Cascadia Fallen: The Complete Trilogy, page 1
Cascadia Fallen
The Complete Trilogy
Austin Chambers
Crossed Cannons Publishing LLC
Copyright © Austin Chambers, 2019-2021
All rights reserved.
No part of these books may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for brief quotations in a book review. Please don’t participate in the piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of any author’s rights.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue, and opinions expressed are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. This work is intended for entertainment only. The author and any persons or organizations associated with this work assume no responsibility or liability for the use or improper use of information contained herein.
COVER – Fusion Creative Works, Poulsbo, WA
Published by Crossed Cannons Publishing, LLC
P.O. Box 334
Seabeck, WA 98380-0334
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Contents
Tahoma’s Hammer
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Order Divested
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Spiritus Americae
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
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About the Author
Prologue
“Fear is a Reaction. Courage is a Decision.” – Sir Winston Churchill
The middle-aged man was adjusting the radio on the older model truck, a white Ram from the days when they were still made by Dodge. He and the morning country station DJs played a game every day. He hoped they would play country music, but they would fill the airwaves with synthesized pop music. They would also pass time with silly games and lovelorn phone-calls which always drove him to the AM stations. The fifty-two-year-old was in the middle of tuning in his favorite political talk show when he heard the siren.
He was waiting in the first spot at a red light at the east end of a major overpass. Three different flows of traffic shared the three-hundred-foot-long bridge, one direction at a time. The eastbound and westbound flows of local Highway 808 stopped at their respective ends when the southbound traffic from State Highway 5 needed to transition to that road. He was waiting patiently for his turn to go west across the bridge to the highway’s southbound on-ramp. He turned the volume knob down and rolled down his driver’s window. Coming off the highway, maybe? he thought. He scanned his windows and mirrors but couldn’t see anything. The flow of traffic from the west was just starting its turn, half headed for the north-bound on-ramp and half headed east. More drivers that think they’re more important than ambulances, he thought cynically.
Definitely from the north, he surmised as the noise grew in intensity. Suddenly an older white passenger van flew into view on the other end of the overpass as it exited the off-ramp from the north. It was trying and failing to make a desperate, much too fast left turn. The old van slid sideways, plowing its right side into an Acura and shoving that car into a Chevy pick-up. Oooohhh, CRAP!
Much earlier in life the man had spent twelve years in the Marines before a severe back injury had forced him out. He had plenty of trauma-care training. He was unbuckled and reaching for the handle when a white Washington State Patrol SUV came sliding into view, stopping about 170 feet in front of his truck. He saw the trooper get out and draw his pistol. He could hear orders being barked as the trooper exited the protection of his car door to approach the van.
The man finished getting out of his truck, drawing his pistol from its holster on his right hip. As fate would have it, he happened to be the manager and lead instructor at the largest gun-club on Washington State’s Slaughter Peninsula. He was always armed, usually with a concealed 9mm Glock 19. He kept his position behind his truck door as he scanned the action ahead of him. He knew to stay put and let the cops do their job lest he be perceived as a threat. He could hear more sirens in the distance. His objective in that moment was to protect his fellow drivers if things went sideways.
He watched in horror as the tinted glass from the van’s rear driver side window exploded in noise. KA-KROWWW! The trooper dropped where he stood, ambushed by an unseen enemy. The man observing had been a firearms instructor for most of his life and a former Marine since he was thirty. Like many people who train in the martial arts, he’d made the decision to fight not at that moment but years earlier. He was a sheepdog, and sheepdogs were wired to protect the flock—or the other sheepdogs.
Without thought, he left the safety of his truck door and started sprinting up the warm asphalt toward the action. He could see the trooper on all four limbs, trying to turn and drag himself toward his cruiser but unable to stand. A driver exited the grungy van wearing a tactical vest and balaclava-style hood. He went to the vehicle’s front to look at damage, too focused on figuring out the escape plan to notice the bystander running toward him.
The man saw another tactically-clad scumbag come out from around the van holding an AK-47. Then two more. The last two had rifles slung onto their backs and were dragging very large duffle bags. The man’s mind couldn’t comprehend this as a real event. He felt like he was watching a movie. He saw the lead rifleman start to raise his AK at the retreating trooper’s back from a distance of four feet.
The former Marine hit the brakes. At twenty-five yards, he couldn’t afford to miss. He had shot practical-shooting competitions for over twenty-five years. He’d probably nailed this shot 5,000 times, but none of those shots seemed to matter anymore. He tightened his grip while leveling the sites to his eyes. Prepping the trigger to the Glock’s well-known “breaking-point,” he focused on the front site and squeezed, letting the shot surprise him as it exploded. POP! Scumbag One’s head spewed blood from the near side as the 115-grain hollow-point bullet penetrated his right ear. POP! Just under one quarter of a second later the second round hit him in the right side of the pectoral area. It was too late. KA-KROWWW! Scumbag One just managed to get a shot off directly into the top of the trooper’s back, above the protective plate in his vest. The trooper went limp.
The man started his combat glide, speed walking in a heel-toe-heel-toe fashion towards the van driver, trying to keep his muzzle from bouncing. Scumbag Two had frozen for a moment and was drawing his own pistol while trying to dive around the front of the van. POP-POP! The man kne
By this time Scumbags Three and Four had dropped their bags and were splitting up. Three took cover behind the trooper’s engine block while Four raced for the cars piled-up west of the scene. POP-POP-POP! The Sheepdog threw three quick shots into the spot where the SUV’s hood and fender met, not really expecting to hit Three but hoping to keep his head down. He kept his gun in his right hand as he reached the trooper. He’s a big boy, the would-be hero realized. He wanted to drag him but knew instantly the trooper was too heavy. He flipped the trooper over and sat him up. There was blood squirting from the two pair of entry and exit wounds in his torso. Somewhere deep in his mind, the former Marine knew it was too late for the patrolman. Gotta keep moving!
He squatted behind the trooper, wrapping his left arm around the man’s torso and standing as best as he could. He looked right just as Three was sticking his head over the cruiser’s fender. The man scrambled backwards and—POP!—squeezed off a rapid shot toward his right that missed left of Three. KA-KA-KA-KA-KROW! He kept driving his legs backwards as AK rounds started to fly past him. Dang it! He was trying his best to force himself to breathe as the reality that he was about to die in the next minute set in. His body was so fused with adrenaline that automatic breath control had abandoned him much earlier.
He made it past the open car door unscathed. He set the trooper down behind the rear wheel. He squatted there and pulled his one spare mag out of its holder on his left hip. He performed a quick reload and slammed the partial magazine into his coat pocket. He kept scanning throughout the process, something that teaching for many years had allowed him to perfect.
Staying crouched, he decided to go around the rear of the car. Three had started to come around his side of the rear at the same moment. POP! POP! He threw two quick shots into his adversary’s skull when it appeared behind a rifle barrel. He didn’t even look at the mess as he got to it and knelt. Damn it! he screamed in his head as the stress mounted.
Four was actively trying to get into cars about twenty yards away, as screaming people panicked. Some drivers had the presence of mind to try backing up, but the unfortunate consequence was a further mess of smashed vehicles as other drivers were frozen in fear. The sirens were louder—he could tell from light reflections that the cavalry would be there in just a few moments. Fearing Four would shoot the lady who was refusing to open her door, he made the mistake of running out from behind his cover.
Four had been scanning towards the Sheepdog every two seconds and caught the movement of him trying to advance. Four caught the man out in the open and opened fire as he turned in that direction. The former Marine raised his pistol, firing back. He felt the heat of the sun as a 7.62 millimeter round shattered his left leg about seven inches below the kneecap. He went down to his other knee, screaming in intense pain as he did. Four had been emboldened by this and had proceeded to make the same mistake. He came out to finish off the Sheepdog, who lined up his sites. POP! POP! POP! POP! He performed a “stitch-pattern,” hitting the scumbag in the center of his torso with the first shot. The next three shots each hit about two inches higher than the previous. Scumbag Four dropped his rifle and clutched at his chest. Blood loss caused him to pass out and fall forward a few seconds later.
He looked left to reacquire Two but couldn’t see him. He must still be behind the van. The pain fought its way past the adrenaline, and suddenly it was the foremost thought in his mind. He looked down and was surprised by just how much blood there was. Wow. He was also surprised at his own nonchalant reaction. Dude must’ve gotten me right in the artery… Shock took over. Still sitting up on the unwounded knee, he rolled backwards and landed on his butt. Lightheadedness started to creep in. He set the Glock on the ground as instinct told him to put both hands on the gushing wound. Just need to lay down…
From the lying position, the world around him started to get surreal. A shadowy figure loomed over him. His eyes were losing focus. He could hear screaming, sirens, and commotion all over the place. The noise seemed like it was being played through a body of water. Death? No. A deputy. Hey, I know you!
Slaughter County Deputy Charlie Reeves was kneeling next to his friend, Phillip Edward Walker. Several other deputies and troopers had arrived as well, and they were continuing to clear the scene.
“Hang in there, Phil!” Charlie grabbed his personal tourniquet from his gun belt and applied just below Phil’s left knee, trying to keep the life in his friend.
“Cha-Charlie?” Phil asked as hypovolemic shock was setting in. “I… I guess I shoulda ducked, huh?” he asked, passing out.
1
Wake Up!
The day that the world changed forever started like any normal, drizzly October day in the Pacific Northwest. Phil Walker, fifty-five, had just finished taking a water jug delivery at the West Sound Sportsmen’s Club, the gun club he managed. It was a Tuesday and typically gray. People who weren’t from the “Pacific North-Wet” thought it rained all the time. While it did rain heavily—and usually slammed everyone for a month or so once or twice per year—it was normally just an annoying drizzle. That’s how the day started, which was a welcome break from getting an inch per day like they had for the prior week. The cloud cover normally did a good job of keeping the temperature in the mid-forties to mid-fifties—cold for people from the south but fairly warm for anyone else.
Phil had made the usual small talk with Tony, the delivery driver, who was swapping out the normal six jugs. Tony made deliveries every other Tuesday, usually arriving around nine in the morning. The gun range was his first stop on the day’s route. Its location in the western part of Slaughter County made it an ideal starting point, allowing Tony to continue north and east into the central county from his starting point in Bartlett.
Phil liked Tony. Like himself, the big, jovial delivery driver was a veteran, though a Navy one, which the former Marine tried not to hold against him. Tony was always good for a joke and a smile. While Phil was not much of a comedian, his twelve years in the Corps had taught him the value of having comedians around. Morale was always better—as long as you could keep them working—and they were always smarter than they let on.
The ginger-haired manager had just sat down at his desk. Dakota, his Australian cattle-dog, was snoozing behind the counter after her morning run chasing Canadian geese off the rifle range. He was starting to review the roster for the class he was teaching the coming weekend, “Rifle Tactics II.” He planned to double check the Range Officer schedule after that. Knowing weekday mornings were slow and he had a good vantage of incoming people, he was just about to drop his pants and pull off his prosthetic leg and pad to let his skin breathe for a bit.
