Excerpt: Renegade

Prologue

Imagine a communist regime, one that encompassed the entire earth. One where all free-thinking and religious peoples, along with military, were rounded up and stuck in prison camps. The regime brainwashes children and takes them away from there parents, placing them in schools.
Well, in the time that it takes you to read this book, you will experience a world like the one described above. But for now I must describe how this world came to be.
In the days following the war in the Middle East, China contacted the defeated countries and offered them a chance at revenge. They planned a massive strike on the U.S., but they would need help. Japan was easy to win over, as they needed their “honor” restored after the World War Two victory and embarrassment of being told that they could have no military. Germany offered to be mercenaries, and North Korea had her missiles ready. The power trap was far too much for the Russians to resist.
The other countries weren’t oblivious to the tension in Asia, and Israel allied with Britain to wipe out the threat before it began. However, American President Obama denied any hostile action in that part of the world, and claimed that anyone who would attack them was America’s enemy.
No one is quite sure why Obama was in such denial, but his actions brought forth the end of democracy. The allied nations, now called the “World Order,” used their superior firepower to nuke America in the year 2015, then the entire U.N. before they could cause any trouble. Prison camps were made, as were academies designed to brainwash students and breed “Operatives,” the special military of the World Order. The base of World Order in America was New York City. But a small group did resist. Composed mostly of former U.S. Special Operations Forces Operators, the “Renegade Soldiers” have in mind only the goal of eradicating Communist from America and remaking the government. This is the story of the last fateful year of the Renegades, one that will decide success or failure, and the fate of the world as a whole.

Chapter 1
October 31, 2020

It was perfect weather for Halloween night, not that anyone was celebrating. The air was damp and misty, a slight, creepy breeze breathed through the slums of New York City. The moon was full, although the view was occasionally obstructed by scattered clouds. He loved this weather, the boy (man?) did. It suited his nature perfectly. Yes, tonight was a night for a beer.
The bar was not crowded, it never was. Not too many drinking people were left anymore. They all drank themselves to death. Subsequently, as the boy (man?) entered, it drew many stares. He approached the counter and threw down his money. “Just one whiskey, please.” The bartender looked unsure. “You sure you old enough?” “The Czar seems to think so,” said the boy, flashing a silver coin with the Czar’s picture on it. “Hmm… well, when your mommy catches ya, you din’ get it from me.” The person laughed. “You really think a woman would ever come down here?” The child asked. “Din’ think a kid’d come down ’ere either, but yer here.” “I‘m exceptional.” And he was, as we will see.
The bar was hooked up to government television broadcasting. Twenty-four hours a day news, weather, and for the children, pacifist, communist, brainwashing programs like “Sesame Street.” The news was currently giving a report about a few rebels who had recently been apprehended and were being taken in for “questioning.” Holy shit, there still are rebels? I thought they would all be dead by now, the boy thought. The news droned on about the 2020 armor, which would soon be completed and ready for military use. Goody, more ways to kill use, he thought.
“Goddamn rebels. You’d think they’d all be dead by now,” the bartender said. “Yeah,” said the boy, tipped the bartender, and left. A British man got up and followed.
The farther the boy went, the more he noticed he was being trailed. When he sped up, the man sped up. When he slowed down, the man slowed down. Nah, I’m just being paranoid. Still, just to be sure… The boy began weaving in and out of alleys, going out of his way to go under bridges, an through other obstacles like that. He continued to check reflective surfaces, and each time the Brit was right behind. He now began running, trying to outrace the Brit, and when he saw the man gaining, he darted into a very familiar alleyway.
It didn’t take long for the Brit to catch up with the boy, although the boy new this place very well, and had a perfect hiding spot.
Behind the dumpster.
This. Freaking. Stinks. Literally. But the boy had bigger things to worry about than his questionable hideaway. “Come on, Noah Parker, I know you’re here. I say you come this way. It‘s a freakin’ dead end! I‘m gonna find you eventually.”
Three distinct shots came out from behind the dumpster, and the man was dead before he hit the ground.

Full House. That’s always good. This thought came from Commander Rick Shellenberger, a Renegade Soldier who, currently was playing poker with his buddies, Corporal Troy Anson and Lieutenant Andrew “Chuckles” Charleson. “I fold,” Troy decided. I’ll play, ’thought Rick. “Full House.” Chuckles grinned. “Read it and weep,” he said, and revealed a Royal Flush. “Pay up, pal.” Rick began a lengthy swear as he passed his money to the Lieutenant. Not that Chuckles was collecting, he was to busy with his “jiggy dance.” It was more of a jig, really, but with a “song,” which was more of a chant. Troy rolled his eyes and wondered to himself why he ever plays games with them.
Dinner at the camp was always the same: a giant, stolen potluck. And it was never tasty. The discussion was always fun, though. “So, you hear about the 2020 armor?” Troy had been following the production of that suit ever sense that failed attack on the factory that was designing it. “What, did they finally finish it?” Rick asked. “Yep. More features than we thought it’d have, too.” “Really? Like what?” “Well, you know it’ll be bullet proof, fire proof, water proof, and rebel proof. You know the helmet will allow them to breathe in any situation and will translate their voice into any language. Their weapon will be a five-barreled rocket launching pistol. But what you don’t know is that it will also feature a sort of invisibility cloak, making them hard to see or hear.” Rick looked thoughtful. “So, they can decimate us in our sleep and we’ll never know what hit us.” “Yep,” said Captain Carl Conch. He was the camp’s computer nerd and due to his initials and rank he was often called C++. “We better sleep with two eyes open.”
“God, this food sucks,” Chuckles groused. “Is this seriously the best we could scavenge?” “As I recall,” said Troy, “we didn’t scavenge anything. Rick and I took a platoon and got it. And yes, this was better than the other option.” Chuckles looked doubtful. “What was the second option?” “Chicken shit,” was Rick’s blank reply. “Well, I think you could have done better.” This set Troy off. “Then get it yourself or go hungry!” he yelled. Chuckles wasn’t going to take that. “I outrank you, you worthless piece of crap!” “I outrank you both, and I‘m telling you to shut the hell up!” Rick yelled.
For a moment there was an awkward silence. Then Carl changed the subject. “So, they web is crawling with rumors about that guy in the slums.” Rick’s eyes glazed over. “What guy?” “Some World Order Operative. Found dead with three shots in his back in the slums. Looks like an MK23 pistol. Most people blame us.” Rick thought this over. “Who did it?” “Not one of use,” Carl said, “that’s for sure.” Troy asked, “another Renegade Camp?” Carl shook his head. “I think we’re the last ones. A lot of Operatives are dying in that area, though. The Order has no real control there.” Chuckles was confused. “We are speaking of the New York City slums, right?” “Yes,” said Carl, “but they have no power over Bronx, there’s way too much crime and the Order never tried. Anyone they send there dies eventually, but most die by an MK23 pistol.” “So at some point, we gotta go recruiting there.” “I’ll go sooner or later, Troy,” Rick replied.

Chapter 2

While the soldiers were on land, the Renegade Sailors and Renegade Pilots were at sea. Renegade Pilot, to be specific. Colonel Dustin Fields was the only pilot left for the rebels. He operated of the “Navy’s” only real ship, the aircraft carrier named the USS Genesis. The Genesis was pretty close to shore, actually, about ten point nine miles off the New York Harbor. It was equipped with the latest stealth hardware, keeping it under radar. If it was spotted from above, well, that was Fields’ job to take care of.
There was, of course, the constant threat of an attack from beneath, as the last submarine was destroyed a few months ago. The only way to avoid that threat was to keep moving, but they had to remain inside the boundaries of a radio broadcast signal so as to keep in touch with the rebels on ground.
Fields flew the 031 Midnight Raven, a phantom jet loaded with cloaking technology, heat-seeking missiles, gatling guns, and a killer targeting system. It was fast, agile, and downright good-looking, in the Colonel’s opinion. The only thing she lacked was an adequate defensive shield. The toll for speed was very light armor, making it susceptible to most attacks. To compensate, he added a bunch of backup power and flight systems so she could still fight when wounded.
This had proved to be a wise idea many a time already, and it may be why Fields was the last pilot left.
Life on an aircraft carrier was not at all easy. The trying to sleep during a storm, the food (fish), and the chores sucked. Not that Fields had any, he was a pilot and an officer. But it had to suck for those Petty Officers.
Fields was pretty lonely, although he didn’t seem to mind it much. Yes, the ship had hundreds of people, but in is mind, they were the lazy, cowardly bunch that wanted to help but also wanted to sit on their fat asses in front of a computer all day. He also didn’t like the water, not really, but it was deemed to dangerous to have an aircraft on the ground, so here he was... with these freaks.
They didn’t like him, either. In their eyes, Colonel Fields was worse than your average loudmouth officer. He was a land-loving, techno-phobic, fly boy breed of an officer, and he had no business being with them, as before the war he was Amy, not Navy, not Coast Guard, and not Marine Corps.
Needless to say there was tension. Fields craved action and the sailors wanted nothing of it.
But there was one man on the ship who Fields found... tolerable. The captain of the ship, former Fleet Admiral Andy Jenson. He was, as an officer, a navy pilot, so he understood a lot of Dustin’s qualms about the sea.
However, the very worst thing about the sea was the boredom. Fields could just imagine what it must be like to live on shore, every day being a life-or-death struggle. Not out here. You get up, make your bed, eat, and the rest of the day was yours to do whatever you wanted.
Except there was nothing to do. So Fields lived each day after the next, waiting for the next battle.

At the camp, the people were so few that everyone was assigned a specific job. No two people had the same job, and no one had two jobs. Carl was the computer technician, Troy was the scout, and Rick was in charge of the dead.
Chuckles was the night guard. He was a Recon Marine before the regime, so the tough hours didn’t effect him much. And it was never boring.
Not that something exiting happened every night. It was just that Chuckles most enjoyed playing tricks on his sleeping superiors.
The tricks were rather childish. He would stick someone’s finger in a bowl of cold water, shave their mustache, put girl’s clothes on them, that sort of thing.
Everyone knew it was him. And every now and then he was punished, made to do laundry or do more push-ups, but the jokes were so harmless and good-natured, no one ever really cared.
Except the victims. But they got over it.
The main job of any Renegade Guard, however, was to protect the Inner Circle.
The Inner Circle was a group of civilians who were under the protection of the Renegade Soldiers. They had resisted, they had been captured, and they had been rescued by the rebels. With no normal life to return to, these people just lived like the soldiers, but were spared from the pressure of battle.
These camp was spherical in shape, with the Renegades on the outer circle, surrounding the civilians, hence, the Inner Circle.
The sparing of battle did not apply to the males. Reaching age fourteen, the males were expected to go through the training and become Renegade Soldiers. It was their payment for the protection of their families.
These pseudo-soldiers were no where near the caliber of the Renegades they joined. The original Renegades were all former special forces agents, and good ones at that. Rick was a Navy SEAL, Troy a Green Beret, Carl was an Army Ranger, and the leader of the rebels, Captain Jeremiah Phelps, was in the Navy SEAL DEVGRU.
On this night, as Chuckles was drawing glasses on Captain Phelps, he was sure he heard footsteps outside the tent. He abandoned his magic marker and went to investigate.
He had been correct. There was a figure walking towards the Inner Circle. It was probably a sleeping Renegade, judging by the idiotic way it was walking. Still, just to be sure…
Chuckles, with all the subtlety of a chainsaw, heaved a rock at the figure. It missed, as he planned it to, but it startled the… girl?
Yes, it was a girl, about sixteen by the looks of it. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.
She was obviously shaken up, but she regained her composure and spoke in a whisper. “I‘m following someone. You the Guard?” “Yes,” Chuckles replied, “why?”
The girl pointed ahead of her, about a quarter mile. “That dude was walking through here, looking in Simon’s lab and stuff. I came to find you. I couldn’t, so I thought I’d keep an eye on him.”
‘Simon?’ Chuckles thought. “You mean Simon Simpson, the weapons technician?” “Yeah,” the girl replied. “By the way, I’m Stacy.” She stuck out her hand for Chuckles to shake. He didn’t. “I don‘t care what your name is,” he replied blandly. “You go to bed. I’ll go check out that guy.”
Chuckles’ main thought was that the “intruder” was a kid, probably dared by his friends to go peek into Simon’s lab. ‘If that’s the case‘, Chuckles thought, ‘why don’t I give him a good scare.’ He picked up the rock that he had thrown at Stacy and heaved it in the general direction of the intruder. Then he ran at him.
As he neared, he noticed that the rock was left untouched, and the intruder was trying to find the source of it. He was also sporting communist colors.
‘Oh, shit, a World Order scout.’ It was time for Chuckles to do his job.
He attacked and punched the scout in the stomach. As the scout doubled over, Chuckles took his gun and shot the whole clip into the sky to alert the others. The idea was to capture the guy, not kill him.
The scout had other ideas.
The communist jumped and did a flying kick, one that landed square on Chuckles’ nose, breaking it. Chuckles had a swear and swung at the man’s head. The scout ducked and counter attacked with a spear hand to the center of the ribcage. This blow did not land as Chuckles caught it, twisted the man’s wrist around, and broke his arm at the shoulder. “Fick dich, Wichser!” the scout yelled.
Chuckles stopped as he tried to remember his German classes. “Fick dich Wichser… Hey! Who are you calling a jerk-off?” He then grabbed the apparently German scout’s head and drove it against a rock, bursting it.
It was about this time that Rick showed up. “Well,” said Rick, “you can always trust a Marine to make a god-awful mess of things, it seems. Whatever happened to not killing them?” Chuckles touches his nose tenderly. “This one hurt me.” Rick nodded. “Very mature. What was he trying to find, do you think?” “Beats me. He was looking at Simon’s lab, so who knows.”

It was within another two days that Troy returned from a scouting mission of his own. He was positive that there was going to be a tank strike of the Renegade camp within no time. The situation was brought before Captain Phelps, who did the only thing he could think of: contacted Admiral Jenson.

Colonel Fields was right in the middle of his daily moping when Admiral Jenson summoned him. It was not a common thing, and it only happened when there was a prospective battle, so Fields was excited.
He reached the Admiral’s quarters, knocked, entered, and saluted. The admiral wasted no time speaking.
“Colonel Fields, I have just received a transmission from Captain Phelps on the ground base. It seems a scout of theirs has picked up Intel concerning a tank raid on their camp. They lack the artillery to defend themselves, so they are requesting an air strike post-haste. Here are the coordinates,” he handed Fields a paper, “your bomber is fueled and ready to go. Any questions?”
Fields shook his head. “Sir, no, sir.” The admiral smiled. “Good now get your ass going.”
The common thing to do was to circle the ship in a three-mile radius to make sure there was no enemies around. After doing this, Fields took the Raven and flew towards the Catskills, where the Renegade camp was.

After flying for about three hours and combing the entire area, Fields came to believe that he had been set up. Not by Troy, he was likely misled, but what was the purpose of the misleading? Fields became worried of an air strike on the ship and called them.
“Raven to Genesis, Raven to Genesis, respond.” His radio crackled for a moment but then spoke. “This is Genesis, Raven, report. Did you get the tanks, over?” “Negative. There are no tanks. I believe our contact was misled.”
Back at the ship, the Admiral frowned. “Are you sure?” “Yes sir, no tanks,” was Fields’ response, but then…
“Oh fuck! The commies are ambushing me!”

Chapter 3

Rick’s main task, as stated before, was to take good care of the dead. So a good portion of his day was spent cleaning up the World Order Scout’s head.
“Stupid Chuckles. Can‘t kill someone without making one hell of a mess.”
Luckily for him it was just a communist, so he didn’t have to embalm or bury the guy. He just went into the woods and dropped the body where some bears would likely find it.
Simon, on the other hand, spent his day freaking out that something could have been stolen, and he swept his lab twenty times before going back to a monotone voice.
Being the geek that he was, Simon’s voice was pretty monotonous. When he got excited or freaked, his voice would change tone. And whenever that happened, he was bound to attract attention from the other Renegades.
“What are you even working on that‘s so damned important?” Chuckles asked. “What am I working on?” Simon was incredulous. “Why, I’ll show you! This shit will revolutionize the war!” “How‘s that?” Rick asked. “Everything I make revolutionizes the war. The 2020 was my brainchild, remember?”
‘That’s right, it was, you stupid geek,’ Rick thought, but wouldn’t say it considering as his life depended on how well this guy’s new weapons worked.
“As you well know, the 2020 armor will soon be complete. It may comfort you to know that I have a variety of weapons ready to combat it.” “Such as?” “Well,” Simon said, “the armor has some of the best defenses known to man. You know that already. It‘s biggest flaw is that all said defenses run on electrical circuitry. Overload that circuitry, and…” Simon waited for them to finish his sentence.
“They explode?” Chuckles asked hopefully. Simon was, again, incredulous. “No, you barbarian, the circuit breaks.” Chuckles wore a blank look. Simon rolled his eyes. “The defenses fail. God, how exactly did you pass third grade?”
“Anyways, to overload circuitry, one must send massive amounts of electricity into the system, so much that the suit can‘t take it. I‘ve come up with a way to do that easily.” Rick sipped his beer. “We’re waiting.”
“Behold, the Active Denial PhAsEr!”
Rick looked at it for a moment. It was a large, plastic, futuristic-looking gun. “Um, Simon, you must know that has already been invented.”
“Well, that was the first one. For riot control. All that thing did was overload the electricity in one nerve endings, causing a brief neurological disorder and, in effect, causing violent seizures.
“I’ve souped this one up. It will do the same thing, only to a machine. Any machine, not just the suit. Cars, computers, rocket launchers, targeting systems, and, with enough energy, tanks and aircraft.”
“What type of energy does it run off?” Chuckles asked.
“Well, so far, that’s the biggest bug that needs to be worked out. It needs to charge for hours before it can be used for… about five minutes.”
Rick stared at him blandly. “Next.”
Simon was slightly insulted at his superior’s rudeness, but that was overpowered by his excitement to show off his next creation.
“Well, if you look to your left, you will see the new weapon for open warfare with the World Order. The 50. Caliber GK Hand Cannon!”
Silence. Simon’s eyes darted around the room. “I programmed the computer to play a drum roll as I said that!”
‘He has too much free time,’ Rick thought.
Simon was obviously disappointed at his program’s failure, however he shrugged of the defeat and continued. “This large backpack on the Hand Cannon holds about twelve six inch rockets. Push the button on the center of the vest.” Rick did, and the pack opened up and lifted itself over the head of the model it was on, pointing the rockets forward. A pair of sunglasses went over the model’s head.
“The glasses,” Simon explained, “serve a dual purpose. The first is that they are a great heat-seeking targeting system. The other is that they will protect your eyes from the blinding flash of the rockets as they blow up.
“The rockets, by the way, receive their firing commands from the wristwatch. Look at the watch, and you will se thirteen buttons. The red button fires all the rockets at once, however you must double-click it, like a computer mouse. That’s a safety feature on all the buttons on the weapon. All the black buttons are set in a grid pattern, like the rockets, and each button controls it’s respective rocket.
“Finally, we come to the cannons themselves.” He motioned to the two very log, thick guns. “These babies are attached to the pack for two reasons. Number one: the pack balances the weight and helps you lift them. Number two: it takes all the kick of the weapon. Both of the magazines hold twenty-five 50. Caliber tank rounds.”
“So these will destroy Operatives in armor?” Chuckles asked. Simon smiled. “That, and tanks, and aircraft, assuming the aircraft is flying low enough. And the best part is that the whole the can collapse and fit in a briefcase.”
“Impressive, Sergeant,” Rick said. “Keep up the good work.” Chuckles was just staring. “That… is… freakin’… cool! When will it be ready?” Simon shrugged. “Not sure. Couple months. Got better stuff over here.”
Simon walked across the room and picked up a device. It looked like a small, circular shield. “I don’t really have a name for this. It’s a supersonic gun. Kills the eardrums, causes them to burst.” “But how will that help up against the 2020 guys?” “It won’t. This is for fighting everyone else.” Rick nodded. “Anything else, Serge, or should we be on our way?” “That’s about it. Oh, one more thing. This one is top-top secret, so don’t let the CIA know I told you.”
He chuckled at his own little joke. “This thing,” Simon lifted a small satellite dish, “will decrease the atmospheric pressure around a person. Or increase it. I have yet to decide which one will be more efficient.
“Anyways, whichever it does, it will do it so rapidly that the person’s body won’t be able to respond to the changes. So the blow up. Or implode. Depending on whether it increases or decreases the pressure.”
Rick was skeptical. “How?” Simon Sighed. “That’s the other thing I need to figure out.”

The report of Simon’s new tech was brought to Captain Phelps. It was about that time that Troy came back with the tank warning.

Aboard the Genesis, The Admiral called the ground base and informed them of the setup. Troy was called in for questioning by the Captain.
“Tell me,” Phelps said, “how exactly did you know there was gonna be a tank raid?” Troy was having trouble composing himself. “I… saw tanks. Coming this way. Where else would they be going?”
“Fields said there were no tanks. Only fighter jets. They ambushed him.” Seeing that Troy was obviously upset, he decided to offer a deal. “Look, you just helped the communist sons of bitches lead the only Renegade Pilot into an attack. You deserve incarceration. However, being the guy I am, I will offer you a lifeline.”
“Sir, whatever it is I’ll do it, sir.”
The Captain smiled. “Simon has a new weapon ready for you. Go to his lab and ask for the 50. Caliber GK Hand Cannon. Then go out to beneath the sky battle and shoot the fuck out of those commies.” “Yes, sir,” Troy said miserably.

So Troy went to Simon’s lab and got his weapon. “Um, the battle is reported to be a long way from here. Any transport, or do you only make weapons?” Simon thought long and hard. “I’ve got a four wheeler. It’s nothing special, but it’ll get you there. And hopefully back.”

Fields was, to say the least, pissed. These idiots had all sorts of advanced weaponry, and from the current look of things, their missiles would catch up with his near supersonic jet. It was all he could do to outmaneuver them, let alone still fight back. Nevertheless he tried. He checked the radar. There were ten bogies headed for him. Fields released a flare and destroyed seven. ‘Too bad it’s not like in the movies, where there are always cliffs or something to dive through,’ Fields thought. Still, he had something…
The Colonel shot the Raven upward, narrowly missing a World Order aircraft. The missile, however, did not miss.
“Yes!” Fields was happy, although that was short-lived. There were still four planes to destroy.
His mood was made worse by a blip on the screen. Hull damaged. ‘Oh, great, I’ve caught fire.’ He had to end the fight quickly.
He used the gatling to open fire on the communists. The planes’ armor rejected the bullets like nothing. Great. To make matters worse, his targeting system was gone, and his rockets weren’t responding.
‘Rockets?’ The fire was reaching the rockets! Fields was considering his options when the world spun out of control. He fought the g-forces and glanced out the windshield. He had lost a wing. ‘No choice, then.’ Fields pushed the eject button.
And not a moment too soon. As soon as he was a good hundred feet above it, it exploded, taking a communist jet with it.
The Colonel deployed his parachute. He did not expect to make it to the ground as the other two jets now sped towards him. ‘Two? There should be three.’ Fields’ eyes shot to the planes as one blew up. He glanced at the ground and saw a small figure pointing some strange weapon at the sky. ‘Anti-aircraft? No, too small. What, then?’ The figure shot at the final plane, blowing it up. Then the debris fell towards Fields.

On the ground, Troy was ever aware of the debris headed in the general direction of Fields. “Damn. Didn’t count on debris.” Troy glanced franticly at the vest. Right now, his life and the Colonel’s depended on how well he could operate this prototype. Good thing there was only one button on the vest.
He pressed it and the rocket pack shot up over his head, and the goggles came down. The targets locked on a large flaming plane fuselage headed strait towards him and the descending Colonel. He pressed the red button and…
Nothing.
‘Oh shit, why is this not working?’ He pressed it franticly twice more, and it fired. The debris blew into a giant fireball and scattered abut the woods.
Fields touched ground zero about five minutes later. “So who the hell are you?” “Name’s Corporal Troy Anson. I’m your savior. Ironically, it was my fuck up that got you in that mess in the first place.”
“Well, thanks for the rescue anyway.” Troy nodded. “No problem. Let’s get back to base.”

The Captain listened to Field’s story intently. “Did you see anything that could be even vaguely perceived as tanks?” he asked. “Nothing at all,” the Colonel replied. “Recall, however, that there are lots of hiding places out here.”
“That’s how we‘ve survived so long. My question, however, is what could Troy have seen?”
Carl entered the tent. “Sir, I believe I have the answer to that.” He handed the Captain a sheet of paper.
Captain Phelps looked it over. “What is it and where did you find it?” “I found it while hacking the communist database. Simon says it‘s the design for a hologram projector.”
Fields rolled his eyes. “Of course it is.” Carl scowled at him. “I’ll have you know that Simon knows far more about this stuff that anyone you know on that god-awful ship.”
He turned back to the Captain. “At any rate, it was supposed to be constructed about five clicks from where Troy saw the tanks. The could have been holograms.”
“But why?” Fields wanted to know. The Captain looked solemn. “For one of two reasons. To kill you and leave the ship defenseless, or to lure us out and find or hiding place.” “Which one, though, sir?” Carl asked. Phelps sighed. “I suppose we’ll see.”

Chapter 4

It had been about a month and a half since the air battle. Simon and Fields had become pretty good friends, and were bonding over repairing the salvaged parts of the Raven. There was constant contact with the Genesis, and so far nobody had attacked it.
On this day Rick and Troy were out in the woods picking out a Christmas tree. Celebrating Christmas was a slightly moronic practice the rebels had gotten used to. It helped them keep their sanity.
Chuckles was getting the decorations out of storage. The “decorations” were pretty much pinecones, however every now and then he would get decorations out of other people’s storage.
And the Captain was getting the camp ready for the Christmas party, which was the biggest booze-and -music fest of the year It was also the only time of the year when the Renegades and the Inner Circle interacted.

It came time for the party. Carl had “Three Days Grace” playing on his laptop. They were in the middle of nowhere, so there was little likelihood they would be found out. To be safe, however, Carl, Simon, and Captain Phelps always stayed sober. This year Fields would too.
Chuckles, on the other hand, just wanted to have fun. “Do you know a Stacy?” he kept asking civilians. Rick rolled his eyes. “Do you even know how old she is?” he asked. Chuckles thought for a second. “By my guess, about nineteen.” “You wish. Just have a drink and have fun.”
Within an hour, Troy had one beer to many. He began break dancing on one of the tables, with people trying and failing to keep up with him. After five minutes, though, he just missed kicking some girl in the face. This did not please Captain Phelps.
“Commander, go make him knock it the hell off before he hurts someone. And make Carl play some damned Christmas music, for god’s sake!”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Grinch, sir!” was Rick’s curt reply. He then heaved a beer mug at Troy, hitting him in the head and knocking him out. “He’ll have a headache for a while, but I s’spect he’ll get over it.”
The Captain rubbed his temples. “You’re wasted, aren’t you?” Rick giggled. “Yeah.”

Chuckles, on the other hand, was helping up the girl that was nearly kicked by Troy. It was Stacy. “Oh, hi. Stacy, right?” Stacy smiled shyly. “Yep. Say, you never told me your name.” “I’m 1st Lieutenant Andrew Charleson, former Recon Marine, current Renegade Soldier and night scout.” “Lieutenant? Nice. So, Lieutenant, whatever happened to that dude we saw?” Chuckles had to think for a minute to tell who she was talking about. Then he remembered the World Order scout. “Oh… he’s dead.”
It was at that time that Carl slipped a “Nickelback” CD into his laptop and “Something In Your Mouth” began playing.
“So… do you wanna dance?” Stacy asked.
Chuckles was about to say yes, but then he thought, ‘what would Rick do?’ But the beer overpowered his good judgment, so he just thought, ‘ah, what the hell.’ “Sure, why not?”
The song went right with Stacy, although Chuckles was not a dancer. Not that he could particularly see strait anyway, and that did not help.
“I… wood like ta ask… that cha don’t laugh at my sweet moves.”
Stacy smiled. “Perhaps you would like to sit down.” “Yeah. I’m kinda drunk.” She laughed. “No shit.”
“So exactly how old are you?” she asked. For once since the whole Renegade thing began, Chuckles wished he wasn’t drunk. “Um… ‘bout twenty-five.” “Really? I’m twenty.”
Now that caught Chuckles’ attention. “You serious?” “Yeah,” Stacy said, “my parents were conspiracy theorists, so we were deemed to be to freethinking and put in camps. You guys rescued us, although not before my parents… were killed by some fucking commie.”
Even in his drunken stupor, Chuckles could identify this as an uncomfortable situation. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. I just want a crack at them, or something…”

She was to get her chance. As “Burn It To The Ground” came on, an RPG shell erupted next to the Outer Circle. Carl grabbed his M-16 machine gun. “At least some of us are sober. Simon, go sound the alarm. I’ll hold ‘em off.”

The alarm did sound, and it was amazing how quickly the men became right-minded again. Being in a constant life-or-death situation works wonders on the human psyche. Rick and Phelps rushed into their respective tents and grabbed their Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine guns, strapped some grenades to themselves, some knives, and their MK23 Silenced Pistols. Troy woke up and grabbed his M4A1 Carbine and other gear. Chuckles, his M40 Sniper Rifle. Then they all rushed into battle.

Carl shot a grenade into the dark forest where the RPG came from. It exploded, and a spray of bullets answered his call. He ducked for cover behind a large cargo truck. His grenade had been a good forty-five degrees off. He didn’t exactly have enough to waste, so he decided to go with bullets.
Not that he had a ton of those either.
‘God, I hope the backup gets here soon.’
He summoned the courage, then jumped above the hood of the truck and shot a three-shot burst into the forest. He heard something fall, so he had to assume he hit someone. He knew the party was in the Inner Circle, so it would take everyone quite a while to get there. ‘Let’s just hope I’m still alive when they do get here.’

Aboard the USS Genesis, Admiral Jenson was conducting a battle of his own. Scout airplanes of The Order had finally located the ship and was bombing it. And without Fields there to protect them, they had to rely on anti-aircraft.
It was proving to be rather difficult. The five-Inch, 54 Caliber Mk 45 anti-aircraft gun was out of use and rather rusted. No one who was perfectly familiar with it’s workings was still living, and the planes were closing in fast.
“Why did we take that stupid pilot for granted?” a gunner wanted to know. The Admiral had no answer, save “just shoot, Chief.”
The Petty Officer did as he was told. One of the planes was destroyed, but there were many, many more to come…

Carl jumped up to fire the fourth burst of bullets, only this time, he did not prove to be to lucky. A shotgun slug ripped off his right bicep. He then went into shock. He was, however, alert enough to see a man walk up and point a gun in his face.
And then get blown to pieces.
Rick walked up with his MP5 and glanced at Carl. “Merry Christmas, fuckface.” Carl was obviously not going to respond. Rick turned his head “Medic! Send medics!”
The medics rushed onto the field and dragged Carl away, although two of them were gunned down in the process. “Chuckles! We need cover fire!”

In a tree about half a mile away, Chuckles aimed his sniper rifle. “Roger that sir,” he muttered and sent a few well-placed rounds into a communist sniper. Unfortunatly, that act betrayed his position. “This is gonna suck.”

Fields was at a loss. He wanted to be off some assistance to the fighters, but he had no weapons. ‘I guess I can ask Simon for something,’ he decided.
It was at that point that Simon showed up. “Dustin! Dude, I need a bit of help.” “With what?” “Radar shows that the commies are coming in 2020 armor. I need help hauling all my big-ass weapons.”

Troy was having fun. His short nap woke him out of his drunken state, and being in battle always brought him back to his Green Beret days.
The communists finally came out of the woods, and Troy, as always, was on the front lines mowing them down as they came.
Some jap was picking off soldiers and had his sights set on the Captain. Troy threw his Bowie Knife and remedied that threat.
The Captain turned to look at Troy. “Troy, get down!” Phelps pushed Troy down and jumped behind a tree. An RPG crashed into the cargo truck, blowing it up. The door flew to the side and smashed off Troy’s left arm. He screamed as he blacked out.

Rick heard the scream. “Oh, crap,” he said and went to cover Troy’s wounded body. “We need a medic! Now!” Rick began firing like a madman, hoping and praying that the medics would Troy the heck out of there.

Chuckles had seen the whole ordeal from his mount. And, while he knew the Captain would be angry, he left his post to go help from the front.
It was about then that Stacy showed up. “Lieutenant! What’s going on?” Chuckles was startled, but answered. “Troy was badly injured. I’m going to help Rick give the medics covering fire.”
“Well then, let me come to!” she said enthusiastically. Chuckles rolled his eyes. “Let’s think about that for a fraction of a second… no, obviously not.” “Why? I want to fight too!” Chuckles shook his head no. “Women aren’t supposed to fight.” Then he took off without giving her a chance to retaliate.

The body count was steadily rising. This particular group of communists seemed to prefer pistol-grip shotguns, so there was no such this as a small wound, unless it was by shrapnel.
The medics still hadn’t arrived yet. Rick glanced at some young boy shaking next to him. “Name and rank, kid,” he demanded. “Peter James, Private 1st Class.” “Well, Private James, I’m a Commander, and this is an order. Drag this Corporal to the medic’s tent.” Peter jumped at the chance to get away from the fight. “Sir yes, sir!” He grabbed Troy, slung him over his shoulder, and left. He made it about twenty yards before his head got blown off by a slug. Rick swore, prepared to return fire, but lost his right side to a spray of buckshot. Rick glanced at his massive wound. “Damn,” he said, then collapsed.

Chuckles reached Rick about five seconds later. He said nothing, but began spraying rounds into the field of enemies. Captain Phelps calmly picked Rick up and walked toward the medic’s tent. He turned to Chuckles. “Cover me, Sniper.”
Like he had to be told twice. He shot till he ran out of bullets, tossed grenades till he was out off those, then drew his combat knife and prepared to charge the enemy.
“Lieutenant, wait!” It was Stacy, of course, her arms filled with magazines clips for his gun. “I told you to go back!” Chuckles yelled. “Well, good thing I didn’t. You were just about to perform suicide by commie, just like my stupid father did!”
She handed Chuckles the magazines, then was torn to pieces by shotgun rounds.
Chuckles was so shocked he couldn’t move. He had seen friends die in battle, sure, every Renegade had. But never a woman, barely even an adult…
Captain Phelps shot the communist sniper that had shot Stacy. “Stay alive, Lieutenant. We need no more casualties. Understood?” He then noticed that Chuckles was sobbing. He rolled his eyes. “Look, the stupid bitch made her choice. She was a freakin’ alcoholic anyway. Now stop blubbering like a girl or I’ll kill you. Got it?”
Their “conversation” was cut off by a very large explosion. It was the Elite, the only communists in the World Order allowed to wear the 2020 armor. And they were wearing it.

About two minutes after the Elite arrived, very few rebels were left. The armor was just too indestructible. Captain Phelps and Chuckles were the only fighters left. “It has been nice serving with you, 1st Lieutenant Andrew Charleson,” Phelps said. “You too, Jeremiah,” Chuckles said.
A beam of thin energy hit one of the Elite just as Phelps fired his gun. This time, the bullets hit a man, and killed him.
Chuckles wheeled around and saw Colonel Dustin Fields and Staff Sergeant Simon Simpson standing there, in the snow, looking like a couple of angels from heaven. Simon had the Active Denial PhAsEr and Fields had the 50. Caliber GK Hand Cannon. Simon smiled. “Rough night?” Phelps nodded. “I’ve had worse.” Fields laughed. “Sure you have. Just leave to us from here…”

Aboard the USS Genesis, Admiral Jenson had succeeded in leading his sailors against the air strike, only so be attacked by submarines. He had offered his men a chance to leave the sinking ship, but the would go nowhere without him, and he would not leave his ship. The sent one last, desperate S.O.S. to the ground base on Christmas morning at 0200 hours Zulu. The sun was coming up over New York City, and the Admiral’s last thoughts were of how a city that had so much beauty could be home to so much evil.

Chapter 5

The medic’s tent had never been so crowded, and Ensign Abel Quincy was no happy man. As the camp’s only medic, he had virtually no sleep in the past two days. Many men were lost because of lack of medical personnel.
He wasn’t even qualified to treat most of these wounds, so his “treatment” was somewhat less than orthodox. Shrapnel, that he could deal with. And burns. But lost limbs? He simply stopped the bleeding. Lost internal organs? Now, that was much harder. Why couldn’t the commies use something a little less destructive than a shotgun?
Luckily, he did have Simon. He had a giant stock load of gadgets that he had yet to test.
This did cause Abel to be somewhat skeptical. “We want to save these men, remember.” “I know, I know. What type of wounds have we got?” “Well,” Abel said, “I believe you know Commander Shellenberger?” “Yes,” said Simon. “Well, he lost a kidney and a few ribs. There are no donors, all the kidneys of the dead have already begun decomposing,” Abel explained. “He’s lost way too much blood, and I can’t keep the bleeding contained. Got anything for that?”
Simon considered the facts. “Well, the kidney removes waste materials from the blood and tells the bone marrow to make red blood cells, among other things. Both can be done by a machine. I can through something together to do it, I think. And if not… I’m sure some commies would happily hand over their kidneys.”
Abel nodded. It was not the best means possible, but it would have to do. “How about Corporal Anson? He lost his arm.” Simon looked at Troy’s sleeping body. “Looks like you’ve stopped the bleeding well enough. What’s he medicated with?” Abel laughed. “Same as everyone else here. Beer, or cheap whiskey.”
Simon nodded. “Well, prosthetics aren’t really that hard. I’ll just make his a robotic arm.”
Abel scowled. “Is that your solution for everything? Turn everyone into cyborgs?” Simon ignored the scoffing in Abel’s voice. “Only those that need it. Next victim.”
“Our very own C++. Poor guy lost a bicep.” Simon looked over Carl’s arm thoroughly. “Oh, that will be pretty easy to fix. He and I have been working on this sweet little medical device that will speed the re-growth of any muscle or bone. It looks like a cast for a broken bone. It takes about three point seven-five months. Abel said, “sounds good. And that will be all.” Simon was shocked. “There were no more who were wounded so bad?” Abel responded, “I wish. No one else survived.”

Chuckles and Fields were conducting a two-man funeral for Stacy. It was not really to be called a funeral, they just buried her and stood around the grave. “How long did you know her?” Chuckles didn’t feel like talking. “Long enough.” He was beyond tears, he was mostly bitter with the communists. He wanted another crack at them. This attack somehow felt more personal than all the rest.
Fields was in his own little world, however. “Still no contact from the Genesis. This would be primetime to attack it, as I’m not there.” Chuckles was in no mood to hear this. “If you’re such a damned good fighter, where the hell were you when this girl came running out to supply me with ammo!?” And with that he left. Fields shook his head. “Touchy.”

Rick awoke about a day later with a piece of metal inside him. He could feel it from the moment he came to. “Doc, what in the world is this?” He pointed to his side. “That is your mechanical kidney, compliments Simon Simpson.” He felt his side again. “Mechanical… Doc, how’d the fight go?” Abel shook his head. “Better get some rest. And watch that kidney. If something were to happen to it… let’s just say you now have an Achilles Heal, Commander.”

Troy was not so calm, but then Troy was not often calm about anything. “My fuckin’ arm! What the shit happened to my arm?” “Looks like you lost it,” Abel said dryly. “No shit! What the hell! I can’t fight with one arm!” He then passed out from the shock.

Days later, Captain Phelps called a meeting. The purpose was to decide on their next move.
“As you men may or may not know, we are all that’s left in the rebels. Me. Simon. Carl. Rick. Troy. Andrew. Abel. Dustin. It’s just us.”
“And the fleet,” Fields said.
“Did you not just hear me, Colonel? I said it’s just us. And I meant it. The USS Genesis was sunk Christmas morning at around 0200 hours.”
Dustin Fields was shocked, solemn, but not really sad. “I see.”
Rick asked, “what about the Inner Circle?”
Phelps shook his head. “We lost it. Everyone just scattered. They were picked off like files. No one Survived.”
“We need to move, to recruit, and to build an airstrip for Dustin. And we need it fast. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir!” everyone said weakly. “No,” he said. “Not ‘sir.’ My name is Captain Jeremiah Phelps. That’s what I expect you to call me. You boys are the only friends I’ve got, and me you. Nobody dies from here on out, got it?”

Everyone had questions for Simon about their respective gadgets attached to them. Rick was first. “What is the deal with this robo-kidney? I mean, I can still swim, right? And fight?” Simon nodded. “Your skin is waterproof, so swimming shouldn’t be a problem. Fighting? Just don’t get hit there. Oh, I’m sorry. I meant don’t get hit there again.”
“Carl, just don’t take that thing off till, oh… we’ll say Easter, kay?” Carl shrugged. “You’re the boss.”
“Troy,” Simon explained, “yours is the most interesting. You have a completely robotic arm. I can be taken off and replaced with one of these.”
Simon picked up a large box, placed it on the table, opened it, and dumped out a big pile of weapons. “These can all serve as your arm. There is a flame thrower, a machine gun, a missile launcher, and other stuff.” Troy was pleased, but still vaguely depressed. “So I’m never gonna get my arm back?” Simon shook his head. “I’m good, but not that good. You gotta live with what you can get.”

Preparations were made, and the trip began. I won’t waste time describing it, except that the whole group got into a stolen van and drove strait to the border of New York City. It was no use trying to find out exactly where they were, anything other than the major cities was a wasteland these days.

Chapter 6

Months passed. Those who were well began building the airstrip for Dustin. Everyone was well enough to get back in shape, and that they did.
They had moved. They had begun the airstrip. Now all that was left was the recruiting. And Captain Phelps had decided the time had come to add numbers to their group.

There were two standard recruiting practices in the Renegade camp. One was to raid prison camps, rescue people, add them to the Inner Circle, and begin training the males.
The other was easier and typically less violent. There were always the people who had their lives shattered by communists haunting bars in the slums of New York City, which is the base of operations for the Order in America. Those guys just wanted a fight and were easy to convince to join.
Rick was, at this point, leading Carl and Chuckles into one such bar to do some recruiting.
It was Carl’s first time. Any other times, he was in front of the computer when they went recruiting. “What is the basic strategy in these missions?” Rick explained, “we enter, we find the guys we are looking for, and leave without attracting too much attention.” “What if someone declines?” asked Carl. “Won’t the contact the enemy?” “This part of the city is almost devoid of the World Order, so that‘s not much of a problem.”
He was, as we are to see, quite mistaken.

They arrived at the bar by truck within forty-five minutes. “Now remember,” Rick said, “I will speak. Carl, you just watch, learn, and keep a lookout. Chuckles, buddy, you just have yourself a beer.” Chuckles smiled weakly. “Sounds good to me.”
Then they entered. Everyone stared, but then people always did at this bar. Rick approached the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey. Chuckles had a beer, and Carl asked for milk. The bartender stared for a moment. Carl nodded. “Milk.” The bartender shook his head. “Faggot,” he muttered. But he gave the paying customers whatever they wanted.
Rick became presently aware of a person sitting at the far end of the bar. He signaled the bartender and asked, “who’s the kid?” The bartender shrugged. “Dunno. Don’ really care much myself. He pays me.” Rick nodded. How long has he been coming in?” “Dunno. Since Halloween at least. Why do ya care?” He shrugged. “Just wondered if him ma knew he was here.”
Carl leaned over to Rick. “Should we recruit him?” Rick shook his head. “No, to damn young. We saw how well the teens do in battle on Christmas eve.” “Right. So where do we start?”

By the time Rick was done with his drink, he had a group of five men ready to go. The all sat in the corner of the room. One, named Roger Patrick, said, “I was actually planning to be a Marine when I grew up for my whole life. But then the commies attacked and I never got the chance.” Rick nodded. He was about to respond when he heard a voice.
“Get the fuck outa my bar.” It was, of course, the bartender, and he was holding a shotgun. “I don’t take no rebel sympathizers here.” Rick stood up. “We aren’t sympathizers. We were just having a conversation. Is that a crime?”
“About such matters, you bet your ass it is! Get the hell out!” “As you wish,” Rick said, got up, motioned for the group to follow.
The boy at the counter smiled. “Sure got rid of them.” The bartender smiled. “Yeah. I called some government agent, too. He’ll be here any time now.” The boy gave him the thumbs-up. “Good job. Unfortunately, I wont be here to see that. I gotta get home.” He paid for his drink and left.

Rick got his group outside and situated. “Listen. We need someone with an elite knowledge of these ghettos and alleyways.” “Why?” asked Roger. “The World Order will be sending someone any minute now. We need to move.” Tim Baker raised his hand. “I now some elaborate routes. I used to hang around here as a kid, but the commies have changed so much of the city…” Rick cut him off. “Better than nothing. Lead the way.”

Everyone had left the bar, save the tender. Nobody wanted to be there when an Operative was.
The Operative was a small man of Japanese descent. He bowed very low, then spoke. “My name is Inoue Raito Fuku-Taicho. In your language, that is Lieutenant Raito Inoue. How may I be of service to you?”

Not to far behind the rebels was the boy from the bar. ‘I could tell the weren’t armed, at least not heavily. The won’t hold of an Order Operative. They need help, and I will give them that. But I need my toys…’

Inoue had listened to the bartender’s story intently. Then he spoke. “You did the right thing, it would appear. However, how did you, and I quote, ‘intimidate them?’”
“What, ya mean to get ’em to leave?” he asked. Inoue nodded. “Well,” responded the bartender, “I just waved my gun at ’em.”
Inoue raised an eyebrow. “Gun?” “Yeah, it’s a twelve-gauge shotgun. It’s not even loaded, just scares people.”
Inoue looked lost in thought. “What evil people…” The bartender was slightly confused. “Yeah, I know they are, that’s why I drove ’em out.” “No,” Inoue said, “not them. I was referring to those who own guns. That’s a crime and you must pay.” Now the bartender grew afraid. “Now look, I get all types in this bar, and that gun is just for self-defense. I don’t mean no harm, swear to god…” “I could care less.” Inoue’s voice was cold. “Illegal is illegal.” He then reached out and, with one swift jerk, broke the bartender’s neck. “Now, on to more pressing matters,” Inoue said, and took off after the rebels, leaving the paralyzed bartender behind.

“Guess I don’t know New York like I thought I did,” Tim said. Chuckles was not happy. “Great. I thought we passed the garbage pile like nine times already.” Rick sighed. “We are, quite literally, getting nowhere fast. I suggest we stop, take a breather, and try to evaluate where we are.”
“No time, men,” said Carl, “Looks like we have a communist incoming. Rick swore. “Can any of you shitbirds fight yet?” Anthony Cleft raised his hand. “I was a street fighter in high school,” he said. “Good enough. It is officially your job to get everyone out of here on my signal. If it comes down to it, fight to the death, whoever’s death that is. I can give you no weapons, save this combat knife.” He handed his bowie over. “Now get ready. Find somewhere to hide, and if we don’t come back within an hour, assume the worst and take off towards the north. Understood?” “Yes, sir!” Rick shook his head. “I am your instructor, not you superior. You say, hooyah, sir. Understand?” “Hooyah, sir.” “Good. Now get ready.”
Everyone took up a fighting stance. Then the adversary came into view. “My name is Inoue Raito Fuku-Taicho. I am here to eradicate you and restore peace.”
Chuckles looked him over. “The fuck you are! You got no weapons!” Carl wasn’t so sure in their victory. “Neither do we, Lieutenant.” “We got knives.”
Inoue did not seem interested in conversation. Nor was he interested in letting them draw their weapons. He jumped into the air, did about three flips, and landed with his legs around Chuckles’ neck. He then back flipped, throwing Chuckles into a dumpster. Rick did not like the look of this. “You bastard!” he yelled, and charged at Raito with his knife ready. Rick attempted a stab, but hit only air. Inoue above him, placing a strong kick in between Rick’s shoulder blades. Carl jumped onto the Fuku-Taicho and stabbed him in the gut with his knife. The Japanese man seemed unfazed, but hurt. He locked his fingers into the spear hand position and smashed Carl in the same part of the gut as his wound.
That, however, allowed Chuckles and Rick to get back their feet and attack. Rick reached Inoue first, punched, stabbed and then kicked. His punch was deflected, his stab was dodged, and his kick was caught. He was then thrown into Chuckles, and the two crumpled into unconsciousness on the ground.
Inoue calmly picked up the combat knife of one of the fallen and charged at Carl with it. However, Anthony made a daring thrust at Raito’s side when he wasn’t looking. Inoue saw him coming and Anthony paid with his life.
This was disconcerting for the rest of the recruits. They decided to leave while they were still breathing.
Inoue ignored them. He was concentrated on the rebels. Carl tried to jump him, and for that received a very large cut, beginning at his left shoulder blade and moving down toward his right hip. Fortunately, the cut was not very deep, so Carl was alive but passed out.
Raito moved forward calmly as always, prepared to kill Carl with one final blow. At this point, however, Rick jumped up behind him, ready to slit his throat. Inoue spun around and sent a well-aimed kick strait into Rick’s artificial kidney.
Rick began to lose consciousness immediately, with barely enough time to cough up blood.
Inoue smiled. “That could have been disastrous. For me.” He raised the knife, ready to finish them off, when a long machete blade flew through his back and out the right side of his chest.
The last thing Rick saw before passing out was a bullet exiting Inoue’s heart.

Meanwhile, Troy was conducting the other kind of recruitment. He, Fields, and Simon were on their way to liberate a prison camp located in former Binghamton, New York. The whole city was a prison now, and Troy was leading the group to liberate it.
Yes, Fields was the highest-ranking officer, but he was not at all used to ground battles, so he could not command them. Simon was a higher rank than Troy, but he was also not used to battles, so Troy it was.
They were traveling light, Troy with his flame-thrower arm, some grenades, and some knives, Simon using Troy’s old M4A1 Carbine, and Fields using an M16 with a grenade launcher attached.
They were presently about point five miles from the camp entrance, a wall which could be seen for about ten miles, the guard towers for even more.
“Here is the plan,” Troy explained. “Fields, you can use that badass grenade launcher of yours to destroy those first two guard tower.” He motioned to the two towers facing them. “Then they will open the outer gates to fight us. We keep camouflaged and mow ’em down as they come. We’ll have to keep moving so they can’t pinpoint where we are. After a while, they should believe they are up against an entire army, and they will retreat into the prison until the get a sufficient number of soldiers. We will follow them, and Dustin will grenade the last two towers. We take up hiding spots and pick them off from the inside, gather as many people as we can, then make a brake for it. I will set the grass and forest on fire as we leave, making us difficult to trail. Understood?”
Everyone nodded. “Good. Now get ready.” They all took up positions. “Aim… fire, Dustin!” Fields shot a grenade at the first tower, then immediately turned and fired at the second one. Both grenades hit home, and the guards never knew what hit them.
The gates opened up, and about fifty soldiers poured out. They did not open fire at first, instead they scanned the grassy field, trying to find out where the grenades had come from. Troy, however, was not so patient. “Shoot to kill, fire at will.” And with that, he threw a grenade into the heart of the enemy forces.
They tried to scatter, but there were too many of them. The grenade hit and killed about twenty men and wounded much, much more.
“Move!” Troy ordered. The rebel men then all scattered in different directions.

Simon got a good lock on about on about fifty men, all with their heads turned. He opened fire and sprayed about six of them in their ears before the rest realized they were under fire from that direction. A small fraction turned and returned fire. Simon ducked down as the bullets ricocheted off his helmet and hit the dirt. Good, these people were using AK-47s, a very inaccurate weapon. Simon sprayed down a good twelve in one burst. Again they returned fire, and again, Simon was not injured.

Fields was not having as good luck. He had been spotted trying to sneak behind the communists, and was shot in the left shoulder. It was not a bad wound, just bad enough for him to feel it. It also slowed him down.
It did not, however, prevent him from shooting. He was relying mostly on his grenade launcher as his gun only fired in three-round bursts. But now he had only two grenades left, and two were needed to destroy the last two watch towers.
So he began shooting his gun. Each burst was well-aimed, and every time he fired, another communist gained three crippling bullet holes in their midsection.

Troy was happy to see his plan succeeding. He was to get up close and personal as he was using a flame-thrower, and they don’t get good distance.
But he was fine with that. Troy loved up close and personal, and he always fought from the front, no matter what the risk.
Tell the truth, the risk was what Troy loved, the adrenaline rush that came from life-or-death situations.
He was currently experiencing that rush. Every time he toasted a communist, there was another one with their gun in his face. Then he would burn the meat off their bones.
But right now he was glad as hell the other guys were there too, as they were the only reason he wasn’t shot from all angles at once. “Die, shitface, die!” Troy’s battle cry was unmistakable.

After about an hour of fighting, the enemy finally retreated into the inner part of the prison. Troy stood up. “Come on, boys, let’s go!”
The men regrouped and advanced. This was when the plan began to fail. They got inside the inner wall unnoticed, which was good, but then Simon refused to go forward.
Troy asked, “what’s up, Simon?” Simon shook his head. “I don’t know. It just feels like they wanted us to come in.” Fields raised an eyebrow. “Why would they do that?” Instead of responding, Simon tossed a rock about fifty feet ahead of them. As soon as it hit the ground, there was a big explosion. Everyone ducked for cover. “A mine field!” Troy yelled. “Thanks for not letting us walk into that, Simon. That might not have felt the greatest.” “No problem,” Simon muttered. “Guess we gotta find another way in,” Troy said.

After twenty minutes of speculating, the group came to one conclusion: they either had to get rid of the mine field, or they had to turn back. And it was going to take muck more than a mine field to turn them back.
Obviously they could not clear