“Mr. President?” Josh intoned.
“Uh, allies,” Tom blurted out.
“I’m sorry?” Josh asked him to repeat what he said.
“Allies. We have four allies,” Tom said with more authority.
“Who are they,” Sam asked.
“King George wasn’t the only one utilizing emissaries. The current POTUS sent me to The Hague to head off the Brits with one last effort toward détente. It didn’t work, obviously. However, I did manage to strike a bargain with Spain, France, the Dutch, and India,” Sarkes replied.
“What did that cost us,” Dallas asked.
“In exchange for their subversive assistance we agreed to pay them back in full immediately.”
“Why didn’t we just give the British what we owed them?” Katherine asked.
“It was already too late. The Brits brought everyone to the party. We don’t have enough for everyone all at once,” Sarkes answered. “It’s a dirty little secret that doesn’t get much airtime. To use a more current phrase, our country is underwater financially. It’s been that way since before Vietnam,” he added.
“How much was paid out and where did it come from,” Heather wanted to know.
“Spain got ten billion, France and the Netherlands received a fifty billion split, and India took home forty billion. We knew the Brits had deployed assets to watch our facilities so these four countries were willing to take all of our slush funds from around the world.”
Stunned silence permeated the room.
“Since no one seems to want to ask this, I will. Just how much is on those trucks?” Dallas asked treading carefully.
“Let’s see,” the President said. “There are ten pallets per, times twenty haulers, and each pallet holds eighty-eight so that’s...” Sarkes said as he started doing the math in his head.
“That’s seventeen thousand six hundred bars,” Alysin said quickly.
“Sounds about right,” Tom replied. “Each bar is worth half a mill so we’re looking at,” he continued and then stopped to look over at Alysin.
“Eight billion eight hundred million dollars,” she replied just as quickly.
“Eight billion! With a ‘B’?” James said astounded. “Just how much does that weigh? We can’t possibly move that by hand, can we?”
“Each bar weighs four hundred ounces,” Ed replied sullenly.
On queue Alysin recited the math, “That’s equivalent to twenty-five pounds. Each pallet weighs twenty-two hundred pounds. Each truck is carrying twenty two thousand pounds of gold. The total shipment is four hundred and forty thousand pounds. Four hundred and forty thousand pounds of gold equals eight billion eight hundred million dollars.”
“Oh, I like her, Josh. Can we keep her too?” Dallas said jokingly, but thoroughly impressed.
“What’s the weight in tonnage,” James wanted to know.
“Two hundred tons,” Alysin replied with no emotion not realizing the man was just messing with her.
“If you idiots are done with you parlor tricks,” Ed interjected. “You’ll be happy to know that each truck comes with its own material handler apparatus.”
“Ed, you’re not being very respectful. Perhaps it would best if you stepped outside to check on the men and their progress,” the President said gently.
“Fine!” Ed replied in a huff and shoved back his chair. He slammed the door shut on his way out.
Ignoring Agent Monahan’s tantrum, James turned to Josh and said, “So what’s the plan?”
“I asked Brent to make a call and request some combat engineers with their equipment so we can get this stuff over the creek and into the Moonville Tunnel. I think Fort Campbell is the closest. It’s about six or seven hours by car. A military convoy with heavy transports carrying bridging equipment and the assorted personnel in troop movers will probably take ten minimum,” Josh answered.
“Those guys aren’t there, Josh,” Tom said knowingly.
“Oh?” Josh replied.
“Yeah,” Brent added. “They’re reinforcing the troops at Fort Knox. The next closest unit would be Fort Drum, but they were sent to West Point. My guess is that they’ll be coming from Bragg.”
“So that’s an eight hour drive, but factoring in the mountains and the equipment they’ll be hauling, we’re looking at twelve to sixteen hours. Do you think they’d realize the urgency and distance and put it all on a plane or two?” Josh questioned optimistically.
There was laughter from Gregg and his former unit.
Realizing the futility of his comment Josh smiled. “I see. So nothing’s changed in that department.”
“Weren’t you guys based out of Bragg?” Emily said.
“Yes, ma’am?” Hoplite answered.
“Don’t you SpecOps boys work somewhat outside the regular chain of command?” she added.
“Well...” Gregg provided.
“General, give Carlos your phone,” Em ordered.
“It’s not as simple as all that, Emily,” Josh interjected. “Their commanding officer will need to have received the order from the President or the Secretary of Defense. On top of that, it is entirely possible that the President and his staff don’t have a means to communicate given the high degree of probability that they were just hit by a pulse from one of those things.”
“The PEOC is probably still functioning,” Tom said as an afterthought more to himself than anyone else. “General, gimme that cell,” he commanded.
Three minutes later the former President was connected to the hardened SAT phone located in the SecDef’s office. When it started ringing, Tom handed it to Hoplite.
“Mr. President,” Secretary Fielding said as he answered.
“No, sir. This is Captain Rayna. Commanding Officer of the Delta One Convoy. We have a situation,” he said in a short clipped tone.
“How did you get this number, Captain! Where the hell are you guys? There are bodies, trucks, and helo’s strewn all over the damn place from the Ohio line east. Is the cargo still intact?” the Secretary demanded.
“Yes, sir. The materials and Ironside are in one piece. We’ve lost our air support and a number of service vehicles.”
“What happened? Your comms went silent over sixteen hours ago!” the man thundered.
“All of our communications were fried in the ambush. We’ve got two Agents KIA, double that wounded, and two hostile KIA. Ironside called the PEOC when the POTUS broadcast went dark and they connected us to you,” Hoplite responded.
The head of the DoD relaxed slightly and replied more calmly, “OK. Gimme a sitrep. Where are you, son? What are your options?”
“We’re on a farm about a hundred and twenty clicks southwest of Columbus and we need a favor, sir,” the Captain answered.
“Anything! Name it!” the SecDef answered.
Brent snapped his fingers at Hoplite and motioned for him to hand him the cell. He looked over at Sarkes and then Josh and both men shrugged.
The retired Four Star took the phone and said, “Hey, Larry. This is Brent Howard.”
“General?” the Secretary said astonished. “You old grunt! What the hell are you doing there?”
“It’s a long story. Some other time. Listen, Convoy Delta One is a certified ‘Charlie Foxtrot’. We’ve got a plan, but I need the assets ASAFP.”
“What do you need?”
“We still got some C-5’s down at Pope Field?”
“I think so, why? What’s going on?”
“I called my replacement and requested some engineers, their bridging equipment, and some demo charges, but they need to get here pronto. Do me a favor and light a fire under the SOCOM (Special Operation Command) down at Bragg. Have a platoon of those 4th Battalion guys and their gear put on a bird and flown up here. Have them land at Rickenbacker. Then I need you to order up some HET’s (Heavy Equipment Transports) from Defense Supply Center Columbus (DSCC) and have the trucks meet them at the plane. You got all that?”
“Yeah, I got it. Should b
e there by nightfall. Do they know where they’re going?” he asked.
“Coordinates have already been provided,” the former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said abruptly.
The Secretary added, “I really don’t want to know anything about this, do I?”
“No, you sure don’t,” Brent answered and terminated the call.
Gregg and his former team members stared at the General bugged eyed.
“What?” Brent said. “I got people,” he said as he shrugged sheepishly at the collected group. When no one moved or spoke, he said, “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing. It’s just...” Gregg started to say. “Damn. Wish we knew you when we were deployed is all.”
Chapter 22
January 26, 2023 – January 27, 2023
The scuttlebutt had been swirling around Minot for days. Friends of Abbas’ roommates had been calling and relaying information regarding installation wide inspections at the F.E. Warren airbase. Some said it was a readiness drill, others said it was an inspection. However, the theory that piqued his interest was the far-flung idea that a former Airman and his psychiatrist were looking for someone.
Abbas knew this day would come. He had prepared himself for this eventuality.
Regardless of what the rumor mill churned out, it was widely understood that Minot AFB could expect the same treatment shortly after they finished in Wyoming. By the time whoever arrived, Abbas would be safely hidden away in the L10 launch facility of the 742d Strategic Missile Squadron. It was the furthest missile site from the base and the small North Dakota town. By the time they made it to that silo, his bird would be in the air. No recall, no remote detonation, and no stopping the inevitable.
Time to tie up loose ends, he thought as he washed himself and donned the traditional white cotton outfit. He was really going to enjoy this. There wasn’t a collection of humanity walking the Earth that he hated more than his three roommates. They were loud, drunken, philandering womanizers who only dreamed of riches. They represented everything about America that he and his brother were trying to obliterate.
The timing of it all couldn’t have been planned any better. Two of his three roommates were passed out in their rooms sleeping off the previous night’s excess. The third had ditched the other two at the bar in lieu of female companionship. He would be back shortly in order to shower and change before their shift.
Abbas exited his room in his traditional garment as effortlessly as if he were headed to the kitchen for breakfast. He calmly entered the first bedroom and found him passed out on his stomach. The stench from the trashcan full of vomit was overwhelming. He pulled his robe up over his mouth and nose to stem the odor.
He stopped and observed the sweaty pockmarked face and then grabbed him by the hair, lifting his head off of the mattress. In one fluid motion, Abbas drew the five-inch carbon steel blade across the man’s throat. The spray of blood painted the sheets, floor, and wall as the carotid artery continuously pumped the life force out of the gaping wound. The man gurgled and reflexively reached for the injury. The cut was so deep that the vocal chords were severed, rendering him speechless. There were no screams for help. In less than a minute, the man was dead.
He repeated the act on the other roommate and then waited for the third. As a defiant symbolic act, Abbas had taken the man’s own collectible Samurai sword and attacked him from behind. In one fell swoop, Abbas decapitated him.
As if nothing had even happened, he re-entered his room, donned his uniform, and reported for duty.
* * *
“Hey, man,” Dallas mumbled quietly to the couple as they stood on the front porch.
“What’s up,” Josh replied cheerfully as he drew on his pipe and watched the activity surrounding the cargo from a distance.
“We really gonna do this? You think this country is ready for an all-out fight?” Dallas asked.
Before Josh had a second to answer, Dallas began quickly rattling off the issues foremost on his mind. “I mean, there’s a lunatic in a silo trying to send us back to the Stone Age, and as far as we know, there’s an armada sitting off of our coast. People are chasing gold like it’s the lost city of El Dorado out here. If the townies are making a run at the banks in McArthur, God only knows what they are doing in the cities. Shouldn’t we warn some people or something?” Dallas asked in a concerned tone.
Josh paused for a long moment before answering. He was content to stare off into the distance holding his soon to be bride, but his oldest living friend had asked a question that needed to be answered.
“I’ve given that some thought and I said as much in there earlier. If there are terrorists, jihadist’s, Iranians, or whatever you want to call them running around the countryside with these suitcase EMP devices, my guess is they are being coordinated by the Brits. That means they are going to target our coastal bases to make it easier to come ashore. The best possible scenario I can think of is if this Abbas character doesn’t get it launched until after the invasion has begun. Then it will render the bulk of their equipment and ours useless at the same time. It’ll be a fair fight after that,” Josh answered wistfully.
“That nugget notwithstanding, we’ve got family and friends out there that need to be here, or somewhere safe at a minimum,” Dallas said in a concerned tone.
“I know. I’d shelter them all if I could, but at the end of the day I’ve helped as many as I could. I’ve tried telling scores more, but no one wants to listen to something they can quickly label as paranoid delusions until it all goes sideways. If you speak up, they throw you in the psyche ward and forget about you. You should hang out with the Tin Hatters and discuss that topic for a while.”
Dallas started to interrupt when Josh said, “Wrap your head around this. Over half of the population of the United States lives within five hundred miles of Columbus, Ohio, and us for that matter. Couple that with the fact that there are a shade over one hundred and forty million people living east of the Mississippi River. Government analysts have estimated that in a scenario like this, all but twenty million won’t survive the first year.”
“That’s crap. You’re making those numbers up,” Dallas replied.
“I wish I were. Think about it. If you draw a circle around McArthur, you’ve got St. Louis and Chicago to Philadelphia and New York all the way down to Atlanta, Charlotte, and Charleston. Everything inside that is a threat. Go asked Brent or Sarkes if you don’t believe me. They’ve seen the same reports and projections I have. They probably have more accurate estimates than I do at this point. Think on this before you do though. Do you remember the EPA changing the emissions thresholds for things like wood burning stoves, fireplaces, and what not?”
Dallas suddenly remembered all of the hoops he had to jump through to get his cabin built. The building inspectors mandated that if he wanted to burn anything he would need to install air quality scrubbers that easily doubled the cost of the venting and chimney stack. In the end, he had it installed after all the inspections were done. It wasn’t hard to find locals that didn’t care for D.C. or the fed regulations.
Dejected, Dallas surmised, “With no power, the fact that the government practically banned the burning of fossil fuels means half the people will probably freeze to death in the first winter.”
“Bingo,” Josh said. “If Abbas sets this thing off at peak FAA hours, anyone on a plane is a goner. People in surgery die on the table. Patients on life support make it a couple of hours. Dialysis recipients are gone in a few days. Diabetics that are insulin dependent are gone in a few months. Formerly upstanding members of society start resorting to means that they considered unfathomable or unconscionable the day before. Then the gang activity starts. Anyone caught in a major city won’t be staying downtown in a hotel, I can tell you that much.”
“Why do I feel like you’re setting me up again?” Dallas asked.
Josh chuckled at the comment. “The ones that do manage to get out are probably headed into the countryside because t
hey think that’s where they can easily find food. In the cities, every two-bit hood and gang leader will smell the opportunity. Can you imagine what chaos would descend with no law enforcement or National Guard? Our existing system of government would be rendered non-existent in the blink of an eye, not that it was functioning to begin with. The small fish get absorbed into the larger gang organizations or they are annihilated for kicks. Whoever takes over in the urban areas will move quickly to enforce their own code of conduct and laws. Whoever doesn’t get out is gonna wind up in a brothel, press ganged into the ‘organization’, or dead. I have absolutely no hope for humanity surviving in these places.”
“The planners already calculated this stuff? Never mind, don’t answer that. So towns like McArthur are a beacon to the wandering masses then. That what you’re saying?” Dallas asked looking for clarification.
“Maybe not our little slice of Americana per se, but certainly larger ones nearby like Athens and Circleville for sure,” Josh answered. “Unfortunately, that also makes these place targets once the gangs have exhausted everything in the major cities. I seriously doubt that the urban dwellers will suddenly start growing their own food or doing something even remotely productive. At best, they’ll plant a cash crop like marijuana and then use that as collateral for food, sex, booze, bullets, pretty much anything of value,” Josh concluded.
“That’s a bleak outlook, hun,” Samantha stated.
“Not really. Ya’ll saw the carnage that descended on New Orleans after Katrina. You’ve heard the stories of kids being raped in the Superdome while their mothers offered themselves for drugs, food, or protection. The only reason they didn’t resort to cannibalism was because the troops finally made it into the city. I’m just glad we don’t live anywhere near Houston at this point.”
“Why? What’s there,” Sam asked curiously.
“That’s where FEMA relocated most of the dealers, savages, rapists, and murderers after the hurricane. The proof is in the numbers. Crime was at a steady rate until those folks got moved in there. After their arrival, violent crimes went through the roof. They are still dealing with the aftermath,” Josh explained.
Hannibal is at the Gates Page 22
