Oathkeeper: The Wildfire Saga, #4

By Marcus Richardson

Some oaths must never be broken.

 

The world is in flames, brought about by the Council's attempt to change the balance of power in the western world. The weaponized Pandemic virus runs rampant across much of the globe, but the United States has developed a vaccine. Humanity was brought to the precipice of extinction and managed to survive.

 

But the situation is no where near resolved—North Korea still occupies the west coast of the United States, trapping millions of Americans behind enemy lines. Two of those unfortunates are the wife and child of Charlie Marshal, Navy SEAL and Cooper Braaten's executive officer.

 

Cooper swore an oath to rescue Charlie's family following the Battle of Tillcott Castle, but there's two things that stand in his way: the North Korean invasion force and their criminal allies, and the fact that Cooper is no longer a Navy SEAL. If he goes in, he's going alone.

 

But none of that matters to Cooper. He swore an oath, to bring back Charlie's family or die trying, and he's going to keep that oath. No matter the adversity, injury, or fatigue, Cooper will face the very worst of human nature in the form of gang lords who have risen up to rule the west in the name of the North Koreans, and there will a reckoning.

 

Cooper Braaten, once one of America's elite warriors, may no longer be a Navy SEAL but he is the Oathkeeper.

 

Oathkeeper is a riveting thrill-ride, opening the next chapter in Marcus Richardson's post-apocalyptic Wildfire Saga.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Freeholder Press, LLC
• Release date: Nov 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386377085

Marcus Richardson

Marcus attended the University of Delaware and later graduated from law school at the age of 26. Since then, he has at times been employed (or not) as: a stock boy, a cashier, a department manager at a home furnishing store, an assistant manager at and arts and crafts store, an unemployed handyman, husband, cook, groundskeeper, spider killer extraordinaire, stay at home dad, and a writer.

Book preview

1

TYCHO

Tycho Jackson bent to lift the helmet off the dead body at his feet. He straightened and took a glance around before turning the helmet over in his hands. The workmanship was something else. He smiled—finding brand-new swag was considered lucky.

Man, why we gotta do this? Ain’t this what the slaves for?

Tycho ignored his underling’s complaint and perched the helmet at a rakish angle on his head. He turned and looked at the young Latino hood.

This make me look like John Wayne?

The gangbanger stared at him for a moment, then laughed out loud. Yeah—if John Wayne was black! Man, stop foolin’…

Tycho flashed a smile. Just grab while the grabbin’s good.

Looks like they’re grabbing all sorts of things, rumbled a deep voice behind him.

Tycho turned to see where his enforcer, Elijah Stone, pointed with one sledgehammer of a hand.

A gurgled cry echoed on the breeze. Tycho caught a flash of color as at the corner of the large office building across the trash-choked street. His predator instincts kicked in.

Rico, Vasquez, and what’s-yer-face—

"Yo, my name’s Diego, esse," complained the maligned Hispanic newcomer.

Whatever—go find out what the hell’s going down over there. He turned to his lieutenant. Roundup the others and get this shit picked up.

You the boss… Elijah said.

Why the fuck we gotta do this? whined a third man.

’Cause he’s the one in charge, unless you got a problem with that? bellowed Elijah.

Tycho raised his M4 and pulled back on the charging handle. The sound silenced further debate. His men grumbled, but they knew when to obey, especially under Elijah’s harsh stare.

Rico and his compatriots scrambled across the street and through mounds of uncollected trash. Tycho took a knee behind an abandoned, shot up Ford Focus and placed his captured rifle across the hood, aiming at the corner.

He’d gotten used to ambushing soldiers at supply drops and cutting them down, but nobody ever stuck around afterward before. This was a surprise and Tycho hated surprises.

He grinned and aimed down the barrel of his rifle. Tycho preferred to surprise other people.

"I don’t care if there’s blood on it, hurry the fuck up! Load that shit, we gotta be gone," muttered Elijah somewhere behind him.

Keep it down, E, he whispered.

Sorry, Tycho.

Tycho didn’t have to turn to know the huge man waved his arms like the foreman he used to be. Once everyone got sick and the Korean Flu—or whatever the hell folks called it—dropped people like flies, the surviving gang leaders called an uneasy truce in San Diego and banded together. It was the only way to survive the North Korean occupation.

Tycho grinned again. Before, he was just another two-bit thug with big ambitions, struggling against a chain of command that required him to pay his dues and move up like everyone else. After the Pandemic returned and the North Koreans invaded, Tycho found himself in charge. He joined other captains and discovered there was a new chain of command that led to a ruling body, the surviving leadership of each of the major gangs. They called themselves The Outkast.

Tycho frowned. Now, instead of leading Crips on raids—there was so much cheddar out there ripe for the taking, his head spun just thinking about it—he found himself in charge of a group of misfits, including everybody from a couple Los Reyes Arroyos soldiers to Elijah, the big mother of a Blood behind him. He even had a few skinheads in his posse, but Tycho was the on Crip on his crew.

He shook his head. The world was a fucked-up place.

A scream pulled Tycho’s attention back to the corner. He tightened his grip on the gun and without taking his eyes away from its sights, called over his shoulder, "You better be almost done."

Muffled curses and feet scrambling through trash and debris on the ground was his crew’s only response. The rest of his squad took up positions behind abandoned cars and an aid delivery truck they’d ambushed. He didn’t want to admit it, but Tycho felt a trickle of sweat dribble down his spine.

He glanced at the body in front of the car. The soldier he’d shot during the ambush wore protective body armor as well as the helmet Tycho took as his own. His gear didn’t look like the standard military issue though—the shit this guy wore was jet black and had a fancy tree logo on it.

Another scream pierced the air. Tycho tried to shrink and make himself as small a target as possible as he leaned across the hood. A quick look to his left and right showed his boys had at last found cover of their own. Tycho grinned. He had a half-dozen stolen weapons of various calibers pointed in the same area.

Vasquez strutted around the corner, a wide smile splitting his tanned face. "Yo! Jefe, you got to check this shit out."

Tycho sighed, the tension evaporating. He stood. Sit tight y’all, stay sharp, he said. He’d only known Vasquez for about a week and while he didn’t think the heavily tattooed LRA soldier would turn on him, he didn’t trust him much either. Rico had been with him since the beginning, and Diego, the new guy, had just transferred in from Inglewood so Tycho didn’t trust him at all. Yet.

Rico and the new guy emerged next, dragging two struggling whites behind them. Even from across the street, Tycho saw the woman was a petite blonde, but she struggled like a wildcat trapped in a wet bag. The man was a little taller, occupied with straightening his glasses as he shuffled forward, prodded by Rico’s shotgun.

Nervous laughter fluttered out from behind the cars that surrounded him. Tycho lowered his weapon. What we got here? he called out, noticing for the first time how his voice echoed up and down the abandoned street. That was exciting and unnerving at the same time. He was in charge, ain’t nobody threatening Tycho Jackson.

But he was also alone.

Vasquez joined Tycho first, looking over his shoulder as Rico and Diego ushered the captives forward. "Found these hijos de puta scopin’ us out. La perra got some nice legs, yo."

Oh, yeah, somebody in the group said in a fit of excitement. I say we tear a piece of that off right now!

Tycho was under strict orders to bring all suitable captives in—the woman was small, obviously malnourished, and most likely sick—but a blood had to take what he could get. Especially now.

She wasn’t half bad, in the way a life preserver looks to a drowning man. But he never once thought to break the rules. He’d seen firsthand the results of less intelligent regional captains—like himself—getting a little too big for their britches. It wasn’t time for that, yet.

Cut that shit out. Y’all know what’ll happen if you don’t.

That shut down the laughter. Nobody wanted to cross The Outkast leadership. They’d seen the heads on stakes. They’d heard the stories.

Tycho himself wasn’t sure if the rumors were true, but he’d seen enough to know he didn’t want to fuck with the ones in charge, not with a ten-foot pole. If the Outkast said they wanted to take all the women they find and keep them separate and untouched, that’s just what he would do. His life wasn’t worth a piece of ass.

Still, Tycho wondered why they went through such trouble to find and house a bunch of whiny bitches. There had to be something the captains weren’t told, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what that could be.

"What we do with him, then?" asked Diego.

Please! Please don’t hurt us— begged the woman.

Tycho waved Elijah forward to take care of it. The big man pushed through two of the others and buried his fist in the male prisoner’s gut. The slight man doubled over, his glasses skittering off the ground in front of him.

Don’t hurt him! Why are you doing this? the woman screamed.

Elijah dropped his elbow down on the back of the man’s head and he collapsed with a grunt onto the street. The woman opened her mouth to scream again, but Tycho spoke first.

Next time you open your mouth, Elijah here will rip your man’s head off. You stay the fuck quiet, and nobody gets hurt.

He smiled as she clamped both grimy hands across her mouth, bloodshot eyes bulging. She did have a nice rack.

Yo, Tycho. There’s the signal, Elijah muttered.

Tycho turned and peered along the street. Sure as shit, a flashlight blinked three times. Sweeper gave the warning: Someone coming.

"What do we do with this punto?" asked Vasquez.

Fuck it—cap his ass, we got to move, Tycho said, heading back to pull the armor off the dead soldier. Y’all know what to do—grab the swag and scatter! Meet back at my place when you’re clear.

He didn’t have to say anything else—they all knew looting brought a death sentence if they were caught by the NKors. Little shits considered L.A. their own personal playground.

Well fuck them, Tycho thought as he ripped the bulletproof vest from the corpse and slung the heavy-ass thing over his shoulder. It was a shame he didn’t have time to search the body more thoroughly. These black-clad soldiers always seemed to have PowerBars and extra ammo on them.

Privileged fucks. Got what you deserved, he told himself. He whistled and twirled his hand in the air over his head to get his men moving. The last of his crew whooped and hooted as they carried away crates of food, medical supplies, and anything not nailed down.

Tycho stood in the middle of the street and watched Vasquez and Diego drag the screaming woman into the shadows. She didn’t know it yet—or maybe she did—but her life had just ended. She’d be taken back to the safe house for tonight, then tomorrow he’d haul her skinny ass off to the regional HQ and officially deposited as tribute to the Outkast.

Tycho didn’t exactly agree with that—he’d rather keep the spoils of war for himself—but he wasn’t in any position to challenge the status quo.

When I make my move, I’m keeping all the best ass for myself.

He surveyed the scene of his latest ambush. Darkened buildings lined the street like the walls of a canyon. People abandoned their cars when the traffic backed up in the early days of the Korean Flu, which added to the claustrophobic feel of the place. He’d heard names like Blue Flu, Brisbane Bug, and Scorched Lung tossed around, but that shit happened years ago, back when he was just dropping out of high school. It had come back after the scientists promised it couldn’t. He’d lost his grandmother that time. What would he lose this time?

Tycho frowned. It didn’t make any sense.

Then the Koreans showed up and started shooting the shit out of everyone: pigs, Crips, Bloods, the Reyes—everybody. It had been chaos, but Tycho knew how to survive chaos. He’d been in more prisons than most and he’d survived and learned everything he needed to know on the outside—especially in crazy-ass times like these.

His eyes roamed over the abandoned cars and the old urge to boost one made his fingers tingle. All that phat cheddar just sitting there, waiting to be stolen. And the cars! Mercedes, Beamers, a few Caddies…a lot of rich folk had been out shopping when the shit hit the fan. Maybe he had time to snag one…

Bright headlights appeared in the distance, like twin stars come to earth. His pulse quickened.

Time to jet.

He slung the rifle over his shoulder, grabbed a case of nasty-ass boxed food the military was always trying to pawn off on survivors and made his escape through the shattered front window of a lingerie shop. A wicked grin creased his face as his shoes crunched on broken glass. Panties and bras lay scattered everywhere in heaps where the first waves of looters had come through.

That shit’s useless now, he thought, proud to have always gone for the high-ticket items like guns, booze, and cars. He’d never stoop so low as to snag fancy underwear for God’s sake.

As he carried the box of military meals to the back of the ruined store, he heard big diesel engines out in the street. Tycho worked his way into a darkened back room and kicked at the fire door he’d pre-opened for a quick escape. The alley looked deserted, just like he’d left it—clogged with garbage and what smelled like at least a dozen dead bodies. He grimaced at the assault on his nose and stepped through the open door across the alley.

Tycho stood in darkness and blinked the tears from his eyes. Goddamn that smells bad. He paused, listening. Sure enough, the Koreans were getting closer.

Tycho headed toward the light at the far end of the ransacked store. He wasn’t even sure what the hell they used to sell here—the only clue it had been a store at all was the cash register, laying in pieces, up by the front door. Or what used to be the front—now it was a gaping hole big enough to drive a damn tank through.

Tycho laughed at fate as he strolled through the opening and stepped out into the light again. The rich guy who owned this place was probably dead somewhere, rotting in his big fancy house. But Tycho—gutter rat, hoodlum, the petty thief that no one cared about—he was still here.

Still boosting. He laughed out loud as he loaded the box in his 1970 lime-green Plymouth Barracuda. Elijah sat in the passenger seat, waiting. He reached over and turned the key, bringing the big V6 to life with a throaty roar.

That punk dead?

Yeah, put one in the back of his head, just like last time. Elijah’s face registered no emotion at all. Did the man not even care he’d just ended someone’s life or did he find it at all distasteful? Elijah might not enjoy doing it—or if he did, he didn’t show it much, unlike the rest of Tycho’s gang. They reveled in death and fear. But Elijah was ever silent, always stoic.

Scary as hell—that’s what you are.

Tycho grunted as he got behind the wheel and shut the door. They better like this bitch we bringing in.

Should make up for last time.

Tycho grimaced and looked at Elijah out of the corner of his eye. Shut the fuck up. He put the car in drive and peeled out, not caring if the Koreans heard him—they’d never find him in the maze of surface streets, anyway.

Just sayin’, Elijah muttered.

"Well don’t. Tycho tried changing the subject from his past failures to present successes. You get much?"

Outkast leadership had been lenient the last time. That kind of favoritism wouldn’t be offered again, so Tycho was doubly happy to have come across the young couple—it had been a while since he’d brought in a suitable bitch. They seemed to get all excited about the blondes, too, so maybe his luck had finally changed.

Better than last time, admitted Elijah. When these fools gonna learn? The more sugar they bring in, the more we take? It’s too easy.

A river of ice traveled along Tycho’s spine. The North Koreans had arrived on the scene faster than ever this time. That wasn’t normal, either. Sump’n tells me it ain’t gonna stay easy forever, E. We need to keep a little extra back for ourselves.

Elijah turned to face him. We makin’ a move, then?

Tycho snorted. Naw blood, not yet. But I’m thinking it’ll be soon.

2

COURSE CORRECTION

Lieutenant Cooper Braaten, USN (ret.) flexed his hands and watched the Thinsulate wingsuit stretch and wrinkle over his skin. Alone with his thoughts, he listened to the droning roar of engines straining to push his beast of a plane through the air.

The map on the flexible screen attached to his right forearm displayed his location; they’d just crossed the border into California. It wouldn’t be long now. He glanced up at the far end of the C-141 Hercules. The loadmaster waited next to the ramp for his time to play a part in the mission. He flashed Cooper a big grin—those guys always grinned like that when people prepared to jump out of their aircraft.

I can’t believe I’m out. Ten years and everything’s gone, just like that.

A frown creased his face behind his streamlined tactical jump helmet. He’d joined the Navy in the aftermath of the Blue Flu, the Great Pandemic that brought mankind to its knees and made the Black Death look like a head cold.

Ten years…

Cooper had cut his teeth in Iran and did his share of wet work, helping restore order and bring the United States out of the chaos of the Aftermath. He’d helped topple the Council after their bioweapon attack spun out of control and unleashed the Pandemic once again.

The frown deepened. And where did it get me? He adjusted the new brace over his right knee. Shot in the dark by some lucky son of a bitch in a flea-ridden hellhole on the other side of the planet, stabbed, cut, scarred—sitting on a plane just like this one, he’d come to grips once before with the fact he was almost forty and his time was up.

Cooper leaned back against the curved hull of the plane and willed the vibration to rattle through his body and clear his mind. It didn’t work.

Brenda.

He closed his eyes. There she was again, smiling and full of life. He allowed himself to indulge and remember how she’d felt in his arms, the soft scent of her hair as it dangled into his face, the press of her—

Brenda’s dead.

The mantra echoed through his mind, banishing the image of their last, passionate encounter. She’d been killed by Council operatives who’d infiltrated the Underground, the ultra-secure bunker where the United States government tried to survive the bioweapon attack that damn near tore the country in two.

She’s dead. But so is Reginald. And Barron.

So much death, so many innocent lives lost. And for what? The country would recover—the bioweapon attack had failed. The vaccine was stable and being shipped all over America and the world. Atlanta still glowed and no one would ever live there again, but most of the radiation had passed out to sea. The Occupied Zone represented the last major hurdle remaining for President Harris and his nascent administration to overcome.

Cooper opened his eyes. The damn North Koreans had to be held accountable for what they’d done—or tried to do—along the west coast. They were the ones who’d started this whole mess, them and the Council.

Brenda’s dead because of them.

Another thought tickled his mind. Without them, you’d have never met her.

Cooper leaned forward, resting his elbow on his right knee, causing a dull pain to ripple up his leg. He grimaced but welcomed it—if nothing else, the pain brought relief from his morose thoughts. He needed to be on mission for this one. He was going into the Occupied Zone—alone—and he wasn’t coming back without his former XO’s family.

Try as he might to hold them back, the memories rushed him like a belligerent drunk, sloppy and blurry; Aliana, Charlie’s wife, climbing out of the pool on the day they got the news of the bioweapon attack. Little Charlie, Jr.—a towheaded copy of his father—passed between his parents as they tried to make sense of what was happening. The warbling screech of Allie’s phone when the nuke erased Atlanta and her brother’s life.

Cooper stood and fixed the image of Charlie’s family in his mind. He remembered the pain and anguish his second-in-command and best friend had suffered through the days and weeks after the attack. Cooper stared at one of the plane’s aluminum bulkheads until the look on Charlie’s face, when he’d learned Cooper was going after his family, was seared into his soul. It was the first time he’d seen hope since the world had gone to shit.

With my shield or on it, brother.

The speaker in Cooper’s headset chirped. Three minutes to drop.

He lifted his suppressed next-gen SOPMOD M4A1, a slick little number the geeks in Oakrock’s R and D lab cooked up, and hobbled over to the ass end of the plane, his bulky gear making him waddle like a penguin. Between the ’chute, his gear, food and medicine for Charlie’s family, and weapons, Cooper carried close to a hundred pounds on his back and legs.

The loadmaster checked his gear, then slapped Cooper on the shoulder and yelled something. Cooper nodded without listening. That seemed to be enough for the other man, who smiled and flashed a thumbs-up again.

Cooper unhooked the umbilical cord attached to the back of his helmet and passed the bundle of wires and tubes to the loadmaster. His suit, now sealed from the outside world, was a self-contained cocoon.

The heads-up display inside his sleek helmet fired up, depicting his present speed, altitude, and course in the bottom right corner of his field of view. The corner usually reserved for individual point of view cameras remained dark. As commander,