Warlords

by William H. Weber

  “We do, but it might come in handy for you folks. The enemy’s supply lines were stretched far too thin to fuel up their jets and choppers, which is part of why we’ve been able to hold on for as long as we have, but the word coming down the chain is that’s about to change. A big shipment came in yesterday evening. That’s part of the reason we’re on such a tight schedule. But it also means you’re likely to start seeing some increased enemy air activity in your area.”

  “Increased? We haven’t seen a single plane since the EMP.”

  “Getting the fuel, that’s been our biggest problem. We’ve still got the aircraft, all of them hardened against the effects of an EMP, like most of the equipment in the military arsenal. Problem is, once the tankers and refineries we rely on to move that fuel were knocked out, we were grounded. You should have seen what we had to go through to get the armor in place.”

  The military’s dependence on civilian infrastructure was a major vulnerability. It was one thing to protect military hardware, but another thing entirely if that hardware no longer had the nuts and bolts that kept it running. For this reason the Allies had devoted considerable energy during World War II to bombing Nazi ball-bearing factories. Without them, any mechanized army was bound to grind to a halt. Lack of supplies was also the reason that Germany’s final daring push during the Battle of the Bulge had stalled.

  “What about the smaller ones?” John asked about the green, nondescript containers at Edgar’s feet.

  “Those you’re really gonna like,” the colonel said, grinning. “It’s a Stinger anti-air missile launcher. Unfortunately, all I can afford right now are three missiles. Colonel Higgs told me you were in the 278th over in Iraq, so I’m assuming you know your way around these puppies.”

  John smiled, as much because of the smug look on Edgar’s face as his use of the word puppies.

  “Now, if there isn’t anything more,” Edgar said, turning to leave.

  “There’s just one other thing,” John replied. “We’re planning on making a run to Home Depot for some building material. The closest one is in Oak Ridge. I was wondering if you knew whether the town had been liberated.”

  “If you mean liberated from Russian agents, I can tell you they never got a hold of the place. They tried, far as I heard. But there’s government industry there—the Department of Energy, among others—so you can imagine their deception didn’t go over very well.”

  “So it’s safe?” John asked.

  “Nowhere is safe, but I don’t think that’s what you’re asking. If this were two months ago, I’d say stay put, but my guess is most of the people who woulda given you any trouble are already dead.” The colonel’s eyes dropped to the weapons he’d left. “I guess Christmas came early for Oneida this year, didn’t it?”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” John said, praying he would never need to use the gifts he’d just been given. For a moment, the smell of gun grease from the Ma Deuce whipped him right back to Nasiriyah and what had been one of the worst days of his life. John shook the feeling away and wished Colonel Edgar a safe journey, not entirely sure the troops heading for the front would make it there in one piece.

  Chapter 13

  Not long after, John and Reese were at the head of a five-car convoy.

  A trip to a hardware store that in the old days would have simply meant a long drive was today a major operation. They were ten altogether, two in each pickup, the truck beds empty to give room for the supplies they were heading there to get. The prospect of turning the power back on even in a limited capacity was still hard for John to believe. It would be the first step in increasing their ability to help resupply the front.

  Part of the plan brewing in John’s mind over the last couple of days involved turning the old movie theatre on Alberta Street into a factory producing bullets, mortars and improvised explosives. This along with the extra food they grew would be shipped by train to the front. If it proved successful, John would send his own envoys out to liberated towns to show them how to do the same.

  Although it would have been handy to have Moss come along, John had left him back in Oneida to continue overseeing the city’s defenses. The ring of gabions that would provide cover and protection would take time. So too would the hundreds of sandbags they needed. In some cases, giant empty bags of dog food could provide a nice alternative. The bag itself was made from a sturdy material and once the end was tied off, they could be laid out as the bottom layer of a fortified wall or position. In other examples of improvised defenses, mini-gabions could be put together using garbage cans. For that purpose, members of Dan Niles’ crew were tasked with collecting as many garbage cans from the surrounding area as they could find so that Moss’ men could fill them with dirt. It didn’t look pretty, but these solutions did offer some level of cover from incoming shrapnel.

  Once the convoy turned south onto Highway 75, there was a noticeable increase in ruined cars. A number of ghostly camps built in haste by refugees fleeing the city also lined the interstate. In some were clear signs that a battle had taken place, reminiscent of the first pioneers who headed west in long wagon trains, under constant threat from hostile Indians. Many of the improvised structures even formed a defensive circle, just like the wagons of old. In many ways, the country had taken a step back into a bygone century.

  Beside him, Reese was driving the pickup, one hand on the wheel, the other holding a cigarette next to a crack in the window.

  “You know those things are gonna kill you,” John said. “Maybe when we’re in Oak Ridge we should look for something less deadly.”

  Reese let out a snort of laughter. “I think they’re starting to grow on me.”

  To the left of John’s knee was his AR-15 and beside that Reese’s Remington 700. For his secondary, Reese was using a Colt 1911 with a “black army” finish. He patted the pistol grip when he noticed John admiring it. “Wanted a chrome finish, but glinting has a nasty habit of giving a sniper’s position away. Pretty, isn’t she?”

  “One of the nicest, no doubt,” John agreed, thinking of the one he’d seen Diane carrying earlier. “I only wish they held more than seven or eight rounds.”

  “Nah. Doesn’t matter when every one of yours will put a grown man on his rear end. You stack that kinda stopping power up against any 9mm, I dare you.”

  “Then I take it you don’t think the military should have replaced it with the Beretta.”

  Reese shook his head vigorously. “No, siree, I don’t. As far as I’m concerned that decision was based on the principle that throwing more lead downrange will always win a firefight. I’m willing to admit that in certain cases that’s true. But not when you compare the power differential between these two weapons.”

  John nodded. “I think it might have also had something to do with standardizing the ammo soldiers were using.”

  “Perhaps,” Reese admitted, “but there’s a reason so many special forces are still using it a hundred years on. This baby came with me to the Sahara when I joined the French Foreign Legion. Us snipers had to use the FR F2, but our secondary was up to us and I took my trusty .45. Best decision I made. She got me out of more than one close-quarters scrape.”

  John was still eyeing the walnut grip and the black army finish. Outside, the convoy raced past rusted hulks and the bleached bones of the occasional skeleton, picked clean by crows and other scavengers. “I’m afraid it’s going to take more than stopping power to defeat the Chinese and their allies,” John said, almost to himself.

  “Right now they beat us in the technology department,” Reese said. “And maybe in the manpower department.”

  “Technology they stole from us,” John added bitterly.

  “Maybe so,” Reese said, drawing heavily on his cigarette before shoving it through the crack in the window. “But I guess it’s a moot point.”

  “Colonel Edgar mentioned that the Chinese, Russian and North Korean supply lines were stretched to the breaking point.”

  “Not hard
to imagine when you think about the ocean they’ve gotta cross and then the two-thousand-mile journey over land to the Mississippi. It’s a wonder they made it this far. You’re the history buff, John, but I seem to remember the Allies in World War II using England as a launching pad into northern France.”

  John nodded. “So anyone playing havoc with those over-stretched supply lines could be a pain, is what you’re saying.”

  “More than a pain. A royal pain, I’d say.” Reese lit a fresh cigarette. “Wouldn’t surprise me one bit to learn there were already dozens of groups stuck behind enemy lines who’d taken to the hills. With a little training and the proper leadership they could become an effective fighting force.”

  “Which is why the enemy’s corralling captured Americans into labor camps.”

  “Maybe by creating their own factories closer to the front they aim to ease the strain on their supply lines.”

  Rubbing a growing headache from his right temple, John agreed. “That’s what the Germans did.”

  “Yeah, the world condemns them, but then goes ahead and does the same thing as soon as the tables are turned. It’s a two-faced world we live in, that’s for sure.”

  “Supply lines are definitely one of their weaknesses,” John said, thinking aloud again. “But they must have another. If we can find it, we might be able to push them back where they came from.”

  Chapter 14

  They slowed when they reached the outskirts of Oak Ridge. Just north of Knoxville, the city, which once boasted a population of nearly thirty thousand, was lucky to have a fraction of that number today. That wasn’t a problem for John, since collecting what they needed and being on their way was as close to a best-case scenario as he could hope for.

  Along the road, the trees were starting to betray the first hint of fiery reds and oranges, a sight which used to remind him of long walks with Diane and the kids along wilderness trails followed by hot chocolate. Fall was no longer about beautiful scenery, it was a stark reminder that winter and the threat of starvation were always close at hand. Cruising down the turnpike, four pickup trucks trailing behind them, John wondered what the country would look like in spring, once hunger and cold had thinned the population out even more. The United States was quickly becoming a gigantic ghost town, perhaps one that future generations would marvel at the way tourists skulked around the ruins of ancient Rome, amazed by the ingenuity and aghast that a civilization so powerful could crumble into dust.

  “We’re nearly there,” Reese said in a low voice.

  When the EMP struck, it had been early in the morning on a weekday. Lucky for them, that meant the parking lot at the Home Depot was empty. Not that it meant there was no one inside, but at least it would make parking the pickups near the entrance that much easier.

  They circled around once, and when they were sure the area was clear, they backed each of the pickups by the front door. This way, whatever they were able to scavenge could be loaded up easily. Parking nose out also meant they could peel away in a hurry if they needed to.

  “I hope you brought some cash,” Reese joked, killing the engine. “’Cause I don’t think they take Visa or MasterCard.”

  Both men took their weapons and got out, locking the vehicles behind them. They assembled beside the entrance. If anyone with bad intentions was inside, they wouldn’t be caught out in the open, waiting to get shot.

  John went over the list of what Oneida needed. Each two-man team would be responsible for specific items. PVC piping, fifty-five-gallon drums, components for the windmill and as many nails, screws and power tools as they could find.

  “There might not be much left,” John told them. “Most folks around here would have rushed for the grocery stores while those less fortunate would have joined the golden horde surging out of town. Each of you has a flashlight and a whistle. You encounter any kind of threat, you give one long blast and the rest of us will come running.” John surveyed the assortment of shotguns, AKs and pistols the men were carrying. “Let’s make this quick and easy. The goal’s to get everyone home in one piece.”

  For a moment, he felt like he was addressing his platoon. Unlike many of the baby-faced soldiers he’d served with, the men looking back at him were in their forties and fifties. Colonel Edgar had grabbed most of the men and women in Oneida between the ages of eighteen and thirty.

  With their flashlights on, many duct-taped to the ends of their rifles or shotguns, the men headed for the entrance. The first in line, a father of two little girls and former insurance salesman named Barry Lund, walked right into the double doors out front. He stumbled back, clutching his forehead. A thin trail of blood ran down his face.

  The others burst out laughing. Barry must have expected the doors to open automatically as they used to back when the world had power. Apparently some old habits were harder to kill than others.

  “Looks like we got our first casualty,” Reese sneered as he patted Barry’s back. “Nothing but a flesh wound, I’m sure. It’s a good thing that shotgun of yours didn’t go off accidentally. Then someone really might have gotten hurt.”

  Barry shook the cobwebs out of his head and followed in behind them. The store was dark and cavernous. Far from echoing, their voices seemed to get swallowed up in the giant space they now found themselves in.

  “I’m guessing most of you know your way around,” John said.

  Barry shook his head. “I was never much of a handyman. I used to get lost in this place back when the lights were working.”

  John smirked. This was yet another consequence of Colonel Edgar’s request for all able-bodied men and women. But John would need to make the best of it.

  From here, the teams each split up to accomplish their varying objectives. John and Reese stuck together. While John’s AR was at the low ready, Reese had his Remington slung over his shoulder and his pistol snugly in the holster on his belt.

  “Seems like there isn’t a lot that worries you,” John observed.

  “I shouldn’t be here,” Reese said.

  “Here on this mission?”

  “No, here on earth, is what I meant.”

  “Why’s that?” John inquired, glancing from side to side as they made their way down an aisle that stretched farther than the eye could see.

  “The French Foreign Legion are the ultimate expendables. When France wants to put boots on the ground, but doesn’t want to risk its own people, it calls in the Legion. The ranks are mostly made up of former colonials and foreigners, many looking for adventure. My last tour was in Mali, Africa during Operation Serval. Our job was to oust Islamic militants who were trying to take over the country and set up their own Muslim paradise. There are things I saw there I can’t unsee, John, no matter how much I try.”

  “That’s the burden with what we do,” John replied.

  “That may be part of it, but it’s one thing to risk your life to do good, and it’s another thing entirely when your own people nearly get you killed.”

  John’s stomach tightened painfully. He felt a flush rise up his neck in the darkness.

  “FFL CENTCOM ordered us to take out a local terrorist leader named Omar Ould Hamaha. Flamboyant-looking dude with a bright red goatee. Bottom line is, they fed us the wrong intel and sent us in the wrong direction. That wouldn’t have been so bad, but in this case, the wrong direction meant we crossed into Algeria where we came under attack by an outpost of the People’s National Army. Lost eight of our own before we fought our way out.”

  John was weighing Reese’s words, trying to keep his emotions in check, when he saw the candy bar wrapper on the ground. He stopped, spearing it with his light. Reese knelt and inspected it.

  “I see more up ahead,” Reese whispered, pointing.

  Cautiously, they followed the wrappers into the bathroom department. At one point John caught his reflection in a mirror and nearly blew it away. That was when he caught the unmistakable smell of human waste.

  John turned to Reese. “I don’t think w
e’re alone.”

  Chapter 15

  Reese unholstered his .45 and pulled it out, holding his flashlight over the barrel with his other hand. On point was John, his AR at the ready in case anyone was foolish enough to jump out at them. The smell grew stronger as they got closer to the bathroom department. Neither man said a word. There was a dead body up ahead, maybe two, from the odor of decay.

  Soon the air became thick with flies, both men trying their best to breathe. Then movement up ahead. It sounded as though it were coming from one of the display showers. The closer they drew, the clearer the scene became. On the left of the aisle was a row of single-piece prefabricated shower stalls, maybe six of them in all, display units for customers looking to do some home renovations, but inside each was more than soap on a rope. There were people inside, their hands tied together and lashed to the top edge.

  Reese squinted at the sight. “What the hell is going on here?”

  John wasn’t sure, but he went to the closest stall to see if any of them were alive. The man’s eyes were closed and his face emaciated. Even his lips were pulled back into a grimace. It looked as though he’d starved to death.

  A noise from out of the darkness startled them. Reese swung his pistol in that direction, his flashlight clearing the darkness and finding nothing.

  “I vote we find ourselves another hardware store, kemosabe,” Reese suggested. “I’m guessing whoever did this isn’t very fond of company.”

  Reese was brave, but John knew he was more accustomed to being the predator than the prey.

  John got to the man in the next shower stall and carefully turned him around. This guy was fatter and wearing a heavily stained blue suit with a yellow neck tie. He’d either arrived well fed, or hadn’t been here as long as the first guy.

  John slid his fingers inside the man’s shirt collar, looking for a pulse. That was when the stranger’s eyes snapped open and he started to scream.