Burning Skies (Book 2): Fallout

by Druga, Jacqueline

Gus nodded. “Thank you for trying. I just know that we have to do something and we have got to get done soon. We have the diversions in place that we want to execute before we start camp liberation.”

  “When will the diversion hits begin?”

  “Few days. I’m worried. There’s another whole line of fleet coming over across the Pacific. It’s not gonna be long before they hit us with another invasion. If that happens, I don’t know where we will stand on this,” Gus said.

  “I wonder why they haven’t hit us again yet.”

  “My guess, they’re waiting for the official surrender. Since they have the president.”

  “Surrender?”

  “Yeah, you spent a little time with her. What do you think? Do you think she will surrender? If she does, then it’s done.”

  “I don’t know.” Troy shrugged and shook his head. “She’s hard to read. She really is. She wants to do well, but she’s in over her head.”

  “Hopefully, she’ll hold off enough for us to get this rolling.”

  “Gus, really, I understand what we are doing. And I am a part one hundred percent. But …” Troy said. “How are we going to do this? There’s not that many of us. How are we going to pull this off when we’re on our own?”

  “My friend,” Gus said, “how do you think I got the information? We are far from being on our own.”

  USNORTHCOM, Colorado Springs, CO

  General Welch was at the right place at the right time. He wasn’t supposed to be in Colorado, but when another member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff took ill, he filled in for the war games exercise at the Cheyenne Mountain Military base. He was there when everything went down

  When word arrived that there was a domestic terror attack taking place, the first thing he did was seal the base. It was NORAD and the USNORTHCOM, the end-all-be-all, top-dog military installation. Then as he dismissed it as something they could handle, things turned and he received intel that perhaps a foreign entity was also involved. When that occurred, whether it was true or not, the first order of business, after the base, was to move ships and subs. The biggest line of defense for the United States was stationed outside of Bangor, Washington, and General Welch made sure they were a position to defend their country.

  He’d listened and was impressed as Lieutenant Colonel Gilbert in Alaska successfully intercepted as many incoming missiles as they could, then Welch ordered Gilbert to seal his base as well.

  Typically, the base would have emptied out roughly a hundred people, but the domestic hit came just before the end of the work day and Cheyenne Mountain had over three hundred people inside.

  It was command central for missile control with blast doors that were made to withstand a nuclear explosion. That never came, but the invasion did.

  Outside of Cheyenne was a war zone.

  Soldiers took up arms and the battle was continuous. The Chinese invaders wanted in. There was a report that as many as seven thousand Chinese soldiers were trying to break the doors. They blasted them constantly.

  The mountain was the flag and Welch’s job was to protect that flag at all cost.

  Ammunition was running low, and while confidence was high they couldn’t get in, Welch still worried. However, from inside he did what any good military leader would do, he prepared for the war and charted a plan. He was in constant contact with many resistance outlets.

  Eventually, he believed they would flip the switch, and that wasn’t far off. A long-time soldier, Welch knew there were mistakes made by the Chinese in their quest to take over America. Mistakes he would use to his advantage.

  Their invasion against America was badly planned.

  Paul Regal was a journalist assigned to cover the war games military exercise. He wasn’t seasoned so when everything occurred, Paul panicked and stayed close to the general. He asked a million questions, not for a story, but to be informed.

  Within days, however, he was becoming an expert.

  The general kept him informed and Paul helped the general, almost as an assistant.

  “Where are they now?” the general asked a specialist who manned the control panel.

  “In position, sir.”

  “Tell them to keep moving, we don’t need them picked up. We want them ready though.” Welch turned and faced Paul. “I got them where I want them, I can’t do anything yet. Diversion, liberation has to occur first.”

  “What about what’s happening with the enemy outside?” Paul asked.

  “That’s annoying. We need them out of the way to get our men and planes out there.” The general huffed. “Almost like a stand still. Wish to God, I could just utilize the nine. But all in due time.”

  “The nine?” Paul asked.

  “My esteem fleet. Do you know what the great thing about Ohio-class subs is?”

  Instead of Paul, the specialist answered. “Anyone that read a Tom Clancy novel knows what is special about them.”

  “True.” The general chuckled.

  “I don’t,” Paul said. “What’s so special?”

  “They are the most destructive force created by humankind. Each of those subs carries twenty-four Trident II submarine-launched ballistic missiles that can be fired under water and reach a target seven thousand miles away. When a missile enters the atmosphere, it’s firing in at Mach 24 and splits into eight different missiles. Son, we’re talking a hundred and ninety missiles per sub, can wipe out a couple dozen Chinese cities in an instant. We got nine of them subs out there, waiting and ready to go.”

  “Jesus,” Paul said. “What happens when you fire them? What will the Chinese do?”

  “Nothing.” Welch nodded. “They have most of their forces out at sea and here. Who’s watching the farm, right? They don’t have the fire power to intercept or retaliate. Nor would they send anything over here with their payload digging in. It’s all about the grain, we got the grain here, they won’t destroy what’s left. However, they may not have the payload, but we do. That’s why they need to take this base so badly.”

  “So, you’re going to hit them hard here then hit them hard there?” Paul asked.

  “That’s the plan. But our hands are tied. We need to get out there and off this base. I’m just waiting right now for word that we all gonna clear the field.”

  “Sir,” the specialist called out, holding a phone. “I got him. It’s a secure line.”

  Hurriedly, Welch snatched the phone. “Mr. President,” he said. “This is General Welch. Com Headquarters. Yes, sir. Tell me you’re going to bring a little vodka to the party.” Welch clenched his fist and smiled. “Yes, sir, thank you. We will be in touch.” He handed the phone to the specialist. “Tell our men outside to pull in. Those who remain out there, mask up.” His eyes went to the map. “In one hour, this shit outside is about to end.”

  Swall, CA – San Joaquin Valley

  The zoning committee, as Joe called them, were all working at a steady and freakishly unison pace. He needed a general foreman, someone he could say to, “Hey, I’ll be right back.” But he didn’t think any of them would even notice if he did leave.

  Joe wanted to check on Saul, see how he was doing with his workers and he wanted to tell him about Greg. A part of Joe wondered what the death by skirmish meant. Maybe he’d get a chance to talk to Mary Lou without the presence of soldiers. He blamed that on her odd behavior, but what of his workers. If Joe didn’t know better, he would have sworn they were all brainwashed.

  He didn’t know if it was his workers or all farm workers, and that was another reason he made his way to Saul’s.

  He tried at first reaching him by phone but there was no answer. When he arrived at Saul’s he could see the workers in the field, only specks of them as they moved, bent over picking the berries.

  After parking directly in front of Saul’s Joe honked the horn, stepped from the truck, and honked again.

  “Hey, Saul?”

  Saul appeared at the screen porch door. He didn’t step out, staying inside and was shadowed
. “Come on in.”

  Saul left the door and Joe walked up to the porch and in.

  “I saw your workers out there,” Joe said as he walked in. “How they doing you?”

  “Good,” Saul’s voice came from the kitchen. He then coughed.

  “Don’t know about yours, but mine are like robots.”

  “Mine, too.” Saul coughed again.

  “So, I went to town to drop off my quota.” Joe walked to the kitchen. “Everyone is all dazzled up in their Sunday best. Seems it’s a new rule …”

  Saul stood at the stove, back toward Joe. He coughed about three or four times in a row.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, got some sort of bug. Go on.”

  “Anyhow, I saw Mary Lou Martin. Perky as a peacock and Greg died four days ago.”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  “She said there was a skirmish.”

  “Skirmish hell,” Saul said. “He wanted them off his farm and they shot him.”

  “Goddamn it, was it worth it?”

  “To him it was.” Saul fixed a cup and turned around.

  “Jesus!” Joe said in shock. “You are sick.”

  Saul’s face was pale, his eyes dark, and he had raw looking sores around his mouth and nose.

  “I feel like crap.”

  “You look it. Is that the herpes on your mouth?”

  “No!” Saul barked and walked toward the table. “It’s cold sores. They started last night. Hurt like a bitch.” He paused to cough. “Got them on my hands, too. Did you want tea?”

  “No. If I did I’d fix it myself. You ought to get to bed and rest.”

  “I will as soon as my workers load on the bus. Might need you to take my quota if I don’t feel better tomorrow.”

  Joe nodded. “I can do that. But maybe you should see a doctor.”

  “I will in a couple days. Just want to avoid town.” Saul took a sip of his tea. “I didn’t want to miss the pierogi club tonight.”

  “Say what?” Joe asked, shocked. “You too? What in the world? Is it just wartime social thing or are you really in the mood for pierogi. ’Cause I have a box of …”

  “No, Joe.” Saul shook his head with a smile, paused, cringed, and touched his sores.

  “Is there something more to this? If there is, it’s an open invitation to the firing squad.”

  “I honestly don’t know. But … Go, okay? At the very least there’ll be homemade pierogi.”

  Joe, gripping the back of a chair, merely grumbled an indecisive ‘hmm.’

  <><><><>

  Against his better judgement, Joe put on a nice button-down shirt, following the dress code in town since he was giving in and hitting the pierogi club. For Saul’s sake. Saul said he had to contribute an ingredient and Joe didn’t know what he would contribute. He figured shortening was a sure bet. He opened the pantry for his contribution and saw it hanging there. He hadn’t moved it at all, even all those years later since his wife’s passing. Her apron. Figuring ‘what the heck’ he brought that too, just in case there was a cooking dress code as well.

  It was in the basement of St. Mathew’s Church, the same place they held the monthly bizarre and bake sale. The place of the fish fry’s and occasional spaghetti dinner.

  There were at least a dozen cars in the church lot. Joe parked his truck and walked around to the side of the building to use the exterior stairwell to get below.

  He had some ideas or possibly fantasies about what the pierogi club was all about, until he saw the Chinese soldier posted outside the door.

  “Evening,” Joe said with a nod.

  The soldier didn’t reply he just checked the items in Joe’s hand and lifted his eyes judgmentally over the apron.

  “Don’t judge,” Joe said, “the color works for me.” He pushed the door open and walked inside.

  The basement was a decent size and set up with a small entrance way and coat check in just before the hall. The kitchen was in the back.

  He pushed through the entry swinging doors and stepped into the hall. There was a hum of soft voices, and then he saw the group of people, about twenty, standing around two tables joined width wise, and they were making dough.

  By them, standing close was another armed Chinese soldier.

  “Joe!” Mary Lou called out. “You made it!”

  “I did.” Joe walked over to the table. “I’m filling in for Saul. He’s in the mood for pierogi.” Joe placed the can of shortening on the table. “I brought my contribution.”

  Mary Lou smiled and lifted the lid. Her eyes reflected disappointment as she lifted the lid. “It’s … it’s shortening.”

  “Yep, that’s what it says on the can.”

  “Oh.” She placed it down. “Wash your hands, grab some gloves, we’ll make dough.”

  “You know, I have to tell you,” Joe said, “I was wondering how you guys were able to have a pierogi club. I mean, I was worried they’d see this as an unlawful gathering, especially with the uh …” He looked at the soldier. “Take over and all.”

  The soldier lifted his hand and waved it a little as he smirked. “Oh, no, dude, I’m good. You’re cool.”

  When he spoke with no dialect, sounding like a pure southern Californian surfer guy, Joe nearly lost his balance.

  Mary Lou whispered, “It’s Staff Sergeant Eddie Edmunds. Isn’t it brilliant? Bruce here recognized him right away.” She nodded to another man.

  “Was his gym teacher all through elementary school,” Bruce said.

  “How the heck do they not know?” Joe asked.

  “I speak the language fluently,” Edmunds replied. “My dialect is sometimes off, so I keep what I say short and sweet. They don’t know. Everyone thinks I came from another unit. There are so many of these guys. It was easy to do.”

  “Are there any more United States soldiers doing double agent duty?” Joe asked.

  “Several, yes,” Edmunds said.

  Joe looked down to the table. “This isn’t a pierogi club?”

  “Oh, we make pierogi,” Mary Lou said. “It’s our feint. Edmunds covers, we find out everything from him. We produce pierogi, but we’re something more. This is a pocket of resistance.”

  “Each pocket, in each town that has a takeover is meeting like this,” Bruce said softly. “It will be a coordinated plan, each town doing their part. Right now, Swall and this valley have about three thousand soldiers. Each set up in groups, battalions, so when you look at it, it’s not many, making it easy to do.”

  “Not many making what easy to do?” Joe asked.

  Bruce hesitated before answering, “To take out.”

  Trying to speak quietly, Joe in shock squeaked out, “What? You mean …” His eye shifted and he paused when he saw a man working with dough. “Hey, wait a second … you work for me.”

  The man nodded. “I do. My name is Josh.”

  “What the hell is up with your guys? You act like zombies.”

  “We have to. Each of us has a family member at a detention camp and they are holding that over our heads,” Josh answered.

  “There is a sequence of events,” Mary Lou said. “All coordinated to let them know we mean business. If this works, we can take this country back. But everyone has to do their part, Joe. Everyone. You want your country back you have to do what it takes. And you are more vital than you think.”

  “No.” Joe shook his head.

  “Yes,” Mary Lou said. “They are storing your tomatoes, at the end of the week, those crates of tomatoes are going …”

  Joe covered his ears and shook his head. “No. You hear me.” He whispered harshly. “No. I will not be a part.”

  “What happened?” Mary Lou asked. “When you lost that weight did you lose your balls? Everyone said it. Fat Joe is gone. Yeah, he is. The Joe Garbino I knew stood up for what was right. He wasn’t scared, he fought. Fat Joe wouldn’t sit idly by doing what he was told. He probably would have been shot like Greg. But that Joe is gone.”

 
Joe grumbled. “He is not gone and my balls are just fine, thank you.”

  “The only way we can do this is if everyone does their part.”

  “There are so many of them.”

  “But there are even more Americans,” Mary Lou said. “Think about it, Joe. Think about it. In the meantime, stick around, it will look suspicious if you leave. And …” She handed him the apron. “Make some pierogis.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fourteen Days Post Bombs

  Caldwell, OH

  “I’ll be there,” Cal said. “I’m part of it.”

  Cal walked a good distance, it was better that way.

  “Caldwell, Ohio has only five roads that go into it,” Troy told him. “Each one is sealed, blocked off.”

  Walking along Highway 77, Cal had seen the Caldwell sign earlier and knew he was close. He just didn’t know what would happen.

  “They will ask you a lot of questions. Get in the state of mind you want to go home and will do whatever it takes,” Troy said. “Across the highway is a correctional institute. Rumor has it they killed all inmates and are using the property now as holding. We don’t know. Whatever the case, we want those people especially.”

  “You want criminals to fight for you?”

  “We want people.”

  Before Cal even arrived at Caldwell, he saw the road block. Cars were lined up leading to it. All of them were empty and abandoned. At the end of the line of cars was a fence and he could make out several large military vehicles.

  “Our inside man is not in a position of trust, he will reach out to you, he will give you the means to communicate.”

  “How will I know him?”

  “He’ll come to you. You know what we need.”

  Cal couldn’t believe he’d agreed to do it, but what else did he have to do? Louise would have wanted him to and probably would have scolded him if he refused.

  His instructions swirled in his mind, he was given so much direction and so little time.

  He was tired. He was far from a hundred percent and hoped to rest but knew that was impossible. He heard it about the same time he saw it.