Steele dug through boxes, shaking them to see if there was anything left inside.
“Tell me about the club.”
Thunder smiled. “We got some history.” He shoved more pills in his bag. “The Red Stripes were founded in 1952 by United States Marine Corps Lance Corporal Michael Abbott, 2nd Raider Battalion, 1st Marine Division. He was the only survivor of the captured raiders on Makin Island in the Pacific.”
“Sounds like a tough SOB.”
Thunder smiled. “He was one of a kind. A legend. Him and eight men were left behind at Makin. In 1945, after years of captivity, the Japs knew they were going to lose and were trying to get rid of any extra liability. The story goes they beheaded his raider team one by one until Abbott was the last one left. They shoved him in front of the garrison commander. The evil bastard looked down at him with a nasty grin. That particular bastard loved that shit. The commander swung his samurai sword high above his head, waiting for Abbott to cry out, but he didn’t. He just looked that mother fucker right in his slanty eyes. Then you know what he did?”
“No.”
“That bastard, Abbott, leapt up and killed the commander. Ripped out his fucking throat with his teeth. Took that fucker’s own sword and put a bunch of the other Japs down like dogs. Problem was, the island’s radio equipment had been destroyed in a rainstorm weeks before, and he was stuck there for years after the war.”
“The Navy never conducted a rescue operation?” Steele said, massaging packages of medicine for scraps.
“They claimed they did, but he had been declared KIA in 1942. Seven years later, a fishing boat ran aground in a nearby reef. When a ship came out to tow it away, they saw a man on the beach. Wasn’t waving or nothing. Just standing.”
“Abbott?”
“Yup. But he wasn’t alone.”
“Who else was there?”
“He had three of those slant-eyed fucks as captives, all linked together with some sort of vine rope that he had made by hand. Government denied the whole thing.” Thunder shook his head. “After he got back to the states, he retreated from society, embittered with his own government, mistrustful of people he had sworn to defend. Tossed all his medals here into Lake Michigan. In ’52, he met up with some other Marine Corps members, and they formed the motorcycle club.”
“Geez. That’s a hell of a story.”
“Proud to call him our founder,” Thunder said.
Boom. Boom. Gunshots roared outside on the street.
“Half-Barrel,” Thunder said under his breath. Gripping their guns, they ran for the street.
KINNICK
Peterson Air Force Base, CO
Kinnick turned around. They had never met, but he had seen the man on television enough to recognize his face: Vice President Patrick Brady.
The vice president was taller than Kinnick, hovering about six feet in height. His hair appeared to be fleeing the front of his head for the back and sides. Long wisps of brownish-gray hair were brushed across the top. His tie was loosened, and his collar stained yellow with sweat. A patchy beard had grown on his face, focusing around his jawline and chin. He was flanked by a four-star general in blue and a three-star in a slightly darker blue uniform. Their uniforms were crisp and clean.
Brady’s eyes were intelligent with a glint of unsettledness, almost as if he enjoyed chaos. Kinnick hadn’t remembered that look in his eyes before when he saw him on television. Has he always been like this?
Brady leaned closer to Kinnick. “Which part of my fearless armed forces are you from, good sir?”
“Air Force, sir,” Kinnick said.
“You have the look. What’s your name?” His eyes narrowed in judgment.
“Colonel Kinnick, retired, sir.”
“Retired?” Brady’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes, sir. In light of recent events, I found myself back in service,” he said. The whole interaction made Kinnick uneasy.
“As long as you remember that you are here to serve.”
The words slipped off Kinnick’s tongue before he could reel himself in. “Like General Travis at the Pentagon?”
Brady’s eyes widened. “You came from the Pentagon?”
“Yes, sir. General Travis sent myself and two patched-together squads on a search and rescue mission for a CDC doctor. We found him and Patient Zero and brought them here.”
The vice president’s eyes gleamed with gratitude as he nodded. The four-star general leaned in and whispered into the vice president’s ear. The vice president nodded. “Yes, I recall the report. Your country owes you a debt. You have my thanks.”
“It doesn’t owe me, but the men who sacrificed their lives to make it so.”
“Many men have made sacrifices since this started,” Brady said. He gave Kinnick a wave. “Come into the War Room. We must speak in private. Generals, please see to the ongoing operations.” He dismissed them nonchalantly with a shooing motion.
The two generals glanced at one another and only a fraction of dissatisfaction crossed over their faces. The Air Force four-star general looked Kinnick up and down, a sour look on his face, but left with a slight bow of his head.
Kinnick followed behind the vice president into a conference room attached to the operations floor. A long, oval wood table sat in the middle. Twelve large black leather chairs surrounded it, unoccupied.
“You may close the door behind you,” the vice president said. Kinnick complied and stood at attention near the edge of the table.
The vice president strolled to the end of the room to a long waist-high cabinet. He pulled a crystal stopper out of a decanter and poured two glasses. He walked over to where Kinnick stood and set one down in front of Kinnick.
“Pick it up and drink,” he commanded. Brady took a big swig from his.
Kinnick hesitated. One didn’t have a drink with the acting president every day. “Mr. President, I would rather not drink at this time.”
“Colonel, if you want to keep your rank and stay inside the fences, you will sit down, pick that glass up, and take a drink.”
Kinnick momentarily debated the option of quitting on the spot. The de facto president eyed him.
“I know it’s bad out there. Have a glass of nice scotch. We don’t know how much longer we will be here to enjoy it.”
Kinnick sat hesitantly in a leather chair. He picked up the crystal glass and took a sip. The scotch was smooth and rich with a smoky peat flavor and a hint of sherry and fruit. It didn’t burn his tongue at all but only warmed his insides.
“Mr. President, you know your scotch,” Kinnick said setting the crystal glass down.
The de facto president raised his eyebrows as he swallowed the alcohol. Sitting for a moment in silence, he stared at the glass.
“Bowmore’s.” Brady held up the glass, looking at the deep mahogany liquid. “Between you and me, I could care less about how good it is.”
“Mr. President, surely a man of your standing would care?”
Brady shrugged his shoulders and held up a finger. He leaned in toward Kinnick. “You know, I never signed the paperwork transferring the power of the presidency over to me.” His eyes met Kinnick’s. They were a vibrant brown like the scotch he drank. “The man is missing, not known to be dead.” He leaned back again, taking a sip of his alcohol.
“I see, sir.”
“Drop the sir. We are behind closed doors, and I heard what you said back there. You don’t have to like me, just do as you’re told.”
Kinnick nodded. “Understood.” He took a sip of the brown liquid.
“I prefer the vice presidency to the presidency anyway. It’s like being the backup quarterback on a winning football team. You get to get all dressed up and win, but you don’t have to put in all the blood, sweat, and tears. No one blames you for losing the game.”
Kinnick breathed a laugh into his drink.
“Unless the starter goes down in the fourth quarter and the home team needs a score,” Kinnick said.
Brady l
aughed.
“You’re only one play away from starting.” Brady sighed. “But between you and me, I never liked the guy that much anyway. Too much of a tight ass, by-the-book kind of fellow. Not really my thing.”
“Me neither,” Kinnick said. He laughed outright, almost feeling ashamed for laughing at the most certainly dead president. He stifled his laughter by taking another sip of his scotch.
The vice president scrunched his forehead together. “Would you want to be the president when the country went under? If some smart asshole ever writes a history book about the end of the world, they are going to have all sorts of horrible shit to say about me.”
Kinnick quietly shook his head no.
Brady leaned back in his chair one hand on a leather arm, the other holding his glass. “I was hoping for a second term out of the guy, pad my stats. No one likes to say it, but you make a lot more money if you’re a two-termer. Speaking engagements. Book deals. Businesses want you for your political connections. That’s when you make the big bucks. Then it’s the easy life,” Brady said. He stared vacantly at the wall.
“The easy life,” Kinnick said to himself, muttering into his booze.
“To the easy life.” Brady held his glass up. Kinnick did the same and Brady slung back the rest of his scotch. He leaned forward to the table. “Slide it over. I’ll get us another.”
“I’m not finished,” Kinnick pleaded. Half the brown liquid remained.
“Slide it over. That’s an order, Colonel, from your commander-in-chief,” Brady said, snapping his fingers together. Kinnick tossed the rest of the mocha-colored liquor back. The sheer amount of the booze stung but still didn’t burn his throat. He was never a lightweight, but he hadn’t drank in awhile or eaten for that matter. He slid the glass over the table to the vice president.
The vice president snatched up the glass and headed over to the decanter. He poured a tall glass of scotch in one and stopped mid-pour of the other as he thought of something.
“You know, General Travis chose to stay behind. We tried to get him to evacuate early on.” Brady peered back over his shoulder at Kinnick.
Kinnick’s head buzzed a bit, and he felt more relaxed than he could remember. “I know that, sir.”
The vice president brought the topped-off glass back to Kinnick and set it down in front of him. Brady plopped back down into his chair.
“Within two weeks we had lost global communications. Power grids are a touchy thing. Our fail-safe measures weren’t prepared for this kind of strain on both resources, especially the people.” He shook his head. “We assumed the worst about the Pentagon and fell back to our contingency facilities. When those went down, we moved to the next facility.”
“The Pentagon is gone. I spoke to General Travis as it was happening.” The fear in the old general’s voice would stay with Kinnick to the end of his days.
“I’m sorry to hear that, but maintaining operations on the East Coast was not a viable strategic option.”
Kinnick broke in. “The vice president must know what was happening to his men. Not only that, but units were rallying in the Midwest with no orders. Hundreds and thousands of soldiers were stranded when the C-130 Hercs stopped coming.”
Brady gave him a grim smile, staring down at this drink. He jutted his chin out a bit.
“Not a fun decision to make. I heeded the advice of my generals here, but I gave that command. Their lives are on my shoulders.”
“You left them hanging. No orders. No hope.”
Brady pounded his fist on the table. “I fucking know that. Communications were limited. Most of our military has been annihilated. Most of the nation has been eradicated. We needed to focus on something that we could hold.”
“So you threw men in their way. Mere speed bumps as the enemy rolled over them?”
Brady leaned his elbows on the table. “And we are grateful for their sacrifice. It gave us breathing room to figure out what the hell was going on. Now we are fighting back and securing our future, however shitty it may be.” He threw one hand out and took a swig with the other, daring Kinnick to contradict his words.
Kinnick set his glass down. “Our soldiers deserve better than that. The American public trusts us to help them.”
The vice president shrugged. “We can’t help them if we can’t help ourselves. This is it. We’re surrounded. Let me show you.” He snatched up a remote control and flicked on a large TV that hung on the wall. A map of the United States appeared.
“Come over here. See this for what it is. Look,” Brady pointed with his liquor glass.
Kinnick stood up and walked over to the vice president. Brady stayed seated as he gestured at the map. Every major city was red. The eastern half of the United States was all red.
“We consider all of the eastern half of the United States of America unsalvageable. We will not conduct operations east of the Mississippi River until our situation has drastically changed. My generals are projecting five to ten years.”
“Five to ten years?” Kinnick said in disbelief. “That’s a long time for the people out there to survive on their own.”
“We don’t have the manpower to control the area, so we’re leaving it alone until we do. Could be sooner, I don’t know.” The vice president turned an eye on Kinnick which he ignored.
Kinnick pointed at spaced-out red lines that ran through the bulk of the prairie Midwest. Iowa, Nebraska, the Dakotas, Kansas. “What are the lined areas?”
“We’ve been calling it the MidDeath. Because of the low population and lack of large cities, those areas are considered within a salvageable area of operations. After we spread our reach here, we will work on pushing through and clearing out those areas. Hopefully, we can use it to resettle misplaced persons and continue agricultural operations to keep the living fed. Unfortunately, for now, they are on their own. With limited resources, we must focus on the survivability of the mountain region first.”
“What about the West Coast?” The West Coast was also painted crimson. The bloody edges splashed up on the Rockies.
Brady took another drink of his scotch and ran a hand over his thinning hair. “There’s been a lot of debate over the West Coast.”
“What’s the debate?” Kinnick asked, fearing the answer. He couldn’t tell if it was the booze that was making him woozy or the predicament of the nation.
Brady got out of his chair and went back to the scotch decanter. His back turned to Kinnick as he spoke. “Whether or not to nuke it.” He tipped back the crystal decanter and topped off his scotch. “Another drink, Colonel?” he said, holding up the decanter. Only about a quarter of the liquid remained. He clinked ice in the glasses.
Kinnick nodded, dumbfounded, staring at California and the Western Seaboard. Brady placed a glass back in his hand. He stood near Kinnick, eyes judging the map.
“Almost sixty million people live between here and there.” Brady shook his head. “Whew. Good stuff.” He looked at his glass. “Sorry, lived there. Past tense. General Daugherty tells me that if we can eliminate the smaller threat that flanks us, we can more safely address the threat from the East.”
“There has to be a better way,” Kinnick said softly. He shook off the idea. The alcohol and the thought of nuclear holocaust gave him heartburn rising up rapidly in his chest.
“I’m open to suggestions, of course, but when you are surrounded by enemies on all sides, my plays are limited.
“There must be people still alive out there.”
The vice president patted Kinnick’s shoulder and walked back to his seat. “Trust me. It’s not something I’m happy about. I’m no expert on fallout, but my generals tell me the Rockies give us a natural barrier from radiation, fallout poison clouds, and the like. Not to mention it keeps the breadbasket of the nation safe from contamination for rebuilding efforts, and most of our military bases are in the east. You aren’t the first person to find this option drastic.”
Kinnick knew the man spoke the desperate trut
h; his rationale was that of a man on the brink.
“You want to drop nukes on American soil. You want to drop nukes on Americans,” Kinnick said aloud. He wasn’t sure if he said that for himself or the acting commander-in-chief.
Brady cocked his head. “Former Americans. You’ve read the executive order. Both of us know that those aren’t Americans anymore, and even if there were living, breathing people trapped inside those zones, they’re as good as dead within the month anyway. No clean water, no food, hundreds of thousands of the infected trying to kill you. It’s a death sentence if you live there.”
Kinnick turned away from the map and took his seat, using the arms to help himself down. “You can’t do this.” The scotch had loosened his tongue quite a bit.
Brady’s eyes grew large. “What else would you have me do? The remainders of the Joint Chiefs are recommending this. It will shift the tide of the war more in our favor. It clears our strategic flank, giving us a single front to focus on. This isn’t normal war, Colonel. This is make the right play or checkmate you’re dead. No one will be left if both coasts overwhelm us here.”
“Please.” Kinnick shook his head and rubbed his hands across his brow. “Let me think on this. I will find a better way. I brought Patient Zero here. Give the doctors some time to find a cure.”
The vice president’s eyes narrowed. “Those doctors in Cheyenne? Find a cure? Ha, that could take months, even years. Or from the latest briefing, never.”
“We can hold until then.” Is that the booze talking?
Brady’s eyes lit up as if Kinnick had proposed a dare. “Can we? The decisions I make are for an entire nation. It’s not just the West Coast. I have to consider the survivability of this government and the people that depend on it.” Brady took a long sip of his scotch.
“No one envies your position. Dear God, it’s a terrible one, but please give me time. I will come up with something,” Kinnick begged.
Brady gave him an unnerving smile, and for a moment, Kinnick thought the man had cracked.
“Well, you want the responsibility so bad. Come up with something,” Brady said.
The End Time Saga Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 82
