Fifth Column: Post Apocalyptic EMP Survival Fiction (The Lone Star Series Book 5)

by Bobby Akart

  “You blowin’ smoke, boy? That sounds like prison talk.”

  Duncan acted apologetic and then let out a chuckle. “Oh, sir. My apologies. Bad choice of words, right?”

  “Sure was,” said a large man who stood off to the side with a knife. Duncan had already made his threat assessment when he walked into the room. He would be the first to go if things didn’t go well.

  “Again, my apologies,” said Duncan. “Here’s how this is gonna work. This facility is designed for folks who are disabled and elderly. Some are sick, and others simply can’t take care of themselves. They’re here voluntarily and have turned their homes over to the government. That was part of the arrangement for coming here.”

  “What’s that got to do with us?” the mouthy leader asked.

  “Well, you folks are able-bodied and capable of contributing to the community,” replied Duncan. “Their vacant homes will now become your new homes. Under the Refugee Resettlement Act and the corresponding treaties signed between Texas and the United States, you may remain U.S. citizens or apply for a specially created dual Texas citizenship. If you do so, then you’ll be able to receive additional benefits such as weekly stipends, transportation, and larger gasoline rations.”

  “Man, is this for real?”

  “It’s for real, my friend, and that’s why I’m here. Would you fellas mind helping me get started?”

  The leader of the three turned to his comrades, and they both shrugged. Fortunately for Duncan, these useful idiots were a few bricks shy of a load.

  “Yeah, man, we’ll help,” he finally responded. “But me and my buddies want first dibs on housing. I mean, this was all our idea, and we deserve a better cut than them others.”

  Duncan shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me. Why not? You help me, and I’ll help you. That’s the way government should work, right?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Duncan turned his attention to the two ladies who were being held against the wall by their captors. “Do you use the PA system when addressing your refugees?”

  “Yes, sir,” one of them responded nervously. She nodded toward the mouthy guy. “This gentleman uses it all the time.”

  “Excellent!” Duncan exclaimed as if he’d just observed a kid pin the tail on the donkey. Playing this role was making him nauseous. He just wanted to kill these ass clowns and call it a day. But then he wouldn’t get to see the look on their faces when he showed them their new home. “Sir, would you mind making the announcement to your friends and ask them to assemble near the front foyer of the school. We have buses waiting. Also, please tell them to keep their families together. We wouldn’t want their little ones to get separated.”

  “Okay,” said the man. He set his baseball bat on the desk and cued the microphone to speak over the public-address system. “Listen up, this here is Clarence again. I’ve got some good news. The guy is here from the—what did you call it again?” He moved the microphone closer to Duncan.

  Duncan smiled and spoke into the mic. “The Texas Department of Refugee Resettlement.”

  The man nodded and returned to his task. “Anyway, they’re gonna give us homes to live in and some food rations to start. Also, if we wanna become Texas citizens, or even U.S. and Texas citizens, that’s okay. Then they’ll get us jobs and welfare payments and maybe even a car.”

  He released the microphone button and looked to Duncan for approval.

  Duncan raised his eyebrows and smiled. He encouraged the man to continue. “Keep goin’, you’re doin’ great.”

  “Anyways, I need everyone to go quickly and quietly to the front of the school. They’ve got buses waitin’ to take us to our new homes and, hey, make sure you keep families together. You don’t want to stay locked up here, do you?”

  Pleased with himself, he set down the microphone and smiled. “Well, mister, I certainly didn’t expect this, but I knew you Texans would eventually do right by us. Let’s go.”

  “After you guys,” said Duncan. “I’ll let you lead the way.”

  As they passed by Espy, he stepped back to give them plenty of room. He grinned and winked at Duncan.

  Duncan took a moment and whispered to the women, “I need you two to stay calm, okay? Please come with me and find the others who run this facility. Make sure that none of the newcomers stay behind. If you can’t identify them with certainty, find me by the front entrance. Got it?”

  They both nodded rapidly and headed for the door. Espy gave them a comforting smile and waited for Duncan to join him.

  “All right, let’s be cool about this,” instructed Duncan. “When we get to the foyer, I need you to touch base with our drivers and their partners who’ll be guarding these people. Once we’re clear of the school, I’ll have our team ready along the route to chain the rear emergency exits of the buses closed so nobody can bust out the back. When they see their final destination, things will get ugly.”

  “Yes, sir, Commander. That was amazing.”

  “We’ve got a long way to go before declaring success, Sergeant.”

  Espy beamed at the reference. It was the first time Duncan had referred to him by his new rank.

  Loading the group into the buses went off without a hitch. To expedite the trip, Sheriff Dawson’s deputies closed off the streets leading to the east of Lamesa. Duncan wanted to get the four school buses clear of town before the refugees realized he’d pulled the ruse.

  As they turned left off Akron Street, Sheriff Dawson’s men were waiting to place the chains and lock around the exterior handles of the rear emergency exits. This was the most dangerous part of the operation—the final mile down County Road 19 to the Preston E. Smith Prison, the refugees’ new home.

  Three meals and a cot, just as promised.

  Chapter 26

  January 19

  Preston E. Smith Prison

  Lamesa, Texas

  Named for former Texas Governor Preston Smith, the prison outside Lamesa was capable of housing twenty-three hundred inmates plus several hundred more in their expansion cells on a temporary basis. Duncan had not spoken directly with the prison, leaving that task up to Sheriff Dawson to clear it with the local warden, Lester Jackson.

  “Commander, I’ve got about thirty seconds before these people explode,” said a frantic lieutenant over the comms.

  “There, Espy,” said Duncan, pointing toward a tall set of chain-link gates, which opened as they approached. A contingent of prison guards stood in a semicircle as the buses pulled in. By the time they pulled to a stop, there was a full-blown riot on each bus.

  Duncan’s men slowly backed out the doors with their weapons raised. People were hanging out the buses’ windows, flipping off anyone they could make eye contact with, and shouting obscenities at the tops of their lungs.

  As Duncan’s lieutenants joined his side, several were wiping the sweat off their brows despite the mid-thirties temperatures. While the first part of Duncan’s plan had worked, he doubted he’d try to implement it again.

  “Who’s runnin’ this circus act?” bellowed a voice from behind Duncan. He turned to see a very large black man approaching his group.

  Standing nearly six feet eight inches tall, the prison warden towered over them as he arrived by their side.

  “I’m Commander Duncan Armstrong with the Texas—”

  “Yeah, I gathered that,” Jackson interrupted. “Do you think you’re just gonna drop this mess off on my doorstep? I don’t think so.”

  “Warden Jackson, I’m just following orders from Fort Hood,” started Duncan. “Our directive is to round up any refugees and deliver them to local law enforcement or, in the alternative, the nearest state prison.”

  “Look here, Commander. I know about that so-called directive, but this is my prison. I’ve got animals at various levels of classification in there. This ain’t a hotel for women and children, the poor, or the downtrodden.”

  Duncan tried to reason with the man. “Warden, my understanding is that the refugees
will be moved as soon as Austin and Washington can reach an agreement on logistics for their return to the States. That should happen—”

  “Bull crap! I don’t know what you people have been smokin’, but no government moves that fast. What am I supposed to do with all of them? Put them in general pop? How many ya got, anyway?”

  “A little over two hundred,” Duncan lied. The actual head count was three hundred eighty-three. He just wanted to wash his hands of the problem and get back to Camp Lubbock. In his mind, his job was done.

  The warden chuckled. “Our regular inmate capacity is maxed out at two-two-three-four. We were full up before the two buses arrived from Seminole yesterday. I had to move men out of the luxurious G-1 accommodations into the G-3 units. That went over like a ton of bricks. Those inmates were used to living in dorms and working outside the fence with only periodic, unarmed supervision. We had to drag them into the general population kicking and screaming.”

  He stopped and walked toward the buses. A woman began screaming at him and threw a shoe in his general direction. Another attempted to spit on him from twenty feet away but fell woefully short.

  “Warden, I wish had a—” started Duncan before getting interrupted again. He was getting irritated with the warden at this point. While he understood the man’s frustration and that he needed an outlet to vent to, Duncan was tired of being the punching bag. Now he knew how Espy had felt earlier.

  “I think you need to do another head count, soldier,” said the warden rudely. Duncan stepped forward and was about to escalate the war of words when Espy came to the rescue.

  “Warden Jackson, would it help if we removed the women and children from the prison? I see that you have a fairly large visitation center over there. If we brought in cots and bed linens, could they be housed separately?”

  “I suppose that’s an option,” he replied. “Normally, this facility runs on four hundred employees, two-thirds of which are non-security. My manpower levels have been cut in half because people stopped showing up for work. If I could segregate the men into the G-level dorms, and the elderly, women and kids into the rec center, as we call it, my manpower problems go away. You gotta understand, I’m taking on a tremendous responsibility here. I can’t open up these people to murderers, rapists, and violent criminals. I could never sleep at night if something gawd-awful happened.”

  Espy had effectively gotten to the crux of the matter. The warden was genuinely afraid for the safety of the refugees and didn’t want something to happen while on his watch.

  “Warden Jackson, let me tell you what I can do,” started Duncan. “If you can handle separating the refugees as just proposed, I’ll get beds, bedding, clothing, and especially more food for the refugees and your inmates. Also, I will make it abundantly clear to Fort Hood that you can’t take on a single new refugee until they move these others out. I just need one favor in return.”

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “There are three troublemakers—the ringleaders. They terrorized two old ladies for hours while they led the takeover of the middle school. They belong with the worst of your worst. Can you make that happen?”

  “You bet, commander. Point ’em out and we’ll introduce them to their dee-luxe penthouse. The boys will be thrilled to get some fresh meat.”

  Duncan patted Espy on the back and whispered into his ear, “Well done. Get me HQ on the phone at Fort Hood. Let’s see if I can keep this promise.”

  Before Espy could make the call, the satellite phone rang in his ear. He handed the phone to Duncan.

  “Sir, we have another situation.”

  Duncan shook his head in disbelief.

  “The hits just keep on comin’.”

  Chapter 27

  January 19

  The Gregg Ranch

  West of San Angelo, Texas

  The mood was somber as Major arrived at the Gregg place outside San Angelo. It was not a long drive for him to take from Armstrong Ranch, through Big Spring and then southwest toward Sterling City. He considered having Riley and Cooper tag along, but Lucy had chores for them to do, and Major felt like it would be unprofessional for him to arrive with family members in tow.

  Major was impressed with the number of military personnel present at the funeral. He was aware of Gregg’s popularity with the officers and soldiers who fell under his command over the years. The contingent present today was an overwhelming show of respect for a man who’d had a long illustrious career in the U.S. armed forces.

  From the Texas perspective, Major was aware that President Burnett would not be attending for security reasons, but Adjutant General Deur was there on behalf of the administration. After the burial, Deur approached Major near the entrance to Mrs. Gregg’s home, where they chatted for a moment. The president had instructed Deur to assist Major in lining up interviews with everyone present the day of the shooting.

  Major expressed his concern for meeting with Mrs. Gregg during this highly emotional time, but Deur assured him that the widow was more than willing to cooperate. Like the loved one of any deceased, she was searching for answers.

  Deur led Major up the wide set of stairs entering the home, and once inside, Major removed his black felt hat by grasping it by the crown and holding it against his belly so the lining didn’t show.

  Mrs. Gregg was sitting in her husband’s study alone, staring at his military honors and memorabilia. She wore a black dress with a shawl around her shoulders. She held a dainty white handkerchief in her hand, which she used periodically to dab her wet eyes.

  “Mrs. Gregg, we’re sorry to intrude,” started Deur. “Would you have a moment to speak with this gentleman? He’s the investigator I spoke to you about.”

  She nodded and motioned toward a chair across from her. “Yes, of course. Please have a seat. I apologize for my sniffling. I thought the crying would be over, but I was wrong.”

  Major shook her frail hand and settled into the chair. “I fully understand, Mrs. Gregg. Your husband was a great man, and he will be missed by many.”

  She nodded and managed a smile before looking down to the handkerchief again. Major turned to Deur, who’d taken up a position next to the window.

  “Um, Kregg, would you mind leaving us alone for a moment? Please shut the door so we can have privacy, too. Thanks.”

  Deur frowned at being dismissed but followed Major’s directive.

  Once the door was closed, Major began. “Mrs. Gregg, I don’t work for the government other than I’m an old lawman who happens to be an acquaintance of the president. She’s asked me to look into the death of your husband and report directly to her.”

  Mrs. Gregg’s interest was piqued, and she became more involved in the conversation. “Why?”

  “Ma’am, I’m going to have to be blunt about this,” Major began to answer. “Are you sure you’re up for this today?”

  “Yes, please,” she replied. “I thought this investigation should have started yesterday. The killer has probably gotten away at this point.”

  “I have to be honest, ma’am. You are correct, and the likelihood of catching the shooter is very slim. At this point, our best bet is to find the people responsible for hiring the shooter and bring them to justice.”

  She began to fiddle with her handkerchief again and then suddenly pushed it into a spot between the chair’s arm and its cushion. Major sensed she was fully engaged now and ready to get down to business.

  “I’m sorry, but no one has told me your name,” said Mrs. Gregg.

  “I apologize, ma’am. My name is Major Duncan Armstrong, formerly in charge of Company C of the Texas Rangers. My ranch is north of here, just past—”

  She sat up in her chair, and her eyes widened as if she’d seen a ghost. She began pointing at Major but was unable to speak.

  Finally, she found her voice and began to stammer. “M-M-Monty. He knows you. That’s it. I couldn’t remember because I was so distraught. He’d just been shot, and I was trying to help. I was cover
ed in blood and in shock, but he whispered to me. I couldn’t remember what he said, and I’ve stayed up for two nights trying to remember. You-you.”

  Major reached out and took Mrs. Gregg by both hands to calm her nerves. She’d become agitated, not out of fear, but as if she’d experienced an epiphany.

  “Ma’am, it’s okay. Would you like me to get you a glass of water? Do you need a moment?”

  “No!” she said with a raised voice. “Now I remember. Armstrong. He said your name. Did you know my husband? I mean, personally?”

  Major took a breath and responded, “Yes, ma’am. We met at the capitol building one day when my son and I were visiting with the president. He sat in on a conversation we were having about border security. Why? Please, Mrs. Gregg. What did your husband whisper to you?”

  She looked Major in the eyes and replied, “He said, ‘Tell Armstrong it was Yancey.’”

  Major released her hands and fell back in his chair. His mind immediately raced to his suspicions about Gregg’s involvement with Yancey as it pertained to Duncan’s mission.

  Was Gregg referring to the extraction being called off? Or did Gregg suspect Yancey was behind his assassination? Or perhaps both?

  Before Major could speak, she continued. “This means something to you, doesn’t it? Do you know Billy Yancey?”

  Major hesitated before responding. He had to be very careful with his answers and further questioning of Mrs. Gregg. She might be able to read into his questions what his mind was processing.

  “Only once, at the secession celebration in Austin. We spoke briefly. What is your family’s relationship to Yancey?”

  Mrs. Gregg, fully coherent now, relayed to Major everything she could recall about Gregg and Yancey’s relationship, including the late-night meetings behind closed doors in their home. Of all the associates Gregg worked with, Yancey and one other man with the CIA were the only ones that came to their home for anything other than social occasions.