by JE Gurley
“Kill the engine,” he said to the driver. A cold wind blowing down off the Mogollon Rim made him shiver. Or is it fear? he asked himself.
A sign beside the road announced the Montezuma’s Castle National Monument, not truly Aztec but a misnamed, well-preserved Sinagua ruin built into the white limestone cliffs seventy feet above the valley floor of Beaver Creek. From the valley floor in which they had stopped, I-17 slowly climbed into a series of mountains, an excellent place for an ambush. He had purposely kept his helicopters off to the east to avoid detection. Now, they would be no help to him. He hoped his decision to keep them safe didn’t doom them.
He spoke into his walkie-talkie. “Have everyone disperse. Bring up the special trucks and place them across the road.”
He waited and watched as fifteen hundred people disembarked from the trucks and scattered into the desert seeking shelter from the attack he only felt in his bones. He could almost sense their fear from where he sat, men and women who had never fired a weapon in anger now engaged in conflict with their brothers and sisters. He had faith in them and hoped he did not betray their faith in him. If his senses had steered him wrong, he was wasting precious time they could not afford to lose.
The six special trucks took their positions just as the first F-16 appeared. Altogether, he spotted four, fewer than he had thought they would face but a formidable array of firepower nevertheless. On its first pass, the lead F-16 flew low to the ground parallel to their position, scoping them out. He knew that on its second pass it would rain destruction down upon the convoy. He hoped his plan worked. If his men got antsy and revealed themselves too soon, all would be lost.
The first jet returned to its comrades, circled their location once, and then all four began to drop toward them. It was a good sign, but he held his breath. If the jets had carried JDAMs, or Joint Direct Attack Munitions, they could release hundreds of tiny, lethal guided bomblets over the entire roadway from fifteen miles away. The F-16s also carried M61A1 Vulcan cannons capable of firing 6,000 20mm rounds per minute. A single one could chew up his entire convoy.
Suddenly two missiles, air-to-ground AGM-65 Mavericks, lanced from beneath the wings of the F-16 into one of the fuel trucks. It erupted into a giant ball of flame, spewing burning fuel onto several other nearby vehicles. He could not afford to lose more fuel.
“Fire!” he yelled into the walkie-talkie.
Six 30mm GAU-8/A Avenger Gatling guns stripped from A-10 Thunderbolts and mounted into the back of six five-ton trucks released their deadly fire at the approaching F-16s. The first two immediately burst into flames riddled with 30mm bullets fired at 4,200 rounds per minute. Pieces of their fuselages fell away as they careened overhead, finally crashing into the desert. Twin geysers of flame and smoke rose from their impact sites. The two remaining jets peeled away in tight, high G turns, but a salvo from the row of Abrams tanks caught one mid-turn. A 105mm shell ripped away the tail section, sending the F-16 tumbling end-over-end until it too crashed. The surviving jet gained altitude and headed south. Cheers rose around him at their victory. He didn’t bother stopping them. Realization that they had been discovered would hit them soon enough.
He checked on the destroyed trucks. Six men had died during that first brief attack. Burning fuel from the tanker still spilled from it, running in a blazing stream down a dry arroyo, setting fire to creosote, tumbleweeds and brittlegrass plants. His heart lifted when he saw Bahati running towards him. He opened his arms wide and she raced into them. He folded his arms around her, savoring with delight the feel of her soft body against his.
“I was so frightened,” she muttered into his chest.
“It’s alright. They’ve gone.”
“Will they be back?”
“I don’t think so, at least not for a while.” He stared south. “I’m sure he radioed our location though.”
She pulled away and looked into his eyes. “Then we should go.”
He nodded and smiled, delighted with her rapid uptake of the situation. “Yes, we should.”
“I’m riding with you,” she said.
By the tone of her voice, he knew he could not dissuade her. “Okay. I would like that.”
Back in the truck, he ordered the convoy forward. He sent two of the Gatling gun trucks ahead to lead the convoy. The remainder he interspersed along the length of the convoy both for added protection and for concealment. By his estimation, it would take at least an hour for the base in Phoenix to mount an offensive force to meet them. If they travelled at the speed of his convoy, 30 mph, that meant that they should meet beyond the outskirts of Phoenix, around Black Canyon City or New River. He didn’t want to be caught in open ground where jets and helicopters could attack from all direction. He would need to take a dangerous risk.
Into his walkie-talkie, he announced, “Send all tanks and howitzers forward at full speed. I’ll send the choppers to cover you.” He glanced at Bahati and off the radio said, “I have to risk them. If the enemy takes the high ground on each side of the Interstate, they could pick us off as we approach and stop us cold. We have to reach Phoenix before they can mount a major defense. The tanks and artillery can break through.”
“I trust you,” she said.
If his tanks met the enemy head on before they had a chance to deploy, he had them. If not, he had lost. He was an engineer, not a battle-tested professional. He prayed his judgment was sound.
Phoenix, Arizona
General Hershimer accepted news of the destruction of three F-16’s with quiet aplomb. He had gravely underestimated Colonel Schumer’s determination and brazenness. Instead of fortifying Salt Lake City against attack, Schumer had brought the battle to him.
“Cagey bastard,” he muttered. He turned to his aid, Sergeant Ralph Reid, a tall, lanky Kentuckian with a penchant for slow talk and witticisms that greatly annoyed him. “Sergeant, I want every vehicle and man we have on the road in thirty minutes to intercept Colonel Schumer.”
“Heck, Sir, it looks like he’s in an all-fired hurry to reach us. Why not just blow up the highway?”
“Because we might need the highway, Sergeant. I want to teach this upstart ditch digger a lesson. Now, move your ass before I bust you to private.”
Reid snapped a sloppy salute. “Yes, sir.”
Hershimer had ten more F-16s and a dozen helicopters at his disposal, but Schumer’s trick with the Gatling guns warranted caution before mounting a second air attack. He just might have other tricks up his sleeve. With no heavy artillery and only a dozen tanks, his heavy weapons arsenal was smaller than Schumer’s. His dependence on airpower might prove to be a mistake. He had to force Schumer to spread out where his airpower would be more effective.
Schumer’s attack could not have come at a more inopportune time. In two days’ time, a trainload of munies would arrive from San Diego, establishing Phoenix, under his command, as the center of military operations in the west, fount of the priceless Blue Juice. He had waited all his life for an opportunity like this. Passed over for promotion twice during the post-Afghan war years, he had expected to go into retirement as a lowly colonel. The zombie plague had saved his ass and pulled him from forced retirement. All he had had to do was survive it. He was now the third highest-ranking military man in the U.S. Even the President listened to what he had to say, and he had plenty to say about their European allies.
Europe had suffered worse than the U.S. Crowded and divided by cultural and religious strife, Europe’s countries had fallen to the plague like dominoes. The European Union had first unraveled; then disintegrated, often followed by small local skirmishes. NATO had picked up the pieces and soldered them into a loose-knit collection of camps and compounds under military rule, their version of the Judgment Day Protocol. As a member of NATO, the U.S. technically fell under their jurisdiction, but already divisions had occurred between the two former allies. For his part, Europe could go to hell. The U.S. didn’t need them as much as they needed the U.S., just as it had always b
een since WWI. Major Corzine had been NATO’s boy in the U.S., wielding his power like a sledgehammer. Now that he was gone, NATO had become as irrelevant as the daily newspaper.
He had recently deployed two squads to Captain Lacey in Tucson to help secure the railroads. If by some miracle Schumer broke through his defenses and into the city, he would need every man and every weapon. He picked up his phone.
“Order Captain Lacey and his men back to Phoenix, ASAP.”
He slammed down the phone and smiled. That drunken Irishman O’Malley and his band of misfit railroaders could look after themselves for a few days, at least until his train of munies arrived.
20
Tucson, Arizona
“We’ve been ordered back to Phoenix. You and your men will proceed to Wellton near Yuma, where you will meet a special train inbound from San Diego. You will transfer it to the Phoenix line through Maricopa. I have a map here.”
O’Malley waved the map away with disgust. “I don’t need your map, Sonny boy. I know the Mcilheney Cattle Company line like the back of my hand. Who do you think cleared the tracks from San Diego?”
Lacey paced the floor of the living room as the snipes, Hugh O’Malley, and Mace sat around and stared at him. With his hands clasped behind his back, Mace snickered quietly at his conjured image of a slightly taller Napoleon Bonaparte. Lacey’s serious face betrayed his self-importance.
“Suppose zombies make a nuisance of themselves during your absence,” O’Malley asked. “Do we fight to the last man?”
Lacey stopped pacing and stared down at the Irishman. “You will see that the train arrives in Phoenix without delay at all costs.”
O’Malley raised an eyebrow. “At all costs? And what will you be doing, having a parade?”
Lacey glanced around the room with a barely suppressed smirk on his face. Mace knew that Lacey could never resist the opportunity to boast. O’Malley’s goading had been all that was necessary.
“Forces, rebellious forces, are mounting an attack on Phoenix. We will repel these misguided miscreants and teach them a lesson they will not soon forget.”
“Tsk. Tsk. Dissention in the ranks? That’s hard to believe.”
Lacey’s face rankled at the few muffled chortles O’Malley’s remark elicited. “Traitors!” he spat aloud. “We will deal with them quickly and then get on with rebuilding America.”
O’Malley stood. “Well, we would see you off but we have work to do.”
Lacey stared at him a moment, turned, and left the room. Several men burst out laughing.
“Pompous ass,” O’Malley said.
“It must be more than a small force attacking Phoenix if they need Lacey’s men,” Mace suggested.
O’Malley looked at him and cocked an eyebrow, “What are you saying?”
Mace shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe someone is getting tired of the way the military is running things.”
O’Malley dismissed him. “It’s none of our concern.”
“Isn’t it?”
O’Malley walked over to where Mace sat and looked down at him with an interested expression. “What do you mean?”
“He means that perhaps we are on the wrong side,” Soweta answered for him.
O’Malley snorted. “They’re the side with the Blue Juice. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to wind up as one of them olive green creatures running naked with my genitals dragging in the dirt.”
“My people may have found a vaccine,” Mace blurted. He knew he had to sway them to his side quickly. The ‘special train’ could only be the one Soweta had mentioned transferring munies to Phoenix. He had to stop them from reaching the city and he was running out of time.
“Your people, you say.” O’Malley pointed a beefy finger at Mace. “Just who the hell are you?”
“I’m with a group of CDC researchers trying to find a vaccine. They might have just made a breakthrough. If so, there’s no need to keep munies locked up like cattle, milking them for blood until they’re dead.”
O’Malley winced. “I don’t like it either, but it’s the way it is.”
“I’m sure the men, women and children giving their lives to keep you alive appreciate that sentiment.”
O’Malley turned away and growled, “It’s not my fault. I can’t change it.” He turned back to face Mace. “Besides, if you’ve got a cure, the military will distribute it. They won’t need munies.”
“Vaccines take time. They’ll distribute it to their own people first. A lot of people could die by then.” He let that thought sink in before adding, “They’re using your trains to transport these people. That makes you responsible.”
“My trains …,” O’Malley mulled that for a few seconds. “What can I do?”
“By yourself – nothing.” Mace’s gazed fell across everyone in the room. “Together, we might do something.”
Soweta’s deep voice broke the silence that followed. “In South Africa, before Mandela, my people were treated badly, but not as badly as the munies. I am ashamed of what I have become.”
“Why don’t we hijack the train?” Phillips asked.
“Hijack … But where do we take them?” O’Malley asked. He spread his arms wide to encompass the room. “Here?”
Mace grinned. They were slowly coming around to his side, no longer discussing why but how. The railroaders’ innate distrust of the military placed them on the side of the munies. Before they became bogged down in the minutiae of details, he needed to focus them on a task they could perform better than anyone else could, a job for which they were particularly suited.
“First, we stop the train from reaching Phoenix; then we figure out what to do with them. I have an idea.”
O’Malley cocked an eyebrow at him. “And what might that be.”
“My people are near Wellton. They can help.”
“There’s a crate of M16s and ammo in one of the sheds,” Jake volunteered.
“Maybe they’ll be too busy with Lacey’s ‘rebellious forces’ to bother with us,” Phillips suggested.
“Don’t count on it,” Mace said, “if the rebels lose, the military will send an army after us.”
“We could block the highway at Picacho Peak,” Phillips noted. “We have dynamite. It’s a narrow valley. We could slow them down.”
“No, they have jets and helicopters. They would just bomb us or start dropping Sarin gas.”
“Then what do we do?” O’Malley asked.
Mace grinned. “What they least expect – we deliver the train to Phoenix.”
O’Malley was aghast. “What? I thought the whole idea was to prevent that.”
“There won’t be any munies on it, just us.”
Soweta grinned. “They would not expect opposition, especially if they are concentrating on these rebels Captain Lacey spoke of.”
Phillips shook his head. “No, it sounds too dangerous to me.”
Mace looked at him. “It was your idea to hijack the train.”
“Hijack, not commandeer. Hell, if anything goes wrong, we’ll be stuck there.”
Mace shrugged. “You either accept the risk or do nothing.” He looked around the room at all of the railroaders. “I have to try. I saw what the military does with munies in San Diego.”
O’Malley stared at Mace. “Were you one of the ones who busted in and made off with a helicopter load of munies?”
“I was.”
O’Malley smiled broadly. “I heard about that little feat. You’re notorious.” He turned to his men. “This here’s a bona fide hero, boys. He spit in the eye of these military boys once before. What say we help him do it again? What the hell? Do you want to live forever?”
The silence following O’Malley’s remark seemed to fill the room with static electricity. Mace could feel a charge building to an explosion. Finally, it sparked into life.
“Hell, no!” they shouted. “It’s our railroad.”
O’Malley turned to Mace. “Looks like you have an army of misfits and
miscreants, God help us all. What now?”
Vince watched the soldiers load into five trucks and leave the farmhouse. He was relieved that he did not see Mace among them, but afraid that Mace was not at the farm, perhaps already in Phoenix. Trying to move closer to the farmhouse across the open ground in daylight was too risky, but they could not sit and wait all day. Just as he had arrived at the conclusion that they needed more help, he spotted group of men leaving the farmhouse headed toward the crane. To his relief, he saw Mace among them.
He cautioned Amanda and Cy to hold their fire. When the men drew nearer, he noticed the apparent camaraderie between Mace and the railroad men and shook his head smiling. “Only Mace could step in shit and come away smelling like roses.” When the men reached the crane and flatcar, he stood casually, pointing the M-249 machine gun at them. They stopped, startled but unafraid. Mace stepped forward grinning.
“Hold on,” he said to the railroad men, “these are my friends. Good to see you, Vince.”
Vince casually looked over the men surrounding Mace. “Renda was worried about you.”
“I bet she gave you hell.”
“Damn right she did. If she could have buckled a seat belt around her big belly, she would have come with us.”
“Garza didn’t make it.”
“I know. We saw his body. Let’s go home.”
Amanda and Cy rose from their positions and casually walked toward the group. Phillips whistled appreciatively at Amanda. Soweta shot a scowl in his direction and he quieted.
“Change of plans,” Mace said. “We have to hijack a train.”
Vince stared at him to see if Mace was joking but saw no humor in his eyes. “I see. Anything special or will just any old train do?”
“This one is full of munies headed for Phoenix.”
Vince’s eyes narrowed as he furrowed his brow. “Where?”
“Wellton, not far from Yuma. We intend to stop the train, free the munies, and fill the train with armed men.”
“Isn’t attacking the military a little dangerous?”
