State of Emergency: Jack Emery 2

by Steve P Vincent

  She followed Four around a corner, then ducked instinctively as a weapon barked from somewhere. She heard a grunt in her earpiece as she crouched onto the hard concrete, her eyes searching for the shooter. The shooter’s mistake was peering up to see if he’d hit anything – in her night-vision goggles his head was easy to spot above the wooden crates he was using for cover. She put a round straight through his skull, then stood and scrambled to where Four had gone down.

  “Two, Three, keep going.” She crouched beside Four. “You okay?”

  The other man nodded, though he gripped at his chest and was sucking in quick breaths. “Took one on the Kevlar, but I’m good to go.”

  “Okay.” She nodded and they followed Two and Three. She rounded a corner and discovered they'd put down the remaining State Guardsmen.

  “Commence phase three.” She was moving as she gave the order. “I want the explosives planted and ready in four minutes.”

  The team split and she jogged toward the base of the first container stack. She let her carbine hang from its strap as she removed her backpack, threw it on the ground and unzipped it. Inside were enough explosives to land her in prison for several lifetimes. She pulled one of the compact bombs from the bag and secured it to the side of the container. Once she was satisfied, she raised the small antenna and flicked the switch on the device. A green light glowed.

  She picked up the bag and moved on to the next stack. The bombs her team was busy planting were a mix of high explosives and incendiary devices, so whatever didn’t blow would hopefully burn. They wouldn’t destroy the entire facility or even all of the supplies, but they’d make a mess. It was all a small team could do to such a large facility. She was confident the result would be the same: a vital facility crippled, a state short of critical supplies further stretched and a nation stressed.

  “Uh, incoming.” Five’s voice drawled in her ear. “A pair of State Guard Humvees are closing on gate B. They're a few minutes out.”

  She stopped in her tracks. They’d planned to be gone before any reinforcements arrived. The nearest State Guard units should have been over an hour away, and local law enforcement wouldn’t respond to such a dangerous situation. It was a problem. Given the amount of explosives they’d had to haul along, the team had packed lightly: they certainly weren’t geared up for a prolonged fire fight with any sort of capable foe. She considered her options for a moment and then decided.

  “Okay, Five, Six, stay cool for now. The rest of you finish up, then find some cover just inside gate B and await my order. You’ve got one minute.”

  She planted her last bomb.

  ***

  Callum drummed his hands on the back of the passenger seat as the Humvee raced along the road. Pettine was at the wheel, singing along to the song at the top of his voice, while Bowles simply laughed and shook his head. The newest addition to their small squad – a small guy named Tony Harrington – didn’t seem to know what to make of the situation, so simply smiled and cradled his carbine. A second Humvee followed them.

  They were all in good spirits considering the lack of sleep they’d all had. The order had come through that afternoon to redeploy from Bartlett, where Callum had spent three uneventful months since the liquor store shooting. Their new assignment was to guard one of the large FEMA distribution centers. They were nearly there, but it was almost midnight. Callum knew he’d be paying for the lack of a full night’s sleep for days.

  The car started to slow. Pettine turned his head. “Hey, Cal, there’s something wrong.”

  Callum sat higher, leaned to his left and looked through the windshield. Up ahead the Humvee’s headlights brightened the gatehouse of the distribution facility. It should have been flooded with light, even at this hour, and there should have been a pair of State Guard troops looking to share a joke before they were relieved. Instead, all they saw was a closed chain-link gate and an empty hut with blood sprayed all over the glass.

  “Heads up guys, I’m going to call it in.” Callum held his carbine in one hand and reached for the radio with the other. “Command this is Mobile Four.”

  There was a brief pause before the radio squawked back. “Go, Four.”

  “We’ve reached Distribution Center Echo. The lights are out, nobody’s around and there’s blood. No visible bodies but they can’t be far away. Any info for me?”

  “Standby.”

  Callum placed the radio handset on the seat beside him and checked his weapon. The carbine was cradled between his legs, barrel facing the floor. Callum ejected then reloaded the magazine and checked the safety. Around him, Bowles and Harrington had their weapons ready, while Pettine had one hand on the wheel and the other on his sidearm. Callum hoped that the troops in the other Humvee were ready as well.

  The radio crackled. “Mobile Four, we’ve no reports of power outages at that facility and the guards haven’t reported any problems.”

  Callum tensed. “Well, I’m staring at a problem. They haven’t reported anything because they’re most likely all dead.”

  “Move in with Mobile Three to investigate. We’re routing Mobile Seven, Mobile Twelve and Air One to you.” The voice on the other end was dispassionate.

  “ETA?”

  “Unknown. Will advise. The facility is critical. Repeat order: Move in with Mobile Three to investigate.”

  Callum nearly managed to mask his fury. Nearly. “We’ll ride into the darkness. See if you can do anything about the power situation?”

  “Affirmative, Mobile Four. Command out.”

  Callum looked around the vehicle. In the dim interior light he could see enough on the faces of his squad – his friends – to know what they were thinking. None of them had signed on for hot combat or for driving into an ambush, but both seemed on the cards in the next few minutes if whoever had attacked the compound was still around. FEMA taking over had changed everything: they’d gone from being glorified militia to soldiers again, eight men driving into the unknown.

  The radio sounded again. “Mobile Four? What’s the play?”

  Callum picked up the radio again. “Mobile Three, we've been told to check it out.”

  “Affirmative, Four. We’ll follow you in. Stay frosty.”

  Callum didn’t bother replying. He returned the radio to its position. “Hit the gas.”

  Pettine nodded and the vehicle edged forward, headlights showing the way. Callum turned his head and saw the second Humvee start to move forward as well. Though they provided some protection from small arms fire, he felt very vulnerable. He had two Humvees and eight men to secure an enormous facility against god knew what. He didn’t like the odds.

  The chain-link gate buckled then gave way under the pressure of the Humvee’s bullbar. Callum winced at the high-pitched squeal the gate gave as it shifted off its railings, then the loud crash as it crumpled in a useless heap on the ground. If the bad guys didn’t know they were at the base before, they certainly did now. Pettine hit the gas and the Humvee moved inside.

  They drove in, overlooked by shipping containers and enveloped by shadows. Callum leaned forward, peering desperately out of the windshield for any sign of activity. A hundred yards inside, they rounded a shallow corner and found themselves in a large, open area used to house trucks. In the middle of the yard lay two State Guard troops in duty fatigues, unmoving on the ground.

  “Fucking hell!” Bowles pounded his armrest as the vehicle ground to a halt. “They’re dead, Callum.”

  Callum summed up the scene. It wasn’t good. There was no sign of the attackers, even if they were still here, and limitless cover for a concealed foe. He had no tactical advantage and found it hard to believe that command had ordered them in, given the situation, but an order was an order and they had a job to do. He resisted the urge to tell Pettine to turn the Humvee around and get the hell out.

  “Callum, we’ve got to pull back.” Pettine’s hands gripped the wheel. “We should wait for some light and some help.”

  Callum ignore
d Harrington’s silent nod. “Our orders are to investigate. More than likely whoever made this mess is long gone. Probably just wanted some alcohol.”

  “And managed to take down ten armed guards and the entire base power grid to do so?” Pettine scoffed. “Come on, Cal.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.” Callum gripped the door handle of the Humvee. “We need to get out of these tin cans. Let’s go.”

  Callum opened the door and climbed out of the vehicle. After a moment all eight Guardsmen stood outside the vehicles, scanning the surroundings. Then he heard a scream, followed by the impact of rounds hitting metal. Though Callum could see muzzle flashes from four different locations, he couldn’t hear the shots being fired. It was as if he and his team were surrounded by phantoms.

  He shouted at his team to find cover as he reviewed the situation: his foe had suppressed weapons, good visibility – probably aided by night vision – and excellent firing positions overlooking vulnerable and lightly protected targets. It all added up to a hopeless situation. Callum ducked low and started to move around to the back of the first Humvee, which seemed safe for now.

  As he moved, more rounds knocked angry welts into the door he’d been in front of just a moment ago. A few of his men raised their weapons and returned fire in the general direction of the muzzle flashes. As he slid down against the rear of the Humvee, in the dim light provided Callum could see Harrington writhing in pain, Bowles sprawled on the ground and members of Mobile Three similarly placed. Pettine was crawling toward him.

  All this carnage, and he hadn’t fired a shot. Callum screamed out for the last man from Mobile Three to hustle, then rose from his haunches and fired his weapon to cover him. It was no good. The man took a round to the head and dropped. Callum cursed, ducked his head around the corner of the Humvee and fired into the darkness. He may as well be firing spitballs at a tank, though, because each round was met with a withering response.

  He inched behind the vehicle again. The only consolation was that they didn’t seem to have the vehicle completely surrounded. It might let him hold out for long enough for reinforcements to arrive. But that would just mean another eight dead. He ejected his magazine and replaced it with his only spare. He slammed it home as Pettine slid down alongside him. His face was covered in blood, probably from one of their colleagues.

  “You got any spare magazines, Cal?” Pettine’s expression was grim.

  “Nope. Last one.”

  Pettine cursed, threw down his carbine and drew his pistol. “Seen Bowles?”

  “He’s dead, Mark. We could try to make a run for it?”

  Pettine wiped his brow. “You’re kidding. We’re done, my friend. Been nice know—”

  Callum ducked down instinctively as rounds pounded the back of the Humvee. The attackers had shifted position. As Pettine gripped his throat, Callum raised his weapon and fired blindly into the night, without even the headlights of the Humvee to guide him. He emptied his magazine then started to draw his pistol, but didn’t get the chance. He screamed in pain as a round hit him in the foot, then another in the chest. He fell backward.

  Despite the pain, he could feel the cold concrete against his skin. He tried to move but couldn’t seem to coordinate his limbs. The blackness of the night had left the stars shining brightly. He wondered if he’d follow Pettine, Bowles and the other members of his team toward one of them.

  CHAPTER 6

  Following the attack on the FEMA distribution center in Illinois, the agency would like to express condolences to the families and friends of the following FEMA staff and State Guard troops, killed while performing their duty: Mark Pettine, Todd Bowles, Tony Harrington, Lamaar Price, John Fitzgerald, Stephen Welles, David Sales, Craig Anderson, Dean Worthington, Daniel Yee and Greg Laselle. The only surviving victim of the attack, Callum Watkins, remains in critical but stable condition in hospital.

  Federal Emergency Management Agency

  News Release

  Jack turned his head to check for cars, thinking that if there was something to be said for an authoritarian crackdown, it was improved traffic. He crossed the street, getting ever further away from his hotel room. He’d spent the days since his meeting with Ortiz frustrated. He’d struggled to resist the allure of the information he’d been given – intelligence reports about a few units in the south going rogue, along with some reports about gun-nut militias. Resistance to FEMA control was a good story.

  An hour ago, he’d tossed the folder onto the bed and gone for a walk. He’d made several attempts to circumvent the censorship and anonymously post details of the files he’d been given online, but all had failed spectacularly. He didn’t know enough about navigating the darker shadows of the internet to get it out that way, meaning his only choices were to find someone who did or to put his name to the story and submit it for approval.

  Jack stopped dead in the middle of the road. There he was again, the man in the green shirt, for the third time in the past half-hour, alongside a less conspicuous and better-dressed female companion. Jack started walking again. Unless the pair was walking as listlessly as he was, there was no explanation that would satisfy him that they weren’t on his tail. Though he hadn’t broadcast the information yet, maybe the authorities had noticed his attempts and put a tail on him.

  He began to snake his way through the city randomly: he turned down a street, entered a shop, did a lap then walked out again. No matter what he tried, they followed. He reached up and wiped the sweat that was starting to bead on his forehead, then turned sharply and stared at his pursuers. The man in the green shirt looked away, but Jack locked eyes with the woman. He knew in a second that they were after him. He needed to get somewhere well populated and try to lose them. He turned and made his way to Navy Pier. It was the best he could come up with under pressure.

  Jack entered the building, weaving past dawdling children and families. He looked over his shoulder and couldn’t immediately see his pursuers. He tried to lose himself in the food court. Though it was after lunch, there were still enough people milling about to give him a chance. He left the cavernous building next to the Spirit of Chicago, a white cruise ship with several rows of windows, then cut left and walked further along the pier. It seemed counterintuitive to corner yourself at the end of a pier when being pursued, but he was counting on that assumption. He smiled with relief.

  He walked, slower now, past another pair of cruise ships. He was just starting to think he might have evaded the pair when he looked behind him and saw that horrible green shirt. Jack turned, his anger building up like a tempest. Though the shirt was terrible, the man inside it was a good size. Jack could see no sign of a weapon, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. Even if he was unarmed, Jack doubted he could take the guy. His only chance was escape.

  Jack looked around frantically and eyed a tour boat about to depart. He started to walk toward it when the woman stepped into his path. She wore a serious look and had a hand inside her purse. He guessed she had a weapon, but hadn’t produced it because there were kids about.

  Jack sighed and held up both hands. “I don’t want any trouble and I don’t want to scare the children. Let’s take it easy.”

  The pair looked at each other, then the man in the green shirt smiled slightly as he spoke. “I don’t know what you think is happening here, Jack, but that’s not it.”

  “Well, if it’s all the same to you guys, I’m going to get out of here. I’ve had quite enough of spy versus spy.” He started to walk away but the man reached out and grabbed him by the wrist. Jack didn’t hesitate. He caught the man’s hand and stepped into the hold, twisting behind him and yanking the man’s arm up.

  Jack was about to ease off, his warning heeded, when the woman had stepped forward and held a flick knife at his throat. “Let go of him.”

  Jack’s eyes widened and he eased off on the pressure slightly. “Get that away or I’m going to break his arm.”

  “That’s worth a slit throat.” Her voice
was deadpan and her emerald eyes flashed naked fury. “Let go of him.”

  “If you think you intimidate me, you’re sorely mistaken.” Jack twisted a little harder, causing lime green to inhale sharply. “Tell me why I shouldn’t break his arm.”

  She took a deep breath, but the knife didn’t move an inch. “I can’t tell you who we are, not yet, but you need to trust us.”

  “No, I really don’t.” Jack applied slightly more pressure.

  The man gave a yelp and spoke through gritted teeth. “We’re from Guerrilla Radio.”

  Jack laughed, but he did relax the pressure slightly. Amateurs. “From where?”

  “Guerrilla Radio. We’re part of the resistance that’s forming. We’re trying to get the word out, report the truth and support others opposed to FEMA control.”

  “Using actual radios?” Jack released the man’s arm. “What sort of name is Guerrilla Radio, anyway? Been listening to a bit too much Rage Against The Machine, guys?”

  “We can’t tell you much just yet.” The woman glared as she lowered her knife. “But it’s just a name. We’re—”

  “Forget it.” Jack held up his hands. “I don’t care. I shouldn’t have asked. Just leave me alone.”

  The man rubbed his arm. “We saw your report from the Hoover Dam. It must have raised questions.”

  “We need help.” The woman had a hint of desperation in her voice. Jack couldn’t figure out her angle. “We need you, Jack.”

  He ignored them, turning away. The last thing he wanted was to be involved in trying to topple the authorities. Battling Michelle Dominique and the Foundation for a New America had nearly cost him his life – had cost the lives of some dear to him. He was uneasy about the control being exercised by FEMA, but he was still a far cry from getting involved in a two-bit resistance movement.

  “We’ve got your friend Simon Hickens helping us.” The woman’s voice called from behind him, tempting. “He said you’re not the sort to walk away.”