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

by J. J. Holden

  The second thing he noticed were the plants. He was surrounded by them, and they all grew seemingly at random, no two adjacent plants of the same species. He also noticed that all the trees were fruit or nut varieties, except for a few willows and birch trees; in other words, all useful for something. Between the trees, shrubs grew at a variety of heights. Most of those were also fruit bearing. Then, around the shrubs, all sorts of other plants grew. He couldn’t identify most of those.

  He remembered previous intel reports he had read that discussed this sort of arrangement, and noted that the Americans had called it ‘permaculture.’ It seemed very inefficient, but he knew that New America was also implementing the style of farming. If you could call it farming.

  He wondered how many people it would take to harvest all of that, and his mind swam. It would require an inordinate number, and even with the two hundred and fifty or so people that had lived in the Clan settlements he’d raided previously, he imagined that at least half of all this produce would simply go to waste, landing on the ground in this feeble, fake forest. Leave it to Americans to devise a system that required so much labor, yet wasted so much produce at the same time.

  He shook his head in disbelief. This bounty of produce would certainly feed everyone in this settlement, wherever he was, but how many half-starving people could have been fed with what the system must waste? How many of those who starved to death over the last two years might have been saved if the Clan had shared their excess?

  Yes, Americans truly had no concept of working toward the good of the People. It had been the reason for the invasion in the first place. That, and their intolerable abuse of power on a global scale. The world’s invasion of the United States may have drawn to a standstill after the second round of EMPs, but that didn’t matter—they had killed America the mighty, slain the ‘sleeping giant’ that Japan had failed to defeat sixty years ago, and proved forever and always what a house of cards Capitalism had become.

  He looked up through the trees and saw the sun’s position, which told him it must be about 1400 hours. Normally, this would be the time when he and his troops ate, but he’d had virtually nothing to eat for at least two days now. His stomach cramped terribly. At least it no longer growled as it had on the second day, his body getting used to the starvation.

  Would his captors allow him to starve to death? He doubted it. For some reason, they were treating him far better than a POW had any right to expect. While he was grateful for that, he certainly didn’t trust their motives.

  He resolved himself to resist any questioning, to offer no answer to any of their queries no matter how nice they tried to appear.

  Jwa heard footsteps and looked up. Walking toward him was the same huge American who had opened the wagon flap earlier. He was probably a Marine like the ones guarding him, since he now had confirmed their presence, which validated his earlier assessment. Jwa stopped pacing and turned to face the new arrival, waiting placidly.

  The man stopped within striking distance and looked him in the eyes. Oddly, the man didn’t seem to be trying to intimidate him, he noticed, but was simply observing him. Evaluating.

  After perhaps five seconds, the man nodded once, ever so faintly, seemingly approving of what he saw. Then the man said in English, “My name is Michael. While I would have preferred to simply kill you, my leaders have decided to keep you alive, for now. They didn’t bother to explain why, and my job is simply to obey my orders. For now, then, you get to live. What’s your name?”

  Surprised, Jwa raised one eyebrow before he caught himself, and he cursed. He had just given away the fact that he understood English, assuming this soldier was at all observant, which he had every reason to believe. A faint smile grew on Michael’s face, proving Jwa’s assessment to be correct.

  He let out a faint sigh and said, “I am called Jwa.” There was no way he was going to reveal his rank, or offer up any other useful information, but he couldn’t see the harm in giving away his name. “Where are we? What place is this?”

  Michael said, “You have the honor of finding yourself in Clanholme itself.” He didn’t offer any additional information.

  Jwa was surprised to hear that, but this time he caught himself before he could give his reaction away. Why would the enemy bring him to Clanholme? That was like bringing a wolf into the sheep’s pen on purpose. “I see. Please be advised that I will not betray my country nor my leaders. I have received extensive training in how to defeat interrogation attempts, however direct.” He wasn’t sure that was the right way to say it in English, but it had to be close enough that the American would understand his meaning.

  The man named Michael nodded slowly, seeming neither disappointed nor angry. He simply took in Jwa’s words without comment. Jwa couldn’t tell whether he believed it or not. Well, if they tried to interrogate or torture him, they would find out how truthful he had just been. The Great Leader had seen to it that his honored troops sent to America had all received at least a bit of resistance training, and Jwa had received a whole lot more of it due to his role. That was only natural; special forces troops always received the best of everything, including training. Especially training.

  Michael walked around Jwa, but his posture was one of supreme confidence, as well as complete readiness. Jwa suddenly decided that this Michael must surely be special forces also, though he couldn’t have said why he thought that.

  Once Michael got behind Jwa, he leaned against the back of the wagon and crossed his arms over his chest. “Have they told you yet how many of your men died during your raid at Ephrata?”

  Jwa eyed him, looking for hints, but the man was unreadable. Was he being taunted, or was it a genuine offer of information about his men? It could be either, because Michael was clearly a military man. There were certain professional courtesies that might be extended. Jwa shook his head. No, he hadn’t heard.

  Michael’s face showed no sign of joy as he said, “I’m told your squad was all killed. Most were killed by mortars, the rest hunted down as they ran. The damage to the town was extensive, although mostly because of their own mortars.”

  Jwa simply nodded. That was no surprise—he had expected to hear they were all dead. Ephrata’s defenders had accurate mortar fire and lots of it. They also had cavalry, so although he hoped his final stand would allow at least a couple of his men to escape, it had been a long shot and he knew it even then. The news was not welcome, and Jwa averted his gaze, looking at the forest floor. Truly, every Korean lost was a tragedy. They couldn’t be replaced, and they would have to kill ten Americans for each Korean lost, in order to destroy the American defenders.

  Michael said, “I have been instructed to treat you well. That’s not my preference, but that decision is above my pay grade. So, are you hungry?”

  “Yes. I haven’t eaten in days.” He wasn’t complaining, of course. It was just a simple statement of fact.

  Michael launched himself away from the wagon he had been leaning against and turned to look at one of the guards. “Private, go check the kitchen and see if there were any leftovers. Make this soldier a plate, and bring it to him.”

  Jwa resumed his pacing while he waited, full of conflicting emotions and confused thoughts. If they thought they could buy him for the price of a plate of leftovers, though, they were sadly mistaken.

  - 21 -

  0900 HOURS - ZERO DAY +644

  TAGGART STARED AT Doug and fought the urge to start shouting. “Let me get this straight. You want to wall off the reclaimed area of Hoboken and require people to show papers to get in or out?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. The safety—”

  Taggart interrupted, “And I suppose we’d charge a fee to pay for the manpower that would require to build and then enforce, and for the added burden on our skeletal court system?”

  “Of course. It’s only right that the people pay for their own—”

  “And you want to force this on our people even though they’re overwhelmingly against
the idea, right?”

  Doug’s lip curled up in anger. “They don’t have any idea what’s best for them. These morons only survived this long because their betters told them what to do. The ones who couldn’t listen up, died.”

  Taggart’s eyes narrowed. This pompous, bureaucratic asshole… “Doug, you either represent the people or you rule them. These ‘morons’ are alive because they’re self-reliant. You are alive because you kissed the right asses and stole the property of other people during the Dying Times, and if I had my way, I’d have you tried for looting in wartime, because of it.”

  “You can’t be serious. It was vital to keep people like me alive. Someone had to rebuild. Who would do that, Hick Jones the Farmer?”

  Taggart took a deep breath, trying to restrain himself from demolishing this guy. He said, “People like you served no purpose before the EMPs, and you’re a parasite even now.”

  “How dare you. I’m the damn Secretary of—”

  “No, you aren’t,” Taggart said.

  “What are you—”

  “Listen Doug, you’re hereby relieved of all governmental and regulatory duties, as well as the income and property you received thereby.”

  “I don’t answer to you.”

  “You have twenty-four hours to be out of the SecState house. Leave the food in it, or I will have you shot for looting. Now get out of my sight before I forget the dignity of my position and snap your fucking neck, civilian.” Taggart rose to his feet as he said the last, leaning forward to rest his fists upon the table.

  Doug almost stumbled in his haste to back away from Taggart’s desk. He fumbled for the doorknob, pale white with fear and red-cheeked with rage.

  As Doug backed through the doorway, he paused to glower at Taggart. He said, “Fine. See how well things run without me.”

  Doug slammed the door behind him, leaving Taggart standing behind his desk with his fists at his sides.

  “Eagan.”

  The side door opened, and his cohort emerged, grinning widely. “Yes, sir?”

  Taggart rolled his eyes. “Shitbird, what kind of trouble do you think that guy can stir up for us?”

  Eagan stopped and his face fell, crestfallen. “I hate to say it, but he can do a lot of damage. And didn’t you choose him for the SecState slot because of his backers? We need them. They’re the biggest, most influential farmers and merchants, engineers… everyone we really need supports him, or supports the people who do support him. It’s every single other person who hates him as much as we do.”

  Taggart frowned. This was getting out of hand, frankly, but to the core of his being, he detested what Doug Holloway stood for and the measures he was trying to put in place. Nor would he be backed into a corner by that piece of crap. He was the one who had fought those desperate early battles, had led when no one else could or would. He built New America on the bones of loyal troops and patriots. Really, there was only one way out of this…

  “Eagan, I need you to get the Philadelphia envoy here in my office. Be discreet.”

  Eagan stared at him for several seconds before a slight grin cracked his face. “You bet, boss-man. I’m pretty sure I have something to do elsewhere after I get him for you, though, so you’ll have to take your own meeting minutes.”

  He fought the urge to grin. Eagan, who was almost like a son to him by now, was quick on the uptake. “Stop standing there, shitbird, and go do something useful.”

  Eagan nodded and left him alone with his thoughts. Philly might just be useful as a neutral power after all. He only wondered what this was going to cost him, if they agreed to his plan. He knew they would, though. They were pragmatic, and this was going to be in their own best interests.

  He was reminded of the old saying about diplomacy being just ‘sublimated warfare.’ Well, it was about to get a lot less ‘sublimated.’ He reached into his desk drawer and stared at it for a long moment. At last, though, he removed the manila folder that lay at the bottom. It was an intel report on Doug Holloway and all of his backers and followers that had so far been identified.

  * * *

  Ethan took the folder with his printed notes and slammed it down onto the desk.

  Michael let out a deep breath and then reached for it. He opened it and, as he began reading through it, his eyebrows began to climb slowly up his forehead.

  Ethan said, “You see? You’re our defender. You keep Kaitlyn and the other kids safe, you make sure Amber and the other parents can sleep at night, safe in the knowledge you’re out there defending them against everything that has ever been thrown at us.”

  “Quit buttering me up. I know what I do, and I know why I do it. So what is it you’re asking of me?”

  Ethan paced back and forth in the tiny computer room, down in the bunker. He could only take a couple steps before having to turn around, but he couldn’t help pacing. He was too agitated to sit still, so he was basically spinning in circles in there. “There is a war coming, Michael. Whether we want it or not. You can sit here and prepare our defenses, but you know damn well their spies know all about our secrets and tricks. Our planes, our battlecars, our drones. Now they know we have radios.”

  “And?” Michael leaned forward.

  “And then the whole thing with Jaz and Choony. Listen, New America has its own problems going on. Rumblings of war to their north, problems with Philly to their south. What’s Philly going to do when the Maryland invaders are busy dealing with the Confederation? They’re going to be freed up to be a major thorn in Taggart’s side, that’s what. You know it and I know it.”

  Michael put his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. Ethan saw the tension in him—Michael looked ready to explode.

  “Dammit, Ethan. Don’t try to sell me on it. Just tell me what you want.”

  “What I want,” Ethan replied, leaning forward until his reddening face was only a foot away from Michael’s, “is to deliver a knockout blow to their intel, get a monkey off our back, and remove a thorn from our side. All in one fell swoop. What I want is for you, me, and your best SpecOps people to take the war to them while we do that. We have to kill Watcher One. He’s too dangerous, and you know none of us will ever be safe with him out there.”

  Michael nodded, but said, “None of us is safe. Least of all you, right?”

  Ethan stood bolt upright. His face felt hot and he was sweating beneath his shirt collar. “Fuck me, Michael. I don’t give a damn about me.” He took a deep breath and backed away from Michael, who hadn’t seemed to even notice his outburst. “I’m not angry at you. But putting the Clan in danger… Yes, Watcher One is a bigger thorn in my side than any others’. But I am not suggesting this to save my own ass. I’m safe down here, now that the other access door is secured instead of just hidden.”

  Michael nodded and stood. “I know. I just had to be sure where you were coming from, but it wouldn’t have affected my decision, except about whether to bring you.”

  “What?” Ethan looked at Michael, confused. “You have to bring me.”

  “No, I don’t. But it’ll be much easier getting inside his bunker if you come, and your talents are useful in so many other ways, too. But I wouldn’t bring a coward, nor someone only out for themselves.”

  “That’s not me. It never has been.” Ethan felt his indignation rising, but squashed it. His feelings didn’t matter, only the results of this little clandestine meeting.

  Michael took a step toward Ethan, cornering him. He narrowed his eyes and, almost in a whisper, said, “I’ve always had my doubts about what happened when Jed died. You were the only other one there, and your story was weak. Jed was my best friend. But I let it go, because I didn’t have proof. And I let it go because you were valuable to our survival. But don’t think for a minute I intend to let that happen to me.”

  Ethan backed away from that intense fire, but there was nowhere to go. He couldn’t meet Michael’s steel eyes, and looked away. How could that come up now, two years later?
That was ancient history. He thought that incident with Jed was buried deep inside, but his own feelings of guilt surged up into his throat, bringing bile with it. He swallowed hard and, still looking away, said, “It should have been me that died out there, but Jed died a hero. He—”

  Michael slammed his fist into the bulkhead next to Ethan’s head. “Just be sure that I have my eyes on you. Whether it happened the way you said it did, or not, I do not intend to be another convenient accident. Got it?”

  Ethan’s shock began to wear off. “I got it, but just so you realize, you’d be wasting precious time and energy that should be directed toward this mission.”

  Michael took his fist off the wall and stepped back. He said, “I know. But when we leave on this secret-squirrel mission, I’m giving my troops orders to kill you if I die for any reason.”

  Ethan’s jaw dropped, but he snapped it shut. If Michael wanted that safeguard then fine. He couldn’t even really be too angry about it anyway, considering what had really happened to Jed on their journey to Clanholme, but he’d take that to his grave. He looked up and met Michael’s eyes once more. “Fine. So let’s stop wasting time and let’s work out the details.”

  Michael’s body seemed to loosen a bit and he nodded. He took his seat again as Ethan continued, “Who’s coming on this mission, and when do we leave?”

  “At least a couple weeks. We need to gather maps, intel, gear. We need to do some field training and get your fat ass into shape, too.”

  “I’m not fat.”

  “You’ll have to keep up with me. Does that put it into perspective for you?”

  “Alright,” Ethan said. “Let’s get me shaped up.”

  Michael nodded.

  They spent the next hour brainstorming details for the mission and taking notes. It was a very real possibility that the survival of the Clan and the Confederation depended on the outcome of their mission, and Ethan would leave nothing to chance in planning it.