The Battle - The Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: No Sanctuary Series - Book 6

by Mike Kraus

  In the front passenger seat Omar pulled a large handheld radio from his bag and thumbed the controls, first to enter his encryption code and then to key the microphone. “Sarraf. This is Omar. What’s the status of the attack?”

  The reply was nearly immediate. “Not good, sir! It took longer than expected to cross over the river because the rafts weren’t properly secured. By the time we got across and began moving in, we took heavy fire and had to dig in.”

  “You haven’t even made it into the city?”

  “No sir, not yet. It’s like… like they knew we were coming, sir!”

  The driver of the truck winced, anticipating another explosion from Omar. He glanced over at his superior and saw Omar’s face twisted into a mask of rage, though he made no sounds as he ground his teeth together in an effort to get himself under control. Finally, when he responded, his voice was calm and neutral, though his face was still red and twisted. “Her companion, the one these idiots let get away, must have gotten word to them.” Omar took a deep breath and rubbed a hand across his weary features. “Push up as hard as you can; try to draw most of their forces to one side and see if you can get a splinter group through the perimeter. We need the codes more than anything else. Ignore all other priorities and get the codes!”

  Whatever response came back through the radio was muffled by Omar throwing the device back into his bag with a heave strong enough that the driver thought it might have broken into more than a few pieces. He thought about saying something to Omar, trying to reassure him that their plans would succeed, but wisely decided against it. Omar sat in silence for the next several minutes as the truck wove a meandering path through the city.

  After getting out of the tight city streets the driver headed for a nearby big box retailer that they had taken over shortly after everyone evacuated from the city proper. Large corrugated steel overhangs off the back of the store allowed them to easily hide several vehicles, and the interior of the store was used to store supplies, fuel and weapons for combatants in the area.

  With the assault on the city underway, the depot was manned by a skeleton crew, and as the truck slowed to a halt Omar jumped out and gestured at the three-man group standing behind the store. “You three! Get a transport ready, load it with emergency supplies and get ready to move out!”

  Though the three men were curious about why they were being ordered to abandon their post at the depot, they were well aware of the consequences of questioning an order from Omar. They moved quickly to load several crates of supplies, weapons and ammunition from inside the depot into the waiting transport, then they got in the back. At the same time, Omar and the driver of the pickup got into the front while the three men riding in the back of the pickup moved to join the other three in the back of the covered transport.

  “Anything else you need, sir?” The driver looked at Omar, his hand on the ignition switch.

  “No.” Omar looked straight ahead and the driver pushed the button. The throaty diesel engine roared to life and they took off without a second’s hesitation, continuing to head north out of the city. Once they cleared the city proper they moved to get onto smaller back roads as quickly as possible, both to avoid any possibility of being trailed and to enable them to travel at a faster rate. The main roads were still clogged with vehicles in large patches and the long, wide military transport needed more room than was offered.

  The safe house had been established in the rural areas north of Washington many months prior, purchased from a few local residents for an exorbitant amount of money funneled through three layers of shell organizations. By purchasing four different small farms and homes adjacent to each other, Omar’s operatives had been able to quickly build up a cache of weapons and supplies that could sustain them indefinitely, all without anyone in the area being the wiser.

  It took a solid hour for the transport to make it to the safe house, and Omar spent the time in between the depot and the safe house in complete silence, as did the driver. In the back of the covered transport the six men spoke in hushed tones with each other, speculating on what Omar was doing and how well the mission was going. Each man who worked for Omar was connected to him in some way, either owing him for an obligation or having some sort of familial connection. This helped ensure loyalty and silence, though he had used other methods to keep their mouths shut.

  A steady paycheck, life-long payments to their wives and children if they were to die and a leader who was both fearless and inspired meant that Omar’s followers would march after him no matter where he went. On the drive out to the safe house, though, the seven men accompanying Omar were feeling less than certain about their leader and the situation in general.

  “Sir?” The driver cleared his throat. “Sir? We’re here.” Omar sat quietly in the passenger seat, staring off into space, until the driver tapped him gently on the arm.

  “Hm? Oh. Right. Yes. Good.” He jumped out of the transport and looked around at the surrounding landscape. A pair of large red barns stood nearby along with a large home that had been hastily remodeled and expanded. A pair of armed guards stood near the home, watching the transport closely in case they were needed. Woods wrapped around three sides of the home and barns while a large field extended out in front, joining up to the other three nearby properties that had been purchased. Off in the distance were pairs of guards walking the perimeter of the properties, keeping in constant communication with short-range encrypted radios.

  While the home and two barns were the main location of the safe house, the other homes and outbuildings on the other three properties were by no means ignored. Food, weapons and spare parts for vehicles and machinery were spread out across the properties and each home had several cots inside both for the guards and for anyone who might need to use the safe house in the short or long term.

  ATVs and small pickup trucks were used to haul large quantities of people and supplies back and forth between the buildings, but most travel across the properties was performed on foot. It was quieter, used no fuel and helped keep everyone on their toes, watching for anyone who might try and intrude.

  Since the mission began there had only been two instances of people trying to cross over onto the properties, and both had been handled discreetly and without gunfire or bloodshed. Omar’s instructions on that point had been very clear—the safe house couldn’t remain safe long term if people started disappearing nearby. People would eventually come looking for missing loved ones, he reasoned, even during the apocalypse, and it was better to not give anyone a reason to look at the safe house.

  “Sir, it’s good to see you. Are you here for a quick checkup? Or something more long term?” One of the two guards near the house approached Omar and extended his hand as he spoke.

  “I don’t know yet.” Omar ignored the proffered hand. “Help get the supplies we brought inside. Double the guard and make sure this transport and anything else that looks remotely military or different is put under cover immediately.”

  “Is everything all right?” The guard’s question was out of curiosity, but his face turned white as Omar fixed him with a murderous gaze.

  “Do what you’re told unless you want to find yourself face-down in a ditch. Got it?”

  The guard nodded numbly and jogged to the back of the truck to speak with the men in the back. Omar’s hand fell on the pistol that he had stuck into his jacket pocket and he pulled it out, his lips twisting into a sneer. “Shey’taan,” he whispered, “this isn’t the end of things between you and me. Of that, I promise you.” He slipped the pistol back into his pocket and walked toward the safe house, determined to do something about what was going on.

  Chapter 10

  “They had a weapons depot right under our noses! How the hell did this happen?!” Frank and Jackson stood off to the side next to the truck they had taken while Linda stormed around the vehicle they had been pursuing which was still dripping gasoline from its tank. “A weapons depot, Jackson! How did no one realize they were set
ting this up? Is the entire US government inept?!”

  Jackson wisely chose to remain quiet during Linda’s rant and rampage, choosing to look at the ground and wait for her to calm down before figuring out what to do next. Frank, on the other hand, was more impatient and spoke up. “Linda, I know this is bad, but shouldn’t we be focusing on finding Omar right now instead of worrying about a weapons depot?”

  Linda stopped her pacing and stared at Frank for a long moment, her jaw working furiously even as she remained quiet. Finally she took a deep breath and nodded at him as she sighed. “Yes. You’re right. Sorry.”

  “Not your fault,” Jackson replied, walking over to the other truck and peering into the front cabin. “And I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but unless you managed to punch a hole in whatever vehicle’s gas tank that they took from here, I don’t know how we’re going to find them.”

  Linda glanced at Frank. “That part’s easy. Frank? I need your backpack.”

  “My b—”

  “Backpack, not twenty questions.”

  Frank turned and grabbed his pack from the floor of the passenger seat in the truck and held it out for Linda. She took it and set it down on the ground, unzipped it and began rifling through its contents while mumbling to herself. “If you dumped it on the ground… swear I’ll skin you… ha!” She grabbed at something near the bottom of the pack and pulled it out. “Here we go!”

  Jackson looked over at the device in her hand and shook his head. “A tracker? Are you… you put a tracker on their truck? How is that going to help us? And how did you do it in the first place? And why weren’t we following that instead of a freaking trail of spilled gasoline?!”

  Linda chuckled and shook her head as she opened the device to reveal the screen and controls. “Jackson, I’m still half as high as a kite. It slipped my mind. But in answer to your other question, no, I didn’t get a tracker on their truck.” She pushed a button and the screen lit up, and she began turning the device slowly in her hands. “Omar did, however, take all of my things that were in my pockets. My knife, gun, flashlight and the tracker that was in my pouch.”

  A wide smile spread across Frank’s face as he knelt down next to Linda and saw the indicator on the screen begin to flash. “There it is. To the north.”

  “Mhm.” Linda tapped a few buttons and frowned. “Only problem is that it’s way out there.”

  “How far?”

  “No way to tell without moving around a bit to get some triangulation of the signal. It’s to the north, probably a long way out of the city. Maybe at some safe house or another depot or something.”

  “You still want to go through with this?” Jackson stood over Linda, looking at her with a concerned expression. “We could fall back, get reinforcements and then go after him.”

  “No.” Linda shook her head as she closed up the tracker and stood up, cringing from a sudden pain in her chest. “We’re already falling further behind. The longer we wait, the more distance and time he’ll have to figure out a way to get away or to get the codes. No, we’re going after him right now.” She bent down to put the tracker back in the bag and couldn’t stifle a groan. Frank took the device and the bag as she leaned against the truck, taking a long, slow breath.

  “Meds starting to wear off, eh?” Jackson eyed her closely. “If they’re far outside the city you could be coming down off the high and the meds right as we arrive.”

  “There’s a reason why the speedballs come in threes, Jackson.” Linda replied with her eyes shut as she tried to regulate her talking and breathing to minimize the pain.

  “You’re not taking another one of those things, Rollins!”

  “We’ll discuss it when we get there.” Linda arched her back and pressed lightly on her chest, feeling the thick layers of bandages wrapped around her. “I’ll get in the back seat and take a rest while you two get us to wherever he is.”

  “Linda,” Frank replied with a concerned voice, “I think he might be right. We don’t know how many men Omar’s got with him. It could be us three against dozens of them. I think we should at least try to get a call in to the city, see if we can reach anyone and get some reinforcements sent up after us.”

  “I’m not wai—”

  “I’m not saying we have to wait for them. But let’s at least try to make a call, okay? See if we can get some people heading our direction as backup?”

  Linda hesitated a few seconds before nodding. “Fine. Just do it fast.” She opened the rear door on the vehicle, climbed inside and pulled the door closed, leaving Frank and Jackson to stand out on the pavement watching as she tried to find a comfortable position to rest in.

  “Well, you heard the lady.” Jackson nudged Frank in the side. “Let’s see if anyone’s still listening down there.”

  “I’m pretty sure I saw a radio setup inside the warehouse. It’ll probably work better than the handheld units we’ve got.”

  “Good eye.” Jackson nodded. “Use those cans and get the truck gassed up, then put whatever extras you can find in the back, along with any and all weapons and ammo you see lying around. I’ll get on the radio and see if I can get in touch with anyone.”

  Fifteen minutes after heading inside the building, Jackson reemerged as Frank was finishing up tossing boxes of ammunition into the bed of the truck along with a couple of spare cans of gasoline. In the back, Linda had her eyes closed, but her facial expression made it clear that she was agitated and wanted nothing more than to get on the road.

  “Everything ready?” Jackson looked in the back of the truck.

  “All set. Just need to secure these cans and we can leave. Were you able to contact anyone?”

  Jackson shrugged. “I’m not sure. I picked up bits and pieces of transmissions from the city but as far as actually talking to anyone? No. They had a nice little setup in there, though, so I set up a repeating loop broadcast. Hopefully our guys hear it and come after us before the bad guys do.”

  “I guess that’s the best we can do for now.”

  “Are you two really going to have that conversation out there?” The door to the rear cab of the truck cracked open and Linda’s voice came from within. “Let’s go already!”

  Jackson and Frank glanced at each other and Frank headed around to the driver’s door while Jackson tried to argue in protest. “Wait, why are you driving?”

  “Because I’m tired of riding shotgun on this little excursion.”

  Chapter 11

  Building and successfully detonating a bomb is not an easy task. There are a hundred different factors at play and a hundred different ways that the entire process can go south. The first obstacle is often in the planning process, before materials to create the bomb have even been acquired. Aspiring bombmakers either give up, end up killing themselves or inadvertently making contact with undercover law enforcement in their quest.

  If the materials can be acquired, the bomb must then be successfully assembled. This offers yet another opportunity capture by law enforcement or death in the process of creating the weapon. While there are numerous guides and resources available for aspiring bombmakers, those that work in isolation—as many do—will often miss key aspects of the process. This can lead to failure or working with someone who turns out to be carrying a badge instead of successfully creating their explosive device.

  If the device can be successfully built without causing the capture or death of its creator, the next problem is just as daunting as the previous ones: how to deploy it. Sophisticated devices involving timers or remote detonators are not only harder to build, but they involve an even greater risk since they have the potential to either be discovered or to malfunction. Deployment of an explosive device is not, contrary to what television and movies seem to think, easy. At all.

  For a single individual, building and deploying explosives in a way that doesn’t involve them getting killed or caught is extremely difficult. For a small group of individuals, some parts of the job are easier while others—such
as the risk of getting captured—increase.

  Unfortunately, all of these assumptions apply to situations where a single individual or small group is working in isolation and trying to stay hidden in the shadows while they assemble their materials. For someone who has virtually unlimited resources and connections, none of these assumptions apply.

  It has taken years for Omar’s men inside the United States to build up their cache of weapons and explosives, but they have not lacked for anything even in their isolation. Split up amongst a few dozen safe houses around the country, they have been given every luxury to ensure that they are comfortable while they work around the clock. Hundreds upon hundreds of devices are built and stored, stashed away in places that—even if the safe houses were somehow compromised—they would not lead back to the overarching plan put in place by Omar himself.

  Funds are funneled into the country through shell organizations and charities while materials are either crafted on-site or come from caches that have been slowly built up over a long period of time to avoid any hint of suspicion. Morale is a chief concern for Omar, and he ensures that not only are the operatives paid well, but that their families are taken care of and that they all have every possible convenience at their disposal.

  Once the devices are built, they must be deployed. This ends up being far easier than anyone could have predicted. Truck stops and weigh stations are targeted and devices are secured in place with magnets far enough inside the vehicles that they won’t be discovered unless a full-blown repair was undergone. With as many targets as there are, this is a possibility, but the timetable is kept short between deployment and detonation of the bombs, and none are found.