Whiskey Black Book Set: The Complete Tyrant Series (Box Set 1) (67 page)

“The commandant of the Marine Corps is like the equivalent of the Army Chief of Staff. He’s a member of the Joint Chiefs of the United States. This is big news.”

“How so?”

“It tells me that the Joint Chiefs are no longer commissioned as presidential advisors. It’s likely they stepped down or were fired. It provides hope for a strong unified front. We just need the opportunity to form the front.”

The convoy was moving west when Rory saw the Illinois state limits sign. It wasn’t until they found themselves in South Holland that they ran into roadblocks and street signs directing them to the nearest Human Handling Center. Many of the street signs said MARTIAL LAW IS NOW IN EFFECT, and other signs directed RFID-chipped citizens to report to loading docks. Most of the street signs led them to makeshift train stations that were erected alongside the train tracks.

The convoy seemed to be ignoring the warning signs and continued on the street that was labeled UN VEHICLES ONLY.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Captain. Don’t you think we should delineate off this road and onto another road that’s not so heavily labeled UN?”

“Relax, Rory. Most of the streets we’ve seen labeled UN have been abandoned.”

No sooner than Captain Richards had said that, a rocket struck the first vehicle in the convoy. Rory was gripped with panic as he ducked his head and took cover.

Captain Richards picked up the mic on his radio and commanded the convoy to mow through.

The second vehicle in the convoy became the lead vehicle, and blasted through the wreckage just like they had done in Gary, Indiana.

“What’s going on?” Rory asked in a panic.

“Seems you were right, preacher. If we make it out of this alive, I’m going to field promote you to chaplain.”

“If we get out of this alive?”

“Yeah, we’re being chased by UN APCs now.”

“What’s an APC?”

“Armored personnel carrier. They’re bad news. Like mini tanks. Those bad boys are fitted with .50-caliber guns. We need to take up an offensive position or we’ll get eaten up.”

Richards held the mic up to his mouth again and said, “Take an offensive position up there behind those buildings. I want my Javelins to nail them when they break the threshold. We can’t mess this up, boys. Make it work.”

The convoy split up into two teams when they reached the end of the road and took cover on the opposite side of the buildings. A few men jumped out and placed Javelins on their shoulders. Javelins were fire-and-forget-type rockets that were launched from the shoulders of military personnel.

When the APCs broke the threshold of the buildings, they opened fire on the HMMWVs with their .50-caliber guns.

The Army soldiers also attacked using their Javelins. The rockets launched into the air, taking a skyward trajectory, until they came down onto their intended targets and impacted onto the APCs, blowing them to bits. The men cheered, but the celebration was short lived.

Many of the men slowed their cheers and took the time to look around, seeing they had lost at least seven more brothers to a UN attack. The loss of Americans always seemed to strengthen their resolve. Captain Richards felt like calling his men into formation, but the place was a battle zone and enemy UN personnel could be anywhere, perhaps even reinforcements.

Richards felt that some things just couldn’t be put into words. His notion to speak to his men was piled into the back of his mind with so many other things that needed to be done and said. The words would come later, but for now, all he could say was, “Collect the fallen, then mount up. We’re still on mission, gents.”

Rory had never had a rocket shot into a convoy he was riding in. The experience was surreal, to say the least. Words escaped him as he aided the soldiers in the collection of their fallen brothers, his fallen brothers, the men of vision for a liberty that they would never experience again.

Rory felt the same strengthening resolve to see this through unto whatever end may come.
Their deaths must never be in vain,
he thought.

Black Hills Army Depot, South Dakota

Sergeant Rick
Hammel
, communications specialist, came running into the bunker where James was having his meeting with the brave and committed officers of the newly reactivated 21
^st
Marine Corps Regiment.

“Gentlemen, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have something to say of urgent importance.”

Hammel was breathing heavily, as if he had just completed a two-mile run, and it may very well have taken that much endurance to run with the radio equipment he now had on his back.

“Go ahead, Sergeant, speak,” the commandant commanded.

“I’ve managed to pick up a frequency that FEMA and the UN ground forces share to relay information back and forth. They’re headed this way with an extremely sizeable force, and their intentions are not to take prisoners.”

“They must have followed you here,” Hensworth said.

“They didn’t follow,” Hammel said. “They had some kind of tracking system called Main Core.”

James locked eyes with Buchanan. “This is exactly what I was talking to you about. We’ve all been rigged with GPS implants and everything FEMA wants to know about us can be found in these devices. The Main Core program is the culmination of the old Red Tape Program. They must have E-Tech that allows them to trace our location.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Buchanan replied. “Let’s hit the dirt.”

“There’s a town not ten miles from here. We can meet them with some old-school urban guerilla combat,” Hensworth suggested.

“What’s their location, Sergeant?” James asked.

“Their location was not established over the radio, but their rally point is Independence, Iowa.”

“Independence, Iowa?” Wright said with a half smirk.

“It’s like they’re using our patriotism as a weapon against us,” Barnes said.

“Do we have a time stamp on Independence, or are we going to have to guess it?” James asked, trying to keep the questions together and on the same track.

“There was no mention of any time frame whatsoever, sir. We’re flying blind as far as time stamps go.”

“Stay with us, Sergeant. I want you here if anything else comes over that frequency. Hensworth, I want the air support tucked away in that town you mentioned. Refresh my memory, what do we have in way of artillery?”

“Thirty howitzers.”

“I’m expecting these dirtbags to play hardball. They’re not operating under the Geneva Convention standard of warfare and neither are we. They’re going to come at us hard and they’re going to break all the rules. Buchanan, I’m making you a full bird, effective immediately. Each of you will command a battalion. Buchanan, exactly what did you bring?”

“Weapons 2/24, a company of Engineers, a company of Recons, and some hard corps militia.”

“Can you run seven companies?”

“I’ll storm the gates of hell with seven companies.”

“That’s what I like to hear. I’m giving you 3/25 India, Kilo, Lima, and Weapons. That’s two weapons companies under your command and the support they need to lay down some hurt.”

James looked across the table at the other colonels and said, “That leaves a battalion of Marines with armor and air support for each of you. Let’s make this a dirty war, gentlemen. Buchanan, you’re authorized to shoot ground troops with .50 cals and whatever heavy guns you feel like shooting at them. Do you understand?”

“Roger that, sir. We’re no longer fluffing pillows or riding the rainbow train.”

Buchanan had picked up on the fact that the commandant was back in military mode, no longer calling him by his first name. He was more comfortable in fight mode than he was otherwise. For a moment, Buchanan gave thought to his old friends from Gorham. So much had happened since then. He took a second to hope that Nathan and the rest of the Posse was safe and found themselves still on mission. Buchanan had told Nathan that he would rally with them in Chicago, but a more pressing matter needed his attention. It was the game-changing moment when he had received a transmission from John James.

Independence, Iowa, 17:56 Hours

Independence was on full lockdown and cleared of all civilian population, by orders of Executive Commander Abdul Muhaimin. Every road was blockaded and had UN checkpoints coming into and leaving the city. It was almost 18:00 hours in Iowa when the last of the reallocated UN ground forces came rolling through the checkpoints.

Captain Rashoutan Siroosi, of the Advanced Weapons Systems Company, had arrived a little behind schedule, causing Captain Alexander Zacharov to confront him regarding the topic of insolence.

“Captain Siroosi, how is it you came to command an advanced weapons company when you can’t even make it to a rally point on time?”

“Relax, Russian, the executive commander will be here soon. As long as we arrive before he does, there’s no worry.”

Zacharov knew that being called Russian was intended to be derogatory. The Russians had always had a high sense of pride and certainly did not like being ridiculed because of it. Siroosi held his peace and commanded his unit to post itself and to look presentable for the executive commander.

Within the next hour, Muhaimin was looking out of the window of the helicopter and down onto the two regiments of ground forces that were moving into formation. He felt strong seeing a regiment of UN strength at his disposal, and was fully confident that two regiments of his men could defeat, humiliate, and dishearten the resistance. He needed this moment to be an example of his strength over the Americans so that no nation would dare resist his authority. Not only did he want the world to know he was capable of great feats, but also that he was not to be trifled with. He understood that should he lose, it would be the beginning of the end for his ambitions. This is why, not only was he matching his strength against the size of the Marine Corps Regiment in South Dakota, but he was doubling it to insure certain victory and to immortalize himself in the annals of history with the likes of Napoleon Bonaparte, Attila the Hun, Genghis Khan, and Sun Tzu.

Colonel Artan Mota and Colonel Vala Baghnalia were standing at the front of the two-regiment formation. Mota was commander over all units assigned to Fema Region VII, while Baghnalia was the commander over all units assigned to FEMA Region V.

Muhaimin landed and was met by both commanders. He was happy to see the two Iranian commanders he had appointed over his Midwest regions.

In his native Persian language, he said, “I’ve had about all I can take from the Russian pigs. After we finish this little task, we’re going to purge them from command ranks. I don’t want any direct contact with any of them.”

“Yes, sir,” they replied.

Looking out upon the formation, he could see Russian captains standing at command point in front of the companies.

“Colonel Baghnalia.”

“Yes, Executive Commander?”

“I need a good spot to hold a meeting.”

“I think that school building would be an excellent spot, sir.”

“So do I.”

“Colonel Mota.”

“Yes, Executive Commander.”

“Hold an emergency meeting, at 19:00 hours, with all the officers and command their presence.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mota began to walk away.

“And, Colonel,” Muhaimin said, stopping Mota in his tracks. “Make sure nobody misses the meeting.”

“Yes, Executive Commander.”

Just a few minutes before 19:00 hours, the Russian and Iranian commanders over companies of the Midwestern FEMA Regions came walking into the school building. The men were directed to check their weapons in at the door and then they were walked to the gymnasium, where they sat on the bleachers in a tight formation.

Colonels Mota and Baghnalia entered the gym and stood in front of the group. A squad of Iranian riflemen came in after them and secured the doors, then marched over behind the colonels and stood in a row with their rifles at port arms.

“Gentlemen, the executive commander commands that you pledge your allegiance to him as the supreme power of the land and the fist of Allah. If you are willing to make this pledge, stand and repeat after me.”

Many stood out of fear, but of those who didn’t were two Russian captains. Alexander Zacharov and Erik Babatyev of the Russian UN assignments to the US.

Mota gave the command and the squad of riflemen ran to the front and took the two Russians out of formation and placed them on their knees in front of the bleachers.

“Are there any other Russians who do not wish to swear their allegiance to the fist of Allah?”

The room was quiet.

“We do not have time, in these days, to worry about our allegiances. If you are not with the executive commander, then you are against him.”

Mota looked at the riflemen and nodded. The men executed the two Russian captains and their blood flowed from their lifeless bodies towards the bleachers and eventually ran underneath them.

Those who remained recited their allegiance and affirmed commitment to the cause of their executive commander. They were free to leave and rejoin the executive commander in the classroom he had selected. After all the officers had taken their seats, Muhaimin began his speech.

“Tomorrow will be the dawn of a new era. The patriot resistance seems to be gathering enough leadership to reform its military. A regiment-sized unit of Marines has been gathering in South Dakota, where they are making plans to retake these lands. Your job is to insure their annihilation and to suck the life out of their patriot cause. I want their ambitions of freedom and liberty to die with them. I want the news of their demise to reach the borders of every rural area and every city where hope can still be found. There’s no need for hope, just like there’s no use to run or fight. This is my will; see it through.”

Muhaimin turned and walked out.

Champaign, Illinois, 100 miles south of Chicago

Sergeant Banks was leading the convoy north on I-57. The group had made it to the northern parts of Champaign without incident, until the driver of one of the HMMWVs happened to look into one of his side mirrors and saw a stream of cars and trucks pulling out onto the I-57 north exit.