Edge of Valor: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller(33)

“I will give you the results you desire,” the General said woodenly. Inwardly, he was fuming. Though he despised the governor, he needed him—for now. “Give me three days.”

The General strode to the credenza and tossed the sat phone on the sleek quartz top, though he was tempted to hurl it through the plate-glass window. He inhaled a deep breath, reeling in his fury.

His knee joints creaked. The blank black eye of the oversized flat-screen television reflected his own image back at him. White hair. Lined face. Hard gaze.

He still had five hundred troops at his disposal, a battery of M2s and M60s, and a limited supply of artillery. He had the Black Hawk.

He was General Sinclair—he would get the job done by any means necessary.

Gibbs cleared his throat. “Sir.”

The General swung around to face him. “Yes?”

“Two things. First, a man named James Luther is here to see you. Claims he was Mattias Sutter’s righthand man and the only surviving member of the militia stationed in Fall Creek. Says he’s got information you’d like to hear.”

The General frowned. A fortunate turn of events, if it were true. Sutter had mentioned a man named Luther. With Sutter gone, he needed eyes and ears on Fall Creek. “I’ll meet with him. The second thing?”

“Bruce caught two guardsmen attempting to sneak out of the service entrance. Deserters. Claimed they wanted to get back home to take care of their families.”

Outrage flared through him. No one deserted his army. No one. Whatever desertion issues were plaguing the governor wouldn’t be a problem for his troops—he’d make sure of it.

“Then they shall be court-martialed. A few will turn to several, which will become a mass exodus. If everyone left their posts to be with their families, we wouldn’t have anyone left to defend this country!”

Gibbs stared straight ahead, expressionless. “Sir. They’re being detained in the kitchen freezer.”

He cocked his grizzled brows. “The freezer?”

“No windows, only one steel door. Impossible to break out of.”

“Have I told you I like how you think?”

“A few times.” Gibbs remained expressionless. He was a practical, emotionless, get-the-job-done type of man. No family, no emotional ties to weaken him.

The General appreciated that in a soldier.

“As I recall, desertion carries a maximum punishment of dishonorable discharge, forfeiture of all pay, and confinement of five years. However, for desertion during a time of war, the death penalty may be applied at the discretion of the court-martial. We are at war, Gibbs. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“On numerous fronts, sir.”

The General snorted. If he only knew how true his words were. Only the top echelon knew the true state of the world. With the abrupt dearth of mass communication, the government had kept it under wraps.

For how much longer, though? That was the million-dollar question.

“Bring me to the deserters,” the General said.

Gibbs’ mouth twitched—the only sign that he approved of the decision.

He held the door open for the General. Eight of his bodyguards fell into lockstep, two in front, two behind, four flanking him.

They wore dark camo uniforms with chest rigs, tactical gear, and black helmets. Long guns slung over their chests on two-point slings, various knives affixed to their belts, and pistols in thigh, ankle, and waist holsters.

Baxter met them in the hallway, flushed and out of breath. He held up a lukewarm Coors Light. “I confiscated this from one of the soldiers—”

“Put it in the room. And bring your notebook. I want you to record this. It’s going to be…interesting.”

Baxter bobbed his head. “Sir.”





21





The General





Day One Hundred and Eight





Gibbs took the lead, followed by the General.

The door slammed behind them as Baxter scurried to catch up, clutching the brown leather notebook with archival-quality paper in his long slender fingers.

He’d chosen Baxter’s flowery but exacting script to dictate the events of America’s fall—and eventual revival.

Whether that was ten years from now, or fifty, or a hundred, it didn’t matter. The victors wrote history. The General intended to be one of them.

This book—this version of history—would become his legacy. He was certain of it.

The General followed Gibbs through the labyrinthine hotel. Pity the elevators didn’t work; they had to take the stairs.

The stairwell was pitch black. Gibbs flicked on a flashlight. By the time they reached the ground floor, the General was sucking air through his teeth.

They passed through several large convention halls. The carpet was a ghastly flowery print. Picture windows along one wall featured slivers of blue—Lake Michigan a vivid cobalt against the horizon of heavy gray clouds.

The professional kitchen was the size of a house. Dust filmed the once-gleaming stainless-steel counters, cabinets, and oversized appliances. Crates of MREs and other supplies were stacked near the service entrance.

Two guardsmen sat on metal folding chairs before an oversized steel door. A couple of lanterns set on a nearby counter provided light.

The guardsmen stood and saluted as he entered. They wore BDUs and nervous expressions.