by Tripp Ellis
“Uh, yes, sir,” he stammered.
“Duke, come with me,” Steele commanded.
“Whoa, hold up there, tin man. Who you bark’n orders at? Last time I checked, I ain’t in your fucking army.”
Steele’s eyes narrowed. “You just got recruited.”
Duke didn’t like anyone telling him what to do. “As far as I can tell, we’re the ones with the guns. Ask nice, and maybe I’ll let you join my army.” Duke smirked.
It was the wrong thing for him to say.
Steele snatched Duke’s weapon, stripping it from his hands. Then he swept Duke’s feet from underneath him. Duke slammed to the ground. Steele aimed the assault rifle at his head. Duke didn’t know what had hit him. The whole thing happened faster than he could blink.
“Is there any question about the chain of command?” Steele asked.
“Earl, shoot him,” Duke stammered. His voice was nervous and angry and had a little bit of a squeal to it.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Earl.” Steele kept the weapon aimed at Duke.
Earl aimed his weapon at Steele. He always did whatever Duke told him to. His finger gripped the trigger. Earl stammered and sweat beaded on his forehead.
Steele could see Earl out of the corner of his eye. Earl didn’t know what to do.
“Earl, lower the weapon. You don’t want to do something you’d regret.” Steele had seen all types of men during his years of service. Some were cold blooded killers seeking a thrill. Some were just doing their duty. And there were those that had a hard time with killing. You could see it in their eyes. He could see it in Earl’s eyes. He wasn’t a killer.
“Earl, if you shoot me, I’m going to be real pissed off. And you don’t want to see me pissed off.”
Earl hesitated, then lowered his weapon.
“Smart move, Earl,” Steele said. Then he looked at Duke. “Give me the keys.”
Duke frowned and dug into his pocket. He tossed the keys to Steele.
The major tossed his weapon to Delroy. “Keep an eye on things. Earl, you’re coming with me.”
“Uh, yes, sir.” Earl followed Steele as he marched through the cornrows to the highway.
Duke called out after him. “Earl, you’re in line for an ass whooping.”
At the highway, Steele saw Duke’s truck upside down. It was in the middle of the road, straddling the centerline. He jogged toward it. Then he squatted down, leveraged his hands under the windowsill, and pushed up. Steel’s enhanced strength lifted the 4x4 off the ground—the benefits of being half man, half machine. Metal crinkled as the truck rolled onto its side.
“Holy shit.” Earl’s eyes bugged out. “How much can you bench press?”
Steele grunted as he pushed again with all his might. The truck rolled over and bounced onto its massive tires. He scanned the highway and saw the Disruptor cases strewn about. His eyes narrowed. What the hell are those doing here, he thought. He scowled at Earl. “Those yours?”
Earl stammered. “Yeah, sort of. They’re Duke’s really. He’s got a whole shit ton of weapons and supplies,” he said, excitedly. Then his expression drooped. “Shit, I was supposed to keep that secret.”
Steele didn’t hear the F-45, but he knew it would be back. It was out there in the thick, dark clouds somewhere. With the rolling thunder, it was hard to distinguish the jet engine from the rumble in the sky.
Steele ran to the cases and scooped them up—one in each hand. What Earl had struggled to carry, Steele lifted with ease. He ran back and flung them into the bed of the truck, then strode around to the driver’s side.
The roof was crumpled down, and the door was bowed out. Steele yanked the door clean off its hinges. Then he climbed into the cabin and tried to start the engine. It slurred a few times, but wouldn’t turn over. He pumped the gas and let it sit for a moment. Then he tried again. The engine stuttered, then cranked up. Smoke billowed out from underneath the hood. This thing wasn’t going to make it very far. But it was all they had.
“Climb in,” Steele said.
The door was stuck, so Earl climbed in through the window. Steele mashed the gas pedal. The Rumbler hobbled into the field like a horse with a broken leg. The truck mowed down cornstalks like a steamroller. It was old man Miller’s field—and Miller was dead. There was going to be no harvest this year.
“You’re Special Forces, Zulu, aren’t you?”
Steele eyed him and said nothing. On his sleeve was the insignia of the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment Zulu. An unsheathed black dagger, piercing a skull, set against a red spearhead, with the Airborne tab above.
“I wanted to join the Army, but they wouldn’t take me,” Earl said.
Steele plowed along until he came upon the others. The engine smelled like it was burning up. But he didn’t dare shut it off. He might not get it started again.
Delroy and Parker loaded the president into the truck bed.
Steele hopped out. “Delroy, drive.”
“Where to?”
“Earl will give you direction’s to Duke’s.”
“Hey, it’s my truck. I’m driving.” Duke said.
“You lost your driving privileges,” said Steele. Duke didn’t argue. Steele climbed in the back of the truck with Chloe, Susan, the president, and Duke.
Delroy u-turned and mowed his way back to the highway.
Steele could hear the F-45 Raptor circling back around. A moment later, it buzzed over the truck. The engines were deafening as it ripped through the air. The truck rocked in the wake of the thrusters. The truck was now a target. Steele knew on the next pass the Raptor would likely drop a JDAM or fire a Hell-Storm missile. Both of which were precision guided.
Steele unlatched the case and pulled out the Disruptor. He slung it over his shoulder as the Rumbler hobbled down the highway. He flipped the switch and turned on the targeting system. It took a few seconds to boot up.
The F-45 circled back around. It was making a bombing run, screaming straight toward them. In a matter of moments, they’d be scrap metal if Steele didn’t get a targeting lock first.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” Duke asked. “You know how much that damn thing is worth?”
13
The Disruptor’s targeting computer identified two inbound targets—The F-45 and a Hell-Storm. The estimated time to impact was four seconds. It was racing toward them at a 1000 miles per hour.
Steele tapped the touchscreen display and selected the incoming Hell-Storm. Then he squeezed the trigger on the Disruptor. The missile launched, rocketing out of the truck bed with a hiss. A cloud of white smoke billowed from the exhaust port. It almost knocked him down.
The guidance system was based on passive IR (infrared) energy for target acquisition and tracking. Rated at beyond visual range (BVR), it could distinguish between electronic countermeasures and the actual target, in most instances. Propelled by an MX9 rocket motor with thrust vectoring control, the Disruptor had unprecedented range and maneuverability. It traveled at mach 3.2, making it the fastest surface to air missile currently in production.
The two missiles impacted with a blinding explosion, not far from the truck. The blast wave sent the truck skidding across the wet asphalt. Delroy struggled to maintain control. The truck tipped up on two wheels, but Delroy managed to keep it from flipping over. It slammed back down and bounced on the highway. The heat from the explosion was intense. Steele felt like a marshmallow roasted above a fire. But they were all still alive.
The F-45 roared overhead.
Steele grabbed the second disruptor, powered it up, and got a targeting lock on the Raptor. He squeezed the trigger and the missile launched from his shoulder. It tore through the air, screaming toward the Raptor. The plane circled back around for another run. But it couldn’t evade the Disruptor.
The $1.2 billion aircraft erupted into a ball of flames. At 200K, the Disruptor seemed like a hell of a bargain now. What was left of the Raptor plummeted to the ground in a smolderin
g orange glow and a plume of black smoke. Steele and the gang were safe, for now.
“Goddammit,” Duke said. “That’s almost half a million bucks down the drain.”
Steele glared at him. “I take it you’d rather be dead? I can arrange that.”
Duke smiled. “No. It’s all good.”
Steele carried the president into Duke’s trailer and set him down on the couch. Empty beer cans, a pile of weed, and a bong were strewn out on the coffee table. It would have made for a damaging photo op during the next election cycle. But, at this rate, there wasn’t going to be another election cycle.
“You want a bong hit, Mr. President,” Earl said. “That will take the edge off.”
“No thanks.”
“How about some whiskey?”
“No food or drink until we find out the extent of that wound,” Steele said.
“You heard the man.” The president’s shirt was soaked in blood. The chunk of metal was still sticking out of his abdomen.
Earl grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the counter. “Well, I’ll have one for you.” He took a swig straight out of the bottle. Then Duke snatched it out of his hand, and gave him the evil eye.
Susan whispered in Steele’s ear. “We need to get him to a surgical center, ASAP.”
“If you can find one, let me know.”
Susan deflated. She knew that was going to be a difficult task, given the situation. “Does anyone have a mobile? Mine’s somewhere back on Air Force One.”
“You can use mine,” Earl said, handing her the device.
Susan swiped the screen. The satellite network was still working, and the power grid was still up. She accessed their GPS location and searched for nearby trauma facilities. The closest one was 40 miles away. But she couldn’t get an answer from any of them.
“The fact that he’s still alive is a good sign,” Steele said. “He’d have been dead in a few minutes if the descending aorta was nicked, or the renal arteries.”
Susan’s face was tense. She bit her bottom lip and fidgeted.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Steele said. “Earl, you said you had weapons and supplies. Where are they?”
“Hey now, those are my supplies,” Duke said. “I don’t recall saying you could have them. You already cost me a lot of money with those Disruptors. I expect to be compensated.”
Steele got in Duke’s face. “How about I let you live. That ought to be compensation enough.”
Duke wilted. “Sounds fair,” he stammered.
Steele was a big guy. One punch from his titanium fist would be enough to shatter Duke’s skull. “Where are they?”
Duke sighed. “In the barn. Follow me.”
They stepped out of the trailer, and Duke led Steele across the lawn into the barn.
Steele’s eyes widened at the sight of Brandi Leigh tied to the support beam. “What the hell is that about?”
“That’s my girlfriend. Well, soon to be ex-girlfriend.”
“Fuck you, Duke,” she hollered.
“Don’t pay her no attention.”
Steele lifted an inquisitive eyebrow.
“She got herself bit. I wanted to put a bullet in her head right then and there. But Earl’s a little sweet on her. He thought we ought to tie her up, see if she’d actually turn.”
Brandi sneered at him.
“How long ago was she bitten?” Steele asked, strolling to Brandi.
“I don’t know. Maybe an hour or so before we ran into you.”
Steele looked over the ropes, making sure that she was secure against the beam. His eyes surveyed her body, looking for bite marks. He gazed down her svelte legs to the gnarled bite on her calf. Then he grabbed her by the hair and stared into her eyes. Her eyes did what a woman’s eyes do when they see an attractive man—they flared and her pupils dilated.
Brandi’s blue eyes were enchanting. “Duke, I’m done with you. I think I found me a new boyfriend.” She had a lascivious grin on her face.
“Pfft, whatever,” Duke snorted.
Steele kept looking in her eyes—not because she was gorgeous, but because she didn’t look infected. There wasn’t a trace of the sub-conjunctival hemorrhaging that was typical of infected. Usually within several hours of infection, the sclera turned blood red. But Brandi’s eyes were whiter than white. They weren’t bloodshot, and didn’t even have a hint of ruptured capillaries.
“Why don’t you untie me, and I promise to show you a real good time,” Brandi whispered.
Steele moved his hand to her forehead. She didn’t seem to have a fever. And she wasn’t ice cold. She felt normal.
“You feeling okay?” Steele asked.
“Aside from a little rope burn, I’m fine. Not that I mind rope burns, if there’s a payoff to it—if you know what I mean.” Her eyes had a sultry glint in them.
“No fever, no nausea, no vomiting?”
“I’m a little hungry. And I could use another drink. Why don’t you be a doll and get me another whiskey and Coke?”
Steele turned and walked away from her.
“Hey, you ain’t gonna leave me here too, are you?”
“I’ll be back to check on you,” Steele said as he marched to Duke. “Make sure she gets some food. And do not kill her before she turns.”
“No problem. I can wait for her to turn before putting a bullet in her head.” Duke said it to Steele, but it was aimed at Brandi.
She rolled her eyes. “Bite me, Duke.”
Duke was a about to holler something back to her, but Steele interrupted. “Where are the supplies?”
Duke huffed, then pulled aside the bales of hay and pulled open the trap door. Duke led the way down the creaky wooden steps.
In the cellar, there were way more weapons and equipment than Steele was expecting. “Where did all this come from?”
Duke smiled. “Fell off the back of a truck,” he said, smugly.
“Bullshit.”
By this point, there was no use lying. “I know a guy. He’s a logistics specialist at the base. He’s responsible for all the inventory. The items come in, he marks them in the system as received, then after a month or so, he marks them as utilized. He gives them to me on consignment, and I split the revenue with him.”
“Sounds like a pretty good system.”
“Been over two years, nobody’s caught on yet.”
“You know, they put people away for life for that kind of thing.”
“I never intended it to get this big,” Duke said. “Hell, it just started with a little bit of extra ammo here and there. When nobody missed it, we started taking bigger and bigger stuff. Heck, I wanted to roll a tank out of there, but I thought that might be too much.”
“What have you got here?”
“What don’t I have?” Duke grinned. “I guess you’re welcome to it.” He had resigned himself to the fact that Steele was going to take whatever he wanted anyway.
Steele walked through the rows of supplies. He found a tactical vest and pack. He loaded up with as many 30 round magazines as he could carry. He grabbed an RK 709 and slung it over his shoulder. He found a helmet and a pair of advanced tactical goggles. He even found a 20 inch, duel edged tactical sword. It was standard issue and wasn’t the same quality as the one he had at home—but it would do.
He grabbed a bio-mask, some MREs, and a med kit. Then he loaded up on thermal grenades, proximity mines, mag grenades, and smoke canisters. He grabbed several blocks of C9 plastic explosive and blasting caps. It felt good to strap on all the gear. He had felt almost naked without it.
“The Disruptors you had in your truck… Where were you going with them?”
“I was supposed to meet with a buyer.”
“Who?”
“Look man, they pay cash, I don’t ask questions.”
Steele scowled at him, then marched up the cellar steps back to the mobile home. Then he instructed Parker and Delroy to gear up. Chloe followed along with them. She wasn’t going to miss the chance to stock
up. She had spent a month in the quarantine zone on her own. And even at 8 years old (going on 9), she could handle herself. She had more experience surviving the infected than just about anyone.
Steele opened the med-kit and pulled out a vile of antibiotics. He placed it into the injection gun. It was a chrome piece of equipment that looked similar to the inoculation guns.
“Mr. President, with your permission, I’m going to give you a shot of antibiotics.”
“Do whatever you need to do, Major.”
Steele rolled up the president’s sleeve. He pressed the nozzle against his skin and injected the antibiotic. “I know you’re not going to turn down some pain medication?”
“Hit me with your best shot.” The president tried to grin.
Steele gave him an injection of Neuromodix. It was the same drug that he took in pill form to control his own nerve pain. At high enough doses, it would completely shut off pain signals to the brain. But it had no effect on cognition. As Steele knew, it was highly addictive, and patients developed a tolerance rapidly. But short term use in a trauma situation wouldn’t be a problem.
Steele lived everyday with the searing pain from a faulty neural interface in his bio-mechanical parts. He knew all to well the horrors of Neuromodix addiction. It was getting to be about the time he needed to take another oral dose for himself. The first thing he planned to do once he retired was replace the neural interface and upgrade his composite parts. It would be a hell of a surgery, but it didn’t look like it was going to happen now. There most likely wasn’t a surgical center left operational to do it.
Steele powered up the tactical goggles. The TXV-1128 was the latest generation of optical enhancement technology. It was newer than the version he had been issued back at the forward operating base at the containment zone.
The TXV was lighter, more durable, and had better optics. It had a neural interface that seamlessly integrated with the user’s brainwave activity for truly handsfree control. It had several different modes. The standard target acquisition and tracking mode—which identified enemy targets and synced to the network. It allowed an entire squad, as well as the command & control center, to share data. It was also equipped with enhanced night vision, infrared thermal imaging, X-ray, and sonic resonance imaging technology.
