Push Back: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (The Disruption Series Book 2) (4 page)

“According to my sources, within the next few days,” Crawford said. “Do you want me to—”

“I’ll handle it,” Gleason said, his tone leaving no doubt the topic was closed. “Now if that’s all, you boys have work to do, so …”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Crawford said. Rorke followed his lead and both men rose.

“And, General Rorke,” Gleason added, stopping Rorke before he turned for the door.

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“I bumped you up on Crawford’s suggestion, because you’re one of the bright spots to date in his little shit show. A month ago you were a captain and now you’re wearing a star. I don’t think I need to remind you that sort of meteoric rise is unprecedented, so don’t disappoint.”

“It’s appreciated, Mr. President,” Rorke said, “but with respect, it’s not totally unprecedented. Captain George Armstrong Custer was promoted directly from captain to brigadier general of the volunteers on the eve of the Battle of Gettysburg. He was only twenty-three at the time.”

“I stand corrected, ‘General,’ but bear in mind what happened to him. Just don’t start believing your own bullshit.”

FEMA

Emergency Operations Center

Mount Weather

Near Bluemont, Virginia

Same Day, 2:20 p.m.

Ollie Crawford sat on his office sofa and sipped his ever-present bottle of water. He desperately wanted a drink, but knew the end of that road. He owed twenty years of sobriety solely to force of will. No twelve-step programs and, ‘Hi, I’m Ollie and I’m an alcoholic,’ for him. Power was his drug of choice now, and he mainlined it. The rush was almost sexual—better than sex, actually. Despite having to eat Gleason’s crap, being the second most powerful man in the country was worth it—and he might not always be second.

He was relieved to be away from Camp David and back in his own luxurious office at Mount Weather, where he was the unquestioned king. He glanced at Rorke sitting across from him. He regretted his underling had witnessed this morning’s humiliation, but it couldn’t be helped. Gleason had insisted on a face-to-face with his newest ‘general.’

“You did well,” Crawford said to Rorke. “I didn’t need your intercession. POTUS explodes at regular intervals, a bit like Old Faithful. But like Old Faithful, he can be anticipated and thus managed. He would have calmed down and listened eventually. However, I appreciate your effort, especially passing up credit for the strategy change. I value loyalty.”

Rorke shrugged. “I succeed when you succeed. I figure it’s my job to make the boss look good. But I thought you were going to bring up Harpers Ferry?”

Crawford snorted. “Yeah, well, given how spun up he got over Tremble, I didn’t think an admission we also had a perimeter breach northbound was particularly relevant, especially since it appears unrelated. Did we get any more out of the wounded agent?”

Rorke shook his head. “I got a message a few minutes ago. He died without regaining consciousness. All he said to the guys on the chopper before he lost consciousness was something garbled about a woman shooter and shoes. The dead female agent was missing hers, so that fits. Nothing even remotely ties it to the Trembles.”

“All right,” Crawford said, “given the strong contact southbound, I think maintaining the northbound perimeter is a waste of manpower. Let’s pull everyone off there and use them southbound.”

“I’ll see to it,” Rorke said. “And speaking of manpower, we’re still stretched. Any chance of more recruits from regular forces?”

Crawford shook his head. “I downplayed it with POTUS, but in truth those friggin’ HAMs are having a bigger impact than I admitted. Some of your SRF deserters have spread the word about our ops, and the HAMs picked it up. The main source seems to be that group in Wilmington, but wherever it’s coming from, word is reaching the regular forces, especially the fact that a ‘temporary’ transfer to SRF is actually a one-way trip. We haven’t picked up a recruit in the last week.”

Rorke sighed. “All right. I’ll accelerate the timetable and put more teams on triangulation. We’ll spot as many HAMs as we can and sweep up all we can identify within the next week, but that still leaves this Wilmington bunch and scattered groups like them. They have radios too, and they’re forted up well. It’s not like we can just waltz in and take over, at least without a fight.”

Crawford was about to take a drink and he stared at Rorke over his water bottle. “Isn’t that the point of the Special Reaction Force?”

Rorke shook his head. “With all due respect, sir, seriously? These mercenaries are occupation and intimidation troops. They’re okay for attacks on soft targets or limited hit-and-run firefights, but I haven’t had time to turn them into a fighting force. Hitting an enemy entrenched in a prepared defensive position with crew-served weapons is a nonstarter. If word spreads we’re even considering that, at least half these guys will melt into the landscape.”

“Your confidence in your troops is inspiring, General, but I expected a bit more of a can-do attitude,” Crawford said, menace creeping into his voice.

Rorke shrugged. “I’ve been handling trash like this since I became a contractor, and it never pays to deceive yourself about the capabilities of your forces. It’s far better to recognize their limitations and plan around them.”

“So what’s your plan?” Crawford asked. “We’ve been picking the low-hanging fruit and consolidating our position ever since the blackout, but you know the Brunswick Nuclear Plant is next on our short list. We can’t afford to have this ‘Fort Box’ thumbing their nose at us just miles away, especially if they’re linking up with other uncontrolled groups—defiance is contagious. Besides, they’re sitting on a huge load of supplies and starting to waste them on the refugee population. We have to get a handle on this if we’re ever going to get the lights back on.”

Rorke stroked his goatee absently. “And there’s absolutely no chance the regular military will take them out for us?”

Crawford shook his head. “Only as a last resort. I convinced POTUS to put the military under my command by executive order, but my interactions with the command structure so far haven’t been exactly cordial. Frankly, I view them more as a potential threat than an asset. A growing threat actually, since there are more of them arriving from overseas daily. They’re a wild card and I’d like to keep them out of the game as long as possible.”

“Just how do you plan to do that?”

“By not poking the bear, at least for now,” Crawford said. “POTUS’s order and ingrained respect for civilian command authority will contain them a while. If we maintain isolation and don’t force a choice between harming civilians or disobeying orders, they’ll stay in line and execute whatever support tasks we assign. If we force a choice, we might not like the one they make.”

“And longer term?”

Crawford sighed. “A work in progress, I’m afraid. Any thoughts?”

Rorke stared into space and lapsed into a long silence.

“Controlled decay,” Rorke said at last, looking back at Crawford.

“What the hell do you mean by that?” Crawford asked.

“I mean the regular military is going to fall apart, that’s inevitable. We can benefit if we manage the process.”

Crawford looked skeptical. “Go on.”

“Look, by orders they’re concentrating at major bases with families and dependents. They have what, maybe another two months of resources?”

“If that,” Crawford confirmed.

“And ships are arriving from overseas with MORE military and dependents, MORE government employees and families, and any expats who made it to foreign departure ports. What’s going to happen to them? Is the military going to force them into the countryside at bayonet point?”

“Of course not,” Crawford said, “they’ll take them in …”

Rorke smiled. “That’s right. They’ll take them in, further straining resources. Our friends in uniform are going to have their own little private humanitarian aid crisis. They’ll be well distracted.”

“So. How does that help us?”

“Because you, kindhearted guy that you are, order them to focus on that humanitarian mission while we defang them. We’ll sacrifice some of the provisions we strip out of the countryside to keeping them fed, and in return we gradually but steadily draw down their ammunition stocks. Not completely, mind you, but enough so they’re no longer a threat. It will seem like a fair trade, since the SRF is now on the pointy end of the spear and needs ammo to keep order. I’m betting they’ll just focus on their own problems and be glad not to have to deal with the civilians as a whole.”

Crawford nodded. “I like it, Rorke.”

Rorke’s smile widened. “And when they’re no longer a threat, we cut off the food. Not openly, mind you, we just never get around to delivering. Their operations will fall apart and start leaking people, and we’ll scoop up those useful to us. Hunger is a great recruitment tool; you’d be amazed how quickly it erases moral qualms. I used it all the time in Africa.”

Crawford shot Rorke an appraising look. “Why do I think you didn’t just think of that?”

Rorke grinned and put his briefcase on the coffee table. He extracted a map of the Wilmington area and spread it before Crawford, pointing to a spot near the mouth of the Cape Fear River.

“Because I didn’t, at least not the part about the ammunition,” Rorke said. “I’ve been worried about ammo for a while. Until we can restore manufacturing, the only stocks available are those presently in hand or in storage, and the largest stocks in the country are right here.”

Crawford followed Rorke’s finger and nodded. “The Military Ocean Terminal at Sunny Point. Okay, that’s not a secret, but so what? It’s an Army facility, we’ll just draw it down too.”

“That’s just it, I doubt we need to, and even if we did, we’re talking a LOT of ammunition, much more than we’d be able to transport or store elsewhere. And the terminal is RUN by the Army, but there are less than half a dozen regular Army personnel in supervisory positions; everyone else, including security, is a civilian contractor. The place is run much more like a civilian terminal than a military installation, and I’m betting they used regular commercial means like phone and the Internet for comms, which means they’re cut off. I suspect none of the civilians showed up for work, and any of the Army guys who tried have likely given up and melted away by now. You just give the order transferring the terminal to SRF command, and we’ll control well over half the military ammo left in the country, maybe more. When we draw down the stocks elsewhere, we should have a lock on the remaining ammunition supply.”

Crawford scowled. “Why didn’t you say something earlier? It’s probably been looted—”

Rorke was shaking his head. “Not a problem, Mr. Secretary, at least not a major one. It would probably take a thousand men with a hundred pickups a month to make a dent in this stockpile, even working full time and presuming they had gasoline for the trucks. The majority of it has to still be there, just because there’s too much of it to move.”

Crawford nodded. “All right. I’ll issue the order. Get men there ASAP.”

“I’m already on it,” Rorke said. “The terminal is close to the Brunswick Nuclear Plant and I have a force going there in the morning. I’d anticipated your approval and have an advance team ready to deploy from there into the Military Ocean Terminal at the same time. We just need a small force to establish security and patrol the perimeter.”

“Good,” Crawford said, “but this puts us back where we started. We can’t have opposition sitting a stone’s throw from TWO key assets. We HAVE to neutralize those assholes in Wilmington. They’re too close for comfort and they’re getting stronger by the day.”

“I’ve been thinking about that too. Maybe it’s time to steal a page from the Special Forces playbook and utilize ‘indigenous forces.’”

United Blood Nations HQ

(Formerly New Hanover County

Department of Social Services)

1650 Greenfield Street

Wilmington, North Carolina

Day 26, 2:35 p.m.

Kwintell Banks, first superior of the SMM (Sex, Money, Murder) ‘set’ of the United Blood Nation, glared down the long conference table at Darren Mosley, his Minister of Information.

“And y’all just stood by and let one of these punk-ass soldier boys off a UBN brother and disrespect us without firin’ a shot back, is that what I’m hearin’?” Banks demanded. “When did this happen, and how come I’m just hearin’ ’bout it?”

Mosley shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Late yesterday, but straight up, Kwintell, nobody could do nothin’. They was in one o’ them tank things with a machine gun and—”

“How many soldiers were there?”

“I … I don’t know. Four, maybe five, I guess. But the machine gun—”

“And how many UBN soldiers watched this? One? Two? Twenty?”

“I … I don’t know for sure.” Mosley slumped further in his chair in a posture of defeat. “A lot, I guess.”

“So let’s just guess and say a dozen,” Banks said. “A dozen UBN soldiers stood by with their fingers up they asses, watching a brother get capped like they was being schooled.” He turned his gaze to Keyshaun Jackson. “And this was some of your crew? How’d this happen? I thought I told y’all to just stay away from the soldier boys?”

“Straight up, Kwintell, wasn’t nothin’ they could do. We got intel some nigga was holdin’ food in his crib, so we went to check it out and found him sittin’ on a bunch of stuff. He tried to fight back, so they beat him down and held him so he could watch the boys having a little fun with his shorty in the front yard—you know, to make an example so the whole hood could see. Then the soldier boys showed up, sudden like. They held that big machine gun on the whole crew; then one of the soldiers got out the tank thing and capped the brother bangin’ the shorty. Then they took the tom and his shorty off in the tank. I expect they took ’em to that camp they set up over by the golf course.”