Officer Of The Watch: Blackout Volume 1 (14 page)

Tom pulled the small UV penlight from his pocket and clicked it on.  He took the clipboard of papers and swept the light over the list.  Immediately hidden watermarks lit up with phosphorescence and showed the crests of the Department of Homeland Security, FEMA, and from lower left to upper right corners, block letters spelling out
, COGCON 0. 

He shared a look with Joe and then clicked off the light.  Tom started skimming the pages, flipping them quickly.  After a moment, he looked up with a sick look on his face.

"Joe, do you know what this is?" Tom asked, his voice shaky.  Joe shook his head.  "It's an Internment Order.  DHS and FEMA have declared a Continuity of Government Condition Zero and they have ordered the internment of all special watch list subjects and their immediate families.  Jesus, Joe, I know some of these guys.  I've worked with some of them before on ops."

Joe gave him a knowing look.  "Yeah, I recognized a few too.  Tell me something, Tom...  Did you ever get approached for a job as a contractor?"

Tom cast a sidelong glance at Joe and was silent for a long moment.  Finally, he said, "I may have had some feelers come my way.  I made it clear I wasn't interested though.  Why do you ask?"

Joe nodded.  "I had the same thing happen when I got out of the Reserves.  Three different companies came at me, one right after the other, and they came pretty hard.  The only reason that stands out now is because each one of the names that I recognized on that list had the same thing happen to them, and they gave the same response."

"You think that's related?" Tom asked.

"I think they're tying up loose ends," Joe said softly.  "Wipe out all the people who said no, or coerce them into saying yes.  Either way, it ain't good."

Tom nodded and was silent for a long moment.  Finally, he asked, "What are we going to do about the rest of the names on here?"

Joe shook his head as he drove.  "There's not a lot we can do right now," he replied, with a meaningful glance back at their passengers. "We've got other responsibilities to take care of at the moment."

"We can't just leave these guys," Tom said softly, but urgently.  "They're brothers in arms, Joe."

"I know that," Joe grated, "and we aren't going to leave them.  Not for good, anyway.  But you weren't out there, Tom.  You haven't seen it yet.  These guys...  it's like back in the Sandbox, but worse.  We gotta get these kids out of here first, bottom line."

Tom took a deep breath before answering.  "Okay, I trust you, man.  It's just going to be a lot tougher to get those guys out once the other side has them; it'll cost more, and I don't mean money."

Joe just nodded.  "Yeah, you're right.  Sad fact is, Tom, I think we all got a long row to hoe in front of us.  No way around it."

Silence fell on them, and Joe drove on through clouds of smoke and empty streets.

Ch. 29

A Leaf On The Wind

Eric handed Mike one trail pack, and he took the other.  The backpack was designed for long-trek hiking, and it was built around a light-weight, but rigid and strong aluminum frame.  Mike began stuffing reflective Mylar-packaged food in the bottom of the pack.  He and Eric split the load from a huge Rubbermaid storage container.  The food was bulky and took up a considerable amount of room, but it was much lighter than Mike would have guessed judging from the volume alone. 

Two woolen blankets apiece were rolled up and tied to the bottom of the frame for both backpacks.  Eric collected all of the extra ammo he could find and began filling the exterior pockets and pouches on both packs with spare ammo and magazines.  Mike retrieved two first-aid kits Eric told him about and packed those as well. 

Finally, Eric went to his closet and got two rifles, a shotgun, and an old revolver.  He handed the semi-auto 12 gauge to Mike.  The .22 revolver went into his pack as an emergency backup weapon.  Eric tied the .22 rifle onto the top of his pack setup, making sure to carefully pad the scope with a couple of scarves from Christina's side of the closet.  He carried the .30-30 lever action Marlin in case he needed it.

The two were headed downstairs to do a final sweep of the house when a deep rumble loud enough to rattle the windows and the dishes in the kitchen cabinets shook the house.  Eric sprinted down the last few stairs and out onto the front yard.  Every house up and down the street had emptied at the noise, and the spectators were all craning their necks and looking up at the two C-130 cargo planes passing low overhead.  Both planes had their cargo ramps down and they were dumping leaflets by the thousands as they flew. 

As the small slips of paper floated and fluttered their way down, Eric snatched one out of the air and read it as Mike did the same. 

The pamphlet read:

ATTENTION!
A state of National Emergency has been
declared.  FEMA, under the direction of the
Department of Homeland Security, and
by authorization of the President of the
United States of America, has established an
Emergency Response Command Center at the
Charlotte Douglas International Airport. 
By order of the Secretary of Homeland Security,
all local and state public services have been
temporarily suspended.  Pursuant to Federal law
and regulation, all power of police and emergency
response has been delegated to FEMA, the
Department, and their deputized agents.
Please remain in your homes and await further
information and instructions.  FEMA response and
recovery teams will conduct assessment operations
soon.  We thank you in advance for your full and
peaceful cooperation.

Eric stuffed the pamphlet into his back pocket and as he turned back towards the house, he caught sight of Mr. Sheickles standing in his yard.  The old Marine had his standard outfit of pressed navy blue Dickies and a pressed and creased olive-drab button down with freshly shined black combat boots.  Mr. Sheickles crumpled the leaflet he held in one hand and turned his head to the side and spat.  He saw Eric watching him, and Mr.  Sheickles eyes narrowed for a moment. 

Suddenly, Eric felt very self-conscious standing in his yard, armed, and with a massive hiking pack on his back.  He grabbed Mike and headed back inside for a few last minute odds and ends.  Eric grabbed a tackle box and fishing pole from his garage while Mike went through the kitchen and pantry gathering as much salt, sugar, and dried food like rice and beans that he could find. 

In the end, both men were loaded down with about thirty-five to forty pounds worth of food and supplies, not to mention the long gun each carried.  The packs helped with the weight, though, and the frames distributed the weight down and around their waists rather than forcing it to ride high on their back and shoulders. 

Eric and Mike were headed for the back door when a loud pounding on the front door stopped them.  Eric drew his 9mm as he walked to the door, and he heard Mike do the same behind him.  Eric slowly and carefully moved aside the shades that hung over the glass upper half of the door.

"Stop your lollygagging," Mr. Sheickles growled from the other side of the door.  "Open up, Tillman.  I ain't got all damned day."

Eric heaved a heavy sigh and opened the door.  Mr. Sheickles' normally sour face pinched down even farther into a disgruntled frown when he looked down at the gun in Eric's hand.  "Bloody well nice to see you too, Tillman," he grumbled, eyeing the packs on Mike and Eric's backs.  "You going on a camping trip?"

Eric frowned as he tried to think of a way to answer the question carefully, and Mr.  Sheickles grunted a short laugh.  "It's never the question that's indiscreet, Tillman; it's always the answer.  You remember that," Mr.  Sheickles said with a short nod.  "Alright, then.  You fellas better come with me before I think better of it."

Before Eric or Mike could make a reply, Mr. Sheickles turned and without even a backward glance started walking to his house.

"What can it hurt?" Mike asked.

Eric couldn't find an answer, so the two of them followed the old Gunnery Sergeant across the yard and into his garage.  As soon as they stepped inside, Mike whistled softly.  The cover had been thrown off of a pristine black and gray 1968 Ford Bronco.  The truck had custom rolled steel bumpers on the front and rear, and a trail bar with four round spot lights across the roof. 

Mr. Sheickles took a small keychain with a white rabbit's foot from a hook by the door that led into his kitchen.  He turned and tossed the keys to Eric, who caught them out of reflex more than anything else. 

"You look like you've got a long way to go," Mr.  Sheickles said.  "A set of wheels might come in handy."

The old Gunnery Sergeant started to turn back towards the house, but Eric called out, "Wait! Mr. Sheickles, I can't take your truck."

"Why not?"  Mr. Sheickles growled.  "Not
new
enough for you, Tillman?"

Eric was shaking his head already.  "It's not that, Mr. Sheickles.  I just don't know when I'll be able to bring it back.  I don't even know
if
I'll be able to bring it back."

Mr. Sheickles snorted loudly.  "You think I don't know that, Tillman? I've marched on three different continents in two different wars.  I know when the shit's about to hit the fan hard."

"Well, Mr.  Sheickles," Eric said, extending the keys back towards him, "you might need this truck to leave if things get bad."

Mr. Sheickles snorted again, and shook his head.  "Look at me, Tillman.  I'm ninety two years old.  I ain't got any running left in me, and neither does the Missus.  I told her twenty years ago when we bought this house that it'd be the one we died in, and I meant every word of it.  Don't mean I'll go easy, though.  I've got a Garand rifle in there that'll give them boys fits with their little plastic toys if they want to come messin around.  But as far as runnin..." Mr. Sheickles turned his head and spat to show what he thought of that.

"I don't know what to say, Mr.  Sheickles," Eric said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Mr. Sheickles turned and looked at the wall to his right, suddenly uncomfortable.  "You put up with a cantankerous, crotchety old fart when you had no real call to, Tillman.  You're a good man, and I'm glad I knew you.  Now you fellas get on out of here and take care of yourselves."

Mr. Sheickles turned and opened the door.  Over his shoulder he growled, "You still look like crap, Tillman.  And if you scratch my damned truck, I'm taking my M1 and trackin your ass down."

The door slammed shut behind him, and Mr.  Sheickles was gone.  Eric stared down at the keys in his hands for a long moment, a lump growing in his chest.  Finally, he swallowed hard and loaded his pack in the back of the Bronco with Mike's.  He climbed into the driver's seat and fired up the Bronco on the first crank. 

Eric pulled the Bronco out of the garage and onto the street in the early afternoon sun.  There was no air conditioning in the truck, so Eric rolled the windows down and let the wind blow through his hair.  A slow smile spread across his face.  For the first time since watching the planes fall from the sky, Eric felt like things were finally starting to take a turn for the better.

Ch. 30

Cry Havoc

Joe turned the corner and slowed the Humvee to a stop.  A half mile down the road, the street was lined on both sides with small shops and stores.  On the left, two connected brick storefronts were smoking, their roofs caved in and charred timbers showing through the ruins.  Broken glass littered the sidewalk along with a handful of shiny chrome rims and two tires.  The remnants of one of the signs were barely legible, and it advertised life insurance. 

Across the street, a crowd was milling around the front of one of a row of shops.  The sign that lay in the middle of the street had once been a RadioShack logo.  The closest had once been a liquor store, but the front door had been ripped from the hinges and the windows smashed.  Two cars between the Humvee and the stores had been flipped over and were still smoldering.  As Joe watched, a man came sprinting from the store with the crowd in front of it.  He had a large bundle under an arm that looked like a boxed television.  A couple of the others from the crowd started to chase him but gave up after a few yards and staggered back to the crowd, bottles in their hands. 

Joe looked at Tom and shook his head.  "We've got to go through it.  If we backtrack to another bridge, it'll take hours and we
have
to get out of the city before nightfall."

Tom nodded.  "Okay," he said, and he thumped his fist on the wall separating the cab from the passenger compartment.  "Everyone keep your heads down.  Henderson, you stay ready.  Anyone tries to climb in the back, convince them it's not a good idea," he yelled.

Joe shifted the Humvee into drive and stepped on the gas.  As they drew closer to the crowd, a few people on the back edge heard the engine and turned to see what was coming.  They nudged their neighbors and began pointing.  The crowd flowed from the storefront to block the road.  The faces at the front of the crowd were twisted into soot-stained masks of rage. 

When the Humvee was a couple hundred yards from the front line of the crowd, the looters began hurtling bottles, stones, bricks, and even chunks of black pavement torn from the road bed.  The projectiles fell short, but there were an alarming number of them. 

Joe thumped his fist on the back wall of the cab and called, "Show 'em we mean business, Chris."

Chris swung the .50cal turret and let out a short burst of fire into the smoking ruins on the left side of the street.  The massive rounds tore bricks and mortar apart like sand, sending small explosions of masonry chips flying with every impact.  The sound of the weapon was loud enough to be painful, and all of the children in the back began wailing. 

Joe gritted his teeth and stepped harder on the accelerator.

Most of the crowd scattered to the right side of the street, taking shelter as they could, but the rocks, bottles, and bricks kept flying.  They were bouncing off the hood and the roof of the Humvee now as the distance closed to less than a hundred yards.  A handful of committed looters stood defiant in the street surrounding a large bearded man who looked to be a leader of sorts.