Fifth Column_Post Apocalyptic EMP Survival Fiction Page 7

  The sounds of shuffling footsteps could be heard by Duncan as he carefully peered around the edge of the brick. A hulking figure was manhandling a frail woman wearing a white medical-style coat. She was barely able to stand as he dragged her along using his left arm while he held a rifle in his right.

  “Sho’ ’nuf,” he said. “Have you checked the back?”

  “Nah,” replied the other. “There hasn’t been any activity out that way since we busted in. I’m tellin’ ya, that stupid cop that left had no idea we was in this place.”

  “Okay, then,” said an older woman’s voice from the back of the store. “Take the drugs and go. We don’t have anything else to give you.”

  The hulk neared the front door to get another look. “Shut yo’ mouth, lady! We’ll go when we’re good and ready. Now, check out the back, and I’ll watch the front!”

  “C’mon, granny,” ordered the other man, and the sound of his working his way to the rear of the store could be heard by Duncan. The two men were separated.

  Duncan crouched low and got Espy’s attention. He held his left hand up and motioned for Espy to come toward the other side of the door opening. When Espy was in place, Duncan held up two fingers indicating two hostiles. Espy nodded.

  Now he waited, trying to predict what was going to happen next. He needed the big man to turn his attention away from the door for just a second.

  Come on, buddy. Distract him. I know you will because you’re stupid.

  Back-door bad guy fulfilled Duncan’s wishes.

  “Hey, somethin’s wrong! I can’t see out the peephole!”

  Instinctively, the hulk spun around and redirected his attention to the rear of the store. As he pulled his captive with him, she lost her balance slightly, forcing him to use his efforts to lift her up. That was all Duncan needed.

  In one simultaneous movement, Duncan changed his grip on the knife in his left hand to a stabbing position, and the knife in his right hand was repositioned to slash. He jumped from his crouch toward the big man, landed right behind him, and immediately buried the left knife at the base of his skull and sliced his throat with the other using his right hand.

  The older woman’s mouth gaped open, too frightened to scream, but Espy followed his instincts and jumped into place to cover her mouth before she gave away what had happened. Duncan nodded toward the door, and Espy removed the woman from the store to safety.

  “Hey, did you hear me?” the man shouted from the stockroom door.

  When his partner didn’t answer, back-door bad guy came back into the middle of the pharmacy, unaware that he was on his own and being stalked by Duncan.

  Duncan returned his knives to his pants pockets and drew his sidearm. The remaining assailant would be on guard now, most likely pointing his weapon at his hostage. Duncan couldn’t allow the man the luxury of that precious couple of seconds as he release his knives in his direction. Only the split-second travel time of a bullet would take him out. All Duncan needed was a clear shot.

  Law enforcement officers were trained to deal with a situation like this one. They were advised to keep the assailant calm, don’t escalate the situation, and certainly don’t take a risky shot that might get the hostage killed.

  Duncan wasn’t a cop. He was a trained killer. In his world, there was no such thing as hands up or I’ll shoot. He acted as judge, jury, and executioner, but he was best at the execution part.

  Slowly, walking heel to toe, he moved forward down the aisle lined with makeup and various women’s sundries. The lone gunman had grown silent now, probably convinced that something had happened to his buddy. He finally broke the silence.

  “I don’t know who’s in here, but I’ll kill this old lady if you don’t leave us be. I swear it! I’ll shoot her dead right in front of her own drug counter.”

  Thanks, idiot, Duncan thought to himself as he picked up the pace to the end of the aisle. He raised his weapon and waited to listen for movement. They were stationary. Duncan rose slightly to see between the rows of hair coloring when he saw a man’s legs in blue jeans standing still next to the pharmacy checkout counter.

  Duncan removed a box of Clairol from the shelf and pulled out the plastic squeeze bottle. He needed a distraction, one that wouldn’t cause an untrained gunman to pull the trigger. All Duncan needed was an opening.

  He rose a little higher to get a better look through the shelves. The gunman, who was left-handed, held a rifle awkwardly away from his body in order to point the barrel at the side of his hostage. The man’s finger was on the trigger, but his hand shook out of nervousness.

  Duncan debated whether to talk the guy down. He had to know his partner was dead or in custody. Maybe he’d give up without a fight.

  He holstered his sidearm and opted for his knives as well. First, he wiped the blood off on his pants so the black matte finish could be hidden against his palms. He prepared himself for a quick strike.

  “Your buddy’s dead,” Duncan announced himself with a growl as he stood and made his location known. “You wanna be next?”

  “Hey, stay back! Ya hear me? Stay back, or I’ll kill her!”

  The man backed away from Duncan and stumbled into the counter filled with condoms. Somehow, he managed to keep the hostage between himself and Duncan.

  “Nobody else needs to die today,” said Duncan calmly as he raised his arms to show the man he was unarmed. At twenty-some feet away, the knives would be hidden against the background of the black leather gloves. “Listen, I get that you’ve been through a lot. I didn’t think it was right to keep y’all locked out either. But it is what it is. There’s no need to face the electric chair because you killed this nice lady. To be honest, you’ll never walk out of here alive if you harm her at all.”

  “You can’t make any promises to me, Army boy.”

  “Well, actually, I can, and you’ve heard one of them already,” replied Duncan, maintaining his composure. “The first promise I just made you is that you’ll die if you hurt her. The second promise I can make is this. Because I am the commander of the Texas military in this region, I have the authority to give you a pass today if you cooperate.”

  “You swear?”

  “I swear on my huntin’ dog’s life, and any Texan will tell ya, there ain’t nothin’ more sacred than a man’s huntin’ dog.” Duncan never had a hunting dog, and he made up the saying.

  The man thought for a moment. “Yeah, I think I’ve heard that somewhere. Listen, this wasn’t my idea. And I’ve never killed nobody. Those Korean fellas gave us these guns, no questions asked. When the fence opened up, me and that other guy just followed everybody through. It was the other guy who wanted the drugs. I was just hungry.”

  Duncan adjusted his grip, still waiting for an opening. But now he wanted the man alive to interrogate him about what had happened at the Hobbs checkpoint.

  “See, you’re innocent,” lied Duncan, again. “Why don’t you let her go, drop your weapon, and we’ll get you something to eat while we talk about what happened at Hobbs. Okay? I mean, with that information, you’ve become valuable to me, and that washes away everything that’s happened here today. Fair enough?”

  The man hesitated; then he loosened his grip on the elderly woman, who spun away and ran down an aisleway to the entrance, where Espy quickly intercepted her. The hostage-taker carefully set his gun on the counter and stood with his hands in the air.

  Duncan slipped the knives into their pockets and pulled his weapon to hold the man in place until he could get him cuffed.

  “Corporal, get the deputy in here to take this man into custody.”

  “Yes, sir!” shouted Espy from the front door.

  “In the meantime, spread your legs apart and put your hands on your head,” Duncan ordered. As the man complied, Duncan grabbed the rifle from the countertop and quickly studied the AR-15. It was shiny stainless steel with no identifying markings. He’d never seen anything like it. “You say you got this from a Korean?”

&
nbsp; “Yeah. Actually, there were a bunch of them. They were riding in Army trucks. You know, camo paint, the whole nine yards. I thought it was weird when the guy handed it to me, but I just rolled with it. I was glad to get into Texas.”

  “How many Koreans did you see?”

  “I didn’t count, you know,” he responded. “Maybe forty or fifty.”

  Espy arrived with Deputy Jerry, who quickly pulled the man’s hands behind his back and cuffed him.

  “Whadya want me to do with him?”

  “I don’t care,” replied Duncan. “That’s between you and the sheriff.”

  As the deputy started to wrestle the man toward the front of the store, the assailant plead with Duncan, “Hey, man, you said I could get a pass!”

  “You did,” said Duncan dryly. “You’re still alive, unlike your buddy up there.”

  Chapter 14

  January 16

  ERCOT Substation

  Near Midland, Texas

  Holloway, Lee, and four top lieutenants piled into a pickup and headed for the outskirts of Midland to view the ERCOT substation. Holloway might have been a murderous thug, but he was an astute, learned murderous thug.

  When the attacks on the Metcalf Substation near San Jose, California, took place in 2013, he’d followed the story. Shooters had unloaded more than a hundred rounds of thirty-caliber ammunition into the radiators of transformers on the property. Thousands of gallons of oil had leaked, causing the electronics operating the substation to overheat and melt down.

  Later in 2013, the Liberty Substation outside Phoenix, Arizona, had been attacked. Despite an alarm sounding for two days, the warnings had been ignored until an electrical worker was dispatched to determine the cause of the alarm. He’d found the fencing and surrounding razor wire pulled open, the security doors knocked down, and the station’s computer cabinets vandalized.

  Over the next several years, gunmen had attacked other substations around the U.S. in a manner similar to the Metcalf incident. Holloway recalled that not all of those had been successful. Accordingly, he would propose a two-step attack on each substation based upon detection concerns.

  They pulled within a half mile of the substation at Midland, and Holloway stopped to observe the surroundings using his monocular. As had been the case with his prior surveillance opportunities, the substation was unmanned and unprotected.

  “Let’s go closer,” said Holloway as he put the truck in gear and began his approach. “The other day, I had my best shooter take out the security cameras on the north side of the substation. We’ll find out if they’ve been replaced.”

  The substation facility could best be described as a prison for transformers with lattice-style metal towers standing guard over the inmates. A single white concrete building stood in the middle of the facility. It was surrounded by tubular metal structures, the transformers, power lines and the aforementioned metal towers.

  At one hundred yards away, Holloway stopped again and located the security cameras. The marksman had done his job well. The cameras had been torn from their mounting brackets and dangled in destroyed heaps from their wires. Comfortable that they could approach the fence undetected, Holloway drove forward, and the group unloaded as the setting sun began to take away their light.

  The commandos spread out and walked along the fence, careful not to fall within the line of sight of an operable camera. They spoke among themselves, looking intently at the workings of the substation and periodically exchanging ideas during the process.

  While they compared notes, Holloway laid out the suggested approach. “We’ll deploy two trucks, with six men per truck, to each of the eighteen identified substations. Some of the men will act as perimeter security for the hit teams while the others will be given specific tasks.”

  “Why don’t we shoot the transformers and leave?” asked Lee.

  Holloway nodded, acknowledging the validity of the question, and replied, “Most likely, the transformers can be repaired or replaced given sufficient time. The eighteen substations the ERCOT engineer identified are only a fraction of the total. Replacement transformers are probably available to them.”

  “Okay, please continue,” said Lee as he pointed to each transformer and counted them.

  Holloway noticed his gesturing. “General, most of the substation facilities will be much bigger than this one. In some cases, there will be more buildings and possibly security patrols. I’m going to recommend that once our people are in place, they take at least a day, or maybe two, to conduct surveillance. In order to guarantee our success, each of these substations must be taken off-line.”

  “Of course, but my men are not afraid to die,” said Lee.

  “It’s not their dedication that concerns me, it’s making sure they are effective in their mission. There can be no shortcuts.”

  Lee nodded and waved his right hand toward his chest, indicating for Holloway to continue.

  “We need to avoid weapons fire until the final step of the operation. Each of the teams will need to find axes, sledgehammers, or prybars to be used in destroying the computer equipment within the control structures. The Texans’ ability to remove and replace damaged transformers is one thing. But to rebuild the computerized apparatus necessary to operate the substation is another.”

  “Some men will run perimeter security while others enter the buildings and wreak havoc,” Lee proposed.

  “Exactly, General. In all likelihood, those actions alone will be sufficient to take down the power grid. However, the second step of opening fire on the transformers will render the substation useless and beyond repair.”

  “Yes, I understand,” said Lee. “What caliber of bullet is necessary to penetrate the steel?”

  “The 7.62 millimeter NATO rounds are best,” replied Holloway. “Are your men equipped with AR-10s or AK-47s?”

  “AK-47s, but we consider them to be substandard,” replied Lee. “As part of our agreement with the CJNG Mexican drug cartel to assist our men across the U.S. border, we purchased clones of the AK-47 rifle. They use the more powerful NATO 7.62 ammunition. They jam often.”

  The CJNG, an acronym for Cartel Jalisco New Generation, was part of the new violent associations of drug lords at war with the Los Zetas and Sinaloa cartels. With over forty armed cells spread throughout Mexico, the CJNG had managed to gain the upper hand on the older drug cartels by using more powerful weapons manufactured in their own facilities.

  Trained by former members of the Colombian terrorist group FARC, the CJNG began building clandestine arms factories, which manufactured clones of the AR-15 and AK-47 platforms in both NATO 5.56 mm and 7.62 mm calibers. The weapons were sought after because of their power and their lack of factory markings or serial numbers.

  “Substandard? Will they shoot straight?” asked Holloway.

  Lee answered with a smug grin. “They worked at the border checkpoint.”

  Holloway nodded and led Lee back to the trucks. In turn, Lee summoned his men to return as well.

  As the sun set over the horizon, Holloway leaned on the hood of the truck and considered their timetable. The Texans would be busy for days rounding up the thousands of refugees who had flooded into their territory. Because the intruders were on foot, it wasn’t likely roadblocks would be set up yet. However, the caravan of military vehicles would be reported to the Texas authorities.

  “General, tomorrow we should handpick your teams, assign them weapons, and determine their targets. In addition, we should conduct training sessions with the teams and their commanding officers to make sure each group has a clear understanding of the mission.”

  “Very good, Holloway. This can be accomplished in one day, don’t you agree?”

  “I do. The day after tomorrow, we send the teams to their targets and provide them two days for travel and perhaps two days for surveillance. Your ability to communicate with your commanders is the key to the success of this operation. On your orders, everyone will initiate the attack at once and then ge
t out of there.”

  Lee patted Holloway on the back as he walked around to the passenger side of the truck. “What are your plans?”

  “Lubbock is the first prize,” replied Holloway. “General, what is next for you after the Texas grid is destroyed?”

  “Our men will attack the oil refineries along the Gulf Coast before we join forces with our soldiers fighting in America. What will you do, Holloway?”

  “Find a quiet, out-of-the-way ranch somewhere and retire.”

  PART TWO

  The Hits Just Keep On Comin’

  Chapter 15

  January 17

  The White House

  Washington, DC

  Chief of Staff Charles Acton had become the most powerful man in Washington since the EMP attack collapsed America’s power grid. Between keeping President Alani Harman’s head in the game and juggling the recovery effort, he’d been granted unfettered leeway in decision making concerning domestic affairs and a seat at the table on all international matters.

  More importantly, he’d become a gatekeeper for the president like never before. Nobody accessed the Oval Office without his approval or presence. As a result, he meticulously controlled the flow of information that crossed President Harman’s desk.

  This included the assassination of her former Secretary of Defense and thorn in Acton’s side, Montgomery Gregg. He’d received information from his sources within the Texas administration, and because the news hadn’t been made public yet, he was safe in keeping it from President Harman until he could digest the ramifications for himself. There would be a way to use the occasion of Gregg’s death to his advantage, he just needed to think it through.

  “Good morning, Charles,” greeted the president as Acton entered the Oval Office. “My secretary said you needed to see me on an urgent matter.”

  “Yes, Madam President. You might want to sit down.”