Whiskey Black Book Set: The Complete Tyrant Series (Box Set 1) (74 page)

“What is it, Admiral?” John asked.

“It’s the blue helmets. They’re on their way to our location, and they’re bringing with them four thousand men.”

“Excellent. That simplifies things,” the general said.

“Simplifies things, how?” Belt asked inquisitively. “They’re double our strength.”

“Double our strength? Where did you hear that?”

“They have double our numbers.”

“Oh.” John chuckled. “That’s very different than having double our strength.”

Understanding only partially what John was trying to say, Belt requested that he elaborate.

“Well, my old friend, we’re Marines and they’re not. We’re better at marksmanship; we have better weapons, training, and, most of all, purpose.”

John looked at Belt and saw uncertainty.

“Don’t tucker out on me now, Belt. Those blue helmets are walking to their death.”

“How so?”

“Where are they headed?”

“From Rapid City to Hot Springs.”

John had a large map of the area spread out on a table in the room. Using a China marker, he drew a circle around Rapid City and traced Highway 79 all the way south to Highway 18.

“They’ll have one way to get here from that location, and that’s right down this highway. How far out are they?”

“They didn’t say.”

“Gimme the mic,” he commanded.

Belt handed
Rick
 the radio and put the mic in John’s hand.

“Iron Horse from Whiskey Black. Over.”

“This is Iron Horse. Over,”
the radio returned.

“Iron Horse, do you have an ETA on the bravo hotels?”

“Estimates are in at forty-five mikes. Over.”

“Whiskey Black copies. Over.”

John gave the mic back to
Rick.

“That gives us very little time.”

Hensworth walked in the room as John finished his last sentence.

“What did I miss?” Hensworth asked.

He saw the table and the markings on the map that John had laid out.

“We’ve got visitors about forty-five minutes out, Hensy,” John answered.

“What’s the plan?”

“I was just thinking one out as you walked in.” John turned to look at Hensworth. “Did you keep somebody back from artillery platoon to help call in these locations?”

Hensworth paused.

John realized Hensworth had failed and looked at
Rick 
and said, “Get me Lieutenant Colonel Wright on the horn ASAP.”

Twelve Miles Northwest of the Depot, South Dakota

Lieutenant Colonel Wright was at ease in the passenger seat of his truck when the radio went off.

“Whiskey Black Alpha from Eagle’s nest. Over.”

Wright sat up from his position of relaxation to answer the radio. “This is Whiskey Black Alpha. Over.”

“Whiskey Black Alpha, fire discipline is lacking at Whiskey Black Three. Send one capable fireteam to assist ASAP. Over.”

The general had just commanded Wright to send a team of four Marines that could communicate to the howitzers and direct them with words, phrases, and locations of attack. This was specialized training that most Marines did not possess.

“Whiskey Black Alpha copies. Over.”

Wright turned to his captain and said, “Get some men back to the nest ASAP.”

Barreling down SD Highway 79 were fifty buses, ten armored personnel carriers, ten HMMWVs with crew-served weapon mounts, and ten troop-carrier HMMWVs. The convoy had in its company 3,762 UN soldiers. Their orders were to join the advance party at Hot Springs and set up a command point with the mission of destroying the Marine regiment that was held up at the old abandoned bunker sight. Word of the advance party’s destruction failed to make it back to the two incoming regiments.

Six Miles Northeast of Hot Springs, South Dakota

Lieutenant Colonel Cox had his men removing the bodies of the defeated blue helmets from the roadway. It was going to be hard for him to police the area in such a way to make it appear they had never been there. They had opened fire from an elevated position and sent thousands of rounds through the bodies of the invaders. Some hit, and some didn’t, but all made impact craters on the asphalt road as they tore through their targets. Gear was strewn all over, as the UN soldiers had begun dropping their weight so they could run faster.

Cox’s orders were to destroy the UN unit and then return to Hot Springs and provide security for the Super Stallions. Being an officer, his mind was trained on the attention-to-detail aspect of everything he did. This was a war zone, a battlefield, and the fact that such a tiny thing like policing the area after a massive slaughter mattered to Cox came at a steep price.

John James was happy about the two recent victories against the UN invaders. His mind was on a great many things, including the placement of every unit under his command, their welfare, and little-known allies from the south. The fact that he had established a successful counterattack against the UN attack choppers and properly deployed 3
^rd
Battalion 21
^st
Marines against the 360 UN ground soldiers didn’t cloud his judgment. He had given Cox orders, and now Cox was about to find out that two regiments of UN fighters were overwhelming odds, even against the well-trained Marine Corps battalion. They were scattered across the area of attack, piling up corpses, collecting weapons, ammunition, and gear, when the sound of thunder came rolling in.

Every Marine in 3
^rd
Battalion stopped what they were doing. The sounds of thunder bounced off of the surrounding cliffs and hills. The skies were a hazy late day color, it was December, and the season for storms was still months away.

The Old Steelworks Plant, East Chicago, Indiana

The posse had split up into
fireteam
s, squads, and platoons for the operation. Each fireteam consisted of four people. Three of these fireteams made up a squad, and four squads made up a platoon. Troy maintained leadership over the three-percenters group; Nathan, Denny, Tori, and Jess opted to stay together as a fireteam; and Banks took E-3s, also known as lance corporals, to lead the rest of the fireteams. Each squad had an E-4, or corporal, as its leader.

Captain Richards set the platoons into companies. It wasn’t customary for a captain to command a battalion, but there was nothing ordinary about the new world, nor was there any other option. He had no qualms being untraditional given the current state of affairs. The civilians were also separated and then integrated into units. They had little to no formal training, excluding those who were veterans.

Just about every veteran and active-duty military person that was present grumbled about the civilians’ participation. It caused a heated argument between Sergeant Banks and Troy.

“This is our fight, too, Sergeant,” Troy shouted, pounding his chest. His eyes dilated from the adrenaline surge.

“I’m not saying you can’t come, I’m just saying your mortality rate will be much higher.”

“We’ve seen some fights of our own. Don’t underestimate us.”

“You might want to give them another shot at backing out.”

“Go to—”

Nathan jumped between them and interrupted, “Easy, guys. We’re in this together until the bitter end. If you can’t get it through your head that we’re on the same team, then you need to sit this one out.” Nathan made no eye contact to purposefully make a declaration that he wasn’t speaking to any one person. Nathan knew the task at hand would be an impossibility without the Marines and the Army. He certainly didn’t want to set Banks off. On the other hand, he knew the greater fight was going to be in the hands of the common man. It would be their America when the dust settled.

Captain Richards was in the background, watching the events unfold as he stood near his HMMWV and sorted his gear. All the while he had a watchful eye on his nephew, Nathan.

Nathan took one last look around at the posse. His eyes full of determination, he said, “Let’s do this,” as they stepped off to their individual tasks.

Each group was assigned a separate responsibility. Sergeant Banks coordinated the sniper positioning, Troy’s group was to rattle a few cages and start a firefight with the guard towers to make sure they stepped outside so the snipers could get their shots off. Nathan’s fireteam was to infiltrate the perimeter and get inside. From there they could open the main gate and lower the mechanical barricades.

The walls of the complex were about twelve feet tall and appeared to be poured concrete. The guard towers were built into the structure of the perimeter wall. There was a guard tower on each corner. From the ground, it was impossible to see inside the complex. That was where Captain Richards came in. His job was to maintain a visual over the area from the building top that Rory had previously taken Nathan, Denny, Jess, and Tori to. They were each equipped with short-range walkie-talkies that they had looted from the UN units during one of their previous combat engagements.

Besides this role, Captain Richards was also providing overwatch for Nathan’s fireteam. They had a vantage point from atop the building. Sergeant Banks provided the shooter and the spotter. Those who didn’t have a specific assignment remained in the rear, where their task was to act as backup and respond to calls for reinforcements.

The District

Executive Commander Muhaimin was sitting at a table in the White House, enjoying an evening glass of wine with a young Muslim lady that he had ordered be brought in to him for his own leisure. The authorities working under Muhaimin knew and understood his taste for luxury and women. She was arrayed in a beautiful white lacy fabric and was covered from head to toe. Her eyes were beautiful and mysterious, even without a hint of eyeliner, shadow, or lash extensions. She was not permitted to drink of the wine, but he lavished himself with it in her presence. All the while, his lusts were being emboldened. She showed no interest in him, and to a sadist that was never a good thing.

“Why won’t you speak to me when I compliment your beauty?” he said, angrily throwing down the facial towel he used to wipe his lips.

The lady just looked downward. She modestly flinched when he tossed the towel, but in no other way seemed amused by his performance.

The jaw muscles in Muhaimin’s face tightened then relaxed, just to be tightened again. He was grinding his molars, a telltale sign that he was extremely aggravated. It was usually the last sign one would see before being killed.

The heavy wooden chair prevented him from standing up without the chair being pulled out. That was what his servants were for. He looked over his shoulder at the servant to his right. The servant stepped forward and grabbed the tall corners of the chair and gently began pulling it to the rear. Muhaimin stood up.

“Very well. If you won’t participate willingly, then you will participate unwillingly. Either way, you will do what I say, when I say to do it. You will see, my beauty,” he said as he walked over to her end of the table and stood behind her. His hands were now on her upper arms and working their way toward her face. He ripped the veil off her head, revealing a scarred face. His intentions were to shame her by revealing her face to the men in the room; he succeeded, and then some.

Her face was scarred in at least two locations as if she had been cut with a knife. His plan was to forcefully take her, but he was shocked. Not by the scars, but the fact that they were fresh and his servants had dared to bring him a subpar female specimen.

He turned around and looked at the servant closest to him, which was now the one that had not been there to assist him in standing up. The servant was scared and shook his head
no
. Muhaimin responded by walking over to a small lamp stand and pulling the drawer open. Inside the drawer was a knife and a small pocket-sized pistol.

“Is this what you think to bring me?” Muhaimin shouted at the man and pointed to the lady.

“Executive Commander—”

Muhaimin slapped the man in the face, interrupting his explanation. “I don’t want or need to hear your excuses. If this is what you feel your executive commander deserves, then you deserve worse because your commander is better than you. You are a servant and nothing more.”

Muhaimin handed him the knife. “Now make yourself look like her.”

The servant hesitated.

Muhaimin slapped him with the pistol. “I said make yourself look like her.”

Muhaimin’s anger was now more pronounced.

The servant looked at the woman, who was hiding her face out of shame.
Firstly,
she was forbidden by her religion to show her face to anybody that wasn’t her husband, and
secondly
, she was scarred and considered unclean.

The servant walked over to the woman and asked her to lean her head back.

Muhaimin interrupted. “Is that how you would speak to a horse? No,” he answered himself. His questioning was rhetorical to prove a point to his servant. “You command it,” Muhaimin continued.

The servant grabbed the woman by the back of her hair with his left hand and pulled her head backwards, revealing her face.

The young lady whimpered.

“Now cut yourself,” Muhaimin commanded.

The man ran the blade deep into the flesh of his face, tracing a cut that matched the woman’s. His blood was running down his cheeks and onto the floor. The other servant saw the blood spill and ran to clean it up, but Muhaimin stopped him.

“This is not your mess. He will clean up after himself.”

The second servant back away.

When the first servant was done cutting himself, he spoke to the executive commander.

“What would the executive commander have me do with his soiled knife?”

Muhaimin thought for a moment.

“Give it to your associate.”

The servant handed the knife to his associate, and Muhaimin commanded him to go home for the day.

The servant walked out of the door. Muhaimin turned toward the second man and said, “Go finish it.”

The servant, with knife in hand, left the room. The executive commander turned towards the woman. His thirst for blood had been abated, for the moment.

“Now what shall I do with you?”

The woman was scared and hiding her face from the sadist.

He turned towards the large picture window and walked over to it. Peeking out through the divide in the large heavy curtains, he said, “I suppose what I need you for does not require words.” He began unbuttoning his dress shirt. The lady began to panic to the point that she was hyperventilating. Muhaimin walked over to her and pulled her up out of the dining room chair and pushed her with great force down onto a soft leisure chair.

The chamber door pushed open suddenly, and there stood an agent of the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence. He was winded and pretended that he did not see the executive commander in his awkward position.

“What is it?” Muhaimin asked.

“Executive Commander, the advance party you sent to Region Seven has not been heard from and they cannot be reached.”

“And what of the preliminary attack on the Marine regiment?”

“It’s as if they have vanished, Executive Commander.”

“Have you heard from NORAD?”

“No, Executive Commander. They have not reported their victory over the regiment.”

“What about the two regiments I sent?”

“They are advancing as scheduled, Executive Commander.”

“Good, warn them that the Marines know we are coming and that the advance party has failed in their objective.”

“Yes, Executive Commander.”

The man pulled the door shut, and Muhaimin turned around to face the woman. He walked over to the table and grabbed her veil. Once he had turned back to face her, he threw it at her face.

“In the name of Allah, cover yourself.”

Hot Springs, South Dakota

Lieutenant Colonel Cox had spent the last several minutes cleaning up his area of operation when he and his men were stopped in their tracks at the sound of thunder, or what they believe sounded like thunder. The thunder sounds were actually the roaring engines of several tons of UN troop-carrying firepower. Cox was caught off guard as the sound of thunder switched from a natural occurrence to a man-made event.

The highly mobile multipurpose wheeled vehicles rolled around the bend in the road and made their debut as being officially the largest UN convoy seen since the initial days of the Flip. In the front of the convoy appeared to be mounted heavy weapons systems and armored personnel carriers. Cox had little to no time to deliberate a strategy.

“Back into the hills, now,” he commanded as loudly as he could.

Still lying in the crevice of the rock face and beneath the body of the fallen UN soldier, Ryan Lee heard the shout and all the commotion that ensued following his command. He saw this as his opportunity to evacuate his hiding place.

When he arose from his obscure location, he fell in behind several others that were running for the hills. As he ran, he passed several Marines. His thin light frame allowed him to move a little quicker up the hill. One Marine saw his uniform and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, but it was too late. Rounds were zipping downrange from the heavy guns of the UN convoy. He immediately let go of Ryan and took cover. His body took two high-caliber shots that left him immobile. He screamed, “Corpsman,” but was cut short by a round to the head.

Ryan, who was also taking cover, saw several of the Marines take similar impacts from what appeared to be .50-caliber rounds. The holes the rounds made in the Marines’ bodies were enormous. Ryan saw the head shot of the Marine who had grabbed him. It stunned Ryan because of the hollow sound the round had made upon entry. The exit wound reminded him of the sharpshooter videos he used to watch, where the watermelons would explode in slow motion. That was the general description of what he was seeing on a large scale. The bullets were shredding through small trees and still making their mark.

Ryan regained his composure and kept running up the hill with what he hoped would be his new unit. They were Marines, but surely they could use his knowledge and experience with the UN to their advantage. At least that was the thought predominantly running through his head, besides surviving the slaughter.

The sounds of fighter jets were distinctly heard in the skies above. NORAD’s fighter jets had arrived and were about to engage the convoy when one of them was suddenly destroyed. A missile from an incoming enemy jet hit its mark. The friendly jet exploded into flames and fell to the earth. Looking up, Cox could see there was a battle in the skies for air superiority. Dozens of fighter jets maneuvered through the skies. The battle ensued as Cox took his attention from the skies to the convoy below.

The convoy was now perfectly situated on the road in front of the hillside that gave cover to the retreating Marines. Their attack on the hillside was relentless. They kept firing until their barrels became too hot to shoot any further. When the cease fire was called, TOW missiles from an unknown location came raining down on the armored personnel carriers and the mounted crew-served weapon systems that were previously tearing up the hillside.

When the TOWs blew up their APCs, the UN forces repositioned themselves and situated tighter to the hillside, away from the line of sight of the hilltops. They again opened fire on Cox’s men. Anybody that straggled was shot and killed. The Marines would occasionally stop and return fire, but this seemed to only give away their location.

Cox continued to yell, “Fall back, Marines,” as he lingered to make sure every last straggler was accounted for. He knew he had lost men, but didn’t know the exact number. His support was minimal, and his radioman was missing. Identifying one of his captains, he stopped him to ask, “Captain, I need you to call Eagle’s Nest ASAP and get us some support.”