“Where are they all going?” Michael asked as the mob took off at a dead run.
King shrugged.
“I thought you were going to brief all of them fools,” Tex said with a slight grin.
“Once they get them some java. We’ll all feel better.”
“APC 54376, where are you coming from?” The voice crackled over the open line the DHS had been using.
“I wish we had Henrikas with us,” Michael grumped to King. They had the APC absolutely loaded to the gills with John’s spec ops folks including Caitlin and Tex, who had a jaw full of chewing tobacco.
“Bugging out. Was attacked by artillery and APC/Tank heavy weapons fire,” King said.
“Who’s your unit commander? Which NATO command you with?” the voice asked.
They must have put eyes to the markings on their APC as they joined the fleeing convoy.
“Sir, my unit commander is—”
The lead portion of the convoy disintegrated as several artillery shells and mortar rounds started hitting the convey.
Shouts over the frequency between vehicles were overlapping each other, and every vehicle, DHS, and NATO started going off-road and through the fields in evasive maneuvers so they could avoid any incoming and see any obstacles that the convoy had been blocking sight of. Michael was following several NATO-marked Russian Surplus APCs similar to theirs when the vehicle in front of him was hit directly. The explosion rocked the APC, bringing it to a dead stop as the overpressure almost flipped the APC. It came down on all tires, throwing people inside around.
“Oops,” Smith’s voice came out of John’s tactical radio, and John cursed him without transmitting.
The bombardment stopped, and the remaining vehicles left the burning ones where they were. The survivors were starting to get to their feet. Some had fled the vehicles that had been flipped, but some vehicles hadn’t taken direct hits, so injured fled the APCs and burning hummers disabled by the artillery.
“Slow,” King said pointing to a group of three men who were standing shell-shocked next to a burning Hummer.
Michael shot him a confused look but slowed down to a literal crawl, making the vehicle behind him touch his air horn in frustration.
“Get on,” King yelled.
Despite his shout, everybody’s ears were ringing, and Michael could taste the coppery flavor of blood in the back of his throat from being so close to the explosion. These men weren’t in anything armored directly, just a hardened off Hummer. Still… One of the men who was less shell-shocked than the others pointed and yelled to the APC. Three bloodied men climbed onto the outer steps, and the one who had given the orders got on top, near the turret and top hatch.
“I’ll go talk to him,” King said.
“Opsec,” John screamed at King.
“I’m improvising. Door key,” he said, pointing straight up.
King pushed his way through the bodies of men who were dressed as the DHS and to the hatch. He turned the handle and, being mindful not to fling somebody off, started lifting it slowly in case somebody was sitting on it. A surprised face filled the opening, the man who had gotten his men moving. Half of his left ear was gone, and a gash opened up over his right eye… The man was half blinded by his own bleeding, yet there was an intelligence in his eyes that let King know he was still in the game. He would have to be careful.
“I can’t thank you enough,” the man said, reaching a bloody hand inside.
King shook it.
“How bad are your men?” King asked, pulling open a pouch on his replacement vest and pulling a pack of bandages out.
“Concussed, cut. I was lucky, I was thrown out and just got a couple of nicks.”
“You lost half an ear,” King said pressing the bandages in his hand. “Half those on your left ear. No, your LEFT,” he almost shouted, and the man nodded and complied.
King took two steps and got part of his shoulders and upper body through the hatch. The man sat down, holding onto the turret for support.
“You guys saved our asses. Nobody else stopped. You have room in there for us?” he asked.
“No, you weren’t the only ones we picked up. They call me King,” he said, looking at the other two men.
“Swanson,” the man replied.
One was barely conscious, the other was holding onto a handle near the edge, his lower body over the side. King noted he must have gotten onto one of the steps and was hanging on. The man had wounds all over his upper torso and head. Shrapnel. King pulled himself out and waved off the first man who had one hand clamped over his ear and made it to where the DHS man dangled off the side. He tried to anticipate the movements of the heavy APC, but it was still bumpy. The man he was looking down on was turning paler by the moment and was sweating profusely. King got on his knees and grabbed one of the handles on top and reached down with one large arm.
Grabbing the DHS man by the belt, he hauled him up one handed so swiftly that the agent forgot to let go of his handgrip and landed in a heap in front of King.
“Whoa, fella,” he heard the other Agent say, “I don’t know if he can take being manhandled like that—”
His words cut off as the APC ran over something and everyone on top bounced, King included.
“He can’t survive falling off and under the wheels. Help me check him out.”
“Thanks,” the barely conscious agent mumbled.
They worked in silence, though the sound of vehicles and the crunch of tires and wind was near deafening. As King finished tying off a tight bandage on the man’s upper arm, John popped his head up out of the hatch.
“King, the driver needs you,” he shouted, and dropped back in.
King grunted, knowing that John was on a wanted list and hoped he hadn’t just given away their ruse.
“Be right there,” King shouted back.
“You sure you don’t have any room?” Swanson asked, pulling the bandage aside to see if the blood had started clotting.
“Not once I’m in, sorry.”
“No worries. You aren’t regulars from around here, are you?” Swanson asked him as King started wiggling his lower torso into the hatch.
“No. Lucky we caught up with your convoy. Our group was getting slaughtered,” he said hesitating heading all the way back inside.
“There’s a lot of that happening. Us agents have to stick together.”
“That we do,” King said in his customary manner, short on words, long on meaning. “I’ll leave the hatch unlocked. Have to close it so we can hear comms and the driver. You or your men need something, open it and give a shout.”
Swanson nodded, and King climbed in and shut the hatch. He didn’t lock it, but pointed up and held a finger to his lips. The team nodded, and the big man moved forward to where Michael was, bumping his way through the crowd.
“What’s up, kid?” he asked.
“Oh nothing, just getting to the gates of Mordor. How do we get through?” Michael asked.
“Mordor?” John asked, puzzled.
“Lord of the Rings,” King told him, “I told you guys, I got me a gate key.” He pointed up.
“Well, we have about two minutes until we reach the gate. They are reading numbers off the vehicles. We didn’t plan for that,” Michael said, a bit of worry in his tone.
“I told you, gate key.” King pointed up again.
“Okay, man. Just have somebody be ready on the main gun.” Michael looked worried, but his eyes never left the viewing slots and the bank of gauges in front of him.
“You know it. Caitlin’s got it,” John answered.
“Well hold onto your butts, here we go,” Michael said. “Anybody want to go out up top and talk to the guards?”
“I got this,” King rumbled.
King made his way toward the back. Michael shot John a look over his shoulder and then turned back to the driving. Without looking up, he asked, “What do you think he means about a door key?”
“The folks we picked up. He
must have seen something or made a darn good guess,” John said.
“I hope so,” Tex said, “cuz bumping into everyone inside here is a pain in my—”
“Here we go,” Michael said, and the inside of the APC went quiet as everyone waited.
Michael pulled the APC up to the checkpoint. From this angle, the hidden bunker wasn’t visible, just the guard shack, an electrified fence topped with triple strands of razor wire and warning signs of an electric fence. There was a ten foot gap between that and a second fence that was only slightly less imposing. During their watch, they knew that the middle between the fences was often patrolled by dog handlers, and sometimes just the German Shepherds ran the gaps.
“Turn it off,” a guard yelled toward Michael, who he could see through the slits.
Michael shook his head and heard King’s voice over the big twin diesels.
“He turns it off it won’t start back up,” he all but shouted, his deep baritone carrying despite the noise inside and out.
“Your APC isn’t on our list,” one of the four guards screamed back.
Each of the four guards had an M4 on a drop sling, with a black pistol holstered at their hips. Three of them had their rifles at the low ready, but the man in charge was holding a clipboard. The man in charge always had a clipboard, King mused.
“They’re with us,” Swanson’s voice was weak. “They were fleeing another major attack when they had the misfortune to run into the same ambush me and my men did.”
“Swanson? Is that you?” The man with the clipboard looked up toward the APC’s roof.
“Yeah, cuz, and I’ve got wounded. This is Agent King here, the guy whose crew pulled our fat out of the fire.”
“What happened?” the man in charge asked and winced as somebody further back in the line hit the air horn.
“I don’t know. I think it was artillery, but it could have been… heck, no it couldn’t have been a bombing run, the folks with radar said there was nothing on screen.”
“Artillery is more likely. How many wounded do you have?” Clipboard asked.
“Three up top,” King said. “Mostly banged up and bruised inside.”
“Regs say I have to throw this up the chain of command—”
Swanson coughed. “Cuz, I need to get my men to the medics. You can throw whatever you want up whatever orifice you have open. No offense. But… We’re heading to the infirmary.”
With a sigh, the agent started writing on the clipboard. “I guess you lost your vehicle, Swanson?”
“Duh… took an indirect hit, flipped it.”
“Okay, then I’m giving this APC your spot. If it’s going to have a hard time starting, make sure to park near the end of the lot where we can tow it out easier. We don’t have spare parts for all this Russian rolling rust.”
“Just a cranky diesel,” King shouted. “Out of synch with the second one. Probably water in the lines.”
The man nodded and waved at them to move forward with his clipboard. King dropped in, almost bowling over Caitlin. He put out a big hand to keep her from bouncing off the interior of the APC and then strode forward.
“That’s it?” Michael asked when King got behind him.
“Door Key,” King said pointing up.
“That’s what he meant,” John said, faux whispering to Michael, pointing up.
“No kidding.”
11
“Seriously? The president was going to send you all the way out here to tell me that? Over.”
Blake grinned and pressed the transmit button. “Yeah. My wife says it’s simple psychology, and if you have partial power to make life much easier, you can get the refrigeration going. Once you get food storage up and running on a big scale, you have something to trade for more labor. People want to feel valued, and don’t mind hard work. That’s one thing I’ve learned since America went belly up… but if you force them to the water trough, you’d have to drown them to get them to drink.”
Washington State’s Governor, Isiah Starke, chuckled over the open air.
“That’s the truth. When Franklin got in touch with me, he gave me a basic rundown. In truth, I was going to do something like this myself if I didn’t have a mandate from DC that forced Director Atchley and me to do things his way. Yours has been implemented and tweaked. How was the response from the east coast?”
“Hesitant, resistant at first. Once they tried it, though…”
“It’s just plain common sense. I think a lack of that has fouled us up some. I’ve met the president, knew him back when he was a common rabble-rouser… He has big dreams, and I think his heart is in the right place, but that good old boy is opinionated, and the opinion he likes to hear is his own. Over.”
“Yeah, I’ve not had the pleasure myself, but I know he’s not fond of me. I’m just going to avoid him for as long as I can. Safer for me that way. Over.”
“Too right. Listen, do you have an idea for cold weather preparedness that you’re going to be talking about on Rebel Radio? The reason I’m asking is winter is coming, and we’ve already had deaths from people trying to cook indoors with improper venting, fires, things like that?”
“I hadn’t planned on doing it directly, but I figured it’d come up soon…”
“If you could, I’d appreciate it. I’d hate to lose half or more of the survivors this winter,” the governor said.
“Why don’t you tell them, especially if your biggest populations live on or near the camps currently?” Blake asked.
“Because, Blake, you’re the anti-establishment, and I’m considered… the man. Fight the power.”
Lisa was walking by, and she snickered. Blake shot her a look and grinned. His mother-in-law had surprised them all by definitely fitting the profile of a young grandma. She knew more rock and roll than most and was teaching food storage one day, dance the next… all the while helping corral the kids, keep Duncan from eating the bad foods and she had a wicked sense of humor.
“Fight the power,” she said and started humming something.
She walked away before Blake or Sandra could make out what song it was.
“So you’re saying it’ll be more legitimate if it comes from me?” Blake asked.
“Exactly. Oh, uh over.”
“I forget to do that all the time. Over,” Blake said.
“Have you been in touch with neighboring states?” the governor asked.
“Not yet. Trying to work out the schedules and timing. Over.”
“I’ll work on what you shared with me, Blake, and if I can, I’ll share info with Governor Scranton. Over.”
“Thank you, sir,” Blake said, “and if you need me to talk you through any of the changes during implementation just give me a ring. Blake out.”
“Blake out,” Duncan said in a falsetto voice and both Patty, Lisa, and Chris busted up laughing.
“Thanks a lot, Dad,” Blake said good-naturedly.
“Any time,” Duncan said. “Who’s running the communal kitchen tonight?”
“Sandra and her squad were going to, but they got called away. Looks like half the Homestead has gone off to get some gear that Grady was going to drop for her.”
“But they left hours ago,” Lisa said, coming up from the basement with a handful of books.
“I don’t know much. She took the radio call and left. I wasn’t around for the first one, but I guess she got confirmation that supplies were inbound.”
“She’d normally tell me if she was mobilizing something this big. I wish we had Smith around.”
Blake understood that sentiment; Sgt. Smith had become the defacto third or fourth in charge around the Homestead. Blake had underestimated how much the soldier had been doing for him until his company had up and left to support Michael and King’s operation to get proof of the government's collusion with the Caliphate, or to exonerate the current administration. Everyone had been playing things close to the vest, even Blake’s wife Sandra who’d suddenly wanted to keep him close. He didn�
��t mind, but for a woman who was virtually fearless, she suddenly seemed to be worrying. That almost sent Blake into the screaming meemees.
“I’ve been listening to the radio chatter,” Patty said. “There're half a dozen planes that made the drop. As the last one was shoving cargo out the door, they all got recalled. They told whoever it was they’d already made the drops. Were ordered to fly in radio silence until the drops were made.”
“Why were they recalled?” Lisa asked.
“Yeah, I’m wondering that myself,” Duncan said.
“Maybe it has something to do with the cargo?” Blake asked.
“They didn’t say what it was,” David interjected, “but whoever was on the other end didn’t use regular radio protocol at first. That’s why the last pilot made the drop. Whoever called didn’t have proper authentication, and they resorted to code words.”
“That’s strange. I wonder why they did that?”
“She’ll fill us in soon enough,” Blake said. “Chris, come on, let’s go get a big cook fire going near the barn. Looks like you, me and the midget squad gets the dinner works going today!”
“Ooooh, that sounds good, Dad! Can I go tell Keeley?”
“Go ahead,” Blake said, watching as his adopted son tore out of the house with a full head of steam.
Everyone winced when the heavy door slammed shut on the spring, but there were smiles all around. They had felt safe at the Homestead for a long time. With the buildup of regular and voluntary militia forces, it’d be suicidal for anybody to attack the Homestead in force.
“Hey, Duncan, Sandra’s on scramble, she wants you to go to the private channel,” David said just as Blake was walking out behind Chris.
Blake paused and watched Duncan grab the portable handset.
“Hey, pumpkin, what’s up?” he said after fumbling with buttons for a minute.
“No ears, Daddy, over.” Sandra’s voice came out of the radio.
“Let me know,” Blake said pointing to Duncan who gave him the nod, and Blake went out to start the cook fire.
“You are going to seriously teach us how to start a fire?” Keeley asked, pushing Jason who was next to her, so he’d give her a little more breathing room.
The World Counters: A Post-Apocalyptic Story (The World Burns Book 10) Page 6
