White Wasteland Jeff Kirkham (book series for 12 year olds TXT) 📖

feed them. The bagged rabbit feed they’d been using was almost gone.

Because they’d secured two refineries in the valley below the Homestead, they had enough fuel for a year. After that, the gas would go bad. But gas didn’t translate into food during the winter anyway.

Jeff knew those relentless realities. Jason had explained them in excruciating detail, laying it out in black and white while Jeff looked at the numbers with dull eyes. But still the man ventured outside the Homestead and committed resources they didn’t have to make the region safe for democracy, or some such bullshit.

Jeff continued to argue while he packed up his gear. “If you and the committee wanted to keep your head down, you should’ve paid more attention to OPSEC before the shit hit the fan. Half the damn world knows about the Homestead. You’re kidding yourself to think that the dudes in those MRAPs don’t already know everything there is to know about us. You had half a thousand building contractors, solar electricians, well diggers, landscapers, home theater techs and god-knows-who-else going in and out of the main gates for years. Every dip shit in Salt Lake with a screwdriver knows about the Homestead. If you had wanted to keep this on the down-low, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but you failed.”

Jason jumped on a pause in Jeff’s diatribe. “That doesn’t mean we should go running around town, looking to get into new fights.” He knew it sounded weak even before he said it, like he was whining.

Jeff looked Jason up and down. Jason suddenly realized he wasn’t wearing his plate carrier vest. The rule about leaving the Homestead was set-in-stone: a fighter never went out without full “battle rattle.”

Jeff reached into the OHV, and pulled out a radio handset. “Please don’t go outside the Homestead without full kit. Take this so you can radio me with news.”

Jason looked down. “Wali told me to hurry. He made it sound urgent.”

“That’s no reason to leave your body armor and kit behind. If this goes south, you’re no good to us in a fight. And you only brought the one magazine in your rifle. From now on, wear full kit outside the wire. That’s the rule. Please follow it.” Jeff pressed the radio against Jason’s chest. He took it.

Jason stood silent for a moment, searching for something to say. He and Jeff were supposed to be peers—equals in the fuzzy rank structure of the Homestead. Jeff had no business giving Jason shit about his gear. The reprimand smacked of disdain. Jeff would never have spoken to him like this prior to the shooting incident with the Chapman kid.

Jason shoved the radio in his pocket. “I’ll call you after I’ve had a chance to speak with the neighborhood stake president. Please don’t approach those men until I can figure out who they are.”

Jeff didn’t respond. He turned back to watching through his binoculars.

“We have a heavily armed, aggressive force with armor inside our perimeter,” Jeff finally said. “They disregarded our barricade and now they’re setting up a defensive hard point less than a half mile from the Homestead. Every minute we allow them to dig in will result in more casualties if we’re forced to take them down. Get this figured out fast. Pretty please. With a cherry on top. I’ll give you ten minutes and then I’m going in.”

Fifteen minutes later, Jeff’s radio squawked, “Jeff, this is Jason. Do you copy?”

“Go ahead,” Jeff replied, keying the mic on the shoulder strap of his vest.

“President Beckstead doesn’t know anything about armored vehicles in the neighborhood but he believes the flag is Blue Army.”

“Roger. What is Blue Army?” Jeff asked.

“The Mormon Church raised a small force to protect the Avenues neighborhood, Temple Square and church headquarters. They used that blue flag with the Angel Moroni, just like on the MRAPs.”

Jeff considered for a moment before replying. “Is there anything in the neighborhood that this Blue Army might want to protect?”

“Standby.” Jason must’ve been with the stake president, Jeff figured.

“President Beckstead says that the new prophet, President Thayer, lives on the street the MRAPs are blockading. I think we’ve solved the mystery: the MRAPs must be there to protect the new Mormon leader. You can withdraw.”

Jeff’s pulled on his ear. Attacking the MRAPs might’ve been an act of war against the LDS Church itself. That wouldn’t have been good. It didn't sound like he would be getting a new pair of MRAPs today after all.

“Roger. Confirming: the LDS prophet lives on the street where the armor is set. Is that correct?”

There was a pause as Jason probably double-checked with the stake president. “That’s correct. We can safely assume that’s why they’re in our neighborhood.”

“Okay, but why did they run our barricade?”

“President Beckstead has no idea why they didn’t check in. He’s offering to find out for us.”

“I’m going to pull my teams back one block. We’ll contain the MRAPs until we get some solid answers. I can’t allow them to move around inside our zone of control. Could you please handle this diplomatic issue within the hour.” Jeff emphasized “diplomatic issue” because this cluster-fuck landed squarely in Jason Ross’ area of responsibility. Someone could’ve gotten killed, a war could’ve started, and it would’ve been because of miscommunication. Jason needed to do his job or people were going to die.

“I’m working on it. Jason, out.”

Jeff changed frequencies and ordered his QRF teams back a block, reducing the chances of an unintentional conflict. His command job complete, he pondered the morning’s events.

Jeff worried about Jason Ross. Until recently, Ross had done a pretty good job managing the “human factor” at the Homestead. Jeff and Jason had become something akin to friends.

Jeff didn’t have many friends. He’d served with hundreds of men and he considered them all brothers, but he could list his true friends on one hand. Of those few, he would probably share his inner thoughts with just a couple. Without question, he opened