ODIN'S WAR

The Plot

Jeremy sat at an old but sturdy wooden, table in his home where he lived alone. Fredrikson, Willoughby, Jensen, and Gruncek sat around the table, each with a cup of coffee set in front of him.

“Yes,” said Willoughby, “That’s right. If we can break the circuit at the main underground station, we can cause a diversion from the auxiliary power post, which I know contains the real power source for the I.C.C.E. headquarters in Argentina. We can, with proper weapons, take the post and shut off the anti-communication devices in the I.C.C.E. HQ. More importantly, it’s possible to place radiated material into their heating system, and disable them all in a very short time.”

“What about their radiation detection devices?” asked Jensen. “They all wear a meter which turns blue when radiation is in the air, over safety limits. They will probably evacuate, or successfully block off the vents.”

“We know how to immobilize their sonic cars,” said Fredrikson. “I’ve discovered the frequency they use.

We only have to wait for them to get inside their cars and I can shut them in with a frequency coordinator, which operates not only the motor of the vehicle, but also all sonic energy operated parts, including their doors.” “I know a non-lethal nerve gas,” added Willoughby, “which can be injected into their cars through the frequency chambers at the rear of the vehicle. While they’re trapped, we only have to gas them like laboratory mice, and they’ll be unconscious for a couple of hours.”

“They treat the whole survival community as if we were a lot of lab rats anyway,” snorted Gruncek. “It’s a fitting trap for them.”

At that moment, there came a knock at the door. Jeremy saw through the peephole that it was George.

“Come in,” he said, opening the door. “We’re glad to have you join us.”

“I’m glad to be here. You just have to tell me what it is that you want me for,” said George, as he looked about the dimly lit room at the five men sitting around the table. Jensen was a tall, bent over and thin man who appeared to be a little pale. Willoughby, on the other hand, was a broad boned man with thick sideburns and a square jaw. Gruncek was small and dark, while Fredrikson was of medium build. Jeremy was both tall and heavy set, and moved with an intimation of great strength, always.

“Have a seat, and some coffee,” Jeremy nodded toward’ a pot on the stove. “You’ll know everything in a minute.” Jensen then gave a brief account of what had been begun to understand each of the parts of the plan: the diversion at the main life support plant, the takeover of the auxiliary plant, the frequency coordinator, and the gas.

“And you,” said Jeremy, nodding at George, “are going to help us with the guns. We’ll need force to take over the auxiliary plant and maybe at the I.C.C.E. HQ as well. We don’t know how many guards they have stationed outside the building, or where. That’s what Jensen is going to find out for us.”

“Correct,” said Jensen. “I am going to break into the files at Security. I have a photographic memory, so it takes only a few seconds for me to learn the positions and number of the guards throughout the day. We can hit them when they’re the weakest.”

“Where are we to get the guns?” asked George.

“I know where there is a cache of old U.S. Army rifles, sold to the Argentines in the late 20th century,” said Jeremy, “We only have to dig them up.”

“When are we to do it then?” asked George, after a moment of silent anticipation filled the dingy cabin room.

“Tomorrow,” responded Jeremy, “Five or six of our friends will take you to the place.”

“Just how strong is MUSIC now?” George wanted to know.

“We have about a thousand that we know support us, but it’s hard to tell who can fight anymore, and most of those who will are getting pretty old. We have to pick the time carefully, when the mood is right.” Jeremy took a hefty draught of his coffee.

“We don’t need many for this plan, I think,” said Willoughby.

“We don’t know that for sure,” said Gruncek. “We have to wait for Jensen’s information. IC.C.E. doesn’t like to let anyone know exactly where they stand on anything.”

“How many guns are there, and of what kind?” asked George.

“I don’t know, answered Jeremy, “but I believe there are at least fifty rifles and a few hundred rounds.”

“Fifty rifles! What are you going to do with fifty antiquated rifles?” exclaimed George.

“It’s all we’ve got,” said Jeremy, draining his coffee cup and hitting the table firmly with it.

They were all quiet for a moment, thinking about all that had been said. Shortly they began to talk informally among themselves and eventually they even began to discuss their exploits of the past. Jeremy had been in a special teams outfit and had experience in everything from demolition to poison. Jensen believed that Spurion had murdered his brother, because he knew of the plotting of the I.C.C.E. network even before the War.

Gruncek no longer had a profession, and was considered a vagrant, as politics were immoral in the eyes of I.C.C.E., which feared competition to its dictates. Neither Willoughby nor Fredrikson could agree with the I.C.C.E. philosophy of technology, which was to control all development, before it occurred, and to pursue only those things necessary to further the ‘Religion’ of the Reverend Hollow. George was an outright heretic. He didn’t believe a word of the ‘new propaganda’ of the whole I.C.C.E. network. He was a diehard traditionalist of the “Old Morality of the Umms”, in the official Language of the I.C.C.E. network, reserved for those people who lived before the Great Chemo-Nuclear War, and whose values were blamed by the state religion as the cause of the “Day of Death”. The New Morality of Heavenly Men after the War had now taken over for the perfection of mankind, directed like a flock of sheep by the Reverend Hollow. The old man, often known as simply ‘Gran’pa’, could not possibly reconcile the emphasis on lifestyle regulation and socialization with his deepest sentiments about the ‘old love’ of devotion to family and friends, which had sustained his spirit throughout the most difficult years of a long, hard life. A deep hate had grown inside him as the horrors of the Day of Death languished in his memory with the two decades of misery that were culled in the wake of the War. But it seems a man’s early years sometimes burn stronger in his mind than his later ones, and a great desire to return to a first love, a first battle, or a first fight grows like a night time fire, as the knowledge of how they first became self-respecting, independent souls will not wither away.

Of course, there are those who grow cynical, and give up their lives of the past, and therefore, in one sense, their lives of the present. George was not one of the latter groups of men. His past and present burned in him as brightly as ever, and he thought his future would burn just as bright. He could not say that he had died with the War in any way, or that he was going to die after it. Nor could he conceive that his loved ones should think about it any other way than the way he thought. He had given much for them, he had given them life; and though he could not live their lives for them, he would not let go of them either. It was his right, and not even the Day of Death could remove it from him.

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