Red Hammer 1994

“Yes, sir.” Ogden quickly left followed by Bartholomew, leaving Alexander and Thomas alone with the communications crew. The clatter of high-speed printers and older teletypes filled the void, increasing in intensity. Slowly, methodically, the isolated mobile command center was connecting to survivors spread over thousands of miles, resurrecting the communications network necessary to pull together the shattered government.

Alexander motioned for Thomas to join him on the aluminum bench. The two sat, not speaking.

“We’ve got to be ready,” Alexander began haltingly. “McClain’s right; so is Bartholomew, but I had no choice.”

Thomas nodded his head in agreement. There was nothing to say.

“I have a duty to present the speaker, I mean president, with a recommended course of action. Then I can offer my resignation.”

“The speaker will be a fool if he accepts it,” Thomas replied.

“The constitution’s clear,” Alexander replied. “Everyone’s creating their own worst-case scenarios. The nation needs a president,” he said with conviction. Alexander rose, pushing off the bench. “Let’s get moving.”

The hastily erected tent provided a welcome respite from the oppressive heat in the cramped trailers. It was large, the size of two mobile homes; olive drab; and supported by thick pine poles posted every six feet. Removable lighting was strung along the sides with orange extension cords, supporting caged, bright white, naked lightbulbs. Wooden folding chairs encircled metal folding tables. Around the perimeter were storage containers and cots waiting to be assembled.

The group was small—the sensitive nature of the discussion precluding all but the most senior officials. Everyone was exhausted. Alexander reached deep to tap into his final wellspring of strength within.

He brought the meeting to order with a throat clearing. “When the new president arrives—”

Suddenly shots cracked in the distance. At first single pops and sporadic bursts then the sustained staccato of heavy machine-gun fire interspersed with sharp, piercing explosions. Closer and closer the sounds of battle came, constricting the camp like a tightening noose. Outside, shouting and cursing evidenced the confusion and panic spreading like a wildfire throughout the compound. Ogden leapt to his feet and pulled his pistol from his holster. The handful of Rangers present unslung their weapons and quickly took defensive positions near the front and rear entrances.

“Everyone stay put,” was the order. Someone was trying to douse the lights.

Thomas dropped with the others, hugging the plywood floor. The flimsy tent material wouldn’t even slow a bullet, let alone protect against fragmentation grenades. Thomas rolled on his side and pulled his pistol from the holster, chambering a round. Sliding away from the table, he maneuvered behind a large shipping container providing an unobstructed view of the entrance. He crouched on one knee, arms outstretched, finger on the trigger.

Bursts of automatic-weapons fire ripped through the tent. The Rangers gripped their weapons, fingering the triggers nervously, eyes straining in the now dim light. Without warning, a stream of soldiers crashed through the front entrance, weapons at the ready. Thomas’s jaw dropped in astonishment. All were clad in what looked like US issue cammies, with grease paint smeared across their faces, identical to the men around them. The slight hesitation by the Rangers bought the intruders just enough time. They opened up on full automatic, spraying the interior with blistering fire, one man high then the next man low, methodically moving the length of the tent, shredding every object in sight. The roar was deafening, the short-range slaughter unbelievable. The handful of brave Rangers heroically held their ground, kneeling and blazing away toe-to-toe with the attackers. Smashed bodies sprawled backward, blasted and torn by bursts of bullets that sliced uniforms and sprayed deep-red blood everywhere. Sustained rifle fire at point-blank range offered little chance for human survival. The conflagration was over in seconds, measured in time by a single spent magazine per man.