EMP Resurgence (Dark New World, Book 7) - An EMP Survival Story

by J. J. Holden

  He snatched the phone from her hand and waved at her dismissively. She kept her face neutral, to her credit, and left the room. He said, “Ethan. What’s going on?”

  The voice on the other end crackled, but he recognized it. “Hey man. I’m glad I caught you. I know you’re busy during the day, and I didn’t want to bother you while you were dealing with official business.”

  “So what’s up?”

  Ethan said, “You know we’re getting a lot of pressure from the Maryland invaders, right? So far, the Clan has handled it just fine, but it seems to be escalating. Our Intel says this is a precursor to a larger conflict.”

  Carl leaned back against the recliner headrest and closed his eyes. “Okay, but what has that got to do with me?”

  “So, just as all of this is happening, our envoys to New America go missing. Or at least Jaz has. We think operatives from the Maryland invaders snatched her to disrupt the alliance. Special ops stuff. I have a pretty good idea of who is coordinating all of that, and a rough idea of where they are. You know that Michael is the best special ops guy in the Confederation, and we have a plan for him and his team, plus me, to head down south to try to disrupt that. If we can take out that enemy asset, their communications will be disrupted. And on a personal note, that asset is coordinating some sort of revenge trip by General Houle, trying to take me out. I need to take him out first.”

  Carl was buzzed enough that his brain was a bit foggy, but he pretty much followed the logic. “So you want me to take over Michael’s responsibilities for the Confederation, is that it?”

  There was a pause on the other end. Then Ethan said, “Yeah, man. You’d be helping the Confederation deal with this growing threat, but you might also be saving my life since this guy is trying to kill me. It would also be a favor to the Clan. Plus, we have to get Jaz back.”

  “Ethan, you know I have responsibilities here. I’m the Speaker, and dealing with that bullshit takes up most of my day. I really want to help, but Michael took the job as General of the Confederation. We all have our cross to bear.”

  There was a long pause. He had begun to think Ethan terminated the call, until he said, “I get that, man. I really do. But you aren’t down here, you don’t see what’s going on. I’m about ninety percent sure war is coming to the Confederation. All of us, not just the Clan. If we can take out this asset hiding in Virginia, it’s going to go a long way toward leveling the playing field when that war comes. You may be Liz Town’s speaker, but you Lizzies are part of the Confederation. It’s going to affect you personally if you try to hide from this one.”

  In the back of his mind, Carl knew what Ethan said was very likely true. He also knew he didn’t really give a damn. He was just going through the motions of life, and the idea of taking on more responsibility wasn’t high on his list of priorities. “I got my own problems, Ethan. You’re going to have to deal with this yourself. That’s your job in the Confederation, right? Intel and special ops planning?”

  “Carl, listen to me. Just hand off your role as Speaker. You and I both know you don’t want to do it anyway.”

  “Ethan, stop acting like you know me. You know nothing.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Ethan said. “How ’bout you get out of the damn recliner in Sunshine’s room and do something instead of drowning your sorrows in a bottle of whiskey and smokes. I’m giving you that chance. Don’t you want a little payback?”

  “Payback? What do you mean?”

  On the other end, Ethan let out a sigh into the phone and then said, “The guy Michael and I are going after is the guy who coordinated the airstrikes. I’m pretty sure he’s personally responsible for what happened in Harrisburg. If you step up and take over for Michael, you’re giving us the best shot we got at taking the bastard out with extreme prejudice.”

  Carl felt a jolt shoot up his spine, like electricity, and his heart beat faster for the first time since the latest war. “Screw taking over for Michael. Let me come with you.”

  “No, man. This guy is really good. I don’t put favorable odds on our success, but it’s the only chance we got. If you want this guy dead, Michael is your best chance. Do you want revenge, or do you want to die heroically?”

  “I need to find this guy.”

  “I know, but we have to do it this way in order for that to happen. I promise you, Carl, if we can take him alive, I’ll dump him right at your feet.”

  Carl’s knuckles popped as he clenched the phone. “I’m going with you. End of story.”

  “No, Carl, you’re—”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  “So you want to die heroically then…”

  “I never said that—I want revenge, but I want to do it my way. What don’t you get about that?”

  Ethan was silent for a moment.

  Carl continued, “Listen, Ethan. I’m not going to run in circles with you. Call me when you have a real plan.”

  And with that, Carl ended the call to return to his bottle of whiskey. His mind spun at all the possibilities of how he could seek revenge for Sunshine’s death, with or without Ethan’s help.

  - 14 -

  0600 HOURS - ZERO DAY +635

  CHOONY HAD BEEN spending most of his time wandering the city. He hadn’t yet found Jaz, but in his heart, he was certain she was still alive.

  Squirrel and Lance had done quite a lot to help with the search in the first few days, but they had their own responsibilities. The town guards had done a fairly systematic search of the most likely areas where she might be found, but once that had turned up empty, they had to return to their regular duties.

  For the last several days, Choony had been searching on his own. Now, with his meeting over, he could get back to doing what he did all day, every day—searching for Jaz. He had a city map and had been conducting his search methodically. He investigated one house at a time, one building at a time, exhausting every structure on one block before moving onto the next. When he completed searching a block, he scratched it off on his map with an X.

  Today, he was tackling a block that had been in the commercial and industrial area, largely consisting of workshops and small warehouses. He spent most of his time focused on residential areas, figuring that houses would be a better place to keep her—he felt strongly that someone had kidnapped her—but he believed in being thorough, and he would spend the rest of his life searching if he had to. He had time.

  The first commercial building he had entered looked like it had been an auto body shop before the war. Since then, almost everything in it had been stripped out for salvage, and now the interior was simply dark and foreboding. He started with the office area, breaking in with practiced ease. Paper was strewn about everywhere, but there was nowhere to hide a person. He examined every wall, every square meter of the floor, looking for something that might indicate a trapdoor or hidden passage, but he never found any.

  Today had so far been no different, and the office was exactly what it appeared to be: uncomplicated and ransacked. He turned to the door leading into the auto bays area and steeled himself to go through. He always had to brace himself before doing this, because he never knew what would lay on the other side. He only checked the office areas first because it allowed him to gain entry much more quietly, but the warehouse proper was always where he figured Jaz’s prison would be, if she was in the warehouse district at all.

  He let out a deep breath, reached for the door, and then strode through. As always, he felt a split-second of intense excitement, a hope that he would find her on the other side, but just like every other time, his spike of anticipation was followed by a crash of disappointment. Just as he had suspected, the bay was empty. The gas cylinders were gone, the power tools were nowhere to be found, the fluids had been taken for other uses. It was empty, and it had been for a long time.

  He fought back tears for a minute, then his Buddhist nature took over. He grew calm, accepting the fact that Jaz wasn’t here. Standing around crying would not find her. Only se
arching could ever hope to reunite him with his love.

  Without a word, he turned around and walked out of the building the same way he had come in. On to the next building.

  * * *

  Mark Bates sat at his desk, stealing a glance at his watch. At 10 a.m. sharp, which was in about a minute, he was to meet Janice’s friend, Charlie. She had assured him that Charlie was both trustworthy and patriotic. Not patriotic in the photo-op sense of General Houle’s cronies, but in the true sense—he wanted America back, the real America. Not this warped shadow it had become under Houle. Even better, Janice said she had dirt on this Charlie guy, so he would never flip.

  He looked at his watch again and saw the seconds hand sweep upward toward the twelve. As the seconds hand hit the top and began another tick to the right, there was a knock on the door. He smiled—he appreciated punctuality. He went to the door and opened it.

  Standing at the door was a nondescript-looking gentleman wearing a simple, navy-blue suit. His eyes were light brown, and his hair well trimmed.

  Mark said, “Charlie? Thank you for coming. Please come in.” He stood aside and held the door open.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” Charlie said, his voice a surprisingly deep baritone that seemed out of place coming from him. He was of average height and build, but his voice had a deep resonance.

  Mark closed the door behind him and then motioned toward the couch. “Have a seat, please.”

  Charlie sat on the couch and Mark sat across from him, adjusting himself to be more comfortable. Mark said, “When Janice told me about you, I had a feeling we could be friends. She tells me that you and I share a similar definition of patriotism.”

  Charlie’s expression was friendly and nonchalant, but Mark tried to observe every detail of the man’s face, noting every change. For a brief moment, Mark saw that he looked pleased, but he quickly covered it up.

  “I hope so. I know we’re under Martial Law, but military rule in America seems somehow not right, no matter the circumstances. Sure, the invaders are still here, but they’re everywhere. We need to be bringing the rest of the country together, reforming the ties that once bound us together into a country, not trying to extract resources from them like some sort of colonial power.”

  Mark felt two simultaneous strong emotions. On the one hand, his heart leaped for joy hearing those words, because they echoed his own thoughts. He wasn’t sure what his end goal was, yet, but he knew he would need like-minded people to achieve it. On the other hand, however, it was exactly what he wanted to hear. If Charlie was a plant, someone from counterintel, then it was just the sort of thing he would say.

  Mark said, “You know, that’s apparently Houle’s goal as well. That’s what the propaganda tells us. I may not be comfortable with the path he’s choosing to restore America, but I bet if you ask ten people how to solve this problem, you’d get ten different answers.”

  Charlie paused and eyed Mark warily. Then he said, “Do you honestly believe that? About Houle wanting to restore America? If he did, he would have already started with the territory he controls now. Supposedly, Houle already controls America’s heartland, at least a third of the country. Definitely enough territory to hold some sort of elections and get a new president in office. As it stands now, nobody elected Houle. He’s the Commander-in-Chief because he says so, not because he’s authorized to be.”

  Mark raised one eyebrow and stared intently at the man. Being so open about what Houle would consider treason, well, it was either foolish or entrapment. The thought suddenly occurred to Mark that maybe he wore a wire. It certainly was something that counterintel would do, and had the resources for. And yet, maybe the fact that Janice had recommended him made Charlie more open and comfortable than he would be otherwise. It was possible the man was only trying to make an impression.

  Unable to read any dishonesty in Charlie’s face, Mark stifled a sigh. He gave Charlie a faint smile and said, “You seem rather certain of your position on the matter. You do know that the rest of the country doesn’t have radio communications, right? It might not be practical to hold an election yet.”

  The corners of Charlie’s mouth turned down and his lips pursed. He looked rather disappointed. “Perhaps, but I know that our troops are scattered throughout those regions, safe in their little bases, and they all have radios. It wouldn’t be hard to communicate the results of local elections back in. At the very least, he could get new governors and new congressmen and so on, and at least put back the trappings of checks and balances if he wanted to, even if electing a new president had to wait.”

  “It’s admirable, but how would you collect those results? I’m not saying I disagree, but I see challenges in making it legitimate.” Mark eyed him, gauging his reaction.

  “If you really believe what you just said, then I think I will just thank you for your time and call it a day.”

  “I understand, Charlie. I appreciate you coming down.”

  They shook hands and both men stood. Mark walked him to the door. As the door shut behind Charlie, Mark took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. His mind was racing. This guy could be just what he needed—a fanatic, and not too bright. He decided he was going to let Charlie leave under the impression the meeting hadn’t gone well, and then he would only deal with the man indirectly. Janice could be Charlie’s handler, and he would get no dirt on his own hands. It wasn’t quite what he had hoped for, but an asset was an asset. He would use the tools available the best he could.

  He felt a little guilty at his decision to turn Charlie into a peon instead of a partner, but it was just a simple fact that if Mark were caught, he didn’t think there was any chance of getting rid of Houle. That goal had to come before his own squeamishness, even before ethics. He was pretty certain that his ethics wouldn’t matter one damn bit if Houle ended up taking over the show permanently.

  * * *

  1400 HOURS - ZERO DAY +635

  Back in the Hoboken market area, Choony sat eating a late lunch. He didn’t have the heart to eat at his and Jaz’s favorite restaurant, the one that served real meat, so he had just grabbed a plate from a random food cart vendor in the market’s heart. He looked down at his plate as he sat at the table by the cart, and he saw that his meal consisted mostly of potatoes, chopped and fried, with some sort of green vegetables, thin-cut carrots, and what was probably bits of rat meat.

  A mug of weak ale sat next to his plate. Even the weak stuff was far safer than the water, because nothing that could harm a person would grow in beer. Heck, every big house or block of houses now had its own microbrewery, or so it seemed. He had read about the role of beer in medieval times, and found it amusing that it had come back into fashion. No one wanted to drink water, for good reason. He took a gulp of room temperature beer, grimacing.

  He picked up his spork, a titanium camping model he carried everywhere with him, and leaned over his plate to take a bite. Bent over, eyes fixed on his food, he felt his hat fly off his head, but didn’t feel any wind. Startled, he looked around frantically, and saw a man in a long coat, hunched over, about twenty feet away from him and blending into the crowd. Odd. Why would anyone want to knock his hat off? He was wearing a long sleeve shirt, so even his clanmark wasn’t visible.

  He turned to face the opposite direction to find his hat, but saw a folded piece of paper tucked under his plate’s right edge. What on Earth? He got up and fetched his hat, a straw “islander” variety, and put it back on as he returned to his seat. He picked up the paper and unfolded it, finding a handwritten note. He quickly scanned it, but it had only one short line: 1701 Lincoln Ave. The rest of the paper was blank. It was just that one address.

  He looked around surreptitiously, trying to see whether he could find anyone looking at him suspiciously. It was hard to tell in the crowded market, but he didn’t think anyone was watching him. He tucked the paper into his breast pocket in his cargo vest, then took his time finishing his meal. The address was on the far side of Hoboken, and h
e didn’t want to get caught out in the wildlands—as they called the uncontrolled areas back in Liz Town—after dark.

  He ruled out using a bike as that would make him too much of a target. No, he would have to prepare for a long walk at first light the next morning.

  Plate empty, he chugged the last of his warm beer and rushed back to his house to gather his gear.

  * * *

  “Eagan!”

  Taggart’s sidekick stuck his head through the doorway. “Yeah?”

  Taggart’s eyes widened. “I’m the president for God’s sake, Eagan. Show some respect.”

  Eagan stood ramrod straight and saluted. “Sir, yes, sir.”

  Leaning back in his office chair, Taggart shook his head. “Listen, Eagan. I cleared off my list today, and was wondering if you and Priscilla would like to come over for dinner. Maybe she can cook that stuff I like so much. Oh, what’s it called?”

  “Asopao.” He cocked his head to the side, smirking. “You’d think after she made that for you three or four times, you might remember the name.”

  Taggart nodded. He had a point, after all. “I could remember it if they named it something easy, like ‘cheeseburger.’ You should tell her to have them rename their national dish.”

  Eagan shrugged. “Actually, her national dish is—”

  Taggart’s office door swung open and the post’s officer of the day marched in. His uniform was always crisp, his hair always perfect, and he was mostly only good for delivering reports. Taggart couldn’t remember his name, offhand. He marched into the office, stopping crisply at a perfect seventy-two inches from the desk, and saluted with a snap.

  Taggart resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He spared a moment to thank God for the real soldiers in his army, because if all he had were clones of this guy, they would never have made it out of New York City. Irritated, Taggart gave a pitiful excuse for a return salute and said, “Yes, yes. What is it?”