William Weber - Patriots

The bodies of two men in black camo gear lay near the back of the truck. Even as they approached it became clear to John the vehicle was Russian. In fact it used the same chassis as the Kamaz rigs they’d taken during the ambush. Only the green military paint and module on the back was different. The focus in the Russian military tended to be on practicality, sometimes to the point of ugliness.

A trail of blood led from the men into the rear truck hatch. John pushed Diane behind him and leveled his rifle. For her part, his wife knelt down and grabbed the AK at the dead man’s feet. She checked the magazine and then pulled the bolt back slowly to make sure a round was chambered.

John gave her a quick wink, thinking about how much he had missed her.

John cut the angle on the doorway to ensure if there were enemies inside he would only expose himself to one of them at a time.

What he saw inside made his heart sink. Moss was sitting in front of a wall of knobs and dials. Sitting next to him on the floor with his back to the wall was Rodriguez. Blood oozed from a wound in his belly. Hovering over him was Brandon. It appeared he’d already applied yarrow leaves to the wound to stop the bleeding and was trying to bandage the opening.

With a weakened voice, Rodriguez was giving Moss directions on how to cut the jamming signal.

“The third knob on the right that looks like the volume on a stereo,” Rodriguez told him. “Turn it three clicks to the right.”

Moss looked panicked and John understood perfectly. Not only was the radio operator gravely wounded, all the instrumentation in this vehicle was in Russian.

“Is anyone else hit?” John asked, pulling himself in.

“No, only Rodriguez,” Moss told him.

Brandon looked up and smiled when he saw John and Diane. Then the look faded.

“Don’t worry, son. Soon as we finish up here we’ll go look for your mom and sister. But right now we’ve got work to do.”

John moved over to the control panel while Diane and Brandon closed the back hatch and kept watch through the porthole.

A series of green indicator lights filled a readout that went from one to ten.

“There should be some kind of red switch on your right. That controls the level of electromagnetic interference.”

“Are you crazy?” Moss shouted. “This stuff is all in Russian. I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

“There’s a dial here with a red lightning bolt on it,” John said, pointing.

A trail of blood ran from Rodriguez’s lips. “Yes, turn that counter-clockwise.”

John did and watched the green lights descend from ten all the way to one.

“Is that it?” Moss asked.

Rodriguez nodded.

Pulling out the walkie-talkie, John depressed the button. “Eagle Eye, this is Mole One, do you copy? Over.”

A few seconds of static went by before John repeated the message. The voice that replied was deep and familiar.

“Mole One, this is Eagle Eye. Reading you loud and clear.”

“I appreciated your help back there,” John said.

“I had the shot so I took it. Good job finishing him off.”

“Do you have a visual on Marshall’s forces?”

“Affirmative. Looks like they’re moving back, although from here I can’t say whether it’s a tactical withdrawal or a retreat.”

The thought of the latter made everyone in the comm vehicle bristle with fear.

“Thanks for the update,” John said.

Moss leaned over by Rodriguez, tending to his wound.

“Now you gotta show me how to make a call with this thing,” John said.

With Rodriguez’s help they dialed into the frequency Captain Mitchell had been using during their last communication.

“This is a call to any US forces in the northern Tennessee area,” John began. “We are currently in the town of Oneida. A team of Russian fifth columnists has taken over and we require your assistance.”

He wanted to keep the message simple, but also open the dialogue to any other unit passing by in the area.

His concern was that most of the available US assets might have moved west already to meet the Russian, Chinese and North Korean threat.

Before long a voice came on. “This is Colonel Higgs with the 101st. Who’s broadcasting on this frequency?”

John explained who they were and the gravity of the current situation. “If you can spare something as small as a company-sized unit with a Bradley or two, I think the townsfolk would raise the white flag. We could certainly avoid the loss of any more innocent life.”

“I’m sorry to ruin your day, ’cause your group sounds to me like a fine bunch of Americans, but all remaining forces have been assigned to hold the line along the Mississippi. I can’t afford to peel any of my men off this river bank. That, however, isn’t the only reason. This Chairman you mentioned is one of many foreign agents sent in to wrest control of towns and cities all across the country. When we discovered this we moved in aggressively to stamp them out, but you know what happened?”

“They ran away?” John guessed, although he knew what the real answer might be.

“No, sir. The local population fought us tooth and nail. They’d been convinced by these foreign agents that we were the enemy representing the forces of a puppet government attempting to wrest control of the country. They know what they’re doing. We ended up turning Park City, Kansas and Glenpool, Oklahoma into dead ringers for Fallujah before we realized it wasn’t worth it. Instead, we decided to island-hop, like we did in the Pacific during WWII. Once the immediate threat was taken care of, we could then roll back and clean those towns out one by one. So I agree with your desire to avoid loss of life. It’s a noble one, no doubt. But you’ll need to find another way ’cause I can promise you, rolling in troops and hardware is only gonna create a small-scale Stalingrad.”

John felt like his guts had just been ripped out of his stomach. Colonel Higgs’ revelation that the citizens of local cities and towns were being duped into fighting against the military didn’t entirely surprise him. Since the country’s inception, Americans had been willing to fight and in many cases die to protect their homes and way of life. Hearing the colonel’s reasons for avoiding a direct confrontation in Oneida brought home a disturbing truth. Sometimes in the hands of a cunning enemy, a country’s biggest strengths could become its greatest weakness.

“There is one piece of info I can pass on about the agent in Oneida,” Higgs said. “This comes straight from military intelligence, so take it for what it’s worth. He’s a former KGB operative who infiltrated the Georgian rebels and helped to destroy the organization through infighting and internal power struggles. I’m not sure what he’s calling himself nowadays, but it looks like his real name’s Jacob Golosenko.”

Diane laughed. “He’s been going by Charles Augustus Morgan.”

“Oh, I wanna kill him so much more,” Moss growled, driving his fist into the palm of his hand.

“Thank you, Colonel,” John said. “I think I speak for all of us here when I tell you we’ll be praying the line you’re defending holds strong.”

“So do I. Now good luck and God be with you.”

“What now?” Brandon asked when John was done.

“We get out there and join the battle,” Moss shouted, rising to his feet, his bristling hair nearly brushing the truck’s low ceiling.

Brandon stood beside him and racked his Mossberg Chainsaw. “Let’s do it.”

“There must be another way,” Diane said. “You heard the colonel, if those Patriots storm the town who knows how many more innocents will die. It’ll be playing directly into the Chairman’s hands. He wants us all to kill each other. But think about it. Since the EMP hit, we’ve probably lost more than half the country’s population. If we want any hope of making it out of this one day, we need to preserve as many lives as possible.”