The Last Apocalypse

By Scott C. Haverly

A weapon of mass destruction so powerful it could obliterate everyone on the face of the earth... and Colonel Devon Everly had been responsible for its development. A weapon built by the United states to assure world peace, was now in the hands of the enemy. This was an unsuspected enemy, since Colonel Everly was one of them. And now the day was drawing close when it would be too late to stop a bloodless massacre of humankind. Did Devon and Sylvia Marler have what it would take to dismantle the deadly plan and go against everything they had been trained to trust and respect? Would the VLT-7 be part of the solution? This science fiction thriller written in the mid-1980s includes twists, turns, and a view of the future: 1998.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483517865

Book preview

The Last Apocalypse

a science fiction novel

By

Scott C. Haverly

Copyright © 2013 by Scott C. Haverly.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher.

Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be emailed to the following address:

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This book is a work of fiction. All characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. If not available at your local bookstore, this book may be ordered through King Media Services or through its online distributors. To order this book directly from the publisher, visit:

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Dedication

To my children…

who know the difference

between a fairy tale and a war story:

A fairy tale begins, Once upon a time…

A war story starts out, This is no bullshit…

part one

one

Early monday morning, november 24, 1997

Their large gray cargo truck pulled forward at the main gate to MBO Bragg. Not unlike a dozen other ordinary delivery vehicles admitted to the base during the previous hour, it too was waved on. The time was 0255 hours as the truck proceeded slowly toward the main post area, the two men in the cab in animated conversation.

I don’t like it. I like it even less now that we’re here. It’s just too goddamned easy, said the passenger, warily.

Hey man, just shut the fuck up! the driver spat. I mean it, man! You want me to pull over right here and throw your ass out? He glared menacingly at his partner.

Look asshole, I’m here, aren’t I? the passenger retorted in a choked-off voice, surprised at his own vehemence. He was afraid of the swarthy-complexioned driver and had seen the man explode in violent rage at others for much less antagonism than he had just displayed. Too late now to take back his words, he continued unabashedly, I got five bills in my pocket just like you, and I’ll stick somebody for the other five. But I don’t have to like it, alright?

Well, just watch the road signs, snapped the driver. I don’t want to make a wrong turn. They continued in silence for a moment.

Slow down. The man said not to get there before three-eleven. Don’t blow it man. The passenger paused for a moment. Hey, do you know what we’re taking?

No, the driver replied more calmly this time, surprised at his partner’s cockiness. We just drive to this building and pick up some rucksacks that’ll be waiting for us. That’s all I know. Just shut up and help me watch for signs now, would you? It’s darker than shit out here.

The rider continued, undaunted. There’s the road. Turn right here. What’s the mileage? Now, four-tenths of a mile down here, we go left. Got it? They turned and drove on in silence, proceeding down the road for 1.4 miles.

What time is it? the rider asked.

You check the goddamned time. I’m driving.

Three oh nine. You’d better speed up.

Look, I’m doing the driving, okay? See, there’s the road we turn on. Just eight-tenths of a mile to go and we’ll be there, right on time. Momentarily, he said, There’s the place…you see a sign?

No, all the buildings look alike to me. Probably a motor pool or something.

The young lieutenant on duty inside the security office at CACTUS-Bragg building 3236-F snuffed out his cigarette in the ashtray and finished a cup of strong, black coffee. It was just past 0300 hours. Checking the security console in front of him, six green-tinted monitors flickered in his eyes, each displaying infrared images of a portion of the perimeter adjacent to his building. Opening an envelope secured to his neck by a leather thong, he scrutinized the key code and duress phrase for the ECHO Security Report to the staff duty officer at XVIII Airborne Corps Headquarters. Quickly jotting down several ciphers from the sheet, he reached for the secure land-line and called in a negative report for the sixth time that night. Hearing the proper response at the other end of the line, he relaxed again. It would be forty more minutes before he should repeat the complex security reporting procedure. Now he heard only the breathing of his enlisted assistant sleeping fitfully on a cot in the small inner office. The time was 0310 hours.

Only two hours and fifty minutes remained of his weekend detail. Married only two weeks, he could imagine feeling the warmth of his young, beautiful bride against his body as he envisioned curling up next to her in bed. She would stir ever so slightly at his touch, releasing her breath gently in the pre-dawn darkness and then turn to kiss him tenderly. God, she was amazing! He thrilled to think of her. That was the last thing he ever thought.

His bladder let go as the involuntary muscles in his body ceased to function and he drooled uncontrollably, spasmodically slumping out of his chair. He was dead before his head hit the floor. The nerve gas, Agent Blue, hit his young assistant only milliseconds before with the same excruciatingly deadly results. Neither of them heard the slight hiss coming from a half-ounce metal cylinder in the ventilation duct. Had they been able to sound the alarm, more than one hundred heavily-armed men would have swarmed over the site in less than a minute.

Before his body stopped quivering, the large gray truck pulled up to the bay door outside the building. The driver shut the lights off and left the motor running, then with his passenger, got out and opened the truck’s rear cargo door. Four more men joined them quickly from inside. The bay door to the building was rising silently now revealing rows of what appeared to be rucksacks lined up on the concrete floor. A single light-bulb illuminated them and no one appeared inside the dimly-lit, cavernous room as each man hurriedly grabbed a rucksack as directed and carried it to the truck, returning several times for the rest of them.

Finally, all seventy-two rucksacks were loaded, the building’s door closed silently, and the four men, joined by the passenger, jumped into the back of the truck. The driver secured the cargo door and took his place again behind the wheel. He turned on the lights and drove slowly onto the dark access road. Twenty minutes later, they were heading north on Interstate 95. The five men in the back were already dead.

Thirty minutes later the truck exited the freeway. Continuing about two miles down a now deserted frontage road, it turned right and proceeded down another seldom-used road behind an abandoned industrial park, pulled over and stopped. In a few moments, four nondescript panel trucks pulled up in the darkness, their headlights out. Two men per vehicle jumped out, each wearing protective masks unnoticed by the truck driver. His door was opened abruptly and a small blue cylinder thrown inside and the door slammed shut again.

He opened his mouth in protest, but no sound came out. His nose began to run profusely and he felt a warm, moist sensation on his lap as his bladder and bowels emptied. His eyes bulged sickeningly and the motor nerves controlling his breathing ceased to relay their vital messages. His head jerked spasmodically rearward, his neck muscles contracting violently and his arms and legs flailing around in the confines of the cab. Suddenly his reaction to the nerve agent gratefully ceased. He too was dead and still.

The cargo door was thrown open and the five dead men in the back were hauled out and stripped naked; their clothing, money and any identification placed in a bag in one of the panel trucks. The bodies were then dumped unceremoniously in the ditch along with that of the driver. Meanwhile, the rucksacks were efficiently loaded into the panel trucks; the teams’ grisly tasks completed in only forty-three seconds. They drove off into the night in opposite directions carrying their deadly cargo.

The staff duty officer at XVIII Airborne Corps had caught duty for the second time during the weekend that month. He usually played golf on Sundays and the day before was no exception, although he had to ask the staff duty NCO to cover for him. A beautiful day it had been, too. He had even beaten his favorite target of derision, a braggart who was one of his foursome that regularly played together. How sweet victory over that one was! The major was paying for it now, though, in lack of sleep. With so many unit’s headquarters on MBO Bragg reporting in to him all night, he had to stay on his toes keeping track of the duty log and making sure that each reported in to him at their strictly scheduled times. The next report from CACTUS-Bragg Building 3236-F was due in one minute, give or take five seconds. He had the coded key at the ready to give the proper response: 0345:40, 0345:50, 55, 0346, 0346:05. Two more seconds went by.

Goddamnit! What the hell’s he doing to me, he sputtered. He hesitated momentarily, and then finally lifted a bright red switch cover marked CACTUS-3236-F and flipped the toggle switch. Four miles away, two ready-reaction platoons of combat-equipped infantry swarmed out of their barracks less than six hundred yards from CACTUS-Bragg, and sprinted towards the ear-wrenching sound of a shrill klaghorn which broke the early morning quiet. At 0346:40, less than thirty seconds after being alerted, more than one hundred specially-trained troops were in position to halt any escape from the vicinity of the weapon security site. Fire trucks were heard approaching on the access road, their sirens adding to the din of the shrieking klaghorn. The gates at all entrances to MBO Bragg were sealed immediately and no one was allowed to enter or leave the post. Brilliant security lights hidden in the trees surrounding the buildings had turned on the moment the major tripped the toggle switch at Corp Headquarters, but there was no discernible movement near or around the complex. Covered by the soldiers’ automatic weapons, fire-fighters in protective gear approached the building, one of them checking for possible radiation contamination. None was noted.

The commanding officer’s vehicle was allowed through the heavy cordon surrounding the area. With a detachment of eleven men, their automatic weapons at the ready, he approached the building cautiously and used a master card key to gain entrance to the security office. He opened the door and saw the lieutenant’s body sprawled on the floor. He suddenly became weak in the knees and lurched backwards out the door, then fell heavily on the concrete deck, his head hitting with a sickening thud. His body quivered violently and one of his men yelled, Gas! Gas! then exhaled vigorously, donning his protective mask and making sure the others in his small detachment followed suit. He quickly put the colonel’s mask on the now still body and dragged the unconscious officer away from the building. Aid men were summoned, but to no avail. The colonel was dead.

The security door through which he had fallen as he took his last breath was immediately secured. The klaghorn was silenced, in eerie contrast to the monotonous shattering blare of the few moments before. The second in command, a major, approached solemnly, and removing his own heavy gray overcoat, he covered the colonel’s body reverently.

What in the hell is going on here? he muttered in a low tone of voice which was almost lost in his protective mask, the question posed more to himself than to anyone in particular. He slowly rose from the kneeling position he had assumed over the body.

He opened the Special Operating Instructions (SOI) envelope which he wore around his neck on a leather thong and perused them quickly. Then, according to their directions, he stated methodically, I want an immediate head-count here, Sergeant. And dim those lights, referring to the quartz-halogen bulbs which bathed the area so brilliantly. He then motioned to his driver to bring his vehicle forward and instructed the men to load his dead commander’s body aboard. A roll call headcount was quickly taken, including the eleven men who still surrounded the entrance. The fire-fighters were ordered to remain with their trucks and not leave the area. The major then called on a special radio frequency for vehicles to be standing by in accord with the unique SOI required when there was a CACTUS incursion alert at this particular building. With three of his men, he cautiously approached the security door to the complex.

Using the key which he recovered from where the colonel had fallen, he slowly opened the door, perspiration breaking out under his mask. He too saw the body lying on the floor and slowly walked into the small inner office. The young sergeant’s body lay undisturbed on the cot. He noted that the interior security door leading to the main area of the building was secured with triple combination locks. He was aware that their combinations were unavailable to night security details.

Get these bodies out of here and into my vehicle, he said hoarsely. The three men gently picked up the Lieutenant and carried him outside. When the sergeant’s body had been recovered as well, the fire-fighters were ordered to spray the room with a foam-like decontaminant. All evidence of the surreptitious entry was removed from the building, again according to the SOI.

Soon it was as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred in the building. Two men, one a lieutenant, the other a sergeant, were in the security rooms, the lieutenant sleeping fitfully on a cot in the small inner office.

two

0715, Monday Morning, November 24, 1997

What the hell do you mean, they’re gone! snapped the commanding general of the 82nd Airborne Division at MBO Bragg. On whose authority?

I don’t know, sir.

You don’t know. You tell me that my CACTUS ready-reaction force is gone, disappeared to God-knows-where, and I’m just supposed to say ‘oh that’s okay…when they come back we’ll just ask them where they’ve been and we’re glad you’re back.’ Colonel, I want more, that is, I demand more than that from the officers on my staff.

Yes sir, I’m trying to find out more, but I felt you should be made aware of the situation immediately, sir. It was the commanding general’s divisional operations officer, a lieutenant colonel who answered shakily, more than a little embarrassed at having told the general something this extraordinary without more information. He had been warned before about his lack of preparation in presenting facts to the general at staff briefings. This would probably spell the end of his career.

You listen to me, Colonel, and you’d better listen good. As commanding general, I should be kept informed. I’m responsible for everything that happens or fails to happen in my command. The Congress of the United States of America appointed me to the rank of general officer because I’m capable of making informed decisions. I stress the word informed, underlined, closed-quotes, based on facts as I’m given to understand them. I can’t run a division of some eighteen thousand men by myself. That is the reason, Colonel, that I try to surround myself with competent commanders and staff officers who are charged with the same responsibility, which is, to make informed decisions based on facts…facts which only become facts when all available information is analyzed, checked for accuracy, then checked again. Then, and only then can a sound decision be made and appropriate action taken, Colonel. I am a decision maker, not a fact-finder. Now, bearing in mind what I’ve said, do you have any questions about what I expect of you?

No sir, he stammered. He was beginning to perspire freely now.

Bring me facts, Colonel. Not assumptions. You are dismissed. The general resumed reading a report.

The colonel wheeled around sharply, and then rapidly left the general’s office. Christ, he thought to himself as he grudgingly returned to his office. Two reinforced combat platoons don’t just disappear. Kidnapping? Who could tell one hundred heavily-armed men to come along with them without a fight? Why, he was the G-3, the division operations officer. Every training mission in the Division had to be approved by his office. Had there been a mission that had somehow escaped his attention? Let’s see, he thought. Which company was responsible for providing yesterday’s ready-reaction force? Goddamnit, why did I let a message taken by phone, especially by an enlisted clerk, set me off enough to go see the general about it? Shit, he muttered under his breath. I’d better get it together.

He returned to his office and drank three jiggers of scotch to calm himself. The general wanted facts; he’d give him facts all right. Sergeant, get me the Division SOP. Right. The whole damn thing, he slurred into the intercom. Upon recounting the events of that morning later on, he would be unable to remember what he had been so upset about.

three

The middle-aged woman of Mexican-American descent had already packed her three small children off to school. Her husband would really catch it this time, she bitterly promised herself. He was a fire-fighter, a civilian who worked at the Main Post Fire Station Number Two on MBO Bragg. His shift ended at seven o’clock in the morning and here it was, almost a quarter to nine. He’d just stopped off at the club for a couple of beers with the boys after work, he would say. No big deal.

Well, it was a big deal with her. The children need to see you, she had pleaded with him time and time again. You work all night; they’re asleep. You’re asleep when they get home from school and you don’t wake up until they’re already in bed. The only time they see you is for an hour when they’re getting ready for school.

This was the fourth time this month he’d disappointed them, she fumed. She would call the club, that’s what she’d do. Just embarrass the hell out of him. Better yet, she would drive to the club and drag him out, right in front of his friends. Really make one hell of a scene. She drove to the club. No, nobody here by that name, she was assured. The son-of-a-bitch, she thought.

Twenty minutes later she returned home from the club alone. He still was not home. She called the station where he worked, angry and more than a little worried now. No, I’m sorry, she heard an unfamiliar voice say. No one works here by that name. Are you sure you have the right station house? She asked to speak to the chief of the station, her long-time friend. No one here by that name at this station, he answered. She was stunned. No one on MBO Bragg had ever heard of her husband.

She heard an unfamiliar car drive into the driveway and some of the panic left her as she ran to the door, hoping for some answers. Two men in civilian clothes got out of the car. She didn’t know that her husband and others were over a thousand miles away soaring westward at twenty-six thousand feet above sea level in accord with the SOI for CACTUS-Bragg Building 3236-F.

The reformation of the United States military forces from five uniformed branches into one, the U.S. Joint Uniformed Services Command, or JUSCOM, had evolved in the early 1990s from actions taken by the Reagan Administration in 1987. It began with the formation of the so-called Special Operations Group initially organized as a unique antiterrorist force which was comprised of elite, highly trained units of the Army, Air force, Navy, Marines and Coast Guard. Its success at the coordination of traditional combat and combat support roles in fighting terrorism over the ensuing four years had proven that the Armed Services could cooperate successfully without the traditional petty jealousies associated with earlier times. This led eventually to the abolishment of the individual branches of service in 1994. This massive reorganization and streamlining of the huge and often unwieldy military establishment was a boon to the taxpayer. It meant that duplicate research and development costs for weapons, hardware and other material would be eliminated.

Other benefits had been realized as well. A unified command and control structure translated into much quicker response times and more efficient control of men and resources in the event of mobilization during a national emergency. A single logistical support command, for example, could estimate supply needs from preformulated contingency plans, or preplanned scenarios of events, to support combat operations wherever and whenever necessary. Additionally, personnel could be more readily cross-trained to eliminate shortages of skills in such vital areas as aviation and nuclear warfare planning and implementation.

Traditionalists in Congress had argued against integrating all the Military Uniformed Services into one organization. They felt that separate branches were a right and necessary part of