His eyes blurred. Figures burst into the room; the sharp report of gunfire. He felt a pair of hands on his shoulders throw him to the ground then the weight of a body on his back.
“Tango down! Tango down!”
More commotion, voices shouting.
Trevor blinked his eyes rapidly. They slowly cleared but his ears continued to ring.
Lights snapped on in the office. He heard Ashley crying.
Then he heard the voice that was most important to him.
“Fa-Father? I don’t feel so good.”
“Easy, easy does it,” came Gordon Knox’s voice as Trevor tried to stand.
Knox spoke to someone else: “Status?”
“Clear, Sir.”
Gordon Knox stood, releasing Trevor from his protective tackle.
Trevor stumbled to his feet.
“Jorgie? JB where are you?”
Gordon led Trevor by the arm because his vision remained fuzzy. Trevor realized I.S. agents filled the room. Someone must have heard the commotion in his office and alerted the standby tactical team.
Jorgie sat on the floor behind the desk with his hands on his ears saying, “I can’t hear anything.”
“Son…are you okay?”
“He’s okay,” the voice of Benjamin Trump said. “Got a good bump on the head, though.”
Trevor turned to the blurry figure who sounded like his father-in-law. He put a hand on the older man’s shoulder and said, “It was you? You alerted I.S.?”
“Haven’t been sleeping much, not with what happened in the den the other day. I heard something going on, snuck up the steps and peeked in the door. Instead of rushing in and getting us all killed, I figured I’d call in the cavalry.”
“Good job,” Trevor said as his eyes cleared a little more. Then he knelt to the ground and hugged his son.
Ashley staggered over, nearly crawling on the floor and calling for, “JB!”
The boy reacted to his mother’s voice. “Mommy? Mommy,” he cried softly and jumped as fast as he could into her arms.
Grandpa came over and hugged both his daughter and grandson.
“Sir,” one of the Internal Security agents examined the prone form of the intruder. “He’s still alive, barely.”
Trevor staggered to George Junior who lay on his back. He did not look so scary with all the lights on. More sad than anything else.
Blood flowed from a bullet wound to his skull. His eyes fluttered as his life drained.
“George, tell me,” Trevor spoke softly. “You said something about my son being special. What was it George? What do you know that I don’t?”
“Hey Richie…don’t…don’t stop…don’t stop fighting. That was my…my mistake.”
“My son, George. What about my son?”
“Maybe…maybe I’ll meet our father…Rich…I’d like that.”
19. Divination
The billboard blared, “Keep Yelling Kids! They’ll Stop!”
Stonewall cast an eye at that tribute to commercialism but noted, wryly, that yes, he and his men would, indeed, stop.
2 nd Mechanized Division approached the South Carolina border on Interstate 95. Infantry in a collection of ‘uniforms’ ranging from army fatigues to football team t-shirts marched in uneven order along the shoulders of what had once been the north bound and south bound lanes of the highway, forming four distinct lines. The men and women of the division carried gear in backpacks, duffel bags, purses, shopping bags, and wheeled suitcases making them resemble less an army and more a ragtag band of grubby hitchhikers.
Their weapons consisted of hunting rifles, shotguns, and some military-grade carbines; a variety of arms requiring a variety of bullets, a situation that created constant supply challenges.
Cavalry units formed a loose picket line in the distance ahead while crawling APCs, Humvees, and civilian- model vehicles clogged the middle of the road.
General Stonewall McAllister trotted along on horseback with Captain Kristy Kaufman as well as his bugler- freckle-faced Benny Duda-at his side and a perfectly blue sky above. The terrain ahead appeared flat and featureless; except for gaudy billboards promoting the “South of the Border” tourist stop.
Kaufman finished the most recent intelligence report: “There are no signs that the Hivvans have sent reinforcements from Columbia to support the supply depot at Dillon. That means the garrison there is on their own.”
“I am not happy, Captain. Not at all.”
“Sir? I would think this would be good news.”
“What? Yes, the lack of reinforcement is good-if not surprising-news. However, I am focused on the bad news today. We have lost cohesion in our division,” he pointed forward to the unknown ahead. “The front of our column is but seven miles from the objective.” He then turned in his saddle and pointed one gloved hand to the north, behind them. “Yet our column stretches some ten miles. We will arrive at Dillon piecemeal.”
“I understand, General. I suppose those screamer attacks managed to scatter us.”
“No doubt. Yet I sense a lackadaisical attitude among many of our number. Perhaps the proximity of the so- called ‘groupies’ travelling at our rear has caused some to wander in search of, let us say, comforts and leisure activities.”
“Possibly, Sir. I will dispatch a squad to search the caravans for any sign of deserters. However, General, I must point out that food distribution has been rather limited as of late. Some of the boys may merely be searching for a warm meal from the civilians following us.”
“Yes, I know,” Stonewall responded but in a hushed tone to keep his soldiers from hearing. “A scarcity of fuel is inhibiting the supply trucks. Nonetheless, we have a task to accomplish and our fighting spirit has not yet been diminished by these shortfalls.” He pointed to the billboard advertising ‘South of the Border.’ “I intend to rally our forces around this point ahead; this tourist trap. I want to establish my headquarters there and we will organize for the assault on the enemy depot.”
A commotion grabbed their attention. The thin line of horse soldiers marking the forward tip of the division parted and a trio of riders galloped through, led by Dustin McBride.
Benny Duda used his trumpet as a pointer and spoke the obvious, “Our scouts are back.”
“Yes, I see that,” McAllister eyed the galloping riders suspiciously.
McBride waved and yelled but the General could not quite hear the words.
“I say, what is he shouting about?”
Dustin yelled again, “Take cover!”
A flash in the sky caught the General’s attention. Another flash followed a split second later, this one at ground level and it included an electronic buzz as a zone of explosive energy hit the front of an infantry line. The blast fried six men there like a microwave on full power. Their blackened bodies fell apart and the remains of their clothing smoked.
“Incoming!”
The marching columns scattered off the Interstate for cover, but found only fields of grass and light brush.
Wham-buzz. Wham-buzz.
A horse soldier and his mount melted in a lethal electrical blast. The pavement beneath his charred horse turned to slag.
“Hivvan artillery, Sir!” McBride reported as he reached the General. “They’re all over that big rest stop up
