Surviving The Black (Book 4): Betrayal From Within

by Finley, Zack

  "Buddy, I can't argue with you. We can't save everyone. There is some difference, our families bought the stuff we have and put it away for an apocalypse. Those in the Army started with taxpayer paid for weapons and food. It seems fair for them to use that to kickstart civilization," said Jules.

  "Yeah, the sheriff tried that in Huntsville for a while. Until his deputies killed him. I don't feel too bad about the grain in the grain elevators and bins. Most of that was owned by huge agri-business. It was already bought and paid for. Think of the grain barges outside Helena. As much as I like 'shine, I would feel little remorse taking that corn away from Clyde, the old moonshiner, and feeding it to hungry families instead. Clyde would definitely disagree."

  The topic felt uncomfortable for me, and I suspected for Jules as well. Distributing food to the hungry was laudable, but when there wasn't enough to go around, who went hungry? Who decided? We planned to take the seeds and the grain away from its original owner. If necessary, we would kill people to accomplish that mission. What gave us the right?

  I had to be satisfied with avoiding bloodshed, when we could. But I would not handicap my people with extraordinary rules of engagement, either.

  Crossing I-65 marked a substantial change in the terrain below us. Gone was the hilly forestland, unbroken by houses and farms. We now cruised above a greenish-brown patchwork of fields, occasionally broken by a small town or highway. The tree-lined streams resembled gray-brown snakes bisecting the man-made straight-edges of property lines. Surprisingly, occasional dense rectangles of trees remained, reminding one of what this region must have resembled before the farmers came. Green pastureland and areas where farmers planted a cover crop last fall contrasted with the overall palette of muted winter colors.

  I tried to estimate where we were, using my watch and the road map. The grain bin cluster was on Port Royal Road just south of the Kentucky border. As the crow flies, it was about 15 miles east of Fort Campbell. While grain and soybean growers likely knew where it was, I doubted many people from Clarksville knew about it.

  "Once we get to I-24, then we go directly north and a bit east," I said. "Should only be for a few minutes, it is less than 10 miles. Go slow and low, so I can scope out the site. The bin cluster should be on my right."

  Jules banked the airplane in a looping turn as soon as I spotted I-24. Almost immediately, the silver grain bins caught the sunlight and snagged my attention. I pointed, and Jules edged back on the throttle, gliding lower over the target zone.

  The facility had 12 small and two huge bins. A grain truck blocked the driveway, but that appeared to be all the fortification in place. If necessary, access was also available via railroad tracks beside the facility. The Port Royal Road had a jumble of cars blocking it north of the grain bins on the railroad tracks.

  "Let's check for any other roadblocks," I said. "Go south to the Red River, that should be easy to spot." The curvy river snaked and looped, forming the southern edge of our mission area. Half the bridge over both the Red River and Sulphur Fork were still open, just as we left them weeks ago. Either no one had checked, or they didn't care anymore.

  "I spotted some shiny tanks on the west side of the road," Jules said. "We should check it out on the way back. We were nearly past them before I saw them. This area is a weird mix of McMansions and farm fields."

  "We'll look, although most farms have grain bins or field bags. It is almost required because the price drops so quickly once the harvest season starts. If you don't have storage, you are basically giving your crop away at the end," I said. "We will come back to it. Turn east, follow the river to US-41."

  While I hadn't spotted any grain bins on our last jaunt through Adams, we came through at night. If we didn't spot them on US-41 to the Kentucky border, we'd loop back around over the town.

  "We hit paydirt," Jules said, pointing to the left. "At least 50 bins and some are tall."

  While Jules spotted the grain complex, I'd seen the stack of cars and the contested river crossings. While the road was clear on the north side of the river, cars and trucks were scattered on the Adams side of the highway bridge. Some looked burned, and I suspected we would see bullet holes if we ever got close enough. Folks in the McMansions hadn't wanted any company from Adams.

  It put the situation we encountered at Port Royal Park into perspective. Locals might not have recruited the murderers collecting "tolls," but they enjoyed having them keep out visitors.

  I shifted my binoculars. Jules was right, this was at least twice the size of the other facility. It even had grain cars parked on the rail spur, too. Bin clusters dotted both sides of the highway. The facility appeared open for the taking, as the locals relied upon their roadblocks to keep the riff-raff out. Chimney smoke drifting from the farmhouse complex next door was the only real area of concern.

  I marked the site on my map and asked Jules to follow the highway toward Guthrie, Kentucky. The highway was blocked in several spots, but the railroad was only blocked in a wooded area just before it split into two sets of tracks.

  We circled back to my original cluster of bins. I wanted to check on the other roadblocks. The more substantial roadblock on the north side of the grain facility was on a bridge across a no-name creek nearly on the Kentucky state line. I suspected it went up in the early days of the crisis, while people still had gas. From the air, it looked like the McMansion side defended their roadblock, disabling and burning more cars. Eventually, people stopped trying to get through.

  Only a few of the newly built McMansions had smoking chimneys, and none had solar panels.

  Another subdivision must not have made the McMansion cut, because its road was blocked, too. I was surprised the surrounding forest escaped burning. My map suggested that this was one of the routes to I-24 and Clarksville.

  The grain bin cluster that Jules spotted were relatively new and parked on a large concrete slab near several buildings. The layout seemed commercial, rather something associated with only one farm. I marked it on my map. We would check them out, but only because they were so close.

  I was really interested in discovering what the locals did to block TN-237 at or near where it joined I-24. Once I checked it out, we could go home. According to my map, the road was only five miles long and nearly straight as an arrow.

  From the air, we could see the area near the interstate expanded exponentially in recent years with at least two new subdivisions, many with houses half-built. Along with a few McMansions. It also lacked a good place for a roadblock since at least one side of the road had either pasture, a farm field, or lawn. The McMansions chose a reasonable spot to hold the line. It probably worked until people got desperate, crashing their cars through the pasture fence and attempting to bypass the roadblock on the river side. A series of ponds limited the route the trespassers could take without getting mired down. Some drivers failed to notice the soft mud and got stuck to their axles. There were surprisingly few of these.

  The abandoned vehicles with shattered windshields told the tale of snipers who made some trespassers pay. But the main story was the chaotic tracks left by those who turned around, attempting to drive back toward the freeway. With no way to go forward or back, the road became clogged from the freeway to just in front of the roadblock. No one was ever clearing this mess.

  "Head back, there is nothing more to see here," I said, touching Jules on the arm. "Should be easy access. They also have a few grain trucks, we might use. No sign of anyone on site, but not something to count on. We'll move in at night and hold the place for the rest of the team."

  Jules turned north again, intending to loop back over the two complexes.

  "I see another bin complex on my side of the plane," Jules said, just as he began turning south. "I'll loop around so you can see it."

  I scrambled to locate it and mark it on my map. The site was about a mile from the target location, with only a handful of bins. It was on US-79, and there were three sites with bins within a quarter-mile, all on
the Tennessee side of the border. Not much compared to our earlier discoveries, but a potential alternative if our targeted grain bins disappointed.

  "Anything you want to check out on the way back?"

  "South over Nashville, it should only add 15 minutes or so to the flight. We can follow I-40 most of the way home."

  "Will do. I bet everyone who could, escaped south from Nashville. I doubt many made it north across the Cumberland River. I've flown over Nashville before, and much of it is wall-to-wall houses. Memphis, too, although very little of it was visible from the river. Are you sure it's worth the fuel? I'm sure they are in dire straits by now."

  "You are right. Nothing gained by sightseeing. I don’t want to fly over Fort Campbell, either. They might shoot at us. Take us home. I don't want to miss supper."

  Jules wasn't surprised I changed my mind since he never shifted our heading. The view from the air was interesting at first, but the situation was deadly serious. Seeing those roadblocks reminded me that the people claiming this area were willing to kill to defend it.

  And the cities were worse. In 20 years, it might be worthwhile to paw through urban areas for raw materials like copper and steel. But the pain and suffering there now must be nearly beyond imagination.

  Just thinking about it made me angry over the politicians who wasted the chance to prepare. And the for-profit utilities who focused on stockholder dividends and not preparedness. One hardened area of the country, and we might have bootstrapped ourselves up. But, being angry wasted energy and didn't change a damn thing.

  "What can you tell me about Lois?" I asked, switching topics by a mile.

  "What about Lois?" Jules responded. "She is a nurse and a good friend."

  "I don't know; I was curious."

  "You could do a whole lot worse," Jules answered.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I thought the question meant that you were interested in her. Mind you, I think she is too good for you," Jules said.

  "Has she said anything?"

  "About what? We talk most days."

  "About me, you idiot."

  "Why would we talk about you? Mostly we talk about the kids. And how the group is settling in. Whether Jose's leg is any better. How Sean and Jamie are healing. That kind of stuff."

  "So, she hasn't said anything about me?" I asked.

  "No."

  After about five minutes, Jules asked, "Do you want me to?"

  "To what?"

  "Ask about you?" Jules asked.

  "Hell no."

  After another five minutes, Jules asked, "Buddy, is there something you want to tell me?"

  "No."

  "Okay."

  The flight back to the Oneida airport was uneventful. Jules conducted his full post-flight check, while I emptied the barrel into the gas tank. We agreed to keep the plane in the hangar, ready to fly. I added refilling the gas barrels to the next trip's to-do list. I checked in via radio with Justice, and all was routine.

  We chose to return to base before relaying the bad news about the seed adventure. I was inclined to go get the grain first. It looked like a target with fewer issues. We at least knew the grain bins were still intact, and the route was relatively clear. Any trip to Knoxville would be tough, without any assurance of a payout. High risk with unsure reward.

  Jules locked the hangar, and we left on the ninjas, making a quick sortie of the airport grounds. So far, our comings and goings hadn't attracted any obvious attention.

  There was still time before supper. I went straight for the armory and Jules to the horse barn.

  Teams of Rangers and Gammas worked on three big-rig trailers parked in front of the armory. Heads swiveled to follow me as I pulled in to the ninja recharge station. A sharp command from Zeke had them back to work, while he and Grady strolled over to greet me.

  "Well?" Zeke asked.

  "Knoxville looks problematic, but Clarksville is a go. I need to talk with the leadership, but I'm recommending we hit the Clarksville granary in force. There is at least one grain truck at the site to add to the caravan if Joel can get it started."

  "If you want reinforcements from Fort Campbell, we should radio them before we leave," Grady said. "That way, they can help load up the grain and boost our security on the ride back."

  "It's tempting, I'm just feeling wary about adding people I haven't met to the Valley. I also don't want the Army to know where we live. Keeping a low profile may be all that keeps us alive in the long run. Another topic for the leadership group to bat around."

  "Not an easy choice," Grady said. "I don't know how organized they are to triangulate radio transmissions from different posts. If you contact any post, use a directional antenna and broadcast in short bursts, just in case."

  I made a mental note to talk with Sally about her efforts to avoid triangulation or revealing our location. I'm sure she had it covered, but understanding what precautions we were taking was prudent.

  Grady's warning was another stark reminder that the Army I served in no longer existed. While adding trained soldiers for Valley defense was still worthwhile, keeping our location secret might be even more critical for our survival. I didn't know the officers in charge of the various posts. While most officers I served with were honorable, command too often promoted those who placed their own ambitions above the needs of the group.

  The best officers built their teams for the future. They invested in training and stood up for the needs of their men. They left their teams stronger and more capable for the next commander. Not so with bad officers. For them, it was more about their next promotion. Too often, that was at odds with building a stronger team. In my experience, few generals measured good and bad officers the way I did. Enough of a reason to be wary, especially since, based on Grady's intel, all military posts were in dire straits.

  ◆◆◆

  Chapter 11

  The leadership gathered in the back of the food hut after supper. I presented my case, tabling any Knoxville mission, and endorsing the granary raid near Clarksville. The lack of opposition surprised me. Everyone now supported acquiring the grain. They did not support contacting Fort Campbell.

  Roger became the arbiter. "We need the grain a lot more than we need to add a handful of soldiers. It is foolish to risk the grain recovery by combining the two operations. This is not an either-or situation. Let's secure our area's long-term future, and then decide about contacting the US Army."

  I forced myself to relax. Roger was right; securing the grain remained our prime goal. Dealing with Fort Campbell could come later. Blurring the two issues was unnecessary, and I should have figured that out for myself. Especially given the concerns I had expressed to Jules, earlier. Maybe Ellie wasn't the only one needing time with Dr. Kyle.

  "Roger is right. The first priority is to secure the grain. We can deal with anything else, later," I said, nodding to Roger. "We will leave when our transportation is ready. Someone needs to worry about where we can store the grain we recover."

  "We have a few big grain bags," Aaron said. "But I've never used them before, and I picked them up because they were cheap."

  A few knowing chuckles changed the mood completely. My dad was infamous for buying things on the cheap. While we currently benefited from his weakness, it remained an ingrained part of his personality we all recognized.

  "How much do they hold?" someone asked.

  "Around 12,000 bushels," Aaron replied. "We will need to jury rig something to fill them, since I didn't buy the $25,000 loader."

  "We will figure something out by the time you get back," Claire said. "Although we may park some of the trailers in a barn or cover them with tarps until we figure out a better solution. We might salvage a few grain or feed bins from Oneida or Jamestown after you get back."

  "Yeah, no reason to jump through a lot of hoops before we know what we are dealing with. Four semi-trailers full will help a lot, but they won't be impossible to store," Aaron said. "Loading your trucks in Clarksville wi
ll be the bottleneck. Anything you can load in 24 hours; we can probably find storage for."

  This new operation seemed to energize the leadership. Fewer glum faces and a bit more animation. This felt like turning a new page. Still the same old gloomy book, but maybe we were moving into an upbeat chapter. More food bought time. Hopefully, enough time to help with the seed shortage, at least locally. And locally was where my responsibilities lay. Roger reminded me where my allegiance lay. Here in Breckinridge Valley. Put one step in front of the other, rinse, and repeat.

  With the objective set, the teams redoubled their preparations. We allocated three full days to prepare. While the military aspect of the plan was important, the real challenge revolved around loading the grain. Filling the trailers using a five-gallon bucket brigade was our lowest-tech option. It was also manpower intensive and would take forever. Someone calculated it would take at least 2,000 buckets to fill one trailer or 50 trips per person. Doable but not ideal.