Fortress Farm Trilogy: Volumes 1, 2 & 3 (Fortress Farm Series)

by G. R. Carter

  Tripp was Land Lord of the largest northern Fortress Farm in the Red Hawk Republic, a vast estate granted to him by the Founder himself after he resigned his commission in the Self Defense Force, or “SDF” as everyone still called the standing army. With over one hundred Tenants and a highly-trained militia of thirty-five complimenting his standing force of ten men-at-arms, there was no reason for him to be out doing the work of a young scout. But Tripp was one of the original Ten Vets, the group of soldiers saved by Phillip Hamilton, the first Republic Founder. Tripp was with Hamilton when they were barely surviving as a fledgling community, back when there was no safe land or servants. With Tripp’s hard upbringing, landed gentry held no interest for this soldier, even if his middle-aged body wished for a little more leisure.

  He needed to keep all his skills sharp. Fortress Farm Shiloh rested on the undeclared border between his people and New America. The fortress sat just thirty miles south of the capital of their arch-enemy, and Tripp’s men were on guard around the clock, awaiting another strike certain to come at some point. New America, or the Grays as he preferred to call them, attempted several invasions after Alex Hamilton was hailed as Founder and pledged vengeance for the death of his father. Each time, Raptor attack planes and Razorback tanks of the Republic stopped Gray Legions in their tracks. Burned-out vehicles still dotted the countryside between here and the Gray zone, a reminder of cold death that could visit any of them at any time.

  After the previous year’s last large-scale battles, an eerie calm fell over the flatlands separating the group. Fortress Farm Shiloh’s two surveillance balloons kept continuous vigil, but so far there had been no movement from any Gray bases on the south side of their capital city. Not even so much as an occasional raid meant to disrupt the Fortress Farms forming a watchful line stretching for miles across the arrow-straight east-west remnants of old US Highway 36.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Tripp noticed sunlight reflect off of metal, suddenly appearing and then gone in an instant. Grabbing his binoculars – a gift from Phillip Hamilton himself­ – from his backpack, he fell to one knee behind the creek embankment. Scanning the area his brain told him the light appeared from, he finally made out the faint outline of a Humvee sitting behind a clump of trees on a lot once home to a farmhouse and barn.

  His two attendants hanging back one hundred yards waited for his hand signals. With a wave and a point, one of the young men flicked a small mirror back and forth towards the nearest balloon lazily hovering through the crisp air. Tripp grew agitated as it appeared no one in the balloon’s gondola was taking notice, then the fire in the gondola spouted up, pushing the white bulb-shaped craft upward.

  Realizing their cover was blown, the crew of the New American vehicle opened fire, tracers reaching out like fiery fingers to grab the accelerating craft. The Humvee lurched from its hiding spot and headed straight for the creek bed that Tripp hid in. He watched in horror as the snarling gray-and-white painted metal beast seemed to know right where he knelt. Years of training kept him still, holding cover and resisting the urge to break into a run, an action that would mean certain death from a gunshot wound to the back.

  Tripp’s discipline was rewarded as the vehicle slid in a turn along the tree line on the edge of the creek, spraying dirt and snow in a fog. He waved to his two men to stay down, keeping their heads below the brush until the engine noise faded. He glanced back over his shoulder, watching as the signal mirror on the balloon repeated the alert to Shiloh’s ten-story tower watching over his land. The signal mirror from the top of the tower answered back, acknowledging the urgency of the situation.

  Soon, one of his two Raptor attack planes would be aloft, searching for any sign this was more than a random patrol probing their defensive setup. The other Raptor would be fueled and armed, ready to scramble when targets were found. Simultaneously, a Piper Cub two-seater that served as spotter and scout would begin hopping to all the other Fortress Farms in the area with a special coded message detailing the engagement.

  Tripp felt his sixth sense kick in. Is something bigger starting? We knew it was only a matter of time, but we’re not ready. He fought back a smile; Phil Hamilton always had a good laugh at his professional soldiers when they fought for more time to accomplish a mission. “Great is the enemy of the good, and sometimes good enough just is,” he would remind his perpetually worried warriors. Hamilton put the plan for a network of Fortress Farms across the countryside into effect before his death, and now advanced thinking bore fruit once again as they defended their people from the dangerous world outside.

  Tripp waved for his men to follow as he began to ski for home. He watched as the second balloon docked with the top of the Fortress tower. As long as the wind was under twenty miles an hour, the balloons could remain tethered there safely. Just like the Empire State Building in old New York once received zeppelin-type craft, Red Hawk Fortress Farms learned how to keep their patrol ships aloft for sometimes days at a time. The ship still on patrol made increasingly large circles in the sky, blinking back information as her crew scanned the landscape from the gondola below. The fact they were still relaying information meant that something was out there. He pushed his legs harder, fighting to control his breathing as he glided through the powder covering the fields. No reason to give yourself a heart attack now, old man. Don’t want to rob the Grays of the honor, he joked to himself grimly.

  As Tripp approached the main gate of the fortress, farm residents scurried about making preparations for whatever trouble approached. Constant drilling led everyone to their assigned task, making the activity remarkably quiet. There was no shouting of orders, just a solemn attention to the details as constant training took hold. The two younger attendants caught up with their leader just as he passed through the ten-foot thick walls surrounding an interior yard bigger than a football field.

  Double-stacked rectangle shipping containers packed with dirt and rocks added heft to the shape, back sloped with more dirt and concrete to support the walls from the inside. Facing out, the walls were smooth metal, pierced by occasional sprinkler heads reading to spurt flammable liquid and soak anyone trying to gain access. Concrete firing boxes lined the very top, making the fortress nearly invulnerable to anything short of heavy armor.

  God forbid we face either of those, Tripp thought. He took solace as he approached the heart of the fortress. Soaring into the blue Midwestern sky, the tannish-grey concrete of the three towers built a century before to hold grain from the surrounding fields now provided safety to the people in his care. Although their worldly possessions resided in the two dozen one- and two-story buildings at the feet of these giants, whenever serious trouble came people could retreat to these impenetrable cocoons. There they could wait out a threat while wrapped in concrete thick enough to withstand everything from a tornado to a direct hit from small-caliber artillery.

  Tripp quick stepped up the metal staircase winding around the side of the main structure. He checked the pins holding the framework to the tower, pins that would be pulled if there were a breach in the outer walls. With no stairs, attackers would be forced to use ladders to try and reach a metal blast door defended by firing slots on each side. History proved no fortress completely impervious, but this was pretty close for the post-Reset world.

  Stepping through the still-open blast door, he entered a four-man hydraulic lift to take him to the main observation level. Plans were on the drawing board to convert this to a freight elevator so that the new larger airships could land on the top of the tower and drop off supplies. The larger lift would then take the goods all the way to the basement, where tunnels connected each tower and their underground storage area. Each day of peace brought them closer to their goal of a thriving agricultural community here on the prairie. One free from the worries of constant threat. Raising crops and kids, and rebuilding what human mistakes tore down a few short years ago.

  These elevator rides give me too much time to ponder. Got to get my head around t
he situation, he reminded himself.

  The lift made the eighty-foot vertical trip in a minute. He squinted as his eyes adjusted from the dark interior to the bright light of sun reflecting off bright white snow. A quick sneeze settled his brain to the difference and he focused on the figure standing at the railing with binoculars in hand.

  “I guess we knew this was coming,” Sara Tripp said solemnly.

  “Yeah, but you always hope for one more day,” her husband replied. “Can you see what we’re up against?”

  “Bad news. Looks like the real deal this time. I can see two full columns, one east of us and one west. Inclination is that they’re trying to bypass the Fortress Farms and breakthrough in between. Maybe they figure it’s easier to try to go around us this time?”

  Hank pondered a moment: “Makes sense. Last couple of times they tried to hit the walls ended very badly for them.” He scanned the horizon for the columns. “And the groups they sent this time are big enough to withstand our hitting out at their flanks as they go by.”

  “So do we just let them pass by?” Sara asked.

  “No, we have to do as much damage as we can. Each Fortress Farm will do what it can to bleed them as they go by until Alex can smash them with the reserve force he’s been holding back,” Hank informed her.

  “Did the coax cable system work to notify the other farms?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Yeah, the Wizards were a life-saver with that one. No need to send runners anymore. One blast of Morse code over the system and we got an affirmative reply from every single Fortress Farm we’re connected to. So we should be seeing their Marks and Raptors any time.”

  Their eyes met briefly in recognition. “Okay. “I’m going to lead our Turtles and Razorbacks out to hit them,” Hank said.

  The larger Mark 3 vehicles got the Razorback nickname because of the rippled cooling vents sticking up on the rear engine compartment. Just like Turtle, soldiers in the field preferred the animal nickname to the vehicle’s more formal Mark 3 title. The Wizards weren’t pleased at the slang term for their master creations, but they were naturally grumpy anyway.

  “When the Piper Cub gets back from taking the intel to the capital, have it scout out a few miles north to see if the Grays have any reserves behind these two columns. As always, no matter what happens, you’re in charge.”

  Sara nodded, a grim smile on her face. “Okay, be careful.”

  No touching goodbyes were forthcoming. Their relationship was a partnership based on respect and common goals, not what others would consider a happy or passionate union. They survived together in this strange world, building a niche that would benefit them and future generations of inhabitants.

  By the time Hank returned to ground level at the base of the tower, his personal Razorback idled just steps away. His driver gave him a nod, a hint of worry apparent through her young face.

  “You look concerned, Ames,” Hank shouted over the rumbling engine.

  “Not at all, sir. Just the smell of this new fuel the Republic is sending us now,” Amy Porter replied. Tripp promoted the twenty-two-year old to drive his vehicle just twelve months before. Since then, she proved herself to be one of the few who could read his mind while he selected targets for the main weapon to engage. Always thinking two steps ahead remained the key to mastering the huge metal beasts. This newest version of the modified track hoe included a heavy machine gun for the driver also. The training rounds were limited due to short supply, but she certainly made the most of each one.

  “That nasty-smelling fuel means we don’t have to burn our food supply in our vehicles anymore,” Tripp reminded her. Coal oil and even some refined diesel were beginning to make its way north from the refineries in Little Egypt, what had once been Southern Illinois. The Wizards helped the surviving residents there restart the oil wells and refineries that once dotted that landscape. As the population of the Republic grew, they needed more food. While the soy diesel that helped a fledgling Okaw Valley Self Defense Cooperative survive would always be a part of their economy, extra sources were needed to keep an ever-increasing fleet of vehicles moving.

  “Understood, sir. The rest of our force is waiting just outside the gates. Both balloons are aloft, as well as the Raptors. They’re doing their best, but the Grays have outfitted several of their vehicles for anti-aircraft this time,” Porter informed him.

  “Yeah, I noticed that when we first discovered their scouts. Surprised it took them this long to figure that out. Run over and tell the ground coordinator to have them attack the columns from the rear and break off. I doubt they thought about making their weapons spin 360 degrees. That’s the problem with the Grays, they only think about breaking what’s in front of them, not protecting what they have,” Tripp said.

  “Roger that. Be right back.”

  Tripp smiled at the terminology. Amy Porter wasn’t even born when he first enlisted in the United States Army. While that organization no longer existed – he didn’t consider the Grays to be real Americans, and neither did any of the Ten Vets – the terminology he learned as a teenager continued on with this generation growing up as citizens of the Red Hawk Republic. Part of those traditions was to name everything that drove, flew or floated. He smiled as he looked at the name scrawled across the camouflage paint in front of his gunner’s compartment. Shiloh Shuffler wasn’t his idea, not by a long shot. As with most other things, the younger generation had a strange sense of humor. Facing possible catastrophe every day was just a way of life to them, and their method of dealing it included a very dark wit. The first part of the name was a nod to their community, or heimat as some referred to it as. The Shuffler moniker escaped his sense of irony.

  As Porter made the run to the flagger in charge of relaying messages out to the attacking aircraft, Tripp took one last glance at the preparations around the fortress. Older folks and children herded precious livestock into the base of the western tower, just as they did every night for protection from elements and predators. The last of the unprotected buildings emptied out as the inhabitants made their way to preassigned stations on top of the walls or in the towers.

  Porter returned and settled into the driver compartment, keeping the metal shields raised so she had full visibility on the way out. Tripp busied himself checking his own controls: he had full override on the hydraulics that spun the main body of the Razorback, giving the ability to line up the main weapon with targets he selected. A major drawback of the design was that the driver had to learn to keep the vehicle pointed in the right direction even as their seat spun with the rest of the armored engine and occupants towards a threat. Practice made perfect driving skills, but the best of the best just had a feel for how to do it. The younger soldiers, those who didn’t grow up learning how to drive facing forward with hands at ten and two, seemed to best grasp the concept.

  As the Shiloh Shuffler passed through the main walls, the huge gates thudded shut behind them. Tripp could see widely spaced billows of black smoke rising to the clear skies. The Raptors and balloons found their targets, though not as many as he hoped. The unwelcome surprise of the antiaircraft guns made the death dance much more delicate for the Raptor drivers. And the balloons would have to be extra careful to stay out of range, as they possessed neither the armor nor the maneuverability of the converted crop dusters.

  Porter pulled the Shuffler in front of the collected vehicles representing the totality of Tripp’s terrestrial armed forces. He climbed down, and stood in front of the assembled group of drivers and gunners. The collection reflected the diversity of the Fortress Farm and the Republic it was a part of. Men and women of all ethnic backgrounds stood ready to defend their adopted homeland, each selected for bravery and wit. Age was ignored in the SDF and on the Fortress Farms, replaced by simple tests of ability. Gray hair sprinkled throughout the group of warriors attested to that openness.

  “Men and women of Shiloh. You know I’m not one for passionate speeches. Though I am known to rant a little,” Trip
p said in his loudest voice. Nervous laughter rippled through the group. Several eyes glanced over Hank’s shoulder, straining to see the fight already started just a few miles away.

  “Let me just say that this is what we have been preparing for. We all knew this day would come…that the Grays would never let us live in peace.” Heads nodded, faces becoming more determined and grim. “Stay together; support your brothers and sisters. This is where we are from, this is where our people live, and this land is ours. Defend it to your last. Do your duty and know that the people behind these walls,” Tripp thrust a hand out to the tower of metal in front of him, “need your very best today.”

  He puffed up his chest and smiled. “I have no doubt in your ability to fight. Now let’s work on our ability to follow orders, eh?”

  He waited for the smiles to return. He patted the metal tracks that propelled the huge metal beast behind him. Each person here had a special affection for the machines they drove or serviced. Without that hulking armor the little cooperative that preceded the Republic would not have survived the starving days after the Reset. Cold steel and iron were in their blood now, each man and women in the militia having become one with the diesel and the hydraulic fluid and the wheels that propelled the caterpillar-style tracks forward.

  Tripp spooled up his loudest shout. “Now I have just one thing more to say to the Grays…fall before the crawl!”

  Nearly three dozen voices shouted back the motto all crew members of the Red Hawk Republic armored forces shared: “FALL BEFORE THE CRAWL!”