Cascadia Fallen: The Complete Trilogy, page 55
“Exactly,” Earl agreed. “We’re stuck in our own paradigms that they’re coming from that road or over the hill.”
“So what’s the answer?” Larry Jacobs asked, somewhat annoyed. “We can’t always have people watching the whole river. This road is almost two miles long!”
“This is why I’ve been lobbying for a foxhole at the dead end of the road,” Earl advised. “Terrain can be taken advantage of, but you never assume it is impenetrable. Once you do, that is where your enemy will enter. Take the hill, for example,” he said, pointing toward the steep slope on the south side of their road. “If you’re starving and the only food is owned by the people in the next valley, would you go to their front gate, or would you cross over that sucker because they aren’t watching it?” He saw a few heads bouncing.
The crew before him was comprised of most of the security volunteers from his road, almost thirty in total. That represented the bulk of the able-bodied older teens and adults. They were on their fourth of five days training with a cadre from Phalanx, whose leaders knew that having a well prepared and allied neighbor could only help them. They were providing the training gratis. The training cadre had already departed for the evening. Conner, Chopper, and Jack maintained the guard station at the head of the road and were not participants.
After the first two days of basic security, movement, and communication principles, Phalanx had started running them through drills. Their goal was to stop the entering team from getting to an objective. Both groups were using small branches spray painted orange as rifles because there were no paintball guns. That was done so that nobody took the enemy as a real threat. Each time, the objective was changed up. This time, Phalanx had to smash a rotting pumpkin next to a road cone that had been staged near a house by Earl. For this drill, he and the invaders were the only people to know where it was—he didn’t want his defenders to camp on the spot and cheat the game.
“That isn’t fair!” Diane Naud complained when she heard the rules of this round.
“War isn’t fair,” Earl countered a bit too bluntly. “Your enemy knows who they’re trying to kill. You don’t. We have no idea which direction they’re headed, or why, until after the battle.”
They would run two more drills on the final day. Earl hoped they could have a win on the fifth game, because then they would get one chance to be the attackers.
“It’s getting dark, and I’m sure we’re all hungry,” Earl said as he went around collecting his small contingent of radios that he’d been lending for the drills. “Don’t be too hard on yourselves. You’re all getting better with each game. Tonight’s homework is to reflect on what you learned. And your push-ups and sit-ups,” he said, grinning ever so slightly. “Don’t forget those.”
With that everyone broke loose. Some of them would be back out to relieve Conner and his team in a few hours. Earl decided to go check on them.
He jumped onto his quad, aware that at some point he would need to go procure some replacement gasoline. A half-mile later he pulled up to the make-shift gate where Chopper was standing. He gave Earl a little wave. Conner and Jack were sitting under an improvised structure that had been built out of branches, paracord, and a tarp. Occasionally one of them would get up and pace the entry control point out of sheer boredom. Earl strode under the tarp structure, un-slung his rifle, and took Chopper’s empty seat. From day one, he decided he wouldn’t go home until the bored guards had been relieved.
“What’d they learn today?” Conner asked.
“The importance of watching the entire perimeter,” Earl said frankly. And I learned that I wish I’d built a trustworthy retreat-group years ago. “They came in over the hill again this morning. Then they floated down the river this afternoon.”
“Sneaky devils,” Jack commented. “Did we even see them?”
“Nope,” Earl replied. “I expect tomorrow they’ll cross the river upstream without drifting down and attack from the east.”
“Here’s to hoping that our team figures that out on their own,” Conner said.
“Yep,” Earl agreed. We can’t be everywhere to do the fighting for them, can we?
After a longer silence, Conner opened up again. “What happens when we need to put together a larger unit? Something like what that town had to do against the biker-horde in the book One Second After? I mean—we both know that eventually the bad guys will morph into something big and hard to fight.”
Good question. “I don’t rightly know. I get the feeling Phalanx may have already networked for something like that.”
“Really?” Jack wondered. The software engineer couldn’t fathom that some people had been preparing for a day in America when the authorities could no longer protect them. It still felt like science-fiction to him. “What about the Army? Wouldn’t they just obliterate a horde?”
Earl just looked at him. It took a few seconds for the urge to treat him like a Private passed. Once it did, he calmly said, “What Army? Most of the guys Conner and I served with are deployed or got covered in mud three weeks ago. I ain’t seen the rest of the Army show up. Have you?” Jack turned his head with a slightly burnt look. “Sorry,” Earl mumbled. “Your question just made me realize that people are still stuck in the fantasy that things will be normal again.”
“You think they won’t?” Jack asked.
“I think ‘normal’ will be redefined,” Earl said. The whole group remained silent in thought after that.
Just an hour or so after dusk had given way to rainy black, Nick Williams tied up to a large, broken tree laying on the shore at Sequim Bay State Park, east of Sequim, Washington. The sleepy town was just a few miles as the crow flies from the Strait of Juan de Fuca, which connected Puget Sound and the Pacific Ocean. It had been a fast six days since he’d nearly been chopped up by a propeller.
When he left Fox Island, he knew his adversary had too big of a lead. He also knew he needed to hit the reset button. A rookie error from being tired had nearly cost him his life. He motored home and ate five chewable melatonin pills to jump-start what was fourteen restless hours of sleep. It was filled with nightmares. His entire being—body, mind, soul—was completely wired to this mission. His failure thus far was haunting him. It took two more days of rest to feel fully ready.
Down into his crawl space he went. He replaced his missing sniper rifle with a Lapua chambered in .338. It would have the range and speed to make up for the notorious winds pushing around the Olympic Mountains, but not weigh as much as the Barrett. This meant needing to carry a separate battle rifle, which turned out to be his HK 416. Most of his magazines were for 5.56, so he stuck with what he knew best. The one thing he learned on the first, failed mission was that his quarry was crafty—nothing would go according to plan. He brought his back-up plate carrier, which was older and heavier. Still beats getting shot.
An experienced sniper knows that his best advantage is being set up where his target will be. Playing catch up sucks. All signs pointed north—Sticky’s tracking the man who killed his brothers. Nick knew his one chance was to get to Sequim, find the doctor’s family home, and set up for the long game. He had also consulted every set of notes he’d ever built on the man that raped and—ultimately, in his mind—killed his sister. He knew there was a chapter of the Risen Dead Motorcycle Club in Bartlett where Sticky could lick his wounds. The biggest gamble in all of this is that Sticky finds the doctor somewhere on the trail to Sequim. Nick couldn’t control every factor—some things were up to the universe.
After his recovery, he stopped in Gig Harbor, but the trail was cold. Needle in a thousand haystacks. That was when he decided to trade a case of ammo for a full tank of fuel. He wanted to travel at night, but even with night vision, the marine hazards were too numerous. It was sheer luck that he hadn’t run straight into a tree during the high-speed chase that night. Nick travelled a moderate speed during the day. He noticed that the few craft out in the open were full of armed people. I wonder how long until piracy comes back? One worry at a time.
As he surveyed the wave-damaged beach, Nick had three immediate concerns. First was making sure his supplies would last. He opted to spend the night moving his stuff into the woods in a particularly hilly and brushy area, covering them with a tarp and bushes. If he lost the boat, he could recover. The mission was a bust, though, without food, ammo, and supplies. Operating without the support of the pencil-pushing Army was quite different.
Secondly, he needed to find the doctor’s family home. It might be as easy as looking in a phone book, but he was doubtful. Once he found the home, his last concern was finding a good roost to watch the front without drawing attention. A different, abandoned house would be ideal. Gonna have to cross that bridge when I get there. All of Nick’s eggs were in this one basket. The intel and analysis were the best they could be—he should track that doctor up here. After hours of unloading and moving supplies, Nick set up his hammock and tarp, settling in for more restless sleep.
25
"The basic tool for the manipulation of reality is the manipulation of words. If you can control the meaning of words, you can control the people who must use the words."
—Phillip K. Dick
Tahoma’s hammer Plus 24 Days.
“What chapter you say you’re with?” Legion asked the two men suspiciously. RDMC was the biggest, baddest motorcycle club in the northwest part of the U.S. There were a few hundred full-patched members plus hundreds more of the prospects and support clubs.
“Eugene,” the taller one said. “But we’re trying to make our way back. We were on a detail in Spokane when this thing hit.” A patch on his “cut” identified him as “Bad JuJu.”
“Ohhh,” Legion said, nodding. He’d never met these two, and he had no way of checking with the Oregon State hierarchy to verify. “Who’s your chapter prez?”
“Pipes,” he said, giving the man’s road name.
“Pipes…Pipes…” Legion was searching his memory for any of the rallies, wondering if he’d ever met Pipes. Sturgis? Laughlin? Our Snake River campout? “What’s his real name?”
“Nelson Pettit,” the shorter one, who went by “Fireball”, replied.
The two men were in the middle of the clubhouse. They had walked in, wet and ill-prepared but otherwise healthy. “Look,” said JuJu, “I know you don’t know us, but it’s all legit.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you boys,” Legion said, smirking. “It’s just that…well…I don’t trust you…boys.” He nodded, and several of his own men grabbed the two and shoved them to the beer-stained throw-rug next to the pool table. “Check ‘em,” he ordered.
The two didn’t go down without a fight. A couple of guys took elbows in the nose before they had them secured. “They got the brand,” Hoosier said. “Looks pretty fresh, though.”
Legion hadn’t expected this. “Really? Check it again. Make sure it’s right!” he emphasized that word because the RDMC branded every member on the back of the neck with the zombie and rising moon symbol. What most people didn’t know, though, was that the moon was off set more on the brand than it was on the patch they wore. That was a tightly held secret to help verify narcs and posers.
“They got the right brand, brother. They’re good.”
“What about ink?” Legion demanded, walking over to scan them for himself. They were covered in plenty of old and fresh ink, some of it prison symbology, but only JuJu had club ink. It looked a couple of years old, at least. “Huh…” You’re getting too paranoid, old man, Legion told himself. “Let ‘em up,” he ordered.
As the two began to pull themselves off the floor, Legion stuck a big arm out and helped yank them up. First Fireball, then JuJu. “No hard feelin’s,” he said, almost more of an order than a question. He gave each of them a welcome hug. “Welcome, brothers. Prospect!” he yelled at the nearest lowlife. “Get them some water and food!”
The two men wore looks of relief. “Thanks, Legion. We get it. Stuffs gettin’ hardcore on the road.”
“So—where’s your bikes?” he asked them
They looked at each other. “Some of the overpasses along 90 just dropped where they stood. There’s pileups all over. It looks like a zombie movie out there. We walked most of the way,” JuJu informed him.
“Right,” Fireball confirmed. “I actually laid mine down when the rear tire caught a big crack and threw me off the high side.” He picked up his shirt to reveal road rash.
“Geez,” Big Mac sympathized. “That explains those bandages. How fast were you goin’?”
“Like…fifteen. You gotta go slow, now. That’s the only reason I ain’t dead!”
Big Mac told him about getting thrown into the ditch. Slowly the two newcomers were being accepted.
Zombie movie…Ironic, Legion chuckled to himself. “You look like trash! Why don’t you two go in back. We got hot water, women, whatever you need…
As the two men disappeared down a rear hallway, he nodded for Big Mac and Sweet T to come over. “I think they’re legit,” he almost whispered. “But keep an eye on them. Remember that Mexican Army that hit Monroe. Anything goes now.”
Little did Legion know that at that moment, the City of Seattle and University of Washington were getting well acquainted with what an organized and motivated cartel could do.
“But they’re white,” Sweet T said. “Chill-ax, old man! They’re patched members.”
Legion reached out behind the man’s shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze-n-shake with his hand. He looked around the room. “It’s a great time to be alive, ain’t it? I’m so glad all of you are here!” He was the leader, and paying those little kudos went a long way. Now…where the hell are Sticky, Trip, and Shorty?
Tahoma’s Hammer Plus 25 Days.
The morning sun was starting to peek through the forest. The lingering, tropical system had finally blown completely east. Josh and his team felt the temperature drop rapidly in the pre-dawn as the lack of clouds allowed the earth’s crust to cool. There was a light fog enveloping everything. About 150 meters east of the club’s eastern border, a small fighting position had been hastily assembled the evening before. When the meeting had broken up, Josh had proposed to Phil that they have a few surprises planned.
The four-person team had been texting the info about the troops on the eastern perimeter for almost four hours. Those little Gotennas are worth their weight in gold, he thought. Phil and Jerry in the Command Post had a decent idea of the number of Guard surrounding their property and where they were hunkered. At about 0530, Josh had heard what sounded like a shotgun come from the highway. He learned via text that the Guard shot down Jerry’s drone.
The brush in this area was very dense. The little trails the hunters had been blazing for the last few weeks were the only place people could walk and maybe not be heard. These guys are rank amateurs, he thought. They haven’t once sent anyone up this trail to see if we’re here. He could hear them talking, and it seemed to be getting a little more intense. He looked at his team, who had been working hard the last few weeks to learn everything they could about infantry basics.
Josh was taking point, due to his experience. He had the father/son team of Theron and Stephan Middenberg, and John Horn as his other teammates. In a small column that couldn’t stagger very well due to the noise it would make, the four men very slowly proceeded west on the small trail, heading towards the range—and the troops in between. Each was decked out in camo clothing and tactical gear. I still can’t believe I’m in a combat situation in Slaughter County. His mind was taking him right back to Iraq.
He called for a stop and they all went from crouch-walking to kneeling. Like he’d trained them, the other three covered a different direction, setting “360-degree security.” They were probably thirty meters from the nearest troops, just around a sharp bend and definitely exposed more than he liked. They seemed like rookies, and he didn’t want to startle them into shooting. It sounds like a couple of them are arguing. He gave the signal for the others to stay put and proceeded to the last tree that would offer him both cover and concealment. He turned up the microphones on his electronic hearing protection, which had a decent chance of letting him eavesdrop.
“…up for this, Sarge!”
“I know, Jacobs, but what choice do we have. We’re under orders!”
“We got the same choice everyone else has been makin’! Just leave!”
“I can’t desert,” a third voice said. “Not after all this time.”
“All’s I know is—I ain’t shootin’ people who haven’t done anything wrong! And what this county’s tryin’ to pull is BS!”
“Maybe,” said the sarge, “but that ain’t up to you or me to decide. We’re grunts. We follow orders. That’s how we get back to our families without bein’ court martialed.”
Josh turned the volume back down a bit and cautiously retreated to his small squad. He gave a hand signal and they slowly made their way back to the prepared fighting position—a set of logs near the top of a small dell that they had made a primitive branch roof over. Everyone had a firing lane that they had spent the evening making with pruning saws. It would be easy for anyone paying attention to see all the fresh cuts. Josh just hoped the little unit between them and the range kept bickering amongst themselves.
“Keep those smoke-cannisters dry but accessible.” He double checked that the small butane torch was staying dry, too. That was the best way to light a bunch of fuses all at once.
Sandy showed up to offer ‘encouragement and support’ about an hour or so into the afternoon.
“You shouldn’t be here,” the sheriff said without even looking up from his map.
“Feckless as usual, I see,” she said nonchalantly. “Why haven’t you boys entered yet, Sheriff?”
“Look, Sandy,” he said. “Despite what we may think about each other, I don’t think either of us wants to see bloodshed. Right?”
