White Wasteland, Jeff Kirkham [ebook reader with highlight function TXT] 📗

out in the old rides. Mickey Mouse is rocking a silver-plated AK-47 these days. Donald Duck’s wearing saggy pants and toting a Hi-point. They’ve got Goofy selling crack cocaine on the corner and Minnie is turning tricks on Harbor Boulevard.

I’m a bummer folks. Sorry. I miss Zach. I miss booze. I miss the sunshine. Gawd, Utah is dreary this time of year.”

Barkley’s Sand & Gravel Pit

North Frontage Road and Veteran’s Memorial Parkway

“President Burnham, allow me to introduce the newest member of the Church, Chad Wade. Former Navy SEAL.”

Chad’s commanding officer, Elder Mitchell Clawson, introduced him to the prophet of the southern church. Chad had been baptized by Elder Clawson two days before in the ice-cold Jordan River near the army encampment. Nothing seemed to get the Mormon guys more revved up than a “convert”—someone who’d just joined their church. It’d bought Chad an audience with the “prophet.”

Chad eyeballed the man. Rex Burnham stood ramrod straight, a few inches over six foot tall despite being seventy years of age. He sported a perfectly-coiffed helmet of silver hair and wore the best tailored suit Chad had ever seen. With only a slight belly-bulge, almost invisible under the suit, Chad figured this was a man who paid attention to details.

Chad shook hands and waited. He prided himself in being able to judge a man based on the first words out of his mouth.

“I’ve never met a Navy SEAL before,” the prophet said. “It makes me wonder, isn’t a gun just a gun? I mean—why would a Navy SEAL be better than any other soldier?”

Chad nailed him right then as a blowhard. His go-to reaction had been to cast a bit of shade on Chad’s skill and that spoke volumes about the man. He could’ve celebrated Chad’s achievements with those first words, but he didn’t. Instead, he questioned them.

More than likely, the man loathed the idea that the Army of Helaman might lack experience and training. Presented with an honest-to-god American ass kicker, the thought of military training turned him off. He and his men didn’t have it, so he disliked it.

Even with Chad fighting on their side, the prophet didn’t want to believe that military training mattered. His insecurity led out and painted him as a runt of the litter—the kind of man who acted as though he was fighting his way up from the back of the pack. Even at the tippy top of his religious game, this guy needed to put people down, if just a little.

Strike One.

Chad answered the question at face value. “20,000 guys every year tell their Navy recruiter they want to be a SEAL and about two hundred and fifty actually make it through BUD/S. So, more than anything, we’re selected out of a giant pool of wannabes. About one out of a hundred.”

“Hmm,” President Burnham tapped the side of his face. “Have you read the Book of Mormon?”

“Yep,” Chad replied.

“The Stripling Warriors—the Army of Helaman—they survived to a man because of their mothers’ upbringing and the strength of their faith. Do you believe that?”

“Sure,” Chad wanted to argue, since the man was talking about Chad’s bailiwick now—his literal area of expertise, but Chad wasn’t going to upset the applecart. If the guy wanted to believe that his men could magically absorb training from their moms, Chad wasn’t going to tell him he was an idiot. At least not to his face.

Strike Two.

“In my experience as a businessman—I served as the CEO of four corporations before being called to the Quorum of the Seventies—faith in one’s mission has a lot more to do with success than training.” The southern prophet put his hand on Chad’s shoulder, towering over the five foot, six SEAL. Chad felt an impulse to grab the guy’s hand and twist him up in an arm bar. That’d be one way to find out what his mom had taught him about fighting.

“I’m here to serve,” Chad lied. “I’m happy to do whatever you need.”

The president smiled. “I also learned to judge character during my career and I can tell that you’re the kind of guy who gets things done. How about we ‘try before we buy?’ We’ll give you a test group to train and let’s see how that works out?”

Strike Three, Chad decided. You’re out.

This limpdick has consigned Chad to a small team instead of trusting Chad’s resume. He should’ve given Chad command of the whole damn army. Chad had met every single military veteran in their army and there wasn’t anyone in the encampment who knew half as much as him about winning a war.

He would play the old man’s game, but he had no illusions about this guy being a Man of God. He’d seen plenty of control freaks in the military, and he could spot ‘em a mile away. God had not chosen this windbag. This windbag had chosen himself.

Chad flashed his million dollar smile. “Excellent, President. Put me to work. Give me some guys and some guns and I’ll show you what we can do.”

He wasn’t smiling to make nice, though. The spirit of God in his gut had turned up the heat now that he knew what kind of man he was dealing with. Control freaks like this deserved to have their little omelets flipped—and they deserved it on the regular.

One way or another, Chad Wade was going to put the “fun” back in “fundamentalism.”

North Salt Lake Regional Airport

North Salt Lake City, Utah

JT Taylor had over two hundred hours in a helicopter, but not a single hour in an AStar. It was the American version of the European Airbus AS350 helicopter, and he had always wanted to fly one. They were fast and tough. The elegant airframe gave JT serious wood.

But sitting behind the controls for the first time in almost a year, JT did not have serious wood. Quite the opposite. His balls had retracted up into his lower intestines. If he could get this chopper off the tarmac, he would still have