Summer Lane - State of Rebellion

Only a few are that stupid, though. Some of them still linger at the sides of the freeway, wary of leaving the path. They’re not all idiots. They know what’s waiting out here. I’m sure they’ve all been briefed by their commanding officers on the threat of guerilla war fighters in the central valley.

Yeah, we’re definitely as dangerous as they told you we’d be.

As soon as the thought floats through my brain, a group of fifty Chinese start climbing the side of my hill, scaling it nearly on hands and knees. It’s steep enough to make it difficult to walk, and at the same time, draw them closer to us.

“God,” Uriah whispers, “they’re actually falling for it.”

I don’t reply. The Chinese are pouring over the sides of the interstate, spreading over the hillside by the hundreds. They send sacrificial scouts fifty yards in front of the body of troops to make sure there are no landmines planted in the dirt.

There’s not, but they don’t know that.

This pattern is repeated for two hours. Two hours of waiting motionless on my stomach, barely daring to breathe. Our entire platoon is comprised of riflemen from our militia, many of them with a skillset far greater than mine.

“I think it’s time, mate,” Uriah says, glancing at Chris.

“I agree.”

He gives a wordless signal to our snipers in the grass, and I lick my chapped lips. Why didn’t I take another sip of water from my canteen? I had two hours to do it. Too late now.

Warfare doesn’t wait.

Chris takes the first shot, as always. And that shot is the signal to begin the attack. The Chinese have merged by the thousands into the canyon, all of them driven off the road, into the grassy slopes. Right into a box, unknowingly surrounded on all sides by the National Guard. Not to mention the Air Force, if we need them.

The first shot hardly fazes the Chinese. They look around, almost dazed, searching the hillside for the fool that could have accidentally fired a shot.

“Open fire,” I say, talking into the radio sewn into my shoulder.

We do. It’s the most brutal, ruthless attack I have ever been involved in. Chinese troops are literally razed to the ground in systematic sweeps. The ones who are deep enough into the crowds turn on their heels and run south. Some drop and return fire, aiming blindly at muzzle flashes. It won’t do them any good. They’re surrounded on all sides. As they pull away from the troops who are dead or dying, they expose themselves, too. And so they die.

I struggle to see through my scope at one point, brushing away moisture from the eyepiece. I blink a few times, tasting salt on my lips. Tears? I’m crying ?

I can’t do that right now. I shake myself and keep fighting. Someone from our militia fires an RPG into the middle of a mass of Chinese soldiers pushing their way north. It lights up the dark hillside with an orange glow. The screaming is horrible. The smell of gunpowder is sharp.

So this is what winning looks like, I think. I don’t feel victorious.

Yet at the same time, the knowledge that these troops have invaded our homeland and killed every innocent man, woman and child in their path softens the pain of killing. I’m not a murderer. I’m a defender.

They forced my hand. They expected us to surrender silently.

They underestimated our will.

And now they are paying the price.

The attack goes on for hours. Until the twilight hours, when the hills and sky are one shade of muted gray and the sunrise throws color over the battlefield. It is at this point that there are barely any standing Chinese troops left to fight. The rest of the forces — which number at maybe two and a half thousand — never even come around the corner.

“Alpha One, I’ve got a situation.” Chris’s radio crackles with Max’s voice.

“Give me details,” Chris replies.

“They contacted us. They want to parlay.”

“Are they crazy ?” I snap. “It’s too late for that.”

“What are their terms?” Chris asks.

“Just you and their messenger. He’s got something to say to us, apparently.”

“We should be talking directly to their commanding officer,” Uriah spits.

“We’ll parley,” Chris replies. “But they come to us , and they come up .”

“Roger that, sir.”

I lay down my rifle, exhausted, sweaty, and emotionally spent.

“What do you mean, up ?” I ask.

“They’ve still got two thousand men out there, almost three thousand,” Chris answers, popping his canteen open. “If we can avoid getting any of our men killed, I’d like to do that.”

“We’ve had no serious casualties so far.”

“Don’t think the Chinese will be stupid enough to come into the canyon twice.” Chris offers me a drink. I take it gratefully. “Eliminating the rest of them will be more difficult.” He wipes a droplet of water from my chin, smiling softly at my shaking hands. “And a break in fighting will be good for everybody.”

“Where are we going to meet with their messenger or whatever?” I press.

“On top of that hill,” Chris says, gesturing to the hill behind us. “We’ll make them come up to us.”

“Dang it. Then we have to climb the hill,” I sigh.

“No. We’ll ride up.”

The sun peeks over the eastern horizon, glowing brilliantly even through the haze of smoke and debris in the air. I hang my head and close my eyes, praying that this parley will bring good news — not bad.

The puzzle of Omega has always been the question of who are they really? Chinese? Korean? Syrian? Russian? Who controls Omega? And who decided to unite all of these radical factions to gang up on us ? Is it one man? A group of men? A woman ? A body of government? A mysterious, legendary secret society come to destroy us all and take over the world?

I don’t know. And sometimes not knowing who the enemy is can be maddening. They’re standing right in front of us, and we don’t know who they are.

All part of the plan , Walter Lewis would say. Nothing they’ve done has been spontaneous. They’ve been planning this for a long time. The only question is whothey are.

As we wait at the top of the hill, Colonel Rivera joins us. There is a static tension in the air between our militia and his presence. When I look at him, I see the man that refused to send us backup when we were in need. I can’t help but feel resentful.

Both Rivera and Chris stand next to each other as we wait for the Chinese messenger to arrive. We’ve brought a small detachment of armed militia with us, and unbeknownst to the Chinese, our forces are still holed up in the undergrowth around the mountains. If they try anything dirty, they’ll die.

The early morning light casts a defining glow over the landscape. The temperature is cold and biting, but I hardly notice. I’m focused on the vehicle moving up the hill. It’s a Humvee, but it’s painted with the Omega symbol — a white, stylized O on the side of the door. Max is with us, and so is Sophia. She’s standing next to me.

“What do you think they want?” she whispers.

“I have no idea,” I reply. “But Chris seems willing to negotiate for some reason.”

“He’s trying to avoid unnecessary bloodshed.”

“Rivera, on the other hand, doesn’t care.”

“He cares,” Sophia corrects. “His methods are just different.”

I keep my comments to myself. It’ll probably take a few years for the bitterness over Rivera’s abandonment of the militia to wear off. And then I’ll understand. But that day is definitely not today.