CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Benjamin Roark led his platoon south along what the locals had once called Frog Road. Before the fallout, signs warned motorists of migratory amphibians crossing in droves, but now the road was barely recognizable. The sergeant found it unused and empty except for ghostly remains of civilization. The abandoned vehicles not buried by deep ash were instead hidden under mounds of snow. Not even frogs had used this route in weeks.

  As they neared Stuttgart, Airman Eubanks made a signal, and the entire platoon moved into the tree line. Ben moved up the column to crouch beside his point man. “What do you see, Brad?”

  “Sergeant,” the scout said quietly, “the entrance is barricaded. Though I didn’t see any movement, I know there’re survivors. They’ve cleared away much of the ash along thoroughfares. The base is active.”

  “Let’s hope it’s our guys,” Ben replied. Dealing with the army, even their own army, wouldn’t be easy. The branches enjoyed razzing each other out of jest, but the competition between servicemen would be heightened since the attack. They could look down on the Air Force as inferior, or worse, refuse to accept Braston’s authority as their commander. “Let’s move,” he ordered.

  The main gate was barred from within but there were no sentries. He called for bolt cutters and A1C Ramsey hurried forward to make the cut. The chain fell to the ground and Roark pressed his team onward. He asked himself, where would you hide, Ben? If shit hit the fan and you didn’t have a bunker, where would you gather the entire base? He pointed toward the chow hall.

  The doors were locked, but Ben held back giving the order to breech. Instead he knocked loudly. No one moved inside. With a sigh he signaled for Eubanks to place a charge. Before he did, a single shot rang out from across the street. The loud pop from the passing bullet caused Roark to whirl and the platoon to duck behind cover. “Small arms,” he told his men. Whoever had shot at him used a pistol from long range.

  Ben called out, “Americans!” No one moved. “We’re Americans, put down your weapon!”

  After a few seconds that felt like eternity, a trembling voice called out, “USA is dead!”

  “It lives, brother!” Roark signaled for Eubanks and Ramsey to flank the chapel across the street. Staying behind cover, they moved off, careful not to be seen. “Our home may be destroyed,” he called out, “but freedom thrives within us!”

  “They’re all dead!” the voice shouted. “Our families, our president, everyone we swore to protect!”

  Ben stood, holding his rifle out to the side and made a show of laying it on the ground. With hands in plain sight he moved into the road. “Come talk to me, brother! I’ll show you proof that America lives on!” He pointed to the flag on his sleeve. “Old Glory is more than a flag for a place we once lived,” he shouted, “it’s an ideology. A way of life. Our ancestors fought and died so this flag would be the symbol of opportunity.”

  Another shot rang out, dangerously close to Ben. “Stay there,” the voice commanded.

  Airman Parker whispered from behind his concrete perch. “I have a shot, Sarge.”

  Ben whirled around, “Hold fast, Tom! I want to reason with him.” Turning back to the sniper with lousy aim he said, “Where are you from?”

  After a while the voice responded, “Oklahoma.”

  “No shit?” Roark smiled broadly, letting the man know that he wasn’t afraid. “What part?”

  “Lawton. Well, Fort Sill is where I grew up.”

  “I’m from Cache!” He took a couple of steps forward then paused. No more shots came. “Remember those giant buffalo burgers in Meers? You know, the place where all the tourists ate?”

  “Overpriced,” came the response.

  “Yeah, I agree. Ann’s made the best burgers. That’s where us locals ate.”

  “You… you really are from Cache?”

  “The name’s Ben Roark, brother.”

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  “Steve. Steve Thorne.”

  “Come out, Steve. Let’s talk.” He waited. After a full minute of standing in the street with hands held in the air, Ben saw movement from the chapel window. Then the door opened and a young man between eighteen or nineteen stepped out. He had a single private’s chevron on his collar.

  “Nice to meet you, Steve.” Ben held out his hand, but the private did not shake. Instead he hugged Ben around the waist and cried into his chest. When he was finished, Roark asked gently, “Please take us to your commanding officer.” The private nodded and led them down a deserted street.

  Private Thorne led Sergeant Roark and his team to the rest of the Stuttgart soldiers. Their hiding spot had not been the mess hall like Ben had guessed, nor was it the chapel. They had erected a makeshift village inside the base theater. The seats had been systematically removed, replaced by neat rows of army tents. Even the gallery and projector rooms above served as tenements for high ranking officers. Entire families now lived in this indoor city, away from windows and shielded by soundproof walls thick enough to damper radiation.

  Their makeshift bunker had been a genius placement, nestled against a cafe with an entire kitchen that served as a dining facility. Dry storage was not a problem either, as the Kelley Commissary was nestled a few hundred feet away at the end of the connected building. Between the two lay the outdoor recreation center and the woodworking shop, providing the community with everything they needed to convert the building for housing. The people within could hold out for years in their bunker and never leave.

  Steve led Ben and his team inside but refused to enter. “This is as far as I go,” he announced from the entryway.

  “Nonsense,” replied Ben. “We need you to make introductions.”

  “You’ll need a better sponsor than me if you’re meeting the colonel.”

  Ben froze. “What aren’t you telling us?”

  A voice from inside the theater answered, “That he’s exiled from the community, Sergeant. Cast out to fend for himself.” To the private, the voice said, “Tell him what you did, Thorne.”

  Steve’s eyes focused on a spot on the floor, unwilling or unable to look the newcomer in the eyes. When he finally lifted them, a trembling hand raised the Beretta to his temple and fired a single shot.

  Ben couldn’t believe his eyes. Everything happened so quickly, and he couldn’t move fast enough to stay the man’s hand. He watched as the soldier fell into a heap in on the porch. He turned slowly to watch a full colonel approach with three armed enlisted. The ranking officer strode casually toward the body and retrieved the Beretta, turning it over in his hands as if examining for damage. Then he slid the gun into an empty holster at his side.

  “I expected him to do that weeks ago, but he’s been milling about building up the courage. Either way, it’s nice to have my sidearm back.” The officer turned to face Ben. “We caught him with the underage daughter of one of our NCOs.” He inclined his head toward the village. “The girl’s pregnant now, and that’s a death penalty of its own these days.” He reached out a hand in greeting, “It’s good to see friendlies in these parts. I’m Colonel Frank Titus. Welcome to Stuttgart.”

*****

  Frank couldn’t believe his ears. He had invited the sergeant into the officer’s mess and listened intently to the briefing. After Roark had finished, Titus leaned back in his chair. It seems he still had a job after all.

  “You’re telling me a single senator survived the attacks? And that D.C. is gone? What about the bunkers in the White House? Cheyenne Mountain?”

  “Air Force One was in the air over the eastern seaboard, there’s no way it survived the EMPs,” Roark explained.

  “No, I don’t doubt that at all. What about the Vice President? Madam Speaker?”

  “They were at an outdoor gala in Cheyenne, Wyoming, of all places, ground zero of Yellowstone. They’re gone, all of them. Senator Esterling is the only surviving member of our government.”

  “And we swore to obey the orders of those appointed over us, didn’t we, Sergeant?” He carefully considered the obvious power play. By constitutional succession, this Michael Esterling was the rightful leader of the United States. He laughed. “A junior senator, still wet behind the ears, is the president of a land that’s fractured.”

  “That’s correct, Colonel. But don’t underestimate the man. He wielded power in Washington before the attacks, and he has a plan to recreate the United States here.”

  Frank felt his neck bristle at the words. “But this is Germany. He should be working with the authorities here to rebuild our home, then take us back to put the pieces together, not carve out a stake here.”

  “That’s his intention, how I understand it—but you should hear the details from him. I was instructed to reach out, locate our surviving forces, and pass on this message. I’m not to convince you of anything. He wants you to make arrangements and return with us.”

  “And let the radiation get us? You walked here, didn’t you Roark?”

  The sergeant nodded, “That we did.”

  “Yet you suffer no ill effects?”

  “Neither will you, when you return here with a vaccine for the rest of your troops, Colonel.”

  “A vaccine?” Frank shook his head. “For radiation poisoning? That’s not possible.”

  “It’s a new world, sir, and the entire playing field has changed. Return with me, meet our new president, and listen to his plans for the future. I think you’ll find his plan quite persuasive.”

  Frank reached behind him toward a row of containers on a hutch. He selected an older bottle of Irish whiskey and poured himself and the sergeant a glass. He took a savoring sip then tossed back the rest in a single chug. “If he holds the solution to the radiation problem, it doesn’t sound like I have that much of a choice but to find it very persuasive.” He poured himself another glass.