Divided We Fall (2 page)

CHAPTER 1

Combat
Outpost Savannah

“Winter is on us.”

“Yeah,” Brad
answered, not looking back. Standing at the farthest end of the outpost, high
in the south-facing tower, he could see beyond the cleared fields of fire and
into the abandoned homes of Savannah. He looked down the rows of empty streets
at abandoned cars and overgrown yards. Occasionally, a Primal would move out of
cover but just as quickly vanish into the shadows. The things had become aware.
Like any apex predator, they started to adapt to the food chain and their local
environment. They would still venture near the outpost, attacking patrols
outside the wire, even massing when they detected weakness, but normally
staying out of range of the outpost’s towers and guarded gates during daylight
hours.

The constant threat
made life within the camp grueling, especially on the many civilians and
families inside, not used to the high-tempo lifestyle. The Primals were still
deadly and would often make probing attacks against soft spots under the cover
of darkness, occasionally breaking through the defenses and sometimes even
managing to find themselves inside the camp. These attacks were always shut
down quickly with a well-disciplined guard force. Still, the nocturnal pack
hunters were unpredictable in the size and shape of their assaults and forced
the camp to maintain a grueling state of readiness.

Rigid steel and concrete
walls, braced up with compacted soil, ringed the Savannah outpost. Evenly
spaced along the outpost’s perimeter were tall watchtowers. At one time, they
all were occupied and often still were in times of emergency or heavy Primal
activity. Currently, the only areas manned around the clock were the towers in
strategic positions—along highways, gates, or in certain areas of overwatch. Roving
guards heavily patrolled the areas between the towers and other void areas,
checking for breaks in the wire or other indications of a Primal attack.

Brad and Brooks had
begun making a habit of running the trail that ran along the inside of the
post’s perimeter every morning. Often they would stop at one of the abandoned
towers and use the high vantage points to learn the lay of the land. Brooks made
diligent notes, logging avenues of escape and the best areas of defense in case
they were overrun or had to bug out in a hurry. He kept his hand-drawn maps in
a fanny pack he wore on his hip. He took inventory of the emergency provisions
stored in every tower they visited.

Not looking up from
the sketching on his map, Brooks said, “You know it won’t be easy.”

“What in the last
few months
has
been easy?” Brad responded. He walked away from the tower
window and plopped into an old office chair. “The Rangers said we can use one
of the birds to get back to Sumter—”

“And then what? You
gonna walk all the way back to the ’stan?” Brooks asked.

Brad tossed an
empty water bottle at the wall and stood. “What are we supposed to do? Leave
them out there?”

Brooks shook his
head and got to his feet. Grabbing his MP5, he slung it so that it hung over
his back and prepared for the final leg of their run. “I’m just saying, we lost
a lot of good people to get this far. How do we know they ain’t better off
where they’re at?”

Brad stared far
into the distance and pointed at a dark column of smoke climbing above a
distant patch of green forest. “How long’s that been there?”

“Started this
morning,” Brooks said. “Boys are saying an electrical storm started it; gets
any bigger, could be a problem for us.”

Brad moved closer
to the open side of the tower while looking intently at the smoke on the
horizon. “Damn, if the wind is just right, that would burn right up to the
walls.”

“Yup, and anything
of value in the city, starve us all out,” Brooks said.

Adjusting his
shoulder holster, Brad pulled his sweatshirt down tight around his waist and
moved to the ladder. “Could get out of control really fast…”

“You want to check
it out? We could get a vehicle from the motor pool. I’m bored to death locked
in garrison, anyway,” Brooks said.

Brad grinned; the
garrison life—threats or not—had become a bore, even though it allowed his injuries
to heal. He wanted to get back outside to do his job, not post maintenance. The
Rangers allowed them to leave the outpost on their downtime, but for the most
part kept them assigned to limited duties and work parties, without allowing
them on the daily combat patrols. He stopped and looked back at Brooks,
speaking as he climbed down the ladder. “Let’s go.”

At the bottom, Brad
turned and ran across the post instead of following the path. The outpost
contained all of Hunter Airfield, forest, and open ground. The old post fences,
raised and reinforced, and areas of only chain link fence pushed back to meet
highways or other natural barriers. The outpost was now completely
self-contained, with more than enough room for the camp’s inhabitants. The post
walls were a priority, and everyone spent a fair share of time on the daily
work parties that improved them.

Brad briefly looked
back to see Brooks reach the bottom and begin to follow him. Brad picked up his
own pace to try to stay ahead. He turned onto a narrow trail leading to the
barracks, nodding to a pair of armed soldiers guarding the gate as he passed.
Brad and the team could have taken their choice of any of the vacant homes
located in the housing areas; instead, they chose to live in the large barracks
building located near the center of the outpost. Not only to remind them that
their situation was not permanent, but also to remain close to one another.

He slowed at the
barracks building, which were three stories tall and surrounded by uncut grass.
Boards covered the first floor windows and a thick coil of razor wire wrapped
around the building’s foundation. Not only did they secure the outer perimeter
of the outpost, there were several areas within also covered and divided by
fences. Each inhabited building was barricaded and secured by another pair of
soldiers, who stood watch on the stoop of the barracks’ entrance.

Brad eased into a
jog then a walk as he turned to wait for Brooks. He grinned as he watched his
friend pass onto the concrete walkway and move forward to meet him.

“You’re getting
faster, Army,” Brooks said.

“Bro, I think
you’re getting slower—”

The door at the top
of the steps leading into the barracks flew open, slamming against the
handrail. The guards on the stoop quickly separated to make room for a group of
soldiers in full kit rushing out. Brad reached out and grabbed a private.
“What’s the hurry?”

“There’s a fire.
Somewhere out past the city limits; sending out a patrol to check it out,” the
private said.

Brooks looked at
Brad and smiled, shrugging his shoulders, and then turned to face the soldier.
“Could you all use a couple extra hands?”

The private pulled
away, trying to catch up with the others, and then looked back at Brad. “I’m
sure the LT wouldn’t turn down the help, but you better hurry; we’re rolling in
five mikes.”

The young soldier
ran down the path, eager not to be left behind. “We’re on the way; tell them
not to leave without us!” Brad shouted.

Chapter
2

Hairatan
Customs Compound: Northern Afghanistan.

The soldier ran
across the roof of the building, barely stopping in time before nearly tumbling
down the open hatch and into the warehouse below. He caught himself and grabbed
the rungs of the ladder. Gripping the side rails, he quickly slid to the bottom
where the warehouse was tightly organized into individual living spaces. Fires
smoldered in small metal rings, leaving a smoky scent in the cold dawn air.
Most of the families had already reported for their daily work chores and the
warehouse floor was empty except for a few women minding after small children
who stopped and looked up at him, startled by his quick movements.

Making a quick dash
for the large overhead doors, the soldier nodded his head apologetically and
ran through the maze of blankets and bedding that covered the floor. He stopped
for just long enough to survey his surroundings before continuing toward the
guardhouse, quickly crossing the distance, and charging through the entrance.
Heavy drapes and scraps of cardboard covered the windows, but the lanterns were
still out; the nightshift guard force was not awake yet.

“Sergeant Turner!”
he yelled as he moved through the narrow building, tripping and bumping into
cots as he worked his way to the back in the dark. “Sergeant Turner!”

Startled awake, men
rolled over in their bunks; some shouted obscenities while others pulled
blankets over their heads. Turner sat up in his bed and looked at the excited
soldier. “What the hell do you want, Mendez?” he said.

The soldier stopped
just in front of Turner’s rack, gasping to catch his breath. “Sorry… to wake
you, Sergeant… but… the drone… the drone is back… and we think it might have
dropped something.”

His words suddenly
caught the attention of the other men in the barracks, and Turner looked at the
messenger wide eyed. “Dammit, get the scouts formed up and meet me by the
vehicle gate. Hot damn, boys, this might be our lucky day!” Turner shouted. The
bearded sergeant reached down and quickly pulled on his multi cam trousers and
a thick thermal shirt. “Mendez! Hold up… how long has it been since you saw
it?”

Mendez, who had
already taken off toward the exit to gather the scouts, stopped and looked
back. “We just spotted it, Sergeant; it looks like it dropped something in the
container yard. Some sorta tube with a long streamer attached.”

“Good, get moving.
I’m right behind you.”

Turner stood and
stretched. He reached to a windowsill, grabbed at his green standard-issue
canteen, and took a long pull of the cold water. Winter was nearing the
compound and the temperature was dropping overnight. Soon, snow would come and
the river would freeze. Survival of the camp was not in question, not from the
weather, anyway; the Afghan people would make sure they lived through the
winter—the problem was the Primals.

If the river froze,
the hordes of crazies from the northern bank and the more populated city of
Teremez would be able to cross. It was a constant concern to Turner since the
first frost dropped over the compound a week ago. Maybe the drone would be the
saving grace he’d been hoping for.

Turner strapped on
his pistol belt then slung a rifle over his shoulder as he moved through the
barracks toward the door. He stepped into the brisk air, squinting as his eyes
adjusted to the bright sunlight. Despite the distance, he could see that
soldiers in varying uniforms were grouping together at the main gate, making
ready for a patrol. An Afghan scout walked among them, checking equipment and
weapons. Turner reached into his shirt pocket and removed a half-smoked, hand-rolled
cigarette. He placed it in his mouth and used a Zippo to light it.

Inhaling deeply, he
closed his eyes, held in the smoke, and rolled his shoulders before exhaling.
Turner stepped off toward the gate. As he moved, he watched the gathered men
look at him; Mendez, with an Afghan scout close in tow, joined him halfway. The
Afghan scout wore his traditional clothing of a dark wool sweater and cap. His
beard was thick and his bushy hair pulled pack and tied. Close to his chest, he
carried a collapsible AK74 with a hand-built suppressor.

“Morning, Hassan,”
Turner said, greeting the scout as they met on the path. “Are we ready?”

Hassan had earned
his place on the base, quickly becoming one of his most dependable scouts.
After the initial attack and fight for common survival became apparent, the
differences between them, created by wars, quickly vanished. Hassan returned to
the compound shortly after Sergeant Thompson departed with the SEALs, telling
their story and promise for a rescue. The scout brought in more survivors he’d
gathered on his journey and was always roaming the nearby villages in hopes of
finding more.

 “Yes, the men are
ready. We can depart at your discretion,” Hassan said.

“Primal activity?”
Turner asked, looking at Mendez this time.

“No, Sergeant, the
drone didn’t seem to move them. The Primals still seem to be sticking to the
city side… and of course them ones across the river. The yard is clear,” Mendez
said.

“Roger that. Send a
runner to let the lookouts know we’re entering the rail yard. “

 Mendez turned on
the balls of his feet to look at another soldier, who had been listening close
by. Mendez nodded and the soldier took off toward the positioned guard towers.

Turner held up his
rifle and chambered a round. “Alright then, move ’em out.”

Mendez raised a
hand and pointed at the gate. Two guards undid the latch and pulled it open
just enough for a single man to exit through it. Hassan passed by the rest of
the scouts as they formed into a column, their rifles unslung and held at the
ready. Hassan was the first to pass through the gate and into the rail yard.
The rest of the men moved out after him, keeping the formation tight. No need
to spread out, as the Primals never attacked with grenades or explosives.

After moving fifty
meters, Hassan left the blacktop road and stepped into the stacks of shipping
containers. In the last months, the men of the compound completely walled in
the camp with tall, fortified walls. Slowly, they enlarged the camp’s
perimeter, trying to expand the wire and clear their safe areas. Technically,
the rail yard was now in what they called a “green zone” completely enclosed by
wire, but they never left the gates without being on full alert.

Hassan slowly
patrolled forward, carefully clearing every corner as he moved. The rest of the
men kept pace; another Afghan scout stayed close behind Hassan, and three
soldiers with Turner closed up the rear. Most of the locks on the shipping
containers were cut, the goods long ago inventoried and taken inside the main
gates for safekeeping. Hassan stopped often to look at the ground to check for
trails or the wires and engineer tape tied between the aisles to help identify
if an intruder had slipped in.

They moved further
in, around corners, and toward the center of the container holding yard. Hassan
dropped to a knee, looked back at Turner, and tapped where a shirt collar would
be if he had worn one. Turner nodded and moved to the front of the column and
knelt next to Hassan.

Hassan pointed in
the distance at an olive green, pill-shaped device with at least fifty feet of
bright metallic streamer trailing behind it. “I believe this is your item,” he
said.

Turner looked in
the direction Hassan was pointing. Lifting his M4 to use the optics, he swept
left and right before saying to Hassan, “Okay, let’s move up.” Turner then
looked back at the rest of them and ordered, “Okay… you men get me a 360
security on this location.”

Turner reached out
and slapped Hassan on the back. “Okay, take me to it.”

Hassan slowly moved
back to his feet and crossed the open ground toward the olive green cylinder.
All the while, the rest of the men spread out and circled the object, creating
a full bubble of security as instructed. The cylinder was metallic with heavy
foam rubber cushions on both ends. A ring at the back connected it to the
streamer. Hassan grabbed the object and pulled it flat, then rolled it over.

“Well, I guess it’s
not gonna explode,” Turner said.

Hassan nodded. He
then reached down and, using a small dagger, tapped the cylinder. “It’s hollow.”

“Can you open it?”
Turner asked.

Hassan turned the
object over, examining both ends. He gripped the heavy foam rubber cap and
peeled it back until it popped off with an audible snap. Exposed at the tip was
a small seam and a yellow arrow painted around the lip, indicating the
direction to turn. Hassan paused to look back at Tuner before gripping the
cylinder between his knees and twisting at the top. Quickly rewarded with the
spinning of the cap, he spun it several rotations then it dropped off. Hassan
reached into the tube and pulled at a thick nylon rope, removing a foam, black,
egg-shaped object that split open as soon as it left the throat of the
cylinder.

 “I’ve seen this
before,” Hassan said and smiled as he reached into the foam egg casing and removed
the iridium satellite phone.