The Loyal Nine
Page 1
The Loyal Nine
Book One
The Boston Brahmin Series
A novel by
Steven Konkoly
&
Bobby Akart
Copyright Information
© 2015 Stribling Media. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of Stribling Media.
Contents
Dedications
Acknowledgements
About the Authors
About The Loyal Nine and the Boston Brahmin Series
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
PART TWO
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
PART THREE
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
PART FOUR
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
PART FIVE
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
History of the Original Loyal Nine
Teaser Chapters for CONSPIRACY GAMES (Book 2)
Dedications
To our families for their tireless support and love.
To the Founding Fathers,
whose vision and bravery built America.
Acknowledgements
To the usual suspects — Pauline Nolet, Jeroen ten Berge,
Stef Mcdaid, and our “Street Team.”
Thank you!
About the Authors
Steven Konkoly
Steven graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy in 1993, receiving a Bachelor of Science in English Literature. He served the next eight years on active duty in various Navy and Marine Corps units.
From leading Visit, Board, Search and Seizure (VBSS) operations as a boarding officer in the Arabian Gulf, to directing Close Air Support (CAS) as a Forward Air Controller (FAC) assigned to a specialized Marine Corps unit, Steven’s “in-house” experience with a wide variety of regular and elite military units brings a unique authenticity to his writing.
His first novel, The Jakarta Pandemic (2010), explored the world of “prepping,” well before television and books popularized the concept. Hailed as a “grippingly realistic” family survival story, The Jakarta Pandemic introduced thousands of readers to the unfamiliar concept of “survival in the suburbs,” motivating many of them to take the first steps to better prepare themselves for a major disaster. His recently launched series, The Perseid Collapse, continues Steven’s legacy of engaging (and informative) post-apocalyptic (SHTF) fiction.
Steven lives with his family in coastal, southern Maine, where he wakes up at “zero dark thirty” to write for most of the day. When “off duty,” he struggles to strike a balance between a woefully short sailing season and unreasonably long winter.
You can contact Steven directly by email (StevenKonkoly@TheBostonBrahmin.com) or through his website www.StevenKonkoly.com
Bobby Akart
Born and raised in Tennessee, Bobby Akart received his Bachelor’s degree with a dual major in Economics and Political Science. He not only understands how the economy works, but the profound effect politics has on the economy as well. After completing his undergraduate degree at Tennessee in three years, he entered the dual degree program obtaining a Juris Doctor combined with an MBA — Master of Business Administration at the age of twenty-three.
His education perfectly suited him for his legal career in banking, trusts and investment banking. As his legal career flourished, business opportunities arose including the operation of restaurants and the development of commercial real estate. But after meeting and marrying the love of his life, they left the corporate world and developed online businesses.
A life changing event led them to the Cumberland Plateau where he and his wife lead a self-sustainable, preparedness lifestyle. Bobby and Danni are unabashed preppers and share their expert knowledge of prepping via their website www.FreedomPreppers.com.
Bobby lives in the back woods of the Cumberland Plateau with the love of his life, his wife and fellow author Danni Elle, their two English Bulldogs a/k/a The Princesses of the Palace, a variety of farm animals, eight Pekin Ducks and a herd of a dozen bunnies, and counting.
You can contact Bobby directly by email (BobbyAkart@TheBostonBrahmin.com) or through his website www.BobbyAkart.com
About The Loyal Nine and the Boston Brahmin Series
Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.
~ George Santayana, philosopher and novelist
America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves.
~ Abraham Lincoln
Works of fiction are often based upon a historical premise, and the Boston Brahmin series is no exception. The Loyal Nine takes its name from nine patriotic Bostonians who took a stand against the tyrannical rule of Great Britain. As the British exerted more control over the colonists, especially in the form of taxes — anger and resentment rose to a crescendo, resulting in the War for Independence. You can read about the history of the original Loyal Nine here.
Similar to the events leading up to the Revolutionary War, a string of disastrous social, economic and institutional crises will conspire in The Boston Brahmin series to land the newly minted Loyal Nine at the same critical decision point reached in 1765 by their ancestors—choose tyranny or freedom. Of course, nothing is exactly what it seems in the Boston Brahmin series, which will make the Loyal Nine’s choice even more important for the survival of an independent United States.
Writing a series of this magnitude takes a considerable amount of planning and research. It also asks the reader to become vested in the journey of the characters. Read with us. Learn with us. Get involved in the backstory and details of the novels by visiting our frequently updated, fan dedicated website The Boston Brahmin . We encourage you to interact with us on social media. We truly enjoy conversing with our fans — all of whom we consider friends.
We hope you enjoy this epic, history-rich thriller series. Torn from the headlines, The Boston Brahmin Series presents a nation plunged into chaos by enemies “foreign and domestic”. Only The Loyal Nine, a patriotic group of descendants of our Founding Fathers can stop the collapse and restore the American republic.
Join The Loyal Nine in their quest to save our country fr
om collapse. Thanks for reading!
PART ONE
Chapter 1
December 15, 2015
Shirokino, Ukraine
No warning preceded the artillery barrage. A sharp detonation shook the BTR-7 “Defender,” knocking the American halfway off the troop compartment bench, as fragments thunked against the armored personnel carrier’s thin protective plate. Personal equipment and gear attached to the inside of the starboard-side hull popped loose, tumbling into the tight aisle.
He traded knowing looks with the Ukrainian Special Operations team assigned to escort him. There was nothing they could do to improve the situation. Combat was defined by probability and statistics, and they all knew what to expect next. The second round in the barrage would either land closer or farther from the vehicle, deciding their fate—and there was no way to hide from it.
The next explosion straddled the road, violently rocking the vehicle on its eight-wheel chassis. Fragments punctured the port-side hull, hissing and ricocheting through the armored coffin. The soldier seated to his right snapped backward against the vehicle’s hard interior and slid motionlessly off the bench. Screams of pain pierced the compartment, quickly muted by successive high-explosive blasts. He tucked his knees into the metal bench, making room for the team’s medic, who sprang into action from the back of the vehicle.
“This one is gone,” the American said in broken Russian, lifting the dead soldier’s black watch cap.
A jagged, charred hole appeared above his left eyebrow, evidence that a small red-hot fragment had passed through the wool hat and penetrated his skull. The Special Operations medic directed a flashlight beam at the grisly sight and nodded, pushing through the cramped compartment to reach the source of the screaming near the vehicle’s turret. By the sound of the soldier’s cries, the wound had to be severe. Special Operations soldiers had a predilection for suffering in silence, and this one was kicking and screaming.
The barrage lifted as quickly as it arrived, leaving them alone for the rest of the short ride to the Shirokino front. A few minutes later, after they had calmed the wounded soldier, the vehicle commander’s voice echoed through the vehicle, spurring the soldiers into action. A pair of soldiers lifted the hatches above the troop compartment, squeezing their equipment-laden torsos through the openings. Shirokino was a fluid battlefront against pro-Russian separatist forces, and the vehicle commander wanted three hundred and sixty degree situational awareness as they approached their destination. Freezing rain sprayed through the hatches, driven by a brutal wind that had accompanied a rare Crimean weather front.
The vehicle slowed, and his escort team slid toward the starboard-side exit hatch. When the vehicle stopped, the soldiers opened the two-piece door, disappearing through the hull. The mercenary followed them into the driving rain, sprinting toward a series of drab, pockmarked Soviet-era buildings surrounded by barren trees. He stole a glance at the BTR-7 behind them, seeing two shredded tires. He’d always thought four tires on each side was overkill, but maybe the Soviets had been onto something with their original BTR design.
He kept pace with the commandos, stopping at a low-profile, earthen bunker just inside the tree line. Two serious-looking, heavily armed men wearing dark green camouflage uniforms and ballistic helmets greeted them at the sunken, heavy-wooden-beam-framed entrance to a reinforced defensive checkpoint. Splintered tree trunks and mangled branches gave him reason to believe the area was frequently targeted by separatist artillery. The cold rain was bad enough.
The gruff-looking soldiers fired a string of questions at the Ukrainian commandos, who rapidly answered and stepped aside. All he understood from the exchange was the word Amerykans’kyy. The Ukrainian and Russian languages didn’t share enough in common to assure mutual intelligibility.
One of the soldiers asked another round of questions, clearly frustrating the Ukrainian commandos. The second soldier stared at him intensely, almost pathologically, as the rain streamed down his helmet.
“Is there a problem?” he said in Russian, hoping to break this little stalemate.
“Big problem. Our commander doesn’t want to meet with you today,” said the psychotic-looking soldier.
“That’s not what I was told an hour ago,” he replied. “Good men have died bringing me here.”
The man scoffed at the statement, causing a visible scowl from one of the Ukrainian commandos.
“You got a problem?” said the soldier, nodding at the commando.
The Ukrainian Special Operations officer shook his head and muttered in Russian, loud enough for them to hear, “Militia scum.” Instead of the lethal knife fight or point-blank gun battle he expected, the unstable-looking soldier took a step back and laughed.
“Well, this militia scum has liberated more territory in a month than the Ukrainian military has recaptured in a year,” he said, motioning for him to step forward. “We’ll return this guy after the meeting. Go on—before the separatists drop more shells on your head.”
He nodded at the commando leader, who had been assigned to deliver him, unarmed and unharmed, to the infamous Azov Battalion’s forward headquarters in Shirokino. Andriy Biletsky, the ultranationalist founder and leader of the Azov Battalion, promised to meet with him during an inspection of the battalion’s front-line positions. He would have much preferred to catch up with Biletsky in a quiet bar or swank restaurant in Kyiv, but the enigmatic leader had proven elusive and especially distrustful of foreign interests. His benefactors’ research indicated that Biletsky’s battalion was bankrolled exclusively by Ukrainian oligarchs, a sign of his ultranationalist loyalty.
His mission was to change that. The former Navy SEAL officer turned mercenary had been sent to make an offer his benefactors hoped Biletsky wouldn’t refuse. It wouldn’t be an easy sell. Azov Battalion had fought hard to recapture Mariupol from the pro-Russian rebels, pushing the separatists to the outskirts of Shirokino, where the battle had stalemated for months. His benefactors’ offer of guaranteed, continued arms shipments and financial support came with a high price tag. A price tag he was afraid to mention.
“Follow me,” said the soldier, motioning toward the building directly ahead of them. “He has a bunker beneath the building. You speak Russian, huh? Amerykans’kyy still study Russian?”
“Some enemies never change,” said Nomad.
The man laughed, slapping him on the shoulder before heading toward the abandoned apartment block. As the two men drew closer to the structure, he could tell that the buildings had been subjected to sustained bombardment. The sturdy, four-story concrete testaments to Soviet construction stood unfazed despite extensive superficial damage to an otherwise featureless façade. Sturdy construction was about all these buildings had going for them, and in the end, it was all they needed. He seriously doubted any similarly sized building designed in the United States could have withstood this kind of high-explosive facelift.
He detected a sniper on the third floor, four windows from the corner; the faintest glare from the shooter’s scope contrasted with the darkness of the room beyond the missing window pane. He guessed the sniper was relatively inexperienced, possibly assuming that the rain and overcast skies would be enough to conceal him. Maybe to the untrained eye, but certainly not his. He’d started scanning for possible sniper hides as soon as his feet hit the frozen mud next to the armored vehicle.
“Inside that door,” said the soldier, pointing to the blasted frame of a double-sized doorway in the middle of the ground floor. “Another group will escort you to the colonel. They’re watching us.”
He nodded and jogged toward the opening, detecting movement inside the darkened entryway. He hated gigs like this. Multiple handoffs, different personalities—the perpetual feeling that you’re one twitchy finger away from being shot in the face. Staring into the shadowy entrance, he had no doubt that more than one set of stone-cold killer eyes had already lined him up through the iron sights of an AK-74.
“Hello?” he yelled,
cautiously approaching the abyss.
The distinctive whistle of a passing artillery shell replaced the silence, spurring one of the hidden militiamen to lurch out of the darkness and grab him by the jacket.
“Get the fuck inside, you idiot,” the man grumbled, tossing him through the opening as he yelled, “Incoming!”
He stumbled over broken glass, striking a cinderblock wall several feet into the building. A pair of hands seized his shoulders from behind, steering him through a maze of dark hallways to a set of stairs lit by a hanging kerosene lantern. A soldier appeared inside the door leading into the hidden bunker, partially illuminated by the soft glow of the lantern.
“Amerykans’kyy,” said his unseen escort.
“Spasybi, Vika, I’ll take him from here,” said the soldier, instantly switching to classroom-taught English. “You’re late. He’s been waiting.”
“We had to take a detour outside of Mariupol. The roads don’t appear to be secure in this sector,” said Nomad, sensing that he was finally talking to someone in charge.
“No shit. We’re anticipating a Russian-backed assault on Mariupol any day now. Russian Spetsnaz are roaming the countryside, creating havoc. The front line here is more or less a sham at this point. Whatever you have to say to the colonel better be quick. We’re pulling the battalion back within the hour. Anton Teresenko, Colonel Biletsky’s deputy subcommander,” said the soldier, extending a hand.
“Nomad. I’ll keep my proposal short and to the point,” he said, accepting the man’s solid grip.
“Good. He doesn’t like foreigners, just in case you hadn’t heard,” said Teresenko.
“I don’t blame him. They tend to get in the way of a nation’s affairs,” said Nomad.
“Follow me, and don’t speak unless spoken to. The colonel’s not in a good mood,” he said, rapidly descending the stairs.
The corridor extending beyond the bottom of the stairwell was lit by randomly hung kerosene lamps, leaving shadowy gaps in the long, sterile hallway.