Black Autumn Travelers

  Black Autumn Travelers

  Black Autumn Book 3

  Jeff Kirkham (Special Forces, ret.) &

  Jason Ross

  Black Autumn

  Travelers

  A Post-Apocalyptic Saga

  The Black Autumn series, Book Three

  by Jeff Kirkham, Former Army Green Beret

  & Jason Ross

  © 2018

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  A Word From Jeff and Jason

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  Prologue

  “History will conclude the American Empire fell because of two poor villagers and an idiot.”

  The American Dark Ages, by William Bellaher North American Textbooks, 2037

  Village of Parang, Sulu Archipelago, Philippines

  Seven Months Ago

  Bolat Nabiyev insisted on running the outboard motor himself. Truthfully, he had never piloted a boat of any kind, but he couldn’t bring himself to trust the junior agent nor the filthy Filipino fisherman to take control of his cargo. He had been forced to step aside to allow the fisherman to start the engine because it required a befuddling series of actions, including pumping a bulb, delicately rocking a choke lever back and forth, then giving the pull-starting rope a brisk snap. But, once the engine caught, the Kazakh KNB agent took control, even though he repeatedly over-corrected, steering them in a serpentine course toward the fishing dock.

  The small crate sitting in the bottom of their panga fishing boat represented the enormous trust placed in him by the Kazakh KNB, the intelligence agency that had resumed the role of the KGB when Soviet Russian influence rolled back in Kazakhstan in the early 1990s. Only three of the deadly crates had been in possession of the KNB, now secretly under the control of Al Qaeda in Pakistan. Having learned their lesson from the assassination of Osama bin Laden, Al Qaeda now ran a quieter strategy, spreading their fundamentalist Sunni Islam by infiltrating sympathetic Muslim nations like Kazakhstan. Through their control of the KNB, Al Qaeda inherited an RDS-451 “suitcase” nuclear weapon that had disappeared from the Russian arsenal during the fall of the Soviet Union.

  Uncharacteristically, Al Qaeda leadership had taken a full year to decide what to do with their nuclear weapon windfall from Kazakhstan. At the end of their decision-making, they arrived at a subtle plan―the organization’s new modus operandi―that favored impact rather than acclaim.

  For once, thought Bolat, the Arabs were rationalizing rather than romanticizing. Even so, he felt certain that little thought had been spared to protect he and his Filipino men from the radiation that undoubtedly poured off the crate in waves. He imagined he could feel his belly sickening with nausea.

  But none of that mattered. Today, the crate would be loaded aboard a sailboat bound for the sparkling cities of California. Unobtrusive and plain, the little crate seemed the perfect harbinger of destruction―a small gift of honesty to be delivered to a nation of liars.

  Agent Nabiyev had no idea who had come up with the idea of sending nuclear weapons across the Pacific Ocean in sailboats. The idea struck him as both brilliant and poetic. He had been assured by his superiors that small sailboats crossed the Pacific Ocean all the time, usually captained by Western adventurers sailing toward a life of leisure on the hundreds of tiny islands and atolls dotting the expanse of the Pacific. Completed in the proper season, the journey back toward America was relatively safe and not overly long, requiring just ninety days of good weather and a little luck.

  In an added twist of brilliance, the sailboat was to be owned and piloted by nameless Filipino Muslims with no connection to Kazakhstan whatsoever. The sailors wouldn’t even know that Al Qaeda had been involved in the scheme; even the writing on the crate was in English.

  The secrecy would cost Al Qaeda. Once the crate went aboard the sailboat, they would no longer control its destiny. They would have to trust the fanatical Filipino Muslim hatred of America to ensure proper delivery of the weapon. Timing would be anyone’s guess. But time was on the side of Islam. America had to win against Islam at every turn. Considering the weakness of American wealth and leisure, Islam had to win only once to destroy the lie that sin leads to riches.

  Bolat motioned to the fisherman to resume control of the fishing boat. They were nearing the dock, and he had strict orders to avoid any contact with the Filipino sailors who would deliver the bomb to America. Sitting in the panga, this was as close as he would ever be to the nuclear weapon. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he would regret the half-hour of exposure.

  As they pulled up to the dock, Bolat and his companion lowered the brims of their straw hats and stepped off onto the dock, walking away as though the panga had carried them as simple passengers. Once they reached the shore, the agents stopped next to a large stack of fish traps and lit Filipino cigarettes. Bolat didn’t smoke, but he had learned to for moments like these when he was conducting surveillance and wanted to look inconspicuous.

  The agents monitored the crate as the nuke passed onto the dock and was loaded into a large sailboat on the other side. The Filipino sailors’ instructions from their tribal imam had been to set sail immediately, but the sailors dithered around on the dock for the next hour, joking with other sailors and bargaining with a fisherman on some fresh catch. The agents were forced to relocate several times on the quay to avoid drawing attention. Bolat suppressed the urge to storm down to the dock and beat the sailors for their stupidity. According to the tribal imam, the sailors had been told they carried a bomb and Bolat had been told by the imam that the men he had chosen for the mission were his most faithful followers.

  If they had known the importance of the mission, wouldn’t they cast off immediately? The risk of discovery alone would make most men take the task seriously. Bolat had spent the last year in the jungles, learning that Filipinos deserved their poverty-stricken lives. They had no discipline, no urgency.

  The sailors eventually completed their quayside meanderings and set sail. As Bolat watched the forty-five-foot sailboat chug out of the small harbor under engine power, he wondered if this would be the bomb to reach American soil. He had his doubts after watching the natives behave like teenage idiots on the dock.

  Bolat stubbed out his cigarette on a piling and shook his head, thinking again about the Filipino villagers. They were fools. But he supposed only fools would sail across the Pacific with a nuclear bomb leaking radiation in the hold of their boat.

  Outside the Big Thicket Federal Nature Preserve, Kountze, Texas

  Officer Jeremy Hellmund had been lying in the dirt for twenty minutes, and he was dying to scratch his nuts.

  How long could a Marine sniper sit still before he had to redeploy his position and his balls? The cable TV show about Marine scout snipers made it sound like they were required to stay still for at least two hours before they could pass scout sniper school.

  As a trained federal officer, Jeremy figured he could do that much. It felt like there was an ant crawling on his balls. Maybe it had crawled up his leg.

  He raised the binos back up to his eyes. The black panty hose covers he had fashioned for the lenses made the image blurry. He had heard about this little hack on YouTube—panty hose eliminated glare and prevented detect
ion.

  The militia men were at it again. Training.

  Jeremy was nearly certain this militia group was building up to a terrorist attack. He had been tracking their movements and infiltrating their comms network for more than a year. They frequently talked about “taking down” federal agents, and even the U.S. president, in their closed Facebook group.

  When Jeremy went to his supervisor with copies of the group’s terrorist chatter, it hadn’t gone well. His boss, generally a pretty good guy, was obviously too lazy to pull the trigger on some real law enforcement.

  “That’s not your job. You’re a park ranger, Jeremy.” His boss had pushed back on the intel. “Just do your job, okay?”

  “Park Ranger,” he repeated quietly. I’m a trained federal officer.

  As he watched the militia practice their maneuvers, he felt the reassuring weight of his handgun jammed between a buckthorn sapling and his ass. He daydreamed about what would happen the day he finally put together enough evidence to put these guys away. He pictured himself making the call. He kept a business card on the nightstand in his apartment of an FBI agent he met at a fundraiser for Red-Cockaded Woodpeckers for the Big Thicket National Preserve where he worked. Once he had something concrete, Jeremy would make the call. The FBI. The Big Time.

  His ball-itch reached a crescendo and he mashed down his urge to scratch.

  Just like a Marine scout sniper.

  He glanced downrange to distract himself. He couldn’t figure out what the militia dirtbags were doing. They looked like they were practicing maneuvers, shooting at each other, but with no bang-bang. When the wind changed direction, he heard an intermittent mechanical whine.

  Every militia guy was equipped like a hard-core operator. Multi-cam. Plate carrier vests. Heavy stacks of .223 magazines. Bump helmets. Oakley wraparound sunglasses. Every guy carried an AR-15 assault rifle with a flashlight, laser, vertical grip, and an ACOG scope.

  His curiosity got the best of him and he slowly reached forward and ever-so-gently removed one of the panty hose makeshift screens from the left objective lens. The difference was immediate. Now he could see detail. He noticed orange flash hiders on the ends of the barrels.

  Oh, damn. The militia guys were running airsoft rifles with orange flash-hiders. That was it. They were training with airsoft.

  Jeremy remembered back to the days before he had completed his Seasonal Law Enforcement Training Program, or SLETP, to become a federal ranger. He had definitely done his share of airsoft, even becoming something of a local legend back in Vermont.

  Training with airsoft. Very clever. The perfect way to train for an attack, mused Jeremy. He slowly set the binos in the weeds and dipped into a pocket, pulling out a tiny notebook. He scribbled a couple notes.

  Sept. 17th: Airsoft Combat Training

  17 men, 8 vehicles

  After twenty minutes of exfil, Jeremy made it back to his Subaru. He plucked at the cockleburs in his pants and gear while turning his phone on to check his messages. He grabbed a Slim Jim, which had reached a warm and oily state, from the front seat. While he unwrapped it, Jeremy popped over to Facebook, a little disappointed that he hadn’t seen anything truly actionable today.

  He made it a habit to check the militia’s Facebook Group several times a day. Munching the Slim Jim and poking at his phone, Jeremy clicked over to the Hardin County Regulators Facebook group, or HCR, as they called themselves.

  There was a ton of new comms traffic. Something was up. The guys were sounding off about a friend who was going before a judge Monday morning, tomorrow. He had been busted by one of Jeremy’s fellow rangers. The militia suspect had drunk alcohol in an open container in a Day Use Area. The perp had been tying one on like the white trash Texan he was—pounding one big bottle of Mexican beer after another—as though the rules of the park meant nothing to him.

  Jeremy’s fellow ranger had challenged him, and the guy just kept drinking. The ranger called for backup and it got pretty tense, causing his fellow ranger to move up the line to the local sheriff. Charges against the drunk included resisting arrest.

  The HCR boys ranted a blue streak on Facebook about how the “feds” had no right to put a man in chains on Texas soil, and how somebody, presumably the HCR, should put a stop to it.

  That evening, Jeremy watched the rhetoric escalate on Facebook until one man, Morris Chittendon, the sergeant at arms of the HCR, threw down the gauntlet. As a come-one, come-all militia, the HCR found suitable assignments for everyone, even if they were too fat and too old to run seventy-five yards, as was the case with Morris Chittendon. When the injustices being done to their hard-drinking associate became too much to bear, Chittendon called for direct action.

  “Enough talk,” Morris messaged the group. “I’m going down to the courthouse tomorrow morning, and I’m going in hot.”

  Either nobody noticed or cared to comment upon the inconvenient reality that they were talking about a county courthouse and that their friend was being prosecuted by a county sheriff and a county judge. The feds weren’t party to the prosecution. The county sheriff had taken over almost right from the start.

  Later that night, back at his apartment, Jeremy again checked the HCR group on Facebook. After reading Chittendon’s most recent comment, Jeremy’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. He went straight for the FBI guy’s business card, sitting on his nightstand gathering dust. The glowing red numerals of his alarm clock gave him a moment’s pause. It was 9:47 p.m., and terrorist plot or not, social convention required that he wait until morning before calling an FBI agent. The guy was legit FBI and there was no way Jeremy would interrupt his family time. Jeremy pictured the phone ringing while the agent was banging his wife, and he set the business card back down like it was red hot.

  “Tomorrow morning,” he whispered. “First thing.”

  As soon as Jeremy sat up in bed at 7:30 a.m. on September 18th, his first impulse was to grab the business card.

  “Still too early.”

  Jeremy jumped out of bed and began his morning ablutions—shit, shower, shave—in that order. The courthouse opened at 9:00 a.m. and the drunk’s trial would be first on the docket. If they were going to nab Chittendon before a terrorist act, they would have to execute quickly.

  By 8:05 a.m., Jeremy couldn’t wait any longer. He grabbed the card and tapped in the agent’s number. It went straight to voicemail. After an uncomfortable pause, Jeremy decided to leave a message, explaining to the federal agent that he had a suspect who was planning on shooting up the county courthouse that very morning. Jeremy left every detail he could think of, telling about his investigative work on Facebook, the Regulator militia, the airsoft training and about Chittendon’s Facebook threat. The message machine eventually cut him off, but Jeremy felt like he had supplied the salient details.

  By 8:32 a.m., Jeremy still hadn’t heard back from Fred at the FBI, and he was as nervous as a cat chasing a mouse in a cowboy dance hall. With visions of an imminent terrorist attack, Jeremy grabbed a fourth coffee, skipped breakfast, and raced out to his Park Service SUV.

  He knew Chittendon’s car from his many recon missions observing the Regulators―a bronze Ford Taurus with a Confederate bumper sticker. Jeremy would have to make the interdiction himself. He pulled out his phone and placed it on the passenger seat, praying it would ring.

  Time was short, so Jeremy headed down Highway 69, looking for a good spot to cover the main approach into Hardin.

  At 9:00 a.m. sharp, Agent Fred Castellanos awoke to his alarm clock. It was his day off, and he had planned a day of jogging, lawn mowing and knocking back brews. Since he wouldn’t be driving into Beaumont for work, he felt like a million bucks, the world at his feet, with nothing to do but catch up on sleep and putter around the house.

  Then he looked over at his phone and saw he had a message. Goddammit.

  Fred snatched the phone and touched the message from an unknown number. After a long pause, someone on the other end launched into a rant
about terrorists, militia, and the Hardin Courthouse. He listened to the message twice more and it still didn’t make sense.

  Why would anyone hit the Hardin courthouse? And, more important, why would anyone call him, part of a child pornography taskforce, about suspicious militia activity?

  Fred listened to the message a third time, like a gold miner panning for nuggets.

  Who the hell was this fucktard calling him on his day off?

  There. There it was. Jeremy Hellmutt or Hellmud or Hellmund from the Park Service. Why in God’s holy name was a park ranger calling him?

  Without really thinking about it, he picked up his holster, and slid his Glock onto his belt. Hardin was just a couple towns over and he might as well head that way. He had a gnawing desire to complement his day with a sausage McGriddle, and Hardin had the only McDonalds for ten miles.

  Morris Chittendon’s bronze Ford Taurus blew past Jeremy Hellmund with a whoosh.

  Chittendon was just five blocks from the courthouse, presumably “going in hot.” Jeremy slammed his hand against the switch on the dash, firing up his law enforcement light bar. He sped out of the bar pit and gave chase behind Chittendon.

  Within moments, Chittendon pulled over to the side of Highway 69, and Jeremy jumped out of his SUV, hand on his pistol. As he cleared his SUV front fender, his phone buzzed, the incoming call from FBI Agent Fred Castellanos.

  But Jeremy was out of earshot and so pumped on adrenaline and caffeine that the only thing he could see was a sputtering-mad Morris Chittendon glaring back at him through his side window, literally ready to explode with pent-up patriot angst.