Twenty-five miles north of Findlay, Ohio
12:34 PM
December 23, 2010
The drive out of the city to wherever the rebels were based in was a confusing time for 'John Washington', as the amnesic man had began calling himself. The whole ride was a whirlwind of him explaining who he was-or at least, what he remembered about himself. He also explained what he remembered of his life, like where he grew up, what he did, and what had happened from 1987 to the present.
"So Barack Obama's president right now?" Haymaker asked after the brief recap.
"And the World Trade Center's gone?" The black woman who had punched Haymaker asked, calling herself Knox.
"And we're fighting in the Middle East?" Sully had asked.
"Yes, yes and yes," John answered, a grimace on his face, "In fact, I was in Afghanistan a couple weeks ago." Haymaker guffawed in amazement.
"Really?" He asked rhetorically. John nodded, grabbing the front of his jacket and tugging it.
"You think I stole this or something?" He asked, getting a few laughs. His face blanked and he looked down to his chest, right where his nametag should've been. Of course! It would make everything a little easier; At the very least he would have the closure of his last name!
He didn't see a thing on his chest, just more of the UCP pattern. The only evidence he could see of anything ever being there was a faded black strip and small amounts of loose stitching.
"Something wrong, John?" Sully asked. He looked back up, the world had been blocked when his mind was racing. He shook his head, taking one hand off the barrel of his FAL to scratch the back of his head.
"No, everything's good," He said after a pause, sighing at the end. He looked back up to Haymaker. "So, any other questions for me?" He looked down for a moment, thinking.
"What branch?" Knox asked, "What branch did you serve in?" John responded by taking his backpack off and rummaging through it. He pulled out his Airborne patch, tossing it to her from across the way.
"Airborne," He said, "Easy Company of-"
"The 101st!" She cried, "Holy shit, my great granddaddy was with them during World War II!" John huffed, a smile on his face.
"No shit?" He asked.
"Where were you stationed at?" Sully asked, "I know a few people that have been stationed in Fort Drum since we took over." John shook his head as the van hit something on the road, causing a small dump.
"I would've been stationed in Fort Campbell," He said, "But I spent most of my career so far in Camp Leatherneck."
"Afghanistan?" Someone else asked. John nodded his head.
"Just think of Afghanistan as Vietnam," He began explaining, taking off his combat boot. He turned it upside down and shook it, everyone in the van laughing in disbelief as a small amount of sand fell out, settling on the steel of the floor. "But with a lot of fucking sand."
The laughing and overall fun times were interrupted by the van, which slowed to a sudden stop. The driver grabbed his gun-an Uzi-and gripped the handle with his right hand, while gripping the steering wheel with his left.
"STAR!" Someone shouted outside. John clambered up to the driver's seat after putting his boot back on, pulling out his pilfered M1911 from the waistband of his pants. John took a small glance at their surroundings; they were in a wooded area, the ground covered in dried leaves, brown weeds, dead sticks, and piles of snow. The driver stuck his head out of the window.
"TEXAS!" He shouted. There was a pause in the forest. A pile of weeds and snow shifted, and began getting to its feet. The pile spawned an arm to grab a discarded scoped rifle lying on the snowy ground, and got to its feet. The sniper-in a custom ghillie suit for the current environment-walked up to the driver's window.
"How's it going, Bill?" He asked in a deep Scottish accent, extending a snow-covered arm. The driver put the gun down and clasped the outstretched hand with his right, smiling.
"All things considered, not bad, Mac," He replied. The sniper nodded. He pointed to the right of them, where John could see the dirt trail extending into the forest.
"You're free to go in," He said, "Just watch yourself around Monty today; Think it's that time of the month." 'Bill' smiled.
"Good to know, Mac." He rolled up and the window and pushed down on the petal.
The sniper looked through the window and directly into John's eyes. He could barely make them out from the snow and the weeds, but they were there. Cold and watching.
He shuddered a little moved back into his feet. Sully nudged his shoulder.
"You meet Macmillan?" He asked. John shook his head, shivering a little more.
"J-just saw him talking to the driver," He said. Sully nodded.
"Well, you'll be talking to him soon enough."
"What do you mean?"
"Mac's SAS," Haymaker answered, "He's the military advisor for our cell right now, alongside Cruise. Probably gonna want to talk to you at some point; You know, being from another dimension and all." He took a drink from a canteen that was being passed around. "He's also been our go-to sniper for awhile now." Sully nodded again.
"He tagged John Bachtell about a month ago," He said, shrugging his shoulders and laughing a little, "He just took his kit with him one morning, and came came a few days later with one spent casing and a newspaper." John nodded in appreciation.
"So, a total badass?" Haymaker laughed.
"I like this dimension-hopper!" He exclaimed, getting a few laughs and one 'shut the hell up'.
A few more minutes passed before the van slowed down to another stop. John began to move up to the driver again, but was stopped by Sully's hand.
"Relax, John," He said, "We're just going to the garage." Sure enough, the van turned right and down a ramp into a cave of some sort. Overheard lights were dim, but enough for the average person to see clearly. The van pulled into a parking space in-between a Humvee with a minigun attached to the top and a Ford truck with a .50 caliber machine gun in the flatbed.
"Alright people," Bill said, turning around, "Get to barracks. Incog, get to HQ for debrief." Sully nodded as he threw the door open, everything climbing out of the van. Haymaker jumped out and grabbed John's shoulder, one hand still holding his AK.
"I'll take to the bunks," He said, "You'll be here for a little bit." John nodded, taking one last look at Sully's white form going towards another tunnel before following Haymaker.
"Damn, you guys would make the VC jealous," John commented, looking at the structure and vast size of the underground base, "Who made this shit?"
"Well, back in the 80s," Haymaker began, "A lot of people were starting to lose faith in the system while it was failing. Only a few actually saw how close the end was, and how fucked up the aftermath would be." He gestured to a large armory as they passed it, and John could see hundreds of thousands of rounds, as well as dozens of guns. "The rich began investing in military hardware, construction crews and PMCs. Donald Trump, Mike Bloomberg to name a few; All chipped in and began building this stuff, buying weapons, and hiring mercs."
"And when that Panic thing started..."
"The mercs used their resources to bunker down and begin recruitment of patriots in the chaos, and eventually helped found the ARA." John nodded, turning the new information in his head-while that same information was common history to these people.
He saw a rebel-dressed in brown garb with a brown M1 helmet with a piece of metal protecting his forehead-jump into a side tunnel and crawled deeper.
"Those lead to pillboxes scattered everywhere in the woods," Haymaker explained, "When the Northeasters find us, we're gonna be prepared." John grimaced.
"'When', not 'if'?" He asked. Haymaker shook his head.
"We've had a few close calls, but other bases like this one have already been found." He gestured to several more hallways they passed, their walls lined with bunks. "We've expanded a lot to accommodate the strays. We're the third biggest in the state." He turned down into the last barracks on the right, John hastily following him. Haymaker threw his gun next to an empty bunk, and plopped down into the bottom bunk.
"How long do you think I have to sleep?" John asked, throwing his gun on the top bunk and climbing up the small ladder. He checked the safety on the FAL and cradled it in his arms, sighing as his head sunk into the pillow.
"Probably an hour," Haymaker said, "I'll get ya up, don't worry." John nodded wordlessly, shifting his body a little to get more comfortable. He closed his eyes, not even bothering to take off his boots.
2 years earlier
Sheberghan, Afghanistan
A mortar exploded a few feet in front of him, sending him flying backwards a few feet and landing on his back. He looked around, his vision blurry from the force of the concussive waves. He was lucky the mortar round used was a high explosive; If it was fragmentation, he would've been dead.
"Private!" He heard someone shout. He looked around, only seeing dark blotches with lighter blotches hiding behind them. "Private!" He shook his head and looked up, seeing the clear form of Major Blackburn, one of his commanding officers. Blackburn grabbed the front of his vest and threw him into cover. His back impacted the rusty body of the destroyed car, with Major Blackburn crouching behind him.
"Thank you, sir!" John said behind his white face covering. Blackburn nodded, grabbing the M4A1 around his body and pointing it across the river in front of him.
"Thank me by doing your job!" He shouted above the explosions and gunfire. John nodded quickly and scrambled across the ground to grab his M14 EBR. After checking the magazine for any damage, he wedged the barrel in a dent on the hood and aimed down the ACOG scope.
His first target across the small river was a Taliban fighter with a Soviet-made RPG, his face completely covered by his turban. John should've felt some remorse for this man, as he could most likely not even see him.
But he lost his remorse for his kind of job. He hadn't had it since his first patrol.
He set the man's head in the crosshairs and fired. The 7.62 round quickly went from Point A to Point B, cracking the man's head open like a watermelon and sending his body falling down the stairs he was standing down like a puppet with his strings cut.
His body rolled down the stone stairs and into a group of three terrorists at the base of them, blindly firing at him and his comrades like uneducated loons. The body knocked them over, and John took that time to line up a chest into one of the men's chests. He selected a man in loose blue robes, with nothing protecting his head. He fired, the man jerked his body, causing the bullet to hit his waist instead.
The entire pile of bodies exploded in a ball of orange flames, glittering shrapnel, and bloody chunks of meat. The bullet had hit one of the man's grenades, causing his whole belt to explode. Several of the fighters still standing on that side of the river fell down, groaning and bleeding onto their concrete landing from shrapnel wounds. The ones not effected jumped back in surprise, some rising enough out of cover to be plugged by the marksmen-him included.
On the American side, cheers erupted.
"Holy shit!"
"Someone's vest went off too early!"
"Bleed, motherfuckers, BLEED!"
Major Blackburn clapped his shoulder and shook it, a smile on his smile.
"Good job, deadshot," He said good-naturedly. He smiled behind his face covering.
"Thanks, sir," John said, "Just thanking you." The major nodded, turning his attention to his radio.
"Overlord, this is Blackburn," He said amid the continued whoops and hollers, "Enemy forces have been routed at Point Delta. Permission for E Company move forward, over?" The radio crackled.
"Blackburn, this is Overlord," He said, "Easy has the go ahead to push into downtown. Be advised, Charlie Company has met heavy resistance so far on the north side of the city." Blackburn nodded.
"Blackburn copies all, out." He looked down to John, gesturing his thumb behind him where a convoy of military vehicles were waiting, some of the Humvees manned by the Marines Easy Company had been sent in with.
John nodded silently and got off of his knee, jogging over to one of the Humvees, nodding to the Marine standing by the open door.
"Was that you?" The Leatherneck asked, nodding to the smoldering concrete landing, "The explosion?" John looked down to the Corporal chevrons on his sleeve.
"Yes sir, it was," He answered, standing a little straighter. The Marine chuckled.
"Good job, trooper." He nodded to the .50 caliber machine gun resting on the top. "Now grab the gun, we're gonna need it." John nodded and climbed into the Humvee, the only other occupant being an Afghan Army observer in the passenger seat. John climbed put through the hole on the roof and grabbed the trigger, gripping it tightly.
"All units, this is Blackburn," His radio crackled, "We're clear to move downtown. Embark and move out!" There was a rush of Marines and Airborne alike as they moved to the convoy, most going for the M1078 trucks with tan canvas covers, while the rest went for the Humvees.
"Eagle 1-1 to Blackburn, all units are embarked."
Copy, all units move out."
John gripped his gun for support as his Humvee-the lead, no less-lurched forward, but he quickly fell back on his training and began scanning the surrounding area. He could see several civilians rush for shelter at the sight of them, and he could hear the staccato of automatic weapons fire on the other side of the city. It was almost hypnotic.
Until that scream.
"RPG!"
John looked over for a brief moment to see the rocket-propelled grenade slam into the side of the Humvee.
"John!"
He awoke with a start, sweat covering his body. He clutched his chest, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart. He could still feel the heat from the explosion on his skin, and he felt the scars he gained form the attack burn. His over-stimulated brain almost didn't register the poking he felt on his ass.
"You okay, buddy?" He looked down to see Haymaker, his AK's barrel poking his mattress, a concerned look on his face. John looked around to see everyone in the room was staring at him, as well as a man standing in the doorway wearing a British military uniform, a tan beret on his head. John sighed, grabbing his rifle and jumping down off of the top bunk, grabbing his backpack at the foot of the bottom bunk. He felt dozens of eyeballs following his every move.
"Just a nightmare, fellas," Haymaker called out, "We've all been there." John inwardly sighed, reminding himself to thank him when he had the time.
He stopped walking in front of the British soldier, making sure to salute.
"Private First Class... John Washington, reporting," He said. He rolled his blue eyes and waved his hand down.
"Fokk off with that shite," He said, in the same Scottish accent of the ghillie sniper from before. He otherwise saluted back. "Captain Fergus MacMillan, 22nd SAS Regiment." He dropped his hand, clasping both hands behind his back and nodding down the hallway. "Now, if ya would follow be. Monty needs a word with ya." He began walking down the hallway.
"Sir, permission to speak freely?" He asked. MacMillan sighed.
"Granted," He said, "But stop it with this formality shite!" John nodded in understanding.
"Who is Monty, and why does he need to see me?"
"Jillian Montagne is the leader of this cell," MacMillan explained, "And SHE needs to see because ya of yer claim." John cocked an eyebrow, but MacMillan sensed the question before it was spoken. "You claim to be from another fokkin dimension, do you not?" John shrugged his shoulders.
"More or less." They stopped in front of a set of double doors, and MacMillan turned and pointed a finger at him.
"If it was up ta me, you'd be in a loony bin," He said angrily, "With a cloth in ya gob and a straight jacket wrapped around your arse." His demeanor softened a little. "But there are six people that have confirmed this little story, saying you have evidence." He opened the door, letting John through first. "Hope ya brought it, yer gonna need it." John looked into the room and gulped nervously, walking in.
The CIC of the hidden underground rebel base reminded John a little of the first Star Wars movie, where the Rebels were held up in a space Mayan temple on a jungle moon. There was a large circular metal table with a map displaying the state of Ohio illuminated from the bottom, while several bulky consoles were beside the dirt walls, and a few electric generators were inside small cubbies inside the walls with cables that connected to every electronic in the room. Several guards stood around the room, all in the same modified M1 helmet and brown fatigues. A projector was on a small cart, connected to a computer behind the table.
Around the large table were several individuals, one of which John recognized as Sully. He was out of this SS uniform and into more comfortable-looking Woodland combat fatigues, his American bandanna tied around his bicep. He looked a little worried, which worried John. He stood next to a woman with a blue jacket and stunning platinum hair. The three looked up to them upon their arrival. MacMillan saluted, prompting John to do the same.
"Reporting as ordered with VIP, ma'am," He said, falling into parade rest. The woman waved him off with a small smile.
"Formality isn't necessary, Fergus," She said with a high class accent. Her smile fell instantly as she laid eyes on John. John straightened his posture, sweat sliding down his face. "You, however, have a lot of explaining to do."
"I've told you everything that you need to know, ma'am," Sully said, also looking nervous, "Washington has solid evidence to make his case." Montagne looked back to John.
"And where you that be?" She asked. John took off his bag and placed it on the table, rummaging through it. He pulled out a small laptop, the charging dock and cable for it, and an extra shirt before pulling out his phone. He placed it on the tabletop and slid it across, Montagne grabbing it before it hit the dull, raised edges. She held it to her face, turning it over and running her finger over the screen.
"Touchscreen?" She asked, not caring for an answer. MacMillan walked over and took from her hands, feeling the surface until he pressed the home button. He nodded in astonishment."
"The Japs have a few prototypes like this," He said, "Not like this." He weighted it in his hands. "It's a bloody brick with a touchscreen." He slid it back across the table into John's hands. "Gonna take more than that ta convince me yer from somewhere that isn't here." Montagne, however, had a different look on her face.
"Where did you get that?" She asked.
"In an Apple store in New York City," He said, "The same Apple that made the Macintosh." She nodded, but still wasn't entirely convinced. John almost gave up when he remembered a single he had taken several years ago when on leave.
"Anyone of you know who Obama is?"
"Let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations."
"Thank you. God bless you. And God bless the United States of America."
The applause fell on the deaf ears of the whole room, almost every occupant stunned into silence. They stared as Barack Obama shook hands with the people standing on the stage behind him, and only snapped out of their trances as John pulled his phone's charging cable out of the USB port, shutting off the video. He wondered if they were thinking about the 'American Republic' and its 2008 election, and how muc He coiled the cable up as Montagne lowered her hand from her mouth.
"My God," MacMillan muttered, "He's from another bloody dimension." Montagne took a deep breath to relax herself, then shot a look to the command staff still at their stations, staring dumbly at the projection screen. They immediately went back to work, seemingly disregarding the whole thing.
But if John remembered anything about base gossip, everyone would know he was from an entirely different dimension by dinner.
"Jonathon," Montagne said softly, redirecting his attention back to her, "I am so, so sorry." She put a hand on his arm. "I have contacts in the Republic, who can get you into a quiet life away from all of this. In the woods of Kentucky, in the bayous of Louisiana, or-" MacMillan put up a hand, silencing her. She stepped back as he walked slowly up to John, getting right in his face.
The room had fallen silence once, waiting for what the Captain was to say.
"Your world, as you knew it, is gone," He whispered, his deep voice falling on every ear in the room, "How far will you go to bring it back?" John clenched his jaw, and MacMillan saw an intense fire spark in the young man's blue eyes.
"As far as I need to," He whispered back, "Whatever the cost." MacMillan took a step back, satisfied with the answer.
"Monty, can ya give the boy some gear?" He asked her as the room once again restarted. Montagne slowly nodded.
"Yes, but why?"
"We're goin' on a trip." He gestured to John and began to walk out. John gave a respectful nod to Sully and Montagne as he left.
"Where, sir?" The door closed behind them as they walked down to the armory.
"Richmond, Indiana."
"What's there?"
"Radiation, but we're there for a bigger prize."
"We're there for the Chairman of Defense."
The Funders: By the 1980s, the West was beginning to collapse. France was in civil war, The Spanish were in complete isolation as the monarchy returned, West Germany was invading Austria in desperation for more resources against an East German war machine, Ireland was threatening war for Ulster, and the US public was beginning to turn against its government. While the British worked out their problems, the American government was hopeless to stop theirs.
The upper class of society saw it, and many moved to pull their investments and interests out of the country before it collapsed. A few, however, still believed in the American Dream, and put billions of dollars into funding the founders of the American Rebel Alliance.
The two main funders of the Alliance were Donald Trump, who almost single handedly funded the construction of dozens of underground bases all across the continental United States, Michael Bloomberg, who bought hundreds of thousands of firearms for the rebels, and both hired thousands of mercenaries to man the bases and use the guns, and eventually recruit others to the cause of reunifying America.
As of December 23 2010, Michael Bloomberg was in a political prison, detained in 1998 for denouncing the American People's Commonwealth. Donald Trump was in Canada continuing his business, but said he would return to America if it "pulled itself together".
The Founders: When the Dissolution was declared, and set off the Panic, the mercenaries that the Funders had hired hunkered down in their hidden fortifications to wait out the first few months. A select few, however, braved the anarchy to begin recruitment of the first fighters of the ARA, form convicts and criminals on the wrong side of a now forfeit law system, former active military personnel abandoned by their commanders, and simple civilians that wanted safety.
While most of the mercenaries that first began rebel activities-known as the Founders-were dead by the turn of the Millennium, some of the men and women considered Founders were among the first wave of fresh blood. Jillian Montagne was the daughter of French refugees fleeing their civil war. After her parents were killed by roving death squads in Charlottesville, she was rescued by a Delta Force Operative known as Cruise. Together, they escaped into the countryside and into the arms of the North Carolina National Guard, today's 3rd American Rifles of the American Republic Armed Forces.
Montagne and Cruise are now leaders in the American Rebel Alliance in the American People's Commonwealth.
SAS: The Special Air Service is the premier special forces unit of the United Kingdom, founded in 1941 to fight in the deserts of Africa during World War II. It has since been used for behind the scenes and high profile operations in favor of NATO-and later British-interests across the globe, from the Middle East to America.
In 2010, the SAS has expanded alongside the British Army. It has several full size regiments, numbering 21st through 26th with four full 64-man squadrons, along with several highly trained units that are completely off the records. DUe to its increased size, it has dipped in quality of its members, eventually being surpassed by Task Force [RETRACTED].
Modern SAS operations mostly include the assistance of the insurgents of the American Rebel Alliance. The Ohio Cell is currently being helped by Captain Fergus MacMillan of the 22nd SAS Regiment.