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Black Autumn Travelers A Post-Apocalyptic Saga The ReadyMan Series: Companion Novel to Black Autumn by Jeff Kirkham, Former Army Green Beret & Jason Ross © 2018 (ver. 6.0, 89,500 words) Page 2! Prologue “History will conclude the American Empire fell because of two poor villagers and an idiot.” The American Dark Ages, by William Bellaher North American Textbooks, 2037 Village of Parang Sulu Archipeligo, Philippines Seven Months Ago Bolat Nabiyev insisted he run the outboard motor himself. Truthfully, he had never piloted a boat of any kind, but he couldn’t bring himself to trust the junior agent nor the filthy Filipino fisherman to take control of his cargo. He had been forced to step aside to allow the fisherman to start the engine, since it required a befuddling series of actions, including pumping a bulb, delicately rocking a choke lever back and forth, then giving the pull-starting rope a brisk snap. But once the engine caught, the Kazakh KNB agent took control, even though he repeatedly over-corrected, steering them in a serpentine course toward the fishing dock. The small crate sitting in the bottom of their panga fishing boat represented an enormous trust placed in him by the the Kazakh KNB, the intelligence agency that had resumed the role of the KGB when Soviet Russian influence rolled back in Kazakhstan in the early 1990s. Only three of the deadly crates had been in possession of the KNB, now secretly under the control of Al Queda in Pakistan. Having learned their lesson from the assassination of Osama Bin Laden, Al Queda now ran a quieter strategy, spreading their fundamentalist Sunni Islam by means of infiltration of sympathetic muslim nations like Kazakhstan. Through their control of the KNB, Al Queda inherited a RDS-45i “suitcase” nuclear weapons that had disappeared from the Russian arsenal during the fall of the Soviet Union. Al Queda leadership had, uncharacteristically, taken a full year to carefully decide what to do with their nuclear weapon windfall from Kazakhstan. At the end of their decision-making, they arrived at a subtle plan, the organization’s new modus operandi—this plan favored impact rather than acclaim. For once, thought Bolat, the Arabs were rationalizing rather than romanticizing. Even so, Bolat felt certain little thought had been spared to protect he and his Filipino men from the Page 1! radiation that undoubtedly poured off the crate in waves. He imagined he could feel his belly sickening with nausea. But none of that mattered. Today, the crate would be loaded aboard a sailboat, bound for the sparkling cities of California. Unobtrusive and plain, the little crate seemed the perfect harbinger of destruction. A small gift of honesty to be delivered to a nation of liars. Agent Bolat Nabiyev had no idea who had come up with the idea of sending nuclear weapons across the Pacific Ocean in sailboats. The idea struck him as both brilliant and poetic. He had been assured by his superiors that small sailboats crossed the Pacific Ocean all the time, usually captained by Western adventurers sailing toward a life of leisure on the hundreds of tiny islands and atolls dotting the expanse of the Pacific. Completed in the proper season, the journey back toward America was relatively safe and not overly long, requiring just ninety days of good weather and a little luck. In an added twist of brilliance, the sailboat was to be owned and piloted by nameless Filipino Muslims with no connection to Kazakhstan whatsoever. The sailors wouldn’t even know that Al Queda had been involved in the scheme; even the writing on the crate was in English. The secrecy would cost Al Queda. Once the crate went aboard the sail boat, they would no longer control its destiny. They would have to trust the fanatical Filipino Muslim hatred of America to ensure proper delivery of the weapon. Timing would be anyone’s guess. But time was on the side of Islam. America had to win against Islam at every turn. Considering the weakness of American wealth and leisure, Islam had to win only once to destroy the lie that sin pays. Bolat motioned to the fisherman to resume control of the fishing boat. They were nearing the dock and he had strict orders to avoid any contact with the Filipino sailors who would deliver the bomb to America. Sitting in the panga, this was as close as he would ever be to the nuclear weapon. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he would regret the half-hour of exposure. As they pulled up to the dock, Bolat and his companion lowered the brims of their straw hats and stepped off onto the dock, walking away as though the panga had carried them as simple passengers. Once they reached the shore, the agents stopped next to a large stack of fish traps and lit Filipino cigarettes. Bolat didn’t smoke, but he had learned to for moments like these when he would be conducting surveillance and wanted to look inconspicuous. The agents monitored the crate as the nuke passed onto the dock and was loaded into a large sailboat on the other side. The Filipino sailors’ instructions from their tribal imam had been to set sail immediately, but of course the sailors dithered around on the dock for the next hour, joking with other sailors and bargaining with a fishermen on some fresh catch. The agents were forced to relocate several times on the quay to avoid drawing attention. Bolat suppressed Page 2! the urge to storm down the dock and beat the Filipino sailors for their stupidity. According to the tribal imam, the sailors had been told they carried a bomb, and according to their imam, the men were his most-faithful followers. If they had known the importance of the mission, wouldn’t they cast off immediately? The risk of discovery alone would make most men take the task seriously. Bolat had spent the last year in the jungles, learning that Filipinos deserved their poverty-stricken lives. They had no discipline, no urgency. The sailors eventually completed their quayside meanderings and set sail. As Bolat watched the forty-five-foot sailboat chug out of the small harbor under engine power, he wondered if this would be the bomb to reach American soil. He had his doubts after watching the natives behave like teenage idiots on the dock. Bolat stubbed out his cigarette on a piling and shook his head, thinking again about the Filipino villagers. Undoubtedly, they were fools. But he supposed only a fool would sail across the Pacific with a nuclear bomb leaking radiation in the hold of their boat. * * * Kountze, Texas Outside the Big Thicket Federal Nature Preserve Officer Jeremy Hellmund had been lying in the dirt for twenty minutes, and he was dying to scratch his nuts. How long could a Marine sniper sit still before he had to redeploy his position and his balls? The cable TV show about Marine Scout/Snipers made it sound like they were required to stay still for at least two hours or so before they could pass Scout/Sniper school. As a trained federal officer, Jeremy Hellmund figured he could do that much. It felt like there was an ant crawling on his nuts. Maybe it had crawled up his leg. Slowly, he raised the binos back up to his eyes. The black panty hose covers he had fashioned for the lenses made the image blurry. He heard about it on YouTube—panty hose eliminated glare and avoided detection. The militia men were at it again. Training. Jeremy was nearly certain that this militia group was building up to a terrorist attack. He had been tracking their movements and infiltrating their comms network for over a year. They frequently talked about “taking down” federal agents and even the President himself in their closed Facebook group. When Jeremy went to his supervisor with copies of the group’s Page 3! terrorist chatter, it hadn’t gone well. His boss, generally a pretty good guy, was obviously too lazy to pull the trigger on some real law enforcement. “That’s not your job. You’re a park ranger, Jeremy.” His boss had pushed back on the intel. “Just do your job, okay?” “Park Ranger,” he repeated quietly. I’m a trained federal officer. As he watched the militia practice their maneuvers, he felt the reassuring weight of his handgun jammed between a buckthorn sapling and his ass. He daydreamed about what would happen the day he finally put together enough evidence to send these guys away. He pictured himself making the call—he kept a business card on his nightstand in his apartment, an FBI agent he had met at a fundraiser for Red-Cockaded Woodpecker for the Big Thicket National Preserve, where he worked. Once he had something concrete, Jeremy would make the call. The FBI. The Big Time. His ball-itch reached a crescendo and he mashed down his urge to scratch. Just like a Marine Scout/Sniper. Jeremy glanced downrange to distract himself. He couldn’t figure out what the militia dirtbags were doing. They looked like they were doing maneuvers, shooting at each other, but with no bang-bang. When the wind changed direction, he heard an intermittent mechanical whine. Every militia guy was equipped like a hard-core operator. Multi-cam. Plate carrier vests. Heavy stacks of .223 magazines. Bump helmets. Oakley wrap-around sunglasses. Every guy carried an AR-15 assault rifle with a flashlight, laser, vertical grip and an ACOG scope.

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