Chapter 6: Countdown to Chaos

Thursday, August 13, 2026—North Dakota

Sam Darvish, AKA USAF Capt. Emilio Armand stood casually in the arrival section at Minot International Airport. His calm façade masked his turmoil. The Firefly had just landed on the 737 and was taxiing to its gate. He had no idea who Firefly was or what he (or she) looked like. His instructions were to be at the local airport at this time and to draw no attention to his undercover identity. So, he waited, trying to blend in with a small crowd of waiting friends and family wearing a garish red and white Calgary Flames jersey.

In the last three years since he embedded himself in the Minuteman III ICBM community, he drafted and submitted several assessments of his position and the missile system. He described the process from idle-offline to the various alert stations, ascending to the launch sequence. Under the current threat assessment, the DRVs or delivery vehicles were unarmed, meaning the ordinance payloads hadn’t been delivered and attached to the missile’s nose. Unarmed, the weapon was nothing more than a $65 million solid fuel booster.

Not even Capt. Armond could facilitate the arming sequence, ordering the multiple independently targetable reentry vehicles (MIRV) to be delivered by rail from a nearby, undisclosed armory. He was clear about his limitations, but his communications were mostly one-way and rarely garnered feedback. His life had become so routine that he felt like he had been forgotten. That was until he was notified of the upcoming visit from his cousin Edward Smith.

Passengers appeared in the hallway exiting the gates. He crooked his neck, studying the faces, trying to determine which person he was there for. Medium height? Middle-aged? Dark complexion? Perhaps a beard? None of the above.

Cousin Eddy caught him off guard when he heard a loud outcry and turned to see a very Caucasian young man with bleached white hair styled into a radical right fade. He displayed a wide, happy grin as he bounced from side to side behind a group of people around a woman in a wheelchair. “Emee!” he cried out, waving excitedly.

The Air Force officer blinked and studied the colorful character dubiously. At the first gap in the pedestrian rush, the blonde-haired youth dodged through and skipped past the crowd, bounding forward. Darvish was caught in a bearhug, which he returned with less enthusiasm. “It’s been so long...,” he greeted with a forced smile.

Eddy clapped him roughly on the shoulder. “I know, man! Forever!”

“Any bags to claim?”

The newcomer nodded, and they walked to Baggage Claim, where they retrieved a medium-sized suitcase before leaving the terminal. All pretense of familiarity vanished once they climbed into the flashy red convertible.

“Can I charge my phone?” the man asked. “It almost died during the flight.” He didn’t wait for an answer, producing a device that looked more like an old iPad Nano than a phone. He plugged it into the loose cable under the dash. Then he faced the driver, “When do you report back to duty?” he asked bluntly, his voice sounding older. His demeanor had shifted as his youthful, friendly façade melted away.

“Day after tomorrow,” Darvish replied, taking no offense at the conversation. “I requested a 24-hour liberty. Capt. Erickson will cover my first shift.”

The passenger nodded. “Good. We have much to discuss and prepare before we can act.”

“What are we preparing for?”

The blonde grinned, “To push this vile nation over the edge—”

Friday, August 14—Missoula

Interstate 40 was at a standstill. The highway was congested for over 100 miles from Shamrock to Amarillo, with truckers, bikers, and vehicles full of angry citizens determined to share their outrage. News helicopters occasionally flew overhead to record the scene.

“What in the actual hell?” Robert cursed over his steak, slicing off a piece furiously.

“It may be good that the general population has short memories,” James replied, looking up at the big screen. “The White House better hope it can keep it suppressed.”

“What are you talking about?”

Keller glanced at his friend. “You remember when the administration invited the Taliban to Camp David, right?”

The oil tycoon blinked incredulously and set his cutlery down. He lost his appetite as he realized the implications. “And you think they are refusing to come out ahead of this...” He stabbed a finger at the screen showing the yearbook photos of the three Lettermen athletes. “—because ‘there are good people on both sides?’”

“It doesn’t matter what you or I think.”

“Ah, shit!” Gallagher felt his stomach contract and the familiar irritation of his reflux. “How long can we stay on this slippery slope before something else happens?”

“The Divine Sword didn’t send over 500 soldiers to infiltrate our borders just to murder three boys, General. They stumbled onto something bigger.”

“Yeah, that’s the consensus.”

Later that afternoon, Jim returned to the St Regis travel center. His extended trailer had enough prepping supplies to fill the remaining space in the Quonset hut. Black plastic totes with metal clasped lids lined the flatbed, full of dry goods, canned smoked meats (he’d scored a beautiful Elk last season and spent all year preparing and preserving what he didn’t give away to friends), freeze-dried meals, and survival necessities. In his truck bed was his new Cummins generator, still in its plywood shipping box.

He pulled up to the fuel pumps to top off his tank. He glanced up from his cell phone when he saw someone approaching from his periphery. It was Rhonda, wearing a worried expression as she hurried over.

“Rhonda,” he greeted somberly, sensing her unease. “Is everything okay?”

“No,” she stammered, glancing nervously over her shoulder. “Not by a long shot.” She fumbled in her apron pocket and took out a pack of Marlboro lights. “You’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest with those McPherson idiots!” she spat, removing a cigarette and lighting it, ignoring the warning decals on the nearby fuel pump. She blew out a cloud of smoke and hugged herself before glancing at his calm face. “I told you their dad is a sheriff, right? Well, he’s after you for the destruction of private property.” She took another long drag and exhaled long and slow. “They went crying to Daddy when you wrecked their bikes.”

He shrugged as the pump clicked off. “I’m not worried. He knows where to find me if he wants to.” He’d be across state lines but doubted it would matter to the local cops.

“That’s not all,” she said, glancing around. “They were here less than an hour ago, riding in Malcolm’s truck.” Her expression darkened as she explained he was one of the three cohorts that followed them. “The other night, they came into the restaurant drunk and acted like fools.” She waved her cigarette absently, lowering her voice. “Lance took a fancy to the Russian girl Sophia, and when she resisted, he got ugly and had to be tossed out by Earl.”

Jim felt anger rekindle deep in his gut. “Did he hurt her?”

She shook her head, took a final drag, and tossed her butt to the ground, stepping on it. “No, but they got butthurt and started yelling stupid shit about coming after her and her retarded sister. I’m terrified for her because they stomped into the restaurant an hour ago, demanding to know where the immigrant bitch was.” She shuddered in her thin blouse, hugging herself. “Thank God she wasn’t working, but Earl has been letting them stay in the loft above the restaurant. I sent her a warning text and snuck her the keys to my Dart out back. She loaded Anika up, and they snuck away. I saw them cross the highway onto Little Joe...” Her expression was drawn, and he felt a cold dread inside.

“Did they spot her and go after?”

Rhonda’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as she nodded. “About an hour ago. God! I’m so scared for them! I called the sheriff, but you can imagine how that went.”

With the trailer, his speed was limited on the winding, packed gravel road heading southwest. It took him half an hour to reach the state line, and he worried they might have taken a side road. Regardless, he couldn’t trail them effectively with the trailer, so he decided to drop it off at his property if he didn’t encounter them first. Twenty minutes from the claim, he spotted the light blue Dodge sedan stuck in a ditch alongside the main road. The front end had dropped over the embankment, and the rear quarter panel on the driver’s side was crumpled.

He parked on the road and stepped out of the truck, ignoring the puppy’s whimpering protest in his jacket on the passenger seat. The driver’s door was open, and the taillights were glowing. He climbed down the embankment and found the vehicle empty, as he suspected. Returning to the road, he studied the tracks, identifying a different set that led further down after a pattern of skid marks. A grim determination filled him as he climbed back into his truck and followed them. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he retrieved his Sig Sauer from the center console in its tactical holster.

As he rounded a sharp bend in the road, he encountered a familiar single-lane bridge and saw the tracks veer into a field to the left. He blinked in surprise to find an older model Ram 2500 racing toward him from the tree line. The driver recognized him, swerved right, and continued recklessly across the field. He recognized at least four people in the truck, and they shouted and jeered at him from 30 yards away, flipping him off through their open windows as they raced away.

He cursed. Burdened by the trailer, he couldn’t follow them. By the time he could detach it, they’d be long gone. Why had they gone into the trees? Fearing the worst, he followed their tracks, feeling the trailer lurch behind him. He kept his speed low and steady as he cautiously crossed the field, searching for dips or logs, approaching the tree line. Halfway across the field, he felt his chest constrict and throat tighten at the sight ahead.

It was a small clearing 20 yards from the tree line, with two unmoving figures sprawled in the center.

Both were stripped of their clothing and lay naked and battered as he raced toward them. Fear pierced his heart as he stumbled over a dead branch and barely prevented himself from falling. He cried out as he staggered over to the first woman. It was Sophia, lying prone and still. He dropped beside her and yelled again, grabbing her shoulders to roll her over. When he saw her battered face, his heart nearly stopped. Oh God! No! “Sophia!” Her eyes flew open, and she gaped at him with a terrified expression, croaking in terror because her voice failed her. She was alive!

“Hey!” he called to her empathetically. “It’s me, Jim. I’m not going to hurt you!” He remembered his EMT training and quickly assessed her body for life-threatening injuries. After thirty seconds, she began hyperventilating and screaming, flailing her arms to fight him off. “You’re gonna be okay!” he blurted confidently, turning to her sister, who lay curled on her side. She was unconscious but breathing. He rolled her onto her back and straightened her legs to scan her for injuries. He felt sick when he noticed blood oozing from her groin.

“ANI!” Sophia found her voice when she saw her baby sister lying nearby. She shrieked in despair and stumbled toward them on her hands and knees, collapsing tearfully beside the unmoving girl. “Oh God!” She sobbed and began wailing in Ukrainian.

“She’s alive,” Jim told her, fighting to keep his emotions under control. As a combat veteran, he had seen worse, but this tore at him like never before, and he struggled to remain calm as he examined the teenager for injuries. When he opened her legs, he gaped in horror. Anika wasn’t a girl. Holy fucking hell! The mutilation was unimaginable, and he turned away, nausea gripping him. He staggered to his feet, tuning out Sophia’s wails as she clung to her brother. He approached his truck, his steps steady. His disciplined mind re-engaged, and he knew what to do. Passing the truck, he climbed onto his trailer, studied the black totes, and selected one. He clicked open his knife and cut away the straps. Releasing the clasps, he threw back the lid and grabbed a pile of dark green wool blankets. One of his trauma kits was conveniently located in the same bin, and he grabbed it.

With Sophia’s help, he lifted the child carefully and laid him on a blanket before applying large bandages to his groin. He secured them with a cravat and folded the blanket over his thin body. Meanwhile, the older woman wrapped a blanket around herself and sat beside them, rocking back and forth, sobbing.

“Hey.” His firm voice penetrated her shock, and she shook violently before blinking at him apprehensively. “We need to get out of here, Sophia. I must get him into the truck and get you both to a hospital. Can you help me?” He didn’t need her help but knew she’d cooperate if she felt useful. She blinked again, trying to focus, but nodded. He helped her stand and picked up the boy. After they were inside the cab, he detached the trailer and climbed in. Moments later, they were racing down the road back toward the highway.

It was dark when he met the A.L.E.R.T. helicopter at the weigh station east of the Travel Center. He stepped back to let the flight nurses and paramedics tend to the two victims and load them into the aircraft for transport to Providence St. Patrick Trauma Center in Missoula. He had already called Janice to meet them and handle the paperwork. After the helicopter departed, he waited for the noise to subside and called Robert. The billionaire had connections everywhere, including the State Department. When he explained his situation and what he wanted, the retired General assured him it would be taken care of.

“What are you gonna do about those fucking rapists?”

“Don’t ask—don’t tell, General,” he replied cooly. Flashes of red and blue inside the darkened cab caught his attention. In his rearview mirror, a black SUV approached on the highway. It took the exit into the weigh station and raced toward him. “Looks like Daddy found me.”

“Need backup?”

“Not sure. If I don’t call you in thirty minutes, I’d say yes.”

“Watch your six, Major.”

“Copy that.”

The SUV pulled up behind him, leaving the emergency lights and headlights flashing. He discreetly tucked his sidearm into the center console and rolled down his window. He could hear radio traffic from the vehicle behind him as the deputy ran his plate.

“DRIVER! TURN OFF YOUR ENGINE AND TOSS THE KEYS OUT YOUR WINDOW!” a man’s voice demanded over the loudspeaker.

Jim snorted derisively and punched the ignition button, killing the engine. There were no keys to a 2027 F350, and the idiot would know it if he had half a brain. He heard a door open and close behind him.

“Put your hands out the window!” he ordered as he approached the truck’s passenger side.

Fuck this! Jim opened his door and stepped out, his hands visible at his sides.

“TURN AROUND!” the sheriff shouted from behind the Ford. “Put your hands on your head with your fingers interlaced!”

James stood still, facing the silhouette as it stepped closer. He squinted against the bright headlights and looked to the deputy’s side to preserve his vision.

“You hear me, boy?”

When he didn’t answer, the Sheriff cursed and strode closer, drawing his sidearm and pointing it at him with a one-handed grip. “You hard of hearing, boy?” His voice dripped scorn.

Jim could make out his thin, scraggly appearance and name tag when he was less than a yard away. “Well, if it isn’t Daddy McPherson,” he sneered. “Your boys have to answer for raping that girl and her brother.”

If the deputy was surprised by his sudden affirmation, he didn’t show it. He hesitated before snapping, “Get your goddamn face on the floor, mother fucker!” He brandished the gun menacingly. It was his last mistake.

Special Forces operators were trained to disarm opponents and capture their weapons simultaneously. Jim had practiced this maneuver countless times and excelled at it, so his Krav Maga instructor yielded the mat for him to train fellow Rangers. It was 99 percent psychological. The weapon isn’t the primary danger, it’s the enemy holding it. It was over in the blink of an eye.

Before it registered, Deputy McPherson found himself staring incredulously down the barrel of his own Glock 19. Then, the fire from his crushed median nerve reached his brain, and he gasped in pain. He staggered backward, and half a second later, his feet were kicked out from under him, sending him face-first to the asphalt with a sickening smack. As he was toppling, the former Ranger released the magazine and racked the slide to send the chambered round spinning away in the dark. Metal clattered nearby, and he crouched over the fallen deputy, grabbing his arms and wrenching them behind his back. Seconds later, the Mineral County Sheriff lay prone, his arms secured by his own handcuffs. “Ow! Motherfucker! Goddamn you, son of a bitch!” he cursed and spat as he struggled to rise.

Still crouching, Jim reached forward and backhanded the man, cutting off his rant. “Where are your boys, sheriff?”

“Fuck you! You fucking piece of—” he grunted painfully from another blow to his face. “I don’t fucking know!” he screamed. “Your ass is grass, fucker!”

“That’s rich coming from a cop harboring and aiding felons and covering up their crimes.” Jim snorted. “I’d be more concerned with your own ass when the witness testimonies are gathered.”

“Ain’t a goddamned thing gonna come of this bullshit!” the cop sputtered with more conviction than he felt. “You think you’re a badass out-of-towner, gonna come here and make shit, right?”

“It doesn’t have to be this way, sheriff,” he replied calmly. He grabbed a handful of the man’s hair and lifted his head to stare into his eyes with the same penetrating gaze that made junior officers piss themselves. “All you gotta do, asshole, is tell those twisted nutsacks that they know where to find me.”

Sunday, August 16, 2026, 0915 CT—North Texas

75 miles northeast of Amarillo was a vast hub of the primary power grid supplying over half the state with energy. Less than half the electricity used was generated in Texas, with most of it contracted to external sources as far as Canada. The attitude toward renewable energy vs. coal-burning plants was shifting, evidenced by the explosive growth of wind farms. Despite its commitment to reliable energy, the 8th largest global economy had only two productive nuclear plants, with a combined output of 5,000 megawatts.

The Hutchison County hub had numerous substations and distribution points collecting and distributing power. Beyond the impressive stations and transmission towers, hundreds of giant wind turbines spread as far as the eye could see.

Seven white utility vans departed from various locales and converged on the sprawling grid. Some traveled south on Hwy 136 from Stinnett, while others drove north from Borger and Phillips. Each van carried five or six Divine Sword brotherhood members, tools, and several Cricket EMP bombs. Each crew had specific targets. As they arrived at their turn-offs, they spread out, some converging on the transmission towers near the hub substations, others headed toward the massive wind turbines.

Similar groups were deployed in California, Kansas, and Tennessee. In all three regions, a single target was chosen—first for its impact on the surrounding population and second for its vulnerability:

California’s reliance on nuclear energy had diminished, and the state was decommissioning the remaining two active reactors in Diablo Canyon near San Luis Obispo. One was already shut down and undergoing its ‘cooling’ phase, while the other would follow at the end of its certification period in a few months. Plans to recertify or build new reactors were not on the table. Contrary to popular belief, the Green New Deal didn’t drive this aversion to nuclear energy. It was due to excessive seismic activity and the entire state sitting on the colliding North American and Pacific tectonic plates, making it the worst place in the world for a nuclear reactor.