by J. J. Holden
Ree said, “Ears!” The soldiers turned their heads to listen, and Ree continued, “We have six hours until it’s dark enough outside for us to move out. Get some sleep, half on and half off. Sleep on a two hour cycle, so that everyone gets a chance. I want you all wide awake by the time we must scurry to the American marina like wharf rats. From among those not sleeping, two men will cover the doors at all times.”
The ten soldiers responded in unison, quietly acknowledging the order. Then Ree and Kim went back into the small office, closed the door behind them, and each sat in one of the three office chairs inside.
Kim took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at Ree and said, “Great Leader, I thank you for giving me the opportunity to continue to protect you and serve your needs.”
Kim closed his eyes and, leaning back, interlaced his hands behind his head. “You are most welcome, my loyal soldier. We began this together, and your faithfulness has not wavered, so we will also end it together.”
Ree heard Kim ask, “When we leave here and arrive at the island in safety, where then will we go? Or do you intend to stay on the island?”
“I don’t yet know, Major. There are radios on the island that must have withstood the EMPs. There may even still be soldiers there, for all we know. And it has a very modern closed-loop food production system, so if we can get that running again, staying is an option. We will know more when we listen to whatever radio chatter exists.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ree thought Kim sounded exhausted. It was still early, but Kim’s sleep cycle was odd and always had been. He said, “Try to rest up, Major. It will be awhile before we can sleep again, so we might as well take advantage of the next four hours.”
Ree leaned forward, crossed his arms on top of the desk, and rested his head on his arms. In minutes, he drifted to sleep. He dreamed of home, and slept with a faint smile on his face.
- 20 -
1815 HOURS - ZERO DAY +415
REE WAS JOLTED awake by a single, faint metallic clank. He glanced at his watch and saw that only two hours had passed. He rubbed his eyes, then looked around in confusion as he listened. He couldn’t hear the noise again, however, but he wasn’t sure it had been real and not some dream.
Then he heard the sounds of birds outside, coming faintly through the corrugated metal siding. One bird, then two, and then more than he could easily count since they chirped over one another. Some part of his mind realized that the chirping was not the screeching call of seagulls.
Ree got to his feet and shook Major Kim. “Get up. Something is wrong. Get up, dammit.”
Kim raised his head and stared groggily at Ree, but nodded. He got unsteadily to his feet and picked up his rifle. Clearly confused, he asked, “What is it, sir?”
Ree shook his head. He wasn’t sure what it was, but his gut said to pay attention, so he damn sure would. “I hear birds. Listen, they are all around us.”
Kim cocked his head to listen, and when he tuned in on the bird chirping sounds, he frowned. “Nothing odd about birds, sir. Although those aren’t seagulls, nor are they on the roof or overhead wires.”
Ree hadn’t realized that. He nodded, taking the observation in and considering it. Birds would be up above, too, wouldn’t they? Not merely all around them. “Major, alert the men. Form defense around this office.”
Kim didn’t waste time bowing or saluting, instead bolting from the office without another word. Ree heard him quietly waking those who slept outside the office, and a faint murmur from the guards who had been awake and on sentry. If they were attacked, Ree decided, he would flee back into the tunnel, closing it behind him. Kim would do his duty and fight off any attacker as long as he could.
And he still wasn’t sure it was an attack, so he didn’t panic yet. Calmly, he walked to the concealed door to the tunnel and activated it, allowing it to open just a crack, just in case. He could wait out half the war by himself in that hidden corridor, after all.
After what seemed like ten minutes, the bird sounds stopped abruptly. Ree called out, “Major Kim, report. What is going on out there?”
There was no response for a moment. Then one of the soldiers—not Kim— said through the door, “The major has gone outside with two men, sir. They are chasing away the bothersome birds.”
Ignoring the hint of insolence, Ree told the man to carry on and waited. And waited. At last, he sat down in the chair again and struggled to keep his attention where it needed to be. He glanced at his watch and saw that Kim had been gone twenty minutes. “Soldier, report. What is the status out there?”
There was no reply. Ree tried again, louder, but still got no response. His fear had waned in that twenty minutes, and now boredom shifted into anger. How dare a mere soldier ignore him. Him! General Ree, Great Leader of New York! It was unforgivable. He waited a few more minutes, then decided he’d had enough. If you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself. That was an American saying, but it certain rang true at the moment. He stormed to the office door and flung it open, then stomped into the warehouse area looking for the nearest soldier. Whoever it was, that man would suffer greatly for ignoring him, he decided. The thought warmed his liver as he crossed the threshold into the warehouse.
Ree stopped abruptly. His mind tried to make sense of what was going on. There were twice as many people as there should be. He realized most were American, and one of those traitorous Yankee dogs sat in a folding chair, facing the office door. He wore a white tee shirt, khaki pants, capitalist branded sneakers, and had the ridiculous fedora-style hat on his head, covering his face. Americans and their gangster fedoras. Pah.
“What is the meaning of this,” Ree demanded, and began to raise his rifle at the American in the chair. The sounds of a dozen or more rifles being racked stopped Ree mid-movement. His eyes went wide as he saw so many barrels pointed at him. “Damn you, answer me,” he raged, but self-preservation had introduced a seed of doubt. He tried to calm himself, both to avoid being shot and to clear his mind. “How dare you point weapons at General Ree!”
The man in the chair chuckled, the stupid fedora still hiding his cowardly American monkey-face, no doubt covered with monkey hair. The disrespectful little shit then finally looked up, grinning.
Ree froze and his eyes went wide. Rage and outrage competed in his mind, but they both lost out to disbelief, because there before him—clearly alive—sat Spyder, the treacherous Latino gang leader whom the Americans had killed, strung up, and burned. He was once Ree’s henchman, but he had never been anything but a headache. All thoughts for Kim’s safety left his mind. A bubble formed, rising into his brain. Shock, outrage, fear and hate boiled together and mixed with panic.
The man snorted, and Ree felt the cold derision behind that one simple gesture. Spyder’s eyes were unwavering and cold as ice when, smiling, he said, “General Ree. I had no idea I’d ever see you again.”
Ree felt himself losing control, the bubble in his mind bursting. He tried to stop himself, but screamed, “This is not possible. You are not possible. Dog!”
Spyder ignored the insult. “When my little birdies told me you was all holed up here, puto, they didn’t say it was you, just some fucking slant-eyes. Imagine my surprise when I recognized your little goddamn toady. Guess what I did to him?”
Ree’s eyes narrowed. No one should talk to him that way. His rank had earned him respect even from his enemies, but this piece of garbage knew nothing of respect. “If you’ve harmed him, I’ll see to it that you burn for it, Spyder.”
The gangbanger laughed at Ree’s threat. “Empty, yo. You ain’t so good at bargaining when you isn’t in charge, kimchi. Don’t worry, though. I didn’t hurt him. Instead, I told him I’d let him live if he could cough up an officer higher ranked than his own pinche ass. Te dejaron arollao, my old friend. Sucks to be you, today, eh?”
Ree grit his teeth and remembered that he still had a rifle in his hands. He hissed, “That is impossible, American pi
g dog. You are not even smart enough to spell your own name correctly. Tell me how you could outsmart my loyal aide? You could not.”
Spyder laughed loudly at that. It was a full belly-laugh, and Ree almost thought the American would have tears from his pathetic, undisciplined display of emotion. He felt his anger grow at being mocked by one such as this… this Spyder. The gangster’s ancestors must be so ashamed of him. Ree’s rage burned hotter, brighter, threatening to consume him. Only with the greatest of effort did he stop himself from trading his own life for that fool’s.
When he could breath again, Spyder choked out, “Oh, dear old friend! I don’t got to be smart, esse. I only got to be quick. Spyder is quick like ninjas, fool. A gun in his mouth changed his mind pretty quick, yo. He walked us right in here, and we took over without a shot. Your soldiers, they are not as brave and loyal as mine, acho. I told you long ago, when you were the king and talkin’ down to me like a dog, I told you. I said I’d get you, one day.”
“And so you have, but not through your own skill. Only because of a traitor. Like yourself. You have not earned that pride, foolish American.”
But instead of being angry at that mortal insult, Spyder only smiled. “I ain’t a traitor. Maybe to America, but not to you. Know why?”
“Because you are too stupid to understand the meaning of the word.”
“Ha. No, it’s because I was never your dog, puto. I had to lay low all this time, buildin’ my esses up again, but I’m the real king. Not you.”
“I came and demolished you and your army of comic book gangsters. You were nothing until I gave it to you.”
“No, esse. I was here ’fore you, and I’ll be here when you’re gone. That’s why your man betrayed you. He saw how worthless you is without an army behind you. Shit, you screwed up the whole beautiful setup even with an army.”
“That is a lie! It was people like you who destroyed the glorious plan. And Kim would never betray me. He must be dead.”
Spyder stopped, and a smile crept across his face. “You’re an idiot. I built my army because of who I am, not my rank. You be just a poser with a rank. Your little pet monkey, Kim? He knew it. He handed you to me on a silver platter, gook.”
One of Spyder’s gangbanger thugs came forward then, dragging Major Kim with him. Kim’s hands were bound in front of him with a zip tie. As he was roughly shoved to a spot next to Spyder, Kim looked at the ground, not at Ree.
Of course. The traitor Kim had proven himself a coward now, so now he would not look to see the judgment on Ree’s face. Very well, Ree thought, but if he was going to die, there was no way that traitor could live. Kim’s crime was worse than Spyder’s, because the gangster never pretended to be anything but the worthless scum he was. Kim had pretended to be a soldier of Korea—a high and noble creature—but he did not deserve the title. He was lower than the gangster who refused to die.
Ree allowed his body to relax. “Little brother, you disappoint me and your ancestors alike.” Then Ree’s body coiled and sprang into one fluid movement, shifting his rifle’s barrel from pointing at the floor to Kim. He pulled the trigger, snap-firing a three-round burst. Two bullets struck the miserable traitor in the stomach and chest, and Ree grinned savagely.
The next moment, everything sounded like the New Year celebration in Pyongyang, full of pops and snaps and flashes and smoke. The room tilted crazily, then Ree found himself lying on his side with his face on the floor. He stared at Kim with open hatred, and the bastard finally looked Ree in the eyes. Kim’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly, like a fish out of water, and he toppled over like a tree falling. Ree felt the rage in him fade away.
As the lights began to dim, Ree saw Spyder’s legs—the rest was out of view and he lacked the energy to look up—walk up to Ree. Spyder said something, but it came out sounding only like a confusing series of noises.
There was one last, loud bang and then all was black.
* * *
0400 HOURS - ZERO DAY +416
Carl grimaced as the doctor sutured the gash over his left eyebrow, and counted the stitches as they went in. Twelve, in the end. “It could be worse,” he said.
“Seen worse,” the doctor said. She stepped back and eyed her work. “It’ll hold. Now get the hell back out there and save us.”
Carl gave her a faint smile and nodded. “You take care of my boys and girls back here. The rest of us out there will do what we can, and I’ll try not to send any more back your way. Good luck.”
The doctor nodded and turned to the next patient without another word. There were more wounded than the doctors could take care of, and Carl knew someone had probably died while they were busy taking care of him. The idea of it pissed him off, but he knew that without him, the lines would crumble. Sometimes, it was just the presence of their leader that kept troops fighting to victory in the face of impending defeat.
He grabbed the nearest bicycle and pedaled furiously toward the front. He passed out of Harrisburg through the gate, across the bridge while keeping as low as possible, and entered into Hell. The Confed troops had retaken a quarter-mile space around the bridgehead, but the enemy’s two army groups had finally met up and had begun to hammer at his troops in unison. Thankfully, the M1 tanks had become less effective, since this was no longer “maneuver warfare.” The only good news was that his Confederation army had just been reinforced by a battalion of fresh fighters from Lebanon, albeit poorly equipped. That was fine—there was plenty of gear lying around for them to upgrade.
Michael’s special forces troops, the ones he had gathered and been training with when all this started, had taken out a few of the M1s and over half the enemy Strykers during the night’s fighting. The once-shifting lines that had put the Confederation back in control of the bridgehead now meant the end of maneuver warfare, slowing the Mountain’s units down further. That had made them easier targets for Michael, though most were still banging away at Harrisburg merrily.
The silver lining was that with those losses, the Mountain’s “C3” capacity—command, control, communications—had degraded significantly. It still beat the hell out of the Confed’s own feeble capacity, though, and the losses to Michael’s special ops teams had been heavy. The loss of those irreplaceable special forces troops had been worth it, since they succeeded, which Carl decided was a damn morbid thought.
He made it to his command post, swept the canvas flap aside and went in. Lanterns within lit up the space brightly, making it hard to see for a moment. “SitRep,” he said as his eyes adjusted.
A man with lieutenant’s bars saluted him, and when Carl returned the gesture, the lieutenant said, “The lines are holding, sir. With only a few tanks and Strykers left, it has turned into basically an infantry battle and we have numerical superiority.”
“Last night, they had artillery fire on our positions. What’s the situation there?”
“Our counter-battery fire was effective. Unfortunately, theirs was just as effective. Essentially, we destroyed each other’s artillery. If they have any left, they aren’t firing. Neither are we.”
Carl frowned. He didn’t like the idea of his artillery sitting silent, but Michael knew what he was doing, so he couldn’t really complain. Not to this junior officer. “So how many guns do we have left sitting around?”
“Three, sir. Michael reports the enemy may have two still operational. If we need to fire ours, we can—”
“But they’ll take our guns out and then fire without fear,” Carl said, interrupting. “Very well, keep them on counter-fire duty. Have we heard from the battlecars?”
The man nodded. They are still wreaking havoc on the enemy’s fuel convoys. They report the convoy defenses are getting weaker, not stronger.”
Carl raised an eyebrow and relaxed slightly. “That’s good news. I guess they’re running out of forces to spare on guard duty.”
“Yes. Michael’s last briefing report said he believes Houle sent everything he could at us, but hadn’t counted on how mu
ch we’ve grown in the last few months, nor on Taggart’s units supporting us. He says that’s just a guess, but a good one.”
Carl paused. What would the enemy do now? A shiver ran up his spine. At the lieutenant’s confused look, Carl said, “This was all-or-nothing warfare, right? Well, these are not all that Houle has. Have you seen one aircraft since this started?”
The lieutenant shook his head. “Of course not. I mean, our crop duster fleet, but they can’t hurt even the Oshkoshes with those little bombs of theirs. They’re mostly good for getting a good strategic view of the battle, and harassing the enemy a little.”
“Funny,” Carl said without a trace of humor, “when we fought the Empire, those same crop dusters were a game changer. Against the Mountain, they’re mosquitos.”
“Yes, sir.”
Carl let out a long, slow breath, then said, “Very well. Keep the supplies going up to the front lines and the wounded coming down. I’ve got something to do.”
He spun on his heels, heedless of the junior officer’s salute, and headed toward his HQ. Its comm room was a haphazard bunker, dug in and covered over with lumber and dirt. Such a position was safe from mortars, but not from modern air-to-ground missiles, and that was what had been tickling the back of his mind. He sat down at a station and turned the radio unit to Ethan’s reserve channel. “Charlie Two, this is Carl. You there?”
A moment later, the radio crackled. “Yeah, how are things? We were worried about you after that artillery duel.”
“I’m fine. Listen, where the hell are Houle’s jets? He has to have a few, right?”
“He must have some out at Pendleton, if nothing else.”
“Right. So either Houle didn’t have access to those planes, which implies Camp Pendleton isn’t on board with the Houle dictatorship, or he does have access but hasn’t used them. Yet.”
