Officer Of The Watch: Blackout Volume 1 (28 page)

Joe led the way back outside, where he closed and locked the one door and opened the left door of the same barn.  Joe shone his light inside, revealing stacks of solar panels still in their protective packaging.  There were piles of cables to one side, and smaller boxes stacked in racks against the left wall of the barn.

"There's enough in here to repair our solar grid," Joe said.  "As long as we don't lose more than half of the panels at once, we should be good.  There are backup batteries, power inverters, and cables too.  If we needed to, we could add another thirty percent or so to our power production and still have spares for repairs."

The next barn held stacks of ammo cans grouped by caliber from front to back on the right side, and basic supplies like woolen blankets, first aid necessities, sleeping bags, and the like on the left.  Once he was done, Joe carefully locked each door with two heavy padlocks, each with separately ground keys.  When he was finished, Joe pulled a key ring from his pocket with eight small brass keys attached and handed to Eric.

"These are the only spares I have," Joe said, fixing Eric with a serious stare.  "Put them some place safe.  Don't tell anyone, and I mean
anyone
what I just showed you."

"I don't understand," Eric said, looking at the keys in his hand like they were a poisonous snake.  "Why did you show all this to me? What's it for?"

Joe took a deep breath and gripped Eric's shoulder with one hand, his face troubled.  "It took me thirty years to put that together, son," Joe said seriously.  "But it'd take someone thirty minutes to take it all.  I didn't know what was coming back then, but something told me to get ready.  I've spent most of my adult life neck deep in the worst, most dangerous and unstable environments on the planet.  I've been scared before, but never here at home.  Not until..."

Joe's voice trailed off, and for a long moment he stood staring at something Eric couldn't see.  Finally, Joe shook his head and snapped back to the present.

"This," he said, gesturing to the barns behind them, "well, you need to know what's out here, son.  In case the worst should happen."

Ch. 58

Word From Outside

"Tower, this is inbound," Marcus Attledge said into his headset again.  "Request authentication code: Utah Kilo 166 Yankee.  This is a FEMA priority one task flight, you are required to respond.  Please copy, over."

Marcus sat and waited for a moment, listening to the static on the other end of the line.  He had repeated the message four times now and had so far gotten the same static in return.  He was beginning to lose his patience.

"Look," Marcus said into the headset, "I can see the lights in the windows, and your radar is scanning right now.  You've got power, and I know you can hear me.  Open up, guys."

"Roger, Ghostrider, we copy,"  a voice finally replied into the headset.  "Your code is authentic.  Response: Romeo Charlie 449.  Welcome to Tennessee.  I've got to admit, we weren't exactly expecting visitors."

"I can imagine," Marcus replied.  "Request permission to land?"

"Come on down, Ghostrider, the skies are clear," the controller responded.

Marcus tapped the pilot lightly on the shoulder, and he began maneuvering the chopper to the flat paved helipad outside the National Guard control tower.  As soon as the wheels touched down, Marcus hopped out and sprinted across the landing pad towards the door leading to the control tower.  When he was out from under the rotors, Marcus stood, but he pulled up short.  A squad of soldiers had deployed from the base of the stairwell and had their rifles trained on him.

"That's far enough, sir," the man from the radio called.  "You have an authentic code, but we don't know you.  I need to hear a little more before we give you access to the base."

Marcus nodded, careful to keep his hands well away from his body.  He was wearing a tactical vest and body armor with impact plates, but that wouldn't mean a thing to a well place shot in the head from one of the rifles trained on him.  The forty five caliber pistol at Marcus' hip might as well have been back in the helicopter for as much good as it would do him to reach for it.

"Okay," Marcus shouted over the sound of the helicopter.  "What do you want to hear?"

"What are you doing out here in a working Blackhawk, for starters?" the commander asked.

"Classified, Captain," Marcus replied, noticing the two silver bars on the man's fatigues. "We're just here for refueling, and we'll be on our way."

"Who are you with?" the Captain asked, his eyes narrowing.  "You don't seem like the FEMA type."

"Private contractor," Marcus replied, noticing a sour twist to the Captain's face.  "Can't be more specific than that.  We are on contract with FEMA and DHS, though, and operate under their authority."

The Captain frowned and thought for a moment, his eyes troubled.  He had to know that there was only one way Marcus could possibly have the valid authentication code he'd used.  Those codes had been changed immediately after the blackout, and new sets of go codes and confirmation codes had been disseminated from the very system Marcus helped design and maintain under Terry Price.  Marcus knew without a doubt the codes were authentic, and so was the Captain.  With that knowledge, there wasn't really a whole lot the Captain could officially do to stand in his way.

"Do you have any word from outside?" the Captain asked finally.  "Anything at all about what's happening?"

Marcus nodded slowly.  "That I can tell you," he replied, and the Captain visibly relaxed a bit.  "I'm Marcus Attledge."

"Withers," the officer replied, stepping forward and extending his hand.  "Captain James Withers.  Like I said before, welcome to Tennessee."

Marcus nodded and shook the Captain's hand.

Ch. 59

A Quiet Sunrise

Joe sat in the family room listening to the soft tick-tock of the antique Regulator hanging above the fireplace.  The brass pendulum rhythmically marked out the seconds just as it had for more than fifty years.  The rest of the house was silent save for the sounds of sleep and snoring.  Joe could hear the big fellow, Bill, who was sleeping outside on the side porch in a sleeping bag.  He had helped settle Gilbert and his family on the front porch with some sleeping bags from the stockpile.  It wasn't the most comfortable place to make a bed, but that was temporary, and they had been more than grateful just for a place to stretch out and rest their heads. 

The white porcelain cup of instant coffee in Joe's hands had cooled enough that he was able to drain it in two large gulps.  He sat for a while staring into the empty mug, his thoughts rolling around in his head like loose bowling balls.  Outside, the sky had turned a pearly gray that hinted at the coming dawn. 

Later, Joe couldn't be sure how long, the door across the family room opened, and his father-in-law stepped into the room.  Levy was neatly dressed in a pair of dark khaki work pants and a buttoned plaid cotton shirt.  Levy's Velcro tennis shoes had been brushed clean of dust and dirt from the previous day's work in the fields, and his hair was neatly parted to the right.  If he was surprised to find Joe awake ahead of him, it didn't show.

"Good morning, Joe," Levy said, taking his glasses off to wipe the lenses clean.  "Good to see you back safe and sound.  Did you find what you were looking for up north?"

Joe shook his head, still staring into the coffee cup. 

"What happened, son?" Levy asked softly.  "Do you want to talk about it?"

Joe shook his head again, looking up and meeting Levy's eyes.  "Not yet.  I will, but not yet."

Joe stood and set the coffee cup on the mantle and scooped four fresh bottle caps into his hand.  He picked up his scoped bolt action rifle, slung it over his shoulder, and grabbed a roll of duct tape and a paper match target from the hearth.  Levy watched him quietly from across the room, his eyes and face full of concern and unasked questions.

"Can you do me a favor?" Joe asked, and Levy nodded slowly.  "Don't let anyone go past the garden field until I come back.  We'll talk then, okay?"

Joe started for the door, but Levy placed a hand gently on his shoulder and stopped him.

"Whatever you done," Levy said slowly, looking Joe square in the eyes as he spoke, "it got you home safe, son.  You're a good man.  Don't you doubt it for one minute," Levy said as he squeezed Joe's shoulder and then patted it softly.

Joe wasn't quite sure what to say, so he swallowed past the hard lump that had formed in his throat and nodded.  Levy turned and went into the kitchen to fix some coffee, and Joe stepped out on the back porch.  He took a deep breath of the cool morning air and started walking.  The rough road that led down the hill to the garden field was still in deep shade beneath the towering oaks and pine trees on either side.  Spider webs outlined in thick drops of dew stretched across the road in several places, but Joe avoided them easily.

At the back edge of the garden field, Joe stepped into the woods.  The shadows were dark beneath the canopy even though the sky had begun to lighten considerably.  There was a road that ran down to the river fields that Joe could have used, but he felt like stretching his woodsman's legs this morning.  He picked his way carefully and silently through the thick leaf litter that covered the forest floor as birds and squirrels scattered into the trees ahead of him. 

At the bottom of the long slope of the hill, the ground flattened out into a broad flood plain.  The trees thinned out a little, and Joe stepped out onto the same road that Levy and Eric had walked the day before on their fishing trip.  Joe followed the road around past the big rock fishing hole until he came to the last of the river fields.  The field was two hundred and thirty yards long and around eighty yards wide.  The far end of the field was raised slightly, and years ago he'd built up a shooting platform there. 

Joe took the target to a mound of earth that had been piled with a backhoe just at the edge of the thin line of trees that separated his end of the field from the river.  A broad, flat piece of plywood riddled with holes lay flat against the steep side of the earthen bulwark facing the opposite end of the field.  Joe taped the paper target to the center of the board, and then taped one of the bottle caps to each of the four corners of the paper.

The soybeans planted in the field were waist high and a deep emerald green.  The stalks swayed in the light morning breeze, and they would serve as a wind indicator for Joe once he was in place.  He walked slowly through the field, making note of the deer, rabbit, and raccoon tracks that littered the soft soil.  Some of the tracks were faded and washed out from weeks of rain, but others were deep, crisp, and no more than a day old.  A few tracks from coyotes ran through the field also, tight on the tracks of a rabbit or squirrel.  Joe knew that at least three bobcats lived on the family's property, but they were much harder to track than the coyotes.  The soft fur and padding on the cats' paws made their tracks shallow and soft, and they washed out completely with even a light rain.

When Joe reached the flat-topped dirt mound that served as his shooting platform, he climbed to the top and began setting up his shooting area.  He placed a small plastic ammunition box where he'd be able to reach it easily with his right hand.  A pair of spotting binoculars went to his left to check his shots.  Joe flipped down the bipod attached to the fore end of the rifle and set it on the mound.  Then he carefully settled himself into a prone position with his legs extended behind him and spread slightly more than shoulder width apart.

Joe sighted down the scope first, and then reached up to turn the dial while counting the faint clicks in his head.  The scope had been zeroed in at one hundred and fifty yards, so he had to raise the point of impact slightly for the extended range.  He guessed the wind speed at no more than five miles per hour to the right, and adjusted his reticule accordingly.  Finally set, Joe loaded one of the .25-06 cartridges that he'd hand-loaded months earlier.  The powder was carefully measured and packed to provide the best speed, longest range, and flattest trajectory possible for his bullet weight.

Joe shifted his weight slightly and sighted through the scope again.  He slowed his breathing, taking deep and even breaths in and out, counting in his head to set a steady rhythm.  He breathed in deep one last time, and let a little more than half of the air out of his lungs and held the rest.  As he began squeezing the trigger slowly, meticulously, Joe became acutely aware of his heartbeat.  In the space between one beat and the next, Joe squeezed the last little bit, and the round fired. 

The rifle was loud, but the recoil was easily absorbed by Joe's body and the ground he was resting on.  The targeting reticule barely moved, and Joe could clearly see the point of impact on the neon "splatter" target; three inches low and two to the right.  The first shot was always off, though, thanks to the cold barrel.  Joe sighted on the center of the bull's-eye again and controlled his breathing.  At just the right moment, he squeezed off another round.  This time, his shot hit just slightly below center.  Joe clicked the elevation dial on his scope one time to the right to raise the point of impact slightly.  This time, though, instead of aiming for the center of the target, he aimed just a hair below center.  He sent three rounds down range, and then checked his accuracy with the binoculars; all three of his last shots were nearly on top of each other and tightly clustered in the very center of the red bull's-eye.

Satisfied that he was dialed in on the target, Joe moved his aim over to the bottle cap in the top left corner of the target.  He slowed his breathing and carefully squeezed the trigger smoothly, evenly.  The shot rang out, and Joe knew it was a hit before the bullet even reached the target.  He repeated the process on each corner of the target.  When he reached the last cap, though, he hesitated.  For a brief moment, as Joe sighted down the scope at the last bottle cap, he thought he saw a face staring back at him, pale and drawn in a twisted expression of pain and suffering.