American Dreams | Book 3 | End Game [Side Mission] Read online

  End Game

  An American Dreams

  Side Mission Story

  Written by

  BRIAN PARKER

  Illustrated by

  AJ POWERS

  Edited by

  AURORA DEWATER

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Notice: The views expressed herein are NOT endorsed by the United States Government, Department of Defense or Department of the Army.

  End Game

  American Dreams Side Mission

  Copyright © 2020 by Brian Parker

  All rights reserved. Published by Phalanx Press.

  www.PhalanxPress.com

  Edited by Aurora Dewater

  Cover art designed by AJ Powers

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

  Works available by Brian Parker

  Five Roads to Texas

  Five Roads to Texas ~ After the Roads ~ The Road to Hell ~

  The Days Before (a prequel)

  www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07GHP6951

  Easytown Novels

  The Immorality Clause ~ Tears of a Clone ~ West End Droids & East End Dames ~

  High Tech/Low Life: An Easytown Anthology

  www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0753DSJBK

  American Dreams

  The Decline ~ The Ascent ~ End Game

  www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08GFC7YJP

  The Path of Ashes

  A Path of Ashes ~ Fireside ~ Dark Embers

  www.amazon.com/gp/product/B074C8GJDZ

  Washington, Dead City

  GNASH ~ REND ~ SEVER

  www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0753GSY8B

  Stand Alone Works

  Grudge ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B06Y5QS6J6

  Enduring Armageddon ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00XZA2UQY

  Origins of the Outbreak ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00MN7UFBW

  The Collective Protocol ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00KUZDY4O

  Battle Damage Assessment ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00PCND2RI

  Zombie in the Basement ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00H6DUXY2

  Self-Publishing the Hard Way ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00HNQCZ9I

  Plus, many more anthology contributions and short stories.

  ONE

  The drifter drove through the heavy fog toward the abandoned factory where he was supposed to meet his contact. He hadn’t had any communication with anyone from the Resistance in four days, but he was a lifelong soldier who knew shit went south sometimes. The factory was the last place he’d been told to report to by his leadership, so here he was.

  Jason Rogan turned off the headlights and navigated the pothole-riddled road with the help of the night vision goggles that he’d scored from his old team at Fort Bragg. He’d become spoiled with all the Gucci gear that the Teams received. The ancient PVS-7 model night vision goggles that his supply buddy gave him lacked the depth perception of the panoramic NVGs he was accustomed to, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  He’d been on the road for over a week, first traveling from Austin to Fort Bragg, North Carolina to get geared up with anything the Group could spare, and then northward to the edge of DC, in Northern Virginia. Just traveling had been trying as he negotiated NAR checkpoints, back roads, and bad weather. The only bright spot to the terrible rainstorms in the south and intermittent snow and ice in the mountains was that it had helped his journey as the federal officers hunkered down inside.

  The ruts in the pavement got larger, causing Rogan to curse with every teeth-rattling bounce. There was a steep learning curve remembering how to drive with the older model NVGs. He’d done drivers familiarization training with them in an MRAP fifteen years ago as a private in the 101st, but that was it. He’d spent his youth humping a pack in the mountains, not driving around all over the place like soldiers in the armored divisions.

  In addition to picking up the supplies, he’d learned from his side trip to Bragg that both sides were mistaken about the military’s role in the impending civil war. The military’s leadership had decided, for the most part, that they would not take part in the war for either side. They were simply taking themselves out of the equation. They would continue to be a deterrent against outside intervention and be there to support whichever side won when it was over. They wouldn’t allow the government to order them to use military equipment against the civilian population—the attack on Whiteman Air Force Base had been a clear example of how devastating that could be. Likewise, the civilian population couldn’t rely on them to fight against the government. It was up to the patriots to stand against the loyalists. Rogan understood, and even appreciated, the line that the US Military held, even if he didn’t agree with it. Foreign and domestic, he’d muttered to himself over and over as he traveled north. Foreign and domestic.

  Rogan wasn’t sure how far he drove down the long driveway. It was hard to tell in these conditions since he was crawling at barely ten miles an hour. If he’d sped up, he had the very distinct chance of wrecking the car and getting hurt, so he kept the big old Buick churning along at a tedious pace. It was a gas-guzzler, but the vehicle wasn’t on the NAR’s radar, and that was worth its weight in gold.

  A figure materialized from the gloom alongside the edge of the road and he pressed the brake. His hand dropped down to the pistol on the seat beside him as he lifted the NVGs away from his eyes and rolled down the window. He angled the pistol toward the outside of the car and waited for the man to approach.

  “What are you doing out here?” the guy asked as a way of greeting.

  “Just, you know, driving. What’s up ahead on this road?”

  “Nothing. Why you driving without any headlights?”

  Rogan pointed at the NVGs on his forehead. “Got a new toy from the surplus store. Just trying them out.”

  “Well, there ain’t nothing down this road, so you need to just turn on around and practice while you’re headed in the other direction, mister.”

  “No,” Rogan grunted. “I think I’m gonna keep on driving this way. I hear there’s an old building that’s pretty creepy and would be cool to explore at night.”

  “You heard that, huh?” the man asked skeptically. “Where’d you hear that from?”

  His mind raced. He’d been given next to zero information about who he was supposed to meet up with in Virginia. Everyone was extremely secretive—for a good reason. The NAR was actively trying to break the Resistance. If they could snatch a senior leader who had information about several groups, then it might be disastrous for the entire Revolution.

  “I’ve got some friends who passed along the word,” he replied. “Apparently, there are some plans to renovate the place, so I want to see it before the government comes in and changes everything.” He tried to stress the word, to see what the guard’s reaction would be, but he wasn’t budging.

  “Look, man. You need to go back where you came from.”

  “It’s a long drive back to Austin,” Rogan replied.

  “Austin?” The man seemed to be working something out in his head. Then the lightbulb went off and he grinned. “Oh! You’re the guy.”

  Rogan forced a matching smile. “I’m the guy.”

  “The factory is about two miles down this road. Go ahead and pull your car inside the building. That’ll keep it hidden from a passing drone or satellite or something.”


  “Alright. Then, I assume I’ll get further instructions?”

  “Yeah. I’ll call it up. Somebody will meet you.”

  “Ah, don’t used any specifics over the radio,” Rogan cautioned. “If they have a SIGINT bird up in the sky within twenty miles of this place, they’ll be able to intercept any radio or cell phone signal.”

  “Mister,” the man said, crossing his arms over his chest, “this ain’t Texas. We’re ten miles from the belly of the beast. We’ve been operating under the NAR’s surveillance net for months. We ain’t dumb.”

  “Never said you were, friend,” Rogan replied. “But it’s always a good idea to remind each other about how overmatched we are in this chess game. Two miles, you say?”

  “Yeah, about that.”

  “Okay, take care.” Rogan shifted the car into drive and slid the NVGs down over his eyes before the guard could protest further.

  TWO

  Rogan reached the end of the long driveway and saw the shadowy form of the old factory building up ahead. He’d passed a sign that said something about a construction aggregate company or something. What the hell is an aggregate? he wondered as he surveyed the abandoned building in front of him.

  The factory was not anything like what he’d been expecting. The image that he’d conjured up for himself along the drive east was of a tall, three or four story red brick building with the company’s faded logo painted directly onto the brick. He chuckled when he saw the long, one story metal building. He’d been thinking of the old B&O Warehouse Building at Camden Yard where the Baltimore Orioles played, not a self-storage location.

  A person appeared from a door in the side of the building and waved him forward. As he eased his foot off the brake, a large door began to roll upward. The closer he got, the more he realized that the fog and distance had conspired against him. The building was much larger than he first thought. It was easily twenty-five feet tall and the garage door he drove through could accommodate three of his cars side-by-side.

  There were several cars already inside, so he pulled up alongside one of them and turned the engine off. Behind him, the big door was already being closed once more, shutting out the very little bit of ambient light that the old PVS-7 relied on. They were useless in the large, windowless building, so he lifted the NVGs away from his eyes and set them on the passenger seat.

  Rogan started to open his door, but thought better of it. As jumpy as the guard out front had been, he decided he should probably just wait until one of these guys made contact. He turned the ignition switch to the ON position, providing the old Buick with enough power to roll down the windows then he switched it off and waited.

  “Hi,” a woman said from the passenger side.

  He glanced over and could just barely make her out. “Evening. Is this where the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting takes place?”

  She gave a half-hearted, “Heh,” and slapped an open hand on the doorframe. “Are you the soldier from Austin?”

  He wondered how, exactly, Chris Plummer had passed his info to these people since the Resistance was so paranoid about putting any type of details into their communications. While the bulk of the military was sitting it out on the sidelines, the NAR had the resources of the remainder of the federal government at their disposal. They could intercept any form of communication, so secrecy was paramount.

  “Yeah. That’s me,” he replied.

  “Okay, good. The gang’s all here then.” She stuck her hand through the window. “I’m McKenzie, from Portland.”

  He took it and said, “Rogan. Who else is here?”

  “Come on. We’re just setting up the war room.” She made a noise that sounded halfway between raspberry and an exasperated sigh. Rogan didn’t like the sound; it reminded him of something a four year old would do. “Pfft. Now that the Army’s here, calling it a war room sounds silly.”

  “It’s okay.” He got out of the car and slipped his pistol into the paddle holster on his hip.

  “Whoa!” the woman exclaimed. “Were you gonna shoot me?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe? Probably not though.”

  “Look, Army Guy, I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot here, but—”

  “Then stop while you’re ahead, McKenzie,” he cautioned, already feeling like he was out of place. Plummer hadn’t given him any details about the mission besides the location to meet up with other regional Resistance members. The mission was supposed to be very important, so they wanted every region to have representation in order to ensure that everyone was a part of it. The idea reminded him of several NATO goat fucks that he’d been involved in where totally unqualified individuals had been present on missions in Afghanistan just to keep the Coalition together. Again, he wondered what he’d gotten himself mixed up in.

  “Uh…” McKenzie seemed at a loss for words.

  He grabbed his go-bag and threw it over one shoulder. “You said everyone was gathered up in the ‘war room’? Let’s go there.”

  The woman turned on her heel and stalked off into the semi-darkness of the old factory. Rogan grinned in spite of himself. He was already making friends with these people. There was nothing to worry about.

  “Yeah, fucking right,” he mumbled under his breath. It was going to be a shit show.

  The war room was nothing more than an old office area inside the factory. The others had cleared away all the desks, pushing some of them outside and others around the walls to give them an open area in the middle with chairs lined up in a semi-circle around an easel. The easel held a large pad of white paper and several markers. Rogan nodded appreciatively when he saw the little one-gallon can of gasoline underneath the easel. If the place got raided, the organizers wanted to be able to burn the evidence of their planning quickly. Okay, he said to himself, maybe these people aren’t so dumb.

  There was a flurry of introductions and his name was added to a list of about thirty names on the first page of the butcher block. He skimmed it as one of the guys wrote. It looked like almost everyone that he’d been introduced to. He was worried that there were too many people involved. This many people would be hard to keep quiet and keep under control, but the Resistance wanted each region to be represented. Yup, it was a goat fuck.

  “Okay, now that we’re all here,” the guy from Florida said, “we can get started.” He turned toward the easel and flipped the page. Rogan read the words as quickly as he could. “Our goal here today is to come up with a target that will strike at the heart of the NAR. They’ve been hitting us, taking out our leadership and such, so we want to do the same to them. We need to make them feel unsafe in their own homes. We need to make them beg for an end to hostilities and resign from office.” Florida Man, as Rogan now referred to him in his head, slapped the paper. “Here’s our current list of targets. They’re not in priority order. They’re just listed as we thought of them. I’ll let the new folks take a look and give any feedback they have.”

  Rogan took his time with the list. If he was being given an opportunity to provide input, then he wanted to think about each one carefully. At the top was the president, and next was the vice-president, then Senator Bradley. After that there were a few names grouped together on one line that were familiar but he couldn’t necessarily pick them out of a lineup. Those were Congressional members. Then there were several more names with the agency they worked for written after the name. Again, most were sort of familiar to Rogan, but the only one that stood out was Chris Morningstar, the director of the CEA. He grinned. He’d love to put Morningstar in his place. With the directives that his office put out, that guy was probably single-handedly responsible for hundreds of CEA agent brutality cases.

  “Alright, we’ve had a chance to look at them,” Florida Man stated. “Are there any more names that should be added to the list?”

  “What about federal judges?” McKenzie asked from across the room. She’d made a point to get as far away from Rogan as possible once they’d arrived.

 
; The words went onto the paper. “Big city police chiefs? The Atlanta chief is a loyalist and is pretty damn ruthless.”

  Again, the words were written down. Several other people shouted out names or various other organizations that seemed to have more of a local flavor than anything else. Florida Man dutifully wrote everything down.

  After five or six minutes of this nonsense, Rogan pushed himself off the desk that he’d been leaning against. “What is our purpose here?” he asked, projecting his voice like he’d learned to do when he was a young soldier.

  Everyone stopped and looked at him. “Uh…” Florida Man stammered. “Well, our purpose is like I said, to level the playing field. To make the NAR beg for peace and return the power back to the people.”

  Rogan jabbed a finger at the expansive list of names. “Then we need to stop with all the local bullshit. Yeah, I get it, we have representatives from what? Twenty cities or regions? Is that about right? We have all these people here to do something big, not go after local targets.” He paused trying to organize his thoughts before continuing.

  “So, what do you suggest, Army Man?” McKenzie hissed, interrupting his internal organization.

  He frowned. If that chick was Portland’s best representative, then the city was a lost cause. “Going after local assholes will only impact the area that the person is affecting,” Rogan stated. “We all came here, to DC, to do something big in DC, not travel down to Atlanta or wherever. As ahhh—” he pointed at Florida Man because he couldn’t remember the guy’s name.

  “Jackson,” the guy replied.

  “That’s right. As Jackson said, we’re here to really go after the heart of the NAR and make them realize that they aren’t safe anywhere, even in the nation’s capital.” He strode to the center of the room and picked up a marker. “Okay, the president and vice president are certainly the best candidates on this list. They’re also two of the most highly-protected individuals on the planet, so I think those guys are most certainly out.” He drew a line through the two names. “Unless we have several hundred well-trained fighters hidden in the wood line that I didn’t see on the way in.”