Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star

By Joe Nobody

Book seven of Joe Nobody's bestselling series: Treachery has made Bishop an outlaw and rocked the Alliance to its foundation. Forced into exile while his friends strive to clear his name, Bishop and his family encounter the best and worst mankind has to offer while they travel the badlands. The human animal is trying to regroup, striving to fill the vacuum in leadership left after the collapse and form productive societies. But it's not easy. The lack of basic necessities has weakened the resolve of many, allowing age-old tendencies to cloud the minds of men. Those that do step up and take the helm of governance may have alternative motives and hidden agendas. Follow the adventures of Bishop, Terri, and Hunter as they seek refuge, trying to survive while their friends uncover the truth and keep the Alliance whole.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe Nobody
• Release date: Dec 20, 2018

Joe Nobody

Joe Nobody (pen name for the author who wishes to keep his identity confidential) has provided systems, consulting and training for the U.S. Army, Department of Homeland Security, Office of Naval Research, United States Border Patrol as well as several private firms and government agencies which cannot be disclosed.He is currently active in this area and for the security of his family and ongoing business, wishes to remain anonymous.He has over 30 years of competitive shooting experience, including IPSC, NRA, and other related organizations. He has been a firearms instructor and consultant for over 30 years and holds the rights to a United States Patent for a firearms modification.Joe initially became involved in helping private citizens "prepare" at the request of his students and clients. A conscientious instructor, he would always inquire as to why they wanted to learn certain skills or techniques and often the response was to prepare for more than just simple home invasion or self-defense. If you ask Joe what his greatest attribute is, he will tell you he is a "problem solver" and uses his formal education in Systems Engineering to this end.

Book preview

Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star

By

Joe Nobody

Copyright © 2014

Kemah Bay Marketing, LLC

All rights reserved.

Edited by:

E. T. Ivester

D. Allen

www.holdingyourground.com

www.prepperpress.com

This is a work of fiction. Characters and events are products of the author’s imagination, and no relationship to any living person is implied. The locations, facilities, and geographical references are set in a fictional environment.

Other Books by Joe Nobody:

- Holding Your Ground: Preparing for Defense if it All Falls Apart

- The TEOTWAWKI Tuxedo: Formal Survival Attire

- Without Rule of Law: Advanced Skills to Help You Survive

- Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival

- Holding Their Own II: The Independents

- Holding Their Own III: Pedestals of Ash

- Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent

- Holding Their Own V: The Alpha Chronicles

- Holding Their Own VI: Bishop’s Song

- The Home Schooled Shootist: Training to Fight with a Carbine

- Apocalypse Drift

- The Olympus Device: Book One

Prologue

The Texas Panhandle

July 19

Cresting a small rise, Bishop immediately slowed the pickup. For the past few hours, they had encountered the random, abandoned car or truck, usually parked on the shoulder as the motorist had run out of fuel. What he saw ahead was a completely foreign scene – an unfamiliar and unusual pattern of color and shape.

Illuminated by a bright moon and crisp, clear sky, he didn’t need the night vision to detect the change. Still, he flipped on the truck’s headlights. The region was remote, desolate, and unlikely to be populated with snipers. Whatever was in front of them was dark and dead, and it appeared to have been so for a very long time.

Glancing at his wife and child in the back seat, he made sure Terri was alert to what lie ahead. She had noticed the change in their landscape as well, stretching her neck to peer over the passenger side headrest.

I’m going to scout this on foot, he declared, letting the truck coast to a stop, milking every last drop of mileage from their limited fuel supply.

That looks weird. What do you think it is? Terri asked, staring at the oddity illuminated in the headlights. Did an airplane crash into the road?

No idea, but I know I don’t want to drive through it until I check it out. No telling what might be lurking in that debris. You stay here with Hunter while I stretch my legs. I would suggest you do the same. Just stay close to the truck.

Nodding, Terri opened the rear door and exited with her AR15. He had to smile when she stuffed an extra magazine in her back pocket. That’s my girl, he thought.

It took Bishop a minute to throw on his load-rig. While he’d been driving with his body armor already strapped to his chest, most of their trip so far had been through Alliance territory, a population living within rule of law. Piloting the truck was so much more comfortable without the bulky vest and its assortment of pouches and gear.

Now, they were in the badlands, and his optimism only went so far.

Pulling both rifle and sidearm from the cab, he nodded at Terri and began walking toward what was definitely an unusual scene. Again, without verbal instructions, his wife moved toward the driver’s door, ready to jump behind the wheel and either charge or retreat. Bishop grinned. She’d charge, he mumbled under his breath.

What had initially drawn his attention was the color of the pavement. The mundane off-white concrete they had been passing over for hours suddenly changed to a charcoal gray with streaks of black.

There was also something in the road ahead, blocking both lanes and towering as high as a two-story building.

As he approached closer, Bishop could see the wreckage was - at least in part - comprised of automobiles. An axle here, an engine block there … remnant fragments of cars and trucks littered the roadway. Rusty hulks of what had once been fenders and bumpers were scattered everywhere. What could have sliced and diced all these cars like that? he wondered.

He finally managed the edge of the black pavement, reaching down to test the surface of the road. He pulled back his fingers, a carbon-like soot covering the tips. Something here had burned.

Using a boot, he scraped away a layer of black, the swipe revealing pavement beneath. The concrete was crumbly, a different texture and feel than the highway just a few feet behind him. Something had not only burned; there had been an inferno right in the middle of the road.

He cautiously stepped into the blackish void, unsure of what to expect. Other than his footprint outlined in the soot, nothing happened. Shrugging, Bishop continued into the dark landscape, head swiveling and rifle high against his shoulder. The scene was surreal, reminding him of the backdrop of a scary, B movie. It was just creepy.

A few of the vehicles were reasonably intact, but there was something odd about the way they rested on the dark carpeting of ash covering the earth. After passing several examples, it dawned on him that the tires and wheels had melted away, leaving what remained resting low to the ground, almost like children’s toys.

It was impossible to tell the exact scope of the destruction. Neither the truck’s headlights, nor his night vision could identify the opposite side or any discernable boundary. Whatever happened here had involved an enormous release of energy. For a moment, he thought he might be roaming into ground zero of a small nuclear blast. He quickly dismissed the idea, as there had been no such rumors or news. Word of something like that would get around. India and Pakistan had exchanged a few low-yield nukes. One immigrant arriving in Alliance territory claimed that Taiwan and Red China had glassed a few cities. But there hadn’t been any reports of such violence on the American continent. No one had tried to take out Santa Fe to Bishop’s knowledge.

As he progressed further into the dark zone, the evidence continued to support an explosion, followed by a horrendously hot fire. The occasional piece of sheet metal now had jagged edges, a sign of the scrap being ripped away from its parent machine. Glistening pools of melted glass added to the melancholy decor, the moonlight just bright enough to give them a haunting hue.

Traveling further into what he believed was the epicenter of the disaster, Bishop began to detect strong odors. It was a few steps before he realized that his footfalls were the cause – each step disturbing the now half-inch thick layer of carbon powder covering the ground and releasing the smell. Burnt rubber and plastic assaulted his nose, sulfuric and harsh with every inhalation.

He continued his journey, more curious now than fearing any threat. Up ahead was the monolith, a tall formation rising from the roadway and the clue he hoped would explain the surrounding mystery.

He was over 150 yards into the disaster when he finally reached the edifice. There, rising at least 30 feet into the air was a sculpture of twisted metal and deformed machinery. He had to hike halfway around the mass before he was able to recognize what it was … the trailer of an 18-wheeler - a tanker, probably hauling gasoline.

Bishop keyed the radio mounted to his vest, I’m okay up here. Everything cool back there?

Terri’s voice sounded through his earpiece, Yup. We’re doing just fine. What the hell is all that?

I’m not 100% sure just yet, but I think a tanker truck full of gasoline exploded somehow. Go ahead and pull the truck up to the edge of the dark area, please.

Will do.

Bishop returned to his detective work. He poked around the tanker, having to use a lot of imagination to recreate the scene. Where’s Sherlock Holmes when you need him? he whispered to the ghosts.

The semi-tractor, or at least the shell of it, was still attached to the twisted remains of the trailer-mounted tank. The high-rise scrap pile was actually compiled of two halves of the tube-like container, split in the middle like an upside-down V, each section standing on end. The foundation of the rust heap was comprised of three or four different vehicles, all welded together into a single metal cadaver by the intense heat.

A sculpture of death, Bishop whispered. A super-sized monument to the souls who were lost here.

While still a guess, the Texan was pretty sure he knew what had happened. Frantic, distressed motorists in need of fuel had identified the gas tanker traveling down the road. Somehow, the truck driver had stopped, perhaps a roadblock of some sort… maybe he had pulled over because the route was blocked by stalled, empty cars. He could have even run out of diesel while hauling gasoline. There was no way to be sure.

Whatever the reason for the traffic stop, the driver had probably been unaware of how desperate people were for his cargo. Bishop envisioned a crowd of riotous men clambering for the fuel. Perhaps some of the looters were armed.

Gasoline transports aren’t designed to fuel cars. Their hoses and flow are far larger and more powerful than the equipment used to fill automobiles at the corner station. That fact probably hadn’t mattered to the crazed, stranded motorists who could see nothing around them but desert for 100 miles. Their screaming, hungry children were motivators of bravery above and beyond. The fear of watching their loved ones perish persuaded them to try and access the fuel stored in the shiny steel tube of the tanker’s trailer. Life-giving fuel. Life-taking fuel.

Bishop shook his head, morbid curiosity causing him to wonder how the fire had gotten started. He pictured a mob crawling all over the tanker, pulling levers, twisting handles and turning valves. Someone had finally gotten the precious, refined liquid to flow, and that had been the beginning of the end.

The fuel had flowed all right. Thousands of gallons gushing out, spreading a mini-flashflood of gasoline across the ground. A few fools had probably tried to fill a bucket or lawnmower can, hoping to power their nearby sedans and make it to Uncle Joe’s place.

The smart ones had run, but it probably hadn’t done much good.

It could have been a hot muffler, a tossed cigarette butt, or maybe even a bullet. No one would never know. But something ignited the shallow lake of gasoline and vapors. The explosion would have been tremendous, shaking the ground for miles.

Anyone not killed instantly in the blast would have perished quickly in the heat. Those who were at the edge of the disaster probably had the oxygen sucked from their lungs by the firestorm that followed the initial detonation. The exploding vapors in every stranded automobile would have added to the bloodbath.

Bishop sighed, reversing his course to make for the truck. He’d seen enough evidence of desperation for today. In fact, he was almost acclimated to carnage - and that bothered him more than anything else at the moment.

He hesitated just a moment before continuing, glancing over the scene one last time. No, it did bother him, but not for the right reasons. He couldn’t put faces or names to the dead – probably didn’t know any of them. It wasn’t the senseless loss of life that caused his gut to tighten.

It finally came to him. Was taking his family into the badlands worth his freedom? What kind of man takes his wife and infant son into the unknown frontier? A place where scenes like the one surrounding him might be common… might still be occurring.

Bishop shook his head, confused by the emotions he was experiencing. He grimaced, knowing that it was human nature to fear the unknown. How bad could it be? he pondered.

We’re loaded with food, ammo, shelter, and heart, he whispered to the ghosts. We’re headed into one of the most remote, unpopulated areas on the entire continent. We can handle this. I bet we don’t see more than a handful of people the entire trip. We’ve faced far worse… far more danger.

The sound of his own voice seemed to reassure. He pivoted without further thought, and double-timed it back to Terri.

Chapter 1

Alpha, Texas

July 19

General Owens closed the Humvee’s door, the up-armored appendage weighing over 500 pounds and producing an audible thunk. After waiting for the driver to maneuver through the ever-growing traffic in downtown Alpha, he turned to the backseat and made eye contact with the Undersecretary of the Interior. That didn’t go as I expected.

They’re just being stubborn; that’s all there is to it, came the reply.

Marcus replayed the meeting’s high points, absentmindedly watching Alpha pass by the thick glass mounted in the door. Diana had been unyielding on even the smallest point, the rest of the Alliance’s Council sullen and quiet.

They’re still stinging over losing two of their leading citizens, the general commented. I’m going to insist we open the next session with something other than a demand that they surrender Bishop.

The general’s aide looked over, Sir, do you believe their story? It seems a little farfetched that he’s no longer in their territory.

Yes… yes, I do believe them. Now mind you, I would imagine someone helped him escape, but we have enough eyes and ears on the ground to know if he shows himself in these parts. The leaders of the Alliance have to know that and wouldn’t mislead us.

Shaking his head, the man from Interior spoke up, I would have thought their leadership would have crumbled almost immediately, but clearly that is not the case. I seem to be having trouble relating to these people. Or maybe we’re just not giving it enough time.

Owens digested the concept, eventually shaking his head. I disagree. I think striking while momentum is on our side was the right move. My read on Diana is that she doesn’t believe our story about the massacre. The same with that big guy… Nick. They may never accept that their friend is a murderer.

So what do you propose, sir?

Marcus didn’t hesitate. If we are going to get this over quickly, working from the top down isn’t the right strategy. However, their leaders will listen to public opinion or be replaced. We need to stir up the fine citizens of West Texas – let them know we mean business.

And how do you purpose to do that, General? The politician inquired from the back seat.

The officer grunted, a smirk crossing his face. I may not be a world-class diplomat, but one thing is for certain - I am fully capable of delivering a message.

Midland Station, Texas

July 20

The two Longbow Apache gunships resembled black, demonic wasps as they rocketed across the West Texas desert. That image was enhanced by their nose-down intent, slanted canopies, and hard points bristling with weapons. From an enemy’s perspective, the Longbow resonated with apocalyptic capability – the end was near.

A short, stubby wing extended from each side of the fuselage, both birds carrying a deadly mixture of Hydra rockets and Hellfire missiles. Capable of delivering more firepower than a WWII naval destroyer, the war birds were lethal hunters on any battlefield, day or night.

But it was the third helicopter that was to play the critical role today. Flying slightly lower and between its two heavily armed escorts, the small Kiowa transported neither missile, nor rocket. In fact, the tiny craft was unarmed.

Compared to the two gunships accompanying it, the scout appeared rather clumsy and benign. That misleading form was accented by the beach ball-shaped object mounted above the main rotor. Technically referred to as the MMSS, or Mast Mounted Sight System, the spherical protrusion was packed with observation and target-designation electronics.

In any weather or light, the Kiowa could dart behind ridges, tree lines, and hills, exposing only the small ball at the top of its mast to prying eyes, enemy pilots, and anti-aircraft gunners. Its role was to identify targets, designate them with a laser beam, and then call in the heavy firepower. It excelled at the job.

As the flight neared Midland Station, the two Apaches slowed, letting their smaller cousin take a considerable lead. Before long, the scout spotted the perfect hiding place and slowed its forward momentum considerably, eventually hovering behind a slight crest on the outskirts of the Alliance city.

Nick had ordered the seized convoy trucks driven to an empty warehouse on the edge of town. A few days after capturing the more than 20 trucks, the council had decided to unload any useful arms and ammunition, but to leave the non-perishable food and fuel untouched. The Alliance’s leaders believed the tons of cargo would eventually become a point of negotiation during the on-going deliberations with the US government.

The militia leadership didn’t like the decision, worried that the parking lot full of US Army transports was a temptation for the other side. They were right.

The Kiowa scanned the industrial complex from its hide, the co-pilot viewing images of the anticipated Army transports via a monitor mounted in the cockpit. Right where the captain said they would be, he informed the pilot. Too easy.

He began punching a series of buttons that transmitted both the coordinates and the frequency of the helicopter’s laser designator.

In the warehouse’s office, a warning beep sounded, causing the three men working inside to look up quickly with concern. Shit, the older man mumbled. Get on the radio, and call for help.

For a moment, the helpers ignored the boss, both of them mesmerized by the source of the alarm. The presence of the Kiowa and all of its advanced electronics was being announced by a common radar detector, normally used by commuters to avoid speeding tickets. Scavenged from one of the countless abandoned vehicles surrounding the town, Nick had ordered four of the devices mounted on the warehouse’s roof.

Nick had warned his men, They most likely will start with a stand-off attack. They’ll splash laser beams all over this facility before the hurt comes raining down. You won’t have much notice, so get low… and get there quickly. For a few minutes, you will feel like you are in Dante’s seventh level of hell.

Heeding his advice, the three office workers scrambled for the preassembled pits of sandbags in the back corner. Each miniature bunker consisted of a heavy metal desk, completely lined and covered with sandbags. As they scurried for the cover, one of the men was screaming on the radio, advising any listener on the frequency they were under attack.

Radios carried the alarm all over Midland Station. Hundreds of men hustling to pre-assigned defensive positions, the vast majority centered on the only functional refinery in Texas. The Alliance was determined not to let its primary bargaining chip fall into enemy hands. Rigged with explosives and surrounded by the best defenses the tiny militia could assemble, Nick would destroy the facility if it couldn’t be held.

In the desert, 15 miles to the east of the warehouse, the Kiowa’s transmission was received by three M109 Paladin self-propelled howitzers. Looking like elongated battle tanks with extra-large gun barrels, the tracked vehicles had been a staple of the American ground warfare since the 1960s.

But these war machines weren’t primitive by any sense of the word. Constantly upgraded and modernized, each of the mobile artillery units was equipped with the latest in networking, software, and munitions. The fire-control computers onboard the armored guns processed the Kiowa’s broadcasted coordinates and within seconds began delivering a firing solution.

The 155mm gun barrels arched toward the sky, each tube reaching a high degree of apex. Almost simultaneously, the three belched smoke as their projectiles roared toward Midland Station.

Inside the crew compartments, loaders were feeding a new round into the breach. Within seconds, the barrels lowered their aim a few degrees, and soon three more rounds were on the way.

The process was repeated a third time, the final salvo fired with the barrels at a much lower angle. The tactic was simple. While the first shell was traveling on a high arch toward the target, each follow-on round was catching up via its lower trajectory. A high fly, then a lob and finally the line drive. All nine rounds would impact at the same time, despite being fired several seconds apart.

As each shell began its descent, stabilizing fins sprouted from the projectile’s body. A few moments later, an electronic seeker energized in the nose, scanning for the Kiowa’s laser designators.

The Kiowa hovered, well hidden behind the mound and keeping its invisible laser beams aimed at the objective. Those lines of intense light weren’t focused on a single point. Rotating in a computer controlled sequence, each corner of the parking lot was highlighted as well as the center of the warehouse’s roof.

Miles above and east of the target, the artillery seekers locked onto the beams and made small adjustments to their courses. Four of the incoming warheads zeroed in on the actual building while the remaining projectiles flew toward the grounds surrounding the marshalled trucks.

One hundred and fifty feet above the structure’s roof, the Excalibur Block II shells detonated. To any observer on the ground, the explosions appeared as harmless, grey puffs of smoke, the effect more closely resembling malfunctioning civilian fireworks than a deadly military strike. It was an illusion.

Multiple bomblets scattered from each shell, free falling downward in a precise pattern. Ribbons stabilized the grenades, pounds of high yield explosives descending toward the warehouse’s roof. At 15 feet above the structure, each sub-warhead exploded.

During the Gulf wars, US troops had coined the term, Steel rain, when referring to cluster munitions, and it was an apt description. The roof of the warehouse practically disintegrated, the victim of high velocity shrapnel and a compressed blast wave of air.

Two of the three workers inside of the structure actually survived the attack, huddled in their makeshift bunkers. Lucky to still draw breath, they found themselves at least temporarily deaf and blind… they couldn’t hear the continuing air strike or see the carnage. The sole causality died when his body was crushed by a collapsing wall of scorching rubble.

At the same instant the warehouse was being shredded, a wall of West Texas soil erupted around the parking lot. Five of the artillery rounds bracketed the area surrounding the military’s seized trucks. The planners back at Hood hadn’t wanted any guard posts, sniper hides or other hidden defenders enjoying their breakfast.

Before the dust and debris had begun to fall, the two Longbow Apache gunships pointed their noses downward and accelerated toward the target. At a range of four miles, each war bird energized two Hellfire missiles, verified its target, and launched.

The second wave of the attack was really unnecessary, but the officers back at Hood had been surprised and embarrassed by the Alliance once. They vowed it wouldn’t happen again and used the Apaches to bounce the rubble.

What little was left of the warehouse was struck by the missiles, the net result of the mission a pile of unrecognizable, smoldering ruins.

A short time later, the two gunships roared over the scene, infrared sensors scanning for any sign of defenders or resistance. There were no survivors, the two remaining Alliance workers slain instantly in the follow-on attack.

The Apaches didn’t leave. Instead, the two aircraft began orbiting the facility, almost as if daring any Alliance fighters to show themselves. None did, at least not in the immediate vicinity.

Nick and the other militia leaders had been concerned that the US might attack. Their foresight had even gone so far as to anticipate an assault from the air.

We can’t keep them from destroying the convoy’s trucks or cargo. We can do little to defend the warehouse from a determined attack. What we can do is make them pay a high price for their actions and save as many of our people as possible.

Their plan had included the radar detectors, sand bagged desks, and a third measure of defense.

Months ago, when it had become clear that the Alliance might face the US military, a detailed inventory of all available weapons, ammunition and personnel skills had been ordered by the council. Every small-town National Guard armory, police station, and sporting goods store had been searched and the contents counted.

Most had been looted after the collapse, but the stolen items had not simply vanished into thin air. Over time, the men of the Alliance had recovered, stumbled upon, or received voluntary donations of a considerable cache of offensive firepower.

While small arms and ammunition were important, Nick fully understood that his force’s most critical shortcoming was standoff weaponry. His foe could project power from great distances while he could not, and that was a recipe for a hasty defeat.

Of all the arms available to the Alliance, it was the seven .50 caliber rifles that caused the ex-Special Forces operator to smile. The huge rifles were man-portable, capable of inflicting damage at considerable distances, and deadly accurate.

All seven had been in the hands of private individuals, some purchased for the sheer fun of target practice, others as conversation pieces. Whatever the reason, Nick appreciated their contribution to the Alliance’s arsenal and planned to make good use of their capabilities.

Given warning by the desperate radio broadcast from the warehouse, all seven of the 50s were on the move by the time the howitzer shells landed. Teams comprised of two carefully selected men scrambled for predetermined positions, each duo carrying one of the big rifles.

The collection of civilian long guns was enhanced by military ammunition. The Alliance defenders had confiscated cases of assorted cartridge types being transported by the convoy. These special bullets greatly improved the capabilities of each weapon.

Armor piercing, incendiary, and anti-personnel rounds were uncrated and distributed to the teams. Despite the improved munitions capability, Nick’s orders were stern and ominous. Don’t mess with the gunships, no matter how tempting a target they present. Don’t fire at any moving aircraft. If they are coming for the trucks, their helicopters will have to land. Hit them when they are on the ground. Shoot the engines, cockpit, and tail rotors. Don’t worry about the individual troops they are unloading – hit and kill those birds.

Well-hidden fighting locations had been selected for each of the Alliance’s teams. The roof of a building almost 1200 yards away had a special shelter that appeared to be an air conditioner unit from the air. A slight rise in the desert floor,