Whiskey Black Book Set: The Complete Tyrant Series (Box Set 1) (79 page)

While all the men sat in the room, glaring at the large map that was spread out across the table, Sergeant Hammel came running into the room.

“What is it, Sergeant?” the commandant asked.

“Sir, we have more incoming, very similar to that of Buchanan’s arrival.”

Buchanan stood up with anticipation.

“Are they American?” Buchanan asked.

“They have US flags hoisted from just about every vehicle of the convoy.”

Buchanan looked back at John, who was still looking at Hammel.

“Are they detained?” John asked.

“Yes, sir. They didn’t make it through our perimeter security. One of the men, a Sergeant Banks, said he was with Buchanan.”

Sergeant Banks and every member of the convoy were outside lying facedown in the dirt. Banks knew this was a routine security matter and reassured everybody present to maintain their positions until the security check was over. After several minutes of lying prone, the convoy had been fully vetted and Colonel Buchanan arrived in his HMMWV to personally welcome Sergeant Banks back to the fold.

No sooner than he had stepped out of his vehicle and put his feet on the earth, Buchanan shouted out to Banks, “In the dirt like a real Marine. Welcome back, Sergeant.”

Buchanan bent over and extended his hand to assist Banks back to his feet.

“It’s good to be back, sir.”

The District

Executive Commander Muhaimin reached into his pocket and removed his cell phone. The idea of losing an entire division was a cost he was not willing to share with the UN heads. He had a roundabout way to get more men, if only his idea would work.

“Captain Delwadewala! It’s Executive Commander Abdul Muhaimin.”

“Hello, sir, it’s good to hear from you again.”

“I was wondering if you still had ties with Ambassador Gohari in the UN?”

“Yes, I do. Ambassador Gohari is loyal to our cause in America. What is it you need?”

“I need you to let him know that I am cleaning up the remnants of the patriot resistance, and I need more troops to aid in the cause.”

Chicago, Illinois

Nathan, Denny, Troy and fifteen men belonging to Troy’s three-percenters group were all that remained after Captain Richards and Sergeant Banks left with Tori, Rory and the rest of the posse and Marines to join up with Buchanan in South Dakota. A small handful of the three-percenters left with Banks to assist in the upcoming combat efforts. With such a small group, it was paramount that they maintain a low profile, especially since they were traveling through exceptionally dangerous territory. The Chicago area was at the height of historical crime rates when the Flip went down. There could be any number of bad characters yet residing in the streets of the city.

Troy and Denny were trying to talk sense into Nathan. He had spent the last two days behaving like a focused bloodhound on the trail of an elusive raccoon. His words were small and his sentences were short. He wasn’t grouchy or unpleasant, just focused on the task at hand—finding the Fist and killing him. Tracking him was proving difficult because most of the remaining inhabitants were associating themselves with one of two primary factions—the Syndicate and the Jackals. Neither group was particularly friendly to outsiders.

The Syndicate got its start right after the Flip. They were a local Hispanic gang that survived by pillaging, looting, and killing members of the community at will. The only way not to be a victim of the Syndicate was to pledge allegiance to the gang and thus work for them. This continued until they controlled several city blocks. After the UN moved into the area, they carried on with their business, sometimes conducting under-the-table transfers with the UN soldiers for females. This deal worked for the Syndicate and kept the UN from moving into their area of control and disrupting their business.

The Jackals were quite different. They were a group of Iranian and Syrian refugees with ties to multiple terrorist organizations from before the Flip. The group also consisted of Iranian soldiers who had gone AWOL from UN services and found themselves recruited into the Jackals. Their knowledge of field combat and UN tactics were useful to the Jackals, who wanted to establish a caliphate in America. The UN’s concept of global community disrupted their ideals. Their vision for America lured many Iranian UN fighters to their faction.

The details of these two groups were unknown to Nathan, Denny, Troy, and the others. The little information they had discovered was secondhand knowledge from their victims and the markings and graffiti on the walls, signs, and streets. Nathan still had his wits about him; he was just being irrational by placing personal feelings before duty.

“Boss,” Denny said to grab his attention.

“Yeah?” he responded.

“Don’t you think we’re putting these men in peril by going on with this search?”

“You don’t have to come with me, Denny.”

“You know I won’t leave your side.”

“Then we’re in this together.”

“This guy is bad, boss, real bad. He let us live for a reason.”

“Yeah, to perpetuate a life of torment. Well, I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. When he’s dead and I know that he’s not gloating about how he got away with killing Jess, I’ll get back on mission.”

“Nathan,” Denny said with a sharper tone. He rarely called him by his first name, so when he did, he grabbed his attention. “Think of the bigger picture, bro.”

Nathan was looking into Denny’s eyes with a piercing stare.

Denny changed his tone to a softer melodramatic one. “Think of your sister, Katie.”

Nathan quickly shouldered his rifle and grabbed Denny by the front of his coat with both hands. His fists were balled up, each with a handful of coat as he pulled Denny near. The comment hit another nerve, but at the same time brought a realization of truth to Nathan’s mind.

The victims
, he thought,
are all victims of a larger picture.

With a moment of clarity he realized his friends—Todd, who was killed by a UN soldier; Ash, killed by Cade; Zig, Katie, and Heather, all killed by raiders, and now Jess, killed by a lunatic Iranian—were all part of a much larger painting. The true mission wasn’t hunting down individuals who had taken it upon themselves to victimize others; it was the United Nations trying to usurp authority over America and its citizens. The true mission was with Buchanan.

“Think of Heather,” Denny added.

By then, Nathan’s grip on Denny had loosened, and he let his coat go altogether.

“I’m sorry, Denny. I haven’t been myself.”

“I know, boss. That’s why I choose to stay with you. Somebody’s got to keep an eye on you,” he said with a smirk.

Aaron, one of the three-percenters that was in the group, suddenly took a bullet shot to the head and fell onto the ground. His body immediately began to seize and his eyes rolled to the back of his head.

The shot was heard. The time lapse between the impact and the sound was about four seconds.

“Incoming,” they all yelled, and ducked under cover, opposite the direction where the shot was heard.

Troy was glaring over at Aaron from his covered position behind a flatbed truck.

“How far do you think, Roeh?” he yelled back.

“About thirteen hundred meters by my figures,” he said.

Nathan was concealed behind the passenger side of a car, with his rifle in the ready position. He could clearly see Troy from his position. Denny was right next to Troy by the truck.

“There’s no way to tell where the shot came from,” Nathan said. “There’s a dozen possible buildings.”

Troy kept looking back to Aaron, who was still convulsing. A second head shot went through Aaron’s temple, causing the movement to cease. Aaron was now dead.

“We can’t stay here, guys,” Nathan shouted to the others. “Cover fire’s pointless; we’re going to have to make a break for it.”

“We can’t leave Aaron here like that,” Troy shouted back.

“We have no choice, Troy. We’ll be just as dead if we stay here.”

“He’s right, Troy,” Michael said.

Michael Craft, like Aaron, was an original member of the group. He lacked leadership skills, but made up for it with loyalty. Troy could count on him for whatever he wanted or needed to get done.

When Troy heard his loyal friend confirm Nathan’s assumption that they needed to leave the area, he heeded it.

“Okay. What route we taking? We’re going to have to run for it,” Troy said.

No sooner than Troy had stated the obvious, the sounds of several dozen men’s voices came echoing through the city streets. Each of the men taking cover sat motionless to listen to the growing sound. It sounded like a large mass of men were barreling through the streets, screaming their war cries. The sound of it made the hairs on their necks stand on end. Nathan bolstered enough courage to raise his head high enough to peek through the windows.

“What is it?” Denny asked.

“If I had to take a guess, I’d say the Syndicate.”

UN Headquarters

Beijing, the People’s Republic of China

A Dispute Tribunal was called to order by the United Nations General Assembly, for complaints filed against Ambassador Gohari, representative of Iran. Allegations stated that the ambassador had full knowledge of war crimes on Abdul Muhaimin’s record prior to his appointment to the rank of general. Russian Ambassador Makarovich was deeply troubled at reports coming in from America that Muhaimin had assassinated all the Russian commanders that were assigned to the Agenda 21 protocol in America. The news was so troubling that he immediately began a private investigation, jeopardizing his own career in doing so.

“The deaths of Captains Alexander Zacharov and Erik Babatyev are not only unacceptable, but require that equal justice be served,” Makarovich yelled, slamming his fist on the table at the word
served
.

“This is absurd,” Ambassador Gohari replied. “You have absolutely no proof that I was involved in these killings.”

Makarovich stood. “I have all the proof I need.”

Gohari stood.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, sit down and conduct these affairs as professionals,” President Zonkizizwe said in his African accent. “What proof do you have, Ambassador Makarovich?”

Macharovich slammed a manila folder full of documents down on the table in front of him. “Russian intelligence has uncovered conspiracies from the highest levels of Iran. This man has had knowledge of every action taken by his government, though he may not be directly involved, he has the knowledge, making him culpable.”

President Zonkizizwe reached across the table and grabbed the folder of documents. “You do realize, Ambassador Makarovich, that you are in violation of certain treaties that forbid you from conducting independent research and investigations on representatives and their countries?”

“I understand and accept the outcome, so long as this man is held accountable for the blood of Russian captains—captains murdered in cold blood at Muhaimin’s command.”

President Zonkizizwe took a moment to thumb through the documents. With the folder covering half of his face, Gohari could see the president looking through the documents and then over the folder to make eye contact. This happened several times until he finally closed the file and laid it upon the table.

President Zonkizizwe stood up and walked out of the room. When he returned, he had three UN security guards behind him. “Gentlemen, please detain Mr. Gohari for further questioning.”

The three security guards grabbed Gohari and escorted him out of the room.

“What of the murder of Russia’s captains?” Makarovich asked.

“After your petition, Mr. Makarovich, the General Assembly will be seeing your resignation.”

“Very well, I would ask that the General Assembly recall every Russian soldier that is serving in America.”

“What you are asking is a heavy price.”

“The blood of my countrymen outweigh the request, Mr. President.”

Black Hills Army Depot, South Dakota

General John James walked out of a private office that had aforetime belonged to Colonel Hensworth. He had spent the last several minutes engaged in politics and strategy with Admiral William S. Dixon of NORAD. The other officers were nearby awaiting news of the talk. John had a look that Buchanan would later refer to as a “
look of resolve.”

“Well, John, what’s the verdict?” Buchanan asked.

“NORAD and USNORTHCOM have both pledged their support to the mission.”

“And what of the newly drafted Constitution?”

“Well, I didn’t mention that. The draft can be ratified and amended later. The Constitution as we knew it went through several of these processes.”

McKanty asked the important question that was on everybody’s mind: “When are we leaving?”

“We agreed on three hours. USNORTHCOM’s intelligence confirmed Cox’s men, together with the artillery and 1
^st
Battalion Weapon’s Company, will satisfy the seize on Rock Island Arsenal.”

Cox liked the sound of that bit of information. He was ready for the confrontation, but knowing that they had actionable intel made him feel more at ease.

“That’s good to hear,” he blurted out.

“Are your men ready?” the general asked Cox.

“Yes, sir. We’re ready and highly motivated.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“Just ROEs … do we have any?”

For years
rules of engagement
had been at the forefront of political control over combat efforts in the field. They were directives given to the troops that the enemy often used to their advantage. Directives such as
“US troops shall not enter the homes of known Islamic fighters, even if they know with certainty that they are in it, unless they are being fired upon. If they are being fired upon, they may enter the fighter’s home, unless the fighter has a family in the home”
and
“No US troop shall fire upon a known enemy of war unless they know with one hundred percent certainty that he is armed and his intentions are to attack the US troop(s)”
had weakened the effort to the point of degradation and loss of American lives. In short, ROEs were the bane of every American soldier.

When John heard the question, he was more than happy to answer, “No! Are there any more questions?” he asked, looking around at his officers.

The small foyer area was quiet.

“Then let’s get our kits packed. We deploy in three hours.”

Sergeant Banks, Tori, and Rory were chatting just outside of one of the bunkers when they heard Buchanan’s voice. “We leave in three hours, people. Let’s get our goodies packed away. Each of you needs to be checking the other for battle readiness. If you’re not up to the task, feel free to step out now. This isn’t an enlisted military anymore. Each of you is a freedom fighter and you’re here by choice—make it happen; let’s go, move.”

Tori was perturbed about the idea of heading straight back to the District, bypassing Goose Island and all the promises she had made with Nathan and Denny to see it through. She decided to confront Buchanan regarding the matter.

“Excuse me, sir. My name’s Tori Cunningham. We have a mutual friend, Nathan Roeh.”

“I was wondering about him. Where’s he at, and how’s he doing?”

“Well, that’s why I’m here. When you changed the mission, you jeopardized all our lives. Nathan’s missing, and I don’t know if he’s alive or dead.”

“Now hold on a second, we all agreed to go in two separate groups.”

“True, and you were supposed to wait for us in Chicago, and we were supposed to take on those FEMA-UN command points—together.”

“Situations change, little lady; the decision I made was for the greater good. Now, I’m sorry that Nathan is missing. I’m sure he’s fine. He’s a warrior—”

Tori interrupted him. “I already told you once … my name’s Tori, not
little lady
.”

Tori was squared off with Buchanan. He could clearly tell her attitude was bigger than her body, and he was okay with that.

“Let’s finish this thing we started, Tori,” he said with a smirk as he threw his backpack into an HMMWV.

Chicago, Illinois