Chapter 5: Chaos

Tuesday July 21, 2026—Repercussions

“I don’t know what’s funnier,” Robert snorted across the table. He and Jim enjoyed a casual supper in the Montana Club, next to the University District. “The fact that those pompous, self-absorbed DOJ egomaniacs got caught with their peckers out, or that they were bailed out by a bunch of hillbilly boys from the ‘Holler’!”

Jim snorted as he sipped his coffee. He discreetly hid the puppy in his jacket, and she slept soundly beside him. “They were compromised from the start,” he said. “That will hinder future operations until they find the leak.”

“How so?”

Jim stared at his billionaire buddy. “You saw the drone footage. The insurgents were prepositioned and waiting. That’s a catastrophic security breach.”

News footage suggested over 175 terrorists were captured alive, with a death toll of over 300. The Ozark Volunteer Militia’s celebration was short-lived; however, when the Missouri Governor activated the National Guard. Eighty-five militia members were arrested, including Colonel Ted. A state-wide manhunt was underway for the others. The irate Guard commander completely lost his shit when they recaptured hundreds of weapons, munitions, and vehicles ‘borrowed’ from their armory. This sparked an internal investigation to identify and punish any guard personnel who might’ve worked with the OVM.

“POTUS is extremely pissed off!” Gallagher added, shaking his head. There was a White House Press briefing held earlier, and the spokesperson verbally castigated the reckless actions of a select group of homegrown domestic terrorists. They assured the public that all responsible persons would be held accountable and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. The tycoon recognized his companion’s expression. “You disagree, Major?”

Jim set down his cup and nodded. “Wholeheartedly, sir.” He replied automatically, deferring to his superior rank.

“Talk to me, Jim,” he insisted. After years of knowing his friend, he found that Major Keller’s mind operated on another level. He was brilliant and intuitive, and his insights and analytics were unmatched.

James set down his drink, “You may not agree with the OVM’s doctrine or tactics. You don’t have to like Ted Thrasher either; I certainly don’t. But you can’t obfuscate the outcome. That wild group of men and women took on and obliterated a 500-man, well-trained, and heavily armed terror cell.

“Think about it, General... 130 civilians defeated a damn battalion! With a few mortars, small arms, and a department store drone! No air support, limited intelligence, and no military oversight!” He raised his hand to forestall the man’s response. “I know they broke the law. But their actions were patriotic as hell and will resonate with the people. I don’t care about your political views—those men and women struck the heartstrings of every American, young and old.”

“They broke the law—”

“So did George Washington, 250 years ago, when he crossed the Delaware on Christmas.”

“C’mon Jim, that was diff—”

“Sir, it doesn’t matter. It won’t matter to 300 million Americans. If those men and women are prosecuted, we won’t just be fighting insurgents in our streets.”

Rob deflated as he spun his empty cup on the table. His thoughts conflicted with his emotions.

Goddamnit!

Friday, July 31—Shamrock, Tx

Three young men sat in the back of their friend’s refurbished ‘85 El Camino, drinking Modelo and reminiscing about their Junior year at Shamrock High. They wore their Letterman jackets despite the oppressive heat under the emerging stars. The bright green clover on their backs shone as they laughed and joked, determined to drink every beer in the coolers at their feet. They were doing a stellar job and grew louder and more boisterous, determined to make this a night to remember—none of them aware it would be their last.

“Fighting Irish!” Jake Talbot roared into the night. They were parked on the 50-yard line of El Paso field, reflecting on the glory days when the Klieg lights lit up the green like midday on a Friday night.

“Shamrocks!” Freddy Mane yelled back before belching epically, making them all howl with laughter.

The third boy glanced around the darkened field and frowned. “Where are those bitches?” His name was Reggie Masters, and he was the only black kid on the football team, highly regarded as their star quarterback and team captain. He also attracted several talent scouts from Texas universities. “Yo, what time is it?”

“Who cares, dude!” Jake drawled with a stupid grin. “They ghosted us! Big fuckin deal!” he belched and reached for another cerveza. “More beers for us!”

“Bro’s not Ho’s!” Freddy bellowed, causing another round of laughter. He stood up, swaying, and peered into the dark. “I gotta piss!” he declared and shook the car as he leaped over the side onto the grass. He fell on his ass and rolled before staggering back up. His buddies jeered and laughed at his antics as he struggled with his fly before urinating onto the faded fifty-yard line.

“Yo, why you gotta piss right there?” Reggie complained. “We gotta play here in a few weeks.”

Freddy ignored him as he swept his stream back and forth and stagger-stepped unsteadily. After finishing and zipping up, he returned to the vehicle and leaned heavily over the tailgate. “The Ho’s no-showed,” he slurred, emphasizing each vowel. “So whatcha wanna do?”

No one had any brilliant ideas.

“Let’s cruise!” Jake decided and staggered to his feet, sending empties bouncing around his car’s bed.

“Shotgun!” the other two cried simultaneously.

“I ain’t ridin’ bitch!”

“I called it first... bitch!”

The driver ignored them as he sank into the bench seat behind the wheel. Man, I’m fucked ... up!

Fifteen minutes later, they were cruising the empty streets of Shamrock, glancing around and listening to one of Jake’s metal CDs. With no prospects in town, they headed north.

“Dudes! Let’s head to Amarillo,” Freddy suggested. “There’s always shit happening there!”

Jake checked his instrument panel. “I only got a quarter tank.”

Ten minutes in, Reggie declared he had to piss like a racehorse. “C’mon, man! Pull over!”

There was enough traffic on I-83 to discourage him from doing so. Instead, he turned onto a farm-to-market road and pulled into the dark parking lot of an old, decrepit stone building.

“What’s this place?” Freddy asked as they cruised around the building, stopping in an empty lot behind it.

“It’s the old Wheeler Mason Lodge,” the driver replied, killing the motor to save gas. They all piled out and stepped across the overgrown gravel lot in different directions to piss in peace.

Reggi took the longest; only Jake was waiting when he returned to the car. They spotted the larger boy checking out the building. “Hey Freddy, let’s go!” Jake called. They saw the flashlight from the starting center’s cell phone as he examined the side door and pushed it open.

He grinned back. “Dudes, it’s unlocked!” he called. “Let’s check it out!”

Jake and Reggie shrugged. Nothing better to do on a lame Friday night. It wouldn’t be their first time vandalizing a condemned building.

Their prospects were limited because many interior rooms were locked. They couldn’t access the stairs to the top level, and the only rooms to explore on the main level were a toilet, broom closet, and kitchen.

“This is bogus,” Jake grumbled, sweeping his light around the cabinets and counter tops. All the appliances were gone.

“Hey,” Reggie said eagerly. “I found the way to the basement.” He shined his light on another door, revealing another set of stairs.

“Hell, fuckin’ yeah!” Freddy laughed.

The stairs descended to an unremarkable hallway with two locked doors on either side. It ended in an open room, which they didn’t realize was dimly illuminated until they stepped inside.

“Whoa!”

“What the fuck?”

The 30-by-25-foot room contained a curious arrangement of broken furniture, old boxes, and crates. It was lit by a string of incandescent light bulbs across the ceiling. A large garish tapestry hanging on the far wall captured their attention. None understood the markings, but it was out of place in the old Mason building.

“What the fuck is that?” Reggie asked nobody in particular.

An island of broken benches and tables adorned the room’s center, and Freddy and Jake moved over to inspect it.

“Holy shit!” the latter exclaimed. “Check this out!”

This was a large three-dimensional topographical model covering most of the rickety surface.

“Whoa! You think someone plays D&D down here?” Freddy exclaimed. It seemed like a logical theory to the drunk senior.

“No, dude, this is a map,” Jake replied, tracing the streets. “Check it out; there’s Pampa and Wayside, so that’s north.” He touched several locations marked by small flags. “That’s the Keystone Towers ... and there’s Electric City.” He tapped another marker. “This is the Blackhawk coal plant ... And that is where they put in all those big-ass windmills.” He swept his hand over the west side of the map.

“Dude, this is awesome!” Freddy laughed, shining his light around the room.

Reggie stood before the large wall hanging, studying it with a frown. “Man, this shit is off the hook.”

Freddy joined him and looked at the white characters along the bottom. “Looks like some Chinese Lord of the Rings shit to me.”

“What does it mean?”

“It is the holy symbol of Twelver Ja’afari Shia Islam,” a silky voice stated behind them.

All three boys spun around in surprise, their hearts racing as they found the passage blocked by strange-looking men in dark clothing. Their heads were covered in long scarves, faces concealed behind the black wrapping, and they all held gleaming AK-47s with curving magazines.

“The language is old Persian—the dialect of the ancient Sasanian empire,” the speaker continued. “It is the Shahadah, one of the Five Pillars of Islam. The words read I bear witness that there is no deity but God, and I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of God.”

Sunday, August 2—Broadaxe 238

Jim triggered the remote detonator outside the cave and felt a slight tremor, though he heard nothing. The dust cloud rolled from the dark mouth and dissipated in the breeze. Satisfied, he set the trigger down beside the entrance. He lowered his chin to peer at the tiny snout protruding from the front of his jacket.

“How about that?” he murmured, stroking her nose as she yawned and regarded his activity with contented boredom. He swung the gate closed and locked it. “I don’t know about you, but I feel like a pulled pork sandwich. How ‘bout we head to the Travel Center for lunch?”

The pup showed her disinterest by pulling her face back inside his coat and settling into the warmth of his chest. He snorted and entered the Quonset hut to collect his phone, Sig Sauer, and wallet.

“Free Ted Now!” chanted the crowds outside Pennsylvania Avenue. Banners, signs, flags, and bullhorns added to the angry energy surrounding the Presidential residence. Extra security was deployed along the perimeter, although the crowds remained peaceful but loud.

“Over 3,500 protesters descended upon the White House today, after marching on the Capitol, reminding lawmakers of a recent incident that shook the entire civilized world.”

Jim looked at the big screen impassively as he bit into his sandwich.

“Fortunately, this crowd’s goal wasn’t to overturn an election but to express their anger at what many consider a sick and pointless political stunt—”

“More coffee?”

He recognized the new woman from earlier when he spotted her briefly through the kitchen doors. He thought nothing of it at the time. She was shorter than Rhonda and had dark black hair tied back in a ponytail. Her accent was Slavic; he guessed Ukrainian. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you,” he smiled.

Her thin lips curved up briefly before resuming a neutral expression. He glanced behind her as she poured and spotted another dark-haired figure slipping through the swinging doors carrying a bussing tub. They looked 14 or 15 and glanced furtively before exchanging the empty tub for a full one. Turning back, they glanced in his direction briefly, and he was at a loss. Their hair was shorter and framed a round face and similar eyes. But he couldn’t decide if it was a boy or a girl.

“You two related?” he asked curiously as the younger person returned to the kitchen.

She nodded briefly, “My sister.”

Huh. “I’m Jim,” he said to her, raising his cup appreciatively.

“Sofia,” she replied hesitantly.

“Ukrainian?”

She paused and looked back at him uncertainly before nodding. “How ... how did you know that?”

He coughed humorously, and his smile widened. “I spent a year around Velykyi Burluk as a military advisor to your defense forces during the early stages of the invasion.”

Her eyes widened. “I grew up near Siryi Yar.” Her face lit up, then darkened.

He nodded. “I’m sorry for your village during the invasion. But I’m glad you escaped.”

“My parents sent me ... us to Kyiv,” she replied, barely a whisper. “They chose to stay.”

He pursed his lips compassionately. “Did you come here as part of USAA?” The Ukraine Supplemental Appropriations Act was amended three years ago, permitting the immigration of displaced refugees.

She nodded, “Because we were orphaned, we could travel without sponsorship.”

How did you end up in Bumfuck, Montana? She turned away as he pondered. St. Regis was a popular stop along I-90, with many tour and charter buses parked behind the Travel Center connected to the restaurant. His musing was cut short by several motorcycles pulling up to the front of the building. He always positioned himself with his back to a wall and the entrance in view. It was no surprise to see the McPherson brothers storm into the lobby, followed by their three companions. They stood arrogantly, filling the small area, glaring at the diners. Jim noticed the new waitress hurrying into the back just as Colby locked eyes with him and scowled. He elbowed his brother and led the group directly toward him.

“Hey! Fuckface!” he snarled as they approached.

James remained silent, sipping his coffee and maintaining a calm demeanor. His eyes hardened as he analyzed the approaching threat, mulling over responses.

“I’m talking to you, motherfucker!” the older brother added, stopping at the booth’s edge.

With fluid ease, the former Ranger slid forward and stood, staring back at the fellow with a bored expression, “You have a problem?”

“Yeah, I gotta problem!” he retorted, stepping closer. “You!’ He reached forward and poked Jim in the chest. Perhaps he expected him to flinch or fall back. He did neither.

“I strongly suggest you never do that again,” he said with a low tone that would’ve made anyone else think twice.

“And I suggest you fuck the hell off!” he retorted. “Who the fuck do you think you are filing a police report and vandalism complaint against me and my boys? Do you have any idea who my dad is?”

“Didn’t your mom tell you?” The Ranger’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He continued before they could recover from his jibe, “Sadly, he wasn’t around to discuss it when I visited the department.” He had dropped off the complaint at the Mineral County Sheriff’s office on his way back to the mine after the Gulfstream job.

“Yeah? He still got it. And you know what he did with it?”

“I have an idea,” he sighed. It wasn’t a surprise nothing would come of it.

“Yeah, you fucking do—” the arrogant twit snarled again, emphasizing his statement with another poke ... almost.

Colby’s eye bulged, and the color drained from his face when his leading hand was caught in an iron grip and twisted outward. He reacted involuntarily, hissing in agony as he surrendered his arm, leaning in. This allowed Jim to bend it painfully and spin his assailant until his arm was wrenched behind his back.

“Let’s take this outside, shall we?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he propelled the young man back to the entrance, shoving his buddies aside. He drove the man’s face into the hardwood door before it gave way. Colby found himself diving into the parking lot when his arm was released. He landed badly, on his face.

James moved right and spun around as the other four bikers rushed out. He faced off with them as Colby rose to his hands and knees. “You cock sucker!” he screamed, staggering to his feet. An ugly scrape marred his left cheek from the asphalt. “You’re gonna die for that! Get him!”

James braced himself as the three friends rushed him while the younger McPherson dashed across the parking lot. They charged individually, giving him plenty of time to react. The first attacker was swept off his feet when Jim sidestepped and clothes-lined him with his forearm. His upper body stopped instantly while his legs flew up, sending him to the hard pavement on his back. The second biker broadcast his attack with a wild swing that Jim ducked casually before hammering him in the ribs and kidney as he staggered by. His counterattack turned him away from the third biker, who jumped onto his back with an exultant cry. Perhaps he hoped to tackle his opponent or establish a chokehold. Whatever the motive, his triumphant yell died in his throat when he was promptly dislodged and sent tumbling through the air. He’d nearly completed a somersault before a signpost intervened.

He detected Colby’s aggressive approach from his periphery and side-stepped his rush. The man stumbled but caught himself before turning to find the tall man facing him calmly. If he’d bothered to contemplate his situation, the older brother might have reconsidered his next move. That he was squaring off with a combat veteran never crossed his mind. Instead, he lashed out with a punishing right jab, following up with his left almost simultaneously. His intent was broadcast, and his movements were slow and clumsy so that Jim didn’t bother to block the attack. Instead, he stepped forward with his right foot and delivered a staggering jab. His huge fist connected with the left side of Colby’s face, breaking his nose and cheekbone and dislodging several teeth.