Insurgent -- Chapter One
Some time ago I blogged that I was planning to blog the sequel to Republic here on the site, as I wrote it. Of course, that means you're getting the ugliness of it all here on the blog -- including the stuff I'll be changing, correcting, whatever. That's okay with me, provided I get feedback. That's the deal -- if you read it, drop me a line.
The story begins three months after the close of Republic. SPOILER ALERT -- If you haven't read Republic yet, you might want to wait before reading these entries. A number of events that wrapped up the conclusion of the book are referenced in the early chapters of this one. If you want to read Republic now, you can pick it up at Amazon, download the ebook or listen to the podcast.
The draft versions of this story as posted here on the site are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Please let folks know about it, and feel free to send people the link, but I'll be changing/editing/correcting here as I go along and therefore it's best not to actually forward the text.
Thanks. Send feedback to charles [at] sheehanmiles.net
INSURGENT
CHAPTER ONE
Lieutenant Jonathan Blake leaned against the door of his humvee, eyes vacant, staring out at the pristine snow as the convoy slowly drifted forward. Two feet deep mostly, unplowed, some of the snowdrifts were three or four times that height. The twisting, road was framed between heavy woods and mountains that seemed to lean over the road on either side.
Blake had dark circles under his eyes, and those circles had their own dark circles. Like the rest of his platoon, his uniform was filthy, the computer-generated camouflage pattern nearly indistinguishable after weeks of hard use. He’d sewn the tear in the crotch a couple weeks ago, but that repair job was beginning to give out—as was his patience.
For weeks, nonstop, he’d been rolling with his platoon from town to town, back to the depot, back to the towns. Delivering supplies, trying to build up electricity, trying to rebuild… everything.
Today’s mission was no different: another tiny one-light (if that many) town in the middle of fucking nowhere, at the end of a long, winding mountain road. Power and phones knocked out—presumably by the snow and ice. He’d never seen so much snow in his life, and every time he left the camp he asked himself the same question: why the hell did I ever leave Florida?
That was one question he had to keep to himself. Though his sense of the ridiculous had often gotten him into trouble in college and infantry training, he’d only once made the mistake of making a smart-ass comment in the hearing of Captain Wellstone, the new company commander. Wellstone apparently didn’t think new Lieu-tenants were worthy of having a sense of humor.
Nor had Wellstone done a very good job of reintegrating the re-placements with the folks who’d gone through the brief war three months earlier. Blake’s predecessor, his platoon sergeant and half-a-dozen other members of his platoon were all killed in January; even more were injured. More than half of the faces in his platoon were fresh replacements, most of them straight from Fort Benning’s in-fantry training center. Whenever they had a few days of rest back at Camp Wingham, the tension in the barracks was palpable between the combat veterans and the replacements. Blake had wracked his brain trying to work out a solution to that problem, but with no luck. After all, he was a replacement himself. His predecessor, Lieutenant Dale Wingham, had been blown away by a sniper.
Blake looked over to his left. Behind the wheel of the humvee sat Specialist Jim Turville.Turville had only been back with the unit for a week: he’d been shot through the throat and spent two months at Walter Reed Army Hospital in Washington. He seemed to be okay now, but he was moving pretty slow, and he probably shouldn’t have been out on this mission if they weren’t so shorthanded.
They moved slowly, tires moving through the soft, heavy snow. Four times now they’d had to dig the column out, when they’d got-ten buried in drifts too big to drive over even with the huge tires of the humvees. Turville looked bored as he stared out, but alert, as his eyes darted from place to place.
“You feeling all right, Turville?”
“Yes, sir. My throat’s still a little achy, but I’ll make it.”
“All right. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“No problem with that, sir. I’d just as soon stay right here warm in the truck.”’
Lieutenant Blake smiled. According to the platoon’s non-commissioned officers, Turville had been in continual trouble for the first six months of his tenure in the Army. Then, out of the blue, he’d shown remarkable heroismin combat. During the murderous fire when their unit had been ambushed, he’d run out into the open to rescue their wounded platoon sergeant. The move diverted fire from the rest of his platoon, allowing them to run to safety.
The sergeant was killed anyway, and Turville was shot in the throat. The bullet not only missed the artery, but also missed crush-ing his windpipe; then bruised one of the vertebrae and passed out the side of his neck. Luckily it had been freezing cold then—just like it was now. The cold had served to slow the escape of blood, so in-stead of bleeding to death, he’d half frozen instead.
Turville didn’t know, but their former company commander had filed an award recommendation for the Silver Star. He wouldn’t get it: they’d probably downgrade it to a Bronze Star or Soldier’s Medal or something of the like. Standard operating procedure was to sub-mit an award for a much higher level than was expected, because everybody knew that each grade in the chain of command would knock it down one level.
All that aside, Turville’s miraculous survival had turned him into something of a good luck charm for the platoon. And, given the ex-treme shortage of decent replacements, that meant that he was getting his own fire team—like it or not.
Turville said, “Sir, I think I see somebody over there.”
“In this snow? Where?”
“Look right there, sir.”
Blake looked. Two hundred meters ahead of them, standing to the side of the road, stood a man in mostly white, baggy, hunting gear, rifle slung over his shoulder. The manwaved at the convoy.
“Flash the lights at him and honk the horn, let him know we’re coming.”
“Yes, sir.” Turville flashed the headlights. As they approached the man, Blake got a better look. He was gaunt; dark circles under his eyes, beard overgrown and filthy. Deep-set eyes stared out at the ap-proaching convoy.
A moment later they pulled to the side of the road next to the man. Lieutenant Blake leaned out.
“You need a ride somewhere?”
The man grinned, his teeth gleaming inside his heavy beard.
“Oh, no. I don’t need a ride. It’s you who’s gonna need a ride.”
Blake recoiled a little.
“What the hell?”
As he cursed, he saw the men. At least twenty stepped out of the woods, most of them armed with automatic rifles. All of them wore various patterns of camouflage, hunting clothes, anything not bright colored, anything to blend in with the woods. They all had beards, looked haggard and weak, as if they’d been living in the woods even through this hard winter.
“Lieutenant, put your hands in the air. You too, over there, driver.”
Turville didn’t hesitate. He raised his hands, his face impassive.
Blake said, “I don’t know what this is—”
“Shut up. Get out of the vehicle. We’re commandeering this col-umn for the West Virginia National Guard.”
“The West Virginia National Guard? I don’t think so—the Na-tional Guard is under Federal authority now.”
The man smirked.
“Oh. Is that so? Well, in that case, I guess I’m jes confiscatin’ it for me. I’m the head of the local militia.”
Blake looked back and forth. Turville’s hands were in the air—he wasn’t going to offer any resistance. They only had eight men on this convoy. There was no escort. The trucks were loaded with supplies: water, generators. Well, this may be one of those times when discre-tion is the better part of valor.
“Look, can I just call in, so you guys can get away, and I won’t have to walk all the way to Charleston?”
“Well, the way I see it, you got two options. You can walk into Whitesville. It’ll take you about two hours, and you can call in from there. Or, I could just shoot you dead right here, and then I won’t have to worry about nobody coming after me. Understand?”
The lieutenant nodded. Discretion was definitely the better part of valor in this case. Very slowly he raised his hands.
One of the men opened the door of the humvee. Blake looked back at the other vehicles in the column. The two men in the other humvee had been disarmed just as easily, as had the truck drivers.
“Got any weapons?”
“Just what you see.”
Briskly, the men patted him down, confiscated his M-16 and the forty-five caliber pistol at his belt. He also had two hand grenades in a pouch. They grabbed those too. Not good.
“Check ’em for phones.”
The search revealed his mobile phone—they took one from Tur-ville as well. After the search was completed, the men got into the trucks, waved with a grin, and drove away into the snow.
The eight soldiers stood in a loose circle, seven of them looking to Blake for a solution. One he didn’t have. Blake said, “All right, gentlemen, looks like we’re going for a walk. We’re screwed, but we might as well be warm while we’re at it. Whitesville is four miles that way.” He pointed down the snow-covered road. “Let’s move out.”
“Uh, sir,” Turville said.
“What is it?” Blake asked, expecting a complaint, or at the very least some criticism.
“Do you think the Army will reimburse me for my phone?”
For some reason—probably inappropriate—the question struck Blake as hysterically funny. He let loose a loud belly laugh as he turned toward the town.
“Why not, Turville? What’s a few hand grenades and automatic rifles, next to your missing cell phone?”
***
“General, we just got a call from Second Brigade. Seems that one of our relief patrols was ambushed in Boone County.”
Brigadier General Tommy Murphy looked up from the report he’d been reading. “Ambushed?”
“Well, they were accosted by a group of thirty men, calling them-selves the West Virginia militia. They were relieved of their weapons and trucks, as well as the relief supplies.”
Tommy sat back, his face puzzled. “Let’s go down to the opera-tions center.”
As he stood his phone rang, and he called out, “Marissa, hold my calls.”
“But, sir; it’s General Wells.”
“Shit. Hold on.”
He picked up the phone. “General Murphy speaking, sir.”
“Tommy, its Howard. I have good news for you.”
“Yes sir?”
“We’ve located your niece, and had a discussion with Homeland Security. They’re releasing her today.”
“Thank God. Is there any way I can reach her?”
“I don’t know anything about that. All they said was they prom-ised to release her, and Al Clark.”
“Good, we need him. Things are starting to get a little crazy here.”
“I understand that. How are things going?”
“I was just heading down to the operations center to check, sir. Apparently one of our relief patrols was set upon by a group of armed men. They were relieved of all of their equipment. I don’t know any details yet, sir, I’ll let you know as soon as I find out.”
“Relieved of their equipment? What does that mean?”
“Again, sir, I don’t have any details yet. I’ll get them know, and will get back to you with a report.”
“You’d better get back with me soon, Tommy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tom turned back to the Colonel and said, “Let’s go.”
Briskly, they walked to the operations center. It was a large room in what used to be the governor’s mansion. Inside, folding tables had been pulled together in two rows with laptops. The operations offi-cer sat at the end.
“Attention!” called the operations officer as Tom entered the room.
“As you were,” Tom said. “What’s going on?”
“Sir, we received a call from one of the platoon leaders in 2/16 Infantry. Our relief convoy into Boone County was set upon by more than thirty well-armed men, about two hours ago. They had to walk into Whitesville before they could call in.”
“Anybody hurt?”
“No, sir. But the thieves took both humvees, as well as their weapons. They also go two trucks, and all their supplies.”
“What kind of weapons did they have?”
“They had four M16s, a forty-five pistol. Half a dozen hand gre-nades. Gas masks.”
“Humvees weren’t armed?”
“No, sir, they weren’t expecting any opposition.”
“Christ.”
Colonel Todd looked at him and said, “You know what that re-minds me of?”
“Yeah, you don’t need to tell me what it reminds you of.”
They looked at each other, thinking of the three months after the fall of Baghdad, when everything had seemed quiet. Then all of the sudden, the insurgency appeared. Tom had been afraid of that here. He’d been operating as military governor for three months. An un-happy situation to say the least, but he’d finally managed to convene the legislature three weeks before.
Of course it figured that when they finally met, the legislature elected as their governor a man who was currently imprisoned.
Tom had argued with them long and hard to get them to reverse their decision, but they held firm. Finally, he had to go and lobby to try to get Clark released. Of course, he knew Clark hadn’t done any-thing wrong. Clark and Valerie Murphy, Tom’s niece, had both been in Washington trying to negotiate a peaceful settlement to the war when they’d been arrested. All the same, it took all his resources to try to get her released, along with now-governor Clark.
“All right. I want to pull the battalion commanders together. We’re going to have to come up with some new procedures. All of our convoys are going to have to go escorted.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ve also got those three national guard battalions. I want them put back on duty; minus their weapons.”
“Sir?”
“Look, whoever set this up must have known there was a convoy on the way. They were well prepared, just sitting out there waiting for us. That means somebody gave them the information.”
“Sir, my understanding is that this particular convoy went out be-cause the phone and power lines had gone down, possibly because of the storm.”
“Maybe they cut the lines. How the hell did the platoon call in if the lines were down?”
“Local sheriff, sir. Satellite phone.”
“All, right. Looks like we’re going to have to do some investiga-tion. Who’s on their way out there?”
“A platoon from 28th MPs, sir. We sent two choppers as well, and they’re heavily armed.”
“All right, give me a report back.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tom turned around and walked back to his office.
“Marissa.”
“Yes, sir.”
“My understanding is that the Department of Homeland Security is releasing two prisoners today—Al Clark and Valerie Murphy.”
“That’s your niece, sir?”
“That’s right. Find out where they are. I want to talk to them as soon as possible. Clark is taking over as governor here, so we can provide official transportation for him. I want to send a chopper to Washington to pick him up.”
***
In Whitesville, the sun was just setting behind the ridgeline, leav-ing the woods above the town in darkness.
Not much of a town, even when Turville had the other really ex-citing locales in West Virginia to compare it to. Right here in…downtown… half-a-dozen or so businesses stretched on both sides of the narrow road. Drug store, car-wash, hardware store. Hardly any traffic: they’d seen four moving vehicles in the last three hours, all of them trucks or SUV’s, all of them obviously built for this kind of nasty weather and terrain.
At least the town itself had been plowed—most likely by the resi-dents, given that there wasn’t much of a functioning county or state government. There was still no power or operating phone lines. The LT had borrowed a satellite phone from a county deputy in order to call into headquarters.
Turville leaned against the outside of the drug store, where he stood with Tillman and Santiago. Across the street Corporal Meigs stood with Turville’s old fire team. Turville’s old slot had been filled by Private Matt Rodriguez. A relief—Meigs and Turville had never gotten along.
“Hey, hey, lookie here,” muttered Santiago, inclining his head down the street. Turville glanced in that direction. Two girls were walking toward them, both of them bundled up in heavy coats and wearing snow boots. A wisp of dark hair had escaped the hood of the girl on the left.
“Knock it off, Santiago,” Turville said. “We’re not supposed to bother the natives.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Tillman, another rifleman right out of basic, said, “Hey, do you hear that?”
Turville listened. He could just barely hear the fluttering of heli-copter blades.
“Yeah. They’re coming.”
“It’s ’bout goddamn time,” said Santiago.
Turville opened the door to the drug store and leaned inside. Lieutenant Blake was standing at the counter.
“Sir, I hear a chopper,” Turville said.
The lieutenant looked back at him, then walked to the door, wav-ing to the clerk in the store. “Good. All right, everybody up. They’ll be here shortly.”
Turville looked around. The girls were about half a block away now as the men gathered together in front of the drug store. They were a mis-matched pair, one tall and blonde, the other short, bru-nette. The blonde wore dark mascara and a heavy pink winter goat, giving her eyes a sunken appearance inside the hood. The dark-haired girl had no makeup, and wore a navy pea-coat with a matching knit cap. Short-Girl and Tall-Girl.
In the distance, Turville saw the twin dots in the sky. Helicopers, coming in low over the mountains. Short-Girl turned around and pointed at the approaching helicopters.
They were older ones, Blackhawks, and the first one came in close over the town and started to descend. As the rotors flared, snow washed into the air from the street below.
Turville heard a whoosh, and a streak of flame lifted off from the woods, followed by another.
Two more streams of smoke appeared from the woods on the opposite side of the town.
Turville shouted, “They’re firing at the helicopters. Get down! Get down!” He ran for the two girls, shouting. Tall-Girl screamed, and Turville hauled them both to the ground.
A moment later, both helicopters exploded, then crashed into the street, spewing fire and metal parts all over the place. Both of the girls screamed now.
Turville looked Short-Girl in the eyes and grasped her arm. “Get inside, now.”
She nodded, obviously frightened, but grabbed her friend by the arm and hauled her toward the drug store entrance. Good.
The eight men in the two fire-teams had instinctively scattered around the intersection, taking cover behind various vehicles.
Turville ran toward the wreckage, but it was too hot to approach. Shit. No way anyone survived.
At that moment he heard a pop, then another one. A dust of snow scattered at his feet, and a realized, Holy shit, they’re shooting at us!
He looked around frantically, and then shouted, “L-T, somebody’s shooting at us.”
“Come on!” he shouted at his team, then ran for the drug store. More shots followed as they ran.
They ran into the building as quickly as they could. The LT was shouting into the satellite phone, “They’re shooting at us, I need backup now!”
Santiago looked over at Turville and said, “We got to get the fuck out of here before those assholes come down here.”
Turville said, “How? You know how to hotwire a car?”
Short-Girl interrupted him. “You can take mine.”
Turville looked at her. She’d taken her cap off, and her brown hair waved a little from the static. Her green eyes looked at him as she held out the keys.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. You probably saved us out there—least I can do. I’ll write down my number.” She did, then pointed to where her car was parked across the street, an old Ford F-150 truck. Turville glanced at the note—Rebecca Mays, 413-9845—then stuffed it in his pocket.
“Sir,” Turville said, tapping the Lieutenant on the arm.
“Yeah,” the LT replied, covering the phone handset with his hand.
“I got us a car, let’s go.”
The squad ran out of the building. Across the street, the truck was parked in a snowbank. Turville jumped into the drivers seat, the Lieutenant next to him. The rest of the men piled into the bed of the truck.
“Get us out of here, Turville.”
As if to punctuate the words, bullets slammed into the front of the truck.
“Where the fuck is that shooting coming from?”
“I don’t know. The treeline!”
A moment later, the engine roared to life. Turville put the truck in gear, and they raced out of town.
Click here to read Chapter Two.
Copyright © 2008 Charles Sheehan-Miles, All rights reserved.
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Delays, and more delays
posted 08/11/2008
So, a large number of people have written and commented in the blog asking when the next chapter will be. The answer is, very very soon. Sometimes real life gets in the way, but I think I'm back on track schedule wise.
Insurgent Chapter Four
posted 04/16/2008
Insurgent Chapter Three
posted 04/05/2008
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Replies:
I'm a bit concerned about the inclusion of Turville though. His court-martial was just as important as Morris' in Republic, but we only got details in the Epilogue of Morris', Karen's and Ken's courtsmartial. I assumed that was because he had died. I'm sure you have a better idea of what happened and what is going to happen, but it seems a bit of a stretch that he a) survived a potentially fatal shot and b) got off a serious legal charge as well. Especially with no explanation. Just my AUD 0.02 Shayne
Thanks for pointing that out. He's going to be a major character in this book -- more so than in the first. But I do need to explain this pretty early on, and will plan on revising that. The assumption is that, as with Morris, they chose to drop the investigation. Once the Article 32 investigation is closed, it's just like a grand jury that fails to return an indictment -- no court martial. I'm thinking that this is going to dramatically impact how Turville does things in the future -- basically the fear of screwing up again is going to drive him.
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