Nuclear Spring

by Td Barnes

  “I see campfire smoke at the Reserve also,” another said, referring to the Las Vegas Springs Reserve, a bubbling spring used as a source of water for Native Americans about 5,000 years ago, and responsible for the founding of Las Vegas by Mormons and travelers of the Old Spanish Trail. It was a major tourist attraction when the EMP hit.

  “I wonder who they are. How did they survive?” All binoculars focused on the plumes of smoke and then scanned the city seeking other signs of life.

  “I don’t think we want to know how they survive today,” the squad leader said. “They have settled in where there is water. I wonder how they survived the winter,” referring to the four years of nuclear winter storms of fallout, so dense that it blocked the sun and moon during the first two years.

  “What do you think, Sarge?” One asked the squad leader in a manner that asked, “What do you want to do?”

  The sergeant focused his scan on Nellis AFB spreading in the Las Vegas area to their left.

  “Our orders are clear. This is not a rescue mission. We are to find some trucks that run and go shopping for civilian clothing to camouflage our being military. We will take Range Road to Las Vegas Boulevard, and enter Nellis at Gate 2. This way, we avoid much of the road blockage. We will hit the motor pool to locate four trucks and then the BX. If we have room afterward, we will hit Walmart on Nellis Boulevard and perhaps Sheplers at Sam’s Town. We must stay clear of the Strip and Downtown. Abandoned vehicles most likely have Lamb Avenue, and Craig Road blocked with, so we will use the roads on base where feasible. Stay on your toes, men, and keep an eye out for zombies.” He said the latter to lighten up the depressed mood of his squad—and, because he feared desperate survivors spotting them, which could place the squad and even those at the mountain in harm's way.

  ####

  Bradley joined Callahan while they watched the vehicles fade out of the light escaping from the tunnel and into the darkness. Neither said anything for a moment. “Callahan, I recall when we did not have infrared night vision. We traveled using only the vehicle’s blackout lighting.”

  Callahan smirked, “Yep, good old cat eyes. We did that a few times in Iraq. It was quite an experience.”

  He continued speaking as he studied the city in the valley below them.

  “The driver of a vehicle located in the middle of the convoy driving at night under blackout conditions to rely on the B/O lights on the vehicle in front and behind. Some joker always failed to maintain speed. This never failed to screw up the convoy by it spreading the distance from the other vehicles, which became a domino effect of accelerating and braking. If you could see all four red triangles of the stoplight in front of you, you were following too. If all four red triangles merged into one red light, you were too far back. Heaven was when you saw each of the pairs of red lights merged.”

  “It’s difficult staying behind while sending your men into harm’s way, isn’t it Major?”

  “Now starts the hard part, Colonel,” Callahan said. “It is always difficult sending your men into the unknown.”

  It was evident from the dreamlike tone of both officers that indicated each was missing the days when they would have led a mission such as this one. “Yes, it is. You always wonder if you missed something while preparing them for something like this.”

  “Sergeant Stratton is a good leader; Major You have prepared your people well.”

  “Thank you, sir. We did not have these variables to contend with while cocooned inside the mountain. We might not have known with everything going on in the rest of the world, but you made us all feel secure.” Callahan looked outside the open portal door. “I feel naked out there in the world. I feel danger. Speaking of risk, we are standing here in the open with the lights of the tunnel signaling any bad guys where are.”

  He no more than said this when two soldiers rushed over to close the door to the portal on their own.

  “I agree about feeling naked on the outside. I felt the same at Groom Lake. The mountain reminds me of a foxhole. This early morning business reminds me of when I served as a line officer arriving early to make sure of my men are fed, their making it to sick call, training classes, or whatever.”

  Callahan laughed. “I know. Even with good platoon leaders, first sergeant, and noncoms, I think just about any good commander carries that load. I believe they call that leadership.”

  “On that note, Major how about you leading the way to a good cup of Joe. It’s too late to grab a few more z’s.”

  They hopped on the handcar and headed through the tunnel towards the central mess hall. Seeing Callahan and Bradley walking into his mess hall area at this early hour, the young second lieutenant assigned as this week’s mess hall officer rushed to greet them.

  “A bit green, isn’t he, Major?” Bradley said more as a fact than a question.

  The young man had joined the military and completed OCS while inside the mountain. “Do you think we were like that when we first joined?” Callahan whispered back. “We don’t arrive together and this early. He thinks he has fouled up.”

  The young lieutenant stopped at the proper interval and saluted. “May I help you, sirs?” His voice sounded nervous, and he looked scared or intimidated in the presence of the two officers.

  Both returned his salute. “As you were, lieutenant,” Bradley said. “We need some coffee if you have some brewed.”

  “It will be ready in just a moment, sir.” The young officer was so nervous that they feared he would wet his pants.

  Callahan raised an eyebrow towards Bradley in humor. “Fine, Lieutenant. We will be at the commander’s table.”

  “Lane,” Bradley said after they took their seats. Using Callahan’s first name to indicate his message being friendly advice, he said. “If we switch to civilian attire, you will retain the esprit de corps and not let our people lose their military edge. Keep up the cross training and ensure the civilians maintain their military skills and readiness. Make them understand that the civilian clothes are camouflage and not a change of lifestyle. I suggest you conduct drills on a regular basis.”

  “Most of my regular military has served in war zones where they collaborated with the locals. The soldiers will not forget their role. However, I fear the civilians will require constant reminders that we are still in harm's way.”

  “I apologize. You didn’t need me to remind you of your job.”

  “Don’t apologize, sir. It is a great comfort to me knowing that we are on the same page on this. I’ll just say that I am glad not to be in your shoes. If anyone can acquire intelligence on the identities of our adversaries and their intentions, you are the one to do it. I wouldn’t have a clue on what to do.”

  “Is restricting the women from combat positions, cutting you short?”

  “No, sir. We have enough men to protect the perimeter. The sensors that we brought from Groom Lake are making my job much easier. With them, we can disperse our weapons, so our people will appear unarmed. We are conducting daily drills on deployment and have the timing down pat. I am doing the same with the civilians. Everyone knows what to do if we come under attack.”

  “Here comes our coffee.”

  ####

  The recon made quicker time by entering Nellis AFB and going the back way through the road leading to the RSL, Remote Sensing Laboratory. They found the rear security guard shack unattended and the door open from when looters ransacked it. The abandonment of the base became evident by the empty flight line other than a few planes grounded for the need of repair.

  Everywhere they looked, they saw evidence of the base’s evacuation and subsequent looting, doors hanging open on every hangar and building, broken windows, whatever it took to gain entry. Any landscape vegetation that existed on the base was now dead, and even the desert landscaping somehow looked neglected.

  It never dawned upon on any of them of someone taking any running vehicles, military, the moment the military branches abandoned or stopped guarding them. The motor pool lay v
acant except for three disabled vehicles in a state of repair.

  “Sarge,” the staff sergeant in the second JLTV called after dismounting to examine an Air Force uniform lying outside one of the maintenance buildings. Breached skeletal bones of the owner of the uniform lay scattered around the vicinity from animals most likely eating the body.

  Stratton’s driver drove the JLTV to where the staff sergeant stood where Stratton could look at the remains without dismounting. He looked at their surrounds and said, “Sergeant, we’re in Injun country. I think we better check out the area before going further.” The control tower across the runways caught his eye. “I’m going to look from the tower. You and your men can cover our six.”

  “You’ve got it, Sarge.”

  At the control tower, Stratton dismounted along with his driver and the two in the back seat. With their weapons at ready, they waited until the occupants of the second JLTV assumed watch positions a few hundred yards from the control tower. “Careful, men,” he cautioned as they entered the tower. Lacking electricity to run the elevators, they started working their way up the stairs to the top. The driver stayed to guard the entrance.

  Someone even ransacked the control tower, though one could only imagine what it contained that could have interested anyone surviving the EMP. Stratton scanned the base with his binoculars. Seeing nothing of interest, he broadened his scan to outside the base, stopping to view the main gate to the base better and then outward up Craig Road.

  “There,” he thought, seeing an anomaly to the empty city and streets jammed with stalled vehicles. His subconsciousness recognition changed to the realization of the stalled vehicles shoved aside along Craig Road to provide a travel lane. Slowing scanning the street in detail, he noticed the rear of a military vehicle sitting inside the open door of a large warehouse. He stared long and hard for signs of life.

  “I think we’ve located our trucks,” he announced to the other two men also scanning the city. They turned their focus to the warehouse as well.

  Stratton felt satisfied that no one was occupying the base and decided that his squad should locate the needed items for transport before acquiring any trucks. They loaded into their vehicles and drove the few blocks from the control tower to the Base Exchange, where they hoped to find what they came for.

  They drove past the commissary but did not stop. The open door smashed windows, said it all. Years before, looters took whatever the commissary offered. Two blocks from the commissary, they entered the parking lot of the BX. The huge parking lot lay empty of vehicles. The absence of vehicles attributed to the closure of the facility, its auxiliary annexes, and support services when the EMP struck.

  Inside the huge building, everything appeared as expected. The barber shop, concession booths, even the optical business, showed the ransacking of every drawer, cabinet door, or counter. The huge food court appeared even worse with anything editable long gone. Advancing with weapons ready to fire, the recon team entered the merchandise area where again, no sign of anything editable remained. Other than signs of disturbance, the clothing items sought by this mission appeared intact.

  “Men, this will do for a start,” Stratton said. “Let’s secure two trucks. We will load one here and leave it while we fill the other. There is a Walmart aways up Nellis Boulevard. We can load the second truck there and pick up the first one on the way out.”

  “I like it how you assume we can acquire vehicles,” one of the men smirked. They all knew that the sergeant’s word, acquiring, made it sound like taking the trucks would be easy. He shouldered his weapon and headed for his JLTV. “Let’s go acquire those trucks that Sergeant Stratton has requisitioned.” He stressed the words acquire and requisitioned. They all laughed nervously, realizing that they could be engaging in combat within the next few minutes. The sergeant mounted into his vehicle and leaned out the window to check the loading of the others. The sergeants in the other JLTV gave him the finger, which he returned before leading them off base to the warehouse.

  ####

  While Bradley was at the Defense Intelligence Agency, the need to command and the desire to use his creative intelligence skills always conflicted. Escaping the burden of leadership responsibilities to play engineer always provided him his most enjoyable moments. He could not let go of the feeling that he needed to be on the recon mission, commanding Major Callahan’s troops, checking on this and checking on that.

  The Sergeant Major no longer accompanied him as friend and advisor, now performing those functions for Colonel Barlow instead. At the mountain, he was nothing but the grandpa. Not ‘a’—but ‘the’ grandpa of every damn brat in the tribe.

  His grandpa thoughts came from his remembering the children playing around him at the mountain and calling him grandpa.

  “Dammit, why am I grandpa to every brat hatched in this joint?” He thought. He recalled Stacey once reminding him of his being the only one old enough here to be a grandpa. She referred to him and her as a modern-day Adam and Eve. The age bit was not true, but she made it sound as if it was. This has been almost true since, with a few exceptions. He screened those evacuated from Beatty to the mountain after the EMP, accepting very few over childbearing age. A few older VIPs existed among the survivors, most of them either not married or not having children. Being 49-years old made Bradley near the most elderly among the survivors. “Can’t the mothers think of another name for their brat than Tom, Thomas, Thompson, or Tommie?”

  His thoughts drifted back to the real reason for his shitty attitude. His men were in the field, and he was not with them.

  ####

  North Las Vegas

  “On your toes, men,” Stratton cautioned his men after stopping them at the exit to the BX parking lot and walking back to each vehicle. “Mann the guns,” he said to remind the turret gunners. Satisfied with the gunners being in the position of protecting the patrol, Stratton climbed back into the right-hand passenger seat and ordered the driver to move out.

  Other than open doors, the rest of the base infrastructure appeared intact. Several stalled privately owned vehicles sat in the parking lot of the now abandoned Warfare Center for the entire United States Air Force. They passed the Club and then the guard station of the main gate where the street became Craig Road.

  Even sparse traffic at the time of the EMP, stalled cars, and CAT buses blocked much of the streets. Stratton halted his vehicle a block from the warehouse and studied it with his binoculars. He motioned the others to dismount. They did so with their weapons at ready as they spread out and took cover from a vantage point to surveil their surroundings.

  “All clear, Sarge,” one of them called.

  Stratton motioned for his driver to board and for the others to follow on foot using the JLTV as cover. They approached the warehouse where the personnel entrance open door swung with the light breeze. The soft crunching sounds of the JLTV tires on the concrete provided the only sound. Somewhere in the distance, they could hear something metallic banging into something from the breeze.

  “Sarge,” one of the men whispered. “Have you noticed there are no dogs or animals of any kind?”

  “I imagine they have either been eaten or have escaped to the wilds along Vegas Wash. There is nothing here for an animal to eat or drink.”

  The soldier on point flashed the rest a halt signal. He did not take a defensive position, meaning he had seen something of interest rather than a threat. He turned and motioned the squad to go to their right. He moved in that direction as well, stopping at the open door of a nearby warehouse. He motioned the others to approach.

  “What’s up?” Sergeant Stratton asked as he approached.

  “Look, Sarge.” He did not have to point. Inside the warehouse were stacks of bodies— bones, skulls, and remnants of clothing.

  “Holy shit!” One of the soldiers exclaimed. It is a body dumping ground. There are hundreds in there.”

  “Look, Sarge. They shot a lot of them in the head. Judging by the clothing, I�
��d say most were female.”

  Stratton shook his head in disgust. Judging by the clothing, most were most likely teenagers or very young women.

  “Some bad shit has happened here. Let’s do what we came for and get the hell out of here.”

  As they trained for and done in various war zones, the recon squad worked its way into the warehouse with the trucks where they found more bodies—the remains of Sergeant Taylor’s army.

  In the early months after the EMP, Sergeant Taylor, an enormous black man, standing over six feet tall and weighing near 250 pounds formed an army comprised of young, scared military airmen released by Nellis AFB. He ruled by force and fear, rewarding his men with young girls captured during raids for food and booty.

  Taylor had proven himself a wise strategist who, despite his PTSD, Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, elevated his base of operations from the streets of North Las Vegas to this abandoned warehouse on Craig Boulevard north of Nellis Air Force Base. He headquartered his growing army here while hoarding food, weapons, functional vehicles, and fuel for his invasion of the mountain at Jackass Flats.

  Sergeant Taylor deployed a recon to the mountain where the residents of the mountain witnessed the deadly effects of radiation outside as the recon squad suffered and died while attempting an entrance. Sergeant Taylor then deployed his army against the mountain where the army, led by MSGT Hathcock held the mountain under siege for a week before themselves dying after ingesting radioactive water found in a BLM wildlife guzzler.

  “Well, we don’t have to worry about this bastard anymore,” said one of the soldiers while shuffling some human bones around with his foot. Everywhere they looked the remains of Sergeant Taylor’s army lay where they fell during what was a shootout. In almost all cases, the warrior’s weapon lay with his bones and clothing. The number of corpses still wearing military issue boots spoke of the number of former military Air Force and Army personnel that joined Sergeant Taylor’s army to survive. The attire identified some of the corpses being female.