by Steven Bird
“A few weeks,” I muttered.
Quickly turning his head toward me, he said, “We must have been mistaken. We thought you’d gotten away with much more than that.”
“Ronnie and I left with two hundred doses. Unfortunately, just the other day, much of it was damaged during a drone strike on a vehicle we were traveling in.”
“Damn,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I guess we’ve got no time to waste, then.”
“Do you have a plan?” Tamara asked. “What’s next? How do we get it to a place where it can do some real good?”
Thinking for a moment, Bud said, “I’ve got one good option to get you to where you need to be in the time constraint you have.”
“What is it?” she again asked.
“If we can get you to Whiteman, they can get you to Warren,” he said, still working something out in his head.
Confused, I asked, “Whiteman and Warren? You mean the Air Force Bases in Missouri and Wyoming?”
“Yes, that would be they,” he replied. Looking at me and seeing my confusion, he said, “And now you’re beginning to learn a little more about your former employer. The OWA has a global reach, without a doubt, but some of the military personnel and assets that chose not to be absorbed are still functioning on behalf of the U.S. resistance.”
“But how could they pull that off? As a global superpower, couldn’t the OWA simply take them out?” Tamara wondered.
“Normally, yes,” he explained. “There are assets, however, at each of those bases that make the OWA a little standoffish.”
“Nukes,” I declared.
“Precisely,” Bud confirmed. “Whiteman has B2 Stealth Bombers, and Warren has Minuteman III ICBMs. Remember, the entire point of having a nuclear arsenal is assured mutual destruction. In other words, if you attack us, you may achieve your goals and destroy us, but you’ll die too.
“When the One World Alliance began its rise to power, it hadn’t counted on resistance from U.S. military personnel. They had severely underestimated the patriotism of the American fighting man… um, and woman,” he said, nodding to Tamara. “Sure, the intel bureaucracies, such as the CIA and NSA were all in, but the military still had intel folks who weren’t part of the machine. They were used by the machine, sure, but without their knowledge.
“Once certain aspects of the rise of the OWA came to light, it made its way to the right people in the right places to keep some of our most precious defense assets from falling into the OWA’s hands.”
“I still have a hard time believing the OWA hasn’t made a move to take them out,” I grumbled.
“Oh, they have,” Bud explained, “but not in a direct confrontation. They’ve utilized covert operations in an attempt to compromise the resistance defenses, but to no avail, so far. Eventually, they’ll find a way. But we’re hoping what you have to offer will help us in ways to make that irrelevant. For now, all we have is the crazy man defense.”
“The crazy man defense,” I repeated, seeking clarification.
“Yes, the crazy man defense,” Bud explained. “You see, even if you were a thug in prison, hell-bent on beating someone up to up your street cred, you’d avoid the psycho in the corner who’d likely shiv you in the neck just for looking at him wrong.
“He’s in for life without parole, and he’s never gonna get out. He really doesn’t care what happens to him next. That’s the resistance in a nutshell. Our world has already been ruined. We’re all facing the death penalty eventually, and we’ll shiv you in the neck if you so much as look at us funny, because, well, what have we got to lose? We’re basically already dead. But in this case, we aren’t merely armed with a sharpened spoon, this psycho in the corner has nukes.
“My guess is the OWA is simply waiting for us to all get sick and die. And without you, that long-game strategy will likely prevail.”
Nodding with a smile on my face as wide as I could muster, I asked, “And just how do you propose to get us to Whiteman?”
“By Mustang,” he replied with a devilish grin.
“You want us to drive a Mustang all the way to Missouri, all while trying to avoid ambushes, roadblocks, and drone strikes?” I asked sarcastically.
“Not that kind of Mustang,” he quipped.
Chapter Twenty-One
For the next few days, we remained hidden in Bud’s bunker while we waited for the situation to cool off outside. In some cases, we meant “cool off” in the literal sense, as the airstrikes brought about by the ODF had caused several forest fires that had quickly gotten out of hand.
Tamara and I continued our regular Symbex doses, and each time, we offered Bud a dose as well, but he always refused. “You might need that,” he would insist.
The Sembé virus was hyper-contagious, by design I assume, and there was no doubt in my mind that in the close quarters we were occupying, Bud had most definitely contracted the virus and would begin to show signs very soon.
Four days passed before Bud’s quick check to the surface resulted in a favorable report. “This is the first day since the bombing began that I haven’t seen signs of ODF troops in the area,” he declared. “As much as I hate to say it, however, I think we need to give it one more day, just to make sure. There is too much riding on this to find ourselves under the OWA’s boot due to impatience.”
The next day, Bud checked the surface, and this time didn’t return right away like normal. Tamara and I waited for several hours. His trips to the top usually only took a few minutes, thirty at most. We were worried, and rightfully so. Without Bud, we wouldn’t know how to find the next contact who would be transporting us to Whiteman Air Force Base, and we’d been burning through our remaining Symbex while waiting for the right time to make a move. No, if something had happened to Bud, it would have been more than just a setback.
Growing impatient, Tamara said, “Let’s go up and check it out. I can’t just keep sitting down here wondering.”
“Yeah, me neither,” I agreed.
Picking up the Sig 556, I led the way as Tamara and I exited the bunker room for the first time since we’d arrived. We worked our way through the cramped underground tunnel, lighting our way by candlelight. Once we reached the cellar and carefully and quietly moved the false door disguised as shelving until we got an adequate view of the room.
Stepping out into the cellar with the rifle held at a high ready, I motioned for Tamara that the room was clear. Handing her the rifle, I whispered, “Here, hold this while I climb the ladder and open the door leading into the shack.”
Taking the weapon, Tamara gave it a quick once-over to verify its readiness and nodded for me to continue.
I crept up the old, wooden steps until I reached the door above. Pushing on it lightly, I peeked into the shack, which was illuminated by rays of sunlight that shone through the gaps in the planks of the old, dilapidated shack.
Not seeing any signs of threats, I lifted the door open and motioned for Tamara to join me. She then handed the rifle up to me, and climbed the ladder, joining me in the shack.
Even though the shack was fairly dark, we squinted when the sun’s rays shining through the gaps reached our eyes. We’d become acclimated to the darkness of the bunker during our stay underground. I felt as if I needed sunglasses just to function as I squinted, trying my best to limit the light that reached my eyes.
Hearing footsteps, I motioned for Tamara to get behind me as I established a kneeling position and aimed the rifle at the door. Mere seconds after hearing the footsteps approach, the door swung open, and I said, “Oh, thank God, it’s you!” as I quickly lowered the weapon.
“I give up,” Bud said in jest, holding his hands in the air. In his left hand, he had a canvas sack with a blood stain where fresh blood appeared to be seeping through.
“What’s in the bag?” I asked.
“Dinner,” he replied. Looking around, he then added, “Now, let’s get back down below where it’s safe.”
Once we reached the bunker, Tamar
a said, “Where have you been, and why didn’t you tell us you’d be gone so long?”
Looking at me with a crooked grin, he replied, “You see, Joe? That is exactly why I’m single.” Seeing Tamara’s expression turn from one of concern to one of scorn, he added. “I know I should have said something. I considered it safe, yet needed to expand my view to get a better look around, so I went scouting about.”
“What did you see?” I asked.
“At first, I wanted to just sit down and cry,” he explained. “The bombing was devastating. The woods I played in as a child are all but gone. They’re burned to the ground. There’s nothing but ash and smoldering fires everywhere. And the old farmhouse that both my parents and grandparents were born in, it’s lost as well. The old abandoned general store—all of it—gone.”
“So… why do you seem like you’re in an otherwise good mood?” I asked.
“Because it’s time for the next phase of your journey,” he replied. “I didn’t see any remaining troop activity, and the smoldering fires should make scanning the area with thermal technology problematic, all while the smoke would make scanning the area visually from above equally problematic. We can essentially use their own havoc as cover to make our move.”
Placing the sack on the table, he said, “I say we move out at first light. It’ll be dark soon, and it will be far too difficult to get around in all that smoke in the dark. But as for tonight, we feast!” he said as he produced two large wild rabbits from the sack.
Confused, I asked, “If it’s a true hell on earth up there, how did you catch the rabbits?”
“First of all, a lot of critters had to flee the fires,” he explained. “Many of them are out and about, looking for shelter and new homes. Second,” he said as he reached behind his back, pulling something from his waistband, “a suppressed .22 pistol is a handy little dinner-getter,” he said as he held up a Ruger Mark IV with a suppressor threaded onto the barrel.
Watching as his face turned from an exuberant expression to one of sadness, he added, “If things go the way I hope tomorrow, it will be the last day we spend together because you’ll be on your way to Missouri. I wouldn’t feel right if I sent you off on such an important mission without a farewell feast.”
That night, Bud grilled his harvest on his little camp stove and served it with reconstituted potatoes and carrots. He even went all out and broke out some of his most prized possessions, his salt and pepper.
Once we had finished the meal, both Tamara and I thanked him as he walked across the room and returned with a bottle of red wine. Holding it out to look at the label, he dusted it off and said, “This was a gift from a dear friend. Its vintage is the same year I retired from active duty. He told me to save it for the future, and that someday, I would be able to celebrate some monumental achievement that was linked to my time in the service. I think tonight is that night.”
Pausing, he looked at us and asked, “Will you share it with me?”
Understanding that he was going through a flood of emotions with the knowledge that his internal clock was ticking, I said, “Yes, we’d be honored.”
“Absolutely,” Tamara added with a smile.
He placed the bottle on the table and disappeared once again into the darkness of the corner of the room, and after rummaging around in one of the storage barrels, he produced a decorative wooden box, which he brought to the table. Opening the box, he removed three of the four wine glasses that were safely stored inside.
Handing one to each of us, he said, “My friend covered all of the details.”
I rotated the glass in my hand by the stem and saw an engraving of a Chief’s anchor, as well as his name and retirement date. Underneath were the words, In honor of twenty years of faithful, dedicated service.
Smiling, I said, “I’m glad you didn’t stop serving at twenty years. It looks to me like you’re still serving your nation well.”
“Nevertheless,” he said as he paused to maintain his composure, “My permanent retirement is approaching. It was the ultimate honor, and truly the pinnacle of my career, both in and out of uniform, to have helped you on your journey.”
He then popped the cork on the bottle and poured a serving into each of our glasses.
Looking me directly in the eyes, he said, “What you’ve done, and what you’re doing, is huge, Joe. It’s huge. And ma’am,” he said, turning to Tamara, “he couldn’t have made it this far without you. That, I’m sure of.”
Raising his glass, he said, “Here’s to both of you! May your mission be a resounding success!”
We each clinked our glasses overhead and took a drink of his wine. For the next several hours, we refrained from talking about the virus, the death, the losses, and just sat around like three old friends. We shared stories of our youth, some embarrassing and some funny, and just enjoyed each other’s company. Life outside the zones almost seemed civilized for once.
~~~~
Early the next morning, Bud awoke before Tamara and me and prepared us a hearty breakfast. He pulled out all the stops and opened a can of sausage gravy and heated it on his camp stove. He also reconstituted some dehydrated biscuits, which was basically a crumbly concoction, but it mixed well with the gravy, hiding its dehydrated origins.
After we had both eaten, Bud provided Tamara with a new day pack, and filled it full of dehydrated meals for us to take with us for the journey ahead.
Once we reached the shack above, we each donned a gasmask provided by Bud to mitigate the dangers of the smoke from the still-smoldering fires. He verified that the area was free of immediate threats, and led us out and into the daylight for the first time in over a week. Although we could have kept our distance from the thickest smoke, Bud assured us that staying close to the fires would give us the best thermal and visual cover from any prying eyes, be they flesh or sensor.
Both Tamara and I were shocked by the devastation brought about by the ODF’s bombing campaign. We looked to the east, to the mountains we had crossed that were once lush and green, to see that they resembled large piles of smoldering ash. If we’d remained hidden in those mountains and had not been led to safety by Bud, that would have certainly been our fate.
The carnage extended out from there in all directions. Every significant building or structure had been leveled for as far as the eye could see. They clearly wanted to leave us no safe haven in the event we had made it out of the mountains.
Looking back at the old shack, I smiled at how well it was naturally camouflaged. Its having been entirely overtaken by vegetation and trees was no accident. I’m sure it was only visible from the ground, and only if you walked right up on it, facing the front.
We traveled in a westerly direction, moving non-stop for most of the day. Our stay in the bunker had been the perfect opportunity for Tamara to recover from her concussion, allowing her to regain her impressive endurance and stamina. I must admit, it was a much-needed recovery period for both of us, injury or not.
After approximately nine hours of steady travel by foot, we were long past the remains of the small town of Lafayette, Georgia, which was also destroyed during the bombing of the area, and we found ourselves entering an area of rural farmland and cleared pastures after working our way through a cut in the hills via Georgia 193.
“It’s not much further,” Bud assured us. “It’s actually just a few farms over,” he said, pointing in a southwesterly direction.
We now found ourselves with clear air above, as the winds were picking up out of the west and carrying the drifting clouds of smoke away from us. With that, our paranoia increased as the prying eyes from above would be unrestricted once again.
“There it is,” Bud said, pointing to a hill off to the side of a freshly-cut pasture.
Looking around and unsure of what he was referring to, I asked, “There what is?”
“The hangar,” he replied.
“Hangar?” I repeated, still confused.
We quickly made our way across the fr
eshly cut pasture, which was also puzzling, considering the fact that most had become overgrown and weed-ridden. But this one, it was cut down close to the ground. Who’d do such a thing? Was someone in the area still producing hay?
As we approached the hill, something caught my eye. It was the front of a hangar. It looked like a Quonset-hut-style hangar that was built into and blended with the surrounding terrain.
“Okay, now I get it,” I said, picking up the pace from the excitement of what may be awaiting us inside.
Seeing a flash of light from the tree line along the back of the hangar, Bud paused, removed a red handkerchief from his pocket, and waved it with his left hand. The light then blinked three times, and Bud said, “Okay, come on.”
“Code?” I asked.
“Sort of,” he replied. “When prompted, if I waved with my left hand, leaving my right hand free to manipulate a weapon, I would be signaling that I’m not there under duress and I’m still in the fight. If I signaled with my right hand, which would be my weapon hand, it would show that I am traveling under duress, and have been taken out of the fight, being unable to utilize a weapon.”
“You don’t seem like the kind of guy who’d be leading the enemy to your allies under duress,” I observed.
“No, I would hope not, but one can’t rule anything out that one hasn’t experienced. Also, things can get complicated at times. It’s best to have all the bases covered. For example, if they knew of this location, and wanted me to escort them here under false pretenses, it would be better for me to play along and be able to provide a warning to my friend. Again, you never know what circumstances will present themselves, so it’s best to have planned for all possible contingencies.”
As we approached the hangar, Bud said, “Please, wait here. Let me talk to him first.”
“Sure,” I replied.
Tamara and I waited as requested while Bud proceeded toward the hangar. When he got to within fifty feet of the hangar, a man appeared from the tree line wearing denim overalls, slip-on boots, and a well-worn straw cowboy hat.
