Back in the bunker, Ethan’s heart went out to the victims in the middle of this conflict. And since the invaders had sent out swarms of small units as “death squads” throughout the Eastern Seaboard and even into central Pennsylvania—close to where the Clan was—those innocent victims were no longer in some faraway place like Virginia. Some of them were altogether too close to home now. Reports had been coming in for days of isolated homesteads being razed, and small, nearby settlements getting raided. Maybe there was some way to set up better comms with all the nearby settlements that wouldn’t use up the Clan’s last few precious radios. Daily riders, or fire signals, or something. He added it to his To-Do List to bring up at the next Council meeting, to get some more ideas.
Updating his map left Ethan with one inescapable conclusion. Operation Backdraft, in which America had sent out EMPs to virtually every place on Earth—including North America, to neutralize the invading forces—was only a minor success even if you squinted your eyes.
And for what? By this time next year, over six billion of the seven billion people on the planet would likely be dead. And Ethan himself had been instrumental in enabling it. The worst mass-murder in human history rested squarely on his own shoulders, and it was little consolation that he’d only been following orders. That was the cry of most every villain throughout history. It was why some philosopher had once called evil “banal.”
And in the end, it hadn’t saved America like they’d planned. It wasn’t entirely for nothing, as the Mountain and the Empire had found the breathing room they needed to solidify as well, but by any rational accounting the ends hadn’t justified the cost. Not even close.
As he looked at his maps, a terrifying thought occurred to him. All those invader death squads on his map were probably just the opening moves toward renewed conquest come spring. Softening up the opposition. The pattern was clearly focused on the remaining food production areas and railheads. Why railheads? None of the locomotives worked. Oh, shit—horses could draw cargo on them. A few cargo cars at a time, the invaders could get the railways working again. They could move whole armies at light cavalry speeds, hitting in force throughout the agriculture beltway of America. Nobody would be ready for that.
That map fully exposed the futility of Operation Backdraft, and as he considered the billions who would die because of what he’d helped to do, for the first time in years, Ethan wept.
* * *
The woman carefully tucked her blonde hair back up under her white knit wool cap and crawled up to the crest of the snow-patched, low-rise hill. In the distance she could see the community her fellow scouts had found, the one she and her team of slaves were sent to investigate.
At the crest, she pulled out a small pair of binoculars and peered out. It was nerve-wracking, because she didn’t like being this close to the ancillaries without a weapon in hand, but there was nothing for it. She was probably safe enough, though—if they came back without her, or didn’t come back at all, each of these men had families that would not survive the betrayal. The overlords were thorough that way. You obeyed or you died.
Below, the target community stretched north to south, although it looked fairly square. The north and south edges were extended by forest with dense undergrowth. The east and west edges contained large ponds, thick with cattails that would have no problem surviving the winter. Weeds, but like a razor wire fence they would make crossing the ponds difficult, especially under the watchful eye of the guard in the tower. The dwellings were interesting—one was a traditional rectangular house, but next to it lay a huge group of dome-shaped buildings, with a thick wall surrounding it that probably had an opening on the side opposite to her, facing the more traditional house. That would present a problem…
“I count thirty-two people, but with them going in and out of those buildings, there could easily be twice that number.” She turned her head to the man next to her and commanded, “Notation: thirty-two confirmed, recommend planning for twice that number. End.”
The man didn’t reply, but dutifully wrote in his little notebook.
Another of the four ancillaries with her said, “This plum looks ripe. Must we follow protocol? There’s lots of kids down there.”
The woman gritted her teeth. “It is what it is. No one likes what we must do, Ancillary. If our sketches and intel can convince the overlords it’s too tough a nut, it may be referred to the Diplomacy Department instead and turned into allies. So ease your mind, and remember your family. They need you to stay strong for them.”
The man grunted in acknowledgement, and the scribe began his sketching as she murmured observations to the note-taking ancillary. An hour later, the group crept back down to their waiting horses and rode west.
- 6 -
1600 HOURS - ZERO DAY +146
IN THE DISTANCE, Cassy, working as usual in the outdoor kitchen, heard gunfire. An instant later, the salvaged air horn on the guard tower wailed into life, its piercing shriek echoing off buildings and trees, alerting the Clan to immediate danger just as Cassy’s radio crackled to life.
Ethan’s voice came through the tinny speaker from his monitoring station in the bunker: “Charlie One, this is Bravo One. Romeo November reports hostile contact with tango times five, small arms only.”
“Roger, Bravo One. Dispatch Romeo September to rendezvous with November.”
So, the Recon North team—which today included Michael—was engaged by five unknown people. It could be a feint, or a spearhead, or even just trigger-happy survivors. The Recon South team was on their way now, but the fight would likely be over one way or the other before they found the battle site.
Cassy spent the next three minutes organizing the Clan’s defenses, ensuring everyone was at their assigned posts. These days, the entire Clan could be in position faster than the time it took an enemy to close the distance from either food forest to the Complex. Emerging from the outdoor kitchen enclosure, Cassy made sure to clap people on the shoulder or arm as they went by, offering encouragement and bolstering confidence for every person with whom she crossed paths. A well-oiled machine had kicked into action.
The next five minutes seemed to drag on forever. Waiting was the hardest part, but Cassy no longer fretted or fidgeted during such times. Instead, she strode openly from one fighting position to the next, making sure everyone had their weapons and ammunition, that no one remained hiding inside. Then she checked on the children clustered inside the Complex, hidden away from flying bullets, overseen and tended to by two armed guardians.
Quickly, all was as prepared as it could be until they learned more. Only then did she take up her own position in the upper window of her house, with rifle and radio at hand.
Tick tock… Cassy became acutely aware of the sound from the seconds hand on her wind-up watch and counted them out as she waited. The north scouts’ exact location wasn’t known, so there was nothing to do but wait and pray they made it back unharmed. She had to wait almost ten more minutes before Ethan came through on her radio again and the sudden noise made her jump.
“Bravo One to Charlie One. Romeo November has reported in. I’ve notified Romeo September to return to their op area. Tangos neutralized, and one has been secured. November en route to Charlie.”
Outstanding news, and Cassy felt her heart leap for joy at the confirmation that Michael was okay. The fact that they had one enemy survivor alive and secured was just gravy as far as she was concerned. She felt a little foolish for worrying so much about Michael and the Marines who were with him. They were Marines, after all… Not that it made them bulletproof, but they did seem to have a certain luck in combat, if luck was the word for it.
“Charlie One to Bravo One. Roger that. Advise Romeo November to meet me at the north smokehouse immediately on their return. Tell no one else what’s going on, how copy?” No sense feeding the “what happened?” rumors no doubt already circulating among the Clanners.
Ethan confirmed he understood, and Cassy put on her jacket a
nd knit cap before heading out the door. Turning there, she walked toward the north end of the farm and one of their two smokehouses. The northern smokehouse was isolated and not much in use this time of year, since the southern one was closer to the Complex and the animal pens and there wasn’t much meat still left to smoke for the winter. She wanted privacy from the rest of the Clan until after she spoke to Michael and decided what her next steps must be.
* * *
1700 HOURS - ZERO DAY +146
Cassy sat in a chair in the corner of the enclosure, the shoulder-high wood fence that extended five yards out from the smokehouse entry. When meat was being smoked, it kept animals out but left enough space near the structure for people to work comfortably. Now, however, it would allow a different sort of work, the kind of work that no one involved would find comfortable.
Michael had bound the woman’s wrists with sturdy rope and, after tossing it over the meat hook that hung from a cross beam that protruded from the front of the smokehouse, pulled on it hand-over-hand until the woman barely stood on her tippy-toes. He tied off the end securely and nodded to Cassy. “She’s secured,” he said as he wiped his hands on his jeans.
Cassy nodded, then stood. She looked the woman over carefully, in silence. The prisoner was tall, maybe five-foot-ten, and thin. Everyone was thin these days, of course, but her skin had the fresh, tight look of someone who hadn’t lost much weight in the past few terrible months. Her blonde hair was tied in a ponytail, which hung over her right shoulder and went down below her breast in front. Like the rest of her, it was now wet and clung to her.
She wore black fatigues, or BDUs as Michael called them. The Arab invaders wore a similar uniform, but tailored them much differently. These were probably from a military surplus store. Her jacket had been removed, but was also black and cut in a military style.
The prisoner had thin lips and frown lines already, though she couldn’t be more than twenty-five. She was a plain-looking woman, but the faint wrinkles in her face and especially around her eyes were, Cassy believed, a sign that this was a stern, cold-hearted woman. They were obviously not smile lines.
“Throw some water on her. I’m glad she wasn’t wounded—we’re not on a short timeline with this one.”
Michael tossed the winter-cold water from a nearby bucket over the prisoner’s head, and she awoke sputtering and coughing. “I’ll get a fire going. No use killing her with hypothermia after sparing her from a bullet. Twenty bucks says you can’t make this one smile.”
Cassy smiled at him and said, “I think we still have some twenties in the outhouses, unless all the cash has already been used.” Money was more useful as toilet paper these days or so the joke went. Funny because it was funny, and because it was true.
The prisoner finally coughed out the last of the water, and sucked air. “What the fuck? Where am I?”
Cassy raised one corner of her mouth, smirking. “Do you kiss your mom with that dirty mouth?”
“Fuck you.” She spat into the dirt by Cassy’s feet. “You have no idea how bad a mistake you’ve just made.”
Michael stepped between Cassy and the prisoner, and stared into her eyes. Abruptly, his fist lashed out, a blur that ended with a resounding crack as it connected with the woman’s jaw. “I’m sorry, miss. I don’t like doing that but don’t you dare threaten my friend again.”
A faint bruise was already forming where Michael had punched her. Say what you will, the man was good at violence. That bruise would probably be purple and ugly in a few minutes. “Michael,” Cassy said, forcing as much iron into her voice as she could, “do you remember the White Stag scout we once captured, and what we did with him to protect ourselves?”
“I do. I think it was a Tuesday.”
“You’re a cold man,” Cassy said with a glance toward the prisoner. The entire conversation was pretty much a mind game meant for the prisoner—she knew how much Michael was still bothered by what he’d done to that prisoner, before the White Stag invasion. It woke him up in the middle of the night even now, she recalled hearing. And yet he’d done it and would do it again if necessary. In that way, he really was a cold man. Maybe it would be kinder just to say he never backed away from what he saw as necessary.
“Well,” Cassy continued, “she doesn’t know it yet, but she already screwed up. She’s said one thing, just one, and she already screwed herself. Not too bright, this one.”
The prisoner glared at Cassy. That was something. She clearly didn’t like being called out on her stupidity. Tough luck.
Michael said, “I’ll get to asking her some questions, I guess. You shouldn’t be here for this—no point in both of us getting our hands dirty. Why don’t you head back and keep everyone away from here. I prefer not to be interrupted while we tango.”
“Dance. Heh. I’ll have Mueller check in with you, see if you need anything for your dance recital.” Mueller was a Marine, and technically outranked Michael, but had placed himself and his two Marines under Michael’s command until the war was over, or until he got some valid orders to the contrary. She paused at the doorway. “Get what you can from her and then end it mercifully.”
Cassy walked out of the enclosure and headed back toward the houses. She heard Michael’s voice, though not what he was saying. She didn’t hear the woman, yet. That would no doubt begin soon enough. She felt sympathy for the woman start to rise and resolutely pushed it back down. Safety of the Clan, she repeated to herself. Safety of the Clan.
* * *
2000 HOURS - ZERO DAY +146
Grandma Mandy came into the house looking relaxed, like this was a casual visit, but Cassy knew her own mother too well to fall for that. Mandy almost paced, but stopped herself. Reached up to twirl her hair, which she did when she was stressed out, but stopped herself. Cassy watched the display for a few seconds, then spared Mandy the awkwardness of bringing up a difficult subject.
“Mom, I know you have something on your mind. Just spit it out, and I promise not to get any angrier than I need to be, okay? You know you can talk to me about anything.”
“Maybe. But times are different now. You’re the Clan’s leader before you’re my daughter.” Mandy wasn’t able to stop her nervous habit this time and twirled her hair unconsciously.
“If this is a personal matter, I don’t have time right now. If it’s a Clan issue, then spit it out. I want to go to bed soon. I’m not trying to be rude, I swear. Really. Just exhausted.”
Mandy pulled her finger from her twirled hair and set it on her hip. “You’re tired because you’re the Clan leader, and despite having all these people who rely on you, I think you need sleep more than you need to do everything yourself. But,” Mandy said, and watched Cassy from the corner of her eye, “I do wonder how you can sleep at all, these days. I sure couldn’t if I spent my days making the kinds of decisions you have to make.”
Cassy felt a flush of guilt wash over her, but it quickly turned to irritation. How dare her own mother judge her? Or was she judging? Maybe she only meant exactly what she’d said and was speaking not as a mother, but a concerned Clanner. Cassy clenched her jaw, turned away from Mandy, and picked up a dirty plate, which she began to wash.
“Every decision I make is for the good of us all, Mom. But if there is a decision to make, I have to make it—I don’t put it on someone else to decide. Part of my job is doing what’s needful, so others don’t have to. Someone has to bear that burden.”
“I do know that, sweetie. And you’re a good leader. Who would have guessed that six months ago?”
“All of us have learned a lot about ourselves since the EMPs. Unfortunately, our high-tech society coddled us for too long. Survival now means making tough choices, the kinds of choices that aren’t acceptable in ‘polite society.’ But they’ve become matters of life and death now.”
“Indeed,” Mandy replied. With a glance, Cassy saw that her mom was looking at her with the intense gaze of someone who was studying an opponent.
�
�What now? Dammit, Mom, why are you always looking down on me? What did I do this time? How have I disappointed you now?”
“You make it sound like I’m always looking down on you. You know darn well that I’ve never treated you badly, and I don’t look down on you. Quite the opposite. I love you. You are and will always be my daughter.”
“You didn’t like my choice of colleges. You didn’t like my choice of husband. You didn’t think I should have a child until we got married, back before Brianna surprised us all. But just because I don’t have the strong faith you do, that doesn’t mean I wanted to rush off and have an abortion—so I didn’t. Sorry I embarrassed you in front of your friends by daring to give birth outside marriage—”
“Oh, posh,” Mandy snapped. “Yes, I thought it was reckless to try to start a family before getting married, but bless you, I never once thought you should have—”
“Why not? You disagreed with just about everything I ever did, so why wouldn’t you want to sweep your embarrassing granddaughter under the rug?”
“First of all, don’t talk to me like that. You may be the Clan leader, but I’m still your mother. Secondly, she’s no embarrassment, and I’ll thank you not to say that again. Some of the clucking hens at church had snide comments, but I’ll be damned if I let some socially backward gossips affect me or my family.”
Dark New World (Book 4): EMP Backdraft Page 9
