Текст книги "The Western Front"

Автор книги: Archer Garrett

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

***

Nearly twenty of the ERC 90s managed to escape Olympic Park while the Gammon systems were being destroyed by the aircraft.  The park was engulfed by explosions as they pulled onto Constitucíon; they had barely escaped the carnage.

The six-wheeled vehicles fled south down Pedro Cárdenas Gutiérrez towards San Fernando.  The four-lane highway took the fleeing soldiers and sicarios through the dirty southern slums.  The loud explosions from the north had roused the sleepy locals.  They struggled outside into the morning light and stared in bewilderment at the black smoke billowing from the downtown district and surrounding areas.  They watched as the ERC 90s roared past them, forcing frightened vehicles out of the way and onto the muddy shoulders.

The armored vehicles raced across the bridge at the southern border of the city.  The banks of the drainage ditch below them were already lined with families bathing and washing their clothes in the dirty water.  The intermittent infrastructure was becoming even less reliable than before.  The unsanitary conditions in the slums and the rest of the city were leading to an even higher rate of sickness and death, especially among children.

As the lead vehicles barreled towards them, Barrett and Holt readied their teams on opposite sides of the highway.  The soldiers hid behind two concrete buildings and anxiously waited for their quarry.

“Steady; steady,” Barrett whispered into the radio, “Just a few more seconds… Dragon Teams One and Two get ready…  Go!”

Four anti-tank missiles exploded out of their launcher tubes and raced towards their quarry.  The launch caused one of the men to flinch hard, sending one of the rockets curving upward in a wide arc.

The lead vehicle was hit low, near the front left tire.  As the rocket exploded, the ERC 90 flipped forward and slid across the pavement upside down.  The screeching sound of steel on asphalt was like fingernails on a chalkboard.  A deep gash in the pavement followed the tank wherever it slid.

The second vehicle was sandwiched by two simultaneous rockets fired from opposite sides of the highway.  The top half of the ERC 90 was launched nearly thirty yards skyward and landed hard on the flat roof of a nearby residence.  The building collapsed inward from the force of the impact and sent a great plume of dust into the air.

“Dragon Teams Three and Four – wait!  Hold your fire!”

The remaining armored vehicles were doing something wholly unexpected.  As they swerved to the shoulders to avoid the wreckage ahead, they were sliding, some sideways, to a complete stop.  The top hatches were all popping open and the men inside were climbing out with their arms in the air – first one, then two and finally all of the men.  They were unarmed and terrified, their weapons left in the vehicles.  As they climbed out, they laid prostrate on the pavement.

Barrett shouted to the men as he stepped out into the road, “ Estás rodeado, todo el mundo al suelo! Ponga sus manos en el suelo delante de ti! Si alguien se mueve, vamos a disparar!”

The men complied with the orders and continued to lay motionless in the dirty road.

Holt radioed to Barrett, “What are we going to do with all of them?”

“I don’t know.  We can’t take them; we certainly don’t have the resources to deal with them in Mansfield.  Besides, we barely have enough people to drive all these vehicles, much less tend to prisoners; there must be close to seventy of them.  Let’s get them lined up and I’ll address them.”

The teams stepped out from behind their cover and corralled the prisoners, while Barrett paced along the line and addressed them, “Usted es libre de ir, seguir caminando hacia el sur y no volver aquí. No luchar de nuevo, la próxima vez no será tan indulgente. Ahora Go!”

The soldados and sicarios nodded graciously and marched past the teams in a single file line to the south, too afraid to look back.  They knew that they would have shot the guardsmen dead as they lay on the ground, if the roles had been reversed.  As the grateful men left, the soldiers under Barrett’s command inspected their newly-acquired rides.

“Well boys, if you didn’t consider yourself a guerilla before, you can’t deny it now.”  Barrett turned and said to Holt, “Can your men grab the Strykers?”

“We’re on it.”

“Good, let’s double time it.  I don’t know if anyone else might be coming our way and I sure don’t want to give these babies up.”

Barrett keyed up his radio before climbing into his vehicle and said, “Dragon Warrior here, do you copy Cochise?”

“Affirmative; go ahead DW.”

“We’ve commandeered seventeen ERC 90s.  We’ll be following the Strykers out on the designated route.  Do not frat us Cochise.

“Copy that, DW; thanks for the heads up. I guess congratulations are in order.  If you can’t get your own tanks, then just steal the other guys; is that how it works now?”

“I’ll take anything I can get at this point, Cochise.”

“Roger that.  You better get moving, DW; we’re a few minutes out and closing fast.  See you round the campfire tonight.”

“Affirmative, stay safe.”

***

The rhythmic Whoof, Whoof, Whoof of the helos echoed off of the rooftops as the four, Apache Longbows crossed the Rio Grande from Brownsville into Matamoros.  Thanks to the successful strikes by Lobo and Guano earlier that morning, the four gunships’ mission was a walk in the park.  If Governor Baker had not sent the F-5s to eliminate the Mexican jets, the choppers would have been in for a very tough day.  Cochise grinned at the thought of the well-executed plan as he led his team of Longbows flew over downtown Matamoros.

Cochise, the commander of the air-strike team, had taken his call sign from the nantan warrior of the same name.  Cochise lead the Chokonen band of Chiricahua Apaches in the latter years of the 19th century.  The Apache chief and his warriors battled both the Mexican and American governments’ intrusions into their lands in the Sonoran region of Mexico, southern Arizona and New Mexico.  They mastered the art of the guerilla during their struggle against annihilation.  The Mexican government often resorted to using American and Native American mercenaries against the Chiricahua, paying a bounty for each scalp they collected, regardless if it was man, woman or child.

The modern day commander was of Lipan Apache lineage, from the Devil’s Backbone region in the central Texas Hill Country.  The ruthless displays of violence by the Zetas and Gulf cartels against the people along the border reminded him of the stories he had heard from his grandfather.  The acts of beheading, flaying and even scalping were becoming far too common these days for him.  His contempt for the cartels and those that supported them was great.  He loathed the depravity that they peddled, and he had seen what it had done to his own family.

“Alright cowboys, I want a quick flyover of the park to make sure everything was destroyed.  Not a single tank is leaving this place on my watch.”

“Roger that, Chief.”

The Longbow was the most advanced of the Apache gunships.  The main contrast between it and other variants was the large dome that was visible above the chopper’s four-blade rotor.  The dome housed sophisticated radar that allowed the Longbow to detect and engage targets while it was hidden behind cover, such as trees or buildings.  It also contained equipment that would allow multiple gunships to automatically engage a target that had been detected by a single Longbow.  Each chopper was also capable of controlling multiple UAVs from the air, affording them the ability to literally make dynamic, on the fly adjustments to the drones’ mission over the battlefield.

As they flew over the Olympic Park, they engaged several vehicles that had somehow managed to escape the earlier bombardment unscathed.  The ERC 90s were no match for the Hellfire missiles launched from the choppers.

“Excellent work.  Now, let’s do some real damage.”

They continued over the sprawling city and encircled the aging, coal plant that supplied the city’s power grid.  They targeted the towering, rusted structure that housed the plant’s turbines and generators with the same deadly Hellfires.  As the plant collapsed in on itself, the Longbows rolled away from the immense heat of the blast and regrouped, before continuing on with their mission.  A spectacular ball of flames and thick black smoke rolled and churned skyward as the choppers disappeared to the south.

Their final target, the airport, was all but abandoned after the earlier loss of the F-5s.  Apparently the staff had assumed that more trouble might be on its way, and they were right.  The choppers flattened the towers, hangars and terminals with the missiles and then strafed the runway with the remainder of their arsenal.  The nearly forty Hydra rockets fired from each Longbow peppered the solitary runway, rendering it completely unusable.

“Alright boys, we’re all out of firecrackers; let’s get these birds back to the nest.  I don’t think our friends will be calling Matamoros home any time soon, and if I’m guessing correctly, we’ll be able to say the same thing about Reynosa in a couple days.  But until then, thank you fine pale-faces for a splendid day on the town.”

Ch apter 28

William

Washington, D.C.

He smashed his first cigarette of the day in the ashtray on the nightstand beside him and sat up in bed with a smile.  Over the past several days, he could not quit smiling even if he tried; everything was going perfectly.  He finally climbed out of bed and made his way to the tiny kitchen.

Houston had still been largely a success.  Although one of the nuclear devices had been discovered and disabled, the second had been detonated precisely as planned.  News had been slow to develop on the attack, perhaps because it had been so devastating.  Hopefully there would finally be some updates.

William started the pot of coffee and sauntered across the room to a heap of wrinkled clothes that he had been robbing from over the past week.  He had been so busy stoking the destruction of the republic, there was scarcely time for the more mundane tasks.  He retrieved a pair of faded jeans and shook the wrinkles out of them before pulling them on.  He dug through the pile of clothing for a moment before finally locating his favorite brownshirt.  He stumbled back into the kitchen while he pulled it over his head.  William poured a tall cup of hot coffee and grabbed his coat and pistol, before trotting out the door.

He had viewed the city through new lenses over last few days.  Perhaps it was because he was seeing the fruits of his labor.  He had heard people begin to openly question the republic’s ability to protect its citizens.  Despite speculation on who had committed the terror strikes, no arrests had been made.  He was sowing the seeds of discord and polarization. People were now beginning to blame the other.  The other was a powerful motivator to action; whether it was left wing or right wing, minorities or majorities, the one percent or the ninety nine, people were now beginning to turn on their neighbors.  He was clearing the way for hate.  Soon, the poison would destroy the fabric of society, so that it could be rebuilt in a new fashion.  So far, it was working quite well.

He gazed around the half-empty city as he made his way to Tonic.  He admired the tall office buildings, the beautiful and historic churches, the old but majestic residences and complimentary architecture of George Washington University.  He had a newfound appreciation for D.C. that he had previously denied himself.  He chuckled at the thought.

H e was content.

He stepped into Tonic and made his way through the empty establishment to his nook in the corner.  The bar was warm and inviting, a welcome reprieve from the cold air outside.  He ordered a bloody tonic and a plate of hummus and sprawled across the leather couch.  The heat from the hearth felt good on his face.  He shrugged out of his jacket and relaxed as he waited for his refreshments.

After the bartender delivered his order, he gave her a hundred dollar tip.  One hundred dollars was not nearly what it was six months ago, but it was still better than what most patrons left.  He balanced the plate of hummus and pita bread on his stomach as he kicked off his boots.

As he enjoyed his breakfast, he surveyed his surroundings.  The rustic establishment was completely empty except for him.  He grabbed the remote and flipped through the stations until he found a 24-hour news channel.  He turned up the volume and listened to the marionettes’ clueless commentary about Houston.

“Sources in the Pentagon believe the attack was committed by radical, leftist revolutionaries.  Because the last several months have resulted in a mass exodus from urban areas, an accurate death toll is difficult to establish.  Nevertheless, experts believe it may be as high as 150,000, with nearly as many injured as well.”

“That’s horrific, Rachel; have the authorities been able to determine the location of the blast?”

“Authorities believe the device was detonated from the top floor of an eight-story parking garage.  The location was likely selected for the maximum distribution of destruction.  If the blast had occurred from ground level, more energy would have been absorbed at ground zero, but areas farther out in the blast zone would have fared much better.  Let’s go to our expert, Dr. Kahr, nuclear engineering professor from the University of California at Berkley.”

“Thank you Rachel, and you are exactly right; the only way the blast would've been more deadly is if it would have been detonated over the city, for instance if it was launched with a missile.  As it was detonated, I would speculate that majority of the damages and injuries would have occurred within a three mile radius.”

“Tell us about the blast, Dr. Kahr; what happened immediately after the explosion?”

“In the moments immediately after, the expansion of gases would’ve caused a blast wave to form. The face of the blast wave would have behaved like a wall of highly compressed air.  This wall could’ve traveled as fast as 800 mph.”

“What would this wall of air do to a building?”

“To put it in simple terms, Rachel, when the wall collides with a structure, it would be like if you stomped on an empty cardboard box, except that, instead of it being your foot, it would be a blast wave that would rapidly exert pressure on and around the entire structure.

Depending on the building, it may not be crushed. If it is a reinforced box, like an office building, the force might not be strong enough to crush it.  If the windows and doors are either open, or quickly break out, then the pressures on the outside wall may have less effect, because of high pressures rushing into the building, filling it with a balancing force.

One difference between a conventional explosion and a nuclear explosion is the amount of energy that is released in the form of heat.  A conventional explosion may reach temperatures of only a few thousand degrees, whereas a nuclear explosion may reach tens of millions of degrees.  This is important to note because of secondary fires that will occur from the extreme heat.  Also, a majority of the injuries will be in the form of burns.  As I tell my students, the symbol of a nuclear event should not be a mushroom cloud, but a devastating firestorm.”

“That is both fascinating and disheartening doctor. So, tell us about the nuclear fallout, where will the wind take it from Houston?”

“Relatively speaking Rachel, we are fortunate.  Definitely coastal Louisiana, possibly coastal Mississippi and Alabama and some portion of the Florida panhandle.  Once it crosses Florida, depending on the winds, it may go up the eastern coast, but hopefully the prevailing winds will disperse it across the Atlantic.  I say we are fortunate because if this had happened somewhere in the Midwest like Cheyenne, Topeka, or even Des Moines, the fallout would’ve been devastating to some very densely-populated areas.”

William changed the channel to see what was being said on the other stations; next time, he thought, next time we won’t be so fortunate, Dr. Kahr.  He finished his bloody tonic and ordered another, along with a cup of coffee.  He scanned the channels for a while, listening to numerous pundits, experts and anonymous government sources weigh in on the attack.  He swelled with pride; once again he was the talk of the town, though no one knew it but him.  As the morning turned into day, he transitioned from bloody tonics to Guinness drafts.

She filtered into Tonic along with some of the late-lunch crowd.  She saw him in the corner, so she ordered a drink and then walked over to his tiny, rustic province.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Galleani.  How are you?”  She smiled as she sat down on the couch opposite of him.

“I have to say, I’m feeling pretty good.”

“How long’ve you been here?”

“I don’t know; several hours, maybe.”

“Would you mind some company for a while?  I can’t stay long.”

“Not at all.  Say, are you hungry?  I was just about to order something.”

“You must be a mind reader; I’m famished.”

William smiled at her and motioned for the waitress.  They ordered Thai chicken satay and char Sui chicken pizza, and he instructed her to keep the drinks coming.

As the waitress left, the woman leaned across the coffee table and whispered, “I see you took my advice after all.”

“What advice?”

“Don’t be coy with me, William Galleani; you know exactly what I mean.”

“I suppose I did.  Isn’t it such a beautiful disaster?”

“Only if it moves the pieces on the board closer to where we want them.  Otherwise, I think it’s dreadful.”

“Maybe so, but it’s just a bunch of hick cowboys anyway.  It’s not like they’re going to be on our side.  So in that respect, sooner or later we’d’ve had to deal with them.”

“That’s a good point.”

The waitress returned with their food and drinks and the conversation drifted into a lull while they ate.  The food was extraordinary, and they relished it.

“So,” she said, “what’s next?”

“Well, I guess I have to wait until I hear from my new friend again before I plan my next move.”

“Mr. Arayo?”

“Yeah, I don’t have any way to contact him, and I imagine that’s how he’s going to play the game.  Until then, I guess it’s more of the same; I visit a few cities and try to wreak as much havoc as possible. Keep the fires burning, so to speak.”

“When he does contact you, what then?”

“Something in Los Angeles, probably. I absolutely hate the west coast.  I don’t know if it will be nuclear though; they’ll be on the lookout for that.  Maybe biological, I haven’t decided on the specifics yet.”

She laughed scornfully, “So you’re next target will be because you have a particular antipathy for a geographical region?  Isn’t that elementary?  This is supposed to be business, not petty personal distastes.”

He scowled at her and retorted, “Hey, I’m the one sticking my neck out. I’ll decide what’s petty and what isn’t.”

“William, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Right; excuse me for a minute.”

She watched him as he stumbled towards the restroom and disappeared around the corner.  She waited for several seconds before retrieving the tiny vial from her purse.  She emptied its contents into his drink and quietly slipped out of the bar.  When he finally reemerged, she was gone.  Good, he thought to himself, glad you got the point.  He sat back down on the couch and reached for his glass of Guinness.

***

“William, wake up.  Wake up.  We’re closing; you’ve got to go home, dear.”

He finally opened his eyes and stared up at the blur that he assumed was the bartender.  His head was pounding and the room was spinning.

“What?”

“It’s closing time; you’ve got to go, sweetie.  Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I think; would you mind helping me up?”

He stumbled and nearly fell as she helped him to his feet.  The spinning only got worse as he stood and looked around.  His head was pounding so hard he could scarcely think.

“Are you sure you’re alright?  Do you need me to call you a cab?”

No, I’ll be alright; I just need to get home and sleep it off.  It’s only a few blocks.

“You must be having an off night, babe.  You haven’t had anything to drink in hours. I didn’t even realize you were still here until I started cleaning up the place.”

William groaned and rubbed his head as he slowly made his way to the door.  He did not want to talk anymore; it only hurt his head to speak.  He just wanted to go home.  The bartender helped him to the door and watched him stumble off into the night.

He had barely staggered a block east down G Street before the city began to spin too violently for him to stand.  William dropped to his knees and tried to wrest himself from the sickening feeling.  He crawled to the steps of The United Church and grasped the railing to steady himself.  He could feel himself getting sick as his mouth began to salivate.  He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths to help ward it off.

He heard a faint whistle, like a bird, somewhere in the distant darkness.  He tried to ignore the sound and focus on his breathing, but it only grew louder.  He suddenly felt a strong sense of a presence near him.  The deep, bass tone of the man’s voice startled him.

“Well hello, little hummingbird.  F eeling sick?”

As William cautiously cracked his eyelids to peer up at the man, darkness suddenly enshrouded him. He was jerked off the steps and carried over someone’s back to a vehicle not far away.  The air was expelled from his lungs as he landed hard in the floor of the van.  He curled into a ball and struggled to breathe, but his lungs refused him.  He could hear several men laughing as the engine roared and the tires squealed on the pavement beneath him.

The sickness overwhelmed him and he retched in the hood that was still over his head. He was too terrified to remove it, much less utter a word. Instead, he rolled around in the back of the van.  The smell only made him feel sicker, but there was nothing left in his stomach to purge.

The vehicle turned so often, he had no idea which direction they were taking him.  He felt a sharp prick in his arm and tried to recoil, but a firm hand held him in place.  The muffled voices in the vehicle grew distant and his eyes became heavier by the moment.  William finally relented to the drug’s effects.