The World Counters: A Post-Apocalyptic Story (The World Burns Book 10)

by Boyd Craven III

  “Enlighten me,” the president said, willing to give him the benefit of the doubt for the moment, his own questions still swirling through the murk of his insecurities.

  “The forces of the New Caliphate have dug in hard since we’ve started our bombing run on the forces coming through Mexico. Suddenly Pyongyang has gone silent, and they are only going to dig in for so long. Instead of attacking and destroying air bases and materials, how long until they get pilots of their own? How long until somebody gives them access codes to a silo—”

  “They cannot launch nor detonate any of our nuclear arsenals,” the president interrupted.

  “Not directly, but what if, say… they dismantled a warhead? Rewired it to command detonate, or even made one hell of a suicidal dirty bomb? What if they were to access a silo and start feeding the air force commanders of our nukes false information? It can neutralize the biggest deterrent we have left.”

  “What does this have to do with sending anti-aircraft supplies to Kentucky?”

  “Sir, when they get air support, and I’m sure they will… It is my belief that they will push east before taking on the westernmost states.”

  “Is that a guess, or do you have specific intelligence?” he asked, his face pale from the stress and anxiety.

  “A little of both. Radio intercepts, half decoded messages… and sir, Blake and Sandra’s homestead has become the center of the civilian militia. Unless we get the rest of our troops home and I mean fast, they are the only ones with enough of a ground force to even attempt to slow, if not stop, the invasion.”

  “You think a bunch of rednecks and hillbillies can stop soldiers? You think they can stop the New Caliphate?”

  “Sir,” Col. Grady said a little miffed at his casual dismissal of the militia, “who do you think makes up the majority of the New Caliphate? Poppy farmers, goat herders, Kenyan dissidents who are looking to expand their view of Sharia—”

  “Tread very carefully,” the president growled, his voice low but carrying more menace than any other time the colonel had heard him speak.

  “Sorry, sir, I forgot about your father… I meant no disrespect. But yes, I think these ‘rednecks and hillbillies’ as you call them, can and will be essential to the survival of our nation. If that means giving them the capabilities of defending themselves and helping them become more effective… I mean, sir, that’s the job you brought me back for. To coordinate with the civilian militia and get some organization going.”

  “I didn’t tell you to put a special forces operator who’s so code worded I can’t even see her entire file in charge of all this hardware. And her husband… On an open channel… He threatened Franklin Hines with shelling him and his position if he forced Blake to come back as ordered. This… No, Colonel, this cannot stand. I won’t let this…”

  “Sir, you obviously disagree with what I did and why. Could you please explain to me why so I might better serve the office of the President of the United States of America?” Col. Grady asked.

  He was careful with how he worded things. He’d slipped up on the Kenyan dissident thing… it hadn’t been directed at the president, but at the tip of his tongue as one of the last things he’d read after firing Celia. The overall makeup of the forces they were looking at… Because the only North Koreans left alive were the ones not in North Korea, or in their underground bunkers. It’d be too hot for them to come out for decades, and China was already blowing up the phone numbers of every remaining government official in the USA about the use of nuclear weapons. Even South Korea, who had remained out of the fight, had become belligerent, knowing the radiation and fallout would also affect them as it would North Korea’s northern neighbor.

  “The office of the president? Is that some careful way of saying you support the chair but not the man sitting in it?” the president asked, his voice back in that low growl.

  “Sir, I support the president of the United States. I support the Constitution, and I have always upheld my oaths, whether retired or not, sir.”

  The president stared at him for a long moment.

  “What did the Jacksons say? Is Blake going to get back to work as directed?” the president asked Col. Grady, guessing one of many reasons for Grady’s special drops.

  “At this point, he is not willing to risk air travel with the New Caliphate bisecting our country. Even with our Air Force and Naval assets that are now in position on the west coast… it’s still risky—” The Colonel held up a placating hand when it looked like the president was about to erupt in a fountain of blood from his head exploding he went on, “but he did say he would be in touch through scrambled transmissions to both Governors and FEMA directors. As you know, California is a complete mess, and what forces we have there are keeping the grid safe in Washington state.”

  “So he didn’t say no?” the president asked.

  “No, sir, he offered a different solution to the same problem. I’m sure that once travel has become safer and his wife gives birth, he’ll be more able to consider a position that requires him to be more… mobile.”

  It was only a partial lie, but one Grady gladly told. The president had never liked the Jacksons, especially after shelling Davis, whether it had been justified or not. For whatever reason, the political fallout of the UN/NATO troops John Norton had fought had fallen on the president as well. He was tired of being belittled, pushed around, and looked down upon. His own biases and prejudices had finally surfaced when there were no more TV cameras to record him in his true self. Still, Grady reasoned, there was always a good explanation he could offer the president for why he’d given the Homestead the ability to defend itself from its own government.

  “Has he already started?” the president asked, his face stony now.

  “Yes, right after Governor Hines got back in touch with him.”

  “And have you been in touch with him since?”

  “Blake? No, Mr. President, but I have been in touch with Sandra.” Which was true, and the records would show that. If there was a recording, well… he was as careful as he could be, and if it got out, he’d either live or die by the consequences of his actions. “She’s coordinating a push that sweeps from the south and cuts the supply lines from Mexico. Our bombers and subs have decimated the ships bringing in men and supplies, but there is still a large stockpile in Mexico. With boots on the ground, we hope to cut them off.”

  “Have you heard from the Mexican ambassador yet? I haven’t heard anything from them since the bombing on their coastline.”

  “Their ambassador is dead, sir. Three weeks now. They have less of a government than we do at this point,” Grady said, and mentally winced. “With no more war on drugs and no one to purchase what they have, the cartels have gone after the only other thing they think they can profit from.”

  “What’s that?” the president asked.

  “Power. It’s almost feudal there. Each of the major cartels has taken control of areas of Mexico. The remnants of the Mexican Army have either fled or joined up with the cartels or Jihadis.”

  “So let’s get back to Kentucky,” the president said, steepling his hands and resting his chin on his thumbs again, staring at Grady who was starting to sweat from nerves. “Sandra Jackson, by your own admission, directs and, in effect, controls the largest ground force in the United States of America. Somebody that we have been trying to bring into the fold, control or whatever,” the president said, making a dismissive hand gesture. “Her husband outright spread dissent when they coordinated the FEMA breakouts in Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana and a few other states from what I read...

  “And I am urged to go easy on these folks. Then…” The president's voice had been growing steadily louder, “…they shell a government official. Right or wrong in his actions, they have done their damndedst to make the government out to be the bad guys, with no fear of retribution. Hell, our response to make Blake FEMA Director of Kentucky worked, and I hated it. Now you are giving them weapons and armament that allows th
em to fend us off, should we need to stop them from forming their own central government?”

  The last was almost shouted. This was what Col. Grady had been waiting for. He merely shrugged his shoulders, his face impassive, though the sweat betrayed how nervous he was.

  “Well?” the president asked him pointedly.

  “Well what, Mr. President?”

  “You have nothing to say to that? You went outside the chain of command and armed what I believe to be terrorist elements within our own government—”

  “Excuse me, SIR,” Grady shouted, losing all sense of composure. “The only terrorists within this country working against the government were appointed by you, sir. You have done nothing but tear our country apart for seven and a half years.”

  The president was gaping, his jaw almost dragging on the desk he was so surprised.

  “Furthermore, SIR,” Grady shouted, “those rednecks and hillbillies in Kentucky have put themselves out there time and time again. Not only do I know those rednecks and hillbillies personally, but they are also doing a better job of rebuilding this nation than you are, sir. You’ve been nothing but a sniveling, corrupt community organizer who’s been hell bent on turning America into your version of a Saul Alinsky’s UTOPIA. You followed every RULE for Radicals and were surprised when the country fell? Sir, you are not only ignorant, you are stupid if you don’t believe people have seen what your ‘leadership’ has brought us,” Grady said, almost foaming at the mouth.

  Months and years of the administration had been grating at him. He’d seen the military gutted, Americans spied upon… The president giving orders to have Americans killed in drone strikes… directing the Supreme Court to interpret the Constitution to fit his agenda and, when that didn’t work, writing executive orders to force his wants and vision of the country to become a reality.

  “Your deal with Iran all but guaranteed that they would start uranium enrichment. Your failure to even read or say ISLAMIC Terrorism or anything to do with it, gave our enemies breathing room to make a deal with North Korea—”

  “Col. Grady,” the president shouted, interrupting the diatribe.

  “Sir,” Grady said after a long deep breath.

  “You will show me some respect when you are in my presence. Your insolence insomuch—”

  “I respect the office of the president. You, sir, I have none for.”

  “Really?” the president said, his face pale and gray.

  “Sir, you’ll be remembered as the man who killed Osama Bin Laden, unleashed nuclear weapons once again, and the man who brought about the destruction of the United States.”

  “You’re relieved of duty,” the president said in a quiet voice, his hand massaging his chest.

  “Sir, I was pressed into duty after I retired. It was your choice to force me back. So yes, I armed our best hope of defeating the invaders. If I have to quit again, well, that won’t be so bad. I have a place to go and hide out the aftermath.”

  “Aftermath? You think I’m going to let you get away with this so easily?”

  “Sir, even now, the Chinese are scrambling a response. You were warned, sir. Whoever replaces me will have to deal with the fallout, whether it’s conventional or nuclear.”

  “I had the ambassador’s call sent to you to diffuse the situation.” The man seemed to almost crumple within himself as he sat back on the desk, a defeated man.

  “Sir, this is war, and you micromanaging it is going to cost a lot of lives. I’m going to take mine and hunt a hole now that you’ve relieved me. Good day, sir.”

  Col. Grady stood abruptly, snapped off a salute, and did an about face and walked toward the doors. They opened as soon as he got close and a secret service man in a black suit, sunglasses, and earwig were there holding it for him. Grady paused in the doorway and turned to the president. “Sir, I strongly advise you against ever sending men after the Jacksons. No matter what you think they may have done… You will rip the country apart if you do.”

  “That is all, Mr. Grady,” the president said, no longer using his rank. “Please escort Mr. Grady to his quarters and put him under house arrest.”

  The secret service agent nodded and pulled a pistol from a shoulder holster and held it gently by his side. Grady grinned at the man, tempted to pinch his cheeks or put a wet thumb in the middle of the man’s sunglasses. He was happy to still be alive. House arrest for essentially doing what was asked of him… he could deal with that. He knew he had enough support in the background that his men wouldn’t let him stay here long. He just had to be ready when it happened. Nothing specific had been planned for this as it was more of an ‘always be ready’, and he would be. He knew of an old World War II bunker in Tennessee that had been decommissioned. Quietly and without approval, he’d had it brought back to readiness and stocked from the vast reserves of supplies. Only the chaos of the EMP had allowed his virtual theft of goods and supplies make a perfect bolthole and bugout.

  If the Chinese went nuclear on America, he’d at least be safe for a while with enough supplies to keep him and those loyal to him safe for some time. Not in comfort, per se, but alive and healthy.

  10

  “Change of plans,” John said, his ear to the speaker.

  “What is it?” Tex asked, hobbling to the truck John was half sitting in.

  “Somebody hit the FEMA camp thirty miles north of us. Massive NATO and DHS causalities. They were ordered to bug out and head south, leaving the people behind who weren’t loyal.”

  “Do you think it was somebody doing what we were working on before the Caliphate came to America?” Michael asked, referring to them breaking people out of the camps.

  “Yes,” John said, “by the sound of it. Apparently, a local sheriff escaped with his men and some materials and then hit some sort of research center. They are suffering severe causalities. I have a new plan, and I think you’re going to like it…”

  “Sir, I mean John,” Sgt. Smith stuttered, “you want me to do what?”

  “I want you to hit the convoy in the front and middle. We’re going to slip in using Michael’s APC. It’ll be tight quarters, but in the confusion, a NATO APC with DHS will look logical. With all the new men coming to the base, I’m sure their records are FUBAR’d. We can get in and do what we need to do and slip out.”

  “What exactly is the mission?” Tex asked.

  Once the morphine had worn off and he’d had a day or two to heal, he’d woken up stiff but ready to join in the battle. The group's original plan had been to infiltrate, set up a diversion, and let in a special forces team to cause havoc and blow the lid off the place with enough proof to force the president to act. Even though John knew from Sgt. Smith that the president was aware of Hassan’s betrayal, he’d not done more than give the stand down order. He wasn’t actively calling on which units had stood down or not. They, the DHS, were just sitting and waiting. Something big had happened or was happening, and nobody at the Homestead could make it out. Sandra couldn’t get through to her contact within the president’s inner circle.

  “Slip in, get proof. We already know this bunch is dirty. King and I will do what we do best. The rest of our teams are fire support. Sgt. Smith will be hitting incoming vehicles from afar, and shelling anybody fleeing when we start the fire inside.”

  “We’re literally setting things on fire?” Michael asked.

  “Naw, I have a feeling that there're supplies in that bunker that we’ll want to keep away from the New Caliphate. If we have to use fire to destroy it, we will… but I think it’d be of better use for the folks we have coming in behind us.”

  “Behind us? Sugar, what the heck are you talking about?” Caitlin asked.

  “One way or another, there’s going to be a big push. Sandra’s been organizing it for a month now. They’re sweeping in from the southwest, cutting off supply lines and picking off stragglers from the bombing run—”

  “Wait, you haven’t filled us all in,” King interrupted.

  J
ohn had been on the horn nonstop, hardly taking a break. His mind was going a thousand miles an hour, and he had lost track of what he’d conveyed. He took a deep breath, and Tex pulled a Thermos out from behind his back and unscrewed the top lid. The scent of coffee immediately got everyone’s attention and all the side chatter came to a dead stop.

  “How did you…”

  “Sugar, I’ll love you forever if you share,” Caitlin cooed.

  “I haven’t had a cuppa in—”

  “How much is there?” somebody asked out of Michael’s sight.

  Tex just shrugged and reached inside the truck John was half sitting in and got John’s mug out. It had the dried remains of the tea he’d found; they’d been without coffee for weeks now. Tex had been holding out on them, but John couldn’t figure out how. His eyes were wide, and he saw Tex pour him a mug and hand it to him.

  “I know I’m supposed to take 'er easy cuz I’m on the mend and all, but you haven’t hardly slept. You drink this here rocket fuel, collect your thoughts, and lay it all out on us.”

  Hungry eyes watched the mug as John held it to his lips and took a long sip. He winced at the heat, but he could feel his synapses start firing smoothly. His brain had been feeling like a Chevy 350 that was running on five cylinders. He didn’t stop until over half the cup was gone, and Tex topped his cup off before turning to the crowd and started drinking out of his Thermos directly.

  “Oh man,” Michael whined.

  “He ain’t brushed his teeth this month,” King groused.

  “Mine,” Caitlin said pulling the thermos from Tex’s surprised hands and took a sip herself.

  Angry words were shouted at the three of them due to the liquid brain power that was being partaken of, and Sgt. Smith walked into the middle of the commotion with a confused look on his face.

  “What’s the big deal? I brought like fifty pounds of ground coffee from the Homestead. The machines are set up near where our artillery FO…”