The Warriors' Ends- Soldiers of the Apocalypse

by Keith T Jenkins

  Crossing the yard, she is surprised to see a Jaguar come flying through the garage door, littering the drive. The car careens into the tail end of the CPS truck, knocking it well into the street, but the car doesn’t stop for longer than is needed to shove the gearshift into drive and speed away. No one will notice the door of the garage because of the winding driveway, keeping the entries of the houses well out of view from the street.

  Mike drives the service truck a few miles away, depositing it in a Wal-Mart parking lot, where she’d left Tiny’s bike. She parks it in a corner of the lot, far from the store, splatters the cab of the truck with methyl ethyl ketone (otherwise known as butanone), throwing the remaining jug into the back of the truck. Having put nearly a gallon of it on the dash, seats and floors, she hangs a simple one eighth inch wide dynamite fuse out the window by about two feet and in the window by two feet, and she lights it. This allows her nearly a minute to cross the lot before the inferno begins. The MEK, bonds to the foam and vinyl, has plenty of air to begin an intense inferno that will not be diminished by standard extinguishers. Some guys with an RV nearby will try, but it only accelerates the blaze. The aluminum shell of the truck ignites and the burn is unstoppable, leaving only an engine and transmission on a frame. The engine and transmission are also busted because the fluids inside expanded from the heat, spilling and spewing out all over the parking lot. But the question for the news people and the cops is, “Why is it burning in the Wal-Mart lot?”

  The woman in the Jag calls James to arrange a meeting, and she lets him know about the beating she received, and about the woman in the house. By the time he gets the word from her, an hour has passed and he doesn’t want to walk into a trap if that woman is still there. He can’t exactly call a board meeting, telling the others about the warning, after all, the woman walking out of his bedroom that morning was Angela, Jacob’s wife.

  It’s been nearly five years since Angela came to his house the first time, crying over the abuse at the hand of her husband, and while James has always had a thing for her, Jacob is too much of an alpha dog to betray – at least not to his face. Somehow, that would surely work out badly for everyone involved. So, she sneaks over once or twice a week, and they meet from time to time at a few well-chosen hotels around town, depending on what James has going on, and where. In their assignations, they can be just a guy and a girl, for a moment in time, forgetting that they are part of a greater, angrier, meaner, more sinister crime family. They are certain that if Jacob knew about their relationship, they would both be dead. They are correct. Jacob is exactly the kind of man who would exact all possible revenge.

  James calls ‘Duardo, directly, personally, to go from the barbacoa place in Loma Park, all the way out to his house, for a look-see. The situation feels too much like when he went to the trailer, but this time, ‘Duardo is alone. He pulls into the drive, down close to the house, somewhat disturbed by the destruction of the garage door across the lawn, and as he walks up to the house, he draws his gun. Looking right and left, coming up the sidewalk, he looks like a cat, expecting to see a varmint, but there is none. He puts his hand on the screen door handle and leans to the left to get out of its way when opening, and that’s when the house explodes. Fortunately for ‘Duardo, he is standing against a brick wall when the blast occurs, and that wall only pushes him out into the flower bed, onto the ground, where the bricks fall on him, as gently as bricks can fall. The entire exterior wall of the house has been blown over, all the windows have been blasted out as far as the street, and the door handle is still in ‘Duardo’s grasp, for the moment.

  This is the second time this year that ‘Duardo has been blasted by a gas explosion, and he determines that it will be the last. He throws the door handle back at the rubble of the house, dials the phone to call James, whom he cannot hear, and when he sees the phone makes a connection, he begins yelling things he still cannot hear, thanks to the ringing in his ears. He tells him things about an explosion, the walls are busted, windows blown to hell, and it is all topped off with, “I’m fucking done!” He mentions Mexico and Canada in his ranting, and in a few minutes, no one will be able to say where ‘Duardo has gone.

  He gets back into his well-peppered Escalade, with a couple of bricks lodged in the windshield, and takes it to the Loma Park house, where he tells the others that they are to clear out, on some fool’s errand at James’ house, at which time, he will empty the safe, steal his cousin’s car, and move to Belize. As he goes, but well out of his way, he will return to the Costco on IH-10, and fill both tanks of this POS, 1970’s Suburban. The credit card used for the purchase and the Costco card will both be found lying on the ground beside the pump. In a few weeks, he will buy a small beach bar, find a comely senorita, and start a new life.

  For the next few days the Costco card and credit card – both in the name of the “family business” – will be used to purchase tons of stuff, but the thieves are wise enough to use it only for a few days, not wishing to draw too much attention. The card users saw ‘Duardo look around, toss them down, and leave, figuring it was an opportunity. They were right.

  The White House

  The executive Power shall be vested in a President of the United States of America.[12]

  E-Day Minus 7 Years

  “Who’s the best security team leader around? Who’s the best man to keep POTUS alive today?” asks President Harrison.

  “What do you want sir?” is the follow up question by Walid Mentor, Senior Security Advisor to the President. “Do you want the best we have or the best there is?” His given name had been Marvin Mentor, but in college, he turned to Islam, and he would have changed his whole name; but his dad is worth billions, and he would have completely disowned Walid, had he become Walid Mohammed. As Walid Mentor, he barely remains an heir. On a more personal note, the name Walid means “procreator,” yet he and his wife are childless after ten years of marriage.

  The President gives him a stern stare.

  Reviewing his recall, Walid answers, “The best living commander retired right after you got elected, Mister President.”

  “Timing . . . or preference?”

  “Preference, Mister President. He already had over thirty years in, so he just opted out.”

  “Is he so much better that we have to have him?”

  “Well, Mister President, we would be far better off if he were at your side,” says Walid.

  “But you said he was out because of ‘preference.’ Why did he leave?” asks the President.

  “No offense, Mister President, but he didn’t want to protect you.”

  “Get him back!” Harrison demands.

  “Mister President, he’s gone.”

  “Get him back!” shouting, he demands again. “Suspend his retirement, activate his recall clause, promise him a giant bonus; but get him back.”

  Wade Bennett was the best team leader, field office commander, on-site commander, and field agent, at street level, that anyone could recall. He had entered military service at 17 as a Marine, and when he was 21 he became one of the youngest members ever of MarSOC – the Marine Special Operations Command – and after a few dozen short “targeting” deployments and three tours into the Last Afghan War, he went into the Secret Service. He served on the protective teams as a sniper/sniper-spotter in New York and San Francisco, before moving to LA for three years as commander, followed by six years as White House Field Office Commander, protecting POTUS. His skills in imagining and developing threat assessments, at ground level, are beyond the imagination of anyone who ever worked with him. As they say in the field, when introducing anyone to Commander Bennett, “He’s the real deal.”

  “I want him back, no matter what!” says the President. “I don’t care if you have to threaten his family; get him back.” He throws some recent Bill from his desk, in frustration, in what passes for a tantrum. Calming for the moment, he asks, “What about the Jeremiah watch team?”

  “Well, Mister President,” Walid pull
s his collar and begins sheepishly, “We have narrowed the list of candidates down to a few dozen,” and he sets the list on the President’s desk, stepping slowly back a few paces.

  The list contains the names of thirty-six strong candidates, along with their qualifications, ranked in order of preference, and their availability – along with if not available, why. There are a few that stand out, those who have special qualities that make them very desirable at this juncture of history. The very best of the best are in the back.

  Andrew Lightfoot had been Navy SEALs, reported dead in the Afghan conflict, was “Ghosted” into the Company. Somewhere along the way, it was reported that he went missing, turned up ranting some pretty outrageous stuff, and now, with his name changed, his last known address was the new VA Mental Care facility in Reston, VA. Investigations showed that he had been missing for one week by this time. They had kept him on meds, one pill, twice daily, but on the day of his disappearance, the staff discovered about two dozen tabs shoved into the seam of his mattress.

  Harold Preston, III was a highly decorated vet with a similar resume, outside of the Ghosting. He had a Bronze Star, Purple Heart, Silver Star, and at one time was under consideration for a Congressional Medal of Honor, but particularly close friends and some less ambitious family members put pressure on a senator or two, to make that not happen. Some of his more ambitious family and friends wanted to barter that CMH for political advancement – the House, Senate, or maybe the presidency someday – but Harold wanted to disappear into obscurity, being needed to run his family business, marry his high school sweetheart, and raise a family, after his father’s final stroke. He was living in upstate New York, trading commodities and futures, knocking down a modest seven figures, having dinner at home almost every night, and playing with his kids more often than most soldiers even see theirs.

  Miki’do “Mike” Ishikawa is busy in San Antonio doing some personal clean up, but she’s “nasty good” at the job. And if you need someone handled in a harsh way, Mike’s as good as they get. Mike is Spec-Ops for ten years, with 72 confirmed long-distance kills, scores of unconfirmed kills up-close, and more than 50 covert detonations on record. Her planning skills are almost as good as Bennett, and there has never been a pause or a flinch at the slice of a blade, or at squeezing a trigger, hitting targets as far off as – well, the official record says one kill was at 2.3 kilometers; but that one did take two shots. The first shot took out a leg. “If you want Mike,” the President is told, “it could get complicated.”

  Mark Schwarz is another good candidate, urban, desert, and jungle operator, MarSOC, sniper, demolitions expert, and a tired soldier who had simply had enough, took the disability retirement his damaged rotator cuff allowed, and began touring the country on his highly customized motor bike, with sidecar. A standard issue CIA tracer planted on his bike when purchased lets the overlords know that he is somewhere in Appalachia, camping under the stars and hiking the trails, easily found, and ready to be retrieved.

  When the order came, Mark was camping on the east side of the Piney Ridge peak, under the stars, with a sleeping bag, and a cold camp. As the Blackhawk descended in stealth mode, on the other side of the ridge, its arrival was quite quiet. When 10 special operators of a Ranger battalion in Kentucky scurried his way, they surrounded his camp in near silence, and speedily encircled his sleeping bag, where one of them poked at the mid-region with the muzzle of his M4. There was no reaction at first, and then there was a brief “bzzip” of a steel cable pulling through multiple eyelets, a dozen soundings of the familiar “tang-ching” from a grenade handle being released and landing on hard ground. The next sounds were unhearable because their sudden nature and volume left only a severe ringing in the ears of these Rangers. There were, on a half dozen trees nearby, nearly a dozen flash-bangs, which fulfilled their purpose. They completely disoriented the operators who threatened Mark’s peaceful rest.

  In the hurried and blind moment for the Rangers, Mark quickly ran into the camp, pointed his bike downhill, switched on the key, and in an effort to coast downhill in stealth, he spirited himself away unimpeded. It looked like the Rangers would have a 550-mile trip home with empty hands, but for a single sniper who, waiting in the rough, had studied the terrain and figured that Mark’s escape would head that way. He used a tranquilizer dart to slow Mark’s roll, and as Mark discovered the short, sharp pain, followed by immediate drowsiness, he released the throttle, sputtering to a stop, falling sleep-bound from his iron steed to the pine-needled floor of the forest. The solitary soldier approached the sleeping body, rolled him over on his face, attaching handcuffs behind his back, then waited.

  When he awakes, Mark is in black uniform again, right down to his own grubby black boots, and ready to ship out, but with no idea of where or why. His wrists are zip-tied to the sides of a chair. When his eyes open, he glances around the room, seeing his uniform, the lack of furniture, except for two chairs, one of which he occupies, and a Staff Sergeant standing at the door with no weapon, who knocks on the door when he sees Mark stir.

  Mark surveys the room, slowly evaluating his situation, clearing his vision from the tranq and says, “So, I’m back, eh?”

  About a dozen others found their careers restarted in much the same way. Some were surprised and asked to rejoin – though “ask” may be the wrong word – and others had to be renditioned into service. Some were coerced by threats to loved ones, while others, like Mark, were conscripted by a black bag. It’s the new way.

  “So, what’s on the agenda?” asks Schwarz.

  There are some others with whom he is familiar, and one of them steps forward, out of the shadows of the corner, saying, “First we need to get Mike.”

  “You mean Ishikawa?” asks Schwarz.

  “Yeah, they say she’s number one on our detail, but she is on safari in San Antonio.”

  “What’s she hunting in San Antonio?”

  “Well, it turns out that she is wiping out a giant drug-dealing, human-trafficking, ho-pimping gang, on a vengeance quest.”

  “How did that get started?” asks Schwarz. “How do you piss off Mike bad enough that she wants to kill everyone you know?”

  “According to the spooks – and that’s all I got – someone raped and killed her sister – a lot.”

  “What do you mean, a lot?”

  “They raped her a lot and her death was rather brutal, as I hear. Bikford googled it and found a hideous story, with no suspects, no arrests, nothing.” Bikford nods, but he still has nothing else. “Mike was operational before she heard about her sister, so she’s still trackable.”

  “So, what’s the plan?”

  “We go to Camp Bullis, tech up, find Mike, bring her back, no matter what.” He looks around the room for a moment, as if trying to keep a secret, then he leans in to say, “The White House asked for her . . . personal.”

  “Then I guess it’s no matter what.”

  Departure Day Due

  I looked, and behold, there was a white horse. The one riding on it had a bow, and a crown was given to him. He went out as a conqueror so he might conquer.[13]

  E-Day Minus 7 Years

  There are seventy-two ships dispersed around the planet in a geometric pattern, not concentrated over cities, but covering everything between the 75th parallels on each end, but what happened next was intense. It is viewed, in full, by a team of Russian Cosmonauts, recorded, and shared to the world on live – well, almost live – TV.

  Yuri, Feodor, Arkady, and Illya were on a standard mission when the vessels arrived. It was the decision of the Central Committee that they not be informed, but that they stay in communication once events turned.

  As soon as Feodor noticed the flock of visitors coming into view, he got the attention of the others, who all stared in stunned amazement for a few moments as the fleet filtered into view, and then the call. As the ships approached the cosmonauts watched in trepidation, wondering what was going on. Sitting in the International Space Stati
on, they were glued to the windows in shock and surprise, but only for a moment. Soon, there was the call to Moscow, and a WTF conversation, wondering how they could be caught unawares, only to discover that they weren’t. The big fish knew the ships were coming and allowed these space heroes to be compromised anyway. Yuri, the mission commander, is on the comms with Moscow describing everything he sees, as he sees it.

  As Yuri begins counting the ships, he is informed by Moscow that there are seventy-two. “You knew even how many there were?” He pauses a moment, grits his teeth, growls briefly, and spits against the floor. The crafts are cylindrical in shape, seem to be free-floating, without apparent means of thrust or guidance, almost as if by magic they find their places and stop. They are geostationary in orbit, again, without thrusters of any visible kind, and one of them is about two miles outside the station. Two of the ships are larger than the others and descend toward the surface, one over Yerushalayim and the other over New York City. Ten smaller ships deploy as a secondary wave, lowering to major cities around the globe. Later it would be noted that they appear to be spreading out to reach the most possible “people groups,” with language variances; but this is conjecture.