Fall Out

[The Stig]

Fallout


COPYRIGHT – no reproduction without my express consent

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It was hot. Beastly hot. One of those days when the air feels like a thick wool blanket and sweat forms before one leaves the shower. Moisture clings to every surface and the heat radiates upwards in wavy lines.

In other words, it was a summer day in the south.

The attractive young brunette parked her car outside the City Hall building and began the arduous journey to her desk. Much had changed in the past half year. At one time she parked near the entrance of Shelton’s City hall, walked in the main doors and quickly arrived at her desk outside the sheriffs main office. It wasn’t that way anymore.

It seemed like a lifetime since Sheriff John Ketch roamed the hallways of City hall. Since his disappearance, two different military contracting firms had tried to take over control of the town. Both of these firms had failed spectacularly despite the wishes of Senator Donovan.

Senator Miles Donovan, a wily politician had seized control of three southern states shortly after civil war had broken out in the north. While that battle raged he craftily consolidated his power to a total of six states. From Florida in the east to Arkansas and Louisiana in the west Donovan’s power was complete.

Being a streetwise politician, however, he had played his cards masterfully. President Alan was slow to grasp Donovan’s power play until it was too late. While he was battling the traitorous liberal, Jackson Crutchfield in the north for control of the Republic, he hadn’t been able to grasp the scope of Donovan’s schemes to his south.

Now, nearly a full year into the conflict President Alan had little choice but to kowtow to Donovan to avoid further problems. He would deal with the Southern Senator when the time came.

Now with all these changes Julie parked nearly a full three blocks from City Hall. The State Troopers had seized control of the county, and those around it and turned Shelton’s City Hall into a veritable fortress replete with gun emplacements, barbed wire, rooftop firing positions and truck barriers. Business and buildings around city hall were sized from the rightful owners and destroyed creating a wide-open area around the complex.

What once was an open park area between City Hall and the High School had been converted into helicopter landing area to replace the older, less defendable pad. Several mortar pits had also been placed there as a further defense against attack. The defenses extended around this area over to the High School, which formed the far end of the citadel. Barbed wire and other barriers prevented entrance into both the open area and the High School.

As she approached the main guarded entrance to City Hall Julie could feel sweat dripping on various parts of her body. Most of the sweat as due to the heat, but a large part of it was the direct result of the scrutiny of the security checkpoint. Utilizing equipment that would make an airport TSA checkpoint blush, the Troopers scanned, poked and prodded everybody who sought admission to the building.

It didn’t help that Julie was young and attractive, while the Troopers were men a long way from home. It was rare when liberties weren’t taken.

Finally passing through the groping and sneers she made her way into the building. It was like walking into an icy tomb.

What used to a somewhat friendly and jovial workplace had been turned into a cold and austere environment. Guards were posted at regular intervals and people’s access to various parts of the building was segmented according to the level of clearance they had obtained.

“Morning Julie” said one of her coworkers, almost under her breath.

Smiling back at her Julie merely nodded her head in acknowledgement. She started her computer and arranged a couple files that she needed to process. Before long she simply and robotically began the process of enduring another day.

****

At the outbreak of the conflict Julie’s life was empty. Like a lot of pretty women in small, rural towns, she felt trapped between no opportunities and the constant ham-fisted attention of the local men.

That all changed when a contingent of Army troops came to town. Soon she found romance with one of them and before long small bits of information were finding their way from her desk to his ears.

As his situation changed those meetings became more difficult but she had graduated from pillow-talk purveyor of information into full-blown spy. The meetings, drops, and signals added some modicum of excitement to her life. It helped ease the time between the liaisons with her solider.

While her intentions were noble, Julie was still naive. While she found the intrigue intoxicating she didn’t fully grasp the danger she placed herself in to help funnel information to the resistance movement that had sprung up in the county.

As she completed another mind-numbing spreadsheet the intercom on her desk suddenly beeped, startling her back to reality.

“Ms. Dawson” came the lifeless voice. “Please come to my office”.

“Yes Mr. Lehman” she answered efficiently.

Standing and smoothing down her blouse she prepared to enter the office of a man she despised.

****

Alec Lehman was the commanding officer of the contingent of State Troopers sent to Shelton to quell the burgeoning resistance in the area. He was a cold man. Ruthlessly efficient, he wouldn’t hesitate to burn down someone’s home under the slimmest of pretext. People had been killed and shipped off to camps based on his signature alone.

Like all small men who are handed power, Alec reveled in the intoxicating haze of complete control. He imagined himself more as a Prussian General more than law enforcement official. His impeccable uniform, forced sense of politeness and complete lack of empathy for those in his charge completed the picture of a man not unlike those cast as Imperial leaders in the Hollywood move Star Wars.

After making her wait an uncomfortable period of time, Lehman stopped what he was doing and looked her over from head to toe. Shivering inside Julie pretended not to notice as he visibly humiliated her for the joy of it.

“Ms. Dawson, please file these reports. Also, I’d like the updated troop strength reports on my desk before lunch please.”

Taking the paperwork from his grasp she politely said, “yes sir” and turned to leave.

“Ms. Dawson” he called out as she prepared to open the door to the tomb he called an office. “You are handling some sensitive information in the reports I gave you. Please be sure to follow the security protocols.”

“Of course sir” was the only reply she could muster.

[The Stig]

It was later in the morning when Julie picked up her phone to make a call. The chill in the air from her previous meeting with Lehman hung all over her office as she pecked the numbers into the phone receiver.

“Come on, don’t dawdle” she instructed the recipient of the call. She knew all the calls were monitored and she wouldn’t have much time before ears would be listening in.
“ClarMar farms” came the cheery voice at the other end of the line.

“Do you sell all-natural cover honey?” asked Julie with as cheery a voice as she could muster.

“Why yes we do, sweetie. We sell it between 1pm and 3pm. And you’re in luck, we have a fresh batch made up for today”.

“Why thank you,” replied Julie. “I should be there about 2pm then”.

The sweet voice replied back from the other end of the electronic conversation. “We’ll see you then sweetie. Thank you for calling.”

Julie hung up the phone with a sigh. She had about an hour until lunchtime and that’s when she’d make the meeting.

****


”Good grief is it hot,” she mumbled as she slid into the front seat of her car. It was hot enough already that she had to start the car and let it run to allow the air conditioning to stop blowing superheated air in her face.

As she backed the car out of her assigned space she could feel the eyes of the parking lot guard on her. It was a new man, a younger one. She didn’t recognize him at all and he wasn’t wearing a trooper’s uniform so he was a regular contractor. Lehman had continued to augment his troopers with military contractors for mundane tasks such as roadblocks, building security and guarding parking lots.

The State Troopers were the Waffen SS to the contractors Wehrmacht.

Putting the car in gear she drove off down the length of the City Hall complex. Its transformation from a southern small-town City Hall building to a military fortress was shocking. Some days she had to remind herself that she still worked and lived in America.

She did have to laugh at the silliness of it all. Here she was, small town girl, in love with an Army deserter turned freedom fighter and smuggling secrets out of City Hall in her brassiere. She patted the thumbdrive memory stick that she had tucked into the bottom of her brassiere against the underwire.

She found out about the scanner flaw almost by accident. One of the guards casually mentioned that the underwire of women’s bras would obscure the images of their scanning equipment. It was some sort of software flaw that was in the process of being corrected. That day she found the smallest thumbdrive she could find and sorted through all her undergarments until she found one suitable to the task.

“I’m like Layne Bryant meets James Bond,” she muttered to herself as she drove towards the outskirts of town.

Before long she pulled into the abandoned filling station on the outskirts of town. It was a perfect place for a drop. She could use the restroom as a ruse for pulling over should anybody be following her and her car was almost entirely blocked from view by anybody that might happen to drive by.

Scanning around and seeing nobody she walked quickly from her car to the ladies room. The handle to the door turned easily, as it always did, and she dashed inside. A tingle of excitement raced through her. Adventures like this beat the dullness of another night of TV reruns.

The gray tile walls of the dingy ladies room slowly came into focus as her eyes adjusted to the dark. Before long she found the light switch and was awash in a swath of bright light. It didn’t take long to find the broken tile behind the toilet. A corner of the tile had been busted out to expose the hallowed out cinderblock behind it.

As she had been instructed to do she placed the thumbdrive in the crack. Careful, as always, to cover her tracks, she flushed the toilet and then washed her hands.

Laughing at the sillyness of the entire situation she quickly left the bathroom, returned to her car, and after looking to ensure she was alone, backed out of the filling station. Before long her car had disappeared down the street, eventually to return Julie Dawson to the foreboding oppression of the City Hall complex.

****

As the trees refused to sway in the windless skies, and the heat of the day baked the pavement, the shadowy figure of a six-foot tall, two hundred pound man eased his way into the ladies washroom of the abandoned gas station. He had seemingly appeared from nowhere before disappearing inside the structure. After the appropriate timeframe he left again, quickly disappearing down a side street.

Within minutes he covered the distance back to his parked truck. Despite being bathed in sweat he moved confidently and with ease. He had found over the years the best way to appear suspicious was to walk around as if you were suspicious. Walk around confidently, and as if you had not a care in the world, and people tended not to notice you.

He slid behind the wheel of his pickup and within seconds was on his way.

John Miller wanted to get back to the farm to discover the contents of the latest batch of documents his source had provided.

****


As his truck approached the roadblock Miller slowed to the appropriate speed and prepared to wait his turn in line.

Roadblocks and inspections had become commonplace in the county. Previous groups of contractors who had been in charge had used them, but not to the degree the State Troopers had been.

He was fourth in line and he casually whistled a sad tune as he waited his turn. Experience told him that the guards were inspecting those waiting in line every bit as much as those at the front. Miller excelled at being easily casual, a trait that had helped him over the years and in various places around the world.

He eased forward as the line moved and resumed his wait. He almost felt sad for the Troopers, having to stand on the roadway in the baking sunlight in their heavy uniforms, heat radiating upwards through the polyester and fabric. It didn’t take long for that sentiment to pass, however. For as bad as the contractors had been, they had paled in comparison to the brutality of the State Troopers. Several of Miller’s compatriots had run afoul of the Troopers in some fashion and ended up dead. There were no questions to be asked or jury with whom to lodge an appeal.

It had been in interesting journey for Miller. He and his wife’s relocation to the south, the troubles in the North, shipping his family and several friends off to a safe place in Wyoming, the birth of a resistance movement; it had all happened so quickly. Before Miller knew it their group had linked with others in a coordinated effort to fight back against the tyranny of Miles Donovan.

But like so many things in life, too much of a good thing can often times be bad.

So far, none of their men had been captured, but several had been killed along the way. The worst was when a group of resistance fighters got caught off-guard and ended up fighting a running gun battle with the Troopers for nearly two miles before the group could disengage. It was a mistake the small movement could ill afford to repeat. Seven good men ended up dead as a testament to the seriousness of the fight they were in.

“License and papers” barked the guard as Miller pulled into the number one space.

Smiling and nonchalantly Miller passed over his identification and waited for the inevitable questions.

“Mister Sizer” growled the guard. “You’re doing work for ClarMar Farms. Where’s your supplies?”

“None going back this time,” replied Miller. “Was dropping off a broken ATV motor to Smitty’s Garage. Damn thing just won’t start.”

Eyeing Miller over with his best attempt at being intimidating, the Trooper simply returned his papers and waved him through.

As the checkpoint faded in his rearview mirror, Miller was left with a very uneasy feeling in his stomach. Something wasn’t right.

[The Stig]

As the heat of the mid-afternoon baked the structures and inhabitants of the county, a small group of contractors finished up their detail along side a lonely stretch of country road. The group had been dispatched by the Troopers to do a routine patrol of a remote area of the country. As usual the contractors got the short end of the stick and pulled the grunt duty.

That’s how it had been since the Troopers had come to town. The contractors had been relegated to second fiddle and did most of the heavy lifting and unpleasant tasks. Lehman had little regard for building unity between his Troopers and the contractors. The best of the contractors were invited to join the State Troopers while the cast offs were relegated to support roles and other menial tasks. Nearly all of the contractors offered a slot in the State Trooper’s ranks took the opportunity.

As the small group of contractors finished up their assignment they returned to their truck to take a breather and hydrate. As they took turns downing the icy cold water, and in some cases pouring it over their shirts, the contractors slowly began to feel refreshed. The exertion of the patrol, combined with their uniforms and gear wreaked a physical toll on the men and it had started to show.

“Can you believe we got handed another shit detail?” exclaimed one contractor between long gulps of water.

One of his equally frustrated coworkers agreed. “I knew we were in for it when those Troopers rode into town. I heard from some guys with other companies that worked with the Troopers and said they were fine, but for the most part they are pricks.”

A third one, suddenly engrossed in the impromptu bitch session chimed in. “Yea, they turned me down for a slot with them. No interview, no PT test. Nothing.”

The griping continued, and the men slowly started emerging from the fog of being overheated but it was too late. Situational awareness had been lost.

Before any could react, rifle rounds tore into their bodies in one coordinated volley of fire. What rounds didn’t rip through their bodies pieced holes in the side of their truck. It was over before it started really. One second four men stood chatting, the next, their bodies lay dieing on a sun-baked roadway.

It would be the lack of radio call-in that would alert headquarters that something was wrong. It would be the plume of black smoke from the burnt-out truck that would guide the Troopers to the remains of the four men.

****

“What’s got you bothered son,” asked the elderly man as Miller stumped around the kitchen of farmhouse.

“Something’s not right” was the only reply Miller could muster as he poured an ice tea. Sweat quickly formed on the cold surface of the glass.

Greg Donner, and his daughter Clarissa, had operated ClarMar Farms for years. Everybody laughed when Clarissa expressed an interest in running the place, but she displayed a surprising acumen both at managing a farm and running a business. Within ten years the farm was one of the biggest employers in the area and well respected throughout the community.

The farm was sprawling and had ventures of all types, from cattle to corn, from hogs to honey. There was a greenhouse operation throughout the summer and in the fall haunted hay rides. Clarissa was willing to try anything and they had their fingers in a lot of sources of income.

Being such a large and respected outfit provided ClarMar a modicum of protection against the contractors. Previous contracting firms that ran the county had left them alone for fear of upsetting the local population. That protection had begun to evaporate with the arrival of the State Troopers.

It appeared past events in the county had awakened the darker side of Senator Donovan and he took a special interest in quelling the growing problems in the area.

Clarissa Donner was as shrewd as she was beautiful. ClarMar had always been a large and popular employer. In the past few months, however, she used the farms clout to make the case to Donovan’s people that ClarMar was an important enough to be granted exemptions to many of the rules he had put in place for businesses. He was trying to balance keeping an economy going with exerting control over the production of various goods. He was also trying to push certain businesses to produce materials that would be of benefit if the Southern District became embroiled in a longer-term conflict.

Her case to those in power was simple. ClarMar could be a source of influence for the Donovan’s people and help stabilize the economy in an already depressed area. Otherwise she would be forced to scale back operations and lay off people and they would not be happy with one Miles Donovan. As was often the case, Clarissa drove a hard bargain. She secured many exemptions that allowed her to operate the farm with less oversight and keep the State Troopers and contractors at bay. It was a form of protection.

It also didn’t hurt that Donovan was smitten with Clarissa Donner.

Whistling softly the older man replied, “pretty vague”.

Shaking his head Miller only replied, “just a gut feeling. The Troopers at the check point backed off the second they heard ClarMar farms”.

”Seems normal”.

“Not really,” Miller responded. “Usually there’s a few more questions. A little more busting of chops.” Miller sipped the tea and replayed the day’s events in his mind.

“Did you get what you went to Shelton for?” asked Greg.

Nodding affirmatively, Miller thought about the contents of the thumbdrive. He wanted to see what the latest haul of documents would provide.

[The Stig]

As Tim Barnes heaved the line on the boat, and pulled it tight into the dock, he had too laugh. He was a former Reverend of a large church that had been destroyed by State Troopers. It was only because of a last second rescue by John Miller that he continued to breath.

Now, by some quirk of fate, or divine intervention, he was running a river ferry service up and down the mighty Mississippi River. If you had asked him a hundred different times what he’d be doing for a living, playing riverboat captain would have never made the list.

Thanks to Miller’s inventive bargaining skills, ClarMar Farms had acquired several decently sized boats capable of hauling people or a limited amount of supplies. Using some money donated from another one of Millers creative sources, a former crime boss, they acquired a larger vessel for their flotilla.

The situation on the river was a source of frustration to Senator Donovan. Overland freight travel was limited to major industries such that it protected his economy or avoided confrontations with President Alan. Smaller or independent fright lines were refused entrance or exit from the Southern Zone, but the river was a different story. He couldn’t limit traffic, or board any boats, for fear of creating an incident with another state.

Unless a boat ran ashore, or was in distress, his men could not board them for fear of causing himself trouble with other states. His control of the Southern District was tightening, but his overall strength was still too weak to risk a confrontation on a larger scale. So, while irritating, he left the river mostly untouched for now.

Clarissa Barnes and Miller both recognized the benefit of the boats. In addition to generating income by hauling freight up and down the river, the boats provided convenient transportation for other needs.

So Barnes was dispatched to Woodville to run the boat lines. He had a surprising skill at organization and soon all three boats were generating income moving freight and people up and down the river. Soon they would have enough money to purchase a fourth boat.

They still had to be careful. Miller knew that Donovan’s Troopers were keeping an eye on the office building. Moving freight was one thing. Moving people was quite another. If Donovan felt too many people were heading up the river, but not returning, he may very well move to shut down the operation.

But for now, the boats moved and generated large sums of money for ClarMar Farms.

****

It was another hot day and the Troopers were miserable. It was the early afternoon and already the temperature and humidity had risen to almost unbearable levels. The Troopers had been dispatched to a small farm in the southern part of the county after reports of “men with guns” were made.

So a small group of Troopers were dispatched to investigate further. Lehman tended to send contractors out on these lower level assignments but he had a team of four Troopers who were new to the area and needed more field experience. While sending out four troops was risky given all the attacks on his men, the southern part of the county had been relatively quiet.

Lehman felt it was a risk worth taking.

The men joked and bantered as they rode through the winding and twisting country road. They were given an address where they would meet with an informant and then proceed accordingly.

Informants were becoming more and more common as the Trooper’s presence became a fixture in the area.

As they neared the location where they’d meet their informant all four men became more serious and outward focused. It wasn’t beyond reason that an ambush was in place to receive them.

“Are you sure this is the right spot” asked one the men.

Looking down at his notepad the team leader responded, “This is it. Look sharp”.

The large SUV pulled into what appeared to be the remains of a gas station. The building had been utterly demolished in what appeared to be a large explosion. Debris radiated outward from the garage area of the building. The facility was not recognizable and the parking area was strewn with debris and wreckage.

Oddly, the gas station sign was still out front, largely untouched by whatever destroyed the building.

The Troopers looked at each other and silently acknowledged that something wasn’t right.

The team leader spoke up. “Alright, get out. Stay sharp. I’m giving our informant exactly two minutes to get here before we roll”.

The men dutifully piled out of their truck. As a precaution, the driver wisely left the engine idling in the event a quick departure was needed.

All four men fanned out, careful not to bunch up and began sweeping the perimeter to ensure they were alone. Dust clouds kicked up in the hot air and the occasional curse could be heard as men tripped over debris.

Glancing down at his watch the team leader shouted out, “times up! This is a wild goose chase”.

Before he even finished his instruction an old farm truck that appeared on the road captured the team’s attention. Still well off into the distance, the driver began honking the horn and waving his arm out the window in an apparent attempt to get their attention. The truck looked like a reject from the scrap yard. In addition to being old and beat up, large amounts of junked items were strapped into the cargo bed.

All four men glanced at each other in silent recognition of the silliness of the situation.

Still well off down the road the driver continued to blow his horn. One of the team turned to the other Trooper and began to make a quip.

He never completed the sentence.

Before the team leader fully recognized what happened, the man crumpled to the ground while a rifle shot rang out from the allegedly empty field.

All three men dove for whatever source of cover they could find. As they did several more shots rang out from the unknown source, one round finding it’s mark in the leg of one of the Troopers.

“Damn!” he yelled out as he fell to the ground, red blood gushing from a wound in his upper thigh.
“You find that shooter” yelled out the team leader who found limited comfort behind the wreckage of what at one time might have been another large SUV. “Simpson. Get to cover,” he advised his injured man.

Like mad hornets, rifle rounds zinged overhead and ricocheted off the chunks of concrete and steel that littered the once proud gas station and diner.

The trooper desperately scanned his limited view of the field looking for a rifle flash, the glint of sunlight off a scope, something that would allow him to identify the source of the shooter.

“Simpson, do you have that leg taken care of” again yelled out the team leader. He couldn’t see his man for fear of exposing himself to whoever was shooting at them. He had tried to poke his head out far enough to do so, but was rewarded with a bullet whizzing past for his effort.

“I….I think I have it…….I’m ok….,” stammered out Simpson. Simpson was tragically wrong, however, about his prognosis. What he didn’t recognize was that the rifle round had nicked a major artery in his upper thigh as it plowed a path of destruction through his leg. A bright spray of crimson spurted though the air as his life slowly pumped out.

He had gotten his tourniquet in place around his upper thigh; however he was late in diagnosing the true nature of his injury and before he could tighten it sufficiently his life bled out in the hot summer sun.

Distracted by the rifle shots neither remaining trooper recognized that the farm truck had pulled up almost directly behind them until it was too late. The team leader thought they were being given a respite when the rifle fire ceased only to hear the sound of automatic rifle fire in very close proximity and behind him. He almost jumped from the jarring sound.

The first short burst killed the third trooper before he fully recognized what happened. He had just turned his head and began grasping the situation when the man perched in the back of the truck, between the cab and the pile of junk, came into view. The trooper was just willing his body to turn and raise his rifle when the rounds impacted his body.

The team leader was slightly luckier. By dumb luck, their SUV was between his position and the mysterious farm truck that afforded him a modicum of protection. However, his situation was critical. He fought to control his breathing and fight back the panic rising in his belly.

He didn’t have to fight the panic for long. Just as he began to rise to engage the truck in an all-or-nothing gamble a rifle round crashed into his ankle and sent him crashing to the ground in searing agony. His scream was a guttural combination of fear and physical torment.

When injured, humans tend to look at their wounds as a natural reaction. Once he had recognized that his foot was nearly blown off by the high velocity rifle round, he returned his attention to trying to find who was shooting him. It was already too late.

He never saw the man who had fallen to the ground on the other side of the troopers SUV and shot at him from underneath it. He felt the first several rifle rounds crashing into his chest, the shock protecting him from the immediate pain. The third round crashed into his upper chest, just where it joins the neck. He tried to scream but despite all his effort nothing happened.

[The Stig]

The two men from the farm truck checked to ensure all of the troopers were dead. Grabbing a few supplies from their victims, the man from the back of the truck placed a small device directly under the gas tank of the trooper’s vehicle.

Turning the dial of an old cooking timer he turned to the driver and grunted out, “let’s go”.

Soon the farm truck’s tired spun through the dirt near the side of the road where it had stopped. Dust clouds shot into the air as the tires finally gained traction. As the truck sped away it was clear that the equipment under the hood did not match the dilapidated exterior of the truck. The truck sped down the road with alarming speed taking both men to safety.

“He should be right up here” instructed the passenger.

“I see him,” said the driver as he pulled the truck over to the side of the field. Soon an older man popped up, seemingly from nowhere. He was a short, squat man with a crew cut and barrel chest. In a different time he’d look at place on a recruiting poster or yelling at new recruits in military basic training.

The man, rifle slung across his back, quickly approached the truck a jumped into the small section in the back carved out between the cab and the collection of junk.

As soon as the black man driving the truck heard the taps on the roof he accelerated rapidly. The engine between the farm truck gulped in air as its pistons heaved and launched the truck forward.

The truck had just crested over a small hill when the kitchen timer beneath the Trooper’s SUV reached zero. As the ringer stuck the metal bell inside the timer, it completed a circuit sending an electrical impulse to the package below the gas tank. Within a fraction of a millisecond, the package exploded, which in turn detonated the petrol tank beneath the SUV.

The thunderous explosion destroyed the SUV and reduced it to a hulk of twisted and burning metal.

****

As the farm truck pulled into a small wooded area off the side of the road, their passenger jumped down from the bed.

“Thanks for the lift. Give me your rifle. I’ll take it back on the bike in case you are stopped,” he instructed.

The driver dutifully handed over the weapon.

The older man looked up and said, “I’ll break them both down and they’ll disappear in a saddle bag. See you back at the farm.” With that he dashed off into the wood to retrieve a dirt bike.

Before he reached it the farm truck had accelerated out of sight and hearing.

“That went off better than I expected” announced the passenger.

“Ya think?” came the drivers reply.

Nodding his head the passenger said, “Sure do. For two reasons”.

Sighing in mock frustration the black man behind the wheel said, “ok…….”

“First off, that was a hell of a risk we just took. Sixteen different things could have gone wrong with that little caper,” he declared solemnly.

After a couple seconds of silence the driver was forced to ask, “And the second reason?”

Chucking, the passenger said “no damn fire-ants”.

[The Stig]

The collection of cinderblock buildings formed a small compound. The single story buildings were beneath grade, and their green flat metal roofs only added to their natural camouflage. Located in a remote and thick portion of woods rendering the structures nearly invisible to from the air. From the ground the buildings were difficult to spot unless one almost walked directly on top of them.

For added effect, someone had pulled camouflage netting and tree branches across the roofs to break up their outlines, further disguising them from notice. Heaps of dirt and vegetation had been piled up next to what little bit of walls were exposed, in additional effort to prevent detection.

Short of having them pointed out they were nearly invisible to the naked eye.

The largest building served as both as the garage, headquarters, armory and team room. The others served various functions related to housing men and providing for all the attendant needs of living in the woods.

Inside the buildings, the feel was an odd mixture of clubhouse and bunker. With subdued lighting and military hardware serving as decorations it would be impossible to mistake the complex of buildings as anything other than the home of fighting men.

The planning room in the headquarters building was illuminated by candles and subdued LED lighting. Solar panels provided their energy but because of the thick woods they weren’t able to gather much of the sun’s power. But it was enough to energize the LED lights so that men didn’t walk into the walls.

“Oh hell I am tired,” exclaimed the man seated at the large table. The heat of the day lingered inside the room and bathed his warrior face in sweat. He could feel the dampness as he ran his hands through his hair.

Captain Mike DeMetrie had been a fighting-man his entire life. A combat veteran in the Middle East coupled with a clear aptitude for leadership meant that men were only glad to follow him. It further solidified his command that he was not afraid to get his hands dirty. Several men owed their lives directly to DeMetrie’s actions under fire and his commendations underscored the fact.

Like many in the Southern District, he couldn’t believe what had happened to the country. Using a core of traitorous Generals and military troops duped by the promises of financial rewards and political power in a new country, Jackson Crutchfield touched off a civil war in the north after his failed presidency. Using the simmering political divide in the country, and his abilities to manipulate people, he had formed a coalition of left-leaning Liberal states from the North East of the country. A string of quick military victories expanded his control into most of Pennsylvania and all of Ohio and Indiana. Some of Illinois, mostly around Chicago had also thrown their hat in his ring.

Meanwhile, President Alan had consolidated his control around the Virginias, Kentucky, Maryland, and North Carolina. He held in reserve the core of the US Military forces, battle sharpened by the seemingly unending conflicts in the Middle East. So far he had kept the forces muzzled while he tried to work out a diplomatic solution but it was becoming increasingly clear the strategy was failing.

Mostly, the midwestern and western states stayed out of the entire conflict, much as they had done in the first Civil War. The only exception was California who had made early noise of joining Crutchfield’s movement. That came to an abrupt end when the infrastructure of the entire state collapsed. Years of out of control spending and social programming had finally rotted the underpinnings of social order. Once the hard working and productive people fled to surrounding states the hippies, Marxists, Stateists, race baiters, social activists and illegal immigrants quickly overwhelmed in a tidal wave of reality.

It soon became apparent that the entire experiment launched in the 1960’s was an utter failure. As soon as the government dissolved, riots broke out and ultimately the state imploded into a wasteland. Soon, it became a killing field as the disparate groups turned on each other. It also became equally apparent the rest of the country was willing to sit back and let it happen.

DeMetrie was stirred from his daydreaming when Miller entered the room.

Nodding his greeting Miller came over with a notepad of information.

“A good haul of information this time” he declared as he poured himself cup of lukewarm coffee from a thermos that had been sitting around most of the day.

“Your source delivered again. Think she can keep this up?” asked DeMetrie. Generally he stayed out of Millers business, and Miller his. They had worked out a good leadership framework. DeMetrie was in charge of the military operation. Miller handled the big picture planning and intelligence gathering side of the resistance movement. He didn’t mind fighting, and wasn’t afraid to get dirty, but his skills and experience lay more in the clandestine side of things.

Miller glanced down at the chipped porcelain mug and studied it for a bit as he formulated his reply. “So far so good. I don’t want to push her too hard cause the Lehman character sounds a whole lot sharper than the contractor types. If he catches on he’ll cut her to pieces after he pummels all the information out of her he can. I don’t think she realizes how serious of a situation she’s in”

Miller didn’t paint a very cheery picture.

He added, “I’ll worry about her Mike, unless we need a last minute rescue. You don’t mind those do you?”

The Captain ignored the quip. “So, the information?”

Realizing the Captain was focused, Miller got to work. They spent several hours dissecting the haul of information Julie had provided via the thumbdrive. They worked well together and gradually they formed a clearer picture of what the Troopers might be planning in their campaign against their resistance.
Rubbing his chin the DeMetrie cut to the chase, “so in short, they are willing to take smaller unit casualties and are going to try to draw us into a larger scale battle of attrition. If they can get the military forces Donovan promised they’ll go hog wild.”

There was no way paint a happy face on the rather grim news Miller said, “Yea that about sums it up”.

It was not the news DeMetrie wanted to hear but knew was coming. They had been shadowboxing with the contractors and it was only a matter of time before Donovan released the hounds on them for real.

“How are the new guys working out?” asked Miller as he choked down the last of the horrific coffee.

DeMetrie and Miller had to be careful regarding whom was allowed access to their world. Anybody expressing an interest in joining the movement was forced to prove their intentions and kept at arms length until they could be vetted. The team had linked up with a couple other small groups of men who generally operated on their own but fell under DeMetrie’s overall command. They were good people, who didn’t like what Donovan was doing, but didn’t have the military skill to lead and organize. Thus far, everybody had agreed that DeMetrie would lead the resistance. Men from his team would go out to work with other groups as pseudo advisors to bring them up to speed. None of them knew the location of DeMetrie’s headquarters.

There were five or six men in addition to DeMetrie’s team, however, that had been housed in the other buildings around the compound. Whether because of a specialized skill, or another reason, they lived in the headquarters complex.

“Good,” was the straightforward reply. “Integrating well and so far paying off. It’s nice to not have to do every last thing ourselves,” replied the Captain. “Gives us more options.”

“I’m going to hit the rack. I have to drive to Woodville tomorrow to pick up another shipment of goods from up north” declared Miller. “You about done?”

Glancing up from the notepad Miller left for him to study DeMetrie replied, “No. The boys will be back soon and I want to hear how it went.”

“Seems like that group is working well.”

The Captain thought for a minute. “Yea, you were right about our new friend. He’s a good fit and the three of them have been solid.”

“It was the pork chops that won him over, not me,” said Miller with a wry smile.

He left the room leaving DeMetrie confused and wondering what his cohort was talking about.

[The Stig]

It was going to be another beastly hot day in Shelton. The pavement in the City Hall parking lot protested against the searing heat despite the early hour of the morning.

Julie Dawson walked confidently towards the main gate that would grant her access to the icy tomb that her once enjoyable workplace had become. Despite the foreboding since of oppression that would soon befall her, she was happy. The more she thought about how she was helping her friends the more she felt alive inside.

As she approached the guard checkpoint she was pleased with herself and the successful transfer of information to her contact. The thumbdrive she smuggled out contained the information she was sure would do the Troopers harm.

Stepping up to the checkpoint she waited for the standard process to begin.

“Morning Dawson” grunted one of the more thuggish Troopers.

With an air of dismissal Julie barely acknowledged his presence.

As the unpleasant man went through the ritual of comparing her ID badge to her face Julie looked anywhere but at the man’s eyes. She could feel him leering at her with a look that only generated disgust.

“Well Dawson. Looks like we have a date today. The scanner is broken so we’re doing check’s manually”.

Knowing there was no winning the fight, she allowed herself to look in the Troopers general direction she spat out, “Very well”. She had been through the process before and hated every second of it. At nearly every airport across the country other women preformed physical pat-downs of women as common courtesy. This would not be the case at Shelton’s City Hall complex.

Stepping forward she handed her purse to a different Trooper, raised her arms to shoulder height and mental checked out. She felt waves of disgust rising through her as the Troopers hands coarsely ran from her hips up to her armpits. There was no attempt at modesty or hint of restraint in his touch.

His hands soon roamed across her chest. He made no effort to disguise what he was doing. To add an extra touch of humiliation, the Trooper purposely paused as his hands were underneath her breasts. Fiery waves of anger shot though her body as she screamed internally against the violation.

She stared straight ahead, eyes locked on a random part of the City Hall building, waiting for the humiliation to end. Soon his hands roamed over her buttocks and then down her legs. She had never noticed the fallout shelter sign above that particular entrance to the building before. Her gaze remained locked on the sign as the final, and most humiliating part of the search was performed.

“Alright baby, you’re clean,” the Trooper laughed as scribbled a note on some unseen document on his clipboard.

Julie took her purse from the outstretched hand of a different Trooper and walked from the gate utterly ignoring her tormentor’s leering stare.

“Thank God I wasn’t dumb enough to bring that thumbdrive into the building, just out,” she said to herself with a surprising humor given the circumstances of the past few minutes.

She wasn’t sure what she dreaded more, the humiliating groping at the checkpoint or having to work for Alec Lehman.

****

Despite his traitorous and vindictive ways, one had to be impressed with Jackson Crutchfield’s willingness to take risks and bold military creativity. It was an interesting paradox as his Liberal mindset led him to loathe the military at any time other than when it served his needs. But despite his self-serving appreciation for his fighting men, he was willing to listen to their suggestions and ideas.

Crutchfield had been set on his heals after a significant setback during an invasion of Kentucky. After quick successes through Pennsylvania and Ohio an abortive attempt to steamroll through Kentucky and into Tennessee was smashed when his leading armor elements overextended themselves and opened the door to counterattack. He was in a tough position where he had to strike boldly, but in doing so exposed himself to larger chances of set backs. His gamble failed to pay off.

Foreign powers, all unsympathetic to America’s best interests, made the decision to start funneling money and supplies in the Crutchfield’s war machine despite the disaster in Kentucky. Utilizing a number of means, both electronic and through more traditional routes, the fuel of war started pouring in through ports along the Great Lakes and ports in the North East. The supplies were still muted until Crutchfield could prove himself further, but they were assistance nonetheless.

President Alan had been slow to use the power of the United States Navy to blockade the North East. Further, much of the Navy had still been deployed around the world in an attempt to protect America’s far-flung interests in place of the Army and Marines. It was a patchwork solution to a bad situation as the ground forces had returned to America to deal with the internal crisis. Much of the Navy was tied up in and around the Persian Gulf desperately trying to protect oil shipments as America’s enemies in the region conspired to shut off the vital lifeblood.

To further complicate matters, Crutchfield miraculously lured one aircraft carrier group and a number of attack and ballistic missile submarines to his cause. While nowhere near as large as the Presidents forces, they were just potent enough to keep the Presidents depleted naval power at bay. In essence, there was a naval stalemate.

So he and his military council crafted a new plan. They didn’t have the military strength to go head-to-head with the Presidents troops in and around the Virginias and Maryland areas. The Presidents decision to marshal his strength there was turning out to be a wise move. This eliminated the chances for an attack from New York or Pennsylvania, which reduced Crutchfield’s options greatly.

West Virginia was deemed too mountainous and wooded for any attack to succeed. They already had the support of Chicago and the northern part of Illinois, along with Indiana, so a further drive into southern Illinois wouldn’t accomplish much either. It was becoming clearer that Kentucky was the new battlefield for this war and would offer the best chance for advance.

That is where his attack would center.

[The Stig]

The plan had ringing similarities to one launched in the later stages of World War II. A small force of fast moving ground troops would cross the Ohio River into Kentucky at the town of Ashland. A small coal-mining city located near the border of Ohio, Kentucky and West Virginia, it offered several large bridges for a crossing. More importantly, it was as east as you could get before the terrain was deemed too mountainous to pass.

This brigade-sized force would then race one hundred miles westward along Interstate 64 towards Lexington, Kentucky. They would seize and hold the city long enough for the main armored thrust to jump across the Ohio around Cincinnati and drive strait southward to link up with the troops. There would also be a small contingent of reinforcements delivered via air into the Lexington airport once it was captured. The key to the entire operation was speed. The force from Ashland had to cover the distance to Lexington and hold it long enough for the reinforcements to arrive. And they had to do this all before the President could respond in force.

Crutchfield had limited intelligence capabilities but his friends looking to do America harm were only happy to provide what they could. It appeared that after his previous drubbing in Kentucky that most of the forces returned to Virginia while a strong presence remained in the Louisville-Nashville corridor. The central and western portions of the state were lightly guarded. Feints and diversionary attacks would take place further west, and along the main front in the east to draw attention away from the main gambit.

His overall plan was to capture Lexington and open a wedge into Kentucky. Into that salient he could pour resources and create a toehold into the state from which he could push onwards.

Ultimately he remained convinced that capturing Kentucky and Tennessee would allow him to further encircle the President’s force and cause his enemy to dilute his strength defending multiple avenues of attack. It was risky as the President could decide to drive towards Boston, his defacto capital at any time. At that point he’d need every last fighting man and vehicle he could muster. All of the troops dallying in Kentucky would be too far out of position to race eastward.

He had to capture Kentucky and Tennessee before the President found the resolve to crush his base of operations and entire movement. If he could do that, he might have the strength to sue for peace on his terms or defeat the President outright.

It was turning into a race against time.

****

The drive to Woodville was relatively simple for Miller. Other than passing through several checkpoints his route was unimpeded. The ClarMar Farms truck and his identification papers further eased his passage. Still, for good measure he wore a pistol and stowed his rifle behind the seat of the truck should he run into any issues.

His thoughts that morning had little to do with the journey. Miller was worried both about his source of information at City Hall and what Lehman’s next move might be. The ditch digging work of contacting the other resistance groups and forming a more solidified force had been completed. For the most part they were DeMetrie’s concern now. There was always work vetting new people and helping DeMetrie plan his next move, but the bigger picture looming was when and where Lehman’s big strike would fall. They didn’t have the strength to fight toe-to-toe so they had to anticipate it to avoid being smashed into oblivion.

Further, he knew he had been asking too much of a novice agent. While her desire to help was admirable, Miller knew she was in far graver danger than she realized. Getting her killed wouldn’t help anybody’s cause.

As the miles passed behind him, and his container of iced tea drained, another concern was lingering in his mind. Their group had grown to the size where security matters were becoming more pressing. As more people were added to the cause the risks of getting caught or general security leaks increased. More people also meant greater chance for a double agent in their midst.

So far he had no reason to believe anybody would be passing information back to Lehman. But that didn’t stop him from considering the possibilities. Experience taught him to suspect everyone and consider every possibility.

The cold fact remained; more people meant more problems.

The drone of the tires against the tar-chip highway, and the gentle sway of the truck, kept him company as his mind mulled through the various issues.

There were times where going to Wyoming to be with his family seemed very appealing.

****

Tim Barnes was finishing up paperwork at his desk in the early morning. He had a shipment coming in later that morning and one to get out later that day. They would be easy transfers, however, and the day promised to be uneventful.

As he scribbled notes on the various formed needed to keep the business running he kept an eye on the clock. His friend, John Miller, was expected in a short while to pick up some items that had been brought in from the north.

Miller and Clarissa quickly realized the benefit of a nearly wide-open pipeline to the north via the river. Supplies and equipment they couldn’t make or acquire in the south could be brought in from the north through a number of contacts. While some caution had to be exercised to avoid arousing too much suspicion, and there was always a chance of being stopped on the drive back to the farm, the supply chain was relatively secure.

Barnes was acutely aware of the beige colored sedan with heavily tinted windows located across a large open parking lot. It had arrived earlier that morning and remained parked without interruption. Those monitoring their activities weren’t putting much effort into avoiding detection as they had parked in the same spot off and on for weeks.

On occasion, he’d make an opportunity to glance out the large window and verify that the car was still in place. He wanted to update Miller on their surveillance patterns and updated a nondescript crib sheet that noted the dates and times of previous encounters.

“Looks like Miller has turned me into a spy too. He’s got a funny habit of doing that to people,” thought the Reverend turned shipping line manager.

[The Stig]

Three contractors and a Trooper were offloading a supply truck at one of their bases. It was tedious work, which explained why the Trooper was supervising while the three contractors did the heavy lifting. It didn’t take long before even the supervisor, who stood motionless, was drenched in sweat.

The northeast corner of the county had been transformed into a series of outposts scattered throughout a number of small towns, all within five to ten miles of each other. Not unlike the firebase concept in Viet Nam, these outposts provided secure refuge during the night and a base for mobile patrols and operations during the day. Each outpost housed ten to thirty men depending on its importance and offered some amenities, or at least more than what the men could expect living in the field.

The outposts weren’t much. Usually one existing building augmented by several temporary ones was all that comprised them. Outer gun emplacements replete with sandbags and barbed wire protected the perimeters and m,ost had concrete Jersey walls, like those in a highway construction zone forming an additional barrier beyond that. While each outpost was different, nearly all had a high gun tower near the middle to provide a vantage point in the case of attack.

Lehman was using these bases to control the population in the northeast part of the county. Individual cities were not large, but taken as a whole the area was the highest concentration of population outside of the county seat and Lumberton. Unrest had been stirring in the area since the beginning of the conflict and slowly intensified. Many people, innocent or not, had perished in the area.

“Holy Christ it’s hot!” exclaimed one of the men. Sweat dripped from every part of his body and soaked his uniform.

“Quit yer bitchin” growled the Trooper. “I don’t like being saddled with you pukes any more than you want me here”.

The work continued on for ten minutes, as the contents of the supply truck were slowly unloaded inside the compound, and the men endured the sweltering heat.

The Trooper, clipboard in hand, was checking the supplies versus his manifest and generally being insufferable.

“There’s a can of peaches missing,” he barked without looking up from his clipboard.

The three contractors exchanged silent glances of contempt but knew better than to respond.

It was then that a single shot rang out. The three contractors all dove for cover wherever it presented itself. Despite the surprise of the shot the men responded as quickly as their bodies would allow and soon all three men had found some modicum of cover while other men in the outpost did the same. One of the men yelled out as he wrenched his knee into the side of a metal supply canister while diving to the ground.

Soon the chatter of machine gun fire opened up as the gunners fired at targets real or imagined. Between the pinging noises of brass cases hitting the ground, and the relentless hammering of the machine guns firing, the contractors could hear the occasional crack and pop of small arms fire. None of the men could determine whether those shots came from their side or the opposition. On occasion a round would whiz through the compound, often times clanking into a piece of metal or concrete, sending geysers of dirt and debris into the air.

As the commander of the outpost sprinted from his building to one of the gun positions he was loudly but calmly yelling out directions and guidance to his men. Like a quarterback yelling out an audible play he was able to spur his men to a more coordinated response.

Just as he reached the gun position a loud report thundered from the gun tower near the middle of the encampment. The unmistakable boom of the .50BMG Barrett rifle flowed across the ground trailing seven hundred and six grains of remorseless lead and copper. Several of the men felt the blast in their chests as the pressure wave rode over top of them.

One of the contractors who had been offloading supplies was able to glance up just in time to catch a glimpse of an insurgent several hundred yards away. Clearly the target of the man in the gun tower, the insurgent appeared to have been attempting to sprint from one firing position to another. Just as he rose from his original perch the gigantic round cut him in half. A giant plume of blood, bone and tissue erupted from the man’s stomach and torso before he crumpled to the ground.

The contractors and Troopers from the outpost continued to fire for nearly another minute before the booming voice of the commander finally gained enough traction to penetrate the men’s hearing.

“Cease fire!” he yelled. “Cease fire!”

Slowly the command was repeated until all the fire did, in fact, come to a close. A gentle moan was heard from one of the gun positions.

Quickly, and without hesitation, he rattled of a string of commands. “Alpha team, sweep the area where the fire came from. Don’t run yourselves into an ambush, but if you make contact engage. Bravo team, stay on position for backup.”

As those teams scurried into action the commander turned to his second in command.

“What’s the damage Hank?”

“Looks like one dead, two wounded sir. One is minor, the other man will need an evac.”

“Make it happen” was all the commander said as he prepared to leave the outpost with the Alpha team. “I’ll be on the standard frequency if you need me”.

Crisply the Alpha team began their sweep into the countryside surrounding the outpost. The commander fell in behind them and within minutes they were several hundred yards outside the camp. The second in command stood over the medic as he tended to the wounded Trooper and coordinated the arrival of the helicopter that would whisk the wounded man to safety.

“Good grief” said one of the contractors who had been offloading the supply truck. “Isn’t it bad enough we’re sweating to death out here. Now I gotta be shoot at too?

“No guts, no glory” was all one of his buddies could muster by way of a reply. They all knew the dangers of their work.

Pointing back towards the truck the third contractors pointed as he said, “Uh guys. I think we’re going to have to finish the paperwork”.

There, lying in the dirt, with half his skull missing was the Trooper who had been the source of the men’s discomfort all morning.

****

As Barnes and Miller loaded the last of the boxes into the back of the truck they were sure to place innocuous items around the perimeter of more sensitive goods. While it wouldn’t survive a complete search, from a quick glance or cursory review, Miller appeared to be hauling food and farm equipment components back to ClarMar.

“So they’ve been there all morning?” asked Miller. Fortunately, the loading area of the building was around back so they were at least able to offload cargo away from the prying eyes of those in the heavily tinted sedan.

“Yes. And have been there at different intervals throughout day for a while now.”

Tossing a case of sparkplugs onto the truck Miller probed his friend. “How long is a while?”

Reminding himself to be specific Barnes replied, “They’ve been there every day, almost without fail, for the past sixteen days. No pattern during the day. Sometimes morning, sometimes night, but every day.”

“The men ever come outside the car?”

“No. Or at least not that I’ve seen.”

Thinking it over as he loaded the last box onto the truck Miller advised his friend, “Ok. Keep monitoring them, if the pattern changes call me. Make sure one of the boat hands or someone is here with you. Don’t be alone.”

“You think they’re going to try something?” asked the concerned former Reverend.

“Not sure. I doubt it. Clarissa has made such a stink with Donovan’s people that there’d be hell to pay. But they are up to something. That’s for damn sure.”

For good measure he added, “You remember where I hid all the guns for you right?”

Barnes just looked at his friend and smiled. Miller had taught him how to shoot the pistols and shotgun he had hidden in the office for Barnes’s protection. He didn’t have the heart to tell Miller that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to use them if push came to shove. Killing was Miller’s, DeMetrie’s and his men’s department, not his.

He pushed the thought out of his mind. “Of course.”

“Alight. Make sure your radio batteries are charged and your supply bag is ready to go in the event you have to clear out of here. You remember how to arm all the explosive charges right?”

“Yes”

Always covering all the bases, Miller asked, “And you remember the radio code and rendezvous point in the event you have to scramble?”

Barnes’s rattled them off from memory and without hesitation.

“Excellent. You’re doing a great job over here Tim. You’ve made more money than we ever imagined and it’s helping the cause. We can’t do our jobs without you.” Miller was always sure to let those who worked for him know his appreciation and the role they played in the overall mission. He found it kept people motivated.

The men shook hands as Barnes said, “you know, I never thought I’d become a shipping magnate when I went to bible college.”

[The Stig]

Barnes reviewed the morning’s paperwork for nearly an hour after Miller had left. Sipping on some coffee that had been simmering for hours he nearly spat out the harsh flavored liquid. He always seemed to forget that one of his boat hands would make the coffee at five in the morning when he came to work. The coffee had nearly been cremated by the time Barnes attempted to drink it.

He remained lost in his paperwork for sometime before casually, or at least he hoped it appeared so, glancing up towards where the sedan had been parked. He was somewhat surprised to see it had left.

“Guess they saw what they wanted to see.” He had nearly finished the thought when the office door suddenly sprang open, startling him.

“Mr. Craft?”

Standing up behind the desk Barnes cautiously replied, “Yes. Are you looking to move some freight on our boats?”

The two men were intimidating. It was their lack of apparent police garb or equipment that gave them a more sinister feel. Both wore suits, despite the heat, and matching mirrored sunglasses. In fact, they both looked more like gangsters and less like police or soldiers.

“Mr. Craft, you are going to half to come with us. We’ve found some….irregularities….with your operation that we need to discuss.”

“I don’t understand,” responded Barnes nervously “All of our paperwork is in order and filed directly with Senator Donovan’s office.”

“Just come with us” was the solemn direction of one of the men.

Barnes knew that when the time came he’d not be able to fight. He just didn’t have it in him. It didn’t help that the two men were both physically and psychologically imposing. Further, they had the drop on him. There was nothing he could do but submit.

The two men led him out the front door of the office and towards the dark sedan that had been moved down the street, just outside the view of his office.

Barnes’s mind raced as he tried to think about what Miller would do.

The cold reality was there was nothing he could do. He was in serious trouble and knew it. His hands shook slightly as he was marched towards the car.