Finest Hour
Books by Dr. Arthur T. Bradley
Handbook to Practical Disaster Preparedness for the Family
The Prepper's Instruction Manual
Disaster Preparedness for EMP Attacks and Solar Storms
Process of Elimination: A Thriller
The Survivalist (Frontier Justice)
The Survivalist (Anarchy Rising)
The Survivalist (Judgment Day)
The Survivalist (Madness Rules)
The Survivalist (Battle Lines)
The Survivalist (Finest Hour)
The Survivalist (Last Stand)
Available in print, ebook, and audiobook at all major resellers or at: http://disasterpreparer.com
The Survivalist
(Finest Hour)
Author: Arthur T. Bradley, Ph.D.
Email: arthur@disasterpreparer.com
Website: http://disasterpreparer.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author.
Illustrations used throughout the book are privately owned and copyright protected. Special thanks are extended to Siobhan Gallagher for editing, Marites Bautista for print layout, Nikola Nevenov for the illustrations and cover design, and Parkinson Myers and Vanessa McCutcheon for proofreading.
© Copyright 2015 by Arthur T. Bradley
ISBN 10: 1505887267
ISBN 13: 978-1505887266
Printed in the United States of America
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
“I firmly believe that any man's finest hour, the greatest fulfillment of all that he holds dear, is that moment when he has worked his heart out in a good cause and lies exhausted on the field of battle – victorious.”
Vince Lombardi
1913–1970
Foreword
On June 18, 1940, Sir Winston Churchill famously gave a speech entitled “This Was Their Finest Hour.” In it, he referred to the heroism that would be required to prevail in the upcoming Battle of Britain. Less than a month later, Germany initiated the largest aerial bombing campaign to date, their objective to crush the Royal Air Force (RAF) and gain air superiority over the United Kingdom. Such an advantage would allow the Luftwaffe’s bombers to soften the country for a future land invasion.
Having fought in the Spanish Civil War, the Luftwaffe’s pilots were far more experienced than those in the RAF Fighter Command. Their Messerschmitt BF109E was also faster and had a better climb rate than the RAF’s Hurricane Mk I and should, therefore, have dominated the aerial battlefield. These advantages were ultimately sacrificed by a disconnect between the Luftwaffe’s airmen and their esteemed commanders. Poor intelligence, lack of leadership, and the need for exaggeration quickly clouded the Luftwaffe’s understanding of the campaign’s level of success.
Fighting over home territory also provided tactical advantages for the RAF. Pilots shot down were often able to return to their airfields within hours, whereas Luftwaffe aircrews were either captured or perished after parachuting into the English Channel. Perhaps even more important was that RAF pilots were fighting for their families and country. Cities were burning, women and children were perishing, and the responsibility stood squarely on their shoulders to repel the invaders. Winston Churchill eloquently summed up the battle by saying, “Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.”
In every person’s life there comes a high point, a finest hour in which they too must rise to their full potential. For some, it comes in the heat of combat, airmen dogfighting their way across smoke-filled skies, or grunts rushing toward the enemy with bayonets extended. For others, it comes when they must prove themselves capable of great sacrifice. Regardless of the outcome, success or failure, the act itself is what ultimately defines the individual.
Chapter 1
Deputy Marshal Mason Raines steered his newly acquired white Ford F-150 down the long dirt driveway. The first rays of sunlight lit the eastern sky, but dark gray clouds cast a dreary feel to an otherwise beautiful spring morning. He glanced in the rearview mirror, hoping to catch one final glimpse of the family cabin. With the fresh foliage, the trees were thick and lush, and he could just make out soft wisps of white smoke rising from the lodge’s stone chimney. No doubt his father and Samantha were finally awake and cooking breakfast, preparing for a trip of their own.
Having intercepted a communiqué between General Hood and his band of military assassins, the Black Dogs, Mason had decided to travel to the Greenbrier bunker to protect former President Rosalyn Glass. Meanwhile, Mason’s father, Tanner Raines, would return to Washington, D.C., to confront President Lincoln Pike, a man who had already proven himself capable of unspeakable horrors in his quest for unbridled power. Given the overwhelming odds facing both men, it seemed a safe bet that this would be both Mason and Tanner’s last hurrah. Even so, neither had hesitated, agreeing that it was better to go out fighting than lie trembling in a dark cellar, like cowards awaiting the Gestapo.
How a man as hard as Tanner Raines had teamed up with a socially awkward twelve-year-old girl was something Mason had yet to fully understand. It was a pairing as unlikely as that of Felix Unger and Oscar Madison. Perhaps, he thought, it was their contrarian mismatch that made the partnership work so well. The fact that Samantha was the daughter of the previous president, and therefore intimately connected to both of their quests, was hard to discount as pure coincidence. While never one to surrender to notions of predestination, Mason found it impossible to credit their interconnected journeys to anything but the deliberate hand of fate.
Mason’s Irish wolfhound, Bowie, rested in the bed of the truck, doing his best to nod back off to sleep—an early riser he was not. To his left sat a Browning M2 heavy-barrel machine gun, a trophy that Mason had taken from a band of murderous mercenaries, and to his right, a small stack of food, water, and other supplies, including two sets of body armor retrieved from marshals at Glynco. Their journey to the Greenbrier bunker to protect President Glass would be less than a day’s travel, and after having already lost an entire bed full of supplies outside of Lexington, Mason had chosen to be more judicious with his packing this time around.
Leila Mizrahi, a beautiful Mossad operative, sat next to him, tracing her finger across a small paper map. Her calf was wrapped in a clean white bandage, as was her right hand. The gauze on her leg covered a bullet wound suffered only days earlier in a gun battle with one of the Black Dogs. The bullet had nicked her fibular artery, which surely would have proven fatal had it not been for Mason’s impromptu piloting skills. As it was, she had been left with a slight limp and a warning by Dr. Darby to take it easy for a few days. The gash on her hand was less severe but even more debilitating, as she found herself having to perform nearly every action weak-handed.
“Do you think they’re up yet?” she asked, seeing Mason looking in the rearview mirror.
“They must be. They’ve got a fire going.”
“We could go back, maybe have breakfast together.”
He shook his head. “It’s better that we get underway.” Like most men, Mason hated backtracking, even if it was only a few hundred feet. Once a voyage had begun, he believed it best to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
She touched his leg. “You’re worried that you won’t see your father again, aren’t you?”
“I’m not sure exactly what’s bugging me.” Mason rolled the window down a few inches, hoping the cool air might help reduce the condensation forming on the
windshield, not to mention improve his sullen disposition.
“Did you at least get a chance to say goodbye last night?”
“My father and I have said our share of goodbyes over the years. Neither of us thought another one was needed.”
“I see.”
Mason glanced over at Leila, and when she offered an understanding smile, it lifted the fog hanging over him. What the hell did he have to be so heavyhearted about, anyway? A beautiful woman was at his side, Bowie lay in the bed of his truck, and together, they were embarking on a quest for justice that was long overdue. All in all, things were as they should be. He needed to accept that his father’s fate was just that—his father’s. Nothing Mason could do would change the outcome of Tanner’s quest to kill President Pike. It was better to quit worrying so much and get focused on the mission at hand.
“Sorry. I’m usually a better traveling companion.”
She leaned closer and kissed his cheek.
“It’s early, and you stayed up too late.”
“I most certainly did,” he said with a grin.
She punched him playfully. “That’s not what I meant.”
“It wasn’t?”
“Well… maybe. Any regrets?”
“Only that we didn’t have more time. You?”
She pretended to think about it a moment.
“Hey,” he said, “that was supposed to be an easy question.”
She laughed. “Mason Raines, I don’t think you need me or anyone else telling you that you’re one of the sexiest men alive.”
“That’s laying it on a bit thick, but I do appreciate the sentiment.”
She turned back to the map.
“Greenbrier is about two hundred miles from here. How much time do you think we have before General Hood makes his move?”
“President Glass said that she’d come out of hiding in three days. I would think that’s the general’s deadline for cleaning things up.”
“Which means we’ve got a day, maybe two.”
“Probably two. Hood is going to need time to find a way into the bunker.”
“Assuming there is one.”
“There’s always a way in.”
She looked down at the map.
“Any preferences on the route?”
“In my experience, interstates are best avoided.”
“Agreed.” She studied the map for a short time, tracing several roads. “What do you think about taking Highway 221 north to Highway 100, and then turning east on 219?”
“You’re the navigator.”
“Ah, in other words, if we get lost, it’s my fault.”
He grinned. “You’re onto me.”
Leila pushed the map onto the dashboard and glanced back at Bowie. The dog was curled up against the cab, snoring softly.
“You’ve got the laziest dog I’ve ever seen.”
“He’s saving his strength.”
“I see,” she said, snickering. “Where did you get him anyway?”
Mason pointed ahead. “A few miles up the road.”
“Really?”
“Bowie was trapped in the back room of a service station. When I found him, he was nearly dead from dehydration.”
“And you rescued him?”
“I did.”
She looked back at Bowie again, this time with an affectionate smile on her face.
“Will you show me where you found him?”
“Sure, but it’s not that interesting.”
“That’s okay. He’s part of our family, and I feel like I should know more about him.”
“All right.”
Mason couldn’t help but wonder about her use of the words “our family.” He and Leila hadn’t known each other for very long, and a part of him was still having trouble letting go of Ava, his previous girlfriend. Even so, Leila was a loving and beautiful woman, and he wasn’t about to spoil their newfound relationship by expressing something as destructive as doubt.
They continued down the small mountain road, slowing as they passed a faded blue pickup sitting with two wheels stuck in deep ruts along the shoulder. The skeletal remains of three people lay inside, undisturbed since Mason had first discovered them more than two months earlier. Leila glanced inside as they passed but said nothing. What would have previously brought shock-filled horror now barely registered as anything outside the norm. More than ninety percent of the world’s population had perished from the Superpox-99 virus, and dried, withering bodies would no doubt litter the planet for some time to come.
They continued along Buckeye Road, finally turning east onto Highway 321. The two-lane road was packed with hundreds of abandoned vehicles, including passenger cars, tour buses, emergency vehicles, and even a few motorcycles. Fortunately, many of the vehicles had been pushed or bumped aside, creating a narrow lane that snaked through the wreckage. Careful to avoid snagging a bumper or running over broken glass, Mason navigated through the traffic. Thankfully, the road was free of other travelers. The days of passers-by offering a friendly wave were gone. In a nation filled with escaped convicts and bloodthirsty mutants, the appropriate reaction to every encounter was to reach for one’s firearm.
After weaving through the gauntlet of wreckage for nearly thirty minutes, they finally arrived at the Sugar Grove One-Stop. The right half of the cinder block building had been a convenience store, and the left, a mechanic’s shop that was partially burned out. An old Dodge Charger sat smashed into one of the gas pumps out front. The hose from the other one had been ripped away, the victim no doubt of a brazen pump-and-run. A white Toyota Corolla sat nose down in a small culvert next to the road, and the dried remains of a young man lay next to it on the asphalt. While a few details had changed, the scene was essentially the same as when Mason had discovered it during his first foray into town months earlier.
He eased his truck into the parking lot and stopped behind one of the pumps. It didn’t offer much protection; at best, a little cover, should someone decide to shoot at them from inside the service station.
No one did. The place remained dark and lifeless.
Bowie stood up in the back and danced around, his nails clicking against the metal truck bed.
“This is it,” Mason said, killing the engine.
“Strange,” Leila said, looking around and shaking her head.
“What’s strange?”
“That you found a dog as smart as Bowie in a place like this. No offense to the previous owners, but this looks like the kind of place where you’d expect to find an old mutt chained to a pole out back.”
“I don’t disagree. When I found him, Bowie was lying beside the decomposing corpse of a young woman. Who knows? Maybe she was a famous dog trainer before coming out to live in the country.”
“Could be.”
Mason swung the driver’s side door open and stepped out with his M4 assault rifle. Leila slid across the seat and climbed out after him.
As soon as he saw them, Bowie let out a loud whine.
“Of course you can come too,” Mason said, walking around and dropping the tailgate.
The dog carefully jumped down, took a quick sniff of the air, and trotted toward the convenience store.
“I think he remembers that this was his home,” she said.
“That or he smells something to eat.”
They followed Bowie to the front door, where he wriggled under a shelf that blocked the entrance. Mason tipped it out of the way so that he and Leila could step inside. The store was completely ransacked, the shelves collapsed and glass coolers smashed. Bugs crawled over an assortment of potato chips, Little Debbie cakes, candy, and other snacks lying squished on the floor. The air had a sweet but pungent odor, an unpleasant mix of human decomposition and moldy Twinkies.
Bowie stopped briefly to sniff a dried corpse buried beneath an overturned rack. The barrel of a .22 rifle poked out from under the body.
“Was that his owner?” Leila asked, wrinkling her nose from the smell.
They tiptoed their way through the mishmash of rotten snacks until arriving at a narrow hallway. On one side were the men’s and women’s bathrooms, and on the other, a storeroom. The door to the storeroom had been kicked in, the jamb and frame splintered, but it had swung closed, blocking their view of the inside.
Mason motioned for Leila to step to one side of the door as he crossed to the other. She slid her Beretta 9 mm pistol from the back of her waistband and readied herself. When they were in position, Mason leaned over and gave the door a soft push with the muzzle of his rifle. It swung inward, revealing a room filled with metal shelving and a small table and chair. The clump of a young woman’s remains sat in an indignant pile at the foot of the table. Her jeans, shirt, and shoes were tangled in the mass of dried flesh and bones.
Before either of them could decide what to do next, Bowie pressed his way into the room, sniffing the floor as he went. He walked directly to the pile of remains and tipped his head sideways, as if confused.
“Poor thing,” said Leila. “This must be terribly sad for him.”
Mason gave a noncommittal nod. He was reluctant to read too much into Bowie’s actions. Animals and people lived in different worlds, and while it was true that those worlds often interacted, he doubted that man or beast could ever fully understand the other’s existence.
He stepped in and carefully cleared the rest of the room. Boxes of snack foods and other store supplies were haphazardly stacked on the shelves. Surprisingly, no one had bothered to loot them. A large American burial flag with embroidered stars and sewn stripes hung on the back wall. The bottom corner of the flag was frayed from having flown outdoors. To the right of the flag sat a roll-top desk that looked like it belonged in an antique store.
“Keep an eye on the door, will you? I want to check this out.”