Warlords Read online

  Last Stand:

  Warlords

  Copyright © 2014 William H. Weber

  Cover design by Keri Knutson

  Edited by RJ Locksley

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Quick Reference

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Appendix

  Writing novels can be a solitary journey, but no author can ever pretend they do it all by themselves. I’d like to take a moment to thank a few people who not only offered their valuable expertise, but also put up with my stream of never-ending questions. I’ve striven to accurately capture as many of the details in the story as I could. If there are any mistakes, they belong to me.

  A hearty thank you to John Alex Groff and H. Rossi for helping with the military side of things. Gary Stevens deserves another. After the launch of the first book, he contacted me and his input and suggestions since then have proven invaluable. Thanks as well to Alfred Dearen for the information on permanent magnet generator windmills. Special mentions go out to Stephen Myers, PJ, Damian Brindle and to everyone who read and commented on an early draft of the manuscript. I feel truly blessed that each of you has offered your time and energy to help make this series shine.

  Last Stand: Warlords

  Tormented by a past he can’t forget, John Mack is about to face the toughest fight of his life. The tiny town of Oneida, Tennessee, still reeling from the Chairman’s violent overthrow, stands in the crosshairs of Russian and Chinese armies threatening to push across the Mississippi river. With the United States fragmented and on the brink of military collapse, John will need to dig deeper than ever to defend his loved ones from enemies both foreign and domestic.

  Previously in Last Stand: Patriots

  Following the EMP that brought America to its knees, the Mack family fled to their cabin and what they hoped would be safety. But that short-lived tranquility was shattered when armed men from Oneida killed Tim Appleby and kidnapped John’s wife and kids. In his attempts to free them, John stumbled upon a group of local Patriots determined to free Oneida from the grip of a newly arrived tyrant—a man who referred to himself as the Chairman. But Oneida’s new leader wasn’t the man he claimed to be. A fifth columnist sent by Russian intelligence, the Chairman was sent to control the vital railway that ran through the town. John’s next discovery was even more disturbing. The United States was at war with Russia, China and North Korea, their forces already pushing up against the Mississippi river. A daring attack on Oneida narrowly managed to overthrow the Chairman’s tyranny, but for John and his new allies, the battle has only just begun.

  Quick Reference

  Abbreviations

  APC: Armored Personnel Carrier

  GPS: Global Positioning System

  HE: High Explosive

  IED: Improvised Explosive Device

  IFV: Infantry Fighting Vehicle

  JTAC: Joint Terminal Attack Controller

  MBT: Main Battle Tank

  Characters

  Captain Bishop: Company commander, 101st Airborne

  Colonel Higgs: Frontline commander

  Colonel Edgar: Logistics officer

  Dan Niles: Waste management

  Devon: Young security guy

  Dixon: Soldier at the front

  Dr. Trent Coffey: Doctor at Pioneer Community

  General Brooks: Head of forces in Oneida

  General Dempsey: Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff

  Henry: Ham radio operator

  Huan Wei: Chinese prisoner of war

  Jang Yong-ho: Camp Commandant

  Jerry Fowler: Former employee at Y-12

  Moss: Head of security

  Ray Gruber: Vice Mayor of Oneida

  Robert Rodriguez: Electronics specialist/radio operator

  Shelley Gibson: Water purification

  Vehicles and Weapons

  Abrams M1A2: Main battle tank (USA)

  Bradley: M2 Bradley Fighting Vehicle

  M777 howitzer: 155mm towed artillery (USA)

  Type 99 & 96: Main battle tanks (China)

  ZBD-08: Infantry fighting vehicle (China)

  M1097 Avenger: Humvee mounted with eight Stinger missiles

  M163: An M113 APC mounted with a 20mm M61 Vulcan rotary cannon

  M6 Linebacker: Bradley converted to carry four Stinger missiles

  AT-4: Disposable anti-tank weapon

  Javelin: Fire-and-forget anti-tank missile

  RPG: Rocket-propelled grenade

  AK-47/74: Assault rifle (Russia)

  BK9: Nine-inch Combat Bowie Knife

  M249: Light machine gun (USA)

  M4 Carbine: Assault rifle (USA)

  QBZ-03: Assault rifle (China)

  RPK: Light machine gun (Russia)

  Weatherby Mark V: Hunting rifle

  Winchester Model 70: Hunting rifle

  Chapter 1

  The convoy roared south along U.S. Route 27 doing nearly eighty miles an hour. Moss was at the wheel of the lead vehicle, a late 70’s model Ford pickup decked out with flames along the side and a skull and crossbones on the hood. Seated next to him was John Mack, feeding 5.56 rounds into the magazines of his AR-15 and having a hard time of it.

  “Moss, your lead foot’s gonna put us in the ditch.”

  Grinning, Moss eased up on the accelerator a touch. “Aye, aye, Mayor.”

  All in all there were a dozen pickups in the group, each bristling with armed men. Many of them were sitting in the bed, holding on tightly as the pickups swerved left and right to avoid rusted cars abandoned along the highway.

  They were heading to liberate Huntsville, Tennessee, a small town just south of Oneida. It hadn’t been more than three or four days since they’d executed the Chairman and his fellow Spetsnaz agents. Just enough time to begin the initial stages of reorganizing and figuring out what to do next. There was so much on the list and all of it needed to be done yesterday. But no longer was America simply reeling from the devastating effects of a super-EMP. Foreign troops were on US soil attempting to cross the Mississippi river, perhaps the country’s last line of defense.

  Since the Chairman’s dea
th, John had given his radio operator Henry the job of getting the news out to as many of the surrounding towns as possible. Rodriguez continued to recover from his wounds, and every day his spirits rose. He was anxious to get back into the fight, but John insisted he rest up until he was back at a hundred percent.

  The Chairman’s communications vehicle in Oneida had come in handy as a means of warning the neighbouring towns. In many ways, however, it was hard to say whether the message was getting through since no one knew the identity of the people on the other end. Were they friends of the republic or more foreign agents?

  “Three minutes,” Moss announced, clutching the wheel with both hands.

  John nodded, rolled down his window and held three fingers in the air, all the while trying to fight the buffeting wind. In the side mirror, he saw the signal being passed from one vehicle to another the same way it would be if the men were patrolling on foot. Clear communication was vital in any combat situation, especially when trying to maintain radio silence or noise discipline.

  Huntsville was set to be the first town they would liberate but also one they didn’t have a lot of intel on. The plan was simple enough. Roll in, scout around and get a sense for whether the inhabitants were more interested in shaking hands or putting a hole in someone’s head.

  Contrary to appearances, this wasn’t a guns-blazing kind of operation. At least it wasn’t supposed to be. The intent was to see if the people of Oneida could reach out and help a neighbor in need, even if that neighbor didn’t know he needed the help.

  The edge of Huntsville came into view and Moss slowed the convoy down to a crawl. John lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes and scanned ahead. On the right were a series of mobile homes. The broken windows and general disrepair told John there might not be anyone living there. Absent too was any sign of a barricade. Sure, U.S. Route 27 was four lanes wide, not including the shoulder, but a school bus pushed onto its side would have done a better job than nothing.

  Moss shook his head. He had that nervous look on his face, like he was expecting an ambush or maybe something worse. John couldn’t blame him. On patrol in Iraq, you learned quickly that when civilians weren’t on the streets or heading to market, the odds were better than none that an ambush was waiting up ahead.

  They continued south at a cautious pace, the men in the back of the pickups scanning right and left. They were still on the outskirts of town, but John had anticipated reaching some type of blockade manned by people he could speak with.

  “Either these folks have skipped town altogether,” Moss said, “or we’re about to get a nasty surprise.” His hands remained clamped on the wheel so tight his knuckles were turning white.

  Soon a used car lot named Hot Wheelz came into view. On the other side of the street homes stood in the center of large properties. That was when a hand-painted sign along the highway caught John’s eye.

  It read: Welcome to the Independent State of Scott.

  He glanced over at Moss, who was shaking his head.

  “That mean anything to you?” John asked him.

  “I know you spent most of your life down in Knoxville,” Moss said, “so I don’t expect you to know it, but the folks around here are pretty feisty and independent-minded. The State of Scott goes back to the Civil War. Scott County was named after General Winfield Scott, hero of the war with Mexico in the 1840s. Well, in 1861 these folks weren’t interested in leaving the Union like the rest of Tennessee and voted instead to secede from the Confederacy and form their own independent state. Hence the State of Scott, as it’s been called. Heck, they only repealed the resolution sometime in the mid-1980’s. These folks do things their own way.”

  It wasn’t until the convoy rolled right into town that they spotted the first barricade. The body of a wrecked eighteen-wheeler lay sprawled across the road. On top of it, a structure of sheet metal and other debris helped to create some cover for the men standing guard. The first thing John noticed was the look of fear on their faces at seeing such a large group of armed men rumbling toward them. Moss pulled to a stop about a hundred yards short, while John fished out the white pillowcase from his gear. Opening the door, he planted a foot on the unseasonably hot September asphalt and waved the pillowcase around in wide circles.

  The rest of the convoy stayed back while Moss drove ahead, stopping less than twenty feet from the barricade. A scrawny old man draped in dirty overalls moved out from behind cover. “This is a peaceful town, I’ll have you know. We like to mind our own business and I suggest you all do the same.”

  John introduced himself. “We’re not here to steal from you,” John told him.

  “Name’s Nathaniel,” the old man said. “But only my mother called me that, God rest her. Folks around here call me Nash. And let me tell you, if I thought for a second you boys were marauders, we wouldn’t be sitting here chatting.”

  “I suppose we wouldn’t,” John conceded. “Listen, Nash, we’ve been trying to reach your people on the radio. To warn them about the men claiming to be from the federal government who probably showed up after the power went out.”

  The old man snickered. “Oh, them.”

  Part of John had hoped that he’d been wrong, that the Russian agents had skipped Huntsville. The population wasn’t more than a couple thousand at best, but the railroad which cut through Oneida did pass through here, so maybe that was reason enough for the enemy to want the town. “They’re not who they claim to be. I know they probably showed up with fancy papers, but they’re—”

  “Y’all are from Oneida, aren’t you?” the old man asked and, as he did, other figures began to emerge from behind the barricade.

  John nodded.

  A toothless smile creased his weathered features. “Oh, we got your message loud and clear. I think it’s best if you come into town and meet Boris.”

  Chapter 2

  “Boris?” John asked.

  “Boris. Morris. Damned if I remember what he said his name was. Certainly wasn’t Tom Smith. He’s no American and that’s all that mattered. Anyway, bring your men in, we owe you a debt of gratitude.” The old man spat on the ground and fixed John with a crooked stare. “I gotta say, that little sniff test you gave us worked like a charm.”

  There was a cold, deadly look in a man’s eyes when he was luring you into a trap. The people gathering around John now didn’t have it. The old man hopped into the driver’s seat of a truck and led them into downtown Huntsville. But using words like downtown to describe what John was seeing was beyond an overstatement. In truth, Main Street, Huntsville was little more than a strip of small shops, gas stations and doublewides, leaving John hard pressed to find a building taller than a single story. Even the mayor’s office was a bungalow that bore an uncanny resemblance to a funeral home.

  Following close behind in a snaking column was the convoy of pickups from Oneida. The men’s hackles were up and perhaps it was best that way. None of them, including John, were entirely sure what they were getting themselves into. The only thing that helped set their minds at ease was the firepower they could bring to bear if things went sour.

  The old man pulled into the parking lot facing the mayor’s office and that was when John saw it. An imposing oak tree to the left of the building. The last of the pickups pulled in and stopped. The men in the truck beds stood, many shielding their eyes against the sun to get a better look.

  “They weren’t kidding,” Moss said, leaning into the steering wheel.

  John opened the door and stepped out, his AR at the low ready position.

  The old man was out too, pointing at the tree. “What’d I tell you? There’s Boris and his friends.”

  Four bodies hung from one of the oak’s stout branches.

  Secretly, John had hoped he might get a chance to interrogate Boris and perhaps gain some valuable intel; an opportunity they’d missed with the Chairman.

  “What happened?” John asked, realizing only after how foolish the question probably sounded.

/>   “What do you think happened, son? We hung those commies.”

  The Russians weren’t communists, but John wasn’t going to start splitting hairs. “I see that. I guess what I meant was, how did it happen? There was a terrible battle in Oneida when we ousted our imposter and many innocent people lost their lives.”

  “Like I told you,” the old man said. “Once we got your radio signal, advising us about the invasion and the fifth communists—”

  “Columnists.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Fifth columnists,” John said, elbowing Moss who was doing his best to stifle a giggle. “Never mind. What happened after you received our warning?”

  Nash worked his toothless jaw as though he was still finishing dinner. “The townsfolk, we had a secret meeting. See, this Boris and his men tried to take our guns, but that ain’t how things work in the State of Scott.”

  John smiled. “Moss here told me all about that.”

  “Folks here like to do things their own way. We hid the best guns and handed over busted-up .22s and target shooters. You gotta give ’em something so you don’t rouse suspicion.”

  John glanced over and noticed none of the corpses seemed to have any bullet wounds. “But how did you—”

  “Heck, we did what any good southerner would do. We killed ’em with kindness,” Nash said as he slapped his knee and let out a hearty burst of laughter. “Seriously though. We threw a banquet and before we ate, everyone stood up to sing the national anthem. Any red-blooded American knows you don’t sing the anthem before eating. You say the Lord’s prayer. Well, when they went along with it, that was our first hint they might not be who they said they were. Then we watched their lips as they pretended to sing the anthem. I think they got as far as ‘dawn’s early light’ before they started lip-syncing worse than that Britney Spears girl. Anyway, by that point we’d seen more than enough and gave ’em a great big serving of arsenic mash potatoes.”

  Nash was swollen with pride as he relived the moment.

  “You folks did well,” John told him. “I only pray that more towns hear our message and do the same. I just wish we’d been able to question them first.”