Silent Interruption Read online

  Silent Interruption

  Silent Interruption Book 1

  Trent Russell

  Copyright © 2018 by Hp

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter One

  Sergeant Carl Mathers touched down on the sandy street of the outskirts of Mosul with one thing on his mind—get the bastards. Get the bastards who bombed that mosque in Baghdad, killing fifty-three Shiites and wounding forty more. Get the bastards who bombed the markets in Taji and Tikrit, slaughtering more than a dozen with each murderous salvo. Get the bastards who blew up ten of his fellow Marines in two separate bombings.

  Carl Mathers vowed to do all he could to bring down the leaders of the Martyr’s Army.

  The desert sun beat down on Carl’s unit. The group had been fully briefed on their mission. They all knew their roles. The United States Marine Corps made sure to hone their soldiers into the finest fighting force on the planet. With the communications linkup that all soldiers possessed via their earpieces and small mics in their helmets, orders would flow effortlessly from the commanding officer down to the soldiers.

  Their actions were well planned. But as Carl understood, the moment combat begins, well-crafted plans can go to hell. They could not be sure how many of the Martyr’s Army had gathered within the warehouse bloc of Mosul. The radical Sunni outfit, an offshoot of the decimated ISIS faction that had tormented this country years before, had been a plague upon the central and southern areas of Iraq. But thanks to intel gathered from captured members of the Martyr’s Army, the U.S. government learned the leader of the outfit had retreated into Mosul. And right now, Carl’s unit was hot on his heels.

  A drone strike wouldn’t do. This part of town, even if it still was on the outer fringes, was too heavily populated. The same problem ruled out a bombing run. The U.S. government did not want to incur heavy collateral damage if it could be avoided, especially considering the toll this long conflict was taking on the Iraqi citizenry. Besides, the American government’s current policy was trying to capture some of these high-value targets instead of merely killing them. Live terrorists meant talking terrorists, and talking terrorists meant the United States learned more about how the Martyr’s Army communicated across distances, raised money, and acquired weapons.

  At the moment, Carl felt he was marching into the toughest firefight of his life. A few seconds later, he was proven right.

  Several men with black hoods opened fire from second- and third-story windows. Damn! They saw them coming and were on the offensive. Carl’s men quickly took cover behind nearby buildings. Fortunately, Carl’s unit was not alone. A second Marine unit approaching from the west had managed to take up sniper positions on nearby rooftops.

  As Carl pressed against the building, he witnessed one of the Martyr’s Army soldiers get shot and plunge out of a window. If the shot didn’t kill him, the impact three stories below would finish the job.

  The street up ahead was clear of pedestrians. This was a sleepy time of day anyway for this part of town, plus anyone who would be wandering around likely ran off when they heard the gunshots. When your country was being ravaged by scum like the Martyr’s Army, you learned how to find cover quickly when fighting broke out.

  Carl quickly studied the street ahead. By now scouting dangerous locations in a hurry had become second nature to Carl. The road was narrow, and the awnings of the nearby shops only contracted the space further. Worse, the canopies obscured part of their respective storefronts. Carl realized there were suddenly a lot more hiding places down here for Martyr’s Army snipers.

  Then, an entire awning suddenly tore free. An old army carrier truck, seized during the Saddam Hussein era, roared out of the store and onto the street. The store was a mockup, a fake hidden among the lot of them, probably an alley between two real stores. The Martyr’s Army was prepared for them!

  “Fire!” screamed the order in Carl’s earpiece.

  The unit opened fire at the vehicle, shattering the windshield, blasting off small metal fragments of the bumper, and puncturing the front tires. But that was not enough to stop the vehicle. It kept coming and coming and coming…

  Carl leapt into the alley behind him. Whether it was instinct or adrenaline, he didn’t know, and he didn’t care, for the truck suddenly exploded not long after it passed his position. If he had been that close, he would have been impaled with shrapnel or burned horribly by the blast.

  The explosion still was close enough to ring Carl’s ears. He had to admit, the Martyr’s Army loved to think big. It was sickeningly ironic that Carl and his fellow Marines learned the motto ‘do it big.’

  But Carl had no time to ruminate on the Martyr’s Army’s latest ploy. He quickly got up, shook his head to gather his wits, and returned to his former position. The truck lay in a flaming wreck just a few feet down the road. He spotted no bodies. Perhaps his men had emerged without any casualties.

  “Report in!” cried the voice of his commander through the earpiece.

  Carl quickly spoke up. “Sergeant Mathers. I’m okay, just a little rattled. No casualties spotted so far.”

  Loud pops suddenly struck the building above Carl’s head. The Marine quickly ducked down and aimed his rifle. Of course. The Martyr’s Army often followed a display of incredible force with an ambush.

  Some of Carl’s unit took up positions behind whatever cover they could find and returned fire. The pops were loud and everywhere. Carl squeezed off one or two shots but locating an enemy sniper in the dark of some of those storefronts was impossible.

  Still, the Marines would not give in. They were too close to their prey. Carl’s heart quickened. He wanted to rush out there, to get a good look at their attackers, but he knew rushing out there would earn himself a quick death.

  Besides, the Marines weren’t out of tricks. Eli, a man in Carl’s unit, squeezed off a shot. A hooded man slumped down from an open doorway. The other unit had closed in and positioned spotters high above. Thanks to scopes that could cut through the interior darkness of a home, the Martyr’s Army was suddenly losing their cover.

  “Mathers. Enemy’s in the store two meters on your side,” said one of the spotters.

  So, Carl had a target. He acknowledged, then crouched down at the building corner and checked for his position. He spotted the store’s open window. The canopy hung loose from multiple gunshots. And then a human-shaped silhouette crossed in front, with a rifle in hand.

  Gotcha.

  Carl aimed and fired. The figure in the window fell back out of view. Carl was sure his shot had nailed the bastard in the chest.

  The firefight was beginning to die down. Carl’s unit must have taken out most of the shooters. Soon the rest would retreat as it became clear they were outmatched.

  And then the street behind Carl exploded.

  Although Carl wasn’t caught in the explosion, the bang was so close that it helped slam the Marine against the wall. It was good fortune that Carl wasn�
�t so far away from the wall that he was picked up and rammed against it like a rag doll.

  He fell onto his back. His trembling hand grazed his mouth. Blood. That was a serious blast. And with the hot sun reaching its peak, Carl Mathers was a mess of blood, dirt and sweat.

  Yet, adrenaline beat back his injuries. He would not die here. He had to get up. Get up…and live.

  As Carl climbed to his wobbly feet, a voice cut over his earpiece. “RPG! They’re using RPGs!” Another voice cut in. “Men down! I got two men down!”

  Damn. Rocket propelled grenades. It only took one fired from one of these buildings to do a lot of damage. Carl clutched his gun. The explosion had caused tremors all across his body. He probably would have trouble properly aiming.

  He hurried back to the street and saw the carnage for himself. The whole road behind him was on fire, and one of his fellow Marines, Kyle, lay on the ground, the bottom half of his body burning. A trail of smoke led all the way down from high above. So, an RPG was responsible.

  “Sergeant Mathers! Mathers, are you there?” shouted the voice of his commanding officer. “Report!” Another Marine rushed up to him, and then the ground around them started popping. The firefight was renewed. This whole mission was either a setup, or the Martyr’s Army was prepared for an assault.

  The whole scene then dissolved before Carl’s eyes, rapidly replaced by a succession of memories of what had happened shortly after the battle. It was then that the Marine, actually former Marine now, recognized that it all been a dream, a remembrance of his most intense battle yet.

  The problem was the reality he had woken up to was not much different than the one he just had left in his dreams.

  “Where?” he cried out. Then he suddenly grabbed the back of his head as the pain took hold. “Damn!” Carl was nauseated, dizzy, and his head throbbed. He was also in some enclosed space. He brushed up against a soft leathery seat.

  “Where are we—ow!” He stood up too fast, slamming his head against a ceiling. He was inside a vehicle, probably a sport utility vehicle, judging from the size.

  Carl then noticed he wasn’t alone. The events of the past few hours slowly came back to him. A man a couple of years younger than he sat across from him. He was dressed in a blue polo shirt, brown khakis and leisure shoes, all appropriate for a wealthy young adult who just had got out of college, but poor attire in a survival situation. And right now, Preston Wilson looked as if he had been through the ringer. Dirt stains dotted his shirt and pants. Preston’s hair was a mess, and a small bit of a tree leaf hung from the back of his hair.

  “We’re in an SUV,” Preston said. He then seized Carl and thrust him back down to the floor. “Duck! We’re hiding from the mob outside!”

  “Mob?” Carl struggled to recall what had happened.

  He was running down a street with Preston beside him. The streets had broken out in a rash of riots, with young men torching cars and overturning vehicles. Carl and Preston barely had escaped them more than once. Then something hit Carl from the back. It might have been a stone, a small rock. He felt the back of his head, massaging a bump, but turning up no blood. The blow was enough to knock him out, but not ultimately sufficient to cause bleeding. Still, he’d be woozy for a while. Blows to the head were bad news and despite what people are used to seeing in the movies, not easy to recover from.

  Movies. Carl chuckled to himself. Nobody outside would likely see a movie ever again. For that matter, television shows and entertainment streamed on the Internet all were gone as well, ripped away from a large populace that imbibed off them for so long. All of a sudden, without warning, the masses were deprived of their creature comforts.

  In other words, a bunch of young people suddenly were left with nothing to do. And when society breaks down and the police aren’t on hand to maintain order, those who suddenly are idle will find themselves free to do whatever they wish without boundaries or consequences.

  Preston explained that Carl had been struck with a small rock. The one-time Marine had fallen unconscious. Left with no options, Preston had grabbed Carl and dragged him inside this parked vehicle. A few more rocks pelted the SUV, but it seemed the mob outside either didn’t know they were inside or sought easier prey to pursue.

  Carl thanked Preston, but he knew this wouldn’t last long. Soon those who were rampaging through this city would come. They would continue to gather until they pooled together into a single force bent on taking out their aggressions on property and people. It was sheer ignorance and stupidity on parade. Carl had tried warning as many people as he could that the world was held together with spit and tape. Now it was too late. Survival was all that mattered.

  The scene outside and the memories inside Carl Mathers’ head rapidly were congealing into one. Soon his hometown and most of America would turn into Mosul. Soon Carl never would be able to tell the difference between the two.

  Rubbing his head, Carl reflected on the fact that just a few hours ago, everything was completely different…

  Chapter Two

  Still in his nightclothes, gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt, Carl strolled by the dresser as the middle-aged man on the monitor hanging from the wall spoke to him. “And so, your mother keeps wanting to know if you’ve finally found somebody to take home to show off.” His voice was a bit gravely, yet still loving and warm.

  Carl pulled out a fresh pair of socks from his dresser. “No, Dad, not yet.” He laughed.

  “Well, she figures since you’re back home for good you’re finally available on the market.” Jonathan Mathers grinned. “She wants grandkids so badly.”

  “Well, Andy’s engaged to Sarah.” Carl dumped the socks on his bed. “I think that takes the whole burden off me, right?”

  “Now, don’t go dumping the whole responsibility for grandkids on your younger brother. Besides, I think maybe it’s time for you to settle down. You could use somebody by your side.”

  As Carl sat on the bed, he glanced at the thirtieth birthday card on the dresser under the monitor screen. It was the first time in six years that he had been able to enjoy a birthday at home with his family. The experience, however, had jarred Carl, as he noticed how much older his parents looked. He had not seen them for months at a time, which made them appear to age faster each time he finally saw them. He wondered if perhaps his dad was right.

  Even so, Carl felt he still had a mission to accomplish. “Maybe later. I feel like I’m not done saving the world. It’s a little hard to have a wife and kids when you’re touring around the country.”

  “Those rallies. Yeah, I know.” Jonathan sounded as if he possessed reservations, but he kept them to himself.

  “Has Andy said anything about my speech?” Carl asked.

  Jonathan chuckled. “Well, he’s just worried about you going all ‘hippie’ on us, as he put it.”

  Carl sat on the bed. “Oh, trust me, it’s not at all what he thinks. He just doesn’t like that I’m talking at the Rally for Rights at all. He thinks it’s a communist front and I shouldn’t waste my time talking to them. He thinks the rallies only appeal to liberals.”

  “Well, you know how Andy is. The boy never ceases speaking his mind. Personally, I think he envies you a lot, that you had the courage to enlist in the Marines.”

  “The Marines are the toughest bunch in the country, Dad. Andy shouldn’t envy me. That outfit can chew up and spit out most of the people in the U.S.” Carl started putting on his socks. “He’s great where he is.”

  “And so are you. I’m sure you’ll do fine with your speech. I’ve seen you on some of these YouTube videos. I think you can handle a live crowd just fine.”

  Carl finished with his socks. “I hope so.”

  Jonathan smiled. “Well, if you feel like it, remember you always can return to the farm and stay with your parents for a few days.”

  “And help you with the chores, right?” Carl tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh, what makes you say that?” Jonatha
n’s smile grew. “Actually, we’ve hired a couple of the kids to do some work. It’s really helped.”

  Carl pulled off his shirt, revealing the undershirt underneath. “How’s the foot?”

  Jonathan shook his head. “Still hurts. Doctor Willard thinks I’ve developed some minor chronic pain. Could be slight arthritis.” He sighed. “I tell you, it’s hell learning that you’re not as spry as you used to be. I hate the thought of one day giving up the farm.”

  “You still can oversee it, Dad. Andy…”

  “Andy’s not a farmer.” Jonathan chuckled. “He’s a born manager. He turned Minster Chemical around in six months when the press said it couldn’t be done in six years. Some folks around here think he ought to challenge Senator Worley next time he comes up for re-election. But me, I don’t know. Maybe it’s just hard to teach an old farmer new tricks.”

  Carl got up from the bed. “Dad, I got to get ready. I have to leave soon.”

  “I wish I could be there to see you speak.” Jonathan nodded. “Tell me later how it goes. Remember, born for the storm.”

  Carl smiled. “Born for the storm.” It was a phrase his dad had repeated to him often ever since Carl was a teenager. Carl always took it as reassurance that he was meant to handle great challenges no matter what they were.

  Jonathan then turned off the monitor on his end. Carl sighed. That was all the encouragement he would get out of Dad today. As he walked to the bathroom, he knew he would have to supply the rest himself.

  He looked at his chiseled body in the mirror, his cool blue eyes looking back at him from the reflection. Born for the storm. Carl also would say he was raised for the storm. He lived his young years fishing and hunting in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. Survival was burned into him. The army and fighting overseas had completed his education. For him, city life was the odd way to live. He didn’t hate it by any means, but it was not for him.