Last Stand: Patriots (Book 2) (17 page)

When John arrived at the Blazer,
Brandon was already wearing a small tactical vest. But that wasn’t the part that confused him the most. It was the fact that the boy was reaching into the truck to remove George’s cage.

“What are you doing?” John asked him.

“You told me a while back that becoming a man meant making choices. You said kids want to eat their cake and have it too. That adulthood was about compromising the things we want for the things we need.”

“I did.”

With great effort Brandon lifted the cage off the tailgate and set it on the soft grass. Inside, a rather sedate George stared up at the boy, seeking food with the tip of his beak.

“I remember how you ran for your life that first day G
eorge came chasing after you,” John told him. “I think you were less afraid when Cain and his men showed up.”

“Maybe I was,”
Brandon replied, unlatching the cage. He reached in with both hands and closed them around George’s neck.

“What are you doing?”

“I think I finally understood what you meant,” Brandon said. “I might be able to shoot someone who’s coming to kill us or peg a squirrel off with a BB gun, but neither of those are as difficult as they seem. I mean, there’s always this part of you that takes over and does most of the hard work, doesn’t it? Training, fear. Not sure which, but there isn’t a whole lot of choice involved when someone’s got a gun pointing your way or when you’re starving and looking for something to eat.”

George was starting to thrash around in his cage
and Brandon tightened his grip.

“But letting go of
those childish things. Facing the hard facts of life and making the kind of choice a kid hopes he never has to. That’s the last bit that I’ve been holding onto.”

Brandon
looked down at George, fixing him in his gaze. He was about to break the bird’s neck and part of John wanted to reach out and stop him. Not because the thing had a name and not to prove a point, but sacrificing the creature’s life as a rite of passage just somehow seemed wrong. For a moment, he thought of Abraham on Mount Moriah about to slit his son’s throat to prove his obedience to God.

A strangled whine rose up from the bird as
Brandon squeezed him ever tighter.

John laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Ease up, son. Part of becoming a man is also recognizing when you’ve arrived.”

Brandon’s fingers relaxed. John pushed the lid closed.

“I’m coming with you,”
Brandon said.

John smiled. “Of course you are.”

•••

A few minutes later Moss showed up with what looked like armored vests. He handed one to John and one to
Brandon.

After examining it for a moment
, John said: “I’ve never seen one like it before.”

“Fits under your
chest rig,” Moss explained.

“I’m not talking about that. I mean, these look homemade.”

Moss laughed, brushing his hand through the single strip of spiky hair on his head. “That’s because they are. I figure even with the feigned attack Marshall is launching from the North, we’ll need a bit of extra protection.”

The vest itself was heavy
laminated fibers, divided into long vertical bands about five inches wide. Two of those covered the chest, while two more covered the back.

John rapped his knuckles against the armor inside and heard a
strange metallic sound.

“What kind of protection you got in here
?”

“
Quarter-inch circular saw blades,” Moss said without batting an eyelash.

“Excuse me? I thought you said saw blades.”

Brandon was beside them, laughing and having trouble holding it in.

“We found them in the trailers and added slots to the vest to house them.
Hey, no one’s forcing you to wear them.” Moss was looking insulted.

“Listen,” John told him. “I’m never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. I’m just saying I’ve never heard of
circular saw blades being used as armor plating.”

“
Overlap ‘em like scale armor,” Moss said, “and they work like a charm.” He pointed at what looked like a ballistics test they’d performed on John’s vest.

Now that
John looked closer, it seemed as though they’d fired quite a few rounds at this thing.

“So what’s it rated for?”

“Well, it stopped .22s without blinking an eye. Even a .38. I’d wager that most pistol rounds won’t penetrate this gear, although I don’t know about 7.62 and 5.56. Guess it’ll depend if they have AP”—armor-piercing—“rounds along with range.”

John rolled his eyes.
“Well, it isn’t all that heavy and it’s certainly better than nothing.”

Taking the next few minutes, John made sure all the gear he’d need was assembled. As always
, he would use his Colt-AR and ACOG scope. The tactical vest over his body armor housed four now fully loaded thirty-round magazines. Additional green-tipped 5.56 NATO rounds were in a pouch on his belt. Secured in his leg holster was the S&W M&P .40 Pro with two additional mags.

In the months leading up to the EMP,
John had been part of several online forums with people interested in prepping and living a self-sufficient lifestyle. Invariably, someone would ask what the best weapons would be to weather a grid-down or societal collapse. The question would generate a knowing smile from many for the simple reason that it implied one set of weapons was the best while another was inferior. Sure, there were quality and reliability factors with whatever gear one chose, but most of that came down to personal comfort levels and training.

For John, he felt most at home with the AR after serving in the military for a number of years. The platform was sleek and reliable and he knew he was proficient at
putting rounds on target. Swap his main rifle out for an SU-16 and that was no longer the case. When bullets were flying over your head, it didn’t matter nearly as much that your rig made you look cool or your rifle turned people’s heads. You either put in the hours required to fire, reload and clear the occasional jam when the stuff hit the fan or you prayed whatever you were using worked well right out of the box.

Course, that
was rarely the case. Skill sets degraded which was why the men and women in the Secret Service and other branches had to requalify every few months.

The other question John
commonly received was about his choice of the S&W pistol over the far more ubiquitous Glock. For him, it came down to two things. A comfortable grip that fit perfectly in his hand and a great mag release.

Once
Brandon had his armored vest on, John went in the back of the Blazer and pulled out the Mossberg Chainsaw.

Brandon
’s eyes went wide. “For me?”

“Think you can handle
it?” John asked.

“Sure
I can. Got real good with the Kel-Tec, didn’t I?”

John nodded, grinning. “You wer
e the best of all the kids.” Slowly the smile faded.

“Don’t worry,”
Brandon said. “We’ll find them. Maybe even sooner than you think.”

The weight bearing down on John was starting to feel
like shortness of breath. Not an ounce of it had anything to do with the armor and weapons he was carrying. This weight was the kind you couldn’t see, but the sort that seemed so much more crushing. He, Moss, Brandon and Rodriguez would need to slip into Oneida while a battle raged on the other side of the town. Once inside and undetected, they would then need to knock out the Chairman’s radio jammer. It didn’t matter that this was John’s second attempt at infiltrating the town, that the first had nearly ended with him lying in a shallow grave. He needed to keep his head clear. Shove all thoughts of seeking his wife and kids to the back of his mind and complete his mission.

Sometimes it wasn’t the gear or the lack of reinforcements that let you down. Sometimes it was the inability to keep a cool head.

Soon the entire Patriot camp was assembled in a circle around Marshall. On the ground was a sandtable: a six-by-six mockup of Oneida and the surrounding area. To represent roads, they used rows of small stones. Old food cans doubled as buildings, and upside-down coffee mugs as strong points.

“We’ve received
reliable intelligence,” Marshall began, “that the Chairman isn’t who he’s pretending to be. His claim of a presidential appointment was a lie intended to hide the fact that he’s a Russian agent.” This revelation elicited gasps and shouts of disbelief from the crowd. “I asked my lieutenants not to spill the beans before I had a chance to tell you all myself. I’m happy to see they honored their word. If you haven’t already figured it out, the United States is at war. I’m sure many of you assumed as much the minute the EMP hit. What you probably didn’t know was that for the last few months a brutal war’s been waged along the West Coast to repel a combined Russian, Chinese and North Korean invasion.” Now he really had their attention.

A
woman next to John clapped a hand over her mouth. She swayed back and forth and reached out to steady herself. Similar scenes played out all around them. It had been centuries since a foreign power had invaded American soil and the news was even more staggering than witnessing the events of 9/11.

“We’ve learned,”
Marshall continued, “that the Chairman, and many others like him, were sent far behind enemy lines. Their purpose was to hold towns, preserving vital infrastructure the enemy would need to conquer our vast country. Oil refineries, communication centers, railway depots. It looks like their plan was to swoop in, fix what was broken and then use our own transportation network to move troops and materiel. A small team is now being sent in to help reestablish contact with US forces nearby. If we can bring their heavy weapons into the fight, Oneida will have no choice but to capitulate.”

One of the Patriots
wearing full tactical gear and frayed sneakers put his hand up. “What’s our job then, sir?”

“We’ll be the decoy.”
Marshall used the stick in his hand to indicate Route 29, which led into town from the north, and Route 456, which entered from the east. “The bulk of our forces will attack from here and here.” He motioned to a series of bean cans along the northern and eastern sections of town. “These buildings overlooking the approach will be natural strong points. Our job isn’t to advance beyond them, but if the Chairman has reinforced them, they need to be taken out. While we do that, Rodriguez and a handful of others will slip in from the south and use directional antennas to locate the jamming signal emanating from the southern part of town.”

“So our job is to draw in their forces?” the man asked.

“It is,” John answered, stepping forward. He
glanced at Marshall, who gave him the okay to speak. “There’s something I would like each of you to remember when engaging. Most of these are fellow Americans you’ll be up against, not Russians. We think the Chairman will be surrounded by a small bodyguard posing as Secret Service agents. More likely than not they’re Spetsnaz. That’s Russian Special Forces. They are ruthless and not to be trifled with. They’ll also be dressed in either dark suits or full black tactical gear. Show them no quarter. Everyone else who’s part of the local militia is a former neighbor and maybe even a friend. They’ve been conned by the Chairman’s fake presidential orders into defending the town against all encroachment. Our only hope of minimizing the bloodshed will be to pray that once the tanks and Bradleys show up, the average folks in town will lower their weapons.”

“But none of that can happen,” Marshall said, “until John and the others find and neutralize the source of the jamming.” He looked at John. “
Once things get hot, you’ll have less than thirty minutes before we run out of ammo, so whatever you’re going to do, you better do it fast.” Marshall took a deep breath. “All right then.”

It sounded like the meeting was over. “What about the back
brief?” John asked. “And rehearsals? A large operation involving this many moving parts…”

“
We’ll have to skip it,” Marshall growled. “We can’t let those armored units move out of range.”

A grease
-stained Patriot named Erik took his cap off and slid a forearm across his hairline. “We may have a problem,” he said.

Marshall
’s brow furrowed. “We don’t have time for problems.”

“The way I count it, we got close to two hundred men and women prepped and ready to assault the town, but
no more than twenty vehicles to get them there. Unless my math is wonky, most of these folks will be walking.”

“What about the other
cars and trucks we have?” Marshall barked. “We counted them this morning and there were close to fifty.”

“Fifty
-three,” Erik replied. “But only twenty are operational.”

Marshall
tore the camo-pattern cap from his head and swore. “I don’t believe this.”

“There may be a solution,” John told them. “What about the rigs? They’re just sitting there, loaded with goods. If you get a team over to unload one or two, you can load people in.
Send one rig with each branch of the attack.”

Marshall
was nodding. He turned to Erik. “No reason that shouldn’t work.”

“No reason at all.”

“Good, then grab twenty men and unload the two rigs that have the most fuel and are the least shot up. I don’t want one of those beasts breaking down along the way.”

“Will do,” Erik said, scanning those gathered, looking for
the group he would commission for the task.

“All right,”
Marshall told all of them. “Take care of any last-minute preps. Make sure your gear’s on properly. Weapons loaded and stowed safely. We move out in a few minutes.”

The crowd dissipated to attend to those
last remaining details.

Marshall
came up to John, Moss and Rodriguez to give them a final briefing on their mission.

“These are the last two hand
-held radios we have,” Marshall told them. “We been saving them for a special day. There’s only so much a man can fit in a single Faraday cage, after all.”

They
all let a burst of uneasy laughter.

“You remember Reese
you met the other day up on the hill overlooking the city?” Marshall asked John.

“The former Foreign Legion soldier. How could I forget?
”

“We’re gonna run the other walkie up to him. He’s got that Remington 700 with a box of
.30-06 black-tip armor-piercing rounds. You run into a fix you can’t get yourself out of and you call it in. His handle is Eagle Eye. Yours will be Mole One. That way he’ll know it’s a friendly calling in support fire and not one of them Russkies. We’ll also let him know where you boys are gonna be so he’ll be dialed in and keeping an eye on that area.”

“That’s good to know,” John said
.

“You worried?”
Marshall asked.

John swallowe
d hard. “A man who stands to lose everything dearest to him should always be worried.”

“What I mean is are you up for this? I know most of these other folks don’t have the combat experience you do. I’d hate to send them in for such an important mission, but I need to know you’ll be able to keep it together
. Especially if you see the Chairman.”

John tapped his AR. “If I see the Chairman, he’ll be the last to know. There’s no need to pull any punches now that we know he’s a spy. It just worries me to think what might happen if the line along the
Mississippi doesn’t hold. We might find ourselves speaking Chinese, Russian or North Korean.”

Marshall
smiled. “Well, at least we’ll have options.”

John clapped a hand on
Marshall’s shoulder and squeezed. “See you in Oneida then.”

“Godspeed.”

A few feet away, John spotted
Gary.

“I need you to do something for me,” John
said.

Gary
’s thin frame made his shirt look like it’d been draped over a skeleton. “What is it?”

“I need you to feed George for us while we’re away.”

“Us?”

“
Brandon’s coming along. His mother and sister are in there. It’ll be dangerous, I know, but I’m gonna keep him close. Besides, he’s good with a shotgun.”

“I’m not worried about his age,”
Gary said. “These aren’t the good old days where parents can afford to coddle and dote on their kids’ every whim. We’ve gone back in time, John. Back to when children needed to grow up real quick, whether they liked it or not.”

“You’re
more right than you know,” John admitted. “He and I have had a few talks about that very thing. It’s not my place exactly, but now that he has no father, he looks to me for guidance and…”

“Acceptance,”
Gary said, his Adam’s apple bobbing wildly as he swallowed.

“Yes.”

“But I’m afraid I can’t bird-sit for you, John. I’m going in with Marshall and with my bum luck I’ll be one of those poor dregs crammed into that Russian-made eighteen-wheeler.”

The look of surprise on John’s face must have rubbed
Gary the wrong way.

“I’ve got just as mu
ch riding on this as you do,” the skinny man hissed. “My son’s in there, John. Eight years old and all alone. At least your kids have their mother.”

“Not anymore,” John told him. “She’s set to be executed sometime tomorrow.”

Gary crossed himself. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“We all have a lot at stake,
Gary. Don’t worry about George. I totally understand.”

“I thought you were gonna eat that thing anyway.”

“So did I,” John said and winked. “Be safe out there. Just remember, you’re not just going in to liberate your son, you wanna make sure he’ll have a father when all of this is over and done with.”

Neither of them said anything about the invading army pushing east and
the bleak prospects for the future. Both men knew on some level that you fought wars much the same way you fought life. One battle at a time.