Last Stand: Patriots (Book 2) Read Online Free Page A

his earlier suspicions when the Applebys had first disappeared from Willow Creek Drive, this time it wasn’t about ransom money.
    The United States EMP Commission had estimated that six months after an attack, the population loss would exceed fifty million. From everything John had seen so far, not least of which were the throngs of dead along the interstate, that estimate was probably far too conservative. The real figure was likely closer to triple that. One consequence was that human beings would become the next major commodity. Forget gold. Slavery was about to rear its ugly head again in the United States and the problem would only get worse if the commission’s final conclusion came true: one year following an EMP, the population would be reduced by up to ninety percent. It was a staggering figure that was hard to fathom. It made John think of the famous quote that was sometimes erroneously attributed to Joseph Stalin: A single death is a tragedy. A million is a statistic.
    For John it spoke of the difficulty in grasping those kinds of numbers when it came to human life. Fill Yankee Stadium to the rafters over six and a half thousand times and you began to grasp the magnitude. It brought John back to something Brandon had been asking him earlier in the day. What would things be like once the lights came back on?
    More importantly, what would be left of America’s sense of morality when all of this was over?
    John took a final gulp of water and let the cup fall on his lap. “First thing in the morning we head out to find out who did this. So why don’t you head down to the truck and get some sleep. You’re gonna need it.”

Chapter 7
    John kept watch for another hour, struggling to contain the dread building up within him. By the time he made his way down to the Blazer and settled in the driver’s seat—the chair pushed back and reclined as far as it would go—he could already feel his eyes beginning to close on him. Sleep was a welcome escape from the day’s tumultuous events. At least, it was supposed to be.
    It wasn’t long after dozing off that John dreamt he was in Iraq again. Camp Stryker. Ten miles from the center of Baghdad and headquarters for the 48th Infantry Brigade Combat Team.
    First Sergeant Wright entered the operations center. Tall and gangly, he didn’t have the squat, powerful build of a typical First Sergeant, but he commanded the respect of his men and that was all that really mattered.
    “LT, we have a situation.”
    John looked up from his morning briefing. The date was June sixteenth, 2006 and it was already hot enough outside to sap the moisture from your eyeballs in under a minute. Course, it didn’t help that the 48th was stationed inside the infamous Triangle of Death. John had been waist deep in situations since he’d come awake this morning at 0500 hours, listening to the distant sounds of an Iraqi man in a minaret singing Allah’s praises.
    “What is it , 1SG?”
    “Insurgents attacked one of our checkpoints near Yusufiyah this morning.”
    “ Any casualties?”
    “ Yes, three dead. Two more wounded.”
    Nine times out of ten that meant a suicide bomber had driven up and detonated his payload as he approached the checkpoint. It was an all too common tactic and one the military was quickly trying to adapt to. John suggested as much, but First Sergeant Wright shook his head.
    “This wasn’t a PBIED,” Wright said. “They came in on pickups dressed as Iraq army grunts and opened fire.”
    A PBIED was army slang for p erson borne improvised explosive device.
    John’s jaw clenched. America had the most powerful armed forces in the world. No one could stand toe to toe with them and live to tell the tale. And yet it was also beginning to look as though that was its greatest vulnerability. The enemy refused to engage them head on. The insurgents’ hit-and-run tactics were designed to sow fear and frustration in U.S. forces. Ever since arriving, John had felt plenty of the