny. We’ll come west and head ‘em off,” replied the voice of Ansel Johnson. “Oh, you might want to turn on your radio. New President making a speech. Right up your alley.”

  “Okay,” said Denny. He turned on the small radio in his pack and inserted the earbud. He really only carried it for entertainment should he get stranded somewhere on a hunt. It only needed one AAA battery and was about as big as his pinky finger. He had no trouble finding the speech—it was on every station that was still broadcasting.

  “To the Sons of Liberty, to the good people of Salmon Falls, to anyone out there that is struggling under the yoke of oppression, I have a special message: Do not give up the fight! We will support you in any way possible.”

  Well, that’s cool. At least someone out there knows about us now…

  Denny picked up his binoculars and went back to watching the Russians fleeing for their lives. One suddenly jerked sideways mid-jump and fell, lifeless, into a bush. A few heartbeats later, the echo of a rifle shot rolled across the valley floor and reached his ears.

  “Got one!” called out Anse.

  “You have my blessing as President pro tem, to do whatever is necessary to defeat the invaders and secure the freedom of yourself, your family, and your country. Look to the skies, my friends. Where we cannot send active support in the form of military personnel or jets, we will make every effort to airlift supplies to aid you in your fight for freedom.”

  Denny glassed the rest of the Russians. Two were throwing their hands up in surrender. One of the men, his hands up, suddenly clutched his chest and fell over.

  “We’re not taking prisoners,” Denny muttered. “Sorry about the inconvenience.” The other one fell into the brush at his feet. Two rifle shots cracked through the air.

  “Citizens who find themselves in the unhappy situation of living in the occupied West, I say to you: fear not. Your fellow Americans are coming. I urge you to resist the Communists in any way you can. Take back your homes, your cities and join the cause. Be merciless! This is our land, not theirs! If you can make your way to the new border, military personnel will be there to assist you.”

  Denny smiled at the new President’s words. It was as if Grandfather had written the man’s speech. He keyed his mic. “All right everyone, that got ‘em. Now let’s go get that other group that ran west.”

  A WELL-MANICURED HAND GENTLY picked up a crystal tumbler half-full of Glenfiddich 1937 single-malt and swirled the walnut-colored liquid just so. The gold-rimmed crystal raised to a chiseled, aristocratic face and the man closed his eyes at the first touch of the fire on his tongue. He inhaled and savored the hint of cinnamon and cloves as the subtle flavor played its way through his mouth and spread warmth down his throat.

  “Exquisite,” he murmured in a cultured, well-trained voice. He looked into the crackling fire just beyond his slippered feet and pulled the mink bathrobe tighter around his athletic legs.

  “These northern winters can be so brutally cold—but this helps,” he said, examining the play of the through his glass.

  The large man in the business suit on the far wall next to the door nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  He ignored the Swedish guard and looked out the frost-covered window, where the snow fell incessantly. “Ah, to be back in the summer sun of my youth.” He t
urned his attention back to the large screen mounted into the stone wall. The new President of the United States—such as it was—had been giving a fine speech. Quite entertaining.

  “…Pray to God for peace, my fellow Americans; pray to Him for salvation, for sustenance, for the safe return of our fighting men and women overseas. But above all, pray to God for our complete and unconditional VICTORY. God bless you all, and God bless this, the greatest land on Earth. Good night…”

  “Yes,” said the man with a wolf-like smile. “By all means, pray, you American sheep. Pray.”

  The side door opened and a woman who wore more skin than clothing sashayed into the room, silhouetted by the light streaming in through the open door. The man turned his full attention on her. Her flowing golden mane, the athletic thighs, the glorious bosom, the perfectly-tanned skin. She was perfection, and he could tell by the way she moved, she knew it.

  He put the crystal goblet down carefully on the silver tray next to his plush leather recliner. “Ah, my dear Jayne. It has been too long.”

  She smirked at him. “You got a call.” In one smooth motion, she lifted the high-slit length of her silk dress and unclipped a cell phone from the silky lace garter that snuggly gripped her tanned thigh. She winked and tossed it to him.

  “Oh, my dear, you are so good,” he said catching the phone deftly in one hand.

  She blew him a kiss and turned slowly on her high heels. “You have no idea.”

  He waited to answer the vibrating phone and watched her stately exit from the room. “I will…,” he promised himself with a smile. When the door closed behind his most promising agent, he shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. Only then did he click the phone on and put it to his ear.

  “Yes?”

  “Please hold for the President,” said a woman in a clipped voice.

  “Oh, of course,” he replied, his voice dripping charm.

  “Hello?” asked a new voice.