Date: 2015-03-31 07:00:00+00:00
Description: Freedom is never free…Erik Larsson and his group survived the initial days of the collapse but now they face their greatest threat: the Russian army. The invasion has swallowed half of Florida and Erik finds himself on the front lines.Struggling to be the soldier his beleaguered country needs, Erik only wants to survive long enough to bring his family and friends to safety. Across the country in Arizona, Rob Gunn and the Regulators face off against another foe every bit as dangerous as the Russians. From coast to coast, everyone caught in the crossfire -- patriot or rebel, citizen or soldier -
Publisher: Createspace

Sic Semper Tyrannis

Marcus Richardson

© 2015 Marcus Richardson.

All Rights Reserved.

1st Digital Edition, 1 April, 2015.

1st Printing, 30 May, 2015.

This is a work of fiction.

The people and events in this book are written
for entertainment purposes only.  Any similarity to
living and/or deceased people is purely
coincidental and not intentional.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage and retrieval system without
prior written consent by the author.

ISBN:

ISBN-13:

Books by Marcus Richardson

The Future History of America

Alea Jacta Est

Sic Semper Tyrannis

The Wildfire Saga

Apache Dawn

False Prey (Novella)

Dedication

For those who will never, ever give up.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank the usual suspects, my  family, my friends, and most importantly, my wonderful wife.  Once again, your support and encouragement was the fuel that kept my engine of creativity humming along at the red line.  Especially this time:  from start to finish, from the first idea to “the end” this novel took far less time than any other book I’ve written.

I would also like to thank my Beta Readers.  You know who you are.  Without your valuable insights and encouragement, I could not have finished this story.  Well…I could, but it wouldn’t be nearly as enjoyable to read!

Special thanks to ghrit for valuable insights into the US Navy and technical assistance.  Without you spotting a few…ahem…glaring mistakes in my part, Hampton might have been flying instead of lurking under the waters of the Atlantic, and Roosevelt would have hydraulic catapults (not that would be something to see…)  Thanks!!!

Some of the stock images used in the cover are from www.pixavay.com with thanks.

Thank you all!

Sic Semper Tyrannis

PART  ONE

U.S. Govt. Property

CHAPTER 1

The High Ground

ERIK LARSSON STARED OUT the tiny, ballistic window at the blurred, green landscape as he sat in the passenger seat of the speeding M-ATV.  He gripped his rifle tight as the massive, armored truck lumbered down a narrow gravel road.  In the driver’s seat, Sergeant Pinner wore a permanent expression impossible to read.  The half-Cherokee soldier had proven his worth as a combat driver more than once in the past three months and had been given the task once more by Ted.  Erik turned his attention back outside his elongated, porthole of a window just in time to see a large sign that read KENNEDY SPACE CENTER VISITOR’S CENTER flash by in a red, white, and blue blur.

“We’re seriously going to break into KSC?” he asked, feeling a smile creep across his face.  Sergeant Pinner grunted and put the mine-resistant, ambush-protected, all-terrain vehicle into a gut wrenching turn that took them off the main access road and toward the wide gate at the edge of the space center.

“Try to keep us on the road, Pinner,” muttered Erik. “We won’t do anyone in Orlando any good if we show up dead.”

“Relax, lieutenant,” said Ted from the rear.  “This thing’s got anti-lock brakes!”

Erik swallowed his retort and pointed toward the road ahead.  “Gate’s already been busted open.”

“Or left open,” added Pinner.  He slowed down the hulking truck to a sedate 20 miles an hour.  Erik pulled out a pair of compact field binoculars and scanned the road as it disappeared in the distance.

“Deserted.  I don’t see anyone or any cars.”

“Alright, Pinner, take us in.  Pick up the pace…we’re losing the light and we need to get in place before the storm hits.”

“Roger that.”

“May as well—as loud as this thing is, if there’s any Russians within a mile, they already know we’re here,” muttered Erik.

Erik continued to scan the road as they approached the Visitor’s Center.  He saw a scattering of cars in the parking lot, some nondescript white cargo trucks, and a dozen big charter buses.  “I got no lights, no movement, no nothing.  Just a few cars and buses in the lot.  Sure looks empty.”

“There might be some food in the vending machines or the gift shop,” suggested Pinner.  It was the most emotion Erik had ever heard in the man’s voice.

“I’m just as hungry as you are,” said Ted.  “But, mission first.  We need to get the surveillance gear set up.  HQ is running blind until we get into place.  As soon as we’re set up, we’ll head back and check it out.”

“Hooah.”

“It’s oorah,” muttered Ted.

As they rolled past the darkened Visitor’s Center, Erik resumed scanning ahead.  “I see the turn-off.  Still no movement.”  He quickly panned left and spotted the massive Vehicle Assembly Building to the north, the largest building in the country after the Pentagon.  Its massive white bulk was impossibly large, even at the distance of a few miles.  “I ever tell you I wanted to be an astronaut when I was a kid?” he asked absently, eyes glued to the binoculars.

Ted chuckled.  “That’s a new one on me.”

“Yeah,” said Erik.  The M-ATV rocked as it hit a bump in the road and Erik struggled to keep the VAB in his field of view.  “I found out that you had to be under six feet to fly Orion and that kinda put a crimp in my plans.  Didn’t want to spend my life doing math to get a shot at a mission specialist slot, so I had to give up my dream.”

“Need a tissue, sir?”

“Ha ha,” said Erik in a flat tone of voice.

Ted laughed.  “Damn, Pinner.  Burn.”

“I guess it doesn’t really matter,” continued Erik. “They scaled back the whole damn program a few years back…and now I think only the private sector is getting into space anytime soon.  Oh.  Here’s the turn, two hundred yards.”

“Now that is a big building,” mumbled Pinner when the VAB swung into view.

“They built it back in the ‘60s for putting the Saturn V rockets together.  The ones that took us to the Moon.  They put the whole thing together in that building and then rolled it out on its launchpad.  Used it for the Shuttle later.   Now they use it for the space station resupply missions, I guess…”

“So why aren’t we using that thing instead of the towers?  It looks a lot bigger,” said Pinner.

“It is bigger,” replied Erik.  “It’s over 500 feet tall, if I remember correctly.  Almost twice as tall as the towers.”  He looked over his shoulder at Ted.  “Why aren’t we using the VAB?”

Ted shrugged.  “The briefing said the advance team couldn’t gain access.  They busted open Launchpad 39A instead.  So that’s our target.”

“Seems wrong to be breaking in to NASA.”  Erik turned back around.  “Like we’re vandalizing history or something.”

Thunder rumbled from the dark roiling mass of clouds overhead.  It was louder than the roar of the big diesel engine that powered the M-ATV.

“That’s above my pay grade.  Let’s get a move on.  I don’t want to be doing this in the middle of a thunderstorm - you?”

“No, sir,” replied Pinner.  The speedometer hit 50 miles an hour.

Erik checked the map in his lap.  “Right there…” he said and pointed, “turn there.  Cut us through these buildings.  The access road should curve to the left a bit.”  Up ahead, he could see where the paved road curved away from the twin lanes of crushed gravel and seashells that marked the path to the launch pads.  “There it is—follow Crawler Path.”

“What?” yelled Ted.

The sound of the M-ATV’s heavy-duty tires on the extremely flat, yet rough road was nearly deafening at the speed they were traveling.  “Crawler,” said Erik as loud as he could.  “Think of it as a giant tank without a gun and with a flat top.  It carries the launchpad and the rocket out to the launch tower.  About three miles, straight ahead!” Erik yelled, pointing towards the gray launch tower visible over the tree tops on the horizon.  Farther off behind the tower, he could see lightning illuminate the dark clouds coming in from the Atlantic.

“That will take us to 39B,” he hollered when they passed a path that split off the to north.  In the intersection they had a good view of the second launchpad complex with its massive tower, twin to the one they were driving towards.

“Damn, everything is big here!” replied Ted with a shout.

Sergeant Pinner brought the M-ATV to a skidding halt at the base of the mountain-like Launchpad 39A.  “We gotta climb that?” he asked.

“Want me to get you some tissues?” asked Erik.

“Come on, let’s haul the mail, gentlemen,” Ted announced.  “We got to get to the top before the storm hits.  Take us right up to the base of that thing, Pinner.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Pinner.  He drove the M-ATV up the long sloping concrete foundation and parked right about where Erik figured the crew vans would stop to let astronauts ascend the height of the launch tower.

Erik had seen many videos in his youth of shuttle astronauts emerging from white vans in their orange flightsuits, waving to cameras, and walking the ten yards or so to the elevators that would take them up, up, up the metal  tower towards the waiting space ship.  Then there were the famous slow-motion liftoffs of the Apollo program.  He marveled at the tall structure and imagined a Saturn V parked on the pad as it waited for destiny.

Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, and Michael Collins went to the Moon from the top of this thing...

Erik pulled himself back to reality and opened his door.  He automatically looked around.  “All clear.  There’s nobody out here but the gators and us.”

Wind gusted in from the ocean, bringing with it the sweetly-sour smell of the salt marshes and mangroves that surrounded the space center.  The last time he had smelled the ocean had been when he and Ted had piloted the Tarpon Whistler into the Sarasota Marina to rescue a platoon of soldiers from the Florida National Guard.   Back before they’d signed up with the Guard—when they’d still been free.

He shook his head to clear wind-tossed hair from his face and looked up at the looming shape of the launchpad.  And now here he was, about to climb to the top of that as part of the Florida National Guard, himself.  He had never intended to join the Army, that was for sure, but the world had been a strange place since the Troubles had started earlier in the summer.

“Clear.”  Pinner’s deep voice rivaled the sound of the distant thunder from the other side of the now silent M-ATV.

Ted started to pull out the packs and gear they had to lug up the tower.  “Here,” he said, handing a heavy OCP backpack to Erik.  He gave Pinner one just like the first and slung a boxy-looking olive-drab duffel bag over his own shoulders before picking up his rifle.

Erik felt silly as he slung the camo pack over his civilian clothes, although he liked the look of the Scorpion W2 OCP pattern over the old gray digital gray pattern they’d been issued when he and Ted had enlisted.    He glanced at the rest of their three-man team.  All of them were in civilian garb: hiking boots, cargo pants, t-shirts.  They all wore tactical harnesses loaded with extra ammo and emergency supplies.  The OCP packs made them look like weekend warriors, not Army Scouts.  Erik looked at the armored side of the tan colored M-ATV.  That thing made them look like…special forces or something.

A chilling thought occurred to him: soldiers out of uniform were treated like spies.  Don’t they still hang spies?

Ted took a furtive glance toward the Atlantic Ocean, about a quarter-mile in the distance.  “Let’s roll, boys, I don’t think the storm is going to wait for us any longer.  Pinner, don’t forget to lock the car.”

Another blast of ocean-cooled wind hit the three soldiers.  Erik suppressed a shiver as he looked up, up, up.  The dark clouds bubbling over the top of the tower made his stomach churn.  Was the tower swaying or was it just an optical illusion?

Well, this isn’t exactly how I thought I’d get to the top of one of these, but I’ll take it.  He started to follow Ted and Pinner up the first set of gray, steel stairs flaked with rust.  Their boots made dull slapping sounds as they hoofed up the massive metal structure.

In between gulps of air to feed his straining muscles Erik panted, “Can you remind me why I signed on for this, again?”  Thunder split the air.  It felt right on top of them.

Ted grinned, barely winded.  “Because you’re trying to protect your family and serving is the best way you know how.  Now quit your bitching and let’s get to the top of this thing.”

Erik tried to open the crew elevator on the first landing.  The doors were stuck fast.  He suspected that was likely the case but he had to try, just on the off chance that KSC had its own power supply separate from Florida’s grid.  He looked at the set of gray stairs that ran up the side of the exposed elevator shaft.

“Well,” said Ted.  “At least we’ll get some exercise today.”

MAJOR ALEKSEI STROGOLEV TOOK in the scene before him with a calm that belied the excitement in his heart.  Here he was, the great-grandson of Viktor Strogolev, peasant-turned-sniper, hero of the Great War against the Fascists, standing on the shores of America.  His father and grandfather had lived their lives under constant threat from the great American Empire, always hungry to devour Mother Russia.  All those years they spent training to storm the beachhead and take the fight to the Americans…and here he just climbed out of a boat and walked onto a beach, without a shot fired.  It was as if he had been invited.

If only they could see me now…

He glanced behind him at the first of his cargo vessels approaching the storm tossed shoreline.  His task force would quickly be onshore and pushing inland.

He took a deep breath, savoring the salt-laced air and the smell of the sea.  Growing up in central Russia, he had only smelled the air by an ocean twice in his adult life.  It never smelled so sweet as is it did now, so ripe with possibility.

“Gregor, if we pull this off, it will mean great things for both of us.  Promotions for sure—perhaps full membership in the Party or even the Duma.  Great things!”

“Yes, sir,” replied his second in command, Captain Gregor Stepanovich, a dark haired man of base Slavic descent.

Strogolev rolled his eyes.  Gregor was such a dour man.  He never saw the beauty or excitement in anything.  Strogolev wondered if even a woman could bring a smile to his lieutenant’s face.  He felt a grin spread across his own face.  Now there’s an idea…maybe while we’re here…

He brushed aside such fantasies and climbed into the BTR that was waiting in the sand.  Once ensconced in the armored turret, he used his large field glasses to find a good route for his men.  To the north, along the deserted coast, he saw nothing but coarse sand.  The same grainy stuff that formed the long beach the American’s called Cocoa.  He frowned looking over the side of the noisily idling BTR.  The sand looks nothing like cocoa…Americans made no sense at all.

To the south he saw more of the same: a wide, grainy beach lined with pastel colored abandoned shops and restaurants.  Here and there, large apartment buildings or private residences dotted the palm tree-lined shore.  The main thoroughfare was completely empty.  There was no traffic—vehicle or pedestrian—that he could see in either direction.

Thunder rumbled overhead and reminded him that this place was not quite paradise.  Yet.  This place will make a fine vacation spot for our weary troops when this business is all said and done.

Strogolev put on a large tanker’s helmet and adjusted the microphone stalk.  “Gregor.”

“Yes, Major.”

“Have the rest of the men unload here and move inland, following my lead.  We’re going to commandeer that large building across the street—it has many brightly colored sea creatures painted on the side, do you see it?”

A pause, then: “The sign reads ‘Surf Shop’, da?”

“Da,” replied Strogolev.   “We should be able to use that building as a rally point for the food and medical supplies.  I will lead the advance element and secure the area.  Inform me when the last of our forces have landed.  I want to move inland as soon as possible!”

“Understood, Major.”

Strogolev slapped the roof of the idling eight-wheeled BTR.  “Get this rusty pig moving!  We have work to do!”

ERIK PAUSED TO CATCH his breath and leaned on the cool metal railing. Wind whistled through the framework of the launch tower.  A sudden gust of cold Atlantic air sent shivers down his spine.

“Better view than back at the Freehold, huh?” asked Ted as he walked past.  He turned the corner and mounted the next flight of stairs.  “Come on, Lieutenant, that storm won’t wait much longer.”

Erik shoved off the handrail and plodded after his friend and Sergeant Pinner.  Erik was the largest man of the team, easily able to carry the weight of his weapons, gear, and his share of the surveillance equipment—and then some.  On any given day, he’d do better, he had to believe, than the fireplug of an Indian and his older ex-Marine commanding officer.  But this…climbing up countless stairs in a three hundred-fifty foot tall lightning rod, with a nasty storm barreling down on them from the ocean…this was no ordinary day.

He glanced down at the ground and their M-ATV looked like a toy car parked at the base of the tower.  “Would have been pretty easy to fend off the attack back home if we were in this thing…” he said between breaths.  “Instead of apartment buildings.”

Ted looked over his shoulder as he climbed the unending staircase.  “Well, we would have had the high ground, for sure.”  He paused and looked out over the expanse of green nature preserve and coastline that surrounded the launch complex.  “But, without walls, there’s no protection here at all.  Be easy for someone to just aim up from the ground and pick us off.”

“All the more reason to hurry up and get this over with,” said Pinner from the next landing.  A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.  “I don’t like heights,” he said as Erik grew close.  “And I don’t like how exposed we are.”

“Well,” replied Ted, “I have good news and bad news.”  He pulled out a GPS receiver from his pack and took a reading.  “Good news is, we’re high enough for the sensor array.”  He dropped the box-like duffel bag he had been carrying and stretched his back.

“And the…bad?” asked Erik, gasping as he reached the next landing.

“You get to take your Viking-ass up to the top and install the comms repeater.  We need line-of-sight for this to work and this is the tallest structure for a hundred miles.”

Erik frowned at Ted.  “You know, I remember the good old days when I was your boss.”

“Good luck,” said Ted.  He jerked his head towards the stairs.

“Yeah, yeah,” replied Erik.  He glanced up the stairs.  “Is it me or are we losing the light?”

“Some dark clouds,” observed Pinner gravely.  He was shaking his head.  “This storm’s gonna suck.  Feel the temperature drop?”

Ted was already unpacking the sensor array.  He looked up, “Hurry up, man, get that thing high as you can and bring the wires back down.  Sooner we’re on the ground, the better I’ll feel.”

Erik tightened the grip on his pack and trudged forward and upward into the darkening stairwell.  The echo of his bootsteps sank his spirits with each step.

“How the hell did I get myself into this mess,” he muttered, partly to ease his nerves.  The wind howled more  as the storm approached the abandoned spaceport.  To his right, looking out over the vast expanse that was KSC, he could see the wind whipping through the low mangroves and pines that surrounded the launch complex.

Just off shore, Erik could see the whitecaps that were proof the storm meant business.  Thunder rumbled through the launch tower, causing the metal to vibrate and almost hum with sonic energy.  It was a very unsettling sensation to feel a structure that massive move, even if it was on a minuscule scale.

Erik swallowed and put his shoulder into the weight on his back.  “Keep moving, Larsson,” he told himself.  “All you’re doing…” he grunted at the next landing and took a second to catch his breath.  “All you’re doing is walking up some stairs. Not like you’re being shot at or anything this time.”

Lightning split the sky and turned his world white.  Before his vision cleared, the most intense thunderclap of his life struck the tower and threatened to burst his ribcage.  “Okay, okay!” yelled Erik, holding onto the railing with shaking hands.  “I got the memo…holy shit that was loud.”

“Hurry up, Larsson!”

Erik barely heard Ted’s yell through the wind.  He shook wind-tossed red hair from his face and grimaced at the storm.  A quick glance up the stairs showed he was nearing the top, at last.  The Crew-Access Gantry arm was on the next floor.  He could see the large crane-like structure secured to the side of the tower.  Before the Troubles had started, there would have been a big rocket sitting on the pad far below, ready to tear into the sky on a column of smoke and fire, taking astronauts to the space station.

Now there was just him and the storm.

At the next landing, he was both relieved and scared to note that the stairs went no further.  There was some sort of closed shaft in the interior of the tower that appeared to go higher, but the access door was bolted shut and without a large wrench, there was no higher spot he could reach. Unless…

“Nope.  I am not climbing the outside of this thing.”  Erik shook his head at the notion and pulled the pack off his back with a sigh.  Strong or not, that thing was heavy and he was glad to be rid of the weight.  His legs were burning about as hot as his back and he was drenched in a cold sweat—thanks to the brisk wind off the ocean.

The radio on his belt broke squelch.  “What’s the sitrep, Lieutenant?  I’m seeing some lightning strikes offshore…don’t want another—” Ted’s tinny voice was cut off by another crash of thunder.

Erik opened the pack and pulled out the communications receiver in its olive-drab, government issue ABS plastic housing.  He snatched the radio from his belt and put it to his face, trying to shield it from the intensifying wind.  A splat of rain slapped him in the face.

“I’m running out of time here, walk me through setting this thing up!”

“Okay, okay…” replied Ted’s voice.  “Open the side pouch of the kit bag and pull out the big metal cable-tie looking things.  Best I could grab from the supply shack.”

“Got ‘em!” Erik hollered into the roaring wind.

“Strap that thing around a pole or something as high as you can reach.  Use the mini-drill to tighten the bolts.”

Erik walked to the edge of the platform and tried not to look down at the dizzying landscape below.  He braced himself against the suddenly chilly wind and did as Ted suggested, then replied, “Okay!  It’s attached.”

“Good, now extend the whip antenna.  It’s okay if it flops around in the wind.”

“Done!”

“Now hook the thick cable from the pack to the bottom of the repeater and tighten it.”

A light rain made his hands slick, but he was able to get the cable attached and secured.  “Okay,” he said, holding the radio sideways as he shielded his eyes.  “It’s ready.”  Thunder exploded in his ears and nearly drove him to the grated floor.  He staggered backwards and felt a momentary surge of panic-induced vertigo until his hand brushed a metal support.  Well, that was pucker-factor nine…

“Grab the cable and get your ass down here!  We’re out of time!”

Erik didn’t bother to reply but threw the radio in the pack, gathered up the tools on the floor and stuffed everything in the backpack.   The wind-blasted rain stung his cheeks and hands as he descended the stairwell about as fast as he thought safe.  Even then, he slipped twice and nearly went ass-over-elbows down the darkened shaft.

“Took you long enough!” said Ted over the storm as Erik appeared on the landing where the others had been setting up their own equipment.  “Gimme the cable,” he said, hand outstretched.

Erik passed it over and wiped the rain from his face.  When Ted was finished hooking up the gear, he slapped the empty case shut and grabbed his rifle.   “That’s it, she’s powered up and the solar panels are deployed. When the storm clears, the batteries will recharge and we’ll be in business.  You getting a good feed?” he asked Pinner.

“Affirmative.  Signal is strong and clear.  I can see for miles…” the Indian said, hunched over a tablet computer, the glowing screen making his face look ghostly in the dim light.

“Great, let’s go.”

Erik did not vanquish his nerves until he shut the door to the M-ATV and relative quiet enveloped his abused senses.  The three men sat there in silence for a few moments, catching their breath and letting the water drip from their clothes.  Rain fell hard and loud on the sides of the armored vehicle.  Erik wondered how strong the would have to be to make an M-ATV shake.

“Don’t ever ask me to do that again.  Sir,” said the Indian, staring straight ahead through the swamped windshield.  Erik could barely make out the dark shape that was the launch tower through the rain.  It was a hell of a storm.

The interior of the vehicle was lit up bright pink again as a bolt of lightning hit the tower.  Erik thought the thunder that chased that spooky pink light was going to bust even the thick, ballistic glass in the M-ATV.  He tensed instinctively when the sound made his chest rattle.

“No problem,” said Ted.  “Just get us back to the Visitor Center, Pinner.  Let’s see if we can get some rest and chow.”

MAJOR STROGOLEV SMILED AT the road sign.  “You see that sign?” he asked Gregor.

“I see rain.”

“Nyet, look.  It says ‘Welcome to Canaveral’.”  He slapped his subordinate on the back.  “Do you not realize where we are?  Just north of here—the Americans call it The Cape—where they launched the Apollo missions of our grandfather’s time!”

“Of course, sir.”

“Gregor, you are insufferable!”  Strogolev keyed his microphone.  “Squad One, up front!  Bring your full complement of food and medicine for the Americans.”

“At once, Major!”

“Sir…” started Gregor.

“Shush, Gregor.  I am leaving you in charge.  I wish to see this fabled space center for myself.  I grew up a stone’s throw from Baikonur, did you know?  I would see with my own eyes what this famous American space port looks like—this place that dashed our hopes and dreams and helped to ruin the great Union.  It will only take a day.”

“But—”

“Gregor, don’t be such an old woman!  We have met no resistance and we aren’t going very far in this storm, anyway.  I will take Squad One with me.  We can do some scouting for American troops.”  He laughed.  “They have all fled, of course—once they heard we were here!”  Strogolev slapped Gregor on the shoulder again, eliciting a wince.

“It will be fine.  I shall bring you back a souvenir!”

ERIK SQUINTED THROUGH THE darkness at the bulky building in front of them.  “Looks deserted,” he observed.

“Looks great,” said Pinner.

“All right, let’s go.  By the books.  Pinner, take point.”

Erik fell into line behind the wide shouldered Indian and double-checked that his gladius was still securely strapped to his pack.  His hand brushed the scabbard of the Roman short-sword absently and he felt his nerves calm almost immediately.

“You still carrying that pig-sticker?” asked Ted in a hushed voice as the three men cautiously entered the Visitor Center.  The front automatic doors were double-wide and stuck open, letting rain and trash collect in the entryway.

“Don’t leave home without it,” replied Erik, never taking his eyes away from what was in front of him.  “The katana’s too big for close-work.  I left it back at the base.”

Pinner slowly opened the inner door, peering inside with his night vision goggles.  He looked like some kind of huge insect, his head covered in black cylinders and straps.  After a second or two looking around, he motioned with his left hand to follow and he stepped inside the darkened building.

Erik stepped through the door and took a knee, and faced right.  He held his rifle up and ready.  Ted stepped through behind Erik and faced left.

“Anything?” Ted whispered.

“Negative,” said Pinner, working forward more confidently now.  He moved into the lobby and looked around.  “Place is trashed, though.  Looks like a group of people used this place as a landfill.”

Erik couldn’t see further than ten feet in front of him.  “This is creepy, man.”

“Yeah,” whispered Ted.

Thunder split the air and Erik flinched.  Good thing I didn’t have my finger on the trigger.  This is one hell of a storm.

“We’re clear!” called out Pinner’s voice from way off in the distance to the left.  Erik swung his head and rifle around but could see nothing.  “I checked the only two doors to this room, they’re locked from this side.”  His voice was closer now and Erik could hear footsteps approaching.

Ted switched on his rifle-mounted light and the white beam illuminated a jumble of trash and knocked over desks, chairs, ticket booths and what looked like a motorcycle.  “The hell is that, a Kawasaki?”

“Yeah,” said Pinner, emerging from the darkness into the beam of light.  He was carrying his rifle in one hand, his goggles flipped up on his helmet.  “All shot up.  Someone rode it in here but they left on foot.  There’s blood stains in the other corner, but no body.”  He pointed off to the right.  “Looks like the remains of a fire over there.  A good layer of dust on everything.  No one’s been here in a while.”

“You sure?” asked Ted.

Erik switched on his own flashlight and scanned around the room.  “Pinner’s right.  Look at our boot-prints.  There’s a layer of dust in here.  It’s thin, but it’s there.  No other prints.  Maybe people used this place right after everything went bad…and no one’s come through since?”

“Well then, let’s set up shop, boys.  Pinner get a fire going.  Erik, let’s break out some chow.”

“I think I saw a row of vending machines, other side of one of the doors,” Pinner said as he got on his knees and started to gather papers from the floor.  “Looked like people had tried to get through that door.  There’s scratch marks and dents and blood all over it.  One of those thick fire doors with the wire-mesh windows.  Glass is all busted out, but it’s still locked.”

“Think you can open it?” asked Erik.  He pulled out three MREs from his pack.  Salisbury Steak, Spaghetti and Meatballs, and Chicken Stew.  “’Cause I’d eat a dead alligator over another one of these…”

“Oh, I’ll open it,” replied Pinner with a grin.  He scraped the knife in his hand with a chunk of rough quartz and after a few tries, succeeded in getting a few sparks to jump to the crumpled paper.

“Here,” Ted said, tossing a roll of cash register tape at Pinner.  “There’s a ton of these over there behind that tipped over ticket booth.  That’s the gift shop over there,” he pointed behind Pinner.  “We’ll have plenty of shit to burn.”

“Great, I’ll help you empty the vending machines,” said Erik.

When he and Pinner returned to the lobby, Ted had a nice-sized fire happily crackling away on register tape and travel brochures.  He sat just inside the ring of firelight, his back to the fire, and watched the front doors.  Outside, the lightning and thunder continued unabated, giving them glimpses of the world bathed in pink.

“Nice haul,” said Ted as Erik and Pinner dumped armfuls of junk food and snacks on the dusty floor near the fire.

“Well, it ain’t steak, but I’ll take me some Twinkies,” muttered Pinner.

The men gorged themselves on the convenience food and sipped water from canteens set out in the rain.  “There’s a lot more where this came from,” mentioned Pinner around a mouthful of peanut butter cracker.

Erik nodded and took a swig of water.  “We should totally stock up before we roll outta here.”

“Agreed,” said Ted.  He moaned.  “God, I haven’t had Ho-Hos in years.  This stuff is pure shit, but man, it tastes so good after the last few months of MREs.”

“Amen,” said Pinner, raising his canteen in salute.

“You know,” said Erik, swallowing the last of a Rice Krispy Treat.  “It’s amazing how we took this stuff for granted.  You know, before.”

“Mmmhmmm,” murmured Ted.  He belched.  “Woulda killed for some of these back at the Freehold.”

“No joke,” replied Erik.

“You mind if I ask you a question, sir?”

“Go ahead, Pinner,” replied Ted.

“I’ve heard you guys talk about this ‘Freehold’ before.  The Captain never mentioned it in my briefing before he assigned me to you.  What is it?”

“Was,” said Erik with a sad shake of his head.  He took a drink of water and leaned back against an overturned file cabinet and sighed.  “Seems like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?”

Ted stared out the front doors again.  “Yeah,” he said in a wistful voice.  “Back before the lights went out.  Before all this shit hit the fan, before…”

“So, what was it?” asked Pinner.  He opened a SlimJim and took a bite.

“It was our home, man,” replied Erik.  He looked into the small fire and the memories came flooding back.  That fateful day the power went off and Brin was out sunning herself on their apartment patio.  The impromptu pool meetings with the people who lived in the Colonial Gardens Apartment Complex.  Faces of friends, brothers in arms, during their fight for survival—Alfonse, Stan, old Bernie, Alan, and a score of others.  “Lotta people died back there…” he muttered.

“We didn’t,” said Ted, turning around to look at Erik.  “Thanks to you.”  He glanced at Pinner.  “Sergeant, if this man hadn’t taken command the way he did when the power went out and organized our little community, I don’t think we would be here talking to you right now.”

“That so?” asked Pinner.  He looked at Erik and raised an eyebrow.

“Well,” Erik said, slightly flustered.  “Ted could have done it—”

“But I didn’t.  I was still reeling from the prison break, remember?”  He ate a cookie and looked at Pinner.  “Then those ex-cons broke in and attacked Susan.”

“Your wife?” asked Pinner.

“Yeah,” said Erik in a flat voice.  “First man I ever killed.”

“How?” asked Pinner quietly.

“Dude almost took the guy’s head off with an honest-to-God samurai sword, that’s how.  Got some mad props for that one.”  Ted took a loud slurp of water from his canteen and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  “I shot the guy’s partner, but Lieutenant Larsson here got first blood.  Went all Medieval on that guy’s ass.”  Ted shook his head.  “Damnedest thing I ever seen, that’s for sure.”

Pinner looked at Erik.  “Nice.  You use that?” Pinner said, gesturing at Erik’s gladius.  The sword lay on the floor.  The blade swam in the reflected glow of the fire.

“No,” said Erik with a smile.  “This is made for stabbing, for close-quarters stuff.  I remember I was showing Ted my collection and happened to have Brin’s family’s heirloom katana in my hands.”  Erik’s eyes glazed over as he remembered the traumatic events of that day.  “I heard her scream.  I didn’t even think.  Just ran right out there in the parking lot, saw this big guy getting ready to do God-knows-what to my wife…and cut him down.”

“Almost cut in half, more like,” muttered Ted.  Thunder rumbled again, but for the first time, it sounded more distant.

“What happened then?  Was this apartment the Freehold?”

“Not then,” said Erik.  He blinked.  “That happened after we were attacked in force.  Gang members blew up the gas station down the street and decided to take out our complex.  We fought back.  Lost some good people.”

“But we survived.  And word got out that we were people not to be fucked with,” added Ted.  “After that, we renamed the place The Freehold.”

“So there was a fight…” prompted Pinner.

“Yeah,” sighed Erik.  He put his candy bar down, half eaten.  “We had a good thing going.  We were collecting rain to drink, bringing in fish from the Gulf to eat—we were even starting gardens and training people for guard duty.  We were pretty organized.”

“Thanks to you,” said Ted with a face-splitting smile.

Erik shrugged.  “Someone had to be the leader I guess.  Anyway, I got voted out of that job pretty quick.”

“Yeah, then he became the Duke.”

“Oh come on, I thought we were past that nonsense,” complained Erik.

Ted laughed, a strange sound that echoed through the empty lobby.  “You ever want to piss ‘im off, Pinner, just call him Duke.”

“It’s from the Latin, Dux Bellorum.  War leader.  It’s what Lentz—”

“Who?”

“The guy that took over after I got voted off the island,” muttered Erik bitterly.  “He named me head of security and called me the Freehold’s Dux Bellorum.  Ted here picked up the chant and the next day everyone was calling me ‘Duke’.  It was ridiculous.”

“It was earned.  This guy organized our defenses and kept us from all getting killed during the Battle.”

“Aaanyway,” Erik said. “After all that, things were okay until we decided to take that boat on a fishing trip.”

“Yeah,” Ted said quietly.  “The Tarpon Whistler.  She was a good little boat.”

“That what you used to rescue the crew at the Marina?” asked Pinner, crumpling up a snack wrapper.  The noise was loud in the darkness.  “I heard about that.”

“Yeah.  By the time we got back to the Freehold, it was damn near burned to the ground.  The White Hand People beat us home and killed just about everyone we cared about.”

“The White Hand People…offshoot of the Brotherhood that’s causing so much trouble in the big cities, right?” asked Pinner.

“Yeah,” replied Erik bitterly.  “I guess so.”

Ted frowned.  “They were armed and had an inside informant.  Grimes.”

“Asshole used to live with us.  I—we—kicked him out because he wasn’t pulling his own weight.  I knew that would come back to bite us,” said Erik.

Pinner nodded.  “Yeah, I read the after-action.  Pretty nasty business.  A handful of you guys did make it though.  I remember seeing their names on the rosters in the civilian camp.”

“Yup,” said Erik.  “Hey, I wonder if Sonya had her baby?”

“Don’t know,” Ted said and took another swig from his canteen.  “Last I heard, she and Alfonse were leaving the camp and heading north.  Her family’s from Georgia, I seem to remember.”

“We’re the only ones that joined up.  Everyone else—the ones that survived—could be anywhere by now, I guess,” said Erik.

The conversation died an awkward death.  Erik kept his own thoughts to himself.  All he wanted to do was get Brin and get the hell north of all the fighting.  He wanted to make his way home, to his family’s cabin on the shores of Lake Ticonderoga.  He wanted to quit the army and run.  But he didn’t.  He couldn’t let Ted down.

One day soon, he promised himself, Sue’ll be healed enough to travel.  When the Line is set up across the state, our debt will be paid in full.  Ted won’t have any reason to stick around and Captain Williams will have to let us go.  Then we’re heading north and not looking back.

CHAPTER 2

Exile

MALCOLM ABDUL RASHID GAZED through the large window and watched the city of Montreal descend into chaos.  He felt nothing.  It was not his city, not Chicago.  The buildings all looked different: older, colder, grayer.  Fires blossomed on the horizon.  Not caused by his rioters, but by Canadians who were starving.  America had stumbled and was dragging down her neighbor to the north.

“The fires, they grow worse,” observed the Egyptian Ambassador in a gloomy voice.

“Yes,” said Malcolm, his own voice completely neutral.  “The people starve and their city burns.  It is much the same with my people.”

The lights in the conference room flickered and dimmed, then returned to full strength.  “That generator.  Again with the lights…” muttered the ambassador.

“At least we have power here…of a sort.  I have not heard anything from my brother in far too long.  I grow nervous for his safety as well as for the future of my people.”

“Allah will provide, my friend.  Trust in Him.”

“I wonder…”

The ambassador gasped. “Do you dare doubt—”

“No!” spat Malcolm.  “Allah akbar,” he said and turned back to the window.  “I just…” he sighed.  “I wonder, in these dark days, whether all this was the proper course of action.  Perhaps I have misjudged His will?”

“Ah…I see,” muttered the Ambassador sagely.  His hands gripped Malcolm’s shoulders gently.  “My friend, do not trouble yourself with thoughts such as this.  Allah…He works in mysterious ways that are not known to us, yes?”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“His will, it shall reveal itself to you in time.  Trust in Allah.  You have surely made Him smile.   You and your people have struck a major blow against the Infidel and his heresies.  Be of glad heart, my friend.”

The door to the conference room opened behind them.  Malcolm did not bother to turn and see who entered. Following his arrival in Montreal, the messages relayed to him from Tahru about the survivors and their struggle against the Man had been a constant stream of gloom.  Their people had used the stolen HAM gear to send word north on radio waves the government could not stop.  Those messages had slowed to a trickle and eventually stopped in the past few days.  Malcolm felt trapped in a cloud of melancholy.

“Yes?” asked the Ambassador.

“Your Excellency, pardon the interruption, but our friend has a message.”

Malcolm spun around, hope igniting in his heart.  “Yes?” he asked, showing far more emotion in his voice than he would have liked.

“You see?” asked the Ambassador.  He slapped Malcolm on the back.  “Just when you fear the most, Allah sends his blessing.”

In three quick strides, Malcolm was across the room and snatched the scribbled note from the staffer’s hand.  He ignored the Ambassador’s impatient stance as he read the note.

Malcolm devoured the words on the paper like a starving man attacking a feast.  He had to read it three times, going slower each time as he took in the meaning of the words.  Each time, he felt a stab in his heart that threatened to drive him to the floor in tears.

“My friend…the news, it is not so good?” the Ambassador said softly.

“No, my friend, not at all.  It seems Allah is most displeased with me.”  Malcolm looked up at the ceiling and blinked away the unmanly, shameful tears that threatened to spill from his eyes.

“This is surely not—”

“My brother reports the Man has succeeded in breaking our lines.  Our fight is all but over.  Chicago has fallen.”

“But—”

“Do you not see?” shouted Malcolm, holding the paper before him like a proclamation from the Prophet himself.  “All our work, all our sacrifices, our planning, our blood…has it been for nothing?”  In a sudden rage, he threw the message on the ground and walked over to the side table to get some water and calm his nerves.  He brought a shaking glass to his lips and felt the cool liquid quench the heat in his throat.

“I am sorry, my friend,” said the Ambassador quietly.  Malcolm could hear the man smoothing the crinkled message out in his hands.

Malcolm closed his eyes and prayed for forgiveness and peace of spirit.  In a moment, serenity washed over him like a soothing wave of warmth.  He turned to the Ambassador and said, “No, my friend.  I am sorry.  I should never have raised my voice with you.  I have received nothing but kindness and support from you and your people—”

“Think nothing of it,” the Ambassador said with a gracious wave of his hand.  “We are all on the same side, all in this fight together, no?”

Malcolm nodded. “Yes.  But it appears that Allah would have us fight elsewhere now.”

“Yes!” the Ambassador said as he clapped his hands.  “You see?  Allah has willed that Chicago should fall—but,” he raised a finger and took on the air of a lecturing professor, “now you have the option to take your fight where it is needed most, were it can do the most good.  You were trapped in Chicago, no?  Now you are free.”

Malcolm turned back to the window and watched the fires on Montreal’s outskirts.  “But where do I go?”

ALL UNITS REPORTING THE enemy is in retreat,” stated Major Stafford.

General Joseph Stapleton continued scanning the burning skyline of Chicago with his field glasses.  He worked the cigar stub in his teeth and said nothing.  A small part of his soul died when he had to give the order to attack this great city.  American forces attacking an American city.  It was the low point of his career.  Everything he had been taught, everything he had trained for…it was all to defend places like this from the outside world.  To be the great wall that stood in the night and kept the gentler, softer, civilian world safe.

America, her cities, and people—to Joe Stapleton’s thinking—were like the proverbial princess in a tower.  Watching America’s Second City burn and knowing that he had ordered the attack…it made him feel like a traitorous guard that took advantage of his position to kidnap the princess while no one looked.

He lowered his binoculars.  I need more sleep.  To his aide de camp, he growled, “What about prisoners?  We find that sumbitch that started this mess?  This Malcolm?”

“Negative, sir.  I’ve got conflicting reports that he took a ship from Navy Pier and headed north into Canada, that he was in the Tower when it came down, that he—”

Stapleton waved him off.  “Fine.  I want standing orders: that man is to be brought in alive.  He will stand trial for this.”

“Sir,” Maj. Stafford said.  He made some notes, clutching his reports.

Stapleton turned back to the window and looked at what was left of downtown Chicago.   Damn shame, he thought, I used to actually like this place.

Where the Willis Tower had been was now a cratered wasteland.  He had poured artillery fire into the base of the magnificent building and the whole damn thing had come down like a child’s toy.  The great building had spewed smoke and fire from its abdomen before it fell like a giant’s arm and pointed toward Lake Michigan.  The image of that tower demolishing a dozen smaller building in its death throes had been seared in the general’s mind.  He could not imagine how many people had died during the crash.

Can’t think about that, he reminded himself.  It had to be done.  These rebels forced my hand.

“What’s the status on the fires?” he asked, his voice harsher than he had intended.

His aide shuffled some papers and cleared his throat.  “Still burning out of control, sir.  Without power to get the city’s water pumps going, the civvies are having a hard time fighting it.  Everything north of us is going to be lost.  Depending on which way the wind blows, we could be looking at a total loss of the rest of the city as well.”

Stapleton grunted and chewed on his cigar stub.  After a moment of silence, he asked: “We find the source of the radio transmissions?”

“Uh, not yet, sir.  Whoever’s broadcasting is apparently mobile.  We assumed the location was the Tower…but…”

“They were at it again?”

“Yes, sir.  We heard it clear as day.  They’re transmitting on a known civilian band, no crypto, no nothing.”

Stapleton shook his head at the audacity of the rebels.  “Well, what’d they have to say?”

“It was a message for their leader, this Malcolm.  The speaker said that the city had fallen and that “the Man” had broken through their last lines of defense.  Some other bits about people who had been killed and the Tower coming down.  It sounds to me, sir, like they were trying to give an after action briefing to their leader.”

“So,” said Stapleton.  He could feel a smile spread across his face.  “Malcolm did escape.  That’s interesting.”   He could see movement on the top of a building through the smoky haze that floated over the Tower’s final resting place.  Zooming in with his field glasses, he watched a squad of soldiers raise the Stars and Stripes on the roof of the mid-sized skyscraper.  Another building taken and cleared, another city block pulled back under control.

“There’s one more thing, sir.”

“Oh?” said Stapleton, still looking through the binoculars.

“The name “Tahru” was mentioned seven times in the forty-two second message.  At least, we think it’s a name.  Possibly of Malcolm’s lieutenant.  Either that, or it’s some kind of code word.  But, we haven’t seen evidence the rebels are using codes of any kind…”

“They say this ‘Tahru’ is dead or alive?”

“From the context, it appears—if it is a person—yes, he is still alive and most likely in the city.  Near the lake, in sector 12, there’s been some stiff resistance concentrated around two apartment buildings.  It’s pretty much the last hotspot we have left to pacify.  All other sectors are reporting only light resistance. I was about to ask for your authorization to assault the-”

“You’ve got it.  Take those buildings with whatever you need, and divert resources as required.  I’m willing to bet you’ll find this Tahru hiding in one of those buildings like the rat he is.  I want this guy captured.  Alive.  Spread the word.  Order weapons-free with anyone that provides even token resistance, but our friend Tahru needs to be taken alive.  He’s at least as important as Malcolm.”

“Yes, sir.”

When the door closed behind Maj. Stafford, Stapleton put the binoculars down on a desk next to him and stretched his back.  He glanced at the map tacked to a wall that showed the known locations of major riots—now labeled as rebel strongholds.  New York stuck out as a glaring hotspot.  He had been getting snippets of reports from Washington when comms were working, that New York was about to slip into total Anarchy.

Looking south past all the angry red markers indicating rebel activity, he grimaced at the sight of the scribbled line that marked the extent of the Russian Occupation of southern Florida.  That’s where he longed to be.

“Taking on Ivan, face to face,” he muttered.  A muffled explosion in the next building took his attention back to the death of Chicago.  “What a waste,” he said again.

HE’S NOT GONNA LIKE this,” whispered the short man.

“Can’t be helped.  I will tell him,” answered Yossef.  Even whispering as he was, his voice carried like thunder through the hallway.

Malcolm had told his subordinates that he went to seek advice from Allah and would pray for quite a while.  He had ordered them not to disturb him.  There was much on which to meditate.  Now that Chicago had fallen and with it most of his men and support, what was he supposed to do?

Go to another city, he told himself.  There’s nothing else for me here.  The deal has been struck with the United Nations.  If they hold up their end of the bargain, they’ll be pouring in to New York soon.  That is where I should be.

Malcolm opened his eyes, trying to ignore the muffled conversation taking place in the hallway.  Yossef was loyal, but quiet was not in his vocabulary.  He sighed.  It was going to be a long day.

“Yossef, come in.”

The door opened immediately and the massive bulk of Yossef stepped through the opening, filling it almost completely with his massive frame.  In his giant’s hand, he held another crumpled piece of paper.

“A new message?” asked Malcolm.

“Brother Malcolm…they’re asking for you in the communications room.”

The formality of Yossef’s statement caused no small amount of concern in Malcolm.  He could feel the cold grip of fear wrap around his spine.  “What has happened?” he asked as he stood up from his prayer rug.

“Something bad.  You need to get down there.”

When they burst into the comms room at the Egyptian embassy, Malcolm was stunned by the change that had taken place since his arrival.  Then, the place had been packed with staffers yelling into phones, taking messages, running communiques back and forth, preparing attaché cases…it had been organized chaos.  And loud.

Now, as he rushed through the big double-door into the high-tech room, it was almost silent.  There were only three other people in the room.  One was talking quietly into a phone.  The other, hunched over in front of a computer, barely looked up at the intrusion.  The third person, stood in the corner, hands up to his ears as he concentrated on listening to whatever was being piped through the large headphones he wore.  There was paper and trash on the floor.  It looked like the place had been evacuated.

The man with the headphones on said something in Egyptian and handed them over to Malcolm.  He shook his head and stepped aside, muttering to himself.

Malcolm put the headphones on and was immediately bombarded with the sounds of a frantic man trying to explain what was happening.  “Is this a recording?”  He got nothing but more mumblings in Egyptian from the radio-man.  He couldn’t get the headphones to sit comfortably on his ears, so he yanked the plug out of the control board and instantly the speakers in the wall came to life.

“—word to Malcolm, the city’s finished!  We’re dead, yo!  They came in here and blew up the Tower!  Gonna burn us to the ground!  Do something!”

“Tell ‘im about—” said a second voice.  There was a static-filled sound that reminded Malcolm of fireworks. Someone screamed in the background.

“Malcolm!  Malcolm, man, if you can hear me…” static interrupted the transmission.  Malcolm closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to pick out words in the white noise.

“They’re here—”

“Everybody out!  We gotta run!” shouted the second voice.  Whatever was happening, it wasn’t good judging from the shouts and screams in the background.

“Who is this?” asked Malcolm.  He grabbed the microphone and tried speaking again: “Can you hear me?”

The Egyptian started to shake his head and talk, excitedly pointing at the different controls and buttons, ticking off items on his fingers, then shrugging and shaking his head.  Malcolm got the message: he’s tried everything but they can’t hear us.

“Is Tahru there?  Tahru!” called Malcolm, gripping the mic like it was a deadly snake.

“Tahru dead, man!” yelled the first voice.  “Army shot him and all the others ‘cross the street, brother.”

Malcolm froze, eyes locked on the Egyptian.  He dropped the mic and fell to his knees.

SENATOR, I’M AFRAID I don’t have time to argue semantics with you,” said Hank Suthby.  He slammed his open palm on the map spread out before him on the conference table.  “See this?  This is what I have to deal with.  I’m truly sorry that you can’t access your offices, really, I am.  But unless you’ve conjured up the Vice President somewhere, or the Speaker of the House—”

“We’ll find someone to replace you, you—”

“Hey!” barked Daniel.  All heads in the crowded room locked on the Assistant Secretary of Homeland Security.  “I don’t care who you are—Secretary Suthby here is trying to hold this country together.  What have you done to help America today, Senator?”

“Thank you, Daniel,” said Suthby with a nod.  He turned back to the senior senator from Missouri.  “Sir, I really hope you find someone and find them quick, because I’ve had about up to here with you politicians sniveling about while I’m trying to work.  Go cry to your constituents, hold an election—do whatever the hell you want—just leave me alone so I can keep this country from disintegrating.  Or we’ll all be out of our jobs by winter!”  He jerked his head towards two black clad men holding M-4s and bore vests with ‘DHS’ in bold yellow letters.

The two guards ushered the sputtering Senator—none too gently, Suthby noted with a wry smile—out of the room and shut the door.  Suthby closed his eyes and took a calming breath.

“That went well,” said the voice of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.  Suthby opened his eyes and glared at the image of the old Marine, smiling like the proverbial cat that ate the canary.  Suthby ignored the insolent man.  He would deal with the military in his own time.  For now, he needed them—until he could get the U.N. to fall in line.

“Now,” he said, spreading his arms to encompass the U.S. map on the table.  “Where were we before that windbag from Missouri interrupted us?”

Daniel cleared his throat and stepped forward.  He checked his notes and pointed at the map.  “As I was saying, sir, Chicago is now under our control again.  General Stapleton has all but crushed the Brotherhood rebels.”

“He took out half the city to do it.  Chicago will never be the same,” said the head of the NSA.  “However, in light of the threat this rebellion poses, taking out their headquarters, so to speak, was a stroke of luck this early in the campaign.”

“This early?” asked Daniel.

“Stroke of luck?” sneered Suthby.  “That Stapleton isn’t lucky, he just took the gloves off and leveled America’s Second City!  It’s a PR nightmare.”  He ran a hand through the remnants of his disheveled hair.  “Okay, where are we on the leader of this rebellion—whatshisface?”

“Malcolm Abdul Rashid, AKA Jamal LeRay,” announced the head of the NSA.  She shuffled some reports.  “It appears he slipped across the border into Canada early on in the fighting.  Last known location was the Egyptian embassy in Montreal.”

“Montreal!” groaned Suthby.  “Get on the horn and make the Canadians play ball, here,” Suthby said.

Daniel shook his head.  “Already tried, sir.  The Canadians steadfastly refuse to break international treaty with the Egyptian government.  They won’t help us until he leaves the embassy.  We’ve got word out to the Egyptians, but…”

“Thanks to our late President, they’re at war with us,” Suthby growled.  “Damn it all!” he slammed a fist on the map, making the pens and pencils and coffee mugs on the table jump.

“Not as easy as you though, eh, Suthby?” said the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.  He chuckled.

“Thank you very much for your keen observational skills, general,” Suthby hissed through clenched teeth.  Oh, you’re going to get yours, you pompous old fool.  He forced himself to open his fists and relax.  Barely.

“Do we have any idea where the Roosevelt Strike Group is?” asked Daniel.

Suthby smiled as General Stirling’s neck flushed with color.  “Not at this time, no—”

“So you don’t have anything for us, then?” asked Suthby.

“Mr. Secretary—”

“Thank you, General Stirling, we’ll be in touch.  Kill the feed,” Suthby said without looking up from the map.

“But—” the general’s voice was cut off as his screen went black.  Suthby smiled.  He had a sudden flash of inspiration and looked up.

“Get a hold of the CIA for me,” he said, snapping his fingers at an aide.

“Sir?” asked Daniel.

“I want them to send one of their men in to Canada and hunt down this Malcolm character.”

“Sir,” said the NSA head, “Are you suggesting you want the CIA to assassinate Mr. Rashid?”

Suthby laughed.  “No, no, not at all.  I want to talk with him.  Or, rather, I want to get his attention.”  He pointed at the map, his finger resting on New York City.  “The United Nations is going to make New York their base of operations, correct?”

“According to the communiques we intercepted, yes,” replied the NSA head.

“Then I’m going to see if I can broker a truce with Mr. Rashid and his Brotherhood.”

“Sir, really?” asked Daniel.  “After all they’ve done to cripple this country—”

“I know, Daniel, I know.  It sounds crazy, but hear me out.  If we get Malcolm and his little band of merry men to stop all the rioting, all the destruction, all the distractions, we can focus all our energy and resources on repelling this United Nations invasion.  Or at least start to repair our infrastructure and prepare to repel the invasion.”

“And then?” asked the NSA chief.

“We teach the Brotherhood what happens to traitors and rebels.”

“The enemy of my enemy…” muttered Daniel.  He nodded.  “It could work, but will he believe you?”

“Thanks to General Stapleton, I think he’ll have to.  His base, along with most of Chicago is in ashes.  Where’s he going to go?  The next logical place would be New York or Philly,” Suthby traced I-95 on the map.  “Maybe Baltimore, or even D.C. or Raleigh.”

“Cuban-Russian forces are advancing north from Miami, right behind a tidal wave of refugees,” said Daniel, resting the tip of his pencil in the shaded half of Florida on the map, labeled ‘Occupied Zone’.  “Last word was the National Guard was going to try and hold the Tampa-Orlando corridor until reinforcements arrive.”

“Then the Brotherhood will have no choice but to run north or run into the arms of the Russians—I don’t see that happening, do you?”

“No sir,” replied the head of the NSA. “All our information shows that the Brotherhood is not interested in international alliances—they want to remain American, but make America theirs.”

“So the Brotherhood’s days in Florida are numbered.  We have no reinforcements to send south until we get some of the troops home from overseas,” mused Suthby, scratching his chin.  He mulled over when the last time he had shaved had been.

For that matter, when’s the last time I got some sleep?

“Why are we trying to react to him?” asked Daniel.  “Why not just send General Stapleton and his army to New York?  I don’t think Malcolm can afford to lose such a big center of unrest.  He’ll come out of hiding and then you’ll get a chance to talk to him.  At the worst, if New York goes the way of Chicago, the Brotherhood will lose a valuable base and their territory will shrink.  At best, we can lay a trap for the U.N….”

“I like the way you think, son,” said Suthby.  He grinned, a genuine smile.  The first in days.  It felt wonderful.

“Make it happen,” he said.  And now I’ve got my fall-guy when it all goes to shit, he told himself, trying not to grin too much.  Thank you, Daniel.

CHAPTER 3

The Skirmish

MAJOR ALEKSEI STROGOLEV FROWNED as he surveyed the chaos in front of him.  “These people are insane.  It defies all logic!”  Another bullet ricocheted off the armored side of his BTR.

It was looking more and more like his little adventure to the north had been a bad idea after all.  Stroglev rolled his eyes.  He would never hear the end of it from Stepanovich, now.

“Why are they still shooting at us?” asked one of the other vehicle commanders.

“I don’t know,” replied Strogolev.  “But you are ordered to hold your fire.  We will show these nekulturny cowboys that we are not here to fight.  Remember, our mission is to reconnoiter the area and render aid and medical support to civilians where needed—I will try to diffuse the situation.  Let’s take up defensive formation, just like in the last town.  Everyone sit tight.”

“Major Strogolev!  I have a man down—repeat, one of my men has just been killed by a sniper!”

“Damn it!  I gave orders that no personnel were to be outside their vehicles!”

“Four, you’ve got civilians attaching something to your—”

The warning was cut-off as an explosion rocked the convoy.  Strogolev watched in horror as one of the bright blue triangles on his GPS-screen winked out.  According to his computer, he just lost one of his BTRs—along with the 12 men inside.

“Command, this is Two—they placed a bomb on the side of Four!”

“Permission to return fire!” begged another vehicle commander.

This was quickly getting out of hand.  Strogolev scanned his bank of monitors and watched as dozens of Americans appeared around the corners of buildings to cheer.  A hail of rounds began to bounce off the thick armored-skin of his BTR.  The Americans had signed their own death-warrant.  So be it.  Random pot-shots were one thing, IEDs were quite another.

“Civilian or not, all units, return fire!  Repeat, fire-at-will!” he ordered.

Strogolev felt his own vehicle rock back when the main gun went off.  He grinned as he watched the corner of a gas station disintegrate in a hail of brick and rubble.  The commander watched as a few men staggered from the rubble and tried to escape.  Buildings to the left and right started to crumple under the assault of his task force.

The gunner’s next shot targeted gas pumps.  The resulting explosion caused all sorts of whooping over the radio net.

“They’re retreating!” called out his lieutenant.  “Permission to pursue!”

“Granted,” replied Strogolev without hesitation.  “But remain within our defensive network.”

“Da, Comrade Major.”

Strogolev watched on the BTR’s computer screens as three vehicles separated from the main column and raced to the north and west.  Their tracer rounds lit up the twilight like lasers.  He keyed the mic attached to his helmet and spoke: “The rest of you, follow my lead.  We head north.  We will make camp on the outskirts of this…town.”

As the command vehicle rumbled past a sign thanking them for visiting “Florida’s Friendliest Hometown”, Strogolev frowned.  Yup.  He would never hear the end of this from Captain Stepanovich.  The little expedition north had met with nothing but resistance.  Despite a few casualties and the embarrassment of having to fight skirmishes with the very civilians he had been ordered to help, Strogolev was more determined than ever to push forward.

Just before sunset the previous day, he had stood on the top of his BTR and trained his field glasses north along the Atlantic Coast.  In the far distance, just peaking over the horizon, he had seen his target: the great white Vehicle Assembly Building at the Kennedy Space Center.  It was only a day away.

Another bullet deflected off the BTR’s heavy armor, making a curious, high-pitched whine.

“Taking fire on the left flank,” warned the voice of another vehicle commander.

Strogolev shook his head in amazement of the stubborn, misguided Americans.  “Return fire as needed—remember, we are here to help these fools.”

“As you command, Major Strogolev.”

“I want all troops to remain in their transports,” added Strogolev.  “No more casualties.  We are within spitting distance of our objective and we will not be turned back by this rabble.”

ERIK HAD PULLED THE SHORT straw and sat half-way up the launch tower, his back to the cool steel framework.  His long legs stretched out pleasantly in front of him, he casually surveyed the coastline to the north.  Every now and then he could hear a comment from Pinner or Ted as the two men scavenged for anything at all useful down in the Visitor Center.

HQ had radioed with orders to set up shop at the Visitor Center for the time being and await further instructions.  They were to monitor the surveillance equipment, report anything unusual, and keep a wary eye out for the Russians that were rumored to be in the area.

Erik grunted.  Rumors.  It was always rumors.  First it had been rumors of the White Hand people back in Sarasota.  Then there were rumors of the Brotherhood, moving south out of Tampa.  Then there were rumors of President Reed’s death—he had been assassinated; nope, he had simply had a heart-attack from working too hard; no, the White House had been nuked by the Russians…

Erik swung his large binoculars around to the south and scoured the coastline.  If the rumors were correct, the Russians were trying to make a run up the coast and—

Smoke.

Erik tensed as he focused the binoculars on the black plume of smoke that rose in the distance like a withered finger, pointing at the sky.  He quickly pulled out the map from his backpack.  His finger traced the roads heading south from KSC and stopped at the first town.  Cape Canaveral and Cocoa Beach.  Pretty much the only thing in that part of Merritt Island.

He grabbed his radio and keyed it with fingers that suddenly trembled.  “Ted!  We got trouble!”

A few tense heartbeats later, Ted’s voice broke squelch: “What’d I tell you about names?”

Erik cursed under his breath before taking a calming breath.  “Got it—but look, we got smoke south of us.  Check the feed.”

He picked up his binoculars again while he waited for the inevitable confirmation.  It wasn’t too long before Pinner’s voice called out, “He’s right, sir—I got a pretty good plume due south of us.”

“Location and distance?” asked Ted.

“I think it’s Cape Canaveral, or maybe the north side of Cocoa Beach,” said Erik.  He watched as the camera equipment he had helped install on the side of the launch tower slewed to its new target, electric motors whirring.

“I agree,” added Pinner.

“Too close for comfort.  All right, let’s regroup.  Everybody bring it in.”

“Roger that,” replied Pinner.

“On my way,” said Erik.  He repacked his gear and kept a wary eye on the smoke in the distance.  He couldn’t be completely sure, but it looked like it was getting larger.  He took one last look with the binoculars.

“Hey,” he said into the radio.  “There’s a second fire now.  Whatever’s going on, it’s spreading.”

“Understood—can you tell if it’s in the same area or closer to us?”

Erik put the binoculars back in his pack.  “Negative.  Looks about as far away as the first one.”

“Roger that.  Get down here.  We’re gonna go check it out.”

MAJOR STROGOLEV TURNED IN a circle and examined the battlefield.  He grunted.  Battlefield.  The word had all sorts of evil connotations, but never more so when applied to what he was looking at, now.  There were no real enemy combatants, just the bodies of wounded and dead American civilians who had decided to attack his convoy.  They had ignored the Red Cross symbols painted on the sides of half the BTRs in the group.  They had hidden around corners and used drug stores, gas stations, even a pre-school—thank God it had been deserted—as cover to snipe at his men.

And they had managed to completely disable a state of the art armored personnel carrier with nothing more than an improvised explosive device.  He shook his head.  Until now, he had thought IEDs were something one only encountered in Iraq or Afghanistan.

The thick black smoke drifting up into the windless sky from the dead BTR made a parallel line with the smoke from the gas station.  The ugly black smears stood out vividly against the brilliant blue dome of the sky.  He tilted his head back and took in a deep breath, inhaling the salty air as he plotted his next move.

Clearly the Americans could not be approached in an official capacity.  He had been ordered to bring food, water, and medicine to the people still along the coast.   They were rumored to be near the point of starvation, since the major lines of commerce and transportation had shut down months ago.  No one had seen fresh food in these parts since the beginning of the summer.  Months without fresh food and water.  He could hardly imagine what life must be like for the poor souls still living here.

No wonder they act like animals.  They’re half-starved and probably sick.

He knelt and picked up a piece of the destroyed BTR and examined the charred, twisted piece of metal.  He dropped it back into the pile at his feet and sighed.  They have forced my hand and begun hostilities.  They leave me little choice but to respond in kind in order to achieve my objectives.

Decision made, he stood up and dusted off his uniform.  “Yuri,” he said over his shoulder.

“Yes, major?” asked his temporary lieutenant.

“Recall the scouts and send them north.  We’re going to push through whatever resistance we encounter.  I want combat formations, main weapons ready-to-fire.”

“Yes, sir!” barked the junior officer.  He began speaking into a microphone and issuing orders to the convoy.

Strogolev looked to the north.  The space center beckoned to him.

I should turn around and regroup with Stepanovich.  Now that the Americans have decided to attack us, it will only escalate. A small, stubborn voice replied in his mind, but we’re so close to Kennedy…I can’t turn back now.

An idea occurred to him.  Strogolev walked over to the crew hatch and reached inside for a local map, looted from one of the deserted beach-shops at their landing site.  He unfolded the crinkly paper and spread out the map on the side of the BTR.

“Orders acknowledged, Major.  We are ready to roll,” said his lieutenant.

“Very good,” mumbled Strogolev.  He traced a finger along the road his convoy was traveling.  It lead straight north along the coast, to Port Canaveral and into the Kennedy Space Center.  He examined the strategic position of KSC in relation to the rest of the state.  It was a little more than halfway up the Atlantic coast.

His gaze settled on Miami—the initial beachhead of the Russian-Cuban forces.  The great metropolis had crumpled in hours, giving itself to its new masters with reckless abandon.  From there, he had rolled north with his commander, Colonel Doskoy, unopposed into Fort Lauderdale.  The entire southern third of the state had been in Russian/Cuban hands in less than a week.  Those that opposed their arrival had already fled, which left only supporters, the invalid, aged, or prisoners behind.

And there had been peace.  Excepting a few little flare-ups in small towns like the one he was traveling through at the moment, the citizens of Florida had come to accept their Russian and Cuban “liberators”.  They readily took the food and medicine offered by Strogolev’s forces and had even been polite about it.

Until today.

He pulled out a pencil and drew a rough line across the state—that was where the American home-guard had established itself as a deterrent to further expansion of what the Americans had started calling the Occupied Zone.  The pencil traced from Tampa on the west coast to Orlando and then stopped at Cocoa Beach.  He moved the pencil north and circled the Kennedy Space Center and Cape Canaveral.

“If we take The Cape, we break their line and turn their flank.”  His frown deepened.  “And if they want a war, we’ll give them one.”

YOU SURE THIS IS a good idea?” asked Erik.  He crouched low by the corner of a pastel colored building on the southern border of Port Canaveral.

“Absolutely not,” was the tense reply over his headset.

Erik grinned and shook his head.  “I don’t see anything from my position.”

“Negative visual,” replied Pinner’s deep voice from three blocks away.

“Keep watching,” ordered Ted.  He was about a block away from Erik, holding down the middle of their very thin line.  All around them, the local citizens were gathering to assault the approaching Russian convoy.

Erik heard footsteps behind him and turned to see a teenager approach, carrying a bolt action rifle complete with a large scope.  “You one of the army guys?” he asked, voice cracking.

Erik grinned.  “For now.  Who you with?”

“35th Volunteers.  Jacksonville.  This is my first chance at the Commies…”  Beads of sweat trickled down the younger man’s forehead as he gripped his rifle with white knuckles.  He leaned around the house.  “Seen any yet?”

“Nope,” said Erik.  He leaned back against the wall.  “But listen closely…”  He held up a finger to his lips and closed his eyes.  “You can hear their APCs…low rumbling sound.”

The young man closed his eyes and grew still.  After a moment he opened his eyes wide.  “By God, you can!”  He took a nervous glance again around the corner of the building.  “I can’t see ‘em, where they at?”

“We got a location on the convoy?” asked Erik.

“Best guess about one mile out.  You got any reinforcements yet?”

“Yes, sir,” said Erik, sizing up the nervous teenager next to him.  “They’re a little skittish.”

Pinner’s laugh sounded tinny but heartfelt.  “You should have seen the way you looked a month ago…sir.”

A rifle shot echoed in the distance.  The boy next to Erik flinched and nearly dropped his rifle.

“Cut the chatter—let’s keep the net open.  I think Ivan just got here.  You all know your orders…good hunting!”

“Roger that,” said Erik.  He looked up at the clear blue sky and prayed silently for strength, good aim, and solid cover.  Then asked God to get him out of this mess as quickly as possible.

“Oka hey,” replied Pinner’s voice.

A loud boom rolled through the air towards them from the south, sending birds darting into the sky from nearby trees.

“Is that t-them?” asked the boy.

“Yes,” said Erik.  He put a hand on the teenager’s arm and pull the rifle down to a usable position.  “Take it easy, man.  You got a nice sniper rifle there.  Let’s set up on the roof of this building, here.  Get you behind an air conditioner unit or something where they’ll never see you.”

The youth blinked through the sweat dripping down his face and grinned.  Courage seemed to flow back into him.  “Yeah…” he cleared his throat.  “Yeah, sounds good, man.  Let’s do it.”

Erik led the way around the back of the building and up the fire escape ladder to the roof, his newfound partner close on his heels.  In the distance, the sound of a stiffening firefight crackled and echoed all around them.  There were short bursts from what to Erik’s ear sounded like M-4s or ARs, followed by some sharper rat-tat-tat-tats that had to AKs.  Every now and then a single loud crash—he figured that had to be the heavy weapons on the vehicles—would silence everything for a moment.

When they were safely ensconced behind an air conditioner, hidden in shadows with a clear line of fire down the wide four lane road that would lead the Russians right to them, Erik clapped his partner on the back and said, “Okay, we’re all set.  I’m going to lay down here and take a nap.  Wake me when the Russians show up.”

The teenager’s eyes looked ready to pop out of his head.  “W-what?”

Erik flashed a grin through his beard, red as the hair on his head.  “Just kidding, man.  I’ll be right here on the other side of this air conditioner.  I’ll call out the shots and you start poppin’, okay?  You got a longer range with that thing than I do with this.”  He held up his government issue M-4.

“Yeah, sure,” said the kid.

Erik settled himself and pulled out his binoculars.  He scanned to the south, looking for movement that would give away the location of the firefight.  There was smoke starting to roll up into the sky to the southwest.  Another plume suddenly emerged, a little closer.  A tremendous noise, louder than a clap of thunder suddenly hit them.

“The hell was that?” asked the teenager.  He adjusted the grip on his rifle and peeked through the scope again.

Erik checked the focus on his binoculars.  “Explosion…looks almost due south of us.  Either we took out one of their vehicles or they just blew up something big.”

“Stay frosty, boys,” advised Ted’s voice.  “Just got word from a runner that the Russians have breached the line.  They’re still rolling north.  Should be in sight any minute.  Weapons-free.”

“Hooah,” replied Pinner’s voice.

“Roger that,” said Erik.  He relayed the message to his partner.  The teenager wiped sweat from his brow and swallowed audibly.

“Hey,” he said, “you ever kill someone?”

Erik didn’t lower his binoculars.  “Yeah, a few.”  He watched a palm tree to the south, its top sticking up over a flat topped building, swaying back and forth.  The tree toppled over.  “Have you?”

“Ah…”

Erik pulled back from the binoculars.  “How old are you?” he asked.

“I’m almost 16.  My birthday’s another month away.”

Jesus.  Is that all we have left?  Kids? Erik turned his attention back to the south.  He saw movement and raised the binoculars.  Bingo.

“I got visual!” Erik reported into his radio.  “I see three BTRs, a couple transports…”

“Oh shit, there they are,” said the teenager.  “Look at ‘em all!”

“Roger that, we’re moving to secondary positions,” replied Pinner’s voice.

“Stay on, ‘em!” said Ted.  “I’m shifting the militia to hit them on their left flank.  Lot more than I expected…”

“What do I do?” squeaked Erik’s sniper.

“Look through your scope there, line up the cross hairs on a target, squeeze the trigger.  Easy.”  Erik rolled his eyes at the young man’s nervousness.  “Okay—this helped with me.  Pretend it’s a video game.”

“A video game?  Those are real Russians down there!”

“Trust me—this is just like Modern Combat, you ever play that?”

“Hell yeah, I was head of my clan before the power went out.  I sure miss that game.”

“Well, there you go—pretend it’s just another mission in the game.  Now hurry up before they get too close!”

“Viking,” called out Ted’s voice.  “See that third APC?”

Erik adjusted his binoculars.  “Roger that, Bulldog.”

A plume of white smoke shot out of the trees that lined the street.  Erik caught a glimpse of a flash of light and then a brilliant explosion consume the front half of the third Russian APC.  The lead vehicles peeled out to the left and right trying to go into evasive action.  Another missile shot out between two buildings on the other side of the road, narrowly missing the weaving armored vehicles.  A building absorbed the missile with a cloud of smoke and fire.

“Got one!” yelled Ted.

“Nice shooting!” said Pinner.

“Uh,” Erik said, “They’re not stopping…”

“I see it, I see it!” replied Ted’s voice.  The gunfire continued unabated but was now accompanied by the thunderous blasts from the Russian heavy vehicles.

“There’s so many of them!” Erik’s partner wailed.  A bullet ricocheted off the air conditioner next to the young man and he cringed, nearly dropping his rifle.

“Hey, calm down, it was just a lucky—” Erik ducked when another round impacted the rooftop nearby.  “Okay, maybe they spotted us.”  Three more rounds kicked up pebbles and bits of masonry.  “Yeah, they definitely spotted us!  Come on,” he said, grabbing the kid’s shoulder.  “We gotta go—now!”

The boy-sniper jumped up and scrambled for the emergency ladder.

“Hey, don’t forget your rifle!”

Erik sighed.  It was no use—the kid had already scaled the side and was on the ground by the time Erik snatched up the long gun.  “Viking is on the move—we’re compromised.  Got a Russian patrol closing on our location!”

“Get out of there!  They’re running over all of us.  Looks like the militia is falling back, too.”

“Roger that!” Erik said as he got himself over the edge of the roof in a shower of incoming rounds.  When he had his feet safely on the ground he immediately took off running north, for the safety of the treeline behind his building.  Without warning, he saw everything go white and was thrown through the air.

When he was able to kick-start his lungs again and suck down enough air to cough, he rolled over onto his back and felt pebbles and debris slide off his body in the process.  He raised a shaky hand and shielded his eyes as he looked at the remains of the building he had fled.

“Jesus,” he coughed, “that was close.”

“Viking!  Viking, come in!  You still there?” shrieked Ted’s voice over the radio, now some ten feet away in the dirt.

Erik struggled to his hands and knees, still shaky from the effects of…whatever the hell had destroyed his sniper position.  He eventually made his way through the abandoned lot to his radio.  He slumped down on his back again, gasping for breath.

“Yeah,” he said.  After another cough to clear his lungs of dust, he wiped the grime from his forehead and brought the radio to his lips again.  “Viking’s here.  The hell was that?”

“Hell if I know…looked like a missile came out of the blue.  I didn’t see it launch.”

“I think Ivan’s got himself a drone, sir,” said Pinner’s voice.  It sounded like he was running.

“Christ.  All right—fall back to the bridge.  We gotta get north of them and cut off their access to the rest of the island.  Let’s haul the mail, boys!”

“Hooah,” replied Pinner’s deep voice.  “I’m almost there.”

Erik coughed again and got to his feet.  “I’m on the move.”  As he turned to begin his run north, he saw a glint in the sky to the south.

“They do have a drone…”  As he watched, a missile was deployed, the white exhaust trail snaking down to the ground on the other side of the ambush area.  The ground trembled beneath his feet and a plume of smoke and dust erupted over the treetops to the south.  A thunderclap drowned out the sounds of the skirmish.  He sprinted north and warned his squad-mates of the drone as he entered the treeline.

The North Courtenay Parkway Bridge, just north of A-1A, was the only reasonable access point for the Russians to reach KSC.  It was only a few blocks north of the ambush site, but Ted had guessed that the local militia would slow down the invaders just enough for the three soldiers to set a booby-trap.

Erik hoped they had enough time.  He sprinted across a McDonald’s parking lot and straight up the middle of Courtenay, relishing the shade as he crossed under A-1A’s overpass.  Ted waved at him from the north side of the Courtenay Bridge.

“Hurry up, sir,” warned Pinner’s voice in Erik’s ear.  “I see some Russian foot-mobiles at the McDonald’s behind you.  I think they’re trying to secure the bridge for the rest of the column.”

Erik didn’t bother to reply but put all his energy into getting his ass across the drawbridge.  He did his best to ignore the burning in his chest and focus on the hollow sounds his boots made as he galloped across the steel middle section of the two-lane northbound drawbridge.  A rifle shot behind him told him that the Russians had a visual.

Go, go, don’t look back, just run!  A round exploded one of the windows of the bridge control tower in the middle of the river.  Erik ducked the falling glass and ran for his life across the second half of the bridge.

“Just keep moving, man—we’ve got you covered.  Light ‘em up, Pinner!”

Erik flinched again as twin rifle shots rang out—this time from in front.  Another ricochet sounded behind him, way too close for comfort.  He continued his mad dash across the bridge and didn’t stop running until he passed the end of the guardrails on the north shore and collapsed into a dense copse of trees.

Pinner leaned out around the largest tree and pulled Erik behind better cover.  Then he carefully raised his M4 and fired off another shot.  He looked down at Erik and grinned.  “I got Viking, Bulldog.  Bridge is clear.”

“Good—All right, here goes nothing.  I hope these locals know what the hell they’re doing.  Blowing the bridge in three, two, one…”

“Open your mouth!” Pinner said as he turned away from the bridge and cupped his ears.

Erik closed his eyes and opened his mouth.  The next thing he knew, it felt like he was flying.  Then he was on his back and the world was reduced to a high-pitched ringing.  He coughed some more and cracked an eye open.

Sergeant Pinner was on his knees, coughing, but gave him the thumbs-up.  A massive cloud of dust was drifting north and billowing up into the sky.  It blotted out the afternoon sun ushering in an early twilight.  Erik could see bits of debris falling from the sky all around them, splashing into the calm Canaveral Barge Canal.

“Good Lord,” Erik said, coughing.  He rolled over to his hands and knees and tried to get up.

“Well,” said Pinner, leaning against the tree.  “I think that shut down the bridge for a while.”

“Oorah!” roared Ted’s voice over their radios.  He laughed and coughed.  “These rednecks know how to party!  Holy shit, that was awesome! I never expected a home-brew to go up like that!”

Erik shook his head to clear his thoughts.  He started to feel a bit light-headed and his hands shook.  The last time he’d felt so out of sorts had been in the parking lot back home at the Freehold, when he’d killed the escaped prisoner that had tried to attack Brin and Susan…

He ignored the excited chatter that was going back and forth between Ted and Pinner.  His mind was telling him he still wasn’t safe, despite the fact that the Russians milling around on the south back of the canal could do nothing at the moment to reach them other than take pot-shots with their rifles.  God I just want to leave…run north with Brin…

The drone.

Those two little words shot through his spinning mind like lightning and he was suddenly on high-alert.

“Where’s the Matvee, Pinner?  They got a drone in the air—I spotted it before we beat feet here.  We gotta get the hell out of here before that thing takes us out.  They’ll be looking for blood, now.”  Ted’s voice had a distinct urgency to it.

Pinner’s smile vanished.  “I stashed it over that hill there.”  He turned to Erik and helped him to his feet.  “Let’s go get the Major.”

CHAPTER 4

Wolverines!

ROB GUNN WIPED SWEAT from his forehead with the back of his hand and exhaled.  He adjusted the hat on his head and said, “All right boys, one last heave ought to do it.  On three.”  He took one more look at his work crew.  “Ready?”

“Let’s do this, I’m hungry,” said Nate Godfrey.

Rob grunted.  “One…two…three!”  The six-man team groaned and strained as one and the heavy pine log they had  man-handled all afternoon finally settled into place at the top of Redoubt #4 and nestled tight.  Most of the team dropped to the ground and gave weak cheers.

Rob leaned against the stout wall, now a good two feet higher than his head and tried to catch his breath.  I’m getting too old for this shit, he told himself.  He sighed and knuckled his aching lower back.  The coolness of the fresh-fallen wood was a welcome relief to his forehead.

Makes a nice patch of shade too.  He stood back and thumped the wall with his gloved fist.  The sound was dense and firm.  Ought to be.  Each log was at least two feet thick, good strong Arizona Scots Pines.

He nodded to himself.  His eyes roamed the length of the redoubt, as it appeared to grow from the side of the mountain, curved south and again to the west.  Put a walkway along the back of the wall and a man could stand up and shoot over the top, drop down to the ground and he’s invisible.  He slapped the wall again. It’d take a tank to bust through these logs.

“Break time yet?” asked a hopeful voice from the other side of the redoubt.

Rob grinned.  “You read my mind.”  He took off his Stetson and looked up into the azure sky through the gently swaying pines that soared above.  “Close enough to lunch time for us to rustle up some chow.  C’mon boys.”

Nate whooped and Rob could hear the amiable chatter of the work crew as they gathered weapons and prepared to hike back up slope to HQ.  He followed them for about a hundred feet then turned around to examine their work.  From up here, the wall looked sturdy and strong as hell.  He nodded again.  Anyone approaching their mountain stronghold from the south, east, or west, would be funneled by the landscape through this area.  Redoubt #3 was directly opposite #4 on the next ridge.  Through the pines he could clearly see the wooden structure they had finished the day before yesterday.

“Yup,” he said to himself.  “Ol’ Charlie comes after us up here, he’s gonna be in for a world of hurt.”

Rob turned and headed back up the mountain, his Winchester slung over his right shoulder.  He was just starting to enjoy the serenity of the alpine woods and his brief solitude—the others had already crested the ridge and disappeared from his view—when his radio broke squelch.

“One, this is HQ.  What’s your twenty?”

Rob paused and leaned against a pine tree as he fished the radio off his belt.  He casually looked back down slope through the pines toward the redoubts.  “Almost back to the ranch.  What’s up?”

“Two spotted some strangers on the south 40.  Descriptions match our friends from last week.”

Rob turned and started up the hill with a renewed strength.  Strangers.  It had been Lance’s idea to come up with a code name for the Chinese army that was making its way deeper into Arizona.  Strangers seemed as good as any and wouldn’t necessarily tip anyone listening in as to who the Regulators were referring to in their radio transmissions.

“Numbers?” he asked, trying hard not to gasp for breath as he finally reached the top of the ridge.  Before him stretched a broad flat piece of mountain side, where he and Lance had built a hunting cabin in their mis-spent youth.  That cabin, in the past month, had been transformed into the Regulators new base of operations—a fortress.  The Redoubts downslope were just another layer of defenses he had set up to secure HQ from the Chinese.

“Unit Two reports there are at least ten.  Maybe twelve.  I have RAF-3 standing by…”

“Do it—I’ll be at HQ in a second.”  He jogged over toward the main entrance to HQ and thought about who was on the Rapid Action Force.    No weak links that he could think of—good men, all of them.

He pushed open the main door and rushed to the rear of the cabin in order to find the radio room.  Inside, Jerry Baersfeld was sitting at the terminal, one hand cupped the large earphones on his head, the other resting on the transmit button of a desk microphone.  Rob got a nod and moved over toward the map tacked to the unfinished pine wall.

The location of the Regulators’ HQ was marked by a red dot on the broken northern face of the Red Rock Mountain.  Defensive zones were penciled in where the landscape would force anyone approaching into certain areas.  The Redoubts were marked at intersections of natural paths with those funnels, making convenient choke-points.  The Regulators had created a network of deer-paths that crisscrossed the mountain for the Rapid Action Forces to use.  They could reach just about any spot in the area the Regulators controlled in a matter of minutes on foot.

The South 40 was also penciled in on the map, the buffer zone Rob had created as a catchall for describing the dense woodland wilderness just outside the first line of defense at the base of the valley.

Jerry glanced at Rob and put his finger on the map.  “Roger that, RAF-3, you are clear to the border,” he said into the mic.

Rob nodded.  He leaned the Winchester against the desk and sat on the edge.  He twirled a finger in the air.  “Let’s hear it.”

After Jerry flipped a switch and the speakers in the room piped the words of the leader of RAF-3 into the air.  Jerry removed his headset and rubbed his ears.

“Okay, radio silence all units.  RAF-3 has the floor.”

Rob and Jerry waited in silence for a few tense minutes as the response team maneuvered into position.  He glanced at the map.  He hated being stuck here while his men were out sneaking up on the Chinese.  He didn’t feel too old for that shit.  But, it had been one of the stipulations he’d been forced to make when the Regulators re-elected him their war chief.  He was barred from personal engagements—the men viewed him as irreplaceable.

“Where’s Lance and his patrol?” asked Rob.

Jerry pointed to the south ridge.  “He checked in here.  I suggested RAF-3 set up there,” he shifted his finger to the eastern ridge across a narrow stream.  “This spot is the high ground and they’ll get a good crossfire going.   We’ll see,” he said with a shrug.

“Sounds good.  It’s what I would have done.”

“HQ,” whispered the team leader.  “I got a visual on Two and his boys.  No sign of…”  The voice paused.  “Wait a minute…yeah, there they are.”

“Can you confirm numbers?” asked Jerry.

“Yeah—definitely twelve that I can see.”

Rob leaned over the mic and pushed the transmit button: “RAF-3, this is One.  Can you pull it off?”

There was no hesitation: “Hell yes.”

“Then have at ‘em.”

“Roger that HQ.  Moving to intercept.”

Rob paced the floor of the little room for a few minutes like a caged animal.  Jerry finally turned and looked up at his commander.  “You want to be out there, huh?” he said with a jerk of his head towards the map.  “Dude, just go.”

Rob paused and stared at Jerry.  “I can’t stay in here while they—”

“I never saw you, man,” replied Jerry with a smile.  He turned back to the radio.

Rob grinned.  He grabbed the Winchester and bolted for the door.  If he took the upper path, he could cut across the Regulator compound and come up from behind Lance, on a higher ridge, and get a good view—if not participate—in the ambush.  He ran as fast as he could for the deer trail.  A quick glance at his watch and some mental map-checking—yup, he’d only have a few minutes…

PO SIN LICKED HIS lips and replaced the cigarette in his mouth.  He drew in and exhaled the pungent smoke that he knew his one-time friend despised.  He couldn’t help but grin.  Everything was going as planned.

“Are you certain of this?” asked Shin Ho, now Undersecretary to the Supreme Leader, himself.  He narrowed his eyes and looked over the top of the report in his pudgy little hands.

Po Sin bowed his head.  “Yes.  It is all there in the report.  I have confirmed the information myself.  Our Expeditionary Force has completely breached the border and is moving north on schedule.”

“Not completely on schedule, I see.”

Po Sin frowned.  He removed the cigarette from his mouth and flicked the ash into the provided ashtray.  He glanced down at the specks of ash that landed on the Undersecretary’s desk before answering.  “What you refer to is just a minor hiccup.  A scouting party was lost—”

“The deaths of fifty-two men and the loss of a dozen vehicles, all their weapons and gear…”  Now it was Shin Ho’s turn to frown.  “You call this a hiccup?”

Po Sin spread his hands, cigarette dangling from his mouth.  “Of course we mourn the loss of so many men—the place they had stopped at was evidently booby-trapped.  We had not expected such cowardice from the Americans.  But, as I said, it was merely a scouting platoon.  This minor tragedy has had no effect whatsoever on the rest of the Expedition.  We are on schedule and have removed the bulk of the fighting forces across the border into Arizona.”

“This supply line is awful long, Po Sin,” said Shin Ho, idly waving at the smoke that was clouding his office.  He laid the paper down on the desk and tapped it with a bejeweled finger.  “Do you think it wise to bring so much materiel through open desert like this?”

Po Sin nodded.  “There is an element of risk, yes.  But we have analyzed all threats and have come to the conclusion that this route not only provides the most safety for our personnel, but also the fastest—resistance-free—route into the underbelly of America.”  He pulled a map out of his own file and handed it to Shin Ho.  “As you can see here, now that we have gained a foothold in Nogales, we can funnel everything north and west.  We will use the American highway system to ship our forces straight across Arizona and California.”

Shin Ho sighed.  “I’m to meet with the Russians this evening.  They’re going to want to know the timetable going forward.”

“Ah yes—tell me, are they having much success with their little adventure in…where was it that they landed?  Georgia?”

“Florida.”

“Ah,” said Po Sin.  “I visited Florida last year on vacation.  Wonderful place.  Completely infested with tourists, but some of the most beautiful beaches I have ever seen.”

“Indeed,” said the Undersecretary through a frown.  “They have taken control of Miami with the help of our Cuban friends and are pushing north.  Their aim is to use Florida as a springboard to the heart of the American South. Now…The timetable?”

“Of course,” said Po Sin.  Arrogant snot.  You will not long sit that chair, I promise you.  He smiled and handed over another document from his file.  “We’re going ahead with Phase Two.  The next wave of supply ships and troop transports will be leaving Dinghai at dawn.  Estimated arrival is two weeks, barring any major storms or naval engagements.  The Navy will be conducting offensives around Hawaii, which should keep America’s attention long enough for the task force to slip past.”

“And you think the Expeditionary Force can cut through Arizona and California and reach the coast in two weeks?”

Po Sin adjusted his glasses to hide his anger.  “Sir, have we not crossed half of Mexico—through inhospitable desert, I might add—breached the border and brought an entire army into the United States, virtually undetected?  And we did all that in less than two weeks.”  He shook his head.  “No, the American people are scared and hiding—the ones that have survived the starvation and gang wars, that is.  Their own people are tearing the nation apart and their government is all but helpless to respond, especially now that President Reed is dead.”  He chuckled.  “That was an unexpected stroke of good fortune.”

“Yes, you must see that it is not wasted.”

Po Sin nodded in submission. “Of course, Undersecretary.  To that end, I believe we should open a dialog with Mr. Suthby—”

Shin Ho looked confused.  “A cabinet official?”

“True, he was the Director of their Emergency Management Agency—but now he is de-facto President.  An alliance with him could prove…useful.  I believe he will not be unwilling to cooperate with us.”

The Undersecretary leaned back in his chair to the sound of squealing hinges.  He steepled his fingers in thought and looked at the ceiling.  “We could send out feelers to our Senators and Congressmen.  Perhaps they can do something to get Mr. Suthby to agree to a non-aggression pact?”

“After we take Southern California, of course,” prompted Po Sin.  Everything hinged on gaining access to a deep-water port like San Diego or Los Angeles.

“Of course,” said the Shin Ho, absently waving his hand.  “I like this idea, my friend.  If we can help to establish Suthby as the legitimate ruler he’ll be even more inclined to leave us to our own devices.”

“After all,” said Po Sin in agreement.  “He has to contend with Russia and the U.N. invading the East Coast.”

The Supreme Leader let his chair return him upright and place both hands on his desk.  He fixed Po Sin with a dangerous stare.  “Po Sin, I’m going to trust you on this and report what you have told me to the Supreme Leader.  You are sure this plan will work as conceived?  I don’t think I need to remind you of the consequences of failure.”

“Absolutely.”

“Very good.”  The Undersecretary stood.

Po Sin scrambled to his feet and quickly stuffed the remaining files into his expensive Italian attaché case.  He bowed.

“See to your conquest, Po Sin.  And thank you.”

“Of course, sir.”  He turned and started to walk out of the room, exhaling more smoke in his wake.

“Oh, and Po Sin?” called out Shin Ho, already re-seated and shuffling through papers on his desk.

“Sir?” Po Sin asked with a smile on his face as he paused at the door to the Party Undersecretary’s palatial office.

“Don’t ever smoke in here again.”  He looked up and fixed Po Sin with a gaze that sent a chill down the Army Chief’s spine.

So you have claws after all?  Well…I’ll deal with you soon enough, he thought.

Out loud he said, “As you wish, sir.”

ROB COLLAPSED JUST BEHIND the brush-covered crest of the last ridge overlooking the ambush site.  His heart thundered in his chest, sweat poured down his neck, and he was dangerously out of breath, but he had arrived before the ambush.

“Two, you in position?” his radio squawked.

Rob adjusted the volume of the ear piece and closed his eyes, trying to calm his heart rate and catch his breath.  He worked the action of his Winchester as he lay on his back, sucking in a lungful of the thin mountain air.

I am getting too old for this shit.  He frowned.  Even his thoughts came in gasps.

“Roger.  I see you, RAF-3.  The strangers are moving up the ravine to your right.  See the lead man?  Sounds like a moose in heat…”

A tinny chuckle played out in Rob’s ear.  “Yup, I see ‘em.  Alright boys, you know the drill.  Get in positions.”

Rob keyed his mic.  “RAF-3, Two, this is One.  I’m in position on the north ridge, your left flank.  I’ll provide overwatch support.”

“Dammit, One, what the hell are you doing out here?”  Lance’s voice was sharp, but Rob could well imagine the smile on his old friend’s face.

“Heard there was a party about to go down and I didn’t want to miss out on any fun…”

“Well, glad to have you, One.  You want to make the call?”

Rob peeked over the ridge.  He could see the members of RAF-3 spread out along the far ridge.  His gaze shifted down and soon he was able to spot a few of Lance’s men.  But there was no sign of his friend and second-in-command.

“Negative, RAF-3.  I’m here to support.  You boys run the show.”

“Roger that, One,” the team leader whispered.  “All right, people, stay frosty, they’re coming in to range.  Two, we move on your call.”

“Stand by…I’ll give you a signal…” replied Lance’s voice in a hushed tone.

Rob raised his old Winchester and took aim at the third Chinese soldier emerging from the ravine.  “Come on, Lance…give us a shout or something…” he muttered.  He could imagine the other Regulators thinking the same thing as they all picked targets and began tracking.  The longer Lance waited, the more Chinese moved into the open, but the greater the chance someone would miss an easy shot.  The Regulators were not, as a rule, young bucks right out of the service anymore.

Movement caught Rob’s eye and he unconsciously followed it—Lance stood up out of his hiding spot almost directly below Rob’s position.  He was between two well-spaced large spruces and raised his carbine up in one hand.  There was no way the Chinese could avoid seeing him.

“WOLVERINES!!!!”

Rob had to force himself not to laugh out loud as he swung his gaze back on target.  Before he could twitch his trigger finger, shots rang out along the ridge and destroyed the silence of the forest.  Birds squawked and exploded from the conifer canopy above him.  There was time for two of the Chinese to shout in horror as the rest of the Regulators opened up.

Rob squeezed the trigger on his Winchester and the old warhorse bucked like a mule.  When his vision cleared, he noted with grim satisfaction that his target was down and not moving.  His radio erupted in combat chatter.

“—got a runner on the left flank, Tommy—take ‘im!”

“Got it—he ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“Watch your six! Two, there’s more coming up the ravine!”

“On it!”

“Reloading!”

“Pass me a spare mag, Four!”

“Dave’s hit!  He’s hit!”

Rob turned his attention to the remaining Chinese soldiers still on their feet.  One took aim and pulled his trigger just as Rob did.  He shoved his rifle aside and peered over the edge to see the invader slump against a tree and fall to the rocky soil clutching his chest.

“Nnnhhh…”

“RAF-3-Actual is hit!” someone called out, voice near panic-stricken.

Shit, thought Rob.  I was too late.

“Move, move, move!” called out Lance’s voice.  “The last one’s making a run for it!  Don’t let that bastard get away!”

A flurry of AR fire erupted at the far end of the ambush site.  Shortly, silence returned to the forest, broken only by the screaming and moaning of the wounded.  Rob stood up and called out, “All clear, hold your fire—RAF-3 move in to check for survivors.”

“Roger that, One.  3-Actual is down, repeat, 3-Actual is down. I’m taking the rest of the team down to check ‘em out.”

“I need some help over here!  Dave’s bleeding out!”

Rob gingerly worked his way downslope as he listened to Lance take charge of the battlefield and coordinate the rescue of wounded Regulators.  Each patrol and RAF team had two men who carried a medic load-out.  Rob was grateful they had implemented that rule, as he listened to the gruesome screams of his men over the radio.

Once at the base of the ridge, he called out, “How we doin’, RAF-3?  We clear?”

“Roger that, One.  All strangers are sleeping and accounted for.”

An engine echoed off the mountainside.  “HQ sent out the ATVs.  Everyone get ready to EVAC the wounded!” Rob hollered.  The Regulators jumped into action to prepare their fallen brothers for a bumpy ride back to base where they could be properly triaged.

Lance stepped out from behind a tree, his camo-painted face a mask of anger and relief.  Rob jumped a little at the sudden appearance of his friend.  “Jesus, Lance, you scared the shit out of me!”

Lance turned to watch the men round up the four wounded Regulators.  “We lost Dave and Willy.”

“Damn it.”

Lance nodded.  “Willy’s gonna be hard to replace, Rob.  Might want to rotate RAF-3 down for a while.”

Rob shook his head.  “We can’t.  This is the second probe these little bastards have sent our way in as many weeks.”

“Jesus, Rob, these guys had some serious battle rattle…” said a voice over the radio.

Rob and Lance turned around to see two men from the RAF team wave a little further down the ravine.  “We’re talking high-end rifles, some digital field gear, helmet cameras, full load-outs, grenades, and a bunch of other shit I can’t even identify.”

“Got a new sniper rifle for us over here,” called out another Regulator.  “Thermal scope, too!”

“Take it all.  Let’s hustle, boys.  I want this ravine cleared in thirty.  We were never here.  They were never here.  Got it?  We’ll sort out our new toys back at HQ.”  Rob turned to Lance and flashed a grin.  “Well, at least it was worth it.”

Lance nodded.  “You tell the widows, then.”  He turned and stalked off toward their new home.

CHAPTER 5

None Shall Pass

CAPTAIN DAVIS BRACED HIMSELF against the exterior railing along the exterior of the U.S.S. Theodore Roosevelt’s superstructure.  He watched as the relatively calm waters of the middle Atlantic rolled by at a leisurely 7 knots.  Hell, the usual roll of the deck was hardly noticeable.  He frowned.

Seven damn knots.  Sweet Jesus, we’re sitting ducks out here.

Roosevelt had been limping along ever since her last encounter with the Russians.  A tag-team of Russian fast attack boats had gotten close enough to sink one of the escort vessels with a massive loss of life and precious ammunition for his fighters.

He inhaled deep and tasted the salty air as he closed his eyes.  He pondered whether or not he could actually fall asleep on his feet just outside the hatch to the bridge.  The Old Man would simply love that.  Davis sighed and rubbed the fatigue from his eyes.  He was asking his sailors to work double—sometimes triple—shifts.  The least he could do would be to stand watch for a few doubles, dammit.

Not as young as them anymore, he groused, massaging the tight muscles of his lower back.

The speaker above his head chirped and the tinny voice of one of the young bucks announced end of shift.   Davis sighed again and took one last look at the endless expanse of blue-gray ocean.  It never seemed to end.  Far out to port, the Aegis cruiser Anzio jogged along, easily keeping pace with the wounded carrier.  Davis could almost feel the energy pent up in the little cruiser—as if it were a hunting dog straining at the leash with the scent of game.

He glanced forward where the bow of the distant vessel was plowing its sedate way through the sea.  That way…west…was home.

A groan of metal on metal alerted him to the presence of his XO, Commander Norman Jeffries as he opened the bridge hatch.  The younger man stepped up next to his captain and sighed.  Davis grinned and looked at his second-in-command out of the corner of his eye.

“The view does that to you, doesn’t it?” he asked.

Jeffries grunted.  “It does, indeed, sir.”  He turned to face Davis.  “Got a call from CHENG.  He says he’s almost got the circuitry rewired on the #2 cooling unit…he’s waiting for your go-ahead to start the test run.”

Davis’ eyes lit up.  “So that means—”

“CHENG says we should be good for at least 20 knots—maybe more—he’ll know when we spool up.”

Davis slapped his palm against the sea-slick railing.  “Hot damn!  Tell him to fire that sucker up.  Does the Old Man know?”

“I was about to tell him sir, but figured you’d want to personally.”

“Admiral on the bridge!” someone shouted from inside the command center through the open hatch.

“Guess that’s now,” muttered Davis.  He clapped his XO on the shoulder.  “Get on the horn and get CHENG moving.  I want that speed and I want it now.”

“Aye, sir.”  Jeffries nodded and ducked back into the Bridge.  Davis followed him.

“Well, what’s the deal?  This tin can is stirred up like a nest of hornets down below,” called out Admiral Nella over the top of his coffee mug.

Captain Davis walked closer to his commanding officer and smiled.  “My Chief Engineer informed me that he’s ready to restart Reactor 2.  The circuitry has been rerouted from the damage caused by the nuke strike—”

The Old Man’s eyebrows arched.  “Cut the techno-bullshit.  What speed can he give us?”

“Best guess right now—20 knots.  Maybe more.  We’ll know when we get moving, sir.”

“Son of a bitch, that’s the best news I’ve heard since the Pope died.”

Davis chuckled.  “Yes, sir.  We should know any minute now when he’s ready to start the test.”  He turned to the communications officer of the watch.  “Comms, get the word out to the fleet we’re about to start reactor trials.  Maintain course but be prepared for variable speed.”

“Helm, aye,” said the young man at the ship’s helm.

The comms officer of the watch relayed the message to another junior seaman who exited the bridge, heading for the signal station outside.  From there, Davis knew, his message would be relayed to the nearest vessels of the fleet via WW2-era light code.  Those vessels would in turn relay it to the outliers until everyone acknowledged.  It was primitive, time consuming, and more than a little ridiculous to his way of thinking, but in the absence of a miracle it was also the only way Roosevelt had to communicate with the rest of the Strike Group.

“Where are the subs?” asked The Old Man.  He took a sip of his coffee and glared at a screen behind the captain’s chair which displayed the locations of the Strike Group in real time.

Davis swiveled his seat and pointed at the very edge of the display.  “They were just out of range at last check-in. No threats sighted, just empty water.”

The speaker above his head chirped and the tinny voice of the ship’s Chief Engineer said, “Bridge, Engine Room.”

Davis grabbed the nearest microphone dangling from the ceiling and held it to his mouth.  “Bridge, aye.”

“We’re ready when you are, sir.  Reactor 2 is spooled up, the cooling system is holding…new circuitry is reporting all systems are go.”

“Very well, Chief.  Let’s bring the props on-line.”

“Aye, aye, captain.”

The Captain got a nod from Admiral Nella and turned to face the rest of the bridge crew.   “All ahead one-half.”

“All ahead one-half, aye, sir,” replied the sailor manning the ship’s wheel.  He pushed the speed gauge forward.

Davis watched the closest read-out which showed the ship’s speed hover at 7 knots.  He felt a slight tremble—no more than the sigh of a baby, really—through his feet and the speed gauge began to rise.  10 knots…12…15…

He grabbed the microphone again.  “Engine Room, Bridge,” he called out, eyes on the speed gauge.

“Engine Room, aye.”

“How we holding up, Chief?” he asked, watching the speed rise to 19…and settle at 20 knots.

“She’s holding together just fine, sir.  Like a walk in the park.”

“What more can you give me?”

There was a slight pause before the chief engineer’s voice returned: “Ah, I’d say we’re good for at least 25 knots, sir.  If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep her there for a while and run a full diagnostic…just to be safe.”

“Twenty-five sounds fine.  Make it happen, Chief.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Davis replaced the mic in its ceiling-mounted cradle and turned to the Admiral.  The Old Man wore a smile from ear to ear.

“Now this is more like it!”  He stomped his foot on the deck.  “Finally feel the old girl come alive again…poor thing wasn’t meant to move so slow.”

“No, sir,” agreed Davis.  He felt a smile spread across his own face.

The junior seaman sent to relay the Captain’s message to the fleet burst into the room, his uniform wet with salt-spray.  “Sir!” he called out.  “Message from the Anzio—contact reported from the Hampton bearing 1-7-9, range 290 miles.”

Davis turned to his Air Boss and said, “Get me something.”

“Hawkeye is reporting…” the carrier’s fighter wing commander said, peering at a display.  “Looks like seven surface contacts.  I’ve got the Hawks in the air now.  I’ll reroute.”

LIEUTENANT COMMANDER RIGGS PULLED his F-35C Lightning II into a tight turn and adjusted his course to intercept unknown surface contacts.  He checked his fuel gauge and weapons status screens to make sure his plane was in prime condition for combat.  His squadron was out over the open ocean in the middle of the Atlantic, flying air patrol over Roosevelt’s Strike Group and he was going to take no chances.

“Hawk Lead, Two,” said, his wingman, Jonesy.

“Yeah, Two,” he replied.

“You see what I’m seein’ down there?  One O’clock low.”

Riggs rolled his Lightning to starboard to get a better look.  The vast expanse of gray-blue ocean rolled smoothly under his cock-pit canopy and he quietly savored the simple joy of flight for a brief moment.  Then the little fleet Jonesy had pointed out brought his focus back to target.  Nine targets, to be exact.

He scanned his instrument displays—no threats, no radar signatures.  Whoever the hell they were, they weren’t targeting him or his squadron.  That was one tick in their favor.  If they had so much as farted in his direction, he would have pounced.  Standing orders were to destroy any and all threats—no questions asked.

He sighed.  “Well, Jonesy, let’s have us a look-see.”  Riggs switched back to the inter-squadron frequency.  “Hawks, Hawk Lead.  Maintain CAP over these jokers.  Me and Jonesy are going down for a closer look.”

When the rest of the squadron radioed in to confirm his orders, Riggs looked out his cockpit to port and saw his wingman looking back at him from his own F-35C.  Damn graceful plane, to Riggs’ mind.  The Lockheed Martin Lightning II was 51 feet of fuel efficiency, stealth capability and lethal response.  It flew like a greased Corvette and handled like it owned the sky.

“After you,” said Jonesy.  He waved.

Riggs grinned and put his jet into a steep starboard roll that transitioned expertly into a dive.  Whoever was on these ships was about to get a free demonstration of American air power.  About three miles out, he dropped down and skimmed the ocean at sixty feet off the deck.  Outside his canopy, the wind roared and the slate gray ocean whipped past.  He checked his rear-view mirrors and smiled behind his oxygen mask as he saw the great rooster-tail of sea-spray cascading up into the air behind him.

“I’ll take port, you take starboard.”

“Roger that,” replied Jonesy.

“And…split,” Riggs said.  He and Jonesy pulled in opposite directions and the two jets screamed past the little fleet, enveloping the gray ships in a wall of kicked-up spray.  They crossed paths and looped around behind the fleet.

“This is United States Naval aircraft on your stern,” he called out on the international maritime frequencies.  He casually looped wide of the fleet as it steamed southwest.  The collection of rusty merchant vessels and one small cruise ship was on an intercept course with the Roosevelt Strike Group.

No response.

He rolled to port and felt the delicious pull of gravity as he looped around now in front of the rag-tag fleet and noted with satisfaction the small glint of light off Jonesy’s cockpit canopy—his wingman was doing the exact same maneuver, only behind the ships.  They were two sharks circling a potential meal.  He knew without looking the rest of his squadron was circling out of sight overhead waiting to drop the hammer should this fleet pose any threat.

“I say again,” he called out, switching frequencies to the lower end of the common channels—used mostly by pirates and third-world navies.  “This is United States Naval aircraft your port side.  Can you read me, over?”

“Da,” crackled a static-filled voice over Riggs’s helmet.  He instinctively turned his head to follow the ships as they swam past his field of view.  He rolled the plane again and began another loop around the fleet, gaining a little altitude.  He saw Jonesy follow his lead in the distance, his wingman’s Lightning looked like a model.

“We hear you!”

Riggs grinned.  “You are dangerously close to entering restricted waters.  Turn your fleet to bearing oh-niner-five, over.”

“Nyet,” the voice said and barked a laugh.  “This we will not do, American.”

“Hey I got flags going up on the sterns, man,” called out Jonesy.  “I see Russia, France…I think that’s Germany…looks like—is that Liberia?”  It was Jonesy’s turn to laugh.  “What the hell is this?  Amateur hour?”

“I am warning you one last time, you are about to enter restricted waters.  I have authorization to fire on your vessels if you do not turn back.”  Riggs was beginning to lose his patience.  He pulled back on the stick and took his Lightning up to a decent attack level, about a thousand feet.  He scanned his weapons displays.  His full complement of missiles was in the green, locked and loaded. Unfortunately, since his flight was CAP at the moment, his missiles were all designed to take out enemy aircraft.  He mentally shrugged.  A target was a target.  The missiles shouldn’t have any problem hitting a slow moving ship.

“We are unarmed vessels of peace,” the suddenly frantic voice called out.  The man pronounced it “wessels”.

The thick Russian accent made Riggs frown.  He still had a score to settle with Ivan over the sinking of the Coral Sea.

“We have no weapons—we come to protest the illegal and unjustified destruction of—”

“Jesus,” said Jonesy, cutting in on the private frequency.  “They’re peace-freaks, for cryin’ out loud.  Don’t they know they’re about to get their asses shot off?”

Riggs silenced the still yapping Russian and signaled Roosevelt.  “Nest, Hawk Lead, how copy?”

“Nest copies all, go ahead, Hawk Lead.”

Riggs glanced down at the little collection of toy boats on the ocean surface a thousand feet below.  The long white wakes spread out for a mile.  Something was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.  He trusted his instinct—it had saved his ass more times than he could remember.

“Nest, please advise—got a surface fleet of nine, repeat niner civilian vessels.  Mostly rust buckets and one cruise ship, all displaying flags from different countries.  Russia, France, Germany…Liberia,” he said trying not to laugh.  “In contact with a Russian captain.  They refuse to alter course and claim they are international protesters.”

“Wait one, Hawk Lead.”

“Roger that,” replied Riggs.  He turned his Lighting into a slow, gradual turn around the fleet.

“—sanctioned by the United Nations, you cannot interfere with our mission—” screeched the Russian.  “I say again, this is MV Dolstoy, Captain Zhorah Karbonenko—”

Riggs rolled his eyes and double-checked the location of his squadron on his GPS display.  There they were, a pack of hungry wolves patrolling the sky.  At his signal they would rain down death and destruction from on high—poor bastards down there in those garbage-scows would never see it coming.  That was a lot of power to command.

“Hawk Lead, Nest.”

“Roger Nest, go ahead,” he said.  He scanned his threat boards—still nothing.  The fleet either didn’t have any weapons systems or they were clever about hiding them.

“What’s your fuel status?”

Riggs checked his fuel gauge.  “Twenty mikes TOT.”

“Roger that, Hawk Lead.  Maintain your position.  We’re sending Hammer flight to back you up.  In the meantime, warn your new friends again—and keep an eye a few miles ahead of them.  Nest out.”

His curiosity piqued, Riggs shrugged again and started another lap over the fleet.  “Dolstoy, this is Hawk Lead, turn back, turn back, turn back.  This is your final warning.”

“Nyet.  You Americans have no right to order us to change course—we are international vessels in international waters—”

“Holy shit!” called out Jonesy.  “Look at that!  Two miles off their bows.”

Riggs glanced where Jonesy indicated and felt a smile spread over his face.  A dark shape had materialized out of the ocean like a watery ghost.  “Hampton,” said Riggs.  He shook his head.  That ought to make those captains want to change their pants.

“Dolstoy, you see what’s about two miles dead-ahead?”

There was a pause—Riggs imagined frantic sailors and merchantmen pointing and waving binoculars at the sail and upper hull of the sleek attack sub bearing down on them.

“Da…we see your submarine.”

“What you are looking at is your absolute last warning.  Be sure to spread the word to your friends—that is the U.S.S. Hampton, a Los Angeles-class nuclear submarine, one the finest in the world.  And she’s heading straight for you with orders to sink your little fleet if you approach any closer, over.”

Captain Karbonenko laughed.  “You do not frighten me, Yankee cowboy.”

Riggs frowned.  “You ever play chicken with the Reaper?”

“You ever play roulette with a Russian?”

“They’ll turn,” said Jonesy’s voice.  Riggs didn’t detect much confidence in his wingman’s words, though.

Riggs watched as the nine ships steamed forward, holding their course and heading straight for the slowly advancing Hampton.

CAPTAIN DAVIS WATCHED ADMIRAL Nella Admiral rub his chin in thought.  They were deep inside Roosevelt’s island, in the Combat Information Center.  The carrier’s war room was kept in perpetual semi-darkness.  Davis rubbed his eyes to fight his fatigue, but he worried it was a losing battle.

“What do you think, sir?”

The Admiral stared at the threat board and watched the progress of the foreign ships as tracked by the E-2D Hawkeye now on station.  “Umbris has his orders.”

A chill slithered down Davis’ spine.  Commander Umbris, Hampton’s skipper, was a man known to follow his orders to the letter.  But even the most unyielding of men had to balk at firing on unarmed civilian vessels.

“I know,” said the Admiral in a quiet voice as if reading his carrier captain’s mind.  “Will he do it?  Sink civilians?”

Davis knuckled his back.  He stifled a yawn and focused on the tactical display that depicted the locations of his squadrons.  One circled Roosevelt itself.  The ground-attack planes were on station over the foreign fleet and the interceptors—quickly running low on fuel—were still there as well.

“Nest, Hawk Lead—they’re not turning aside…” warned the voice of Lt. Cmdr. Riggs, one of his best pilots.

“Crazy bastards,” muttered Davis.

“They’ll turn,” said the Admiral.  “Or Umbris will put ‘em on the bottom of the ocean.  Either way, our problem will be solved.”

Roosevelt’s captain couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right about this situation.  “Sir, have you considered the possibility that this is a trap?”

The Admiral grunted.  He was quiet a moment, then nodded and spoke: “Yes, I have.  If so, they’re going to be disappointed.  I’m not splitting the Strike Group—not sending Anzio out to intercept.  We’re going to stick together and bull our way through this…whatever it is.”  He reached up and pointed at the floor-to-ceiling digital threat display.  “If they’re up to something, I think two squadrons of F-35’s and Hampton are more than enough to wipe this little fleet off the map.”

“Torpedo in the water!” called out a seaman at the carrier’s defensive control center.  “Hampton’s got a fish in the water, sirs.”

HAWK LEAD, YOU SEEIN’ this?” called out Jonesy’s voice.  “I got a torpedo in the water—Hampton’s firing on them!”

“Christ,” muttered Riggs.  He pulled his Lightning into a gradual turn to starboard so he could get a better view.  Sure enough, a long white snake was inching its way towards the little fleet.  From this altitude, Hampton looked more like a shark than a submarine.

“You are firing at us!” screamed the Russian captain’s voice.  “We have not provoked—”

The torpedo found its mark and the first ship in the fleet, the one flying the French flag, seemed to stop in its tracks—as if it had run into an invisible wall in the ocean.  A fireball emerged from the bow and obliterated the front section of the ship.  Riggs was amazed to see chunks of steel and decking splash into the water around the front of the doomed ship.

“Nest, Hampton has engaged.  First ship has been hit.  Repeat, Hampton has engaged.  Please advise,” Riggs said into his mic.  He was not relishing firing on the unarmed merchant vessels—especially that cruise ship—but the stubborn bastards were deliberately calling the Old Man’s bluff.

Stupid.

After a brief pause in which Riggs could only hear the whistling of the wind and the whoosh of his on-board oxygen system, his radio broke squelch: “Hawk Lead, Nest, you are weapons-free to engage enemy targets.  Hammer Flight is on your six O’clock high and will be on station in ten, over.”

“Hawk Lead copies all, out.”  He switched to his squadron frequency.  “All right Hawks, you heard the man, weapons-free.  Call your targets.  Let’s get this over with and go home.”

“I don’t like this man,” said Jonesy as he formed up off Riggs’s wingtip for their attack run.

Riggs looked out the cockpit to his wingman’s plane and nodded.  “I don’t either.”  He watched as Jonesy opened the missile bay doors and two heat-seeking anti-aircraft missiles emerged from the belly of his stealth fighter.  Riggs flipped the switch to arm his own missiles and heard the electric motors whine as he prepared for combat.

Below, Hampton had fired three more torpedoes.  Two had already found their marks.  Three ships were on fire—the French vessel was already half under the waves.  There were people in the water now and a few life rafts.

“Please stop this!  We are not armed—this is a violation of international—”

Riggs angrily silenced his radio.  He set his jaw and ordered his squadron to attack.

“This is not cool…” said Jonesy.

“Cut the chatter, Two,” Riggs said, immediately regretting his tone.  Jonesy deserved better than that.  In a more controlled voice, Riggs added, “Remember, Hawks, these jokers—their countries—have declared war on us.  They have deliberately attacked us and killed our people—your shipmates, your fellow aviators.  Your brothers in arms.  These guys are trying to get in front of the Big Stick to slow us down, to keep us from getting home.  Remember that,” he said, adjusting the settings on his wildly chirping targeting computer.  Damn thing was trying to tell him he was not targeting an aircraft, as if he didn’t know.

The cross-hairs turned red.  “These assholes may not be armed, but they are just as dangerous as their buddies.  The Old Man said nothing was going to stop us from getting home.  That’s just too damn bad for Ivan down there.”  His computer stopped chirping and began to buzz.

“I’ve got tone.  Hawk Lead, fox two!”  He pulled the trigger and felt the slight tremble as the first missile was loosed and shot forward like a smoke-trailing arrow toward the biggest target below—the cruise liner.

“Hawk Two, fox two!”

A chorus of missile launch alerts filled his headset.  He saw white streaks appear in the sky from all directions as the squadron of Lightings tightened the noose on the fleet below.  Riggs saw his missile detonate against the smoke stack of the cruise ship in a ball of fire.  He closed his eyes and prayed for forgiveness then begged for the strength to do what had to be done.  Jaw clenched in frustration, he fired another missile into the hapless, dying fleet of “protesters”.

This is murder.

CHAPTER 6

Assuming Command

MALCOLM STEPPED FROM THE armored car and let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting in the underground parking garage.  He stretched and felt a wonderful crack in his lower back.  It had been a long, tiresome journey, driving from Montreal to New York under cover of darkness these last few days.

His enormous bodyguard, Yossef frowned at their accommodations and walked around the car, looking for anything out of the ordinary.  “It appears safe, Malcolm,” he said, his voice deep as the Hudson River.

Malcolm yawned and collected his briefcase.  He had spent the car ride—and the downtime at safe houses during the day—making plans for New York.  The Brotherhood’s last major city had to be held at all costs.  His deal with the U.N. Secretary-General—his dream for America—depended on keeping New York free.

“There is no one to meet you.”  The disgust in Yossef’s voice was clear as day.

“Yes, so it seems,” replied Malcolm.  He patted his doting guard on one massive arm and tried to smile through the anxiety.  Had something happened?  “Come,” he said, motioning towards the only illuminated door in the dark cavernous garage.  “Let’s see what we can find.”

“Malcolm, you are sure this is the right place?”

Malcolm grinned.  “I assure you, Yossef, we are in the right place.  This building is going to be my new headquarters.”

As they approached the door, Malcolm thought he could hear something.  Almost like a moan.  He paused, cocked his head and tried to listen.  “Do you hear something?” he whispered.

Next to him, he heard the rustle of fabric and slight click of the safety on Yossef’s sidearm.  The big man gently nudged Malcolm aside and made for the door, pistol out in front of him.  It looked like a toy in his massive hand.  “Stay back,” he rumbled.

Malcolm took a few more steps forward, not willing to alone in the near-darkness of the massive, empty garage.  It was childish to be fearful—he was a grown man—but nonetheless he felt safer as he grew closer to his mountain of a bodyguard.

Each step echoed in the garage.   The sound fought against a rhythmic thumping noise and definite moans that Malcolm could tell were emanating from the other side of the access door.  He stopped in his tracks the instant he knew what was going on and frowned.  Anger replaced anxiety and fear.  He walked forward with a purpose, catching Yossef before the bigger man had reached the door.

Without a word, Malcolm grabbed the door and flung it open.  A shriek of surprise mixed with a groan of pleasure as a well-endowed Sister—topless with her shorts around her ankles—tumbled forward onto the ground at Malcolm’s feet.

A skinny, mostly naked and sweaty Brother yelped and fell over backwards in a futile attempt to cover his nakedness and fell unceremoniously on his ass in the lit stairwell.

“The fuck, man!?” he yelled as he rubbed his ass and tried to yank his pants up.  He staggered to his feet and reached for his rifle, leaning casually against the cinder-block wall of the stairwell.

His erstwhile partner rose unsteadily to her knees and turned glassy, doe-like eyes on Malcolm.  She wobbled there and tried to reach for Malcolm.  “Ooh, hey baby…I was just finishing up…you want some too?” she said in a drug-induced sigh.

She rolled her eyes and giggled as Malcolm angrily swatted her groping hands away from his pants.

“What is the meaning of this…this outrage!?” roared Yossef.  He pointed his pistol at the now cowering man.

Footsteps echoed down the stairwell as Malcolm collected himself and gently pushed the wretched Sister out of his way.  She fell over on the hard concrete and giggled, sprawling on her back, exposing her nakedness even more.  He frowned and stepped past her, focusing on the erstwhile guard.

“Oh…oh, shit…you’re him!”

“Yes,” growled Yossef.  “Him.”

A sweaty man in spectacles barreled down the last flight of steps and staggered to a stop just short of the scene at the bottom.  “Oh no,” he moaned.

Malcolm’s face lit up.  “Samir!”  He reached out and embraced his regional commander in a hug of sincere friendship.  “My friend!  I am glad to see you well.”

Samir grimaced as he pulled back from his leader’s embrace.  “I apologize, Brother, this shameful—”

Malcolm waved him off.  To be honest, he was more tired than angry and just wanted some unbroken sleep.  But first he had to get a lay of the land.  “Think nothing of it.  I believe Yossef can ensure our friend will not be lax in his guard duties again,” he turned to Yossef.  “Am I correct?”

“You are,” said the mountain in a voice so low with menace the guard, still on the floor trying to dress himself with shaking hands, seemed to pale.  The half-naked woman threw up noisily and no one paid her any mind.

“Come, Brother, I want to take you to our command center…” Samir said, adjusting his glasses.  His brow was covered in a sheen of sweat.  “Such as it is.”

Malcolm followed his friend up the first flight of stairs.  He tried to ignore the sound of Yossef as he slugged the negligent guard.  The smaller man’s muffled cry of pain had no effect on Malcolm.

“What is the current situation?” he asked Samir.

“Get that woman covered up…” echoed Yossef’s voice as Malcolm and Samir passed the first level and continued to climb.  Another faint thud and then the only sound Malcolm heard was his own footsteps and Samir’s explanation.

“The Man has been sending in scouts all throughout the city.  We have found more than two dozen soldiers sneaking about.  Sadly, most have escaped.”

Malcolm nodded serenely—more so for Samir’s nerves than his own.  “I expected as much.  Now that Chicago has fallen, New York is our last major city in the North.  I have been out of communication with our Brothers and Sisters in the West and South—”

“Malcolm,” said Samir, pausing on the third floor landing.  “Before we go any further, let me express my sincere condolences on the loss of…on your loss.   Your brother will be missed.  He was a true hero of the faith.”

The flash of anger that flared to life in Malcolm’s soul was quenched just as quickly as it was born.  The genuine pain and sympathy in Samir’s eyes soothed Malcolm’s spirit.  He nodded and put a hand on Samir’s thin shoulder.

“Thank you Brother.  It means a great deal to me.  Tahru is with Allah now, enjoying his eternal reward.”

“Allah hu Akbar,” intoned Samir with bowed head.

“Allah akbar,” replied Malcolm solemnly.  He looked up and sniffed away a tear.  “Now,” he said with a worried glance up the stairwell.  “How many floors…?”

“Seven more, Brother.  Our engineers have been working on the elevators using ropes, pulleys and muscles.  We have no power and our fuel reserves are long since depleted.  We have candles at night and nothing more.”

Malcolm sighed.  How sad that the once mighty New York City could be reduced to such a…Medieval…state.  “Come,” he said with a friendly slap on Samir’s shoulder.  “Let us continue.  Please,” he said and gestured for Samir to lead on.  “What have you heard from our Brothers and Sisters elsewhere?”

Samir spoke over his shoulder in the darkened stairwell as they climbed, his voice struggling against the echoes of their shoes on the concrete steps.  “From the West, we have heard almost nothing—we are hopeful that means our forces are holding their own.  But the last news we had through the HAM network was that Los Angeles and much of Southern California has been reduced to ashes.”

“The fires,” nodded Malcolm.  “Yes, tragic.”

“Some say it was the hand of our Brown Brothers that started the fires.”

Malcolm frowned.  “Yes, I have heard.”  How much was true he did not know, but he was sure that Hakim and his friends had been trying to use the Brotherhood all along.

“From the south we receive hourly reports about the Russians.  They are intent on conquering Florida it seems.  Perhaps even the whole of the south.  Our Brothers still hold Tampa and parts of Orlando.   Jacksonville is in ruins now and the Man is in retreat.”

“Well,” Malcolm said around a puff of breath.  He winced as he stumbled into the next landing in the dark.  “At least that is some good news.”

“About the only, I fear,” said Samir.

“Why do you say that?”

Samir sighed as he reached the sixth floor landing.  “Our scouts on the mainland report the Man is beginning to grow his presence here.  We were just starting to get a reliable flow of food and supplies from the nearest Burroughs—and now Army vehicles are starting to appear at strategic points.  Bridges, tunnels, the main roads.”

“Are they in force?”

“No,” said Samir, relief evident in his voice.  He paused to catch his breath at the next floor.  “They move fast and never stay more than a few hours in the same spot.  Some say it is only a few vehicles.  I believe they are scouts for a much larger force.”

Malcolm nodded at his regional commander’s astute assessment.  “I agree.  They are probing our lines, trying to find the extent of our domain.  We saw some similar tactics in Chicago.”  He thought for a moment.  “Are they concentrating anywhere?  Anywhere at all?  Where have they been seen the most?”

“Near the tunnels.  Never in the tunnels, but on the far side from Manhattan.”

Malcolm shifted his briefcase to his left hand.  The grip was sweaty and he nearly dropped it.  How many more stairs, for the love of Allah?

A door crashed a few floors above them, the sound painful to Malcolm’s ears.  He flinched.  Samir paused and grew quiet.

“Samir!” a voice shouted from high above them.  The sound echoed past them and disappeared into the stairwell abyss.

“Yes?” he answered.

“A scout has just radioed—he has found the Man at the Holland Tunnel!”

“Again?” asked Samir.  He sighed and began climbing again.

“Yes—they are setting up lights—many vehicles and more men than we have seen since the first fighting!”

Malcolm heard Samir turn on the stairs.  “It is starting.”

“Yes,” agreed Malcolm, his voice grim.  “We must hurry—I need to see a map.”

Looks like I will get no sleep this night…

GENERAL STAPLETON STEPPED DOWN out of the Killer Egg helicopter and walked away from the still roaring rotors in a slight stoop.  The instant he had taken the required number of steps from the small aircraft to be safe from the blades that cut the air above his head, he stood up straight.

He was standing in the middle of the great mass of roads that fed into the Holland Tunnel.  Before him stretched the darkened skyline of New York City across the Hudson River.  America’s First City.  Gotham.  Now just another name in a sad collection of pitch-black hell-holes spread across the humbled nation.   Millions of people had been thrown into the Middle Ages: no running water, no sanitation, no food delivery, no electricity, no cops…the list went on.

One of his aides rushed to his side and saluted.  The young man was in his full kit, complete to the helmet strapped on his head.  Stapleton suppressed a grin.  Another point of pride in the swirling shit-storm around him: even though his command staff were not used to being on the front line, they were acting like hardened veterans.

Because New York was about to be a war zone.

“Sir,” the lieutenant hollered over the roar of the helicopter as it lifted off in a cloud of dust and pebbles.  “If you’ll come with me, I can take you to the command center.”

“Lead on, MacDuff,” Stapleton muttered.  He always felt more alive when he was on the front lines.  This was where he was meant to be, not hiding behind some desk and millions of dollars of technology and communications equipment half a world away from the fighting.  A general should lead by example. A general should lead his men into battle.  A general should lead.

Old Caesar had the right idea, he thought to himself as he passed a group of soldiers hauling gear into a Port Authority substation.  A figure on the roof of the two story, narrow-faced little building was attaching one hell of a collapsible satellite dish to the roof.  A ring of M-ATVs had their headlights on the building, providing illumination in the pitch-black night.

As they neared the building, Stapleton could hear more than one helicopter in the area.  A line of headlights stretching to the west and north indicated the main body of his division as it approached.  The first ones through had been the scouts and advance guard—men and women tasked with finding a suitable location for his field headquarters and for securing the access points to this side of Manhattan.  The next group would be approaching more slowly, clearing the clogged highways and roads of cars abandoned during the height of the summer when the lights first went out and panic had gripped the Big Apple.

Then his army would really roll through. In a matter of hours, he’d have thousands of troops, heavy vehicles, helicopters, weapons, supplies…an entire division on site and ready to kick ass and take names.  He smiled as he entered the little Port Authority building and casually saluted the dozen or so soldiers inside still setting up shop.

“As you were,” he said nonchalantly.  He surveyed the room.  It was typical government fare: white walls with no decorations other than a few maps of the tunnel systems and subways of New York, a picture of the current mayor shaking hands with President Reed, an American flag in the corner, a handful of desks and computer stations.  A reception desk blocked the entrance path and stairs in the back led to the upper level.  One square, smallish window per wall.  Very efficient construction.  He nodded.  No frills.  “It’ll do,” he said to the soldiers in the room.  One flashed a grin back at him.

They feel it too.  The excitement, the anxiety, the electricity.  We’re about to take the offensive.  In Chicago we were called in to put out a fire that had gotten out of control.  We were reacting to them.  Now it’s our turn to start the fire.

“Sir,” said a familiar voice behind him.  Stapleton turned.  Major Stafford stood before him with a map in his hand.  He removed his helmet and tucked it under his left arm.

“Major,” replied Stapleton.  He removed his own helmet and motioned for Maj. Stafford to take a desk nearby so they could examine the map.  “Give us some room, will you, boys?” he asked genially to the soldiers setting up comms gear in the reception area.  They quickly snatched up the dead computer terminals and monitors and cleared a space for the command staff to work.

Stafford spread out a map of Lower Manhattan and pointed.  “Here we are.  Over here,” his finger slid across the river into Manhattan, “is where our scouts have been noticing the largest concentration of rebels.  We think this is their base of operations, this cluster of skyscrapers.”

“Choke points?” asked Stapleton as he perused the map.

“Here, here, and here for now,” said Major Stafford, indicating the major tunnels and bridges.  “I have an advance team moving north securing the western half of every bridge and tunnel up the island.  The air units are already arriving in White Plains to block off the northern tip of Manhattan.  By sun-up, the first reinforcements will be in place and Manhattan will be cut off completely.”

“Excellent, Major.  I want—”

A field phone warbled in the background.  “General, sir, it’s the White House!” a soldier called out.

Stapleton closed his eyes and frowned, his finger still on the map.  Now?  Really?  Christ.  He held out a hand and put the phone to his ear.

“This is General Stapleton.”

“General, I’m so glad I caught you,” said a too-slick voice he’d never had the pleasure of hearing before.

Stapleton frowned and remained silent.  It was his favorite tactic with politicians—they hated silence and stumbled over themselves to fill the air with their own self-important words.  His silence left them off-balance and gave him the advantage they always thought they had.  He glanced at Major Stafford rolled his eyes.

The speaker on the other end cleared his throat and tried again.  “General, this is Hank Suthby, acting—”

“The FEMA Director?  Mister, do you have any idea how busy I am right now?” growled Stapleton.  A damn cabinet secretary calling him in the middle of setting up field headquarters… “I’m having a lovely little war, here.  Now is not the time—”

“General, I am acting-President of the United States,” the voice said calmly.

Now it was Stapleton’s turn to clear his throat.  He pointed at Major Stafford and indicated to him to pick up a second headset.  Stapleton waited until his lieutenant was on the line discreetly before continuing.  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about—”

“It’s quite simple, general, the President is dead—”

“I had heard those rumors, yes,” interrupted Stapleton.  He glanced at Stafford whose frown mirrored his own.

“They’re not rumors, unfortunately.  President Reed has passed and until we can locate the Vice President—if he’s still alive—I’m all the country’s got at the moment.”

God help us all. This fool thinks he’s the President.  Out loud, Stapleton said, “Sir, without proper authentication, I can’t know who the hell you are.  This—”

“General, as you can imagine I’m a very busy man…”

Stapleton’s eyebrows raised, setting off a stifled laugh from Major Stafford.

“I called you to let you know I want you to contain this rebellion in New York, not attack.  My team is still evaluating the results of your work in Chicago and—”

Stapleton barked a laugh.  “With all due respect, whoever the hell you are, I don’t give a rat’s-ass what your team is doing.  I don’t recognize your command authority or your voice.  I have a mission to complete and until I am ordered by my superiors to the contrary, that is exactly what I intend to do.  This conversation is over.”  He tossed the handset to a waiting soldier, satisfied with the indignant-squawking that emanated from the earpiece as it flew through the air.

“What do you make of that, sir?” asked Maj. Stafford.

Stapleton looked back at the map.  “I make nothing of it.”  He waved a hand, dismissing the interruption.  “Fucking politicians at play.  Now, where were we?  Right—I want to make sure the lead elements have a place to pull off here.  We’re going to need all the cars I saw in this parking lot here cleared,” he said pointing to the map.  “I don’t care if we need to shove ‘em into the river, just get them the hell out of the way so my men can form up…”

YES MR. SECRETARY-GENERAL, I have the situation well in hand.  I have taken control here and we will be ready for your men,” said Malcolm.

“You’re sure you will have complete control of the airport?”

“Yes.  The Army thinks we have no interest in such places, with no planes of our own.  And rightly so—why would we wish to use an airport?”

“Good.  I have acquired the help of our Russian friends in this matter.  They are already airborne and should be arriving by noon, local time.”

“And what are they bringing with them?” asked Malcolm.  He glanced down at a bloodstained map spread out on a desk in front of him.

“Besides food, water, medicine, and soldiers, they are bringing you a present that will greatly assist you in controlling New York.”

“I thank you for your support and eagerly await their safe arrival,” Malcolm said.  He had no idea the Russians were coming and part of him was quite uncomfortable with the idea.  He had the upper-hand in sheer numbers—the Brotherhood boasted thousands upon thousands in Manhattan alone—but these were soldiers that were on their way, not common men and women.

Malcolm dished out the pleasantries and said good-bye before he handed the radio gear to one of the HAM operators.  He sighed and turned to Samir.  “I hate politicians.  Even ones that are trying to help us.  They reek of lies and misinformation.  An abhorrence unto Allah.”

Samir nodded and adjusted the glasses on his nose.

Malcolm took a deep breath and looked out over the skyline of lower Manhattan.  The sun was just starting to kiss the eastern sky, making the outlines of the nearby buildings barely visible through the floor-to-ceiling plate glass window.

“The Russians are coming to help us,” Malcolm said, hands behind his back as he surveyed his new kingdom.

“The Russians?” asked Samir.  “So soon?”

“Yes.  They require an airport.  I have promised the Secretary-General that we control LaGuardia.  It was true when I was in Montreal—is it still so?”

Samir rubbed his hands together and stepped up next to Malcolm.  “Brother, holding an airport was not something that I deemed high-priority.  I have been trying to keep our people from starving or killing each other or…”

“The stairwell,” said Malcolm.  “Yes, I understand, Brother.  You have done no wrong.  Just tell me, do we control the airport?”

“As far as I know, no one does.  There is no need to care—no one has any planes or fuel.  Why would anyone want it?”

Malcolm grinned.  “Well, we do, now.  At least the Man has not sensed what we are about yet.”  He turned to one of the men when radio headphones on his head.  “Any news?”

The man nodded.  “Yes, Brother Malcolm—the Army men are definitely setting up a camp of some sort on the other side of the Holland Tunnel.  The scouts are reporting more and more trucks and helicopters are arriving every minute.  They’re making a lot of noise over there.”

Malcolm nodded his thanks.  Turning back to Samir, he said, “That is where they will strike from.  I know the leader of these men—he is aggressive and leads from the front.  He did it in Chicago, always pressing forward, always on the offensive.”  He rubbed his chin for a moment, frowning at the stubble.  He needed to shave—maintaining grooming standards at all times pleased Allah.

“This is what I want you to do,” he said to Samir.  “Begin to place our fighters in the area around the Holland Tunnel.  Do it quietly—but do it quickly while we still have the cover of darkness.  I want them in every building and townhouse near the tunnel entrance.  When the Man emerges, we will be ready to surround him.  Prepare a trap.”

“Of course, Malcolm,” said Samir with a nod.  Malcolm noted with approval that the nervous energy Samir had been displaying since his arrival had been diminishing by the hour.

Perhaps he just needed something to do other than hold things together.

Malcolm set his mouth in a grim line.  “Make no mistake, my friend, we are about to go to war.  There will be much blood and many lives will be lost.  This army devastated Chicago and nearly burned the city to the ground.  I will do everything in my power to make sure that doesn’t happen here.”

“Yes, Brother.”

“I need you to send your most capable leader to secure LaGuardia Airport.  We will have reinforcements around noon if we can hold the airport.  Do you understand?  I want the best you have—they will need to be quick and ruthless.”

“Of course, Malcolm,” said Samir.  “Consider it done.”

“Good,” replied Malcolm.  “Starting now, I want everyone ready for war.”

HANK SUTHBY PUT THE phone to his ear and closed his eyes.  He couldn’t believe he was about to speak to the rebel leader that had started all this mess—but it had to be done for the safety of the nation.

“Hello?” he said into the headset.

“Greetings.”  The voice was calm, well-enunciated and mature.

“To whom am I speaking?”

“To whom am I speaking?” echoed the voice.

Suthby bit back a curse.  “This is Hank Suthby, acting President of the United States.  And are you…?”

“Hello, Mr. Acting-President.  You may call me Malcolm.”

Suthby gave a thumbs-up to Daniel and the other nervous-looking staffers in the room.  A few smiled, then got back to work pouring over reports and maps.  Hank cleared his mind and focused on the task at hand.

“I’ll cut right to the chase Malcolm.  This little rebellion of yours is costly—in time, energy, manpower, and resources—exactly the four things that this country cannot afford to waste at the moment.”

“I see.  I was unaware that the plight of the enslaved was considered a ‘waste of time’.  Though, I must confess, I am not surprised to hear you speak thus.”

Suthby blinked in surprise.  Who the hell is this guy, a philosophy professor?

“Mr. Acting-President, what is it you want to talk to me about.  As you can imagine, I am a very busy man.”

Hank gritted his teeth and bit back the snide comment he was about to make.  Instead, he said, “Malcolm, I’m proposing we hit the reset button.  What do you say?  Let’s just put all this nonsense behind us.  I’ll call off the Army, get the states and their local cops in line, and you put an end to the rioting and violence in the cities.  Let’s just take a breather and sit down as adults—”

“No, Mr. Acting-President.  I will not agree to such terms.”

“But—”

“You, the white Man, enslaved my people for hundreds of years—”

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me!” said Suthby with a snort of derision.  “You’re playing the race card…now?”

“There is no ‘playing’ involved, sir,” replied Malcolm’s voice.  “I intended to strip away the lies and deceit the Man has built up over centuries, to open the eyes of Americans across the country, and take back our nation.”

Suthby laughed.  “Your nation?”

“Yes,” replied Malcolm in a clam voice.   “Slaves built this nation from the first day Europeans set foot on these shores.  If this nation belongs to anyone, it belongs to us.”

Suthby rubbed his head with his free hand.  “Malcolm, I’m not going to get into a race debate with you—or argue with you over your misguided view of history.  Look.  I’m offering you a chance at real peace.”

“Peace?” laughed Malcolm.  “Surely you jest, sir.  There can be no peace between our peoples now.  It has gone too far.”

“You have pushed it too far!” retorted Suthby, gripping the phone with white knuckles.  The outburst caused a wave of silence to ripple through the room.  Suthby cleared his throat and turned his back on the others, trying to regain his composure.  “We did not instigate this rebellion—this nation was attacked by terrorists and you and your people took advantage of the chaos to raise the flag of rebellion.  Need I remind you what happened to the losers the last time there was a rebellion in this country?”

Malcolm laughed politely.  “Idle threats do not impress me, Mr. Acting-President.  Perhaps if you acted more like a President than an acting-President…”

“Fine, if not peace, how about a truce?  Just a little time for everyone to collect their breaths and help the wounded.  I’m dealing with an actual invasion in the southwest and quite frankly, I’m losing my patience with you people.”

“’You people’.  You see?  Even when you try to hold out the carrot of peace, you lash out with the whip of prejudice.  You people.  You ought to be ashamed, Mr. Acting-President.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“What should I call you?  Mr. Suthby?  Massah?”

“Malcolm, please—”

“Beg to someone else, Mr. Acting-President.  You will get no sympathy or agreements from me.  I will accept only unconditional freedom.  And until such time as you are prepared to leave my nation—”

“Your nation?  This is the United States of America—we’re all Americans—”

“And some of us are more American than others, correct?  I’ve read the book, Mr. Acting-President.  Do not waste any more of my time.  I know you are in no position to dictate terms to me.  I have heard—as anyone with radio gear can—how the Russians are even now about to conquer Florida and the southeast.  You cannot fight everyone at the same time.  I suggest you leave my people alone.”

The line went dead.

Suthby struggled for more than a few minutes to keep from throwing the phone across the room.  Malcolm was right, in a away.  He needed to act like the President, not a Secretary who was known for angry outbursts.  Presidents don’t explode at the drop of a hat.  They face each new crisis with a calm, level head, then use a plan—or the military—to utterly destroy their opponents, and do it with class.

At least, that’s what Suthby had always thought.

Maybe that prick Stapleton isn’t such a bad guy to have around.  I can’t let him get away with ignoring my authority…but he could be useful now.  Suthby leaned back in his plush leather chair and stared at a map on the far wall as the staffers fell silent and watched.  He rubbed his chin in thought and mulled over what to do next.

Stapleton was threatening to go rogue and attack New York.  Malcolm was refusing to even talk about peace, believing the country to be on the brink of collapse.  The Russians and their U.N. cronies were causing all kinds of headaches in the southeast.  His eyes shifted to the long border with Mexico.  The sporadic reports from Arizona and New Mexico were disturbing, to say the least.  Migrants flooding back into Mexico, armies moving north, cities burning—no one really knew what the hell was going on but everyone agreed whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

Suthby let his gaze wander back to New York.  First things first.   All right, Malcolm.  Have it your way.  I’m going to turn Stapleton loose on you and we’ll see what your tune is in a few days.

CHAPTER 7

Run and Gun

SERGEANT PINNER BROUGHT THE M-ATV to a tire chirping stop just outside the outpost’s command building.  Ted and Erik threw open their rear-opening suicide doors and hopped out.

“Captain Williams in there?” Ted shouted to a surprised guard.  The soldier saluted.

“Yes, sir.”

Erik followed Ted through the open door and into a stirred-up hornets’ nest of activity.  Command staff scrambled around the room with reports, radios, and phones.  Orders were issued, reports received, confirmations shouted back and forth—it was chaos.

Erik spotted Captain Williams’ long face across the room and grabbed Ted’s shoulder.  “There!” he said, pointing.

Ted and Erik rushed to their commander. “Sir,” said Ted with a half-hearted salute.  “The Russians are advancing in force from the coast—”

“Yes, we’ve been tracking them.”  He signed an order for a lieutenant who rushed off into the throng.

“Sir, we have to evacuate the—”

“I am aware of the situation, Major.  Calm yourself.”

“Captain, I think we need to—” said Ted in exasperation.

“I said I’m aware of the situation, Major.”

“But—” said Erik.

Captain Williams shot Erik a withering look and gestured for them to follow him into his private office.  Once inside, with the door muffling the roar from the next room, Captain Williams sighed.  He ran a hand through his close cropped hair and absently motioned for Ted and Erik to sit in the camp stools opposite his makeshift desk.  They sat, the Captain stood.

“Sir,” began Ted again, unstrapping his helmet.  “We—”

“I realize that Lieutenant Larsson here is not used to the Army way of life, so I’ll cut him some slack.  But I don’t ever want to hear either of you question me in front of anyone—let alone the command staff,” he said with a tired gesture towards the door. “If you disagree with my orders, you talk to me in private.  Understood?”

Erik felt his cheeks flush.  The heat radiating from his face made him look down.

“Son, look at me when I’m talking to you,” said Captain Williams in a not-unkind voice.

Erik looked up.  “I’m sorry—I mean, yes, sir,” he said.  To be honest he wasn’t sure what else to say so he sat in silence and watched his commanding officer.  Not for the first time, he began to regret joining the Army.

“Sir, leaving aside the Lieutenant’s etiquette,” said Ted in a too-proper, formal voice Erik had never heard before.  “The Russians are moving inland from the coast.  We’ve got a heavily armored advance element on our asses—no more than 4 hours behind us.”

Captain Williams collapsed into his chair and rested his elbows on his desk.  He glanced at the papers strewn about in front of him.  Erik watched the man pick up a random report and adjust the distance the paper was from his eyes before he started reading.

“That’s bad news, Major.  But unfortunately, not the worst of it.  This report here informs me that what you boys have been dealing with is just a splinter off the main trunk.   The combined Russian-Cuban army is rolling north through the center of the state.  Word is, there’s been an on-going air battle south of here.  Air National Guard has been giving them hell, but we’re just plain outnumbered.  They have more planes, more missiles, more everything.”

“This is our country, sir, how is that possible?  I mean, even with all the problems we’re facing, this isn’t Bosnia for cryin’ out loud.  It’s America,” blurted Erik.

The Captain looked at Erik and smiled sadly.  He picked up a report and scanned the top page.  “Son, most of our forces are still overseas, spread all over the damn world.  They’re trying to come back—but only a few units have made it back so far.  From what I hear, they had to hijack airliners.”  He looked at Erik over the top of the report.  “Can you believe that shit?”

“Where, sir?” asked Ted.  “Where are the Russians headed?  Tampa?”

“Here,” said Captain Williams, dropping the report with a flourish.  “Orlando.”

Ted’s eyes went round.  “Jesus Christ, sir.  We’ve got to get the civilians out of here!”  He jumped to his feet.

“Sit down, Major,” Captain Williams said without looking up.  When Ted remained standing, Captain Williams glanced at him and said in a quiet, dangerous tone, “Sit down, soldier.”

Ted sat, but the glare of defiance on his face more than proclaimed his insult at being called a ‘soldier’.

“I’ve been ordered by Colonel West to hold the eastern suburbs of Orlando and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.  The safest thing for our civilians is to remain close to us, in the outskirts.  The Russians are coming from the south—” he looked at Erik, “and the east.  But we have reinforcements arriving right now from Tampa.”

“But…I thought we barely had Tampa contained.  From the riots, I mean.  If we pull off troops, the rebels will just take over, right?” asked Erik.  “Sir?”

“Probably,” muttered the Captain.  “But the Colonel and his superiors think otherwise.  So, orders are orders.”

“But…you’re the commanding officer here!” said Erik.  “You’re the one in charge—”

“I appreciate your respect for my rank, Lieutenant, but I assure you, just because I am in command of this outpost and the scouts who man it, I am just a small cog in the machine.”

“Captain, our families—”

“My family is south of here,” said Captain Williams.  “In no man’s land.  Do not think for a second I don’t know what’s going to happen when Ivan gets here.  Do you think I have no sympathy for your situation, Major?”  His voice, though stern, held an edge of understanding to it.  Erik looked down at the helmet in his hands and simply wished to hold Brin again.

“Look,” sighed the Captain.  “I’m going to need every man I’ve got to do this—I believe we can and we will hold Orlando.  And you’re one of the best I’ve got left, Major.”  He gazed at Ted for a moment.  “So I’ll do this for you—take an hour or two and go see your families.  Make sure they know where the safe zones are and say your goodbyes.  Do what you need to, but get your heads on straight—” he looked at Erik.  “Both of you.  Then get your asses into the bush and find those Russians before they find us.  I heard about your delaying action in Cocoa Beach.  Impressive work, gentlemen.  I need you to do it again.”

Ted stood up.  “That’s it then?  We dig in and fight?  Hold the line and all that bullshit?”

Captain Williams replied with a wan smile.  “Because you used to be a Marine, I’ll let that slide, Major.  But in effect, the answer to your question is yes.  With the reinforcements from Tampa, we should be able to stop the Russian advance here at Orlando.  At least long enough for the main line troops to arrive from Europe.”

Erik watched the range of emotions ripple across Ted’s face.  From incredulity, to anger, to confusion, to acceptance.  Finally, Ted nodded.  “Okay.  Come on, lieutenant.  Let’s go dig in.”

“What?” Erik said, getting to his feet.  “That’s it?  We’re just going to go stand out there and let the damn Russians roll over us?  We’re going to be killed—they got armored personnel carriers, drones with missiles, a bunch of guys on foot—”

“Lieutenant,” said the Captain in a warning tone.

Erik continued, anger driving him forward.  “They’ll kill us if we sit out there,” he said pointing toward the east.  “What the hell is the good in that?  What about my wife?”

Captain Williams slammed both hands down on his desk as he stood up.  “What about her?  Your families have been a drain on our supplies since I agreed to take you on!  Face it, Larsson—you joined the Army!  You are no longer free to express your concerns about your family to me or anyone else!  I have given you a direct order—now get the hell out of here and see to your duties before I have you slapped in irons for insubordination!”

Erik stared at the older man, his fists clenched in impotent rage.  He had never felt so trapped before in all his life.  To think his wife and Ted’s family were so close, just a mile or so away, and yet he and Ted were going to go in the opposite direction to stare death in the face…with no hope of survival…

Ted dragged Erik from the office.  Erik’s heated gaze never left Captain William’s face.  The man had changed, Erik realized, from the laconic soldier who had first shown up at the gates of the Freehold in the early days of the crisis.  He was older, more tired now.  The door shut and Erik was once again in the swirling storm of activity that was the outpost command center.

After navigating the bustling command center they stepped out into the bright Florida sunshine and stood there in front of their M-ATV for a moment.  Erik put his helmet back on, suddenly wanting to feel the reassuring weight of the protective covering on his head.  It took every ounce of his mettle to keep from just pushing past Pinner and taking the wheel of their vehicle so he could drive straight to Brin.  The urge to flee north had never been so strong.  He began to weigh his options.  Would a charge of desertion really matter up north where no one knew what the truth was?

“This isn’t right,” Erik said through gritted teeth.  “This is all wrong, man, and you know it.”

“Of course I know it,” said Ted with a laugh.  “We’re in the Army—things are supposed to be fucked up.”

“How’d it go, sirs?” asked Pinner, leaning against the side of the M-ATV.

Ted walked over and drummed his fingers on the hood.  “Well, about as I expected.  We’re up the creek and about to throw our only paddle overboard.”

“That good, huh?” asked Pinner as he examined his sidearm.  He slapped a fully loaded magazine into his pistol’s handle and checked the chamber before re-holstering it.

Erik paced like a caged animal in front of the M-ATV.  “We can’t just drive out there and get ourselves killed.  I don’t want to die for nothing—and you know that’s all we’ll accomplish.  Hell we almost died already.”

Ted snorted.  “Trust me, I don’t want to die either.”

“I want to make the other bastard die,” muttered Pinner.  “That’s the only way to survive a war.”

Erik paused, hands on his hips.  “Well?  We’re just going to drive out east of here and go hide in the bushes, waiting for the Russians to show up?  So we can, what?  Take pot-shots at them and hope they don’t use that drone of theirs to drop a missile on our heads?  What the fuck, man?  We need to get the hell out of here.  Now.”

Pinner crossed his arms and observed Erik through squinted eyes.  “Sir, I think they hang you for that.  It’s called desertion.  And we’re at war…”

“Erik, calm down,” said Ted.  He put a hand on Erik’s shoulder.  He motioned for him to not talk so loud.  “Look, I’m just as frustrated and mad about this as you are—but Pinner’s right, you can’t go spouting off about your opinions.  Like Captain Williams said, we’re in the Army now.  There’s no quitting.  Not at a time like this.”

“Jesus, why the hell did I ever agree to this?” said Erik as he slumped against the side of the still-warm M-ATV.  “Are we ever going to see our families again?”

Sergeant Pinner smiled, “Welcome to the long line of soldiers, Lieutenant.  Men have been saying those two statements for as long as there have been armies.  You’re now part of the brotherhood.”

Ted chuckled ruefully and glanced up into the blue sky and squinted in the sunlight.  His body went tense.  “You know?  On second thought, I don’t care what Captain Williams said—I think we better go find the girls.”

Erik looked up.  “What makes you say that?”  Hope began to blossom in his chest that he would at least get to hold Brin one more time.

“Because this invasion is gonna get ugly real quick and we need to make sure they know what to do when the shit hits the fan.”

Erik snorted.  “If the shit hasn’t hit the fan by now, I don’t want to know when it does.  You don’t think we can stop them, do you?”  Erik could feel his heart beating faster and sweat starting to form on his forehead.  The instinct to run was almost completely overpowering.  All he could think about was getting to Brin and getting her to safety.  Somewhere north of Orlando.  Way north.

Ted looked at Erik.  “Stop the Russians?  No.  Not with the men and supplies we’ve got.  You saw what we’re up against—and that was just a scouting party.  If the Captain’s right and there’s a larger force coming up through the middle of the state…”

Shouting erupted around them as soldiers scurrying about their business began to stop and look up.  A low, nearly silent rumble drifted on the slight autumn breeze through the outpost.  Erik noticed the silence coming from inside the command hut for the first time and followed Ted’s gaze up into the sky.  Somewhere in the distance an old tornado siren started its mournful wail.  The sound sent a shiver down Erik’s spine.

As his eyes adjusted to the glare from the sun, Erik saw contrails in the sky.  White lines slicing the brilliant blue of the dome above—lots of them.  All coming from the south, all with a small black shape with long wings at the front.  The planes were recognizable as such, but they weren’t American.  The stark utilitarianism of their design screamed foreign aircraft.

“Yeah,” said Ted, shielding his eyes from the sun as he watched the planes.  “I don’t think we can stop them.”

IT WAS A SLAUGHTER, Aleksei,” said Colonel Doskoy’s voice over the speaker in the command BTR.  “The Americans sank every vessel but one and did not even bother to render assistance.  Wholesale murder.  The worst part is the loss of a directed-energy weapon bound for New York.  It will be a major setback for our forces in the north, but of little consequence to us at the moment.”

“What are my orders, Colonel?” asked Major Strogolev through clenched teeth.  He wanted to get busy doing something before he broke the radio transmitter in his hands.

“Moscow has changed our priorities.  No longer are we to merely hold Miami and the south.  We are to push forward and crush the Americans.  Reinforcements are en route from home, so it will take a few days.  In the meantime, I want you to help distract the Americans near Orlando.”

“Of course, Colonel.”

“Our reconnaissance drones have returned video of American convoys leaving Tampa, heading east.  We must conclude they know we’re coming.  They will try to shore up their defenses.  You are to engage them on the east side of Orlando and draw their attention.  Don’t let them get comfortable, do not let them dig in.   If you keep them tied up for just 24 hours, I will arrive from the south with the main force by sunset tomorrow.  Then these cowboys will learn how Russians fight a war.”

“What about air cover?” asked Strogolev.

“Do not worry about that, Major.  We have attained air superiority.  They still have a decent attack capability, but they no longer roam their own skies with impunity.”

We’ll see how long that lasts, Strogolev told himself.  They are not likely to give up control of their skies so quickly—I don’t care how many planes we throw at them.

“Mother Russia will be proud of us this day!” said the colonel.  “Now go and show some initiative, Strogolev—win some glory for yourself before the real campaign begins.  When we head north and enter Georgia, we will encounter some stiffer opposition.  They have had time to entrench themselves, these cowboys.”

“It will be done, Comrade Colonel.  We will be victorious.”

“That’s the spirit, Aleksei!  Do your family proud!  Base out.”

Strogolev tossed the handset down in disgust and fumed in silence for a moment, staring at the plain steel interior of his BTR.  He obsessed over the American fleet destroying unarmed U.N. vessels on a mission to bring the rogue American assets scattered around the globe to heel.  These cowboys are truly insane, he thought.  They are acting like mad dogs—attacking anything and anyone that gets too near.

That thought made him reconsider his options.  A cornered animal could prove to be most dangerous, indeed.  And he had already seen firsthand what the local civilian population was capable of accomplishing.  That bridge explosion had been impressive.  The American military, if backed into a corner, could potentially have devastating effects on their mission.

We must be cautious not to over-expose ourselves.  They will take every advantage of us if given half the chance.  I would.

“What are your orders, sir?” asked Gregor from the open hatch of the BTR.

Strogolev sighed and climbed out of the armored vehicle into the bright semi-tropical sunlight.  The command staff came to attention and waited patiently.  Strogolev looked around and considered his options.  The Colonel had said to invest the east side of Orlando—to keep the Americans busy.  But he had also told him to take the initiative.

“Brothers,” said Strogolev in his most solemn voice.  “I have had bad news from Moscow.  In support of the United Nations, a fleet of commercial and civilian ships tried to convince an American carrier and its fleet to stand down—out in the middle of the Atlantic.  They were all slaughtered, almost to a man.  Over a thousand Russians died…”  Strogolev had no idea how many had died, but it never hurt to fire up the troops with a little embellishment.

The ripple of anger and murmuring helped make Strogolev’s mind up for him.  He knew what the plan was going to be now.  “To that end, Moscow has changed our mission—we are to lunch a punitive campaign against these nekulturny cowboys and teach them that they cannot killed unarmed Russian citizens without repercussions.”

A ragged cheer went up from his officers.  Strogolev smiled.  “We have been ordered to attack the city of Orlando.  The Americans are using it as a base of operations and as part of a defensive line that stretches across this state.”   He squatted down and put his finger into the sun-warmed, sandy dirt at his feet.  The officers gathered closer to watch.

Strogolev drew a rough outline of Florida and a slashed it in half west to east.  He made an impression in the dirt for Tampa, one for Orlando, and another at the southern tip for Miami.  He drew a line from Miami to Orlando.  “Colonel Doskoy is bringing our main forces north from Miami—the Cubans will control the southern part of the state.  We will attack from the east and keep the Americans occupied until Colonel Doskoy can arrive.”

“But Major, the city is so large—so spread out…”

“Yes,” said Strogolev, nodding in agreement.  He stood and dusted his hands off.  “We are too few in number to think we can draw the attention of the remaining American forces in Florida.”

“So how can we keep them distracted?  Won’t they see through us?” asked the vehicle commander.

“They would—but we will give them something else to look at.  We will attack using incendiary rounds and try to set fire to as much of eastern Orlando as possible.”

“They have been without power and water now since the beginning of the summer,” observed one of the junior officers.  The group murmured to itself.

“Then we will start a firestorm that will burn Orlando to the ground,” said Major Strogolev.

IF YOU CAN STOP feeling sorry for yourself for a moment, I could use a hand,” said Ted in a voice that Erik knew was meant to be friendly yet sounded anything but.

Erik turned away from his binoculars and looked over his shoulder at Ted.  The ex-Marine was trying to hold their ultra-light drone steady in the stiff breeze that whistled past them as they sat on top of the building that they had chosen for an outpost.

Erik crouch-walked over to Ted and helped hold the little toy-airplane device while he got the engine started and checked the electronics.

“I’m not just sitting here moping, you know,” Erik said, trying hard to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Ted grinned.  “I know, man.”  He flipped a switch on the control unit and after a series of green lights lit up, Ted pronounced the drone ready.  “All right, let’s launch this thing.”  He grabbed the radio on his belt.  “You got a signal?”

After a brief pause, Pinner’s voice replied, “Hooah.”

“Okay,” responded Ted.  “We’re launching.”  He turned to Erik.  “Let ‘er rip.”

Erik stood and cocked his arm, feeling for all the world like a quarterback ready to throw the game winning touchdown.  He threw the little plane forward into the wind and it shot into the sky, its electric motor whining as it quickly gained altitude.

Erik took cover behind the plaster covered steel facade of the building they occupied.  He felt naked out on the crushed gravel roof.  Situated on the southeast corner of Lake Eola Park, the apartment building was ten stories tall and provided a commanding view of the eastern extreme of Orlando proper.  They would have no trouble monitoring the Russian advance.  He could easily see both Colonial Drive and the Holland Expressway, the two main east-west highways nearby.

Ted crouched behind an air conditioning unit and focused on the controls in his hand as he flew the little drone east.  “You know, I never said it, but I’m sorry I dragged you into this mess,” he said quietly.

Erik sighed and reached for his binoculars.  “You didn’t drag me into this,” he replied.  “I made up my own mind.  Besides, both of us were just trying to make sure our families are safe.”

“I know, but still.”  Erik heard the rustle of Ted’s clothing as the Marine turned and shrugged.  “Joining the Army—or any service—is a huge step.  And you were dumped into the middle of a war on top of everything else.  I just wanted you to know—”

“In case we die?” asked Erik, this time, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.  He frowned, looking through the binoculars.  “Jesus, Ted, I’ve got enough on my mind without you reminding me we’re probably sealing our own fate out here.”

“We’re not on our own, man, the other teams are—”

“Yeah, I know,” said Erik.  “The other three- and four-man teams scattered all over this side of Orlando.  Doesn’t make me feel more secure.”

“Would you prefer a tank?” Ted asked in a quiet voice.

Erik laughed.  “Yeah, actually, a tank would make me feel pretty damn secure.”

“Well, I got one for you, but it ain’t ours.”

Erik turned and looked over his shoulder at Ted.  He suddenly found his throat was too dry to speak.  It felt like a hand had just wrapped around his heart and began to squeeze.  Blood rushed in his ears and created a roar that threatened to drown out the world for a second or two.  He swallowed and tried to speak again, “Is it them?”

Ted glanced at Erik and in that one look, Erik knew they were doomed.  The Russians had arrived.  There would be no hide-and-seek this time, no ‘run away’ orders as soon as the fighting started.  Erik looked back to the east over the edge of the rooftop and tried to keep his hands from shaking.

Dear God, please let me see my wife again…

Erik suddenly felt foolish that in all his fears, he was wasn’t really afraid of dying or some horrible wound—he was afraid he’d never get to look at his wife’s face, see her smile, fall into her captivating almond-shaped eyes, or hear her honest laugh again.  He closed his eyes tight and gritted his teeth in an attempt to regain his composure.

“It’s okay, man,” said Ted’s voice.  “Everybody goes through it the first time.”

“It’s not my first time,” Erik growled, sounding to himself more like a petulant teenager than an officer. You survived the attack at the gate back at the Freehold, he told himself.  You rescued the soldiers from the marina.  You organized and led the people of the Freehold.  You can do this!

He roughly wiped his face and tried to clear his eyes enough to look through the binoculars.  “I’ll be fine,” he muttered.  He continued scanning the horizon with his binoculars.  A flash due east in the sunlight caught his attention.  Jesus Christ, look at them all.  We must’ve only met the tip of their forces back at Cocoa…

“Uh,” he said, his voice cracking.  “There’s a lot of them coming this way…”

“Yeah,” was Ted’s faint response.  “I’m putting the drone into auto-pilot.  We need to get the hell out of here.”

Erik focused on the column of boxy vehicles as they trundled toward him on the Holland Expressway.  For the most part, they were dark-green, almost black.  He recognized the angular shape of the BTRs from their earlier skirmish.  The others, low, squat, wide things that looked like tanks without turrets, were a mystery to him.  There were supply trucks, a few things that looked like delivery vans, and even a gaggle of civilian cars.  It was quite the convoy.

“Got a drone in the air.  Make that two,” said Pinner’s voice over Erik’s radio.  “Keep your heads down, sirs.”

“We’re the only ones out here,” said Ted.  “I don’t see any civvies—they won’t waste a missile on just the two of us.  Just hold still.”

Erik rolled his eyes. Just hold still.  There’s a goddamn army heading straight for us and you tell me to hold still…I never should have joined up.   I should have said goodbye to Ted and Susan and the kids and taken Brin and just headed north.  What was I thinking?

“I know you’re having second thoughts about all this,” Ted said softly.  “Everyone does when they go into combat for the first time.  I know—you think the skirmish yesterday was the first time.  Well, it wasn’t.  That was nothing.  I’m telling you, what you’re feeling is normal.  And it will pass.  Just take a deep breath and focus on the mission.”

“Focus on dying, you mean?”  Erik regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

Ted was silent for a moment.  “If that’s what it takes to make sure our families are safe—that they have enough time to get to safety, then yes, God damn it, focus on making your death count.  Focus on taking out as many of those Russian sons of bitches as you can, on slowing them down as much as possible.  Focus on any fucking thing you want, but don’t focus on how much your hands are shaking or how much you’d like to throw up.”  Ted moved up to the edge of the roof and crouched next to Erik behind the facade.  He looked at Erik in the face, his eyes burning.

“Grab those feelings by the balls and shove ‘em deep down and bury ‘em, Erik.  I’m telling you, man, that’s the only way you’re going to have a clear head.  And the only way you’re going to survive this is if you have a clear head.”

Erik swallowed.  “Okay,” he said weakly.  The constant nervous chatter on the radio didn’t help Erik’s mood.  The other scouts were starting to report Russian sightings and were spreading the word about the large force advancing toward Orlando.

Ted frowned.  “Don’t give me that ‘okay’ shit.  They called you the Duke back at the Freehold—and for good reason, too!  I watched you walk right into a horde of drugged-out gang-bangers with nothing but a fucking sword.  And you cut a path through them like death itself.  There is no difference between those gang-bangers and these Russians—except the weapons and training.  But don’t forget,” Ted said with a smile.  “You got better weapons this time, too.”

Erik mulled this over doubtfully and glanced down at the trash-strewn street ten floors below.  The bricked cul-de-sac in front of the apartment building they were perched on top of was lined with the garbage of those who had remained in their dwellings since the summer began.

“Don’t you think we need to warn the people around here that the war is coming?”

Ted was quiet for a second.  “Dude, there’s no time.  There’s only a handful of us out here anyway.  You heard the Captain…”

The radio broke squelch as if on cue: “Chisel 2-1, this is Actual, over.”

Ted picked up the radio and said, “2-1, Actual, go ahead.”

“Toolchest reports reinforcements on site in ten, repeat, back-up will be on site in ten.”

“Chisel 2-1, copies all,” replied Ted.  The radio began to squawk through other call signs as word spread through the American line.

“Still,” said Erik.  “Feels like we ought to do something to warn anyone who might be left…”

Ted glassed the incoming Russian host.  “If anyone is still here, it’s too late, man.”  He pointed.  “Missiles in the air.”  He grabbed the radio again.  “Osceola, we got inbound missiles—keep your head down.”

“Roger that,” was Pinner’s terse reply.

Erik felt his heart quicken, the hammering in his chest was almost audible—at least that’s what it felt like.  A cold sweat trickled down his spine despite the warm and humid Florida autumn afternoon.  A thought from another life trickled through his brain: We haven’t had a hurricane yet this year…that’s odd…

Then he saw the white trails snake up into the sky from close to the horizon.   Off to the north and south of the Holland, the Russians had set up missile launchers.  Erik watched in silence, through shaking binoculars as the missiles reached the peak of their arc and began to curve down toward the ground.  Toward them.

“Ted…” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I know…”

“Those things are getting real close, man…”

When Ted didn’t reply, Erik tore his gaze from the incoming missiles and looked over his shoulder.  Ted was staring up at the sky, mouth set in a grim line, as if he were daring the incoming munitions to mess with him.  He looked like a recruiting poster, the defiant American, ready to defend his country and face death with a smile.

“Shouldn’t we get off the roof—I mean, we know where they are now…”

Ted still said nothing.  He just stared at the sky.  “They’re going over us.”  He looked down at Erik.   The radio squealed.  Someone from HQ screamed orders for units to help put counter-fire into the Russian flanks or some such nonsense.  Erik ignored it.  Now that there were honest-to-God missiles flying in the air, orders and commands didn’t mean much to him.  Getting off the damn roof was everything.

“What are we doing just standing here?” he asked in a shaky voice.

A handful of jets—fighters Erik assumed—roared overhead coming from the south.  For a heartbeat Erik thought they were American.  Maybe the Florida Air National Guard had survived the mauling he’d heard about down south.  But when they fired missiles into areas to the north that he knew were occupied by other scout units, he realized they were Russian jets.

“They’re targeting Toolchest!” the radio squawked.  “All units this net, get to your—”

The transmission cut out in time with an explosion in the distance.  A skyscraper was on fire, pouring black smoke into the sun-kissed sky.  More and more plumes of smoke began to add to the darkness forming over Orlando as the Russian missiles found their targets.

“Toolchest is down, repeat, Toolchest is—” another voice said before it too was silenced.  More explosions boomed in the distance as the jets appeared to turn, the sound of their engines circling all around Erik.  It was maddening.

“Yeah, we need to move.  I didn’t count on them having mobile missile launchers—or close air support.  This is getting nastier by the second.  HQ is gone, man.  Let’s roll.”

“You don’t gotta tell me twice!” said Erik.   He jumped up and grabbed his pack and rifle.  He made sure that his gladius was strapped securely to the pack, then followed Ted across the baking hot rooftop.  Overhead, he began to hear a whine-whistle as the first missiles streaked across the sky and disappeared into downtown Orlando behind them.

As Erik skidded to a stop by the emergency roof access hatch, he heard the first thudding booms echo around the buildings clustered at their corner of the Eola Lake park.  A few car alarms wailed in the distance.  Someone screamed from the ground.  More missiles tore through the sky overhead.

“Come on!” said Ted from inside the hatch.  “They’re getting closer!  We got to move!  It’s over, man.  We need to get to the girls and get the hell out of Dodge!”

Erik tossed his pack into the hatch opening and began to climb down.  His last look east found the Russian forces still streaming towards town across the Holland.  They were much closer now.  He could see dozens of vehicles and civilian trucks all rumbling along at a sedate speed.  More missiles took flight behind them in the distance.

“Jesus,” cried Ted from below.  “They’ll run right over us when that main force from Miami gets here.”

“What about our reinforcements?” asked Erik as he dropped to the floor inside the darkened hallway.  He stood up and waited for his eyes to adjust to the near pitch blackness.  Ted thrust a bundle at him and urged him to keep up.

“Get your shit together, man.  We got to get out of this place.  Our reinforcements are going to get here too late to do any damn good.  These Russians mean business.  We’d need a fucking division to hold this place, now—not the battalion that we’ve got.”

The building shook as they ran through deserted hallways littered with the refuse of a panicked population that had fled weeks ago.  Erik tripped and fell headlong into the rotting garbage and discarded possessions that became land mines in the dark.  With each roar of the jets they heard through broken windows, another explosion threatened to throw them to the floor in teeth-jarring violence.

At last, gasping for breath and staggering from near-blindness, Erik and Ted stumbled into the daylight on the ground floor at the rear the apartment building.  Ted braced himself against the side of the building in the shade and spoke into his radio: “Osceola, get your ass over here on the double—bring the wheels, we are Oscar Mike!”

“Copy that, Devil Dog.”

“Come on, we got to get the hell away from this building—it’s got a big bull’s-eye on it—though they might find us by the smell.  You reek, dude.”

“Ha, ha.”

Erik gathered his gear and raced off, ducking involuntarily every time a jet roared overhead or he heard that eerie whistle-whine of the Russian missiles.  The explosions were getting louder and closer.  Bits of brick and mortar, plaster, and glass rained down on them when a building across the street took a direct hit.  The explosion nearly deafened Erik, but it was high enough up, about six floors, that he remained on his feet and kept running after Ted.

The Marine ducked and twisted into an alley heading down towards the lake, so Erik followed.  As they exited the trash-strewn alley, Erik froze.  Across the lake on the northern shore, one of the ugly BTRs emerged from the foliage and accelerated west, followed by a three pickups full of soldiers.

The unmuffled roar of a diesel engine announced Pinner’s arrival with their M-ATV.  He came to a stop a few feet away and yelled out the window, “Hurry up, sirs!  Ivan’s on my ass!”

Erik shrugged out of his pack and tossed it through the suicide door before he climbed aboard.  Incoming rounds kicked up dust and pebbles around them.  One ricocheted off the tan armor of the M-ATV.  Erik cursed and jumped in.  Pinner hit the gas before the passenger doors closed and they rumbled west.  Erik strapped himself into the seat with some difficulty as Pinner juked and weaved through the trees on a walking path, trying to stay under cover as long as possible.

“HQ got whacked—” Ted said.  He slammed into his door as Pinner jerked the wheel.  A tree ahead of them exploded into countless toothpicks.  The roar was tremendous.

“Christ!” screamed Erik.

“BTR’s got a bead on us,” said Pinner.  “Almost waited too long,” he said.  The Indian shot a disapproving glance at his CO before focusing on the driving again.

“Just get us the hell out of here!” replied Ted, one hand on his helmet, the other braced against his door.

“Hang on, here’s the edge of the park,” Pinner called out as the M-ATV hit a curb and jumped into the air at 30 MPH.  Erik noticed absently how the engine roared as the wheels came off the ground.  He could almost hear ‘Dixie’ as the big truck soared over the ground.

He adjusted his helmet after the bone-jarring landing and tried to keep himself upright in his jump-seat while Pinner put the heavy vehicle into a slide around a hairpin corner.  Suddenly, they were on a street and gaining speed.

“Where to?” asked Pinner.  A building a few blocks away erupted into a giant fireball.

“Holy shit,” Erik whispered as he watched the debris fly through the air.  He could see desks and office furniture—on fire—soaring through the space between buildings.

“North—we need to get to the civilian camps—”

“Watch out!” Erik screamed.  A civilian had run into the road—staggered more like it—right into their path.  Pinner cursed and torqued the steering wheel to the right.  The big truck swerved, but the left rear tire clipped the stunned man and sent him flying back onto the sidewalk with a shriek of pain.

“Oops,” said Pinner.

Erik gaped out his tiny, armored window.  “I think we killed him!”

“Maybe it’s a blessing,” Ted replied.  “Can’t help that now.”

Pinner took another corner and narrowly avoided a man and woman scurrying across the road.  More and more civilians were emerging from the buildings as the Russians poured fire into eastern Orlando.  Explosions tore the air and smoke was beginning to make the afternoon look more like dusk.

“Damn civvies…” muttered Pinner.  “Get the hell out of the way!” he yelled as a woman, dressed in ragged red clothes staggered into the street with wild eyes.  As they flew past Erik got a better glimpse of her: she wasn’t wearing red, she was covered in blood.

He looked behind them and watched her fall in the middle of the street.  Four more people rushed past, screaming at their bumper for help.  There was a crowd growing in the distance, heading everywhere but east.  A chilling thought occurred to him.

“They’re driving the civilians like cattle.”

“What?” asked Pinner as he swerved to avoid more people.  “We’re losing speed here.”

Ted sighed and rubbed his face.  “Shit, Erik’s right. They’re attacking soft targets, driving any survivors right into our lines.  Those reinforcements will never get through this mess coming from the west.  We’re more screwed than I thought.”

More and more desperate, starving people began streaming from the buildings all around them.  The growing noise of the panicked civilians began to seriously compete against the scream of the missiles and roar of the jets overhead.  Only the explosions—temporarily—silenced the river of humanity that was beginning to flow down Orlando's streets.

Pinner cursed again and the M-ATV shuddered as they ran into another pedestrian.  Erik closed his eyes at the heart-stopping sound and prayed that he would live to see Brin again.  He gritted his teeth and swore he would do everything in his power to reach her and see her to safety, if only God would do everything in His power to clear a path through the civilians.

CHAPTER 8

Quagmire

ROB REMOVED HIS STETSON and took a knee in the hard-baked dirt outside the burned home.  He wiped the sweat from his forehead and glanced at the noon-day sun in the azure sky.  Another scorcher of an early-autumn Arizona day.

He sorely wished that the heat was the only problem he had to worry about.  He, Lance, and a hand-picked group of Regulators were standing on the outskirts of town.  It was the nearest town to the mountain fortress the Regulators now called home.

Reports had come in the previous day that military units of some kind were moving through town ransacking the place.  Some civilians had been killed.  At first, Rob had discounted the rumors as an attempt by the Chinese to draw his men out in force and trap them.

Rob knew the Regulators who had survived the early days defending Nogales were a hard group of veterans who wouldn’t hesitate at the opportunity to get some payback with the invaders.  Now that the Regulators had been forced to retreat into the mountains in order to escape the Chinese army, every single man was a precious commodity.

Rob sighed and brushed the soot from his hands as he stood.  Before all the trouble had started, before the Mexicans had crossed the border en masse, before those terrorists they’d captured and executed had told them about the coming invasion…everything had been so easy.  When a Regulator had needed to move on to other pursuits, they just let Rob know, then up and left.  New blood was always joining up to help patrol the border.  Back when the power was on, back before the invasion.  Back when things were normal and all they had to worry about were a few border-jumpers.

Now, hidden in the alpine forest of the high country, the Regulators acted more like guerrillas.  It made them infinitely harder for the Chinese to find—but on the other hand, Rob soon had realized it made it equally hard for new recruits to find them.  Every man who went down with an injury was another man lost.  The men that Lance and his team—indeed all the Rapid Action Force teams—had lost…those men could not be replaced so easily any longer.

Rob sighed.  He had been sucked into a war of attrition.  The Chinese, despite having to ship everything halfway across the planet, seemed to have a never ending flow of soldiers and supplies.  Yet the Regulators slowly dwindled in their own country.   Every engagement cost Rob and the Regulators more than they could afford in supplies and ammunition.  Without the bountiful loot they were collecting from the Chinese, Rob had come to the conclusion the Regulators would be out of commission in a month.

What good is all the guns and ammo and gear we’re collecting if there’s no one left to use it against the Chinese?

“Same thing at the other houses…”  Lance’s quiet voice startled Rob back to the unpleasant task at hand.

Rob picked up some of the red, crusty dirt that held a thin layer of ash and soot.  He rubbed the fine granules between his fingers and felt the silky-smoothness of the superfine ash.

What a waste.

“How many were in this one?” he asked.  Rob sighed as he brushed his hands on his jeans.

Lance looked down at the notebook in his hand.  “Family of seven.  Surviving family lives over yonder,” he said, gesturing down the street towards another charred pile of rubble that was once a family’s home.  “Said they buried these ones already.”

Rob shook his head.  “These people are paying a high price…”

“Because of us,” said Lance.

“Yeah,” whispered Rob.  Guilt washed over him.  “Because of us.”

A commotion behind them caused both men to turn and look.  The rest of the Regulators were standing around a woman with two children who was screaming and waving her arms.  Some locals were behind her, trying unsuccessfully to calm her down.  Rob noticed they weren’t trying too hard—they all wore angry expressions on their faces.

As Rob and Lance approached, the locals began to express themselves even louder:

“—hadn’t come here, they’d still be alive!”

“He’s right,” shrieked the hysterical woman.  “My husband would still be here to hug his children if you survivalist assholes hadn’t taken up shop in the mountains and led the Chinese straight to us!”

“Ma’am,” said Nate, reaching out a hand to try and keep her from slapping him.  “I sympathize with your loss—hell, we’ve lost a lot of good people lately—but—”

“You sympathize with my loss?  My husband of twelve years is dead because the Chinese came through here looking for you!”

“Yeah!” said a man behind the screaming woman who looked to Rob like he could have been her older brother.  “You boys come in here with all your guns and horses and cowboy hats and the damn Chinese came in with tanks!”

“Did they tell you they were looking for us?” asked Rob in a measured tone.

That put the locals back on their heels.  They glanced at each other.  One man shrugged.  “Does it matter?  You show up and then less than a month later, the damn Chinese army shows up and starts to burn down the town.  It’s obvious they were looking for you!”

A shorter man at the back of the crowd pushed his way forward.  His face was a mess of bruises and cuts.  It looked like someone had used his face for a hockey puck in the Stanley Cup Finals. “You’re damn right they were looking for you—look what they did to me!  Tried to beat it out of me.  If I knew where you were at, I’d have drawn them a map!”  He spat into the dirt.

“You folks hear about Nogales?” asked Lance.  “We used to live there.  Protected the border.  When all this mess started,” said Lance.  He put his hands on his hips, brashly displaying the six-shooter holstered low on his hip.  “We were fighting illegal aliens.  Then we ran across some terrorists that were using the Mexicans to break down the border—for their own reasons.  When the dust settled, we saw the Chinese comin’ up out of the desert like a damn snake.  We knew we couldn’t fight them by ourselves—”

“Because let me tell you, there ain’t no one else out there anymore that gives a damn about Arizona.  We used to work pretty close with Border Patrol—even they got left out to dry by Washington,” added Rob.

“And we left Nogales before the Chinese even knew we were there.  They didn’t follow us—they were coming north on their own,” added Lance.  “Only thing we did was delay the inevitable.  They would’a been here two weeks ago if we hadn’t slowed ‘em down some.”

“Yeah, well, they may not have followed you, but you sure pissed ‘em off!  They were asking everyone about the location of the ‘local extremists’.  Yeah, they asked if we knew any gun nuts around here,” one of the locals said.  He wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm.

The woman glanced at the Regulators, all sporting ARs or AK-47s liberated from the Chinese they’d killed.  “You guys sure fit that bill pretty well,” she spat.

Rob glanced at his camo-clad men and took in the rifles, pistols, day packs, ammo pouches, tactical vests…  She’s right, he told himself.  If anyone fits that bill, it’s us.  He looked down the dusty street at the destroyed homes.  Most were burned to the ground, but some had walls blown in and were only partially collapsed.  The entire town only had maybe a hundred homes.  Rob could count upwards of seventy right in front of him that had been reduced to charred rubble.  The sight sickened him and left a foul taste in his mouth, but he forced himself to look.

“You get off on killing their men, and now they’re getting off on killing us.”

“And what are you gonna do about it?” asked the woman, clutching her children close.  “My house is gone, my husband—” her voice faltered.  “We have no place to go, no food, no…no nothing.”  A fresh wave of tears left water-tracks on her soot-smeared face.  She hunched over the sad faces of her young boys, her body shaking with silent sobs.  The stone-faced man Rob figured for her brother stepped up behind her and put a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“She’s right.  The hell you think you can do—beat all those Chinese guys on your own?  Shoot,” he said, his voice filled with contempt.  “If I’d known where you jackasses were hiding, I’d have told the Chinks what they wanted to know in a heartbeat.” He crossed his arms, as if daring Rob to offer a rebuttal.

Rob looked at his own scuffed, dusty boots.  He had no answer.  They were right.  He had led the Regulators out of the forest and down the mountain to attack the Chinese.  The Chinese had then started hunting the Regulators, tracked them up into the forest.  Lance and his team had struck the first blow and wiped out a few Chinese patrols—which were then increased in size.  Rob had responded by creating the RAFs and countering the larger Chinese patrols.  More skirmishes, more death.  The Chinese sent even larger groups of men—the Regulators countered again, always hitting hard and fast and disappearing into the trees and up the mountains.

Now it was clear the Chinese were adopting an age-old strategy to flush out insurgents.  Destroy the communities the insurgents needed to survive, turn the local population against the ‘freedom fighters’ and just plan outlast them.

Rob continued to think, his mind racing in many directions at once as the locals continued to berate him and the other Regulators.  He glanced back at the burned house and saw a charred crib.  A small bundle of black soot was in the crib.  Rob nearly lost his breakfast at the pathetic sight of the dead child’s burned body.  Just a shape really—he couldn’t see the actual body, but he knew what that black lump in the burned, half-collapsed crib was.

My fault.  All this…my pride led me to think the Regulators were…what…?  An army of patriots? He tasted bile in his mouth again. That poor child…dying alone and likely scared out of its mind…

“—leave and get the hell out of here!  All of you!  Maybe if you just go the other towns around here wont’ suffer as bad as we have…” said the distraught woman.

“I am so sorry,” said Rob softly.

“You can take your apology and stuff it up your ass!” said big brother.

“All of you are welcome to…”  Rob looked at the hard faces arrayed against him.  They’d never come to the Regulator camp, if nothing else than out of spite.  There was nothing but hatred, loss, and grief left in this little town.  He sighed and took one last glance at the burned crib and it’s tiny, pathetic occupant.  “If there’s anything—”

“Shut up!” screamed the woman.  She lunged for Rob and was caught by Nate and Lance.  “Let me go!” she hissed, struggling like a wet cat.  When she realized she’d never break free, she screamed in frustration.  “Just leave!  Get out of here!  Now!”

Defeated and utterly sick to his stomach, Rob nodded and gave the signal to the rest of the Regulators to saddle up.  He walked back to his truck, trying to ignore the shouts and jeers hurled at him from the locals.  Where once he and the Regulators were hailed as patriots and even saviors back in Nogales, now they were traitors, criminals.  Baby-killers.

Safe in the cab of his truck, Rob looked over at Lance as he climbed aboard and shut the door.  The noise of the locals was muffled, but still there.  They began approaching the Regulator vehicles.  A rock bounced off Lance’s door.

“Let’s roll, boys,” said Lance into his radio.

Rob started the truck and led the sad procession out of the shriveled, burned husk that was once known as Pine Bluff, Arizona.

THIS REPORT IS UNACCEPTABLE Minister Po,” said Shin Ho formally.  He looked at the report in his hands and slammed it down on the expensive wooden desk.  “These Americans are resisting more than we thought possible.”

Po Sin spread his hands in a wide gesture that was meant to convey a shrug.  “How could we have possibly known that these cowboys would decide to fight an army?  An army!  It’s ludicrous!”

“This resistance is costing us soldiers and supplies that we can ill afford to lose—”

“We have plenty of everything—including men,” said Po Sin with a confidence that he wasn’t sure he felt anymore.  “It is more an irritation than anything.  They are as so many mosquitoes biting a rhinoceros.”

“Whatever you want to call it, they are slowing down progress—and that,” said Shin Ho pointing a finger into the face of his subordinate, “is patently unacceptable to the Supreme Leader.”

“You think I do not know this?” shouted Po Sin, taking his argumentative former friend off-guard.  “My neck is on the line as much as yours, Mr. Undersecretary.”  Po Sin shook his head in disgust.  “These Americans—they don’t know when to give up!  Anyone one else would have surrendered and been happy to receive our mercy, our food, water, and medical supplies.  But no!  They must fight us tooth and nail over land that is little better than desert.  It makes no sense.”

Shin Ho, the nominal regional leader of the Communist Party of the People’s Republic, looked down at his manicured hands.  He was quiet for a moment.  Po Sin studied the slightly overweight man whom he had counted as a dear friend just some months ago.  They had been good-natured rivals when the conquest had started.  Now, Shin Ho had begun to climb the political ladder and was just a few heartbeats away from becoming Supreme Leader in his own right.

Po Sin would never forgive his old friend for leaving him behind.  It had been his plan, after all.  If anyone, it was him who should be sitting behind the desk that Shin Ho now occupied.

“Would we?” said Shin Ho softly.

Po Sin rolled his eyes and sighed.  “I don’t have time for this, Mr. Undersecretary.  I’ve got to get the updated recommendations to—don’t look at me like that.”    He sighed again.  “Very well…Would we what?”  He lit an Arktika—his favorite Russian cigarette—and inhaled deeply, letting the unfiltered nicotine do its work and sooth his throbbing nerves.  He exhaled the plume of pale smoke and marveled at how much flavor the Russians imparted into their cigarettes compared to the Americans.

“Would we give up?  Or would we order our people to resist to their dying breathes?”

Po Sin laughed around his cigarette and clapped his hands.  “Oh, yes, we would crack the whip and order our people to throw themselves at our enemy.  And why not?  We have plenty to spare.  But these Americans,” he said, taking a deep drag, “They do this willingly, in some perverse idea that they are defending their country.  Their own government doesn’t lift a finger…it’s madness, sheer madness.”

“That is what makes me nervous, old friend.”

Po Sin examined the glowing tip of the cigarette in his hand, then shifted his gaze through the light haze of smoke towards the Undersecretary.  “They are rabble, Shin Ho.  They lack coordination—” he waved his left hand.  “Aiya! They live in the woods like Robin Hood for goodness sake!”

“A fairy tale?”

“Yes!” hissed Po Sin.  “Something to be dismissed and forgotten as one matures into adulthood.”  He leveled his sternest glare at his waffling friend.

Shin Ho picked up a report and scanned it with his hooded, sleepy-looking eyes.  “This is the latest report from the commander in Arizona.  It seems we have lost a total of 124 men, enough supplies and weapons to outfit an entire infantry company and two scout vehicles.”  He looked up.  “I would not call that a fairy tale.”

Po Sin leaned back in his chair, rubbing his forehead with his left hand while the cigarette dangled from his right arm.  He closed his eyes.  “This is getting us nowhere.  Just tell me what the Supreme Leader wants.”

“He wants a swift victory.”

“I know that.”  Po Sin needed another drag to keep his temper in check.  He exhaled and watched the smoke swirl in the office air.  There, that’s better.  He continued: “I mean, I want to know what he expects of me?  Initiative or by-the-book?”

Shin Ho stared at him with a gaze that suggested nothing and gave away nothing.  The man was impossible to read.  It was as if he were in a staring contest with his wife’s cat.

At last Po Sin leaned forward and snubbed out his cigarette in the pristine ashtray on Shin Ho’s polished desk.  “Here is the situation.  We can do one of two things, the way I see it.  One,” he held up his left hand.   “We continue the push on to California, ignore the losses we’re taking and leave these cowboys in our rear—hoping they don’t do too much damage to our supply train...or raise an army behind us.”

He held up his right hand.  “Or two, we split our forces.  One half—the bigger half—proceeds as planned toward Tucson and on into California.  The other half focuses on rooting out these barbarians and killing them all.”

Shin Ho leaned back in his executive chair and clasped his hands over his paunch.  He pursed his lower lip and blinked, looking for all the world like a confused koi.  At length, he spoke: “This second force you speak of—what are the plans to, as you say, root out these troublemakers—these…what do they call themselves?”  He leaned forward and glanced at the report.  “Ah.  Regulators.”

Po Sin grinned.  “That’s the best part—we’ll let the local civilians flush them out for us.  We’ve already started, in fact.  I had the area commander assault a small town near where we think these cowboys are operating.  Burned it to the ground, made a show of killing the adult males and older boys.  We demand knowledge of these Regulators in return for leniency.  It has worked in the past.  In the end, the locals will sell out these freedom fighters for a chance at peace.  Look how it worked in Cambodia.”

“I don't know,” muttered Shin Ho.  “Cambodians and Americans are two different creatures.”

“True enough,” replied Po Sin.  “Perhaps it will just take a little longer, cost a few more soldiers.”  He waved a hand in dismissal.  “In the end, it’s simply human nature.  You’ll see.”

Shin Ho raised his eyebrows and sat up.  “All right, all right.  I’ll agree to your plan and sign off on it.  Anything to stop these losses.  Just make sure that the attacking force heading for California maintains the timetable, eh?”  He shuffled some papers on his desk, found the appropriate order and signed it with a flourish.  “Take this and be gone.  I will smooth things over with the Supreme Leader.”

“You won’t regret this, old friend.”

Shin Ho looked at him oddly.  It wasn’t anger, or even jealousy—after all, he was merely signing off on the plan.  The real genius behind the whole operation had been Po Sin—and everyone knew it, even the Supreme Leader.  What was it about his friend’s look that he found so unsettling then?  Po Sin tamped down a flicker of unease that struggled to life in the dark corners of his mind.  He was putting everything—his reputation, his career, perhaps even his life—on the line for this invasion…

“See that I don’t, friend,” said Shin Ho.

ROB STARED AT THE men coming through the main entrance to the Regulator compound.  He glanced at the guards on either side of the heavy timber gate.  The two locals looked decidedly uneasy.

He stepped up and met them with as warm a smile as he could muster, trying to put the memories of the last meeting with locals in the back of his mind.  He blocked the memory of that hysterical woman screaming that it had been the Regulator’s fault the Chinese had wiped out Pine Bluff.  The crib…

Rob forced himself to focus on his visitors.  The man on the left looked surly.  He was covered in sweat and grime and appeared to have dearly missed his normal sleep for a few days.  His companion looked to be suffering a similar state of personal hygiene, but at least had the decency to come across as polite.

It was to the man on the right that Rob spoke to first.   “Welcome to our little…outpost,” he said looking around.  “I guess that word describes it best.”

The man on the left spoke first.  “My name’s Milton Birch.”  He glared at the gathering onlookers, as if defying them to challenge him.  “So this is the great secret hideout of the Regulators.  You boys done a lotta damage down below, you know that?  Lotta people dead because of you—”

“Ah, what my friend here his trying to say,” said the man on the right with a calming hand on Birch’s arm.  “Is that we’ve been sent by the good folks of what is left of Pine Bluff to try and talk you all into surrendering to the—”

“The hell we will!” said George Franks.  His brother, Ed, never far from George’s side, spat on the ground as his answer.

“We lost our homes because of the Chinese, too,” Lance said in a quiet voice.

“Well I lost my family.  Them Chinks kill yours for what you been doin’ up here in the woods, playin’ at Rambo?  Did they?” said Birch through clenched teeth.  The chords in his neck were taut and the man looked ready to attack Lance.  His eyes filled with moisture and he suddenly looked away, sniffing hard and scrubbing at his face.

“Look, Milt and I aren’t here to lay blame at anyone’s feet,” said the man on the right, his hands spread wide.  “We’re here to ask.”  He glanced at his partner.   “Nicely.”

Rob hooked his thumbs behind his belt buckle and rocked back a bit on his heels.  He was fighting the wave of disgust that was rising in his stomach.  The very sight of these two quislings made him want to break something.

“Well,” said the second man, looking around with darting eyes.  Rob could see beads of sweat starting to form on his forehead.  “At least shut down your little…ah, operation, here, and move on…that’s all we ask.  We just want you to leave.”

Rob shot a glance at Lance.  “I checked ‘em myself.  No wiretaps.”

“There,” said Birch as he pointed at Lance.  “You see?  We come in peace, in all sincerity to ask you—”

“What you ask is for us to get down on our knees and wait for the Red Chinese to come up this mountain and slit our throats,” said Rob.

“Damn straight!” shouted George Franks.  Lance turned and waved him off.

“No, sir, no one’s suggesting that—”

“What you ask,” Rob said again, in a low, quiet voice, “is that we surrender.  You want us to give up and just hand ourselves over to the invading army from China.”  Rob raised his eyebrow.  “You want us to quit and lead ourselves to the slaughter, be good little quislings like you and hope and pray our new masters don’t slaughter the rest of you out of spite.”

The man’s face reddened.  “Now look, I never—”

Rob plowed ahead, talking right over the indignant local.  “You want us to take all the sacrifices, the blood lost, the lives cut short—not only by my men, but by every man and woman who’s ever worn the uniform of these United States going back to the mother-loving Revolution itself—you want us to piss on their graves, burn the flag, give Lady Liberty the finger, and wait to die as slaves.  That’s about the gist of it, right…friend?”

“You’re putting words into—”

“Shut your fucking mouth right now before I shoot you myself, you goddamn coward,” growled Rob.  He took two long strides forward and pressed his face into the local’s.  The man shrank back and seemed to physically grow smaller beneath Rob’s barely contained fury.  “You people down there, in Pine Bluff, you’ve suffered.  Ain’t no one gonna tell you otherwise around here.  We’ve seen what those slant-eyed bastards did, and let me tell you, it makes me sick to my stomach to think that they’re trying to use you against us.”

“That’s right, you talk the big talk, Mister,” said Birch.  “I don’t think you had to watch your family burnt alive in your own home, did you?”

Rob turned to look at the shorter man.  “No, thank God, I didn’t.  But I wouldn’t blame the only Americans for a thousand miles that are trying to stop the sonsabitches, either,” retorted Rob with equal vehemence.

Birch opened his mouth to answer, paused, looked like a fish out of water for a moment and shut it again.  He glared at the floor and said nothing.  Rob turned back to the other local.

“What’s your name?”

“Roger.  Roger Hallwood.”

“You sound like a reasonable man, Roger,” said Rob.  He took a step back and held his breath a moment too long in order to get control of his anger.  He was on thin ice.  The locals could choose to sell out the Regulators at any time.  And Rob didn’t figure they’d last long in an all-out siege.  No, he had to sweet talk these men into giving them time to prove the worth of the Cause.  He had to win them back to the right side of the issue.

Hallwood puffed his chest slightly.  “I like to think I am.  Most folks agree.”

“Then reason with me,” Rob said.  He held his hand out, gesturing that the two take a walk.  “I think better outside.  I’ve always felt cooped up in a building.”

Hallwood nodded and after a reassuring look toward Birch, he followed Rob outside.

“There, that’s better,” said Rob, closing his eyes in the dappled sunlight trickling through the alpine canopy.  He took a deep breath and savored the smells of fresh cut pines, the stale mountain soil, and the nearby campfires where Regulator families were beginning to prepare suppers.  “This land is America—”

“No one’s denying that, no sir.”

Rob nodded.  “And this country has been invaded exactly one time—other than now.  Do you know why no one besides Britain has ever tried in the last two hundred years or so?”

“Because we are—well, we were—the most power nation on the planet,” replied Hallwood.

“Yes,” said Rob with a look of appreciation for his guest.  “Because the world was afraid of what they’d find should they try and invade.  Have you heard about the hell breaking loose back east?”

Hallwood shook his head.  “We’d heard a little bit before the town lost power completely—something about the United Nations sending peacekeepers to the big cities…and fighting in Chicago.  Real fighting.  With tanks.”

Rob led Hallwood over towards one of the redoubts, a little downslope from the main HQ.  “Yup.  The rebels, this Brotherhood, they pretty much own the cities now—with the help of their European friends.  They’re spreading out—like a virus.  You know what else is going on though?  We got a decent HAM setup here, so we’ve been hearing the news—word is, there’s people all over the country rising up to stop the U.N. jackboots.”

Hallwood said nothing.

“They knocked us down, almost out.  I’ll give ‘em that.  But we’re Americans.  We don’t give up.  Not easily, not ever.  But that’s not what the world sees—thanks to Hollywood and the liberals that have been running this country into the toilet for decades now—the world see Americans as weak, ignorant, pathetic, whining, and lazy.  They think we’ll just roll over and say ‘Thank you sir, may I have another?’.  That’s not the America I know.  The America I know is still tough as iron and twice as stubborn.  I know deep down, you feel the same way.  I can see it in your eyes.”  Rob stopped at the redoubt and crossed his arms, taking in the wide vista.

Hallwood whistled.  Rob didn’t know if it was in response to his speech or to the view.   “Well, you got a way with words, friend.  In better times, I’d agree with you, no doubt about it. But fancy words and patriotic speeches don’t change the fact that the Chinese destroyed my town and damn near killed a third the people in it.  They’re gonna come back, and it’s because of you.  And I’m sorry, but there’s nothing that you can say that will change our minds on telling the Chinese right where you are.”

Rob slowly turned to face the traitor.

“And don’t think we didn’t plan ahead.  We know where your little fortress is,” Hallwood said quickly, taking a step back.  “If you kill me—”

“Christ man, why would I kill you?  You’re just a weasely little traitor.  Not worth the ammo.”  Rob sighed and turned back toward the HQ.  He began walking, ignoring the protests from Hallwood.

Maybe he’s right.  Maybe we should give up, move on…try and start over somewhere deeper in the mountains…away from towns, away from… He stopped in the cleared area of the compound and frowned.  Damn it all…if we stay, they’ll sell us out and the Chinese will just blow us right off the mountain.  If we leave, they’ll probably sell us out anyway and we’ll be chased by the Chinese wherever we go. We’ve killed too many of them to just forgive and forget…

“—get you at some point, you know!” Hallwood was still talking.  “You can’t win…”

Rob looked at Hallwood.  “Say we leave,” he began.  The look of hope that washed over the local’s face was almost comical.  “What then?”

“Why,” said Hallwood, he walked quickly up to Rob with a renewed vigor in his step.   “The Chinese would let you leave in peace.  They told us they’d give you safe passage to wherever you wished to go as long as you swore not to raise arms against them ever again.”  Hallwood looked around.  In a lower voice he said, “Look.  I can understand your reluctance.  You’ve got quite the reputation…but stop kidding yourselves.  You don’t have the manpower to take on the Chinese.  They’ve got an army…”

“One,” crackled Rob’s radio.  “Got a vehicle comin’ up.”

He almost ignored it, but something told to Rob hold up a hand for silence.  He keyed his own radio.  “Friendly?”

“SUV marked Border Patrol.  Green and white.  RAF-1 stopped ‘em downslope.  Says they’re legit.  Want to talk with you.”

“All right, send ‘em up.”  He turned to Hallwood.  “I don’t know, Roger.  I just don’t know anymore.”

Rob stopped listening to the excuses, the warnings, the pleadings from the quisling.  He stood there nodding absently, waiting for his new visitors to drive up the mountain.

In a few moments, a dust covered SUV rolled to a stop, tires popping and crunching on the gravel.  As the dust cloud dissipated around the green and white vehicle, four doors opened and Border Patrol Agents stepped out.  They were in full-up tactical gear. Weapons came up and they scanned around.

Rob excused himself from Hallwood and approached with a hand up.  “Welcome, gentlemen.  I assure you, those weapons aren’t needed here.”

The leader stepped away from the front passenger door and lowered his M4.  “Stand down,” he called over his shoulder.  The others followed suit.  He walked a few paces up to Rob.  “Names Doug Levine.  I’m the Supervisory Agent in Charge of the Nogales Station survivors.  I’m looking for a Rob Gunn?”

“You’ve found him.”

“Well it’s about time.  We’ve been tracking you guys for weeks.”  The man exhaled.  “You’re a hard bunch of men to find.”

Rob grinned and shook the Agent’s hand.  “Well, if we were easy to find, the Chinese would probably have killed us by now.”

It was the agents turn to grin.  “Heard about the trouble you’ve been causing our visitors…”  The man’s grin died.  “We were only able to find this place because the people down there in Pine Bluff—”

“What’s left of it, you mean,” said Hallwood bitterly.  “I’m Roger Hallwood, officer, and I’m trying to convince these men to give up their delusions and turn themselves over to the Chinese—or at least to leave this area.”

Rob ignored the civilian.  “Mr. Levine, if you’re here to try and get us to surrender, too—”

“Mr. Gunn, on the contrary, I’m here to join you.”

Rob thought his face would split, his smile was so wide.  He fought the urge to hug the agent.  “You and your men are most welcome.  Just the four of you, then?”

Hallwood’s mouth hung open.

“Oh, hell no,” said Levine, smiling.  “We’re just the scouting party.  I have 57 agents and officers, two helos, vehicles, weapons, all the ammo and supplies we could carry north with us…”

Rob put a hand on Levine’s shoulder armor and closed his eyes in silent prayer of thanks.

“You can’t be serious—” sputtered Hallwood.

“And there’s a lot more behind us.”

Rob’s eyes opened.  “What do you mean?”

The radio crackled again.  “Rob!  You better get in here…The Chinese are sacking Tucson…it’s all over the HAM net.  They’re burning it to the ground!”

“That’s what I was about to tell you.  There’s refugees heading this way.  And a whole shit ton of people from the outskirts—they had a nice roadblock set up—”

“Man named Brady?” asked Rob.

Levine nodded.  “Yep.  Brady.  Got a whole posse with him, all loaded for bear, said they’re coming north to find you boys.  You’re gonna have your own army here, soon enough.”

“They’re destroying Tucson?  They said they were going to leave…” mumbled Hallwood.  His shoulders slumped forward.

Lance trotted up, his boots crunching on the gravel.  “Rob!”

“Lance, this is Agent Levine.  Agent Levine, Lance Bryton, my…well, my co-captain I guess you could say.”

“Pleasure, sir,” said Levine as the two men shook hands.

Rob turned to Hallwood.  “You can see we’re not going to roll over and give up.  You run along back to your new masters and tell them we’re going to be coming for them.  You tell ‘em we’re going to give ‘em a war.”

Hallwood looked utterly defeated.  “You’re asking me to sign the death warrant for my town, my friends and neighbors.”  He shook his head.  “The Chinese will kill us all, now…”

“Then join us, Roger.  Convince your friends to move up here with us.  There’s plenty of shelter…”

“There’s little enough food left for us in town…how will we all survive, you and your new little army?”

Rob started to smile again.  He looked at Lance and Agent Levine.  “Gentlemen, follow me.”

Rob led the three others across the compound to a large storage area that had been dug into the side of the mountain and blocked off with logs.  A crude gate had been cut into the wood and blocked with a chain-link fence segment.  Rob unlocked the padlock and swung the gate open.  “Have a look.”

Lance grinned as Levine and Hallwood peeked inside and gasped.

“There’s got to be ten tons of materiel in there—food, weapons, ammo…where’d it all come from?” asked Levine.

“That’s courtesy of the Red Chinese.  You tell your people to come up here, Roger.  We’ve got the food and space for everyone.  And we’re gonna get more, I promise you.”

CHAPTER 9

Press Release

HANK SUTHBY, ACTING PRESIDENT of the United States, watched the monitor carefully.  He was hunched over the desk in the new Situation Room at NORAD, ignoring paperwork, directives, strategies, all of it—he wanted to focus on the image of his assistant, Daniel, as the promising young man made his way to a Presidential Podium down in the Press Room.

A few reporters off-screen started shouting questions.  Suthby rocked back in his chair and nibbled a fingernail absently.  Daniel ignored the reporters and looked down at the papers in his hand.

“My name is Daniel Jones and I am currently the Assistant Director of Homeland Security.  I have a statement for immediate release to the members of the Press.”  He organized his papers and cleared his throat.  Lifting up the top page of his papers, he began to read.

“The General Assembly of the United Nations, reminding all member nations of the strong commitment we all have towards stability in every region of the world, which recognizes the inherent dignity, equality and inalienable rights of all global citizens…”

Suthby detected a murmur making its way through the pool reporters.  They looked at each other.  A few shrugged, one man shook his head in apparent disbelief, and the only woman present began to scribble notes furiously on her tablet.

“…Reaffirming its Resolution 33/2015, which encourages Governments to work with UN bodies aimed at improving the coordination and effectiveness of international crisis assistance…”

“What the hell is this?” asked one of the reporters, holding a hand up like a child in school.  Suthby frowned at the interruption but was heartened by the fact that Daniel never missed a beat and continued speaking.

“Noting with especial satisfaction the past and continuing Herculean efforts of the surviving members of the government of the United States, its agencies and nongovernmental organizations…”

“You gotta be kidding me, what is this an award ceremony?” said the second reporter.

“Stressing the fact,” continued Daniel, some color finally rising in his cheeks.   “That the United States faces unprecedented civil breakdown, financial obstacles, internal rebellion, and is in dire need of strong leadership, particularly in the maintenance of law and order…”

Suthby closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, listening to the words.  The next few lines were pure music to his ears and he didn’t want to miss a word.  So few words, yet they would change his life, and alter the course of human history.

“…this international body resolves to require all member nations and all Federal agencies of the United States—including State and local governments—to collaborate with and recognize former-Secretary of Homeland Security Henry Suthby as President Pro Tem of the United States…”

Suthby sighed at Daniel’s flawless delivery.  It was perfect.  The gasps from the reporters were just icing on the cake.  He opened his eyes and nearly laughed out loud at the apoplectic reactions of the two male reporters.  The female was merely staring at Daniel with wide eyes and an open mouth.

He impatiently rifled through his own paperwork as Daniel droned on in the background, reading the rest of the long-winded statement from the Secretary-General of the United Nations.  When he was finally done, the reporters could no longer be contained.

“What the hell is this?” one shouted.

“You can’t possibly be serious—the implications of this…whatever it is—is it a resolution?  Is it an order?  Is it recognized as law in the United States?”

“Mr. Jones, do you honestly expect average Americans to agree to this?” asked the woman in a measured voice.

Daniel nodded at her and spoke calmly, “Janet, I’m not here to give you my opinion.  Quite frankly, my opinion doesn’t matter.  What matters is, like you said, the opinions of the average American out there who is suffering through this continuing crisis we all face.  Look, it’s not like the United Nations wants to invade us or anything.  Take a look at the rest of the world—things are falling apart out there because the U.S. government is no longer able to hold the world together.  I mean, you’ve got riots in Germany and England—people are running out of food all across Europe and even Asia is starting to feel the crunch.  We’re not importing anything.  Where is China getting money to pay their workers?  Something has to be done before the entire world enters a new Dark Age.”

“Holy crap,” Suthby muttered at the monitor.  “That was good, Daniel.”

Daniel made a show of shuffling his papers and started reading from another letter: “This is from the leaders of what’s left of Congress—at least the ones we were able to find.  I’ll give you each copies of this for distribution, but the gist of it is that Congress agrees with the United Nations.  In this time of crisis, we must have continuous—and strong—leadership.  Both the minority and majority leaders—of both the Senate and the House—have agreed to President Suthby’s continued leadership on a pro tem basis.  President Suthby has stipulated in this document,” he said, holding up another piece of paper, this one on Presidential letterhead.

Suthby nearly screamed for joy when the reporters simply wrote down notes instead of challenging Daniel’s use of the phrase “President Suthby”.

“…which clearly states that he will only assume office until such time as Congress determines he is no longer needed, the next in line under the Continuity of Government protocol is found, or a special election is held—to be scheduled at the discretion of Congress.”

Suthby slapped his hands together and stood up.  His dream was finally realized.  He was the legitimate President of the United States.  He had achieved what no other man in American history had accomplished—to become the most powerful man in the country without ever needing a single vote, a single lobbyist, a single campaign stop.  He was untouchable, incorruptible, and unstoppable.

He walked to the side table and poured himself a scotch.  “Hot damn,” he said to himself.  After draining the glass and letting his throat recover, he poured another and glanced at the monitor.  Daniel was wrapping up the press conference, fielding a few stunned questions from the pool reporters—it was clear they were completely shell-shocked.

All the better, Suthby figured.  The longer the Press was quietly confused, the longer it would be before people started to question his authority—the faster people would come to recognize the silence of the Press as acquiescence and acceptance.

“Now it’s time to save this country,” he said, scotch held high in salute to Daniel’s image on the screen.

CHAPTER 10

The Battle of Orlando

SERGEANT PINNER BROUGHT THE M-ATV to a stop in front of George Mason High School.  There were three Guardsmen standing at the entrance monitoring radios and keeping a wary eye on the deserted parking lot.

The radio in the console squawked to life: “—horn is in effect.  Repeat, all units this net, Matterhorn, Matterhorn, Matterhorn.  Break for cover and meet at your assigned rendezvous point.”  The man’s nervous voice repeated the new instructions again.   Pinner switched it off and turned in his seat to look at Ted.

“Sergeant, you’re more than welcome to come with us.  If not, I’ll need the keys,” said Ted.

“I’ve seen you in action, sir,” said Pinner as he killed the engine to the M-ATV.  “I like your style.  I’ll stay with you.”

Erik was the first to reach the school’s doors.  “Move!” he shouted and barreled past the surprised soldiers who tried to salute.

Ted’s voice rang out behind him as Erik entered the darkness of the school’s foyer.  “Start the evacuation process—we gotta get the civvies north of town!”

“But sir, we haven’t heard from HQ—”

Erik came to a tripping halt in the main intersection inside the school and ignored Ted’s words about the command center being destroyed.  He looked left towards the classroom wing where sleeping quarters for the civilians who had been traveling with the Guard were staying.  To the right, he knew, was the gym—the hospital.  That was where he’d find Brin and Susan.

He burst through the doors to the gym with Ted on his heels.  The doctors, nurses, and volunteers were busy—as usual—but there was a heightened sense of anxiety that was almost palpable in the cavernous gymnasium.  Row upon row of cots with sheets for dividers had been set up.   A large tent occupied the center of the basketball court—the operating room.  The roar of the dozen or so military-grade generators out back was barely audible through the thick walls but the power lines that snaked across the hardwood floor in every direction were proof the surgeons had a lot of electricity at their disposal.

Erik shouldered past a man on crutches and asked the first orderly he found, “Have you seen Brin Larsson?  She’s a volunteer…”

The woman thought for a moment, then nodded.  “Oh yeah, she’s over there helping the new arrivals.”

Erik sprinted to the far corner of the gym, where the bank of doors leading to locker rooms were  propped open in an attempt to allow air to circulate.  His boots squeaked to a stop when he saw her, bent over a man stretched out on a cot.  His bloody clothes had been reduced to mere rags.  A fresh puddle of blood pooled under his cot.  Brin had tears in her eyes as she gently pulled a stained white sheet over his face.  She sniffed and stood up, wiping a stray lock of hair from her face and blinked at the ceiling.

Erik could stand it no longer.  He took three quick strides and wrapped her in his arms.  She yelped in surprise, then hugged him back when she realized who had grabbed her.  “God, I’ve been so worried about you,” she whispered into his ear.  “There’s a battle going on out there—the first casualties are starting to arrive…Are you and Ted okay?”

“Ted and I are fine.  But we’ve got to go.”

“Go?  Where?” asked Brin, stepping back from Erik yet holding his hands.

“North. Orlando is about to fall—”

“What?” she said, shock registering on her face.  “What do you mean, ‘fall’?  We can’t just run—we’ve got to help—”

“Listen to me,” Erik said in a low voice.  He pressed his face close to hers, his hands cupping her soft cheeks.  “The Russians are attacking the outskirts of town right now—they’re setting fire to everything and pushing the civilians before them like a human tidal wave.  We barely made it through.  HQ is gone.  They got jets doing bombing runs, missiles falling out of the sky—and a whole army approaching from the south.  Orlando is doomed,” he said.  “We will be too, if we don’t get the hell out of here, right now.”

Brin’s face was a mask of shock.  “But…Captain Williams…”  She looked around.  “The patients, the doctors—they need—”

“Honey, if we don’t leave, right now—we’ll never get another chance.  The Russians are…” he struggled for words.  A few of the wounded soldiers were sitting on elbows trying to listen from nearby cots.

“Hey, you got word from the front?” one asked weakly.

Erik nodded at him and tried to smile.  He turned back to Brin and the smile vanished.  In a hushed voice, he said, “Babe, we’re running out of time.  Ted’s getting Susan and the kids right now.  We’ve got to go.  Now.”  He looked past his wife’s doubting face.  “There they are.”

Ted and his family rushed up to Erik, carrying backpacks and blankets and stuffed animals.  “You ready?” he asked.

“Ted—” began Brin.

“Hey, I asked about the front?  We holding?” demanded a voice behind them.

Ted frowned as he looked past Erik.   His gaze shifted to Brin, then Erik.  “What’s up, man?  You ready or what?”

“She…” Erik was at a loss for words.  All their hopes and dreams since the power went out had been tied up with surviving long enough to make their way north.  And now they were staring at the best opportunity in months to come along and Brin was hesitating.  He didn’t even know what to say.

“Brin, dear, we need to go.  Come along, now,” said Susan, reaching out to take Brin’s arm.

“Yeah, Brin, we’re going on a road trip!” Ted’s youngest son said cheerfully.

“Isn’t this desertion?” asked Brin quietly.

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Ted. He shifted his daughter from one arm to the other.  “We don’t have time for this.  Come on kids, we’re going to go load up.”  He shot Erik a look.  “Erik and Brin will be right behind us.”

Erik frowned at Brin.  “You think Ted—a Marine—would go AWOL in the middle of a war?  Our HQ is gone—”

“Gone?” asked the soldier behind Brin, trying to sit up in his cot.

Erik gave up.  He leaned around Brin.  “Yeah, Russians took it out with a missile strike.  The whole line is collapsed, man.  The reinforcements from Tampa never made it—”

“Missiles?” asked another man.  He moaned.  “We’re fucked, man!”  Others picked up the news and the word spread rapidly.  The noise level around them began to increase.  Nurses and doctors stopped their rounds to look up and see what was causing the commotion among the new arrivals.

Erik grabbed Brin’s arm, harder than he had meant.  “We’ve only got a few minutes before they start hitting us here and the civilians arrive.  If that happens, we’ll be trapped and…”  He swallowed.  “Babe, this is our only chance.”

She nodded and took his hand.  “Let’s go,” she said.

“What about us?” one of the wounded yelled, anger rising in his voice.  “You can’t just run out like that!”

“Come on,” he said to Brin, trying to ignore the shouted questions and accusations that were starting to be hurled in his direction.  He focused on Ted’s family, making their way to the other side of the gym.  “Just keep moving.”

“Hey, Miss Brin, I could use some water,” someone said as they shuffled past a cot.  Erik felt Brin slow down. He pulled on her hand.

“I’m sorry, one of the others will get you some,” he heard her say in a choked voice.

A shout from the other side of the gym took Erik’s focus away from Ted’s back.  Two soldiers burst into the side doors and shouted something.  A woman screamed.  The ripple of panic worked its way across the gym floor in the blink of an eye and chaos erupted all around them.  Some patients who were able to rise did so and began to stagger for the exits.  Others just flailed helplessly and cried for assistance.  Doctors and nurses tried to install a sense of calm an order, but Erik could see the time for that was past.

“Come on!” he shouted to Brin.  “We gotta move!”  He gripped her hand tight.   “Hold on!”

“Erik!” she screamed.  He felt her tug backward with surprising force.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw two men in cots trying to grab her legs as she moved past.  “Don’t leave us!” one said.  “For God’s sake, help me!”

“Hey!  He’s going AWOL!” someone shouted from another cot.

“Stop them!”

“Cowards!”

The space around them began to close up as hands and arms tried to slow them down amid the shouts and jeers of the wounded.  Erik felt horrible.  These men were truly helpless and what’s worse—they were right.  He could feel the shame in his soul.  He could well understand their frustration at someone trying to steal away in the middle of the battle, but he had finally reached his breaking point.

The same white hot fury that had slowed down time for him at the parking lot of the Freehold when the escaped convict had tried to assault Brin flared to life.  Time seemed to slow down, his vision narrowed and he could feel every heartbeat coursing anger through his veins.  He was so close to freedom, to fulfilling the promise he made to Brin when the power went out so many months ago: to get her to safety and protect her.  He had suffered through life in the army for the past month, put his life on the line more than once, and escaped the Russians once already.  Now today…enough was enough.

Sympathy for his fellow wounded soldiers evaporated in his soul like a drop of water on the hood of a car on a hot day.  He kicked—hard— at the man’s hand that had snaked around Brin’s calf in an attempt to keep her from running.  The boot met flesh and bone with a crunch Erik could feel up his leg.  The man cried out in pain and the hand fell away.

Brin screamed.  Erik spun around and saw another soldier stand up in front of them trying to block their path.  He was bleeding from a head wound and hunched over in pain, but the look of determination on his face was frightening.  “Can’t let you run, sir.”

Erik’s vision darkened, everything took on a red tint.  In one quick movement, he tossed Brin’s light form onto his left shoulder, lowered his right, and charged.  The soldier was caught completely off-guard and took a half-step back when he realized Erik wasn’t about to stop.

Can’t let you stop me…

Erik roared his frustration, anger, grief, and all the torments of the summer and poured it all onto the soldier who had decided to try and prevent him from getting his wife to safety.  The man was tossed aside like a rag doll as Erik threw every ounce of his 6’4” frame right into the man’s chest.  He stepped over the crumpled soldier and picked up speed.  Brin’s weight on his shoulder felt like nothing more than his day pack.

Two more soldiers were knocked aside.  Erik felt like a running back in the Superbowl.  By God, nothing was going to stop him from reaching those doors on the other side of the gym.  Ted’s face appeared in the distant doorway and urged him on.  The crowd surged forward but momentarily paused as those nearest him saw how Erik was busting through anyone who stood in his way.  It was just enough of a gap for him to topple a doctor and two orderlies to the floor.

“Sorry!” Brin called out—upside down over Erik’s shoulder—as he kicked an empty cot aside.

At last he reached the door and set Brin down on the ground.  “You okay?” he breathed.

“Wow,” she said, eyes wide, one trembling hand on Erik’s shoulder.  “That was...different.”

“Let’s go, you two!” bellowed Ted from down the hall by the main entrance.

“Come on!” said Erik.  He took Brin’s hand and they raced down the hallway towards the blinding light at the entrance.

Erik and Brin burst through the main doors to a scene that brought them to a halt.  One of the Guardsmen was unconscious on the ground, the other two were glaring at Susan—who held an M-4 pointed at them.  Erik glanced at her and his eyebrows rose.

“He told me I can’t take my babies to safety,” she said simply.  Erik noticed the red stain on her shirt.

Brin gasped.  “Susan, you’re bleeding—you must have reopened your wound.”

“I’ll live,” Susan said, her face a mixture of grim determination and abject fear.  Sweat beads rolled down her neck.

“Fuckin’ traitors,” one of the Guards spat.

Erik looked at him.  “We’re overrun, man.  Orlando’s toast.”  A fighter jet roared overhead to put emphasis on his words.  He glanced at the sky.

“That’s Russian,” warned Ted from the driver’s door of a second M-ATV.  The vehicle came to life with a throaty roar.  “Pinner’ll take you and Brin.  I got my family in this one.”

Erik looked back at the two Guards, who didn’t look so sullen anymore.  “It’s time to survive, not fight.  The fighting’s over.  They won.”

“Matterhorn is in effect,” said Ted.

The Guardsmen looked at each other.  “That confirmed?”  They lowered their hands in unison.

Ted shrugged one shoulder.  “Check with your comms guy if you don’t believe me.  Either way, we’re out of here and I suggest you do the same…that’s what the order is all about, right?”

Matterhorn: Captain William’s nuclear option.  In the event the Russians over-take their position, all units were to scatter into the landscape and regroup when possible at pre-determined rendezvous points.   Ted, as commander of a scout unit, had been ordered to link up with other survivors near Ocala.  They would become guerrillas if necessary.

Erik glanced up and saw neat rows of large planes gliding gracefully up from the south.  They were trailing little black dots…  “Oh shit…look, paratroopers!”

Ted followed Erik’s gaze.  “He’s right,” said Ted as he threw another bag into the idling M-ATV.  “Time to decide, boys.  You want to die for the flag or save yourself—then come back and make Ivan die for his flag?”

“Ready when you, sir!” called out Pinner from the other M-ATV.  He opened the passenger side suicide-door and waited.  Seeing Pinner with Ted and Erik sealed the deal.

Susan turned the rifle around and handed it to one of the surprised Guards.  They looked at each other.  Neither one took the rifle at first.  Finally one of them did and said, “AWOL in wartime is punishable by death, you know…”

“I could shoot you right now…” said the other.

“But you won’t, will you?  Because this isn’t AWOL—it’s following the orders set forth in Matterhorn,” said Erik.  He pointed at the sky.  The black dots were clearly tiny men.  They were drifting closer and the planes continued to drop more.  The dull thrum of their engines began to creep into Erik’s range of hearing.  Another fighter jet streaked by overhead.  “Because of that.”

The jet looped around the school, its engines screaming in the blue sky.

“They know we’re here,” warned Ted.  “Time to roll, man!”  He counted his kids, then shut the armored door after Susan climbed in.  “Come on!”

“Go on, get out of here,” said the Guardsman with the rifle.  His eyes were stared at the wall of black smoke beginning to blot out the sky to the south.

MAJOR STROGOLEV STRAINED TO hear the voice of his commanding officer over the noise of battle.  The BTR’s main gun fired almost constantly.   The whup-whup-whup sounded more like a helicopter than a gun.

“Dah, Colonel, I read you!” he shouted.  “We have engaged the enemy.”

“Good, Aleksei!  Drive them back!  My lead elements will arrive in less than an hour.  You have the air cover we were promised?  I have ordered my airborne troops to deploy.”

“Yes!” hollered Strogolev as the ground shook once more.  “They are laying waste the American positions we marked for them.  It is a glorious sight!”

“Don’t kill them all, Aleksei!  Save some for me!” the Colonel said with a laugh.

You arrogant ass, this is my battle.  Strogolev grinned.  “There’s plenty for everyone!  We’re starting a firestorm and it is causing the civilians to run straight into the face of the enemy.”

“Do not push too hard, Major.  Your mission is to keep them bottled up.  My forces will do the conquering.  And by tomorrow night, we’ll have dinner in Tampa!”

Strogolev replaced the mic on its hook and stepped outside into the sunlight again.  The interior of the BTR was getting too damn hot anymore.  He glanced around his forward command post.

At a conveniently placed T&A rest stop were parked six mobile BM-21 missile trucks and their supply vehicles.  Another round of artillery rockets lit up and hissed into the sky on plumes of white smoke.  Soldiers scurried between the trucks and the launchers, bringing new rockets and launching pins.

Trucks filled with scouts streamed past the command center, taking troops toward the front line.  He had given them orders to not engage the enemy, but attack civilians.  The pilots had reported seeing waves of people fleeing the fighting and the burning buildings.  It was creating the perfect atmosphere of chaos and panic that would sow not only confusion in the ranks of the Americans but give him a tactical advantage.  He still maintained the smaller force in the field, but through the efforts of the stampeding civilians and the jets strafing enemy positions, his scout force was well on its way toward the capture of Orlando.

He would be damned if he’d let that pompous fool Doskoy take all the credit for bringing Orlando to its knees.  This was his fight, his idea, his men, and it would be his glory.

“Gregor!” he called out.  Stepanovich finished giving orders to an aide and hurried to his CO’s side.

“Yes, comrade Major?”  The man’s dour, calm face was as aggravating as ever.

Did nothing excite him?  “Get on the radio with those pilots,” Strogolev said, pointing at one of the planes streaking past overhead.  “Give them the order to attack gas stations and fuel reserves.  I want total anarchy!”

“Yes, Major!” said Stepanovich.

“And give the order for our men to move forward!  We will take Orlando by nightfall!”

A lieutenant rushed up to Strogolev holding a dispatch.  “Sir!” he said and paused to salute.  Strogolev waved off the formality.

“What is it?”

“Word from one of the pilots—they’ve located a large medical facility to the north of town that has a large number of military vehicles nearby.  Many civilians and a significant military presence.”

“Destroy it!  Before Doskoy’s paratroopers get all the glory.  Reroute a squadron of jets over there and send a rifle company to take it down.”

HANG ON BACK THERE, Brin!” Erik shouted over the roar of the M-ATV’s engine.  Pinner pushed the vehicle without mercy in an attempt to keep up with Ted’s family, barreling down the access road ahead of them.

Brin squealed in fright as Pinner took a corner too fast and the left side of the big truck lifted off the ground to the accompaniment of chirping tires.  Erik struggled remain in his seat when the 25,000 pound armored truck crashed back to the pavement.  Erik readjusted his helmet and glanced back at his wife, strapped down in the rear jump-seat.  The circle of light pouring through the open turret in the roof illuminated her scared face.  He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and—

“Shit!” gasped Pinner a split second before impact.

Erik was slammed forward against the dashboard.  He grunted in pain but it was forgotten when he saw the red smear across his side of the now cracked windshield.

Pinner flipped on the wipers and smeared the blood even more.  He cursed again and glanced at Erik.  “Damn fool came out of nowhere.  Who the hell jumps in front of a speeding Matvee with a 240 on top?”

“Heads up back there, we’re taking fire—people throwing bricks, bottles, that sort of thing,” said Ted’s voice from the dash-mounted radio.

“Now he tells us,” muttered Brin.

Erik frowned as he checked the skies again through his gore-smeared ballistic window.  He keyed the radio: “There’s an awful lot of paratroopers up there, man…”  He watched as Ted maneuvered the lead M-ATV around a crowd of people that surged out of an alley next to a large office building.

“Watch out!” Brin said.

“I see them, ma’am,” said Pinner through gritted teeth.  He jerked the wheel left and right, weaving a path through the screaming crowd.  Something hit the side of the vehicle.

“Taking fire from the crowd,” he observed.  Erik gripped his rifle a little tighter.

“Hooah,” was Pinner’s grunted response.

A mournful beeping tone filled the air.  Erik had a brief vision of his old Chrysler Sebring sitting at a red light a few years back, watching the check engine light glow on the instrument panel.  He had been listening to the radio report about what would later be known as the Great Northeast Blackout…it seemed like so long ago…

“You gotta be kidding me,” said Pinner as he fishtailed through an intersection.  The rear quarter made contact with several people, eliciting brief screams as they were thrown aside like rag dolls.

Erik looked behind them and saw the bodies sail through the air and then they were lost in the crowds pouring into the streets.  “What is it?” he asked, looking forward again.  Overhead, a jet screamed past, low enough to make his chest vibrate with the noise.

“Bingo fuel!” called out Pinner.

Erik grabbed the radio.  “Ted, we’re almost out of gas!”

“Roger that,” was the terse reply.  Ted’s vehicle took a quick right, barely keeping ahead of the throng of panicked civilians.

A loud explosion rocked the M-ATV, and impressive feat considering it was designed from the ground up to withstand mines and IEDs.  It was, for all intents and purposes, a tank on wheels.  Erik looked up.  “The hell was that?”

“Over there!” said Brin, pointing at a gas station down the main street.  A greasy-black ball of smoke dissipated in the air.  They passed behind a building as they continued their mad dash north and the surreal scene was gone as fast as it had appeared.

“Whatever you do, don’t stop!” said Ted’s voice.  “The Russians are targeting gas stations and civilians—the main net is full of chatter.  Keep it on this channel and follow me, I think I know a way out of this mess.”

“We’re right on your ass,” replied Erik.  “But I don’t know how much longer we can keep this pace up.”

“Roger that—strip mall coming up.  Follow me, we’ll try to catch our breath there.”

“Copy,” said Erik.  “Uh…you see that big transport up there?”

“I see it,” said Pinner.

Erik watched the paratroopers leap out the back of the slow-flying four-engine plane.  They were close.  They looked like they were right on top of the strip-mall Ted was heading toward.  “Ted!  We got bad guys in the air right over us!”

“I seem them…we’re gonna make it.  Once you park, get your asses out of that M-ATV and regroup inside.  Grab what gear you can, but hurry!”

Their vehicle began to sputter, a wet, coughing sound that made the frame shudder.  Erik and Pinner exchanged looks.  “We’re on fumes!” Erik reported over the radio.

“Almost there…”

Pinner didn’t so much as park the M-ATV as let it die and come to a stop on its own.  Erik kicked his door open, slung his pack across his back.  He reached into their pile of gear and grabbed his katana in one hand, then half pulled, half-carried Brin across the sidewalk into a ransacked Hallmark store.   They might be fleeing for their lives, but he wasn’t about to leave Brin’s family heirloom and his most prized possession behind.  Not after it had saved Brin’s life back at the Freehold.

A flashlight clicked on twice in the darkness of the interior of the deserted store.   “Over here,” Ted’s voice called out.

The roar of the transport planes died down.  Erik took a knee next to Ted as Brin went to attend to Susan and the kids.  He took a moment to secure the priceless katana to his pack opposite the gladius.  Pinner arrived next with a load of gear, his boots crunched on the broken glass that littered the store-front.

“We gotta get the hell away from those trucks,” Ted said, nodding at their vehicles.  The big tan M-ATVs were smeared in gore and looked like something off a movie set.  Ted glanced over his shoulder at his family.  “Honey, you okay?”

“I’ve been better,” Susan replied in a thin voice. She gasped and clutched her belly.

Brin shuffled over next to Erik.  She leaned in and whispered in his ear, “She’s re-opened her sutures from the gunshot wound to her stomach.  She needs to stay put.  I think I can patch her up, but…”

Erik cursed inwardly as he searched his pack for the first aid kit.  He handed it to Brin.  “Just keep her calm and try and keep the kids quiet.  I don’t know what the next move is—”

“Sir, let me get the extra ammo from my ride,” said Pinner.

“No, we can’t risk going back out.  They already know where—look!” hissed Ted.  Everyone in the little group looked into the parking lot behind the gaping entrance to the store.  A shadow flitted across the blacktop.  Then another, and another.  Three more shadows drifted slowly past their field of view.

“They’re right on top of us,” Erik said.  “What the hell we gonna do now?”

Someone shouted outside—a guttural, brutish sound.

“The Russians!” Brin said, one hand going to her mouth.

“Everyone listen up,” Ted said quietly.  “We need to move to the rear of the store—kids, help your mother.  Let’s go.  Move!”

Once everyone had started to move Ted gripped Erik’s shoulder.  “I spotted a side door when we came in,” he said, pointing across the building.  “I’m going to take that and draw their attention further up the strip mall.  I think that leads into the next store.  You take everyone to the back…I’m assuming those double doors over there lead to a store-room or receiving area.  There’s got to be a fire escape or something in there.”

Erik looked into the gloomy interior of the store.  Pinner was quietly shepherding the women and children towards the darkest corner of the building.  Another voice from outside wafted in on the slight breeze.

Ted whispered in an urgent voice, “We don’t have much time, man.  I need you to get my family to safety.  Can you do that?”

Erik nodded and tried to appear confident to his friend.  “But uh…what if there’s…”

Ted clapped him on the shoulder.  “Just like at the Freehold, brother.  Nothing to it.”  He turned and started to move away from the group.

“But those guys didn’t have machine guns!” hissed Erik at the retreating shadow.

“Neither did you!  Now go!” said Ted in an urgent whisper.

“Right,” muttered Erik.  He glanced back at the front of the store and saw three shadows appear.  From the angle, the Russians must have been standing on the roof, right over the entrance.  A shiver went down Erik’s spine despite the near stifling atmosphere inside the ransacked store.  He hurried as quietly as he could to catch Pinner and the rest of the group.

“Sir, we making a stand here?” asked the Indian when Erik rejoined them in the darkness at the rear of the store.

“No way in hell, Pinner.  We’re leaving.”

“What about Daddy?” said a small voice in the darkness.

“Don’t worry, honey, Daddy will be right back,” cooed Susan’s voice.  Erik could hear the pain through her words—she needed proper medical attention, and she needed it now.

“There’s a set of double doors to our left,” Erik said, motioning in the darkness with his hand.  He could barely make out the dark shapes of his friends against the barely lighter background.  “Everyone take someone’s hand.”  He found Brin’s and intertwined his fingers in hers.  Quickly he felt for the reassuring shape of his katana, strapped to his pack.  Satisfied the group was ready, he got into a crouch and walked as quietly as possible to the double doors.

The thick plastic doors parted with a barely audible hiss of air pressure change as they moved from the store into a cavernous space that Erik assumed was the store room.  When the door closed behind Pinner and everyone was safely inside, he decided to risk a glance with his flashlight.  There was absolutely no light at all.  It was like they were standing in a black hole.

“Close one eye, sir,” warned Pinner as Erik unlatched his light from his vest.

“What?”

“If you keep one eye closed, when you turn on the flashlight, you won’t be blind.  You’ll still have dark-adaptation in one eye.  It’s an old soldier’s trick.”

“Right on,” said Erik and he did as he was told.  He turned on the light for three seconds—long enough for him to see they were indeed in the store’s receiving area.  Boxes were stacked nearly to the twenty-foot high ceiling along the outer walls.  There looked to be a supply locker—it had been busted open by someone a while ago.  There were rolls of packing tape and labels and miscellaneous warehouse supplies scattered across the floor in front of the metal cabinet.  In the far right corner, he had spotted a desk with a computer and phone and chair.  In the left far corner was what they were looking for—an emergency exit next to the large roll-up door where a truck could unload freight.

Before the light had clicked off, he had noticed there was nothing in the path from where they stood to the emergency door.  He opened his closed eye and closed the eye that was now useless because of the flashlight.   Erik grinned.

“Hey, it worked, Pinner.  Nice.”

“Any time, sir.”

“All right, everyone, follow me—stay close and hold hands.  We’re going across the room to that door and I hope to hell there’s no alarm.”

A muffled, yet unmistakable sound caused everyone to freeze in place.  Gunfire.

“Ted!” moaned Susan.  Her voice sounded thick, almost slurred.

“Babe, we got to get her out of here.  I need to see to be able to try and fix her up…” warned Brin in a quiet voice.

“Here we go,” said Erik.  He led them across the unnerving dark space and paused as he approached the thin crack of light at the bottom edge of the emergency door.  It looked no thicker than a sheet of paper.  “Everyone get ready—when I open this, we need to slip outside quickly and quietly.”  He put his hands on the emergency exit bar.

“I’ll go first, sir.  Scout it out,” said Pinner, suddenly at his shoulder.

Erik twitched in surprise.  “Jesus, Pinner, don’t sneak up on me like—”   Erik froze.  When he had jumped, his hand brushed a panel sticking up off the doors push-bar.  He gingerly moved his hands over a hexagonal panel.  It was clear as a bell in his mind’s eye: a stop sign.

“Hold up—I think this things got an alarm.  There’s a piece sticking up that’s in the shape of a stop sign.”  His hands explored the door some more as another burst of gunfire reached them through the empty store.  It sounded further away.  An answering shot, loud and sharp, seemed to come from the other side of the cinder-block wall of the receiving area.

“Major’s leading ‘em on a wild goose chase,” said Pinner, the smile evident in his voice.

“Shit, there’s a big square thing on the door, too…I think it’s a battery compartment.”  Erik shook his head.  “We can’t risk this thing squealing when we push it.  The Russian’s will come running for sure.”

“What about this big door?” asked Brin.  “I can feel with my hands it’s like corrugated steel or something.  It’s big.”

“I think that’s where the delivery trucks unload…” whispered Erik.  More gunfire in the distance.  “Screw it, let’s go.  Pinner, feel the wall here, where it meets the door.  Got it?”

“Hooah.”

“Good, shimmy down to the other side.”  Erik waited for his NCO to reach the far side of the roll-up door.  “Ready?”

“Yup.”

“Feel any locks?  I got nothing on this side.”

“Yeah,” said Pinner.  “Someone already cut it…got it in my hand.”

“All right,” said Erik.  “Try to lift…just an inch.  I want to see if this thing is loud or not.”

“Roger.”

“On three.  One…two…three!”

The door groaned as the two men put their backs into lifting what Erik figured must have been a motorized door.  Something popped and the resistance slackened.  The door moved, metal on metal screeching for just a second.  A slice of white sunlight pierce the darkness at their feet and grew to an inch or so in thickness.

“Hold it,” hissed Erik.  “Brin, can you drop down and see if you see anyone out there?  Hurry,” he said.  “This thing is heavy.”

Brin quickly got to the floor and Erik could see her pretty face appear in the light as she blinked back tears.  “God, it’s bright out there,” she whispered.  “I can’t see anything…”

Come on…come on, baby…I can’t hold this thing forever…

“Wait…I can see now…”  Brin turned her head left and right.  There was only space for her to see out of one eye, so she was flat on the floor.   “I see some parachutes fluttering in the trash out there in the back of the stores…and some trees on the other side of the alley.  No people though.”

A shout echoed down the alley far to their left.  More gunfire, louder now with the door cracked open.  One of the kids let out a yelp that was cut off by someone’s hand covering a tiny mouth.

“All right, Pinner, let’s get this thing up about two or three feet.  Ready?  Brin—find something we can use to keep it open so we can get out.  Pinner…slowly now, let’s keep it quiet.  Go!”

Erik strained and tried to stand up, using his legs and keeping his back straight.  The door was reluctant to move but his strength, combined with Pinner’s, forced the issue.  A little more groaning, a faint metallic protest, and the door was up to a height that they could all comfortably slip through.

“I can’t find anything,” whispered Brin.

“Got it…sir…” grunted Pinner.

Erik heard a muffled clang and then Pinner exhaled.  “Done.  You can let go now, sir.”

Erik slowly released the door and held his breath as his side sagged a few inches and stopped.  “What’d you do?” he asked Pinner.

“Shoved my knife in a slot there in the wheel-track.  Don’t think I’ll get that knife back, but we can at least get the hell out of here.”

“Good thinking, Pinner.  Okay everyone, let’s go.  I see there’s a ramp on the other side of the loading dock.  Me and Sgt. Pinner are going to hop down and then we’ll help you down.  When we’re all outside, we’re going to sneak our way across the alley there and into those pine trees.  Okay?”

More gunfire and foreign shouts exploded outside.  They sounded even further away but it still made the children squeak and Erik’s heart skip a beat.  “I…don’t think…” Susan started.

“No time for debate.  Pinner, let’s do this.”  Erik and Pinner rolled under the door and dropped the four feet into the well of the loading dock.  The ramp behind them led up to the street level.  Erik could see they would be exposed for about thirty feet or so before they made it into the thick brush at the far side of the alley.  He could hear the noise of the late season cicadas, calling to him from the pines.  He peeked over the lip of the well in time to hear a loud bang and see a puff of smoke appear at the far end of the strip mall in the distance.  More gunfire—a lot of it—quickly followed the explosion.  Whatever the hell Ted was doing, he was sure making enough noise.

“Let’s go, quickly now… and remember, ssshhhh,” Erik said, holding his hands up for Ted’s eldest son to drop down out of the building.

He helped Susan last.  Erik couldn’t help but wince at the sight of her shirt, wet and dark, stained with blood from her reopened stomach wound.  In the sun once more, he easily saw how pale she looked.  Brin hopped down gracefully into his arms next and hugged him quickly.  His heart raced at the feeling of her body pressed so closely against his own.

“I don’t know if she’s going to make it,” she whispered into his ear as she nuzzled his neck.

He stepped back from her, his face grim.  “We’ve got to try.”

Someone shouted something from the alley.  It sounded like knee d’vee-gots-ya to Erik.  He spun around to see a Russian paratrooper aiming an AK-47 at them.  His blue eyes were wide and he kept moving the rifle from person to person.  The Russian took a few steps down the ramp and glanced down the length of the strip mall.

Erik followed his gaze.  There was no one else in sight, but a loud crashing sound and some more gun fire rolled down the alley toward them.  Ted was still on the loose and Erik figured the Russian was alone.

The same thought appeared to have crossed the invader’s mind as he shifted his eyes between him and Pinner, like a dog trying to decide which bone to chew first.  The Russian said something else and motioned with the gun towards the ground.

Erik glanced at Pinner.  “I think he wants us to get on the ground.”

Pinner never took his eyes off the Russian.  He said nothing.

The paratrooper took a split second to survey the women and children, his eyes flicking back to Pinner.  He only gave Erik a brief glance.   Pinner was drawing the majority of the attention.

For good reason, thought Erik. The man looks like a human pit-bull.  I’m no soldier…what the hell am I doing here?

Another gunshot echoed in the distance and the Russian turned to look.  Pinner charged.  In two steps, he collided with the Russian.  He kicked is right leg out and tried to sweep the taller foreigner off his feet while throwing the weight of his body at the rifle.

It almost worked.

Erik stood transfixed, watching in slow motion as Pinner struggled with the Russian over control of the rifle.  In less than three seconds, the Russian’s rifle clattered to the ground a few feet away.  Erik found the ability to move again and rushed forward up the ramp to help Pinner.

That was when he noticed the blood drops on the ground at Pinner’s feet, bright red medallions of bad, bad news.  Hands clutched to his chest, Pinner staggered back from the Russian.  His copper-skinned hands were red and slick with the attempt to hold his life inside his body.  The Russian stood there with his mouth open, still crouched in the fighting stance he had adopted when Pinner bull-rushed him.  He blinked and watched as Pinner took another, shuddering, unsteady step backwards before collapsing to his knees.

Pinner turned and looked at Erik, but when he opened his mouth to speak, only a pink froth escaped his lips.  He glared back at the Russian and fell over onto his side.  The movement caused a small deluge of blood to seep onto the ground, running downhill on the ramp towards…

Someone gasped behind him and he heard Ted’s children scream.  The effect was like a slap in the face to Erik.  Pinner had knocked the Russian’s gun away, been stabbed for his efforts and was likely dying within reach, and here Erik was just standing there like some slack-jawed yokel at a drive-in movie.

He looked from Pinner—now with a feeble hand outstretched toward Erik, clawing at the air—to the grinning Russian.  All trace of nervousness had vanished from the paratrooper’s cruel face.  It was clear from his look, he was going to enjoy what was coming next.

Erik was drowning in emotion—rage bubbled up inside and propelled him forward.  He reached to his side and in order to swing up his rifle, cursing himself for a fool since he had not thought to do so earlier.  He was hoping there was time to save Pinner when he realized his hands were still empty and the Russian was still advancing down the ramp.  Erik looked over this shoulder—in the dark maw of the loading dock door, he could see the butt of his M4 partially sticking out of the shadows a good ten feet away on the other side of Brin, Susan, and the cowering children.  The rage vanished like fog in the morning sun, replaced with a cold, paralyzing fear.

Shit.

He turned back and the Russian looked ready to laugh.  The arrogance just rolled off the paratrooper now that Pinner was barely moving on the ground, wallowing in his own blood.   The man shifted the knife back and forth between his hands, twirling the blade a little.

He’s playing with me like a cat does with a bird that’s got a broken wing.  Son of a bitch.

Erik instinctively put his arms out and stepped back, trying to keep the women and children behind him.  The Russian laughed and picked up his pace.  He was actually strolling down the ramp. The sounds of a renewed gunfight down the alley didn’t even make him twitch now.  Erik could see he was staring at Brin and Susan.  He didn’t even consider Erik a threat anymore.

Erik charged.  He slipped his left arm free of the strap that held his pack and let the bulky thing slide down below his shoulders.  He spun as the surprise registered on the Russians face.  Suddenly, the thirty-pound burden that was constantly threatened to put Erik on his ass became a thirty-pound bludgeoning device.  He pulled with all his strength and heard with satisfaction a whoosh as the bag cut through the humid air on its flight toward the Russian’s head.

The Paratrooper easily blocked the pack as it swung around, but in doing so he took his eyes off Erik and raised the hand holding the knife into a position where it couldn’t be immediately used against anyone.  As the Russian was knocked backwards by the impact of all that gear, Erik noticed that the pack had shifted in flight—staring him right in the face was the katana, securely strapped to the side of his kit.

As the Russian backpedaled, the pack dropped.  Erik’s left hand shifted from the shoulder strap to the hilt of his sword.  Using the momentum of the bag to pull the sheath down, Erik ripped his arm up.  A flash of light took the attention of the Russian away from Erik as the ancient weapon came free.

Now it was the Russian’s turn to freeze for a moment as he saw three feet of polished, blazing-in-the-sun razor-sharp steel rise before his face.  He glanced down at the eight inch knife in his hands.  It was the last thing he ever did.

Using that brief distraction as the man contemplated the impotence of his own blade, Erik lunged forward and brought down the katana in a graceful, cross-body arc.  He felt the thin blade shudder as it hit the Russian’s tactical vest. However, the tip of the curved blade was just forward enough to neatly slice the paratrooper open at the base of his neck.

A thin, red line appeared, like someone had marked him with a red pen.  The man’s eyes bulged and he tried to gasp but the sound that came out was more of a surprised gurgle.  He turned his head to look down the alley and the line on his neck widened to show it was not only a cut, but a deep one.  The skin separated and the red flesh underneath parted.  The Russian took a step backwards and tripped on the upslope of the ramp, the sudden movement causing a fountain of red to erupt from his neck, sprinkling color on the ramp in a semi-circle.  He fell over on his back, arms and legs working as if he were running.  The movement caused more blood to escape his body, the sprinkles joined by what looked like globs of spilled paint.

In seconds it was over—the Russian was still twitching feebly, but Erik was sure the man wouldn’t rise again.

Erik rushed to Pinner’s side and dropped to his knees.  A quick touch to his neck told Erik Pinner was dead.  There was no pulse at all.  The body was still warm, his flesh firm and soft, but the life was already gone from his eyes.  Erik didn’t know what else to do, so he gently swept his hand over Pinner's face and closed his eyes.

Reality rushed back at Erik like a charging bull.  He looked up and down the alley.  No sign of the Russians or Ted.  The gunfire had stopped.  That could be good or bad.  Either way, he had to move.  Pinner had bought them time with his life.  Erik was determined not to waste that sacrifice.

“Let’s go,” he said in a hoarse whisper.  “Into the trees over there, come on!”

Susan, looking even paler—if that was possible—was the first to snap out of it.  She shook her head and nudged Brin.  Taking her youngest son by the hand, she moved up the ramp.  Brin, a pack on her back full of supplies, took the hands of Ted’s elder children and followed.

Erik started to realize they were going to make it to the safety of the trees when he heard the first shout.  He turned his head and saw three Russians running full tilt down the alley toward them.  “Keep going, hurry!” he said, pushing Brin forward.  They were a little over halfway across the alley.  The treeline was right there.  If they could just make it into the trees, they might have a chance of evading the Russians.  They just needed cover.

Just a few more steps…

A shot rang out and a puff of asphalt appeared at Susan’s feet.  She screamed and pulled her son against her leg.  Another shot and a clump of pavement erupted at Erik's feet.  He got the message.

Shouts from the right made him look.  Two more paratroopers were rounding the corner of the building.  They were trapped.

Where the hell is Ted?  What do I do?

Brin looked at him, her face full of more fear than he’d ever seen.  He could feel his courage slipping away like a dream at the first hint of dawn.  The anger that had been replaced with fear, slowly gave way to resignation and defeat.  He felt his shoulders slump and exhaustion washed over him like a warm ocean, trying to pull him down.

The children cried, Brin screamed, the Russians shouted—voices bombarded Erik’s ears with alien words and commands.  They pointed their rifles and shouted.  He couldn’t tell what the hell they wanted him to do—get on the ground, raise his hands, or dance the polka.  Erik realized that he was still holding the bloodied katana in his left hand.  He dropped it, wincing as the steel clattered to the ground.

“I don’t understand you!” he yelled in desperation at the closest Russian, only a few yards away now, walking instead of running, waving his gun in a threatening manner.  “What do you want me to do?”

Behind him, Brin shrieked.  A split-second later he felt what seemed like a car crashing into the back of his skull.  As the ground rushed up to meet his face, he felt oddly aware that his dream of getting Brin to safety in the north was over.    He had let the Russians capture Ted’s family.  Brin.

You had one thing to do, he scolded himself in a strange, dream-like voice.  It seemed…slow.

There was no pain when he hit the ground.  Just movement.  He could see through a haze of red mist that a fog must have rolled in—strange that it was red, though.  There was Brin, towering over him. She seemed taller than normal.  A man grabbed her arm and dragged her out of his vision.  He could see her scream, but couldn’t hear her voice.  That was odd.  As she left his vision, he noticed Susan fall to her knees, the stomach of her shirt now stained bright red.  The pale white of her skin stood out in stark contrast and caught his eye.

Oh, there’s Ted’s kids…I wondered where they got off to…  He felt the overwhelming urge to yawn.  He was so tired…so sleepy.  He just wanted to rest.

As his world faded to black, one last thought flitted through Erik’s mind—the last spark of a dying campfire: …did someone shoot me?  Wh…what’s happening…?  Oh God…I can’t see…

There was no time for panic, just darkness.

Wait…Brin…

PART  TWO

Prisoner of War

CHAPTER 11

The Deal

PRESIDENT HANK SUTHBY PACED the war room like a caged animal.  His shirt sleeves had long since been rolled up to his elbows and his tie hung loose around his neck.  The collar was unbuttoned, partially to hide the coffee stain just below his throat.  He had bags under his eyes, he knew it—he knew he needed sleep, he knew he needed food, he knew he needed to sit and rest.  The events on the East Coast were swirling out of control to the point that if he didn't do something soon…if something right didn't happen for him or the country…

"I need an update and I need it now!" he said as he slammed his hand on the large, polished conference table that occupied most of the floor space in the room.

"I'm sorry, sir," said one of President Suthby's new aides.  He looked down and read from the top sheet in his hand:  "We haven't been able to contact General Stapleton—not since the video feed was lost.  There’s been scattered reports of a skirmish near Manhattan—it happened right around the time we lost contact."  The man looked up, a sheen of sweat reflecting off his forehead.  "It's like they just vanished, sir.”

“Maybe they got wiped out?” someone mumbled on the other side of the room.

“Jesus, what does that mean for us?” asked another new face.

The President fumed.  His people continued to banter about what-if’s and maybe’s…he tried to ignore them.  He paced again, hands on his hips, determined to replace general Stapleton.

"Maybe the arrogant jackass just pulled the plug on his radio?  The man insults me, that’s what it means!  I ordered him to wait until I gave the command to take New York City.  I wanted time to talk to this Malcolm character.  I wanted time to try to resolve this conflict peacefully."  He looked up at the sea of faces in the war room.  Everyone was watching.  "Instead, this general decides he knows better what to do in a complex political situation.  So he severs communications with me.  With me!"

He gestured at the map on the wall and sought Daniel's face in the crowd.  When he found his newly promoted Chief of Staff, he pointed a finger at him.  "You heard me—you heard me loud and clear when I told him to stand down the last time I spoke with him!  You all," he said sweeping his arms to encompass his loyal followers, "have seen what this man has done.  I think we have legal justification, as of right now, to declare General Stapleton a rogue element…"

"Sir, perhaps it would be best not to jump the gun on this," said Daniel.  He stepped forward through the throng of staffers to get closer to President Suthby.  In a quiet voice, not meant for the prying ears of the crowd, he whispered: “It might not be politically astute to declare general Stapleton rogue.  He happens to be in charge of the largest American army we have outside of…well, anywhere we can contact.  Besides, what does that make him?  Sympathizer with the rebels?  He's trying to destroy the rebels.  If he's not with them and he’s not with us, then what do we call him?"

"Damn it all, we have to do something!  My grip on this office—my ability to govern—is being called into question at every turn.  The Press—when they can get word out—have been hounding me.  I've got half of Congress," he said slapping his hand into a fist, "out for my head on a plate!  Most of the Republicans still don't see me as anything other than the head of FEMA.”

"Well," said Daniel.  "It's not like we've gotten a lot of congratulatory messages from foreign nations, is it?  Sir, until we start getting recognized by foreign powers—especially England—our position is going to be extremely tenuous.  Declaring a popular general, the man in charge of one of the last hopes for defense inside our borders at the moment a rogue agent?  It's just…" Daniel shrugged.  "I think it could backfire."

"Well," said President Suthby with a sigh.  His shoulders slumped and he put his hands in his pockets.  He felt deflated, defeated, useless.  But Daniel, as usual, was right to be cautious.  He figured he’d better learn to trust Daniel at some point, since the young man had yet to steer him wrong.

He’s overly cautious, thought President Suthby as he peered at his Chief of Staff.  But sometimes being overly cautious can be a good thing.  He nodded reluctantly.

"Okay,” he sighed.  “Okay, let's do it your way.  If we can get State to get some foreign dignitaries to offer congratulatory messages…?"

"I'm on it, sir."

One of the staffers started clapping in the back of the room.  There was an excited scuffle of people as someone tried to force their way to the front.  A voice called out over the excited babble.  "Mr. President!"

"Come on, folks—let him through," the President ordered quietly.

President Suthby smiled at the effect his words had on the people he’d surrounded himself with—it was like Moses parting the Red Sea.  The group in front of him simply split down the middle revealing a young man with a piece of paper clutched in his hand.  He looked no older than a teenager.  Most of the well-known veteran statesman, federal workers, and upper-level executives had fled for the hills at the first sign of trouble, back when the power had gone out during the summer.  Only a few had trickled back onto the reservation...  And of those few, less than half wanted to join the new president in his secret bunker under Cheyenne Mountain.

"Well," said the President, trying to hide the note of irritability in his voice.  "Let's have it."

"Sir," said the young man as he adjusted the glasses on his thin, pock-marked face.  "I think I've got really good news, sir.  This just came in,” he said holding up the paper like some sort of trophy.  “It's from the Governor of Pennsylvania.  They've successfully been able to reestablish contact with the Three-Mile Island facility!  Philadelphia and it’s the suburbs have power!"  The man continued to talk but the room erupted in cheers drowning him out.

The President held up his hands for quiet and was mildly irritated at the amount of time it took for his followers to understand his gesture.  "Come on, folks!  Settle down!  Let the man talk."  Once the crowd had quieted down, the President gestured for the young man to step closer.  "Now, go ahead and say that last part again?"

"Yes, sir," said the disheveled-looking staffer.  He adjusted his glasses, grinned at the President, and then cleared his throat.  He glanced down at the paper again and adjusted his glasses once more.  "It says here, that the governor has secured the facility with what National Guard troops he could muster.  The engineers and technicians are confident that given proper protection and a little time, they should be able to restore power to the whole of southeastern Pennsylvania in the next week or so!"  The cheering erupted again.  It was the first really bit of good news that they had had since the crisis began.

The President smiled, slapped the young man on his back and let his supporters have their moment in the sun.  It felt good to be happy about something again.  Slowly though, thoughts of the current situation in New York City, his tenuous grasp on power, and the ever present Russian threat in Florida began to erode that happiness.  He felt the smile fade from his face.

"Okay, people, let's not get too carried away.  We still got a lot of stuff to take care of here.  Everyone stay focused."

Daniel stepped up next to him, a curious expression on his face.  He held out his secure satellite phone, which only rang for one person.  "Sir, the Secretary-General of the United Nations is holding for you."

As President Suthby took the phone from his Chief of Staff, silence spread across the room like a rising tide.  All eyes were on him.  "Mr. Secretary-General!" he said in his best good old boy routine.

The voice on the phone did not mirror his happiness.  "Good day to you, Mr. President."

Mr. President.  Hank Suthby, former director of FEMA, closed his eyes in relief.  If the Secretary-General of the United Nations was prepared to recognize his legitimacy, the rest of the world would not be far behind.  Those two little words erased most of the doubt in his mind and gave a desperately needed shot of confidence to the new pro tem President of the United States.  When he opened his eyes, the nervousness, the unease, the uncertainty, had all faded to mere background noise.  He began to feel for the first time like he really was the President of the United States.

"You can't possibly know how happy I am to hear your voice," he said, trying unsuccessfully to the keep smile from his face.

The foreign voice on the other end laughed politely.  "I am terribly sorry I was not able to get through to you sooner… But it appears communications have not been exactly… normal these last few terrible months."

The President of the United States nodded gravely.  "Indeed, we've had our fair share of problems lately.  I must confess—I have not been fully up to speed on how the rest of the world is faring in this time of upheaval."

There was a deep sigh from the other end of the line.  "Most of the rest of the industrialized world is faring about as you would imagine.  The United States has long supported and been the central pillar of the world's economy.  These last few months, hardly anyone has been able to get communications into or out of your country.  Civilian travel has all but disappeared since your airlines were grounded.  Without your communication satellites, many people do not wish to risk flying.  And that is just the beginning.  Shipments of food and supplies your country regularly provides to so many nations around the world have all but stopped.  I'm afraid we have been almost as much in the dark as you.  There is great concern around the world for the fate of the United States and her people."

President Suthby smiled.  So, he thought, the Secretary-General was not alone in his own office. He knows damn well what’s been going on in America—since day one.  He knows how tenuous my situation is.  He's playing some sort of sick game.  Well, two can play at that.

Out loud, he said: "The American people— and I personally—are deeply touched that the world community is so concerned.  However, I must say that the response we have seen to our troop withdrawals around the world has caused us not a little consternation.  Long-trusted allies seem to have turned on us.  I must formally protest the actions of the Russian Federation and their invasion of the American South.”

"I was afraid you might say that," said the Secretary-General.  He sighed again.  "The Russian government has petitioned me to enforce sanctions against America.  Mr. President, I’m not sure you’re aware of the nature of the Russian presence in your country—the Russians are not acting on behalf of President Svoboda, but rather the people of the nations of the world.  They are in your country to preserve the peace and security of the United States.  Your predecessor did not agree at all with our actions.  I'm hoping, for the sake of your nation, that you will reverse the official stance of the United States and accept our sincere offer of help.  The United Nations," he said quickly, not giving President Suthby time to respond, "continues to strive for peace, security, and prosperity for the entire world.  A fractured and warring United States, torn by civil war—which is what appears to be happening now—is good for no one.  The Russian delegation was sent to bring food and medical supplies to the poverty-stricken people of south."

"Well I thank them for their generosity and thoughtfulness…but I cannot disagree more about the means by which they have attempted to carry out their so-called mission of peace."  The President motioned for his staffers to return about their business.  He caught Daniel’s eye and signaled for his Chief of Staff to follow him as he retreated towards a private room.  He did not want the eyes of the people responsible for supporting his claim to power to hear what he was about to say.

"Oh, come now Mr. President," said the Secretary-General.  "You can't seriously expect me to believe that you would turn down medical equipment, food, water, and portable shelter for the people of your country—who, I might add, have been without electricity and the comforts of modern civilization for some months now."

"I understand perfectly well what you're saying, Mr. Secretary-General," said the President as he watched the door to the room close.  Daniel folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the door.  Alone at last, President Suthby was willing to get down to business.  "Is this line secure?" he asked.

There was a slight pause and President Suthby thought he could hear what sounded like mumbled orders, shuffling paper, and finally a door shutting.

"It is now, Mr. President."

"Look, you and I both know what I need.  The question, is what do you need, Mr. Secretary-General?"

That irritatingly polite laugh echoed over the phone again.  “Mr. President, how you do so love to get directly to the point.  It is a trait I have often admired about you Americans.  Well," said Secretary-General's voice.  President Suthby imagined the man leaning forward over an exquisite desk at The Hague. "Since you're determined to get to the crux of the issue, I shall be brief.  In order for me to formally recognize your claim to the presidency of the United States… You must withdraw your forces from New York City—”

“What?”

“—and from Florida."

The President's mouth fell open.  "Are you serious?  You're asking me to withdraw American forces from the state of Florida?  You want me to give New York City to the terrorists?  To these rebels?"  He felt his cheeks flush in anger.  "Who do you think you are?  I am the President of the United States—"

"No.  You are the Director of the Federal Emergency Management Agency.  You have been given presidential powers, by a small portion of a very reluctant Congress.  I am the duly-elected Secretary-General of the United Nations.  Now that America has stumbled and fallen, my organization is the ultimate power on this planet.  And my member nations are not happy about the current situation in America.  They, through their representatives, have spoken to me quite frequently—if I may be so bold—asking me to intervene on behalf of all Americans—"

"Don't try this bullshit with me—I've been playing the political game in Washington for far too long!" said President Suthby as he slammed his fist down on the table.  "Just because a handful of Republican throwbacks have decided to break ranks and somehow contact you, requesting U.N. presence on American soil does not mean —”

"Oh, but it does, Mr. Suthby.  It shows you do not have unity, even among your own people!  It shows me that your grasp of power is weak at best.  America is no longer in a position to dictate terms to the rest of the world.  The time of American dominance, sir, is over."

President Suthby knew deep-down that the Secretary-General was right.  He also knew he could bring America back to the forefront, but it would take time.  If these damn rebels would just give up and go away.  If we could just get our military forces home…  If I could just get the power back on… If, if, if… He closed his eyes in frustration.

Through gritted teeth, he said, "What do you want?"

"See?  That wasn't so bad, now was it?" crooned the Secretary-General.  He chuckled softly, like a father who has just forced a delinquent child to understand something.  "I have already explained to you what the United Nations requires.  If you follow through in the next 24 hours, I will issue a proclamation declaring you to be the legitimate leader of the United States.  In return, once you have withdrawn your federal forces or at least attempted to persuade the state governors to do the same, and you have applied for protectorate status—"

"Protectorate status?" asked the President.  "What the hell are you saying?  You want us to become the new Serbia?"

"Well, I dare say whether you like it or not, you are the new Serbia.  You are the new Bosnia, too.  The United Nations has watched with no small amount of trepidation as your country has begun to Balkanize.  Have you not looked at the facts, Mr. Suthby?  I see you have learned that power has been restored in one of your states.  However, Texas has all but removed itself from the union!  The West is one giant conflagration and there is nothing anyone can do about it.  Your border with Mexico is non-existent and the great cities of your Eastern coast have become war zones!  They are breeding grounds for disease.  In fact, most of the people living along your eastern seaboard are starving.  In America, of all places!"

President Suthby sighed.  "I know, I know.  I just need a little—"

"Help.  What you need is the helping hand of the international brotherhood of countries.  And I am here, offering my hand on behalf of the rest of the world.  All you need do is take it.  Ask for protectorate status and I will ensure that your request is granted.  The General Assembly—"

President Suthby laughed, a harsh mocking sound.  "The General Assembly will never approve it.  You know as well as I do the United States has many enemies—China, much of the Middle East, and now France and Germany have been added to that list—” began the President.

"Believe me when I say I can handle them.  When you ask for protectorate status, I will ensure that the General Assembly nominates you as the United Nations Executive Governor.  If you like, you can continue to call yourself President.  In fact that may be best—to keep continuity and public relations high.  But you will, in all reality, be a puppet of mine.  You will turn over all responsibility for national defense to the United Nations Security Council.  Including," the Secretary-General said in a booming voice, "all control of your strategic nuclear missile program.  The world is not safe and cannot be safe as long as a fractured America—in the throes of a civil war—still has possession of the largest nuclear arsenal on the planet.  Why, any one of your generals or admirals could decide to go rogue and start a nuclear war."

"Maybe they’ll nuke the Russians," said the President bitterly.

The Secretary-General laughed.  "They might!  And the Russians might just retaliate in kind.  Tell me, Mr. Suthby: Would you prefer to see your country in a glowing, post-apocalyptic ruin or would you rather see—temporarily, mind you—foreign soldiers, aid workers, and governors on your precious soil while peace and prosperity are reestablished?"

"I've read my history," said the President.  He sighed.  “Temporary control over a country is rarely that.  How much is this going to cost?  You’re planning on turning us into the next post-Westphalia Germany, aren't you?"

"Well, I daresay the Germans would probably appreciate the irony in that—but no.  The global community understands that the world’s economy has been propped up by the United States for too long.  Perhaps this is a good thing.  Getting all of our eggs out of one basket, so to speak.  It is now up to the United Nations to ensure fair trade practices and support growing economies.  This burden has been lifted off of your nation’s shoulders.  However, as you say, a mission of this magnitude in a country as large as yours will cost a significant sum of money.  To prepare for this repayment, I have received recommendations from the Economic Council on possible land rights grants, mineral usage, and natural resource leases—all at extremely favorable terms to our member nations, of course—in order to offset the bulk of the anticipated expenditures required to secure your country."

The President put a hand to his forehead and sat down in a chair.  He was in shock, his mind numb.  At the start of the phone call, he thought he'd been on the ascendancy, rising to glory as the phoenix out of the ashes.  Now he realized all he had accomplished was to walk into an international Catch 22.  He didn't see that there was any way out of the situation without either dragging America into utter destruction, starting a war, or be executed for treason.

"If I do this…” he said, almost in a whisper.

"If you agree, I will personally guarantee your safety."

It was President Suthby’s turn to laugh.  "How exactly do you propose to do that?"

"Well," said the Secretary-General in a condescending voice, "since you seem to have lost control of your own military forces, might I suggest they be replaced with some of the finest troops loyal to the United Nations?  That is, loyal to me."

"I can't agree to that.  You know I can't.  Let me discuss this with my advisers and I’ll get back to you."

"Tick-tock, Mr. President.  If you would like to lead your country back to prosperity, you need me.  This offer will not last forever."

"Look—" the President started say.  There was a beep and a click, then the line went dead.  Son of a bitch, he thought, he’s really got me by the short and curlies.

"That sounded like it went well."

President Suthby looked up at Daniel and was sorry to see the concern written across the younger man's face.  "No, it didn't.  Come on," he said as he stood, "we’ve got some discussions that need to take place.  I need you to get on the horn and call the Joint Chiefs and the leaders of Congress.  See if you can track down at least one of the Supreme Court Justices.  We’ve got a Constitutional crisis on our hands."

"Yes, sir."

President Suthby waited for Daniel to leave the room.  He stood there in the doorway watching all his loyal staffers hard at work—talking on phones, demanding reports, gathering information.  They were working so hard trying to reestablish the safety of the country.  What will they say, he wondered, when I tell them my only choice is to hand over the sovereignty of the United States to a foreign power?  He sighed. Oh God, what have I got myself into?

CHAPTER 12

Fall of Orlando

MAJOR STROGOLEV STOOD ON top of his BTR, watching the glorious retreat of the last remaining American stragglers.  He stared through his binoculars and tried not to laugh as the last two soldiers he could see stumbled and fell over debris and burning wreckage in a vain attempt to escape his forces.

He could not have been more proud of his men.  They had swept all before them, civilians and military forces alike.  He turned around, glancing at the wreckage of the warehouse buildings, fast food restaurants, and strip malls that surrounded the heart of Orlando.

Ash had begun to fall from the smoke-filled sky like a fine mist back home in Russia.  He idly wondered whether or not it would be prudent to issue warnings to his troops to begin wearing their face protection.  The last thing he needed was for some of his men to fall ill from breathing in ash and God knows what else in the smoke from Orlando.

A formation of Russian jets streaked overhead, doing one last sweep of the area.  The pilots had informed him that they had enough fuel remaining to take out a few more targets, but they could not stay over the area indefinitely until their supply base was moved further north.  They were based out of what was left of Homestead Air Force Base, just north of Miami—the beachhead of Russia's invasion of America.

Strogolev grinned.  It was hard not to, now that everything had come to fruition.  He had been ordered up the coast on a reconnaissance mission.  He had taken a detachment of his troops and successfully captured Kennedy Space Center.  From there he followed the retreating American scouts west toward their home base of Orlando.  When Colonel Doskoy had ordered him to keep the Americans occupied, Strogolev had decided to show some initiative and launched a full attack with his meager forces.

He had guessed that the Americans were attempting to bring their assets from Tampa to bolster the Orlando line.  Unfortunately for them, he got there first.  As a result, by the time the Colonel arrived with the bulk of the Russian forces from Miami, Orlando would already be well on its way to ruin.

By now, he figured any remaining American forces were well north of Orlando—at least those that had survived—after hightailing it for the Georgia border.

Tampa would be next.

"New message coming in, Comrade Major," said the commander of the BTR.

Strogolev looked down at his feet through the commander's hatch and could see the excitement on the man's face as he peered up through the hole.

Strogolev ducked down into the BTR.  "Good news?"

"Our advanced scouts, have reached the northern edge of the city.  They report little resistance, except waves of civilians fleeing north.  All is chaos!"

Strogolev laughed out loud.  He could not believe his luck.  Colonel Doskoy would be furious, but Aleksei Strogolev—a mere major—had swooped in and snatched the glory for himself.  He would deal with that pompous old fool later.  For now, it was time to let the troops solidify their positions and celebrate their great victory.

"Very good.  Contact Captain Stepanovich and have him order our scouts to set up a defensive perimeter on the north side of town.  I want a detachment on top of the three tallest buildings still intact.  We will set up secure communications with Moscow and Miami from there."

"Da! At once, major!"

Strogolev stood and returned to scanning the destruction that his forces had wrought on this great American city.  For the longest time, Orlando had been known the world-over as a tourist destination.  The place to take young spoiled American children to dream about fantastical cartoons come to life.  It had been a place to see captive sea animals put on display like circus freaks.  A place to waste money.  Strogolev smiled to himself.  Well, he thought, there will be none of that nonsense around here anymore.

He turned his attention back to Orlando’s skyline.  Smoke poured out of several of the larger buildings.  Only a few had completely collapsed, but those that did had created massive smoke plumes that blotted out most of the northern sky.  Debris—charred papers, burning cardboard, and anything that was light enough to float on columns of hot air—rained down on what Strogolev figured had to be at least four square miles.

"Major Strogolev," said the sad voice of his lieutenant from beside the BTR.

Strogolev closed his eyes before removing the field binoculars from his face.  He suppressed a sigh and looked down at his dour-faced subordinate.  The man was the perfect soldier.  He never got excited about anything.  "Yes, Gregor?"

"What are your orders regarding the prisoners, sir?"

"How many have we got?" asked Strogolev.  He began to climb down from the top of the BTR.

"At last count," Stepanovich said while he referred to a clipboard in his hands, holding several sheets of paper. "It appears we have something on the order of about 300 prisoners.  Along with at least that many civilians who were captured with the soldiers.  We have not begun formal processing, but it appears the soldiers were traveling with wives, children, and extended families.  A most curious affair."

Strogolev frowned and crossed his arms.  Another jet roared overhead.  His chest vibrated with the sound.  The jet disappeared into the ubiquitous smoke.

“Why would they be traveling with their families?"

Stepanovich shrugged.  "Perhaps they did not want to leave them behind?  These Americans are known to be overly sentimental…"

Familial sentiment is something you would never know, Strogolev thought darkly.  If I gave you the order to shoot your own mother, you would do it without hesitation.  You are a soldier, loyal to Mother Russia and no other.

"Well, we should start setting up some sort of holding facility.  We'll need two, one for the soldiers and one for the families.  Unless you can find something to accommodate both groups.”

"Location, Comrade Major?"

"I want it on the south side—no make it the east side.”  Strogolev scratched the week-old growth of beard on his chin.  "We need some place large enough to hold that number of people and also easily accessible and protected by our forces.  We still have to deal with the Americans in Tampa—they may wish to mount a rescue."

"Yes, Comrade Major.  We have enough men in our reserves to begin processing now.  I believe I saw a campsite or some sort of amusement park that may suit our purposes.  It is a little further east of town, however the area around it is less well-settled."

“The fewer civilians around, the better.”  Strogolev slapped his too-serious lieutenant on the shoulder.  "Excellent idea!  When you have finished setting up and begun processing, let me know.  I want to view this place before the Colonel does.  Also," Strogolev said, leaning in close to his XO.  He dropped his voice so that the passing soldiers would not hear.  "I want you to look for any type of unusual soldiers.  Anyone who may give us valuable information on American tactics, strategies, and troop locations.  Keep them separate.  If you can, we will interrogate them first.  Anything to give me an edge over Colonel Doskoy, yes?"

"I was not aware we are in competition with the Colonel, Comrade Major."

Jesus Gregor, Strogolev thought. You are so naive.

"Look," he said.  "Colonel Doskoy is going to be full of rage when he finally gets his slow-ass into town.  Yes, yes—I know some of his forces are already here and I know that they helped seal the fate of Orlando.  However, the Colonel himself is still taking his sweet time, enjoying the sights and pleasures of Florida as he works his way north.  When he arrives, he will call me before him like a schoolboy in trouble for putting a tack on the teacher's chair.  To take Orlando ahead of schedule like we did…Gregor, we have already raised eyebrows in Moscow.  Our names are on the ascendancy.  Think of the possibilities!  You could be in command of your own division soon and I in command of an Army!  Think of the glory we can reap, conquering this wasted country."

"Sir, I am happy to remain as your lieutenant."

Strogolev rolled his eyes and didn't care if Stepanovich saw him or not.  "Gregor, you've got to look at the big picture!  You want to be a captain for the rest of your life?  This is our chance!  If we find someone with valuable information, we can either use the intel to launch a surprise raid on the Americans or we can use it as leverage, to protect ourselves from the fury of the Colonel.  Think about how grateful he will be if we hand him some juicy intelligence.  He gets to swoop in and take the glory, but Moscow still has its eye on us.  They know we were here first and I will make sure they know that we were the ones who gathered the information that led to the Colonel's victory."

"Ambition can be a dangerous game, especially when played at the Kremlin."

"Don't worry so much, or we shall start calling you Captain Babushka,” laughed Strogolev.  He happily saluted   another batch of soldiers heading off toward the front lines.  They cheered him and raised rifles in salute.  Strogolev looked around and everywhere he saw Russian flags flying as they advanced.

"Gregor, get some trucks with loudspeakers—I believe they are called ice cream trucks—we need to start blaring announcements to the civilians, warning them to keep moving north and west."

"Yes, Comrade Major," Stepanovich said dutifully.  He scratched out a note on his clipboard.  "I will report back to you immediately when I settle on a location for the prisoner camp."

"Excellent!  That's the spirit, Gregor."

ERIK LARSON WAS ADRIFT on a sea of blackness.  All was calm and peaceful around him.  He was floating on his back, drifting along with a warm ocean current, propelled toward some unknown horizon.  Everything was black.  He told himself that he was dreaming—that any minute he would wake up and the realities of the world would come crashing down around him once more.

To confirm this thought, his last memories flashed before his mind's eye.  Escaping from the back of the Hallmark store in the strip mall on the north side of Orlando.  Struggling to raise the cargo door with Sgt. Pinner.  Getting the women and children out into the sunlight, hearing Ted create a diversion down the alley.  The gunfire, the shouts.  Russian paratroopers surrounding them.

Then he remembered how his sword had flashed in the sunlight as it sliced its way through the Russian's neck.  He remembered the sound of the paratrooper’s AK-47 as it clattered on the pavement of the cargo loading ramp.  He remembered seeing Pinner in a pool of his own spreading blood reaching out a hand and mouthing words that would never be spoken.  He remembered looking up and seeing a handful of angry Russians appear out of nowhere.  And then he remembered blackness and pain.

Erik blinked as tears threatened to fill his eyes.  He had failed Ted—had failed to keep his family safe.  He had failed Brin.  That hurt most of all.  Because he hadn't acted fast enough, or maybe decisively enough, he was dead.  He peered around in the inky blackness.  Yup.  This is what death looks like.  No Heaven, no Pearly Gates, no Elysian Fields for Erik Larsson.  He had killed—broken God’s Commandment…

Who knew what had happened to Brin.  Who knew what had happened to Ted for that matter?  Maybe this was Purgatory?

"You are awake, da?"  A strange voice said, booming all around him in the darkness.

Erik’s body tensed in surprise.  He was suddenly aware that he could feel wet tears on his cheeks.  If he could feel his own tears and hear someone's voice—a Russian voice—how could he be dead?  He tried turning his head to identify the location of the speaker and realized that there was something over his head.  A bag.  He wasn't dead!  He’d merely been unconscious and someone had placed a damn bag over his head.

He tried to move his hands to remove the bag, but found them tied securely to his back.  Likewise, his feet were tied with tight knots to the legs of the chair he where he had been deposited.  He tensed his body and felt a chair complain underneath him.  It was light and strong, but warm to the touch of his skin.  A wooden chair.

"Please, do not struggle, yes?" said the voice again.  It was off to his left.  He turned his head on instinct, and still saw only the blackness of the bag, but there was a faint lightening of the darkness.

"Who are you?" he croaked.  His voice felt like someone was rubbing sandpaper in his throat.  He coughed.  "Where am I?  Why do I have a bag on my head?"  He struggled a little more with his restraints.  "Where the hell is my wife?"

The voice that spoke to him was accented, but it was clear that the man was trying to soothe Erik.  "Please!  You have been secured for questioning—it is useless to struggle and you may only end up hurting yourself."

Erik shook his head, feeling anger rise up in his chest.  "Would you at least be kind enough to remove this damned bag from my head?" he growled.  "Or are you too chickenshit to face me?"

The Russian laughed.  Seconds later, the bag lifted from Erik's head and his world was consumed by blinding light.

Erik's eyes gradually adjusted to the light.   He blinked back the pain and was able to see a figure across a small table from him.  The man was dressed in a Russian officer's uniform—at least, that's what Erik assumed, since he had no idea what a Russian officer's uniform should look like.  The man certainly sounded Russian.

"Ah, there we are—better, da?" the man said in a thick accent.

Erik stared at the Russian, not quite sure what to say.   He looked down and saw that he was tied to a wooden chair as he’d thought.  His hands had been securely strapped to the back and his feet to the legs.  "Why am I tied to this chair?" he asked.  He wiggled again in his restraints to no effect.

A voice chuckled in the darkness behind his…captor?  Interrogator?  Adversary?

"You seem confused," the man said with an eyebrow raised.  "Surely you would expect no less if you were to take me captive as prisoner of war?"

Erik stared at the man in disbelief.  "Prisoner of war?"

The Russian laughed.  He slapped the table so hard the papers that were on it shuffled a bit.  "For you are funny!  Yes, very funny!"  A snorted laugh echoed from the darkness behind him.  He glanced over his shoulder "Yuri, you see?  These Special Forces types are all alike.  Always making light of the situation.  Just like spetsnaz."

"Special forces?  Spetsnaz?"  Erik gasped.  "Wait—wait a second!  You think I'm in the Special Forces?"  Erik could feel the nervousness begin to grow inside his stomach like a balloon.  This was not good.  "Trust me, I'm not even really a soldier!  I'm just a grad student!"

The laughter died in the Russian’s throat.  His face grew stern.  He stared at Erik for what seemed like an eternity before speaking again.  "You killed one of my best men.  With this…" he said lifting one hand from under the table.  In that hand was Erik's katana.  The Russian gently placed it on the table, almost reverently.  "It is beautiful, no?  The sword.  Such elegance, such simplicity, such lethality.  A finer weapon man has not created in thousands of years, would you not agree?"

"Okay yeah, it's a nice sword.  I like swords.  That doesn't make me special forces!" said Eric.  His voice was rising in time with his heart rate and the sweat prickling the back of his neck.  The ropes seemed like they were even tighter around his arms and legs, now.  His throat was trying to close up.  Another thought hit him.  "Where is my wife—where's my friend's family?"

"The…how do you Americans say it?  Exotic.  Da.  The exotic woman whom you claim as your wife.  Yes.  She is quite attractive, for one of your CIA operatives, nyet?”   The Russian stared at Erik.

"What the hell are you talking about?  Brin is my wife, nothing more!  She's a sales rep for—she’s not working for the CIA…"

The Russian slapped the table with such force that it actually caused Erik to jerk his head back in surprise.  "Enough lies!  We know you were sent here to help raise the local population against us!  We know you are Special Forces, we know your tactics—we've studied your country and your military for generations!  You cannot fool me!"  The Russian adjusted the collar and the trim of his coat primly before continuing in a calmer voice.  "I apologize for that outburst.  My emotions will be getting the better of me—it will not happen again."

"Look," Erik said.  He tried to put as much innocence in his voice as he could.  "I'm telling you, Mister—whoever you are—my wife is not a secret agent for the CIA.  She's a traveling sales rep for one of the largest companies on the planet.  I am not a Special Forces officer.  I'm not a soldier.  I am a teacher, who got caught up in all of this mess and was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

The Russian cocked his head and stared at Erik like a cat.  A smile played halfway across his lips.  One corner of his mouth curled up.  "The teacher you say?"

“Yes!"  Erik sighed in relief.  "When everything hit the fan, I was trying to write a thesis so I could get a graduate degree in history!"

"So," the Russian said, looking down at the paperwork before him.  Erik tried to take a glance, but it was all in Cyrillic.  It could have been a recipe for borscht, for all Erik knew.  "A simple teacher, da?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," Erik replied.  He could feel sweat start to trickle down his forehead.  I don't know what the hell I'm doing, he thought. I don't know why I decided to join up with Captain Winters!  Why did I do this?  Joining up has caused nothing but trouble for me and Brin…and now Ted's family is… Who knows where.  Oh God, please get me out of this!

"When you were captured, there was another man.  Sergeant Pinner."

Erik tried to lean forward but was backed by the restraints on his arms.  "Pinner?  Is he alive?  Is he okay?"

"I am sorry, nyet."  The Russian looked up from his paperwork, and Erik thought he detected an actual note of sadness—the man looked very sincere.  "Your man did not survive.  However, he was not completely useless to us.  On his body we found certain devices that are not available to regular soldiers.  When we scanned our databases—and they are very thorough—we found that your Sergeant Pinner has been an active member in the special forces community of the United States Army for the last five years."

"What?” Erik blurted.  Pinner was special ops?  “I…I don't know what you're talking about!  When I signed on with Captain Winters," Erik began, "I had no idea who he was—"

"So you admit then, that you are a soldier?" said the Russian, leaning forward stare at Erik, pen poised to strike on a sheet of paper.

Erik shook his head.  "Look, I told you, I'm not a real soldier.  Captain Winters—"

"Da. Captain Winters.  Tell me about him.  Your commanding officer, is he not?  He is the leader of your Special Forces unit?  Where can I find him?"

Erik looked down at the plane table.  "He's dead for all I know."  He glanced up.  "He was at our forward command center, or headquarters, or whatever the hell they call it in the Army."

“Ah!  Now we get somewhere!  Good, this is good.  Please continue, tell me how you are not Special Forces.  Are you in the Marines?  Perhaps a Navy porpoise?" prompted the Russian.

"What?  You mean a Navy SEAL?"  Erik said with a shake of his head.  He frowned as the Russian scribbled something on his paper and muttered to himself.

"You're not paying attention, Boris!" Erik said.  "I already told you—I'm not in the Special Forces.  I was recruited by Captain Williams," Erik said very slowly to be sure that the Russian make no mistake about what he was about to say.  "To act as a scout for the soldiers that were retreating north from the Russians—from you—in the south.  In Miami."

The Russian folded his arms across his chest and looked down his nose at Erik in disbelief.  Erik could tell that the man did not believe him.  "So," the Russian said, "you wish me to believe that you were just an average citizen, going about your business when the Army showed up and forced you to join their ranks?"

"Well," Erik said trying to hide his nervousness.  His voice betrayed him, and cracked.  He winced.  "No.  They asked me to join with them.  But I didn't want to!"

"Oh, really?" the Russian said leaning forward once more.  "You were drafted then?  Ah.  That is very interesting."  He began writing again and when he had finished, looked up.  “Please, go on.  I am most interested to know how the Army drafted you into its special forces so easily."

Erik rolled his head back and closed his eyes in frustration.  "Like I already told you, I'm not in the special forces!" he said to the water-stained ceiling tiles.  He looked down at the Russian again and said: "They offered me two choices.  One, I could take my wife and head north with a pass to get me as far as I wanted through any areas held by our military.  Two, I could join Captain Winters in the Florida National Guard and assist them in scouting their retreat.  When my term of service was up, we would be free to go with all of the supplies we could carry."

"And you, already being a Special Forces soldier, decided to take option two.”

“No—”

“I see…go on…" said the Russian with a wave of his hand.

“You're not listening to me, dammit!  I told you, I am not in the Special Forces!  I don't know how many times or how many ways I can say this.  I have no special training!  I was given a gun, a uniform—even a vehicle—and told to range out ahead of the retreating American forces to secure safe passage for our troops as they fled your advance!  I was given Sergeant Pinner as my aide-de-camp because Captain Winters knew I wouldn't survive more than a day or two out in the real world as a soldier!  Sergeant Pinner was there to keep me alive…to keep me from doing something stupid!  Because… I… am…a…teacher! Not a soldier."

The Russian sat there looking at him for another long moment.  Erik counted 15 blinks of the man's eyes.  Other than his slow, relaxed breathing, the Russian moved not a muscle.  When Erik was about at the point where he could no longer stand the silence any longer, the Russian spoke.

"That is an intriguing tale.  It would explain many things, but not all."

Erik slumped forward in his seat as far as his restraints would allow him. "I don't know what else to tell you—I don't know any secrets, I don't know any tactics, I don't know any strategies.  I am nobody but a teacher who joined up in this fight to help out a friend."

"A friend?  Tell me about him.”

Erik didn't bother lifting his head.  He could feel hope slipping away from him like sand through an open hand.  "Oh, his name's Ted.  He was my commanding officer.  When we made it to that strip-mall—where your men captured us—wait a minute.”  Erik looked up.  “I never saw Ted after he…"   He narrowed his eyes at the Russian, who allowed a slight smile to spread across his face.  "I don't know…
Erik said quietly.  “I don't know what I'm supposed to tell you.  I don't know if I'm supposed to tell you anything.  I may have told you too much."

The Russian laughed.  "Now that is the answer of a special forces operative.  Very funny!"  Another chuckle rumbled out of the darkness behind them.  Someone spoke in a deep voice in rapid-fire Russian.  Erik could understand nothing but the tone.  Urgency.

"Da, Yuri.  This is true.”  The Russian turned back to look at Erik.  He cocked an eyebrow, as he gently gathered up the paperwork and close the manila folder in front of him.  He rested his hands on top of the folder and smiled at Erik.  "I think we are done for today," he said simply.  The man nodded, then started to stand up, the feet of his chair scraping across the linoleum floor.

"Wait!"  Erik said.  He tried to stand up but found himself still restrained to the chair and sat down heavily, causing the chair to squeak under his weight.  He looked around in desperation.  With clenched fists he said, "Where's my wife?  Is she okay?  Can I see her?  Please…"

The Russian considered Erik for a moment, and looked down at the folder on the table.  He turned to leave, then stopped.  With a quick glance over his shoulder, he said "You hear that?  Through the walls?"

Erik concentrated.  For most of interrogation he'd only heard the Russian’s voice and the pounding of his own heart in his ears.  He tilted his head and turned an ear toward the darkness behind him.  There.  He could just barely hear what sounded like a high pitched squeal.  Then silence, then a muffled thump that echoed through the wall.  Another scream.  His heart begin to race and a fresh sheen of sweat broke out over his body.

"There, you have heard her.  She is alive.  For now.  How long she stays alive is up to you."

Erik was so angry he couldn't speak.  Fear and rage battled in his chest for full rights to grip his heart to a stop.  He watched in impotent fury as the Russian took two steps and disappeared into the darkness beyond the table.  A door opened, flooding the room in the soft afternoon light of an autumn day in central Florida.  The door led outside.  He could see in the few seconds it took for his captor and the other man that had been in the back of the room to exit that they were somewhere off the beaten path.  Instead of blacktop or sidewalk or concrete buildings Erik saw only sandy soil, a few scraggly weeds, and some pine trees in the distance.  He also spotted what looked to be the corner of a long, nondescript building.  There was a brown roof and a wooden sign in front proclaiming—

The door shut with a solid thump and the light was switched off, dowsing Erik in complete and utter darkness.  He closed his eyes and screamed in rage. He struggled with his restraints and could feel the mixture of sweat and blood soak his fingers as he rocked back and forth and pulled on the ropes tied to his wrists and ankles.  The chair squealed and groaned in protest but held firm.  He hung his head down, exhausted and spent.

He had failed to protect Brin.  He had failed to protect Ted's family.  He had failed to get them out of Florida, to get them out of harm's way.  He had failed to escape the Russians.  He’d even failed his first interrogation—he could see that now.   The Russian had totally owned him from the get-go.

I don't have any training for this bullshit, he thought angrily to himself. Ted knows how to handle this.  Where the hell is he?  Where the hell am I, for that matter?

Another scream echoed through the wall behind him.  This one was louder and clearer than before.  He couldn’t be sure it was Brin—the wall muffled the voice just enough to make recognition impossible.  But it was a woman’s scream—that much was certain.  Erik threw his head back and roared into the darkness, “Brin!  Can you hear me?  Hang on, baby!  Stay alive!"

He listened for reply.  There was nothing but silence.  Then, to his sheer horror he heard a rhythmic thumping sound coming through the wall.  The blood boiled in his veins and the darkness around him seemed to turn a reddish color.  His imagination started running wild, showing him scenes of the depravity of the Russian soldiers whom his interrogator had said had been so transfixed by Brin's exotic looks.  More screaming from the other room, accompanied by that damn rhythmic thumping made Erik tremble with rage.

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump…

"You sons of bitches!  I'll kill you all!"  Erik screamed.  He shouted and cursed until his voice gave out and he dropped his head to his chest, panting.  Still the torture on the other side of the wall continued to the sound of shrieks and grunts in time with that damn thump-thump-thump-thump.

In the darkness, Erik’s spirit quietly broke in two.

CHAPTER 13

Retreat Orders

PRESIDENT SUTHBY LOOKED AT his staff.  "You understand—all of you—that this is the hardest decision I have ever been forced to make.  I do not want to do this, but I have little choice in the matter."  President Suthby looked down on the paperwork before him.  In front of him stood Daniel, the senior cabinet officials, and one cameraman to record the event for posterity.  Besides himself, only Daniel knew that the camera was also there to provide the United Nations with proof of Suthby’s good faith.

"We understand, sir," said the newly-appointed Secretary of Defense.  Despite the fact that he wore a similar expression of sadness, there was a certain sparkle in the sycophant’s eyes that gave President Suthby just a hint of uneasiness.

"It's for the good of the country," intoned the Senate Majority Leader with just the right amount of hesitation.  The man looked like he had just swallowed his own vomit.  He was good.  The dirt Daniel had found on him and a certain underage party-girl was even better.  "And it will only be temporary."

"Yes, temporary, of course.”  A dim ripple of agreement made the rounds among the nodding heads.  “I will strive to do everything in my power to make sure this order is not only abolished but rescinded in full when the time is right.  I want it on record that all Constitutional powers will be reinstated in the government of these United States at the very earliest possible moment."  President Suthby looked down at the dreaded papers again.

Is this what Reed felt like all those times I was pressuring him to sign those Executive Orders I drafted?  No wonder the man had ulcers…

"Sir, we're ready to start filming whatever you are."

The President didn't even bother to look up to acknowledge the cameraman.  "Go ahead and start, let's get this over with."  He took a few more moments to gather his thoughts and slowly raised his head to stare straight at the camera.  He saw someone to the right of the camera wipe tears from their eyes.  Suthby was just as upset as anyone, but being overly sentimental about it could lead to a lot of unnecessary tragedy.

"My fellow Americans—indeed I speak to all peoples of the world as represented by the United Nations.  This day dawns in the aftermath of the greatest national tragedy that the United States has ever suffered through.  Yet, today also dawns with renewed hope for the salvation of this country.  For all of us, now more than ever, depend upon and require a strong, stable United States."  He glanced down at the papers on his desk again for dramatic pause.

"This document," he said, lifting up the top page to show the camera, “is an official request from me as President pro tem of the United States requesting that the United Nations grant protectorate status to our beleaguered country."  He let the paper fall to the desk.  "No country—at least not from the Western world—has ever applied for such a status from the United Nations.  Thus far, it has been a little used escape for impoverished, war-torn, developing nations.  I want every American—indeed every citizen of the world—to understand that I am not doing this out of desperation.  This option, in this time of crisis and upheaval, is the fastest method to get our country back on its feet.  It is the fastest way to get our economy going once more and to restore balance in order to the world.  Above all, understand that this is a temporary measure."

He frowned as he leaned forward over his desk and stared into the camera.  "Let me be perfectly clear: this measure is temporary.  There is a set date on this document.  The powers enumerated in this resolution will expire the protectorate status in five years—if it is not voluntarily done so by a majority of the member nations of the Security Council of the United Nations before that date.  There are also some specific conditions that must be met before such termination can be approved by the United Nations General Assembly."

"I know this may come as a shock to most of you.  But know this: my decision was not arrived at without considerable thought and due diligence.  After an exhaustive review of our national situation, I—and my advisers—can only come to one conclusion.  In short, our country is in a shambles.  The government has been cast to the wind following the last orders of our late President Reed—may he rest in peace.  It stands to reason that someone must be in charge of the country, while we attempt to locate the next in the line of succession as mandated by the Constitution.  These include Vice President Jorgenson, the Speaker of the House of Representatives, the Senate Majority Leader, and other top level officials."

President Suthby looked down at the desk, took three calming breathes, and hoped that he looked at least somewhat presidential.  When he raised his face to the camera, he proceeded: "The remnants of Congress have seen fit to appoint me as your Commander in Chief on a temporary basis until the next in line has been found.  We're doing everything we can to find those people.  Until then, the safest course of action for this country is to apply for protectorate status from the United Nations."  Despite the fact that he'd already given his Cabinet the heads up on what was going to happen and the ultimate consequences of those decisions, he still heard someone gasp.

"You don't know how hard it is for me to say that.”  He paused to clear his throat and regain his composure.  “This nation was founded on principles of independence and self-reliance.  The mere fact that I now have to go hat in hand asking for help is not only embarrassing, but it shakes me to my very core.  I have little choice though, as you are about to see.”

“Our country is beset by not only the economic crisis caused by the power outage which has affected our entire country—we're not only under siege by diseases in our cities like cholera and typhus—our people are sick, starving, and in desperate need of adequate medical attention.  Right now, our own doctors, our own soldiers, and our own government officials have been scattered to the wind.  Most of our military is spread all over the globe.  At this moment, we have units trying to reach America from Europe, Asia, South America, Africa, and all points in between.  Tragically, many of those units have been lost.  It is unknown at this time how many of our brave servicemen and women have been killed by the treacherous hands of nations we used to call ‘friend’.  Nations like Germany, France, and Russia—who have seen fit to take advantage of our weakness and attack our people as they simply try to go home.

“These global recall orders were issued by President Reed before his untimely death and I've seen fit to confirm them.  Normally, we would leave our military in place throughout the world to establish some sort of continuity.  However, our country is not only attacked by biological and sociological issues—we are also under direct attack by the nations of Russia and China.

“In Florida, the National Guard and local civilians have banded together and are fighting a losing battle against a well-equipped army of Russian nationals.  With the help of Cuban expatriates, they've already captured Miami.”  He shook his head sadly, the first time during the speech that his emotion was heartfelt.

"I'm sorry about my voice choking there.  I never expected nor wanted to be President, pro tem or otherwise.   I never expected to be the first President to announce over the airwaves that a major American city has fallen into the hands of enemy soldiers.  Foreign troops are occupying American land for the first time since the War of 1812."  President Suthby clinched his fist on the desk and emphasis.  He tried to drum up some tears and show some sort of deeper emotion on his face for the camera, but found it very difficult.  Everything was going according to plan.  The Russians were acting a little more aggressive than they had promised, but they were doing their part.  They were drawing attention from the search for the next in line to the presidency.  They had helped convince the other allies to attack American forces overseas.  They had set up everything nicely and it left him no choice but to ask for protectorate status from the United Nations.  All he had to do was finish this speech and he would be established as the unelected and permanent ruler of America.

"They've advanced north through the swamps and coastlines of Florida.  They have sacked cities and towns, killed who knows how many people, and run American citizens off of their own property.  This Russian army has ground troops and air support.  When last we had contact with our own soldiers, the city of Orlando had been attacked.  I want to make this very clear to all patriots who live in the state of Florida that can hear my voice: you have not been forgotten, you are not alone, and we will rescue you.  Unfortunately," he clasped his hands together on the desk.  After a brief glance at his papers for emotional effect, he looked into the camera.  "Unfortunately, my fellow citizens, we are simply outgunned, out-manned, and outmatched.  The Russians and their Cuban allies are simply too much for our Home Guard units to handle on their own.   If we had been able to get our men and women in uniform home from Europe faster, there would be no chance for the Russians to advance.  We would've turned their backstabbing carcasses into shark bait in a matter of hours.  Our military is entangled in fierce firefights all around the world, trying to fight their way to transport ships, planes, boats—anything that will deliver them to the welcoming shores of America."

"Until that day, when our armed forces can successfully reunite on American soil and focus their combined firepower upon expelling the enemy in Florida, I have, with the advisement of our top military commanders, reached a decision to order a complete withdrawal of American forces from Florida.

“Any citizens—any patriots—who wish to remain behind do so with my blessing.  I grant you full authority, to take whatever actions necessary to defend yourselves and your property from these foreign aggressors.  But be warned, the Russians are entrenching.  They've made it clear that they intend to keep Florida.  I don't yet know why and honestly I don't really care.  I was never trained for this position.  I don’t think I need to tell you I'm reacting on instinct here, folks.  I believe the best course of action is to pull our troops back to the Florida-Georgia line.  From there we will reinforce our forces, reassess the situation, and counter-attack when ready.  And believe me, we will strike back.  We shall exact a bloody vengeance and we will be victorious."

Almost there, President Suthby told himself.  Time to make mention of China causing trouble out west and wrap it up.  Fourth and goal, baby.

"Unfortunately, the trouble we currently face in Florida is not the extent of our problems.  The Chinese have seen fit to launch a full-scale invasion of our southwest.  Under the disgraceful cover of providing humanitarian relief to Mexican nationals fleeing the United States, the People's Republic of China has taken advantage of our current difficulties to send a large force of ground troops to Mexico.”

“I say again, China has declared that these forces are there to provide humanitarian relief, food and water, and medical supplies to Mexico.  While they did do some of that, the vast majority of their humanitarian workers are in fact, soldiers.  We have learned now, through the sad tales of eyewitnesses and survivors from Arizona that the Chinese brought an entire army up north through the Mexican desert.  They crossed our border near the town of Nogales and have cut a bloody swath through the state of Arizona."  Once again the President shuffled some papers, nodded to himself, then looked at the camera.

"At least the Russians were forthright in their intentions.  I've asked Congress to declare a state of war exists between Russia and the United States.  Well," the President looked down at his papers again, "I've asked what is left of Congress to declare war.  I've taken Executive Action and declared martial law across this nation in an effort to protect our citizens.  When we collect ourselves after the pummeling we are receiving, we will strike back, and there will be hell to pay.  But we have got to survive first and foremost."

I hope that got the message across, he thought to himself. The Chinese are going to screw everything up and I will not allow that happen.  When this is over, I will teach them a lesson…

He continued: "It is unclear what the ultimate ambition of the Chinese is at the moment.  Some have suggested that the Chinese are attempting to capture valuable land resources, mineral deposits, oil reserves, or possibly access to fresh water.  Everyone knows that their nation is overflowing with people.  Others have suggested that the Chinese are trying to divide our country in half to bring the United States down on par with most of the other countries in the world.  Regardless their ultimate goal, they will be defeated, and they will be punished.  Severely.  We are not going to achieve victory over the Chinese.  We're going to exact retribution."

One final pause to examine his papers and the President looked up, ready to finish things off.  "I want you to know, man to man, citizen to citizen, and American To American: I will act tirelessly to ensure the safety of this nation and all those who live here.  I will not tolerate foreign aggression on American soil.  I will not forget the actions of our former allies, who so blatantly betrayed our trust overseas.  Most importantly, I will work to put down the rebellion afflicting our inner cities, to stop the killing of Americans by Americans, and turn all of our efforts into one united iron fist so that we may destroy those who wish to do us harm.  All this I will do, under the aegis of the United Nations.

“Once the sick have been seen by competent doctors, once the diseases that are running wild across our country have been brought under control by science, once our people have enough food again, once our children are no longer cold and starving I will remove the United States from its position as a protected state.

“I vow before God Almighty that this nation will stand on its own again.  And when that day comes, I trust the American people will stand with me in raising a single voice."  He looked down again, trying to convey deep emotion.  When he looked up, his voice was quiet, calm, and carried a deadly message.  "When this is over and the American people rise up as one, we will not stop until our enemies, their homes—their entire nations—are smoldering ruins.  We will visit the very wrath of God upon you.  And we will be merciless."

"My fellow Americans, I ask for your patience, I ask for your help, I asked for your cooperation.  We will get through this as a nation.  We will survive.  This is America.  Not a new Russia, not a new China.  America.  We have been beaten down before and we've always come back stronger than ever.  We've been on the ropes, we've been counted out by the powers of the world, we've been told we as a nation are too young, too inexperienced, too reckless, to be a world power.  And then, suddenly we were a world power.  We were the power.  The sole superpower of the planet.  The most advanced nation mankind has ever produced.  And I promise you, by the blood of the servicemen and women who have died overseas, by the blood of the innocent civilians who have died in our cities, by the blood of patriots who have died resisting foreign aggression on our soil: We will rise again."

“Thank you, good night, and may God bless us all and this, the greatest nation on God’s earth.”

"Annnnnnd we’re off," said the cameraman.  He gave a thumbs-up sign to the President and the red light on the top of the camera winked out.

President Suthby exhaled, let his shoulders slump, and dropped his head to his chest as if he’d just finished a marathon.  The action had the desired effect on his staffers.  He felt gentle but firm hands grip his shoulders and lean him back into his chair.  He kept his eyes closed, felt someone wipe the sweat from his forehead.  Someone else pressed a cup into his hand.  The cool water felt refreshing on his throat.  There were mutters of assent and confirmation all around him.

"Do you think it worked?" he asked, his eyes closed.

"Sir, we're with you.  And if there’s still any red-blooded Americans alive out there to hear your voice, they're going to be with you, too.”

"That speech was genius, sir," said another one of the staffers.

Daniel was at his side, pushing through the throng.  "Nicely done, Mr. President."

"Thank you—thank you, everyone."  The President got to his feet and looked around the room.  The faces were hopeful and young.  It suddenly dawned on him that most of the senior officials who had fled during the president's COG order would be the ones most useful a crisis like this.  They were also the ones who were…elsewhere.  It was a long road ahead of him, but had to make do with what he had.  He turned to Daniel.

"Now, what the hell are we supposed to do about the Chinese?"

CHAPTER 14

General Population

ERIK FELT ROUGH HANDS shove him from behind.  The hood was back over his face, though he wasn't aware when it had been replaced after his interrogation.  He stumbled forward and felt stiffness and shooting pain in his arms and legs.  He figured he must've fallen asleep in the interrogation chair.

Another shove accompanied by a crude laugh and Erik felt his left foot catch on something.  He fell through the air for a heart-stopping second before his body hit the floor and the air rushed from his lungs in a gasp.  He felt the hood as it was removed off but his eyes were clenched tight in pain.  He had never fallen face first on the ground with his hands tied behind his back before.  He lay there attempting to roll on the ground and catch his breath as a string of curses flashed through his mind.  The laughter that erupted somewhere behind him was cut off at the sound of a slamming door.

He eventually made it onto his side and took a deep breath.  It was full of dust, but he didn’t care—relief from the tightness in his lungs was worth the cottonmouth.  He opened his eyes to dim light and blinked as he sucked in another dusty breath of air.  The sound of something moving on the dirt floor behind him caused him to freeze.  A figure loomed out of the darkness and approached him, each footstep shuffling through the dirt with a harsh scrape.

“My wife—” Erik sputtered.  His tongue felt swollen and useless.  He coughed and tried to get his legs to work.  “I gotta find her!”

"Take it easy, man," a deep voice said.  At least whoever it was didn’t have a Russian accent.  Erik held his relief in check as the stranger approached.  "I'm American—we all are.  Looks like you’re the newest member of our little club."

Someone laughed, then coughed in the darkness behind the speaker.  At least two others.  Whoever these men were, they outnumbered him already—and his hands were still tied behind his back.  Not good.

Another set of hands helped Eric get to his feet.  In a few moments, the ropes were cut away from his feet and wrists.  He rubbed the soreness from his wrists and squinted in the dim light to see his benefactor's face.

“Thanks.  Where am I—I mean, where are we?  Who are you?"  Erik turned trying to see around the dark room.

“Where are we?”  The stranger in front of Erik laughed quietly.  “This is Stalag-17.”  When he got no response from Erik, he cleared his throat and tried again.  “Prison camp, man.  The Russians threw us all in here after…after Orlando.”

Erik tried to clear his throbbing head.  It was hard to tell if that thumping sound that had tortured his mind for so long was the beating of his own heart or the memory of…

Memory of what?  I don’t even know what the sound was, let alone if it was…she may not have even been…  Erik closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and forced his mind to stop wandering and focus on the situation at hand.  His first priority was to get out of wherever the hell he was and find Brin.  There would be time for questions later.

Someone muttered something about an officer.  A ripple of whispers circulated the room.

"Staff Sergeant Edward Purnell, at your service, Lieutenant."  The man saluted.  Erik returned it with a sloppy version of a salute and wasn't quite sure what to do next.  He rubbed the side of his head. "God, my head hurts.”  He looked around again and saw even more silhouettes in the darkness.  “So, this is a prison camp?"

"Yes sir," said a second man, stepping forward.  "Corporal George Delano.  I was with the command staff when HQ got hit.  I remember when you and the major came in to talk with Captain Winters."

“Where is he?  Did he make it out?”

The young man shook his head sadly, his features obscured by the dim light.  "He ordered us all to evacuate the building and we ran outside.  Then everything exploded and I was thrown into the side of a M-ATV."  The man turned his head and in the dim light streaming in through a dirty window set high up on the wall, Erik could see the dark crusted blood on the side of the corporal's head and neck.  It looked painful as hell.  "Only about five of us made it out.  The Russians were on top of us within minutes.  Captain Winters was still inside the HQ when it went up.  He never had a chance…"

"Sons of bitches gonna pay for this," muttered a deep voice in the background.  There were rumbles of assent all around Erik.

"How many of us are in here?"  Erik asked.  He had originally thought there were only a few.

"Last count, I think we had…what, twenty of us?” someone suggested.

“No, it was twenty-two,” said another voice, the speaker completely hidden in the darkness.

"And you make 23, sir,” added Purnell.

Erik slowly turned around, taking in the dim faces that stared back at him.  "Anyone have any idea where we are?"

"Tenet didn't have his eyes covered, when we came in.  Tell the man."

A man shuffled up next to Erik out of the gloom.  He was short, but wide-shouldered and looked strong.  He was short, wide-shouldered, and smelled of diesel and grease.  "Yeah, they put a hood on me, too, but they didn't put it on too tight.  I was able to tilt my head back just enough to see.  I couldn't see roadsides, or where exactly we went—”

“Come on, Tenet, out with it,” said Purnell in a voice that brooked no argument.

“We ain’t in the asphalt jungle anymore, that’s for sure.  Some kind of Bible camp, I think.  I remember a big sign made out of wood that had angels and shit on it."  He cleared his throat.  “Sir.”

"What do you mean?  They took us out of Orlando?"  Erik asked.  “What day is it?”

Did they move me?  Is Brin nearby?  What the hell am I supposed to do…?

The staff sergeant chuckled ruefully.  "Sir, don't know where you've been, but Orlando ain't there anymore.  It's been leveled."

Erik gasped "The entire city?  Last I saw, Russian jets were flying in and dropping bombs—there were…

He tried to clear his mind.  The jumbled confusion of images from their escape through the city seemed more like a zombie movie than reality.   The fight at the strip mall and the horrible sound coming through the wall in that interrogation room…

“There were a few Russians…paratroopers…but for the most part the trouble was caused by the civilians trying to flee north."

"Yeah," said the mechanic sadly.  "It was a fuckin’ mess.  Pardon my French, sir.”   Tenet cleared his throat.  “Never seen anything like it.  I was stationed northwest of HQ with the motor pool.  When all the bombs started falling, Captain Winters issued orders to prepare for evacuation.  We grabbed our gear and got ready to go evac the wounded.  But," the man shrugged.  "When HQ went up in a ball of fire, everything went to hell, real quick.  Next thing I know, there's Russians dropping out of the sky and civvies were coming from all directions at once."

"We still don't know how they got here so fast,” said Purnell.

"Yeah," said Erik.  "After we made it through the zombie hordes, the paratroopers got us."

"Who’s ‘us’, sir?" asked Purnell.

Erik glanced around at the men in the darkness.  "My CO, our families, and my NCO."

"You had your families with you?" asked the mechanic.  "How the hell did you pull that?  Sir."

Erik shook his head.  "When I signed on with Captain Winters, that was part of the deal.  We were here to scout out an escape route and instead we got tangled up in this mess."

"So you're part of the auxiliaries?” asked Tenet.

Erik nodded.  "The scouts.  I was with Major Jensen.  Has anyone heard anything from him?  When we escaped Orlando, he’d gone off to cause a distraction…and then…" Erik would hands to the back of his head, and felt the tender spot there.  "And then… I don't remember much.  But I think the Russians were pretty pissed I killed one of their men.”

A hushed murmur made its way around the gathering of men.  Purnell raised his voice over the noise and called for silence.  "You, ah…didn't happen to use a sword did you, sir?"

Erik nodded.  "Yeah, I had it with me.”  He shrugged.  “It was the only thing I could use at the time."

The murmuring returned. Someone tried to push his way through the group from the back.  A young man, about Erik’s age, in a bedraggled uniform stepped into the open space around Erik and saluted.

"Sir, they’re more than just testing you…I took some AP Russian in high school.  I was assigned to HQ to help try to decipher the messages we intercepted.  Anyway," he said, "when they threw you in here a few minutes ago, I heard one of them talking about swords.  It made no sense, but then the other said that they couldn't wait to get their hands on you."

“You Delta, lieutenant?” asked Purnell.  He glanced from the interpreter to Erik.

Erik sighed.  "Why does everybody keep asking me that?  No.  I am not in the Special Forces.  I am not regular Army.  I am not Delta Force.  I am not a Navy SEAL…I was recruited by Captain Winters—actually drafted is probably a better word—to scout out ahead of the main Battalion and find an escape route north.  That's it."  He rubbed the back of his neck and winced in pain.  “And now my wife is captured and they…and I heard…”  He closed his eyes and growled through gritted teeth in frustration.  “I am just a teacher.”

"Yeah, well that's not what the Russians think," said Purnell quietly.

"Don't I know it.  These bastards have my wife here somewhere," Erik said.  He could feel the hand of fear gripping his chest.  "I don't know what they're doing to her—or what they did to her—but they think that they'll be able to hurt her and get information out of me.  I tried to tell them I don't know anything.  Jesus, they’re going to kill her."  He ran a hand through his hair and turned around, looking for a way through the press of prisoners.  He felt trapped and his breath came in shallow waves.

I have to get out of here.  Now.  I have to find her.

Another rippled whisper circulated among the men.  Purnell sighed and put a hand on Erik’s shoulder.  "Are you serious, sir?"  He glanced over his shoulder at the others.  "They've already tried interrogating you?  Did you tell them you don't know anything?"

Erik straightened his shoulders and shook of the man’s hand.  The last thing he needed now was pity.  He was wasting too much time standing around in the dark talking with strangers.  He moved aside and staggered into the gloom until he found a wall.  As he slowly moved down the wall, fingers searching for a way out, he called over his shoulder, "Yes—because it's the truth!  I don't know how long that guy badgered me about being in the Special Forces, but I don't think he believed me."  He stepped around a few men slouched against the wall and mumbled apologies for disturbing them.  One moaned quietly.

These men are injured!  Why aren’t they in an infirmary or something?

"Well, that's good for you, then.  If they didn't believe you, that explains why you're still alive."

Erik froze.  He turned away from the wall and looked back into the darkness.  "What are you talking about?"

"Sir, we're at war.”  He cleared his throat and moved closer to Erik.  In a softer voice, he said, “I know you’ve only been with the Army for a little while, sir.  The rest of us have at least been through basic.  We are prisoners of war.  Name, rank, serial number.  That’s all the information we are allowed to give ‘em."  Murmurs of assent surrounded Erik.

"Yeah, well, nobody put me through basic training and I sure as hell didn't learn any counter-interrogation techniques.  They gave me a rifle, they give me a uniform, and they gave me a truck, and told me to report back with what I could see.  Look," Erik said, turning back to the wall, fingers scrabbling against the wood.  “My wife is out there—”

"You ain’t the only one with family out there.  Sir," said Tenet’s voice.  "My brother and his family live in Orlando.  Last I heard, the Russians are rounding up all the surviving civilians into a high school football stadium somewhere east of town.  I'm from Minnesota, so I don't know what the hell school down here can hold thousands of people, but they sure make an awful lot racket."

Erik paused in his investigation of the wall.  "You mean you can hear them?"

"Yes, sir," said Tenet’s voice.  He cleared his throat and continued: “When the Russians open the door, we can hear the noise of…gotta be hundreds, maybe thousands of people.  It's like a dull roar in the background."

"What’s the outside look like when the door opens?" asked Erik.

"Bright," said someone.  A round of laughter escaped the prisoners.

"Granted," said Erik with a lopsided smile.  "But I'm asking about trees, roads, signs—anything.  Anyone see anything at all?"

"There's a heck of a lot of pine trees in the distance," said Purnell.  "And you can see dirt paths out there."

"Like I said," said the Tenet.  "We're not in downtown Orlando anymore.  But, you can still see the smoke in the air."

"See it?  You can smell it.  And if you go outside and open your mouth, you get a mouthful of ashes." added another voice in the darkness.

Erik put his hands on his hips and thought for a moment.  He stretched his aching back.  "So, has anyone decided to escape?"

A rueful laugh made its way through the men.  "Hell yes, sir—we all have.  The question is, how?" asked Tenet.

"Well, for starters, who's in command here?" asked Erik.

"Uh…" began Purnell.  He looked around at the others and received a few nods.  Turning back to Erik, he said "I kinda been taking the lead on things.  But, that was before you got here, sir.”

“What are you saying?  There’s no one here who…there’s no other…” Erik looked around in the darkness.  He couldn’t see details in their faces, but he could tell they were shaking their heads.

"Awww, shit."

CHAPTER 15

The Trap

YOU KNOW, I REALLY appreciate you guys doing this," said Roger Hallwood.  He gave an awkward smile as he took a box of rice from Rob.

Rob grunted with the effort of handing over the captured Chinese rations but returned the smile.  "Hell, we’re all Americans, right?  Just because we disagreed on what was the best course of action doesn’t mean anybody has to have any hard feelings, right?  Or go hungry?"

"… Right," said Hallwood as he handed the box off to a grim-faced local.  The man’s eyes locked on Rob’s just a hair too long for the Regulator’s liking.  Hallwood turned away and checked his watch for what appeared to be the third time in the last few minutes.

"Got a hot date or something?"  Rob said with a chuckle.  He grunted, and took the next box of rice and passed it out of the truck bed to Hallwood.

The local man grinned, but his eyes didn't meet Rob's.  Little warning bells tinkled in the back of Rob's mind.  He picked up another box and casually scanned the surroundings as he turned to hand the crate over to the local man.  He couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

His small detachment of Regulators had parked their vehicles in a loose circle not far from what was left of Pine Bluff’s courthouse.  The Chinese raid had pretty much leveled two-thirds of the town and burned down most of the public buildings.  Only the high school—now a refugee center—and courthouse were left standing.  On the west side of town, a small neighborhood of houses remained relatively unscathed.  Those people had already taken in as many neighbors and friends and family as they could.  Yet there were still hundreds of people without homes, food, or any kind of supplies at all.

Rob handed over another box of rations and looked around again.  The more he paid attention, the more he noticed the surly look about the locals who had volunteered to help distribute the food.  He stretched his back and sighed trying to give himself cover as he checked the surroundings.

There were locals scattered in amongst the Regulators helping to distribute food to the people lined up to carry it off to the high school.  A few Regulators were posted on the outskirts of the block, keeping a watchful eye on things.  Rob also knew up in the mountains about a mile and a half behind them, more Regulators were posted watching the road leading to town.  He felt confident that the Chinese would not be able to sneak up on them in force.

The smile he gave the local man in the John Deere hat wasn’t returned.  Rob frowned.  He wasn't too trustworthy of the locals yet.  Despite the fact that he and the Regulators had decided to hand over a good portion of their supplies to help the people of Pine Bluff, Hallwood made him feel…uneasy.  There was something about the man that Rob instinctively did not like.  A man who was willing—so quickly!—to join sides with the invaders against his own countrymen deserved a healthy dose of cynicism.

But, a voice told Rob, he’s apologized and it really seems like he’s trying to make amends.  The man was gathering the townspeople together and starting to organize search parties for the missing and shelter for those who were homeless.  He seemed to stop worrying about the Chinese and focus on his own townspeople.  Rob shrugged, then picked up another box.

He was probably just being overly cautious.  Even though his rifle was only an arm’s length away, leaning against the side of his truck, Rob still felt exposed.  Naked.  But no one had seen hide nor hair of any Chinese troops in the last few days.

He handed over the last box of rice to Hallwood.  No sign of the Chinese for the last few days, he told himself.  That right there means trouble.  Doesn't it?

He bent over to pick up a sack of beans and out of the corner of his eye saw Hallwood check his watch yet again before looking to the south, down Main St.  The man was sweating—they all were, but not that much.  It was a fine autumn day in Arizona.  Not too hot, maybe around 80° and wonderfully dry.  A man used to living in the area for more than a few years should not need a change of clothes after a little light lifting.

Rob mumbled some apology about being too old for this kind of backbreaking work and moved off to slake his thirst from the canteen under the side of a collapsed house.  Once in the shade and out of earshot of Hallwood, Rob picked up his radio and keyed the mic.  "Overwatch this is One, any sign of movement?"

Rob was able take a few swallows of cool water from his canteen before the scratchy reply came over his radio speaker. "Negative, One, I got nothing.  Everything looks good from here."

"Roger that, just keep a good eye out, will you?  I'm getting nervous here."

"Something happen?" asked Lance, from his position halfway up the mountain.

"Nah," Rob replied, as he twisted the cap on the canteen.  "I guess I'm just getting jittery, that's all.  It comes with old age," he said with a laugh.  Rob turned and looked halfway up the mountain about where Lance had picked his lookout post.

"All right folks!"  Hallwood's voice rang out over the din of people gathering supplies.  I think we've got enough here," he said, "that we can start making a run to the High School.  Let's see if we can start gathering all the supplies and get this pile over to those people who really need it.  I want to thank you all once again for helping us get the supplies unloaded!"

"I want to thank the Regulators!" somebody shouted from the rear of the crowd.

Rob grinned.  It was about time someone recognized the sacrifice the Regulators were making for these people.  He and Lance had been planning on divvying up all the supplies they captured from the Chinese among the Regulators.  It would have been more than enough for each Regulator to subside on through the long winter ahead.  Now that they had given away nearly half of their supplies, Rob began to worry that he and Lance may have cut things a little too tight for their own people.

Rob moved back over toward his truck as the last of the townies grabbed supplies and started hauling them across the street to the high school.  A stream of people carried the supplies inside the building.

"On behalf of the town, I really do want to thank you for all you've done for us."

The sentiment was in the man's voice, but not his eyes.  Rob shook hands with Hallwood.  The limp hand felt clammy.  There was absolutely no moisture in the air and Rob wondered how the man could possibly have sweaty hands at a time like this.  Rob worked harder and had not worked up a sweat at all.  More suspicions.  The man was either sick or nervous.

Rob swept the Stetson from his head and a glance at the morning sun told him that they’d have another scorcher today.   The rest of the supplies they had trucked down from the Mountain were going to make for hot, sweaty work.

The Mountain.  The unofficial name for the Regulator camp had a nice ring of simplicity to it.  He grinned as he picked up a box of ammo and handed it over to a grateful man from Pine Bluff.  Rob responded to the man’s word of thanks and glanced around.  There were still dozens of people milling around waiting for food—most, he noted with satisfaction, had the look of half-shame, half-relief on their faces.   These were proud, independent folks.  Living up in the foothills of the Apache National Forest did that to a person, Rob figured.  They weren’t used to taking handouts and it showed.

That was just fine by Rob.  He didn’t want to be in the habit of giving stuff away.  Especially ammo.

He passed off the last of his pile of ammo to a young woman with a small child in tow and moved toward the Franks brothers.  They were doling out a handful of captured Chinese rifles to the survivors who intended to do some hunting.  He smiled reassuringly at one of the men in line and was about to say something when the radio on his belt broke squelch.

“One, Overwatch.  Heads up—you got company inbound.  I’m seeing a handful of vehicles.  Pretty sure they’re not friendly.  They look military.”

A look passed around the men within earshot.  Rob held up a hand to get them to be patient.  “Copy that, Overwatch.  You see anything else?”

“No…they’re comin’ in from the south, up the main road.  I think you got about ten minutes.”

“We gotta get out of here!” one of the men said.  Others agreed and started to move away and collect what family they could find.  Word spread quickly and the ordered, almost fair-like atmosphere devolved into chaos in seconds.  People started screaming for children or spouses, asking for help in moving supplies, and shouting for everyone to find cover.

“Omaha has eyes on,” crackled the voice of the Border Patrol pilot.  Rob sent a quick prayer of thanks—again—that those brave men and women had made the decision to join the group.  The little 2-seater helicopter they brought with them was an invaluable tool for gathering information.  If only they could find a steady supply of aviation fuel.  But that was a worry for later.

“You got a small convoy coming from the south—another coming from the east, about the same size.  Looks more like APCs than trucks.”

“Shit,” Rob said at the ground.

“What are we gonna do now?” asked Ed Franks.

His brother George loaded the small pile of the ammo crates back into the bed of his pickup truck.  He slammed the rear gate and picked up his AR.  “Fight, I hope!  These people have suffered enough on our part.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” muttered Ed.

Rob looked around at the scattering of mostly destroyed homes and businesses.  There was no real place to go.

They had been trapped.  A sinking feeling in his stomach made him frown.  Neatly trapped.  This was no coincidence.  Someone had tipped them off.   The Chinese couldn’t be that lucky.  Either way, the Regulators would soon be trapped, along with most of the citizens of what was left of Pine Bluff.

"Okay people," he said.  "We got less than 10 minutes before the Chinese arrive.  We gotta hustle—everyone find places to hide, get your ammo ready, get your weapons ready!"  He looked down the street to the south and spotted a whiff of dust on the horizon.  "We don't have much time.  Regulators, if you can, I want you set up in the rubble of the houses along the street on either side.  They’re gonna have to drive right down this avenue to get toward the center of town, where the rest of the people are going to be gathered.  Everyone else, get up here with me by the courthouse."

"All right boys, saddle up!" called out Ed Franks.  A handful of Regulators nearby whooped and hollered as they dashed for cover.

"One, be advised the group coming from the south is speeding up," reported the pilot.

"Let's roll!" said Rob as he slung his pack over a shoulder.  "Any man from the town that wants to join us in this fight can follow me!"  Rob was gratified to see that more than a dozen men with hunting rifles fell in behind him as he jogged for the nearest intersection.

His improvised plan was simple.  He had Regulators getting in position inside the burned-out husks of homes on either side of the main drag through town.  At the main intersection in front of the courthouse, he would position himself and most of the locals.  As the Chinese worked their way from the east and south through town, they would be taking fire from both sides of the street.  He hoped.

Rob tried to calm his breathing as he took position around the corner of the municipal building.  Reports from the other Regulators that they had achieved concealment made it easier for him to concentrate on the task at hand.  He dropped his pack to the ground and turned to the man next to him.

"You guys are the ones that know this town…You tell me, where’s the best spot for an ambush?"

The rough looking local with tired eyes scratched his chin before he spoke: "I think we’re in about as good a spot as we can get, Mister.  If they come through the south there," he said pointing down Main Street towards the gathering dust cloud.  "We'll chew ‘em up."

"And if they come from the east?  There's another group coming that way right now," Rob said.

The local shrugged.  “I ain’t no soldier…”

Rob grimaced.  That was the problem.  None of them were.  Well, a few used to be… He grabbed his radio.  “Levine, you copy that last?”

"We heard the chatter," reported the Border Patrol Agent.  "Me and my men can swing south and come up behind them."

Rob keyed his radio. “Roger that, thanks for the assist.  Wait for my signal to make sure that we won't leave you boys hanging."

"You bet.  Good luck."

“Rob, get the hell out of there!  What’re you doing?" said Lance’s voice over Rob’s radio.  "You guys got less than five minutes before your gonna be crawlin’ in Chinese!"

"Anybody who tries to run for the hills is gonna be shot like fish in a barrel!  They’re too close.  It’s time we make a stand."  Someone tapped him on the shoulder and indicated the front steps of the courthouse.  There was a small group of men—all unarmed—gathering at the top of the steps.  Like they were waiting for something.

In the distance he could hear a low rumbling sound.  The Chinese were getting close.  He glanced again at the locals gathered on the steps.  They looked completely worn-out and wore dirty, soot-covered clothes.

Rob gritted his teeth and charged, his rifle held high, screaming for them to get down.  Four of them dropped to their knees and went face first on the ground.  Two others turned and ran, heading in opposite directions.  The last man standing was Roger Hallwood.  He stood there before Rob, arms folded across his chest.

"Why don't you just give up now and save yourself the trouble?" Hallwood asked politely.  Rob took the marble steps two at a time until he was right in the man's face and the shit-eating smile vanished.

Without breaking stride Rob swung the butt of his rifle up and caught the traitor square in the face.  Rob stepped over Hallwood’s crumpled body with no small amount of satisfaction and kicked in the front door to the courthouse.  He stood there in the doorway and waited as his Regulators began to stream in from across the street.

The rumble of Chinese vehicles grew in intensity with every second.  The dust cloud was just on the other side of the closest houses now, he figured they would be showing up in front of the courthouse any second now.

"You bastard!" Hallwood sputtered through a bloody nose.  He struggled to get to his knees.  "What the hell is wrong with you?  If you would’ve just left when I asked you to—"

Rob brought his rifle up and took aim at the man's forehead.  Hallwood went pale.  "Shut your mouth, traitor."

The first of the Regulators rushed past Rob and moved inside the courthouse to secure the building.  He could hear shouts from inside as they went room to room clearing the building.  Rob turned his attention back to Hallwood, who now had his hands up and was standing at the top of the marble steps.

"You realize the Chinese are going kill you, right?"

Hallwood turned an angry glare on Rob.  "They'll do no such thing!  We made a deal!  They will leave this town in peace when I hand you over."

"They’ll leave this town in pieces, you dumb shit!"  Rob said, fury making his voice hoarse.  "You have no idea what you're doing!  I saw what they did down in Nogales—I saw their brand of treating with the natives!  They rolled through town and destroyed everything in their path!  They're killing everybody, why don't you see that?"

"They're not here to kill anyone!  Their commander explained to me—"

Rob turned away as Ed rushed up the courthouse steps carrying a handful of rifles and bags of ammunition slung over his shoulder.  "I'm the last one—what do we do now?  They’re right on my ass."

"Get inside—see if you can find some kind of fallout shelter or basement or something like that."

"You got it."   Ed disappeared inside the darkened courthouse.

The roar of the Chinese vehicles had risen to a constant thunder.  Rob caught a glimpse of one of the squat green APCs as it passed between two burned-out houses down the street.  They were only seconds away from converging from two different directions on the courthouse.   His men would be trapped.  It would only be a matter of seconds, he figured, before they blew the whole building straight to hell.

Rob glared at Hallwood. The man standing before him had caused all of this.  His stupidity would cause the end of so many lives.  So many American lives.  The Quisling.

With a calmness that Rob did not fully expect, he shouldered his AR, strode forward a few steps and pulled free his hunting knife.  He placed the knife right on the tip of the Hallwood's Adam's apple, and spoke: "Get your ass inside."

The man's face—if possible—went even paler.  "What…what do you mean?  What do you want with me?"

Rob grabbed the man by the back of the neck, keeping the knife blade pressed tight against his throat.  In this position, there was nothing for the traitor to do but follow Rob's lead.  "You're the one who set this up, so you’ve had personal contact with these Chinese bastards.  We both know they're here to kill me and my men.  So if I'm going out, I'm taking your ass with me."  Rob turned and forcibly marched the quisling straight through the open courthouse door.

Inside the darkened building, he could see a shadow at the far end of the wide hallway.  "Rob!  This way, man.  We found the basement!"

Shouts from outside propelled Rob and his captive down the hallway at a jog.  As Rob turned the corner at the far end of the dark hallway, he glanced towards the bright light of the open front doors.  He could see silhouettes   moving around out there.  The Chinese had arrived.  A heavy door slammed.   The sound of gears slowing down accompanied the screech of air brakes, rolled down the corridor towards Rob.  In a few moments, the building would be crawling with Chinese soldiers.

"Rob!  What the hell?" cried Lance's voice over the radio.  "You still with me, man?  You got what looks like at least two platoons of Chinese on the North and East side of the courthouse.  Hope you guys found a good hiding place."

Rob turned the corner and found the stairwell down to the basement of the courthouse.  He could see the nuclear fallout shelter sign, an old rusted metal plaque that had been embedded into the wall 60 years before.  He removed the knife from the Hallwood's neck and gave him a hard push which sent the man tumbling down the stairs with shouting in pain.  One of the Regulators laughed and caught him at the bottom.  At a nod from Rob, he threw Hallwood into the darkness beyond to the satisfying sound of cursing.

Rob keyed his radio from the top of the stairs and said: "We’re all right.  What's it look like outside?"

"You got a shit-ton of ground troops circling around the building.  They got the place surrounded now."  Rob could hear the resignation his friend’s voice.

Rob closed his eyes and sighed.  He leaned against the doorway to the stairwell and looked up at the darkened ceiling before keying the mic on the radio.  "Well, we had a good run, didn't we?"  He leaned around the corner and peered carefully down the hallway.   Lance’s reply was too static-filled to understand.

Hollow footsteps echoed in the empty building.  More than one Chinese soldier had entered already.  They were checking rooms, working their way toward the far end of the hallway of the building.  Ed Franks jogged up the steps behind Rob.  He knelt next to the doorway, and started fiddling with something in his hands.  Rob squatted next to him.

"What's that?"

In the darkness, he couldn't see the expression on Ed's face, but he could hear the smile in the man's voice.  “Oh, just a little surprise for our visitors.  Found some of this shit in one of the ammo dumps that we took.  Never really had a use for it until now."

Rob stepped back as Ed set up a green box attached to the door frame on the other side of the stairwell.  He strung a wire between both and then attached a smaller box to the wall with a soft metallic click.  He turned and looked up at Rob.  "Okay, she's all set.  First man who touches this wire is gotta be blown into Kingdom Come.  With any luck, it'll bring the ceiling down on top of anybody who's right behind them.  Maybe it'll seal us in?"

Rob put his hand on Ed's shoulder.  "It's a good idea.  Let's see how many of these sons of bitches we can take with us, right?"

"Fuck’n A, Bubba."

"One, you got a group of guys standing around the front of the courthouse now.  Looks like officers."  The clear transmission echoed down the hallway and startled Rob.

As he descended the stairwell into the darkness of the basement, Rob keyed his radio "Copy that Overwatch, we got a few of them inside the building with us.  Ed just rigged up a little surprise for ‘em."

Rob took a position behind an overturned desk with a clear line of sight toward the end of the stairwell.  "Overwatch, make sure you get word back to camp—rustle everybody up and get them the hell out of here.  You're in charge now."

Rob didn't realize how those words would affect him.  The mantle of leadership was suddenly lifted off his shoulders.  All the Regulators he had been worrying about, all the families—everything—it was all Lance's problem now.  He figured he only had a few more minutes left of life anyway.  No sense in worrying about things he couldn't change.

The only thing Rob Gunn had to focus on now was killing as many Chinese as possible soldiers before he died.  It was a rather liberating thought.  His entire life had been boiled down to one purpose.

In the darkness of the courthouse basement, he could not see any faces.  All he could see were dark shapes against a darker background.  He could only hear the movement of his men: the rustle of supplies, the shifting of heavy furniture and boxes as they tried to create some cover for themselves.  He could hear weapons primed, magazines slammed home, and ammo checks called out.

The last stand of the Regulators.

Rob smiled in the darkness.  He liked the sound of that.  For a brief moment, he wondered if General Custer was up there somewhere looking down on him—or perhaps looking up, he thought with a chuckle—urging him on to glory.

"Men," he said quietly.  He waited for the rustling noises to dissipate.  He wasn't the best at making speeches, but he figured this was about the time for making one.  When overpowering silence had enveloped him like a death shroud, he started to speak again.

"You all know me, you know I don't give long speeches.  But I want to say…” he cleared his throat. “I want to tell you that it has been an honor protecting our country with you.  And whatever happens in the next few minutes, I want you to forget about all of your worries.  Everything you ever worried about in your entire life, all the stress, all the anxiety.  Just let it go.  The only thing that matters to each and every one of us in the next few minutes is how we are going to leave this world.”  He paused to collect his thoughts.

“I suppose I don’t need to tell you there’s no hope of escape.  Building’s surrounded—you all heard Lance.  The only thing we can do now is stand like men, defend our homes and our land to the very last breath, and take a few of them with us."  Rob’s words were met with grim silence.  “All right then.”

Rob settled into his position and rested his rifle across the top of a desk.  He aimed at the light patch of darkness in front of him that denoted the stairwell.

"Think this is how those boys felt at the Alamo?" somebody said quietly in the darkness.

A few chuckles rippled around him and more than one man grunted his agreement.

"Yeah," Rob said.  "I reckon so.  There's no small comfort in that, boys.  If Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie can go out in a blaze of glory, then so can the Regulators."

The men cheered as one.

A sharp voice from the top of the stairwell got everyone's attention.  The basement became deathly quiet.  The few regulators who had laser sights switched them on and red dots appeared on the wall at the base of the stairs.

Rob could barely make out some indistinct noises from the top of the stairwell.  It almost sounded like two people discussing something.  They weren’t speaking English—that much was clear.

Rob adjusted his grip on his sweat-slick rifle.  More than ever, he wished that he had his old lever-action with him.   A sadness enveloped him suddenly with the thought that he’d never hold that old friend in his hands again.   He shifted the safety off and smiled at the metallic click that let him know his AR-15 was now live.

"Good hunting, Regulators!" he called out.

Before anyone could respond, there was a terrible explosion at the top of the stairs and a blinding white flash poured down into the basement.  For a split second, the light was enough to illuminate the faces of the men around him.  The world quickly collapsed into blackness, lit only by the afterimage of the explosion in Rob’s eyes.  The only sound he could hear was the ringing in his ears.  He shook his head and began to hear screams.  He squinted in the darkness and spotted movement—then realized that it was just smoke rolling down the stairs.

He smiled.  The Chinese had discovered Ed’s welcome mat.

LANCE PEERED AROUND ONE of the large pine trees that he’d sat next to all afternoon and used his binoculars to scan the scene in the valley below.  He was not in a good mood.  Lance hadn't been able to raise Rob on the radio since he’d announced that they were heading down to the basement of the courthouse.   Now, the Chinese swarmed over the building.  There were men on the roof, the sides, and men behind it—they were everywhere.  Unless there was some sort of secret tunnel under the building, Lance knew that Rob and the Regulators trapped inside were doomed.  There would be no getting out of this one.

The last stand of the Regulators.

Lance ground his teeth and punched at the soft loamy dirt in frustration.  It had all happened so quickly.  It had to have been Hallwood.  Rob had mentioned he’d been nervous about the whole thing from the beginning—so did Lance for that matter, but he didn’t protest the decision.  Damn it all. I should have stopped the mission…I should have spoken up…

Lance leaned back against the tree and stared at the sky, trying to think what to do next.  No matter which way he went, he always ended up at square one.  There was no easy way out of the mess Rob had walked into.

Rob's last orders had been to rally the Regulators and escape to the north.  Seeking shelter wherever they could, they would become just another group of vagrants.  Well-armed vagrants, but homeless wanderers nonetheless.  Lance closed his eyes and tried to think.  What could he do?

If he called out all the Regulators, including the Rapid Action Forces that were patrolling the woods on the edge of town, he could only muster perhaps 25 men.  If Agent Levin was willing to help out, that number would be bolstered up closer to 50 or 60.  He looked down into what was left of Pine Bluff and counted the number of Chinese that were milling about.

There were at least 15 vehicles down there and as far as he could tell, close to a hundred men.  A small gaggle of what had to be officers were standing near the steps of the courthouse, behind one of the larger APCs that sprouted clusters of sensors and antennae.  That had to be the command vehicle.

Oh, what I wouldn't give for a few RPG's right about now, Lance thought darkly.

He picked up the radio, an idea forming in his head.  If there was no way for Rob to get out, maybe there was a way for Lance to get in.  He cued the mic on his radio, "Base, Overwatch."

After a few seconds, a static-filled reply came back: "Overwatch, Base.  Go ahead."

"Did you catch any of that last transmission from One?"

"Catch any of what?"

"You didn't hear any of Rob’s last transmission?"

"Negative, Overwatch.  His usual radio is being recharged.  I'm looking at it right here.  He took one of the backups—it’s off-the-shelf, FRS only—I don't think it gets more than a half mile.  There's no way we could pick up a signal from here."

Lance cursed under his breath.  "All right, well the shit has officially hit the fan."  He spent the next few minutes explaining what had happened, his thoughts about the traitor in town, and the number of Chinese now surrounding Rob and the trapped Regulators.

"Jesus," replied Jerry Baersfeld.  "What you want us to do?"

"Rob gave me orders to round everybody up and hightail it to the north—anywhere to the north, just away from here."

"I don't like that option," replied the voice over the radio, "and neither do a lot of people standing around me."

"I was hoping you'd say that," Lance replied, not bothering to hide a smile on his face.  "All right, here's what I want you to do.  First, get a hold of Agent Levine.  We can't mount a rescue without his help..."

ROB WAITED UNTIL THE smoke had cleared from the dimly-lit stairwell.  Instead of a dark gloom, he saw a greenish haze.  It looked like one of the Chinese soldiers at the top of the stairs had tossed down a glow-stick.  The green glow cast an eerie light around the corner and made the lingering smoke look like some sort of ghost.  The cries of the injured at the top of the stairs slowly faded.  Either they had died or they had been dragged off—Rob couldn't care less which.

There was a body at the bottom of the stairs, facing the wall.  His arm was lay on the floor a few feet away.  A pool of inky-black blood was just visible in the dim light cast by the glow-stick.  Rob noticed the Chinese soldier was fully loaded with ammunition pouches and a big pack full of God only knew what.

Rob waited until he could hear absolutely nothing from the top of the stairs.  He waited an additional five minutes just to be safe before he spoke.

"Nate, you still with me?"

In the darkness to his left, a nervous–sounding voice answered, "Yeah, man.  I'm still here."

"Can you see me?"

"Barely… You look like a shadow.  But I think I know where you’re at."

"Okay, cover me while I move around this desk and see what’s going on."

"Okay," Nate whispered, “ready when you are, Boss."

"Here we go.  Everybody stay sharp."  Rob gently leaned his AR against the side of the desk and slipped around the corner.  He crouch-walked as quickly and quietly as he could the 20 feet or so to the bottom of the stairs.  He tried to ignore the severed arm in its pool of blood.  He reached forward and gently touched the body at the base of the stairs.  There was no movement.  Rob could smell cooked hamburger.  His stomach roiled at the thought, but he forced himself to go on.

Rob grabbed a fistful of the man's pants and gently pulled until the body rolled off the bottom step and landed unceremoniously in the pool of blood.  By the dim, green light of the glow stick, Rob could see debris and rocks gracing the staircase all the way to the top.  Just as Ed Franks had hoped, the wall opposite the door had collapsed.  If anyone wanted to use the stairs, they would have to excavate it first.

He could see a hole at the top of the rubble towards the ceiling and that gave him pause.  It was plenty enough space for someone to drop a grenade or other explosive through.  That would be priority number one.  He turned back to the darkness of the basement.

"Ed, get up here and plug the hole up at the top of the stairs.  Your little trick looks like it's caved in most of the wall up top, but there’s still space for somebody to throw a grenade or something down the stairwell."

"You got it, Rob."

"Alright people, listen up.  I think the Chinese backed off for now.  Anybody with a flashlight, turn it on now so we can see what the hell were dealing with."  In reply, a light clicked on in the darkness, quickly followed by three or four more.  Rob fished out his own small penlight from his chest pocket and twisted it on.  He was grateful for the tiny beam of blue-white light that sliced open the murky gloom of the basement.

"Tommy," Rob said.

"Yeah?" was the deep reply from the back of the basement.

"Grab somebody and go around the exterior walls.  I need you to look for any way to get out of here or any way for them to get in.  Look for windows—this looks like some sort of storage room, so I don't think that there's going to be any—but we need to be sure."

“On it!”

Rob turned back and looked down at the body at his feet.  The man's face was a charred ruin.  He swallowed and tried to ignore the still smoking wreck that had been the soldier's chest.  Ed's little surprise had done its job well.

Rob quickly rifled through the soldier's pockets, pulling out AK-47 magazines, ration bars, and a racy picture of a Chinese woman in lingerie.  She looked slightly embarrassed, but Rob could easily see the love in her eyes.  He sat back on his heels and sniffed, trying to get the smell of hamburger out of his nose.  He was suddenly very thirsty.

“Somebody help me dig through this stuff.  Might find something useful in here.”

He looked at the woman’s picture and felt a momentary pang of sympathy before he put the photo back where he found it with as much dignity as he could muster.

This basement will be the cause of so much pain and grief, he thought sadly.  On both sides.

CHAPTER 16

Dragonfire

PO SIN, DEFENSE MINISTER for the People’s Republic of China, took a long drag on his cigarette.  He   drummed his fingers on his expensive hardwood desk.  He wafted smoke away from his face as he glared at a blank monitor.  He had been given notice of successful completion of the capture of the leaders of the Regulators—but the video had yet to come through.  He could hardly wait to see the secretive American rebels strung up to hang for costing his expeditionary force so much personnel and materiel.  Or maybe we should torture them first…hmmm…

The local commander was 15 minutes late reporting in and Po Sin had learned that lateness usually meant something bad had happened.  Something he was not going to like.  Po Sin took another drag on his cigarette and noticed with some irritation that it had already burned down to a stub.  He glanced at the ashtray and the six crumpled butts already at rest.  He reminded himself that he needed to slow down with his cigarette consumption, now that the American economy had all but collapsed.  Cigarettes were becoming a precious commodity.  He was by no means poor, but Po Sin was practical if nothing else.  No sense wasting resources.

As he debated whether or not to light up another cigarette, Po Sin noticed the monitor on his desk came to life.  The computer beeped, letting him know that it was receiving an incoming signal.

“At last!” he muttered around an unlit cigarette.

Programmer’s gibberish scrolled across the screen, informing him that a secure up-link was being established.  Since the American satellite fleet had been neutralized at the outset of the conflict, China could no longer rely on using Western hardware to transmit their own signals.  China’s fleet of satellites, both commercial and military, was growing but it was nowhere near as effective or convenient as the massive American contingent in orbit had been.  He scribbled a note on a pad of paper to request increased budget funding for maintaining and improving China’s satellite fleet.

The screen finally flickered to life and displayed a grainy image of the local commander’s face.  Po Sin sighed in satisfaction and leaned back in his chair.  Now he was getting somewhere.

The door to his office opened abruptly.  Po Sin’s mood darkened instantly.  His staff and been trained over the years to never ever open his door without knocking, in order to show the proper respect to a man of his position.  It was a most grievous insult for someone to simply barge into his office—his inner sanctum.  Fai would catch hell for it.  He jumped to his feet, ready to give a tongue lashing to the fool who dared interrupt him at this critical juncture—

“Ah, there you are,” said the Party Undersecretary.  The arrogance of Shin Ho riled Po Sin even more every time they met.  The Undersecretary swept into the room followed by two aides and took seats across from Po Sin’s desk.  Without so much as a ‘by your leave’.

Po Sin ground his teeth and managed a polite nod.  He wondered not for the first time how in the world it could be that Shin Ho had gotten the promotion for the invasion.

Everything had been my idea, Po Sin thought darkly.  I’m the one who found that old Cold War invasion plan and updated for modern times.  I’m the one who put together the reports and briefings.  I’m the one who sold the Party on the idea…Yet Shin Ho takes all the credit and dares to barge into my office…

“Undersecretary, it is an honor to have you in my office once more.  Please, join me!  I was just about to receive word from the local commander in Arizona.”

Shin Ho watched Po Sin like a cat watching a bird.  He leaned back in his chair and assumed a pose of complete relaxation.  He raised one languid eyebrow and spoke: “That is precisely why I’m here.  The Supreme Leader will be meeting with officials from the Navy in a few hours.  The second wave has already cleared ports along the seacoast and we’re preparing for the third.  I was in the building on my way to meet with the Supreme Leader and decided to stop in for a status update.”

Po Sin bowed and took his seat.  Status update?  As if I am your secretary?

Out loud, he said, “Well, you could not have had more perfect timing.”  Po Sin tried to put on a smile, but he knew his voice held no friendliness.  He typed a few keys and the large monitor next to the office door came to life.  The local commander’s face filled the screen.

“Ah, here we are,” said Po Sin.  He cleared his throat and leaned forward.  “Colonel, I expect good news.  The Undersecretary to the Supreme Leader is here with me.”  Po Sin relished the look of abject fear that crossed the face of the soldier.  He stood just a little bit straighter and swallowed.

“Yes, Honorable Minister.”  The man looked positively terrified.  “We have succeeded in surrounding the so-called Regulators.”

“Surrounded is not captured, Colonel.  Explain yourself,” growled Po Sin.  He could not believe his luck.  Shin Ho walked into his office unannounced and now this pathetic excuse for soldier was trying to tell him that he had not succeeded in his objective.   And he was 15 minutes late in doing so.  The day was turning out to be terrible, indeed.

The Colonel nodded.  “Honorable Sirs, my contact successfully convinced the Regulator leadership to be in town at a specific time today.  These barbarians were actually distributing supplies looted from the bodies of my men to the locals.  I have been assured by our contact that the civilian population is completely against the Regulators and wishes to aid us.”

“Explain that to me, Colonel,” Po Sin said in a dangerous voice.  “If the entire town wants to help us, why has no one come forward telling us where these bandits sleep?”

“Minister, from what I have been able to gather, these Regulators keep to themselves.   We know that they hide up one of the mountains in the area, but there are many places they could be hiding.  I simply don’t have the manpower to search every square inch of land.”

The officer cleared his throat.  “In the meantime, I devised a trap with the collaborator from the town.  The fool thinks he is gaining favor with us by handing over his own people…he actually came through on his part of the bargain!  I arrived with my entire force a short while ago and trapped the terrorists in the local magisterial building.”

“Well,” grumbled Po Sin as he lit another cigarette, “at least you have their leaders cornered.  However, I do not understand why you have not simply destroyed this building?”  He inhaled the acrid smoke from the cigarette into his lungs and watched Shin Ho across the table.  His superior leaned forward, closely watching the Colonel’s image on the screen.

“Honorable Minister, I..." the man's eyes shifted as if he were looking at someone else on his screen.

Shin Ho cleared his throat.  "We have not given the order to attack the building because the leader of these terrorists—these bandits—is among the men trapped in the building."

Po Sin was incredulous.  How dare he take control of my operation!  Behind my back! Out loud, he blurted, "What difference does it make?”

Shin Ho offered a patient smile.  “Go on Colonel, explain yourself.”

"Yes, sir.  They have no food, no water, no supplies, and limited weaponry and ammunition.  My men have the building completely sealed off and surrounded.  We have overwhelming numbers and firepower.  It’s only a matter of time before we get our hands on him.  Once he is in our custody, we will… interrogate him…and discover the whereabouts of the rest of these Regulators.  Then we can attack in force and eradicate them once and for all.”

Po Sin recoiled inwardly but was too experienced to let it show.  He spoke quickly, taking the floor from Shin Ho.  "Excellent news, Colonel.  Keep me informed."

Shin Ho was quick to chime in: “Yes, excellent progress, Colonel.  The Supreme Leader will be most interested in your progress.  Please keep us informed.”

The colonel stiffened, a sheen of sweat visible on his forehead.  “Of course, Honorable Ministers!”  The man took Shin Ho’s comments as a dismissal and the signal went dead after a snappy salute.

Po Sin had to restrain himself from flinging the heavy jade ashtray from his desk against the side of his former friend’s head.  He was in charge of the mission, he had established the secured transmission line, and he had come up with the plan to capture these Regulators while the main force of the assault group moved into California.  And here, once again, Shin Ho was injecting himself into the process in order to steal the glory and look good before the Supreme Leader.

No doubt one day soon, he will take credit for this entire operation, Po Sin fumed.

Shin Ho got to his feet and his aides snapped to attention behind him, their chests adorned with campaign ribbons and medals.  Po Sin got to his feet almost laconically.  He was amazed that two highly decorated veterans would be reduced to menial servants of the Undersecretary.  It pointed to another step his friend had taken toward becoming one of the elite political movers in China.  The sense of entitlement, the waste, the ineptitude.  These were all things that Po Sin had decided—with the help of his friend Shin Ho—long ago should be excised from the heart of China.  The anger at his authority being usurped by Shin Ho faded, to be replaced with sadness.

For the first time, Po Sin realized that when he took ultimate power over China, Shin Ho would have to die.  He was now part of the problem instead of the solution.  Could he not see it?

"Oh," Shin Ho said on his way to the door.  He turned back, and casually glanced over his shoulder.  "You are to be congratulated on the fall of Phoenix, my friend."

Po Sin nodded.  "Thank you, Undersecretary,” he said, ignoring the ‘friend’ comment.  “Though the credit should go where it is deserved—with the soldiers.  They did an excellent job carrying out my orders. That is the largest city in our path until San Diego, itself.  Now nothing stands between the assault force and California."

"I presume it also has the added benefit of driving fear into the hearts of the Americans that stand before us and our goal?"

Po Sin nodded.  "You are correct, Undersecretary.  If nothing else it will make anyone still in their homes evacuate for safety.  Word of the army’s approach will make the civilian population crazy with fear.  This will add only to the confusion that the Federal government must face in order to get to us."

“Oh, one last thing,” Po Sin said, pretending to just remember something.  He opened a folder on his desk and pulled out an 8 x 10 glossy color photograph.  "This was taken not 12 hours ago by one of the reconnaissance elements of the assault force."  He handed over the picture and made no attempt at hiding his pride.

Let Shin Ho try to claim the credit for this, he told himself.

Po Sin glanced down at a copy of the photograph, still in the folder.  The skyline of Phoenix—the high-rises and skyscrapers, all shrouded in thick, dark smoke.  Flames consumed fully one-half the skyline.  It was a beautiful.  Smoke from fires that had been long burning since the summer surrounded the entire area.  He’d had reports that ash was falling so thick, soldiers joked it was dirty snow.

"Truly a fiery holocaust," said the Undersecretary.  He handed back the photograph.

Po Sin refused the picture.  "No, no—I insist you keep it.”  He snapped his fingers as if an idea had just occurred to him.  “Show it to the Supreme Leader for me.  Let him know that progress is being made.  This and many more will be included in my official report, which I will hand deliver to him next week.  By then we should be setting up a base on the Californian coast, just in time to welcome the second wave."

Po Sin's day was officially made by the crestfallen expression on Shin Ho's face.  The Undersecretary turned to leave the room without another word.

This round belongs to me, old friend.  Better luck next time!  Once the door to his office had closed, Po Sin couldn’t help but laugh.

CHAPTER 17

A President by any other name...

HANK SUTHBY HUNG UP the phone with a smile.  Today was looking to be a pretty damn good day.  He leaned back in his plush chair, placed his hands behind his head and looked at the ceiling.  There seem to be no end of good news today.  First, word had come from upstate New York—which in and of itself was good news as they hadn’t heard from that region since the beginning of the Troubles—another power plant had come online.

Power remained restricted to the immediate area around the plant, but it was another step in the right direction.  There were at least 15,000 Americans that had power once more.  Word from Wyoming, Utah, Virginia, and Missouri promised even more power plants would be coming online soon.  The country was slowly—agonizingly slowly—but surely rousing itself from its electricity deprived slumber.

On top of that, a fresh batch of American soldiers from Europe had arrived at Dulles international Airport early that morning.  They were exhausted, they were weary, and many were wounded.  Their hair-raising escape from Germany would make for a fine movie, he thought.  He smiled.  They were on home soil, they were ready to serve him, and they were mad as hell.

Best of all, the Secretary-General had officially named him Defender of the Realm.  Henry “Hank” Suthby, Junior, was now the official leader of the newest United Nations protectorate.  He wondered what the Department of Justice would have to say about that.  He made a note to contact the new Attorney General soon as possible.

One more step on the way to supreme leadership.  That was really what was needed to turn the country around.  If he didn’t have to go through Congress—even what was left of it—or the myriad Federal agencies to get things done…if he could just issue a decree and have it carried out.  God, think of what I could accomplish!

He sighed.  The acid that had been eating away at his stomach unchecked for the past several months had finally subsided.  His anxiety was beginning to fade.  More and more members of Congress had come forth out of the wilderness, trying to make contact with what was left of the government.  Increasingly, they offered their support and allegiance to President Suthby.

President, he thought.  I wonder if we'll have to come up with a new term for my office.  Not King, I don't want to be a king...to many bad connotations there.  But I wasn't elected, and never will be.  So how can I be called President?  That's no better than some banana republic in South America.  Technically, he thought one eyebrow raised in thought, I should be considered some sort of dictator.  A benign one, with only what's best for the country at heart, but a dictator nonetheless.  So… What do I call myself?

He leaned forward in the chair and rested his arms on the massive executive desk.  He resolved to have Daniel solve that little problem, for it would have to be Daniel who offered the new title to the Press anyway.  It would sound too much like abject tyranny were he to simply announce that he was no longer to be called President…

Shrugging that thought off, he got back to the matter at hand.  Not everything was going as planned today.  He glanced once more at the map on the wall.  Tucson.  The entire city wiped out.  By the Chinese, no less.  Sneaky little bastards.  They used all of the drama, all of the crisis, all of the turmoil affecting the United States as cover to sneak in the back door.  It had been confirmed, now.  And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.  The worst part was, the rest of the world knew that too—including the Chinese.

The National Guard has been overseas for years.  We don’t have enough troops coming home yet to make much of a difference, anyway. Can’t just rely on the civilian population, they wouldn’t do too well against a trained army…  Not to mention that second fleet from China the Navy spotted earlier this week.  May be halfway across the Pacific by now…Jesus.  They’re so confident of success, they didn't even bother trying to hide their presence from our ships still stationed at Hawaii.

He looked down at the report in his hands and tried to focus back on Arizona.  The entire city of Tucson had been burned to the ground.  Casualties in the hundreds of thousands.   The only good news was that the vicious gangs which had taken control of the city when the lights went out had been obliterated along with the innocent.

Suthby called for Daniel.  He hoped the young man could shed a positive light on the situation.  The Joint Chiefs had certainly put a sour note on things at the last briefing.

When Daniel walked in the door to his office, Suthby pointed at the map on the wall.  “What do we know about Arizona?”  He held up a hand as Daniel opened his mouth to speak.  “I mean right now.  And it better be good—so far everything is going right today.   I really don’t want anything to screw that up.”

Daniel shrugged.  “Late last night, we received word from Governor Lewis that they’ve lost all contact with Phoenix.”

Suthby scratched that the stubble on his chin.  “I said I wanted good news…”  He sighed.  “What do you mean, ‘lost all contact’ with Phoenix?  Did a bomb go off?  Did something happen to blow up the town or something?”

Daniel rummaged through some paperwork.  He pulled out the correct sheet and began to read.  “It was a brief communication sent—if you can believe it—by Morse code.  Anyway, the Chinese moved into the area and set the town on fire.  If this info is credible and we can link this to the Chinese forces that are rumored to be in the area…”

“There’s no rumor, Daniel.”  Suthby stood up and walked around the edge of the massive wooden desk.  “I had a briefing this morning with the Joint Chiefs—the ones that we can find at least,” he said.  “We have direct video evidence of Chinese assets operating in the southwest.  Someone at an air base in California spotted a Chinese vehicle.  Yesterday.  And now you say we lost contact with the city of Phoenix—right after reports of some sort of army burned Tucson to the ground.  That adds up to an act of war in my book.”

Daniel said nothing and stared at the map.  He walked over to the map and pulled out a pencil before drawing a circle around Phoenix.  He looked down at the notes in his hand, then drew another circle at Nogales on the border with Mexico and a third around Tucson.

The President watched as Daniel scanned the next page in his notes and made another circle at a place on the Baja California coast. He made a triangle around the area in California where the report of Chinese vehicles was made.  Finally, Suthby watched as his Chief of Staff drew a line to connect all the dots.  It made a nice crescent.  Daniel extended the line and found that the arrow pointed straight toward San Diego.  “Why would they be going there?”

Suthby folded his arms and sat on the corner of his desk.  “The Navy thinks that they’ve picked up clues of a second Chinese fleet passing Hawaii.  No one has any visuals yet.  But, they were able to make contact with a few of our subs out there in the Pacific—it seems like this group of surface vessels is even bigger than the first one.  The one that brought all of the medical supplies and food to Mexico.”

“Oh, my God,” whispered Daniel.  “That’s a full on invasion, sir.”

Suthby rubbed his temples.  “Don’t I know it?”  He stood up and moved back to his plush chair and collapsed into the softness with bliss.  He drummed his fingers idly on the desk.

So much for everything going right today.  Well, he thought, most of the news is good.  There’s not a whole hell of a lot I can do about China at the moment.  People out in the southwest will just have to fend for themselves for a few more days.  Maybe a week or so.  Two weeks tops…

“Sir, have you tried talking with the Secretary-General?  Now that we have achieved protectorate status…”

“Yes, I’ve mentioned this to the Secretary-General,” Suthby said.  He leaned back in his chair, contemplating the ceiling tiles once more.  “The Secretary-General is under the impression that the Chinese are completely innocent in this matter.  He has launched an investigation.  Unfortunately,” Suthby said as he let the chair return him to vertical, “the United States is no longer a permanent member of the Security Council.  When we attained protectorate status, we had to give up our position as de facto leader of the United Nations.  As such, any request coming from us is now deemed… Well, whatever we ask for is not exactly going to get top priority.”

Daniel stared at the head of the United States.  “What exactly are you saying, sir?  A foreign country is invading our land, we’re part of the United Nations, and they’re not going to do anything about it?  Even though China is part of the United Nations?  Not even a reprimand in the Assembly?”

Suthby raised his hands in resignation.  “Tell me about it!  China sits on the Security Council and is now—with Russia—basically the leader of the United Nations.

Daniel shook his head sadly and opened a folder in his stack of notes.  “Well, I don’t know if this will do anything to brighten your mood, but…” he handed the sheet of paper over.  “This is an official letter from the remaining heads of Congress.  A resolution in part, basically granting you legitimate authority to act as titular leader of the United States during the protectorate.  They make it expressly clear,” Daniel said pointing at the correct paragraph, “you are not to be considered a President in any sense of the Constitution.  Instead you are some sort of emergency executive, for the duration of the crisis.  Unless the United Nations does something different.  According to State, the United Nations is happy to see things as they are for the time being.”

Suthby looked up from the official document, his finger absently rubbing over the Congressional seal.  “So this,” he said holding up the paper, “basically says that everything I’m doing is now legitimate and should be taken with the full force and effect of law?”

Daniel nodded.

A smile spread across Suthby’s face.  “Then let’s put this to the test.”

CHAPTER 18

Prison Camp

THE DOOR TO THEIR cabin crashed open.  All twenty-three men in the small room had to shield their eyes from the bright afternoon sun.

Erik lowered his arm and saw the shapes of four men carrying rifles.  His mind raced as they stepped into the cabin.  He and the other captives had decided to jump the next group of Russians who showed up—if it was night outside.  The Russians had dragged him out for interrogation sessions during the day and sometimes at night.  They rotated on a random basis.

Damn.  Not yet.  Needs to be dark out for this to have a chance…

The prisoners were starting to get used to the routine and tracked the passage of time by when people were hauled away for questioning.

The questions.  Stepanovich always started with “Are you in the special forces?”  Only then would he move on to inane topics like the weather—as if Erik could tell what the hell the sky was doing, or how hot it was outside when he was locked up in a building with covered windows.

Rough hands lifted Erik to his feet.  “Here we go again,” he muttered.

“Stay strong, sir,” someone replied from the darkness.

“Hooah,” said another voice.

“Silence!” roared one of the guards in his thick Russian accent.  Two of them held their rifles at the ready, daring the Americans to try something.  The other two had strong grips on both Erik’s arms and half-dragged, half-walked him out of the cabin into the pale light.

Erik could see bits of ash floating in the air.  The sounds of nature had been suppressed, as if it were snowing.  Erik took a deep breath of the outside air and coughed.  Despite the pall in the sky caused by smoke from the world’s largest funeral pyre, he could smell the sweetness of the pines on the breeze.

“Move.”

Erik staggered forward and glanced over his shoulder at the guard who spoke.  Cold, blue eyes stared right back.  Erik dragged his feet and shuffled along, scanning his surroundings in an attempt to take in every detail out of the corner of his eyes.  The Russians prodded him with their rifles several times, but he suffered the abuse in silence.  The men in his cabin who had sworn to help him escape needed all the information he could gather.   That meant taking his time and observing everything.  It also meant faking an injury.  He limped slightly on his left leg to convince the Russians he was already moving at top speed.

The prison camp was situated in a Bible camp.  That bit of info had shocked everyone.  There were at least a dozen large cabins.  There was a lake nearby and the entire complex was a loose circle set deep in the pine woods.

He couldn’t be sure which direction they were from Orlando because the smoke from the dead city was everywhere.  He squinted at the constant gray above the trees—even at night everything seemed gray.  Erik hadn’t seen any stars when he’d been dragged from the cabin after sunset.

Tucked away on the south side of the camp, there was a collection of two more cabins, an administration building and next to that, the cafeteria building.  The two large cabins, Erik discovered, held the women and children who had been traveling with Captain Winters’ soldiers.  He was sure that’s where Brin, Susan, and Ted’s kids were being held.  They had to be there.

Between the two cabins a razor-wire fence had been constructed to allow the prisoners to roam freely between the buildings.   Every time he limped past the two cabins, Erik desperately searched the faces that stared back on the other side of the fence.  He had yet to see Brin, Susan, or any of Ted’s kids.

Once more, Erik was disappointed as he shuffled past the two cabins prodded by his captors.  He was about to turn into the administration building for another round of questioning when the guards stopped and Stepanovich himself appeared around the corner.  He raised a hand and waved Erik over to the rough-hewn gate in the fence.  The women on the other side of the gate backed up as the Russian guards approached and shooed them away.

“Ah, hello there, my friend.”

Erik stared at the Russian and said nothing.  His fellow prisoners had been coaching him and he’d had a crash course in interrogation.  Stay quiet.  Watch.  Listen.

The Russian nodded and gestured for Erik to join him near the fence.  He smiled.  “I have a surprise for you today.”

Erik said nothing, but raised an eyebrow. I’ll bet you do.

“No questions.”

“What?” Erik asked, shocked into speaking.

“No questions.  You see?  I am not some barbarian.  As a show of good faith—which, I will expect you to relay to your comrades—I am going to let you stay here,” he said with a grand sweep of his arms, indicating the cabins where the families were being kept.  “For the time being.”  His smile broadened.  “Yes, you may see your wife.”

Erik closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer of thanks.  When he opened them, the Russian was still staring at him expectantly, a slight curl at the corners of his mouth.  The man was supremely confident.  He exuded arrogance.  He knew Erik would never turn down this offer.  Erik swallowed the bitterness of that knowledge and clung fast to a mental image of Brin.

He took a hesitant step toward the gate and froze.  “What do I have to do?”

The Russian looked surprised.  “Nothing, comrade Larsson.  Go,” he said and opened the gate.  “Find your wife.  We will talk later.”

Erik stared at the Russian, but hesitated only a moment longer before he staggered through the gate. He searched the faces of the women and children who had started to gather in the courtyard between the cabins.  There were many more people here than he had expected—the cabins were easily four times the size of the one in which he had been kept prisoner since Orlando fell.

“Brin?” he called as the gate squealed shut behind him.  “Brin?” he called again, louder.  Several women rushed up to him, all asking for news of their husbands.  They pulled on his sleeve and soon others surrounded him, all talking at once—crying, screaming, and begging for news of loved ones.  The noise melded together to form a raucous thunder that began make Erik’s head hurt.

“Brin!” Erik shouted, using his height to peer over the sea of heads.  He started moving forward, trying gently to use his arms and guide the women out of his path.  As soon as he moved one, two or three more pressed in to the gap and blocked his progress.

"Hey, I saw you when they brought you in!  You were with my husband!"

“Ow, easy!”

"What if you heard of Orlando?"

"Hey do you know—"

Erik blocked out the voices as he pushed someone roughly aside.  The woman yelled in protest, but Erik ignored her and kept going, shouting Brin's name over and over again.  He was working his way back toward the big cabin on the left when the door opened and Ted's youngest son, Junior, appeared in the doorway.  The little boy was the spitting image of Ted, right down to the crop of blond hair on his head.

"Mr. Erik!  You're back!" the toddler yelled.  Erik could have wept for joy.  He pushed his way free of the knot of women tagging around him and raced across the sandy soil to get to Junior.  Erik swept Junior up in his arms and spun through the air as the boy laughed with glee.

"You have no idea how happy I am to see you!” Erik told the giggling boy.  He gently set Ted’s son down and knelt in front of him.  The voices of the women surrounding them were now less pleading and angrier.  He turned and silenced them with a dark look.

“I will talk with you all in a moment.  I need to speak to my friend’s son, here.”

Turning back to Junior, he said in a gentle voice: “Have you seen your daddy?  Have you heard from him?"

The towhead shook side to side.  "Nuh-uh."

"Okay Teddy, is your mommy here?"  Erik swallowed nervously.  "Is Miss Brin here?"

The smile returned to his angelic face and the boy nodded.  "Inside."   Junior’s face fell and he looked down, almost at the point of tears.  Before Erik could say anything else, the little boy clutched Erik's neck and flung himself into his arms.

"Mommy doesn't feel good.  Miss Ben says we need a doctor, but the bad men won’t let us see one.  I miss my daddy."

Erik suppressed a smile at the toddler’s mispronunciation of his wife’s name.  The little boy had yet to get it right.  "Teddy, this is very important… Can you take me to them?  Can you take me to your mommy?"

"Okay!" said Junior, all smiles again.  He turned and bolted into the interior of the building.  Erik was hot on his heels.  As his eyes adjusted to the gloom that felt so familiar, Erik realized that the interior of the building was much bigger than he had first thought.

He could see cots lining the walls on either side of him.  He heard moans, crying, and every now and then a cough.  As he followed the little boy into the darkness, a ripple of murmurs followed him.  Word had spread that someone had arrived from the outside.

Junior led Erik all the way to the far end of the building.  He noticed that many of the women laying in cots had bottles of water on the floor next to them.  Erik grudgingly admitted that at least the Russians were decent enough to treat the women and children better than they had thus-far treated the soldiers.

Whispered talk preceded him down either side of the building as word spread from cot to cot.  Toward the back end of the building, Erik could see that one of the windows that the Russians had covered had been smashed, letting a ray of light in around the corner.

It was in this little enclave that Erik found Brin, bent over the cot that held Ted's wife.

Erik froze when saw Susan’s condition.  Even in the semi-darkness, he could see that she was pale, with dark circles under her sunken eyes.  She was covered from the waist down with a soiled sheet, despite the heat of the day.  He watched the uneven, shallow rhythm of Susan's breathing.  The dark stains across her shirt and on the bed sheets told him all he needed to know.  Susan Jensen was not long for this world.

Brin leaned over her friend, looking at her watch and holding Susan's wrist in her right hand.  She had her back to the window and was looking down so she didn't see Erik standing there at the corner.

The light from the shattered window bathed her in a soft glow and the motes of dust that swirled around her head resembled a halo.  Erik's heart swelled in relief and when he could contain himself no longer, he cleared his throat and stepped into the room.  Brin, startled at the sudden sound, looked up with sudden fear in her eyes.  The fear vanished and a grateful smile spread across her lips.  She gently put Susan's hand down and raced into Erik's arms.

"Are you okay?" she asked in a tremulous voice.  "I had no idea what happened—after that soldier hit you in the back of the head you just dropped… You just… They carried you—"

"Sssh… It's okay, I'm here… Everything is going to be okay now…" Erik said in a voice thick with emotion.  He smoothed her oily hair and wiped the smudge of dirt from her cheek with his trembling thumb.  "God, I'm so glad to see you.  Are you okay?"

"Erik…" She looked down and for the first time Erik realized that her filthy shirt was torn at the shoulder.  The top two buttons were missing.  On further examination, he saw that her the left side of her face was slightly puffy and she sported a faint black eye.  The corner of her lip was dark with dried blood.

"What did they—"

Brin inhaled sharply and he felt her body stiffen.  She looked Erik in the eyes and said in a quiet voice, "We can deal with this later.  We have to get out of this place.  We have to save Susan.  Erik, the kids…"

Erik felt his hands tremble with rage.  He couldn't bring himself to think, let alone say anything about the sounds he had heard through the wall that first terrible day of captivity.  The evidence on Brin's face and clothes certainly appeared to confirm his worst fears.

"What…" he said through clenched teeth.   He swallowed, took a deep breath, and tried again.  "Today…?"  His shaking hands gently touched her cheek and forehead, trying to smooth the hair that threatened to fall across her face.

Brin’s slender shoulders shook with a suppressed sob as she leaned into his chest and tried to bury her face in his shoulder.  "What they did… I… Erik, I'm sorry…"

Erik wrapped his arms around his wife and held her tight, murmuring for her to be quiet and just breathe.  "Don’t ever be sorry, baby.  It wasn’t your fault.  Brin, whatever happened… We'll get through this.  We'll get through it together."

He could feel Brin shaking her head against him.  "Erik, it's not that simple… I just…”  A new hardness entered her voice.  “We don't have time to deal with this right now."

Erik hadn't seen his wife this way since the fall of the Freehold.   He had rushed up the stairs of the Keep expecting to see the worst and found Brin completely in charge of trying to save Susan's life.  Brin had amazed him then with her tactical awareness, her coolness during the crisis, and her ability to calm everyone in the room enough that Susan's life could be saved by the professionals.  That same strength of will, the same steel in her voice and stiffness in her spine were back.

Erik held Brin a moment longer in silence and watched the dust motes swirl.  When he felt her fingertips on his chest, he slowly released her from his grip and wiped away the tears that were threatening to spill down his face.

She was right.  Whatever had happened—whatever he had heard through those walls—there was nothing that could be done about it now.  He glanced down at Susan and saw that she was staring at him with bloodshot eyes.

"I'm not dead yet," she said and managed a weak smile.  "I think I'll go for a walk…"

Erik burst out laughing—God, it felt so good to laugh.  The pent-up emotion inside him exploded through his chest in a great guffaw that had him doubled over and gasping for breath.  Brin was laughing as well.  When he finally was able to control his mirth he looked up and saw Susan smiling broadly.  She coughed a little, winced, and placed both hands on her stomach.

After a few short breaths, she spoke: "No, really.  Though, it does look much worse than it is.  Brin was able to patch me up and she's been making me stay here in this cot since we arrived.  I don't think I could run a marathon, but if we managed to get out of here, I should be able to walk a little ways.”

Erik knelt at the side of her cot and took her left hand in both of his.  She gave him a gentle squeeze.  "Before you ask, I haven't seen Ted," Erik said.  He saw the disappointment on her face, but he pressed on.  "Are the kids okay?  I saw Teddy," he said looking around for the small toddler.

"The kids are fine," Susan whispered, with another weak smile.  "We've all kind of banded together here, it's like one giant preschool.  Got more babysitters here than I know what to do with," she said with a chuckle that caused a coughing fit.  When she finally opened her eyes again and relaxed from the wave of pain that shook her body, Susan continued.  "If you haven't seen Ted, does that mean the Russians don't know where he is?"

Erik glanced around again.  "They’ve been questioning me every day.  They asked if there was anyone else in our group and I told them no.  They haven’t brought it up since."

Brin sat on the other side of the cot and looked at Erik, a frown creasing her forehead.  "What do you mean, ‘questioning’ you?"

"The Russians have been interrogating me day and night."  Erik shook his head.  "They think I’m in the Special Forces or something.  It makes no freaking sense.  Ted's the one that’s a—”

Susan gripped Erik's hands like a vice.  The intensity in her eyes made Erik pause.  She tilted her head slightly to indicate the window in the wall above her cot.  Erik glanced up in time to see a shadow pass by.  He couldn't see anyone out there, but someone had been standing there.  Erik glanced back down at Brin who nodded.

The Russians are listening.  Got it.  He nodded once to the women to signal his understanding.  "Ted was always better at making up stories that I was," he said with confidence that he did not feel.  "I keep telling them the truth, but they don't listen to me.  They think just because I had that damn sword I'm some sort of war hero."  He shook his head again.  "It doesn’t make any sense."

"Erik," Brin said quietly.  "We have to get out of here."  She glanced down at Susan, whose eyes were closed.

"I'm right here, you know.  And I'm still awake,” mumbled Susan.  Even with her eyes closed, the smile that graced her thin face looked pained.  "I know how bad off I am.  I know that if I don't find a real doctor, I'm going to die.  It's all I think about, day and night."  Her eyes fluttered open and after a few seconds she focused on Erik.  "I've made my peace with it.  The only thing I worry about is my children.  And Ted."

"I know," said Erik in a quiet voice.  He squeezed Susan’s hand.  He leaned in close.  "We're working on a plan to get out of here," he whispered.  "I'm in a cabin on the other side of this place, locked in with about twenty guys.  They’re all soldiers—real soldiers, not like me.  They’re coming up with a plan on how to escape."

Erik heard some shouts from the other end of the building and a woman screamed.  He got up from the cot and walked to the edge of the little side room and peered around the corner.  In the distance at the far end of the building he could see a couple of flashlights swing around, the beams of light illuminating women and children huddled in the darkness.

Someone spoke in Russian and they didn't sound too happy.  Erik ducked back around the corner and quickly trotted over to Susan’s cot.

"Look, I don’t have much more time."  He pulled Brin to her feet and kissed her gently.  She melted into his arms and kissed him back with a surprising intensity.

"Stay safe," she whispered and placed a finger on his lips.

"I will—you too.  Take care Susan and be ready.  I’ll come for you."

"I know."  She forced a smile.  “I love you,” she whispered.

They held hands for a few more seconds until heavy footsteps behind them announced the arrival of Russian guards.  They said something in their own language to each other and one stood forward, leveling his rifle at Erik's stomach.

The other spoke: "You!  Time’s up.  Captain Stepanovich wants to speak with you.  Now."

AS ERIK WAS DRAGGED once more out of the interrogation building, he realized two things.  One: the Russians had made a serious mistake in letting him see Brin.  His resolve to resist their interrogations and find a way to escape had strengthened ten-fold.  There was no force on earth that was going to keep him here now.

Two: they let him view too much of the prison camp.  The last interrogation had gone on for hours.  His wrists were bloody from the tight ropes that burned him as he sat in the chair.  His back ached and his knees throbbed from being beaten with rifle butts.  He knew the side of his face was swelling—he couldn't breathe through his nose, so he figured it had been broken.

But for the first time since he'd been captured, there was a fire in his belly.  A rage, really.  It burned at such a white-hot intensity, if there'd been 3 feet of snow on the ground, he could've walked unscathed in shorts and a T-shirt.  One all-consuming thought had been drilled in his mind with every heartbeat.

Revenge.

He would avenge his wife against the Russians, he would kill the commander of this place.  Erik vowed he would stand over Captain Stepanovich and smile as the man's blood spilled out around him on the ground.  He was going to escape and he was going to make sure that he and the other soldiers burned this place to the ground.

As he staggered back toward his own cabin in the dark, his customary guards on either side of him, Erik tried to glance about and detect any other useful information on the way.  There were campfires set up around the other cabins.  Most of them now had their own barbed wire fences—just like the one that enclosed the women and children.

So… The Russians aren’t planning on leaving this place anytime soon.  They seem to be strengthening their defenses and trying to make things at least little more comfortable for their prisoners.  That's interesting.

As they rounded the final cabin, Erik noticed with startling realization that his cabin, the farthest one into the woods from the others, had no fenced-in yard.  There was no place for the men in his cabin to at least get some fresh air and exercise.

One of the guards unlocked the door—Erik noticed it was a heavy chain with a padlock—kicked it open and before he could blink, Erik felt himself lifted off the ground and tossed through the door.

He rolled over on his side, spitting dirt out of his mouth and groaning with pain that racked his body.  Before the door could even start to shut, he felt a few pairs of hands gently help him to his feet.

"You okay, sir?" asked a voice in the darkness.

Someone was tried to wipe the dust off the front of his tattered and bloody uniform.  "Sons of bitches really did a number on you this time, huh, sir?"

Erik spit a glob of blood onto the dirt floor.  He smiled in the darkness.  "Didn't say a word," he muttered with pride.

He felt more than one hand slap him on the back in congratulation.  "We'll make a soldier out of you yet, sir!"  That brought around of chuckles the darkness.

Erik stood there rubbing the bloody wounds around his wrists.  He quickly relayed the information that he had been able to gather about the location of the camp, the setup of the administration building, and especially the facilities for the women and children.

"You done good, sir.  You done real good.  All right boys," said Purnell.  "What do you think?  Is it possible?"

"Damn straight," said Tenet’s voice.  "I have an idea…"

"Does it involve me killing some Russians?" asked Erik in a low, dangerous voice.

"Oh, hell yes, sir," said Tenet.

"Then count me in.  I got a score to settle with that Captain Stepanovich.  He took me to see my wife," Erik said.

The silence in the cabin was deafening.  "Was she here, then?" asked Purnell.

"Yeah, she's here.  She's in with the other women and children."  Erik explained how he’d met Brin and the situation of the other women and children.  He told them where their buildings were in relation to the other buildings.

A plan was finalized and Erik became the keystone of their escape.

"All right then," said Purnell.  "I doubt they’ll be back before sunrise.  It's their pattern.  So," he said with a clap his hands, “everybody try to get some shuteye, except for…”  Erik could barely see the sergeant point to other soldiers.  “You, you, and you.  You're on first watch.  When these bastards show up to grab Lt. Larsson in the morning, we’ll be ready for ‘em.”

"Hooah," Erik growled.

CHAPTER 19

The Arrival

MALCOLM STOOD AT THE base of the truck-mounted stairway and waited for the commanding officer of the Russian forces to exit the first plane to land at LaGuardia International.  The Russian, another white man to Malcolm's everlasting displeasure, deigned to extend a hand and merely stood there staring at Malcolm for a few seconds.  The military commander reeked of arrogance.  Malcolm decided to break the ice first.

"General, on behalf of the Brotherhood, I welcome you to New York City.  The airport is yours."

The general kept his eyes locked on Malcolm's for another second, just a moment too long into the awkward silence.  He reluctantly tore his cold, gray eyes away and looked around the deserted airport.  In the distance, Malcolm could see the ever present fires that raged out of control on the northern half of Manhattan Island.

He frowned.  Malcolm had sent people up there to take care of the wanton destruction.  He figured sooner or later, the fires would spread south and engulf the whole island.  Manhattan was his fortress, the last best hope for a Brotherhood victory.  New York City had to be saved at all costs.   The Russians were here to make that happen.

He looked back at the Russian general who was issuing orders to his officers as they poured out of the plane.

The city must be held, Malcolm told himself as he inwardly cringed at the sight of the foreign troops.  Even if it means handing over temporary control to these fools.

The general returned his gaze—reluctantly it seemed—to Malcolm and finally nodded. An awkward smile spread across his face.  He spoke, but to Malcolm, it sounded like he had sandpaper in his mouth.  Malcolm shook his head and shrugged.

"Da, yes, yes I see.  You do not speak Russian?"

"Unfortunately not, general…?"

"Kristanoff," the man barked.  He put his hands on his hips and looked around the airport once more.  Most of the terminals had passenger jets still parked there, empty since the crisis during the summer.  "We will make use of these planes, yes?  We will have them refueled and returning to Europe for more supplies and men by morning."

"If you'd like, I can take you to where we've set up our regional headquarters…" Malcolm said one arm gesturing toward the air-traffic control tower.  As they walked, Malcolm kept a close eye on the activities of the Russians.  He was amazed they had just gotten off an international transoceanic flight.  It must've been at least an 8 hour flight yet the men had a spring in their step and smiles on their faces as they unloaded plane after plane.  Malcolm looked up in the sky at the glittering lights.  There were at least 20 more planes coming in for a landing, their lights stretched far out over the ocean.

"You have quite the army assembled here, general."

The Russian looked up at the sky, watching the planes approach.  The noise from all those jet engines was deafening.  General Kristanoff had to yell to be heard.  "Da!  This is greatest air transport operation in Russian history.  My country has ever undertaken.  Thanks to you securing airport, it will be complete success!"

Malcolm waited until they were in the relative peace and quiet of the main terminal before he spoke.  "You should know, General Kristanoff,” he said, trying out the man’s name, “the airport is not yet 100% secure.  The government has sent an army to drive me from this island.  They mean to take back New York City and I fear they mean to take it the same way they took Chicago."  When the general merely raised an eyebrow in question, Malcolm continued as they headed toward his headquarters.  "The man in command on just on other side of Hudson River is the one who destroyed Chicago."

"This man, this general, he attacked his own city?  Chicago is great city, nyet?" asked the General as he took a proffered cup of coffee from a brother.

Malcolm invited the general over towards a quiet corner of the command room where maps of New York City had been tacked up on the walls.  He showed Kristanoff a particularly large map on the far wall next to a large window opening out over the tarmac.  Another plane had landed in the time it took them to reach the room.  Malcolm was amazed at the sight out the window: there were hundreds of Russians out there now.

They are multiplying like cockroaches.  Soon, he feared, we will be outnumbered and outgunned.  He turned back to the map and pointed out the red dots on the west side of the Hudson, completely blockading Manhattan.

"These indicate positions that we have scouted.  This General Stapleton has set up positions here, here, and his main task force seems to be located right…here," he said pointing at the Holland tunnel entrance.  "Just on the other side of this tunnel."

Kristanoff moved closer and peered at the map, one hand rubbing his chin. "Da, I see.  Excellent positioning.  This man is a strategic."  The Russian took a sip of coffee and made a sour face.  "This coffee, I could never get used to it.  Perhaps some tea?"

Malcolm mumbled an order to one of his aides, who ran off to find some tea.  "General Kristanoff, refreshments aside, do you think that you will have enough people to hold the city…or at least push General Stapleton out of the way?  I need open access to the mainland in order to resupply and bring in more fighters."

"Oh, not now… But soon."  The general put the coffee cup down on a nearby table.  “Have no worries, comrade, I require access to mainland as well.”  He placed his hands behind his back and examined the map.  "You know, I never dreamed of day when I stand here, in New York City.  Invading United States."  He shook his head and clucked to himself.

Malcolm's eyes shifted to the large window as yet another plane landed.  In the distance, one more appeared to be making its final approach.

"I was under the impression that this was not an invasion—rather a component of the protectorate status under which the United States has been placed.  This is a United Nations operation correct?"

"Oh," said the Russian looking sideways Malcolm.  "Of course.  Of course.  The Secretary-General assures me this is strictly peacekeeping mission.  Your deal stands."

Malcolm tapped the side of his leg in thought.  "I recall a telephone conversation with the Secretary-General in which he proclaimed that you would be bringing…some sort of gift.  He said it would help us to secure the region from the American military.  What is this gift?"

The Russian chuckled softly to himself.  He turned towards the window and looked at the collection of military transports and civilian airplanes.  LaGuardia Airport was large but it was starting to fill up.  There were planes everywhere.  Streams of Russian soldiers spread over the tarmac as they began to take up positions around the expanding perimeter.

The last two planes to land appeared to be military cargo planes to Malcolm.  Huge clamshell doors at the front and rear of the plane opened like the gaping maw of some enormous beast.  A small army of crewmen spilled out of the aircraft to unload huge pallets wrapped in cargo netting.  The general pointed at the second airplane.

"They emerge from plane now."

Malcolm focused on the indicated plane.  A long shape appeared through the open nose doors.  It looked like the airplane was a giant bird regurgitating food for its young.  Whatever the object was, it seemed to have taken up the entire interior.  "What is it?"  Malcolm asked in a hushed voice.

"That is GTB-3."  The general turned to look at Malcolm and a wicked smile spread across his face.  In the dim lighting of the air-traffic control building, he looked like the Devil himself.  "It will ensure air superiority over New York City.  Is highest powered directional electronic jamming device in world.  We will install atop one of…” Kristanoff paused, his face creased in thought.  “Da!  Skyscraper.  We will install atop skyscraper downtown and it will protect skies from American interference over all Manhattan—probably mainland as well."

Malcolm looked back out of the odd thing that was emerging from the airplane.  Dozens of soldiers were helping to pull it out using long ropes.  The rhythmic pulling and slackening of the ropes made the cargo look like some sort of horrendously large insect emerging from a cocoon.

"What, uh…what does it do?" asked Malcolm.  He couldn’t escape the feeling of dread rising in the pit of his stomach.  The Secretary-General had mentioned nothing about establishing air superiority over New York.

"I cannot explain technical specifications.  You understand.”

“No, I am afraid I do not.”

The Russian shrugged.  “It is…how you say?  Complicated.  Da, is very complicated.  But, what it does, it does very well, my friend.   GTB-3 blocks all radar transmissions and creates directed energy field…"

As the Russian droned on, slipping in words from his native tongue to describe what the intricate machine actually did, Malcolm could feel himself losing interest.  The white devil in front of him was explaining how the thing sent out a mass of electrons that clouded the atmosphere which not only jammed incoming radar signals, but scattered them so that any planes that were outside of the dome of protection would see nothing but a black hole.  Underneath the dome, the Russians could hide entire air division, and no one on the outside would be the wiser unless they actually saw them with their own eyes.

“In effect,” said the general confidently, “this device will completely sever New York City from rest of United States.  Any hope of air superiority Americans have will be crushed when they encounter GTB-3.  It has never been seen by western eyes.  I have tested it extensively myself against Chinese,” he said hands clasped behind his back.  “GTB-3 signals are so strong, if we target specific aircraft and pinpoint all radio dishes at once, we can successfully scramble entire electronic package on target aircraft.”

“What does that mean?” asked Malcolm.

The general frowned at Malcolm’s ignorance.  “It results in uncontrolled crash 80% of time.”

Malcolm was impressed, but he thought he might be more so if he knew exactly what the hell the general had been talking about.  For all intents and purposes, it sounded like it would do nothing to stop America’s Air Force, or the Army’s cursed helicopters.  Malcolm understood enough, however, to know that the device would do nothing about the ground forces that were camped across the Hudson River.  He asked general about his plans for dealing with that little problem.

“Da,” said the General.  He glanced out the window and gestured towards yet another airplane making a landing.  “I bring with me nearly 4,000 soldiers, all weapons and supplies.  This should be more than adequate to dispatch army that defeated you.”  The general ignored Malcolm’s angry glare and continued.

“These men are elite from western Siberia.  I train them myself, you know.  I have two companies of spetsnaz as well.”  He sniffed and clasped his hands behind his back as he looked out the window, watching another airliner land.  “We will deal with these Americans and shortly New York will become New Leningrad.”  The general laughed.  He turned when the doors to the room opened and a cadre of soldiers walked in carrying Kalashnikov rifles.  The general turned back to a surprised Malcolm.

“Acting in accordance with directives from Secretary-General, I hereby take command of facility.  Thank you for assistance, but your presence is no longer required.  We will begin final destruction of Americans across river.”

The statement came off much polished, too rehearsed.  However, Malcolm put aside his fear and surprise, and said: “Have at it, with my thanks.  I have more than enough to worry about elsewhere.  I will pull my men out and we can meet again at my headquarters downtown.”

The general nodded, but there was a look in his eyes that unsettled Malcolm.  Like a wolf eating its meal, yet hungry for more.  The general smiled but it did not reach his eyes.  “Comrade Malcolm, I look forward to reunion.”

A GENTLE SHAKE OF his shoulder woke general Stapleton from a much needed deep sleep.  He slowly opened his eyes in the darkened room and his first coherent thought was to reach for the pearl-handled .45 on the floor by his cot.   “What is it?”

“Sir,” said Major Stafford.  “You need to see this.  Someone is resupplying the rebels inside New York City.  We think it’s the Russians, sir.”

Stapleton was immediately alert as he sat up and reached for his uniform.  “Russians?  What’s the sitrep?”

Stafford began to rattle off information the general found did not make his morning ritual any easier.  He grumbled to himself as he dressed.

“One of our drones spotted a train of airliners and cargo planes flying into LaGuardia.”

“How many?” grumbled the general as he buckled on his pistol belt.  “Walk with me.”

“Yes, sir.  At last count, there were 27 aircraft.”

“Twenty-seven?” blurted general Stapleton.  He stopped, hand on the doorknob.  “God in Heaven, they really slipped one past us.”

He threw open the door and stepped into his makeshift ops center.  “As you were,” he called out before any of the men and women could salute.  The hum of activity resumed as quickly as it had paused.  He marched over to the map of New York City on a table.

One finger on LaGuardia Airport, he said: “Twenty-seven planes—we talking cargo or airliners?”

“Can’t be sure, sir, but the report confirms they’re big,” replied Maj. Stafford.  “Best guess is at least a battalion.  Possibly brigade strength.  Likely some SpecOps, if they’re serious.”

General Stapleton rubbed his cheek.  He needed a shave, but that could wait.  “Ivan’s bringing in at least a brigade.  I would.”  He looked at the map.  “Twenty-seven planes…”  He looked up at his command staff, now clustered around the table.  “Opinions?  Speak up, people.”

A captain spoke up, “Sir, mounting an attack now—while they’re in transition—”

Stapleton shook his head.  “Our main column hasn’t arrived from Chicago.  We’d be running in half-cocked, and at a numerical disadvantage.”  He glanced at Stafford.

“ETA 1300 on the main column, sir.”

General Stapleton grunted and looked back to the captain.  “It’s a good idea, son, but an attack now would be suicide after that debacle yesterday.  They’re ready for us—and now that the Russians out-man us…” His finger followed the line of outposts drawn on the map along the Hudson River.

“If we could coordinate with the Air Force, it would change everything,” offered a major from the communications command.  She glared down at the map.  “Even with our main column, a frontal assault would be tight, sir.”

“Mmmhmm,” mused Stapleton.  “Tunnels create natural choke-points.”  He turned to Stafford again, “Get on the horn and have Colonel Vinsen double-time it.  I want his people here by 1100, no later.”

“Yes, sir—but they’ll burn a lot of fuel…”

Stapleton waved away the idea.  “We’ll find more.  We need those men and tanks and we need them now.  Ivan might decide to pay us a visit while we wait.”  He turned to the major from communications and read her ID strip.  “Major Winston, do everything you can to contact the fly boys and get us some air support.  They gotta be around here somewhere.”

“It’s still early, sir, they’re probably asleep,” she replied, straight-faced.  The collection of officers chuckled.

General Stapleton silenced everyone by clearing his throat.  “Spread the word, people.  I want every outpost on alert.  Tell the National Guard they’re gonna get some payback, today.”

“Sir!” called out an aide from the next desk.  “Incoming call for you.”  He held up the sat phone.

“Who the hell would be calling me on that thing at this hour?”

“They claim their calling on behalf of the President.”

“Jesus Christ, not this again.”  Stapleton rolled his eyes and made his way to the offered phone.

PRESIDENT SUTHBY WAITED PATIENTLY, the phone to his ear.  After an interminable pause in which he imagined the general was taking his sweet time out of spite, he finally heard the gruff voice of his rogue general.

“Stapleton.”

So much for pleasantries…

“Ah, general, good to hear from you.  I trust you’re doing well?”

There was a caustic laugh on the other hand.  “’Trust I’m doing well’?  Who the hell is this?  Why do you keep bothering me?”

“This is the President of the United States,” Suthby said trying to keep his anger in check.  “You remember, your commander-in-chief?”

“Oh, I think not.”  The general barked another derisive laugh.  “My commander-in-chief is President Reed.  When he died, my commander-in-chief became Vice President Jorgenson.  Since I have not heard from the Vice President, I intend carry out my orders as issued by President Reed.”

“Ah, yes, orders.  That’s why I called you...”  Suthby leaned back in his chair.  How exactly was he going handle this?  Stapleton was determined to be a pain in his ass.  “Look, general, we both know—”

“Sir, whoever you are—I have no interest in discussing anything with you.  You are not my commander-in-chief—I do not recognize you as such and in fact, you could very well be an agent of the enemy.   Neither I, nor my command staff have received valid authentication codes.  As far as I am concerned, this conversation is over.”

Suthby had to act fast.  “General, listen to me before you hang up!  The United Nations is not here as part of some invasion!  The Russians are acting on my request to the United Nations General Assembly—”

“Mister, that is precisely the reason why I will not listen to you or follow any of your orders.  Sounds like you already work for the Russians.  If you are who you say you are, then your actions are in direct violation of the Constitution and my oath of office.”

Suthby fumed for a moment.  He stared in disbelief at the phone in his hand.  His eyes flicked up to the wall map that displayed the current crisis across the United States.  The red marks indicated destroyed cities, the orange zones proclaimed areas where power had finally been restored. In Arizona, a large collection of red marks told the tale of the Chinese running wild, while in Florida, half the state was colored in black where the Russians had taken complete control south of the Orlando-Tampa Line.

That blackness was now encompassing New York City as well.  Oh, how far he had to go to save the country.   Will there be anything left to save if we keep going like this? He pushed the thought aside and continued to work on the general.  He had to get the man to back down before everything in New York was irrevocably lost.   He just needed to give the Russians a little more time.

“General please do not bring up the oath of office—”

“Sir, I swore to uphold and defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic.  Right now I’m staring at both, and they’re right across the Hudson sharing tea and crumpets.  Where you fit in is a question that I don’t have the time or the inclination to worry about at the moment.  Good day sir.”

The line went dead with a click.  Suthby slammed the receiver down on his desk.  Stapleton was completely off the reservation.  Everything that he had worked so hard for over the past decade now hung in the balance and this one stubborn fool, a relic of the old way of doing things—a dinosaur really—was going to screw everything up.  Suthby fumed.  There had to be other options.

“Perhaps we can remove him from command?” suggested Daniel, seated across the executive desk with a note pad in his lap.

“And who would we replace him with?  This man is one of the most respected generals in the Army.  As far as the division he commands is concerned, he’s practically Patton himself.  They love the man.  Besides,” he said throwing a pencil at the ceiling, “if we ordered him to step down, do you really think he’d do it?”  Suthby shook his head.

“He just hung up on the President of the United States—for the second time.  You name me one other man who has done that?  No,” Suthby said, steepling his fingers in thought.  “Whoever we tell to replace him will meet a chilly reception at best from the army outside New York.  What we have to do is find one of his subordinates that’s willing to accept my authority.”  He met Daniel’s eyes.  “Get your people working on it, pull up all the personnel files—use my clearance code to get anything you need.”

“Yes, sir.”

Daniel was such a good right-hand man.  He had always been willing to do anything Suthby had asked, even though he didn’t know the full scope of Suthby’s designs.  Perhaps the time to let him in on the big secret was at hand.  After all, if he was to have any kind of appreciable position in the new government, he may as well know what it’s all about.  Suthby considered this as he watched his lieutenant make notes.

“Sir, have you thought about other options?” asked Daniel without looking up.

Suthby raised an eyebrow.  “Other options?”

“Yes, sir.  I mean, you’re the legitimate President now, right?”  Daniel looked up from his notes.  “You command every aspect of the government.  You are the Chief Executive.  Correct?”

“Yes…” said Suthby, curious as to where the young man was headed.

“Well, why couldn’t we talk to the CIA and have them…I don’t know, take care of General Stapleton for us.”

Suthby sat in silence and watched Daniel watch him.  He had never been so proud of the young man.  There he was suggesting the CIA assassinate a popular American general for disobedience.

Assassinated for disobedience.  The thought ran through Suthby’s mind over and over.  He suddenly sat up and snapped his fingers.  “That’s it!”  He clapped his hands together and stood up.  “Daniel, you’re a genius!  Get on the horn—I want an APB on General Stapleton.  Make sure this hits the Press and especially the United Nations.  We’re declaring him a rogue general as of this moment.”  Suthby began to pace behind his desk, hands flying through the air as he talked.

“Issue some kind of statement along the lines of we’re trying to cooperate with the United Nations—which we fully understand is only here to help us—and this General Stapleton is refusing to follow orders from his legally recognized—internationally recognized—Commander-in-Chief.”  Suthby turned and looked at Daniel “Hey, do you think we can do some sort of headhunter thing?  Put out a reward for his capture?  Maybe we can entice just the kind of replacement officer we want from within Stapleton’s ranks if we promise a promotion and a hefty pay raise for bringing him in?”

Daniel nodded and scratched more notes on his pad.  “I like it, I like it.  I can put something in there that will explain to people who know better that doing this would be a great way to gain favor with you.”

Suthby picked up his cup of coffee and winced as he tasted the cold liquid.  He pushed the button on the intercom, and said: “Shelly, would you have someone bring in some fresh coffee, please?”

“Of course, sir.  I’ll be right there.” said the eager young voice through the phone’s loudspeaker.

Suthby smiled as Daniel left the room on his new mission.  Perhaps today will work out all right after all…

CHAPTER 20

Shots in the Dark

THE LIEUTENANT FOCUSED HIS attention on a figure illuminated on the ridge about two miles away.  The drone was orbiting high above, well out of range of human eyes.  The American terrorists had no idea they were being watched.

“There,” he said, pointing at the laptop screen resting on the fold-out desk built into the side of his vehicle.

Colonel Xian Chun leaned over and peered into the box set up around the screen to reduce glare in the harsh light of this desert country.  He grunted.  “I see him.”  Unconsciously, Chun turned and looked up, though he knew he had no chance of spotting the drone circling up there in the cloudless sky.  “How long until it must refuel?”

The lieutenant grinned.  “It can stay up the rest of the day and all night as well.”

Chun nodded.  “Keep an eye on him.  I want to know where he goes.”

The lieutenant cleared his throat.  “Apologies, sir, but the forest on that slope is too dense.  We only spotted him when he appeared on that rocky outcrop.”

“Thermal?”

“Now that we know someone is there watching the town, we can try again when the sun goes down to track their movement.  Until then, we won’t know.  There’s too much background heat on the ground and rocks up there.”  The young lieutenant pointed again to the screen.  “And those pine trees there provide excellent cover.  These terrorists really know what they’re about.”

Chun glared at his subordinate until the younger man shifted his feet in uncomfortable awkwardness.  “Keep me informed.”

Captain Enlai Jan strolled up to Chun and saluted crisply.  “Sir, I processed your request to assault the building, but Beijing insists we wait for mission authorization.”

Chun cursed and removed his helmet.  Damn it all this place is hot.   How do these Yankee devils stand it out here?  And so dry! Squinting in the bright afternoon light, he glanced askew at his soldier.  “Was there a reason given for the delay?  Surely they do not think the information these terrorists might have is all that important?”

Jan stood in silent agreement.

The colonel sighed and replaced his helmet.  He moved a little away from the tech van and the lieutenant with his drone controls.  Jan followed, awaiting orders.

“I do not like this waiting.  It invites our enemy to plan a counter-attack or plot a rescue attempt.”  Chun looked around the dead town, admiring the work his men did on the stubborn civilians.  Burned-out houses and piles of rubble as far as he could see in all directions but one, where the main municipal building stood defiant.  He smiled at the memory of watching the American flag cut free from the pole atop the ugly building.  In the slight breeze the Chinese flag fluttered gently now.

His instincts were telling him something wasn’t right.  It wasn’t safe to sit here babysitting a handful of men trapped in the basement of that building.  Their friends were watching his every move, gathering strength, he was sure of it.  From where, he knew not, but Chun was positive there would be a rescue attempt.  He just didn’t know when.

“Double the watch tonight.”

“Sir?  The men are already fatigued from our—”

“Captain, I did not ask for your opinion on the endurance of our soldiers.  I ordered you to double the watch tonight.  Is there some confusion as to my orders?”

Jan stiffened under the verbal rebuke and came to attention.  “No, sir.  I will double the watch, as you command.”

LANCE SLOWLY PUT DOWN his binoculars and picked up his bottle of water.  He glanced at his watch: 3:12 PM.  Almost time for his relief to show up.  He took another sip of the water, lukewarm from sitting out in the warm Arizona sun.  He slowly turned his head to the left and glanced down the Ridge towards where his relief would be approach.

He had been Overwatch all morning, keeping an eye on the Chinese soldiers who’d trapped Rob and the rest of the Regulators in the basement of Pine Bluff’s courthouse.  He was halfway up the mountain to the north, far enough to be out of range of any Chinese weapons, yet close enough that he could easily keep an eye on everything.

He cursed Rob's luck again.  It'd been 24 hours now since Rob had been trapped.  He knew it had been standard operating procedure for any Regulators going on patrol to take approximately 3 days’ worth of food supplies with them.  Hopefully Rob would escape before their supplies ran out.

Is he?  Is he really getting out?  A voice pondered in the back of Lance's mind.  He also knew that Rob’s last order had been to gather up the rest of the Regulators and hightail it to the north, perhaps to link up with other resistance groups.

Are there other resistance groups?  Does anybody outside of Tucson even know that we’re fighting the Chinese?

Lance shook his head.  No, he thought darkly.  We’re alone in this.  If we try to up and leave—to spread the word about what’s going on—no one’s even going to know what we’re talking about.  The Chinese haven't made any wide-ranging expeditions.  Hell, folks in Flagstaff might not even know there's an invasion at all.

No, he had been right all along—there was no retreating from this.  To do so would only admit defeat and allow the Chinese to cut their forces effectively by a quarter.  To lose Rob would be… devastating.  The Regulators had grown to trust his judgment, trust his wisdom.  They would follow his lead unquestioningly.  Sure, Lance figured, as Rob’s right-hand-man since the get-go, the Regulators in time would learn to trust and follow him.  Lance frowned.   He had always been better as a second in command, not as a primary leader.

Lance picked up the binoculars and scanned the Chinese forces once more.  He didn't need to, really, as he had memorized their positions already.  They didn't move much.  There was still a couple APCs parked in front of the courthouse, their large 20 mm cannon pointing straight at the front doors.  There were still a few Chinese 4 x 4's parked in the back of the building.  He could see at least seven different sniper teams positioned on the rooftops surrounding the courthouse.  On the streets, the Chinese patrolled the entire area for about four blocks.  No one was getting in and certainly no one was getting out.

The latest development Lance witnessed was perhaps the most disturbing.  He shifted his gaze and turned the binoculars on the tall spire of the town’s church, perhaps five blocks away from the courthouse to the south.  As far as he could tell, it was the tallest building left standing.  It seemed to be where the Chinese had gathered the surviving townspeople.

He was sure glad he wasn't stuck in that church.  The temperature had risen close to the 90° mark already.  All those people packed in that church—it had to be a hellish place at the moment.

Still, he mused, having the rest of the town locked up in one building—maybe two, if you count the parsonage next door to the church—forced the Chinese to split their men.

"RAF One to Overwatch, over."

Lance picked up his radio and adjusted the volume.  He keyed the mic and replied: "Overwatch, here, go ahead."

"ETA two minutes."

"Copy that."  Lance put the radio down and checked his rifle.  He settled back against the solid, cool trunk of a pine tree and laid the AR across his lap.

Lance grimaced.  It sure didn’t look too good for the home team.  At any given moment, the Chinese commander down there could order the destruction of the courthouse and all who hid inside.  Or the church.  Or both.  It was only a matter of time.  He’s probably trying to get authorization from Beijing…

He swung the binoculars back to the van with the antennae and satellite dishes on top.  The soldier at the computer was still sitting there in the shade, peering at a box.  It had to be a drone control station.  There was no other reason why that officer had looked up into the sky after looking at the computer screen.  They were probably watching him right now, watching them.  The thought made his stomach roil and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

There honestly wasn’t a lot he could do about it either, Lance realized.  Even if all the runners who had been sent out brought back a hundred armed, trained, willing combatants each…that would give the Regulators, what, a thousand men?  Against armored personnel carriers, heavy weapons, trained soldiers and who knows what else the Chinese had down there?  He wondered idly if the drone they were using had missiles on board.   That would certainly throw a wrench into his plan.

No matter which way he puzzled it, the equation wasn’t balanced and the Regulators were on the losing end.  Rob was doomed.  The frustration turned into a heavy weight in Lance’s stomach.  His best friend, the closet thing he’d ever had to a real brother was trapped like a rat inside that courthouse surrounded by invading Chinese soldiers…

And the only cotton-pickin’ thing Lance had thought to do—besides disobey Rob’s final order—had been to raise the banners and call on every able-bodied American to rush to the defense of strangers.  To risk their lives and safety for…who?  Freedom fighters?  Fools?  Patriots?

Who the hell were the Regulators anymore?  Lance closed his eyes and leaned his head against the rough bark of the pine tree.  It just wasn’t fair.  The Regulators had been formed in the first place to counteract the incompetence—and later the willful negligence—of the federal government and their lack of enforcement of border control laws.

The Regulators had never been more than extra hands and eyes who’d not been required to let illegals go with an order to appear before a court.  No Executive Order could make them ignore the law.  They had been landowners, ranchers, concerned citizens from across the country, and they’d come to assist the real unsung heroes along the border: the Border Patrol agents who put their lives on the line day in and day out for a government that didn’t seem to want them.  And for a long time, the agents had been real thankful to have the assistance.

Now?  Lance opened his eyes and stared at the mostly destroyed husk of a town in the valley below.  Now the world had gone to shit and America was dying a brutal death right before his eyes.  Who cares if there were illegal immigrants when China had invaded and was destroying entire towns…for what?  Resources?  Revenge?  Some grand master plan that only a few men in suits on the other side of the world knew about?  Lance shook his head.

He imagined two dogs fighting, one injured and limping, the other aggressive and smelling blood.  America was injured—and bad—but she wasn’t down yet.  The Chinese were strong and willing to press the attack…they had proven that with the destruction of Pine Bluff.  So why were they waiting? Why not just wipe out the courthouse, bury everyone in it, and move on.

Movement down the ridge out of the corner of his eye drew Lance’s attention.  Nate was working his way carefully up the back side of the ridge, out of direct sight of the Chinese in town.  Inspiration struck Lance like a thunderbolt out of the clear desert sky.

They know Rob’s down there. They want him alive.  They want info.

Lance gripped his rifle with white knuckles as another thought drifted through his mind.  Hallwood.  He sold us out.  Son of a bitch.  He must have made a deal with them—that’s why the civilians haven’t been harmed.

Nate arrived slightly winded and crept up next to Lance.  He propped his rifle against a sapling and leaned back against Lance’s tree.  “So what’s the word, boss?”

Lance never took his eyes off the courthouse.  “The Chinese are trying to wait ‘em out.  They want Rob alive,” he said, turning to face his fellow Regulator.

“Shit, that’s not good.”

“Yeah,” replied Lance.  It was all so obvious now.  If they could make Rob talk, they’d know where the rest of the Regulators were hiding…they’d move up the mountain in strength and…

“What do we do?  I got word before I left base that a big bunch of folks is comin’ up from what’s left of Tucson.  Those guys we met on the highway when we first came up here, I think.”

“That’s a start.”  Lance nodded to himself.  “That’s surely a start.  But we got to keep the Chinese from going in there after Rob.  We need to make ‘em look over their shoulders.”

Nate picked up Lance’s binoculars and peered at the remains of the town, crawling with invaders.  He whistled, a low mournful sound.  “Lot of ‘em down there.”

“Yeah.  I think it’s time we thinned the herd a little.”

Nate glanced at the new head of the Regulators.  “Yeah?  When?”

Lance smiled wolfishly.  “Tonight.”

JUST AFTER SUNSET, LANCE peered through a night vision scope attached to the captured Chinese sniper rifle.  It wasn't a crystal-clear image but it was better than squinting into the darkness.  He had assembled his teams and devised a battle plan and made sure everyone was as ready as possible.  So why am I holding back?

There'd been some grumbling voices from the other Regulators—mostly worried about the overwhelming firepower they would be going up against.  But deep in their hearts, they all knew that what they were doing was not merely to strike a blow against the invaders, but to rescue Rob and their fellow Regulators.

One argument had nearly swayed him to follow Rob's last order and lead the Regulators north to safety.  It had been a simple question.  What if Rob and the others had already been killed?  Which then forced Lance to ask, what if the Chinese were merely setting up a trap, because they expected a rescue attempt?

Lance spent the afternoon thinking that over.  He'd gone through all of his own doubts and had come to the conclusion that no matter what the Chinese had or had not done to Rob and his Regulators, Lance knew he had to do something other than tucked tail and run.  Lance Bryton was not a man to leave his friends behind.  He could no more walk away from this fight than he could cut his own throat.

Besides, he figured, with the way the country was falling into anarchy and all the death and destruction that surrounded them on a daily basis, their own survival was by no means assured.   Even with the captured stores and weapons that they had taken from the Chinese, it would be a long, cold winter up in the mountains.  Would it not be better, he had argued, to go out guns blazing in a heroic and noble effort to save their comrades?  If they failed, they saved himself possible starvation and long-suffering death at the hands of the invaders.  If they succeeded, they would win glory and maybe rally other resistance groups and bring themselves one step closer to ending the Chinese menace.

Lance grimaced in the darkness.  His speech had been full of patriotic sentiment, but sitting out here in the gathering night, pointing a high powered rifle at the enemy brought a new sense of danger to the mission.

He had assumed that the Chinese soldiers down there at the antennae riddled van were watching a drone, which was in turn watching the Regulators.  He glanced up at the tall pines that stood sentinel on the slope of the mountain.  He hoped that their canopy would be enough to block out their heat signatures from any drones.

Lance looked through the scope at the glowing body of the man he assumed to be the Chinese commander as he strolled between vehicles talking to soldiers.  Lance had pegged him for the CO the day before and had made sure someone watched his movements all afternoon.  The man regularly walked over toward the drone van and peered into the same box.  He was always followed by a cluster of other soldiers that had to be junior officers.  The man certainly had the air of a commander about him.

If Lance only had a rocket launcher, he could end that problem right there.  Unfortunately, the best he could do was the AR’s the Regulators had brought north from Nogales and the two captured Chinese sniper rifles equipped with night vision scopes.  One of those was in his hands, the other was further down the mountain with the rapid action force, just on the outskirts of town.

Lance handed the rifle off to the best marksman of the remaining Regulators, Jerry Baersfeld.  Jerry was also their nominal radio chief, which left Ed Franks’ wife running the radio room back at base.  It didn't really matter much anyway, Lance realized, because nearly every man who could still hold a rifle was out on the line tonight.

The Regulators had scattered through the trees north and west of town.  As long as they could remain hidden Lance figured that they had a 50-50 chance of being able to inflict enough damage on the Chinese to draw their attention away from the courthouse.  Anything to give Rob and the boys in the courthouse a chance to escape.

Jerry took up his position and settled in on the rocky outcropping.  Lance looked up and noticed that there were no trees directly overhead.  They would be completely in the open for the drone to spot.

"It's a good bet they know we're here," said Lance.

Jerry grunted.  He shifted the dial on the scope and settled his elbows into the dirt, bringing the scope to his eye.  "If so, they’re awful cocky about it.  I see that officer down there and it looks like business as usual.  Hang on…yeah…definitely a few more men on patrol tonight.”  Jerry adjusted his aim on the rifle.  “Looks like a lot more guys closer to courthouse."

“Damn.”  Lance scratched the stubble on his chin.  "Think they're on to us?"  He whispered in the darkness.

"Hard to tell.  This piece of shit scope don't show me much."

Lance sighed.  "So.  They know something's up.”

“Or they think something’s up," replied Jerry.  "They may have added more people guarding the courthouse, but they left their command-and-control structure vulnerable.  Last night there were at least a dozen men within shouting distance of that van down there.  I only see three."

"Could be a trap?"

The sniper grunted again.  "No idea, man.  These guys are shifty.  I see no heat signatures anywhere outside any of the vehicles.  Obviously, I can't see inside those APCs, which could be chock-full of chink soldiers."

"I don’t think they’ve done that," said Lance.  "We had eyes on those APCs all afternoon.  If someone's in there, we would've seen them get in.  Besides, those damn things gotta be ovens by now, sittin’ in the sun all day."

Lance checked the watch on his wrist.  Fifteen minutes to show time.  He glanced at the dark shape of the sniper next to in the dirt in the rocks.  "You sure you can make the shot, Jerry?"

Jerry sucked air over his teeth.  "From where we were this afternoon?  No way—that spot up the ridge is about 2 miles away.  From where we are now?"  The man chuckled.  "We’re a little less than half a mile out.  There's no discernible breeze and my targets are mostly stationary.  Shouldn't be too much of a problem.”

"Good.  What’s your first target?"

There was silence for a moment as Lance watched the barrel of the sniper rifle shift back and forth while Jerry peered through the scope.  "I don't know, man,” Jerry said in a low voice.  “Look, say my first shot is spot on and the computer that controls their drone explodes.  Now what?  We got everybody stirred up and they know we’re here.  They're all going to be running for cover all over Hell’s half-acre down there.  But," he whispered, "what if I take out the operator sitting there at that terminal?  What's the first thing that happens?"

"Well, the commander will send up the alarm and they’ll all run for cover."

"Right—but, somebody's got to look at that drone screen, to direct the counterattack.  Right?"

Lance began to see where Jerry was heading.  "Right… So the next person that runs up to see where the threat is coming from gets popped, too."

"And the next, and the next, and the next.  Until I run out of rounds.  We deny them their intel, we remove soldiers from their lines, and we really piss ‘em off in the process.  When you get angry in combat, you make mistakes."

"Then let's see how many Chinese we can piss off."

COLONEL CHUN STROLLED BACK to the drone van.  He took a cup of hot tea from a lieutenant with a grateful nod.  This land the Americans called Arizona was a strange place.  During the day, it was hot—even for October.  Yet, once the sun dipped below the horizon, the temperature dropped quickly.  He was beginning to question whether or not he should have requisitioned winter gear for his soldiers.  Men standing at guard with numb fingers would not be an effective fighting force if the Americans launched a counterattack.

He took a sip of the hot beverage and relished the warmth as it spread through his stomach.  These terrorists were anything but predictable.  He half expected them to launch an attack tonight, but he was unconcerned.  His men had superior firepower, heavy weaponry, instant communications, and a drone circling above.  The town had been utterly destroyed by the last raid so there were no easy concealment spaces for the American terrorists to exploit in the middle of the night.

He glanced up, thinking of the drone high overhead looking down at their encampment.  He would be able to see the heat signatures of anyone trying to approach town the second that they left cover.  The colonel took a sip of his tea and chuckled as he made his way around a burned police car.  The only cover nearby was the treeline at the base of the mountain range to the north of town.  If the Americans were hiding in those trees right now—and his instincts told them that they were—they would still have to cross at least a hundred meters of open space before they could find suitable cover to escape the unblinking eye of his drone.

No, if the Americans tried to launch a counterattack, they would be identified quickly and he would have no problem destroying them.  The real problem, he thought, was the men in the basement.

Chun stepped up behind the drone operator and took another sip of tea, nodding approval as the man performed another routine circle over the Chinese encampment.  Other than the two figures that were up on the mountain ridge to the north, there were no other heat signatures detectable near town.  Two men had been there off and on throughout the entire day.  Obviously they were there just to watch.

The Colonel was a bit disturbed by the fact that they had moved approximately a mile closer to the remnants of the town, but they were still so far up the ridge that it would take 45 minutes of hard hiking to reach the courthouse.

He took another sip of tea and hoped that the caffeine would kick in quickly.  He had been on alert all day waiting for approval from Beijing to destroy the courthouse.  It had taken a lot of effort to keep the men motivated and focused.  Many had wanted to charge in and kill all the terrorists.  He couldn’t blame them—they had likely lost friends to these Regulators in the recent ambushes.

Chun sighed and stretched his back.  His body ached for the release of sleep.  It was pointless to stay up any longer, he told himself.  Beijing will take another day to argue and discuss the ramifications of destroying the courthouse.  He hissed in derision.  Politicians.

He was about to ask the drone operator to shift the angle of the camera to focus in on those two terrorists watching them up on the ridge when he heard a loud smack, similar to someone throwing a brick at the side of a building.  The drone control monitor was instantly covered in a fine mist of blood, bone, and chunks of brain matter.  Chun cursed and dove to the ground, wincing as the lifeless body of the drone operator landed in a heap next to him.  The man's face was gone, replaced by an open cavity.  Blood poured out of the hideous wound and squirted into the Chun's face.  He screamed and rolled underneath the communications van for cover.

At last his brain caught up to speed, and he shouted "Sniper!"

That one word sent the Chinese forces into a flurry of activity.  The alarm was passed on through radio to the rest of the soldiers and men instinctively took cover wherever they were.  Under the van, Chun could hear shouts and questions about where the sniper was shooting from.  No one had seen anything—the last screenshot that he had seen from the drone showed that the only two people within about a mile of their location had been those men watching them from the ridge.

Surely it couldn't have been them?  That's almost a mile away!  These men are simple civilians!  Warrior–wannabes!

LANCE HOOTED WITH PLEASURE.  "Where the hell you learn how to shoot like that, again?" he asked, laughing at the sight of that officer diving under the intel van.

"3rd Rangers.  Hooah," said Jerry.  Lance could hear the smile in the man's voice.  "What’d I tell you?" he asked quietly, never taking his eye from the scope.  "Our first catch of the day.  Here comes number two…"

CHUN SCREAMED FOR SOMEONE else to read the drone monitor.  He heard footsteps in the dirt on the other side of the van as someone raced around behind the vehicle and tried to take position in front of the control station.  Chun felt rather than heard the impact of a round hitting the side of the van.

He was about to open his mouth and shout another order when the body of the second drone operator collapsed into the dirt next to the first.  Chun was glad that it was so dark—he didn't want to have to see a second wound like that first one.  A split second later he heard the thunderous crack of a rifle rolling around the hills.  He thought it came from the north.

What really angered him was the sound of that rifle.  That was the distinctive report of the QBU-88 Chinese sniper rifle.  He knew there was absolutely no possibility that one of his men had decided to start shooting at them—it had to have been one of the rifles lost when the terrorists had launched one of the innumerable raids last month.  He pounded his fist into the dirt in impotent rage.

"Jan!  Get someone in that chair!  We have to know where they're coming from!"

"At once, sir!" was the muffled reply from across the street.

Chun slithered his way to the far side of the van and waited for a moment.  He heard someone scream on the opposite side of the van—behind the drone terminal.  A split second later, the rifle cracked in the distance and echoed through town.  Whoever the sniper was, he wasn't perfect—someone had been wounded and was thrashing around in the dirt.

Chun thought about the situation for moment.  All the shots had come from the north.  It had to be those two men up on the ridge.  It had to be.  Mind made up, he rolled from under the van and stood up, his back against the cool metal facing west and, he hoped, out of view of the sniper.

A soldier crouching by the front wheel turned at the noise and his eyes went wide at the show of bravery by his commanding officer.  That was exactly the kind of inspiration Chun sought.  He adjusted the fit of his helmet and straightened his uniform.  He strolled casually behind the van and took a spot next to the soldier.

"Can you see anything?  Muzzle flashes?"

The young man was so scared, he couldn't reply.  He shook his head and gripped his rifle tighter, his head swiveling back and forth between the area where the shots had come from and his commanding officer.

Someone made a mad dash across the street and raced around the front of the van, heading for the drone terminal.  This brave soldier had left his weapons and gear across the street behind a burned-out car.  He was counting on speed to save his life.

It didn't work.

The third body fell next to the drone terminal before Chun heard the crack of the rifle in the distance.  "This is intolerable," he muttered to himself through gritted teeth.  He made his way to the rear of the van again and stood there in the darkness, half expecting a 5.8x42mm bullet to find his head.  He forced himself to calm down, to remain control of the situation.  "Jan!"

"Sir!" came the response from across street.

"The sniper is shooting from the north—it's got to be one of those two on that ridge we spotted with the drone.  Is there any other way to get control of the drone?"

"Yes!"  Chun could almost hear the man slap himself in the face.  "The backup control unit—it's inside the van."

Chun thought about his options.  He could continue sending people to sit and die at the drone control station, which wasn't necessarily a problem—he had more than enough soldiers to accomplish his mission and lose some to the sniper.  Or, he could throw open the back of the van and dive in and find the auxiliary control computer.

"Can it get a signal through the van?" he called out.

Another rifle shot echoed from the north, and since there was no sound of a body impact in the ground or soldiers screaming, he had to assume it was a miss.  He smiled.

"He's dead!" someone shrieked, a second before the sound of a person throwing up reached Chun’s ears.

The smile faded.  Damn.  That makes four.  Whoever this bastard is, he's an excellent shot.

"I… I don't know, sir.  In theory it should—" said the uncertain voice.

"I'm not interested in theories, Jan!  My men are dying!  I need to know where the hell to direct our counterattack! Can it be done?  Yes or no?"

"The specs say yes, sir—but we've never tested it under conditions like this!” said Jan’s voice in the darkness.

Fair enough, Chun thought.

WHOOPS, LOOKS LIKE WE got somebody trying to be a hero,” chuckled Jerry.  "Got movement at the rear of that van.  This one’s going be a little tricky, but…"

Lance winced at the sudden sound of the rifle.  He wished he had night vision to be able to watch the chaos in the Chinese encampment.

"Ha!  Got ‘im through the door!"  Jerry adjusted his aim.  “This thing ain’t so bad.  I’m used to a bolt-action rig, but semi-auto sure makes my job easier.

“Did you get the officer yet?”

Jerry scanned the Chinese encampment with the scope for a few tense moments.  "Yep… He's on the ground…"

THERE’D BEEN NO WARNING.  Chun groaned as he gripped his shoulder—felt like his arm was on fire.  He could only imagine what it must look like.  He lay there writhing in the dirt at the rear end of the van, feeling bits of glass and metal trickle down from the ruined door above him.  He had moved as quickly as he could to reach the door handle and throw it open as a shield.

The infernal sniper had shot right through the door and knocked him on his ass.  Four inches higher, though, and the bullet would've turned his head into a broken eggshell.  He knew he should be grateful for that, but the pain from his shoulder was too intense.

He screamed in agony and tried to apply pressure to the gushing wound.  The bullet must have destroyed part of his upper arm as well.  He couldn't feel his fingers or move his right arm in any way.  He could hear the shouts of concern from his men, but all his energy was spent in trying to stop the flow of blood from his ruined shoulder.

DANG IT, JUST CLIPPED ‘im.  Hold still, son—I’ll put you out of your misery…” muttered Jerry.

Lance looked down at his scratch pad and clicked on his red-tinted light.  "Ten rounds left," he said.

The rifle roared one more time.  "That got ‘im," reported Jerry.  He paused for a moment, scanning the battlefield.

“Nine,” said Lance.

"I think the plan is working, man.  Doesn't look like anybody's trying to make their way to that van.  Everybody's trying to hide.  I don't see the joker that was carrying around that cup of coffee, either.  I think he may have been the commander.”   Jerry chuckled.  “Like fish in a barrel.”

“Good news all around," said Lance. "Can you take any more shots?"

"Oh yeah, there's a few I can still reach out and touch.  Like…" The rifle barked and Lance's night vision was ruined by the jet of flame that shot out the front of the barrel.  "Good night," the sniper said.  "That did it.  Look at ‘em run!"  Jerry laughed.

Lance could only imagine the scene.  What would he do?  If he and Rob were standing in some command post and Regulators started dropping like flies.  And then Rob went down.  Would he stand, search for the sniper, or would he haul ass to the nearest cover and try to regroup?

The rifle belched flame and noise once more.  Jerry cursed.  "Yeah, I missed you.  Hold still… I'll make up for that…" He adjusted his hold on the rifle and fired again.  "Ha! Gotcha!”  He looked up from the rifle.  “You know, I'm not the biggest fan of Chinese hardware," Jerry said as he shifted position.  "But this here rifle’s too damn sweet.  Might have to do some tinkering with this during the daytime…"

"Just make sure you keep an eye on that van—I don’t want anybody getting near the drone controls…" said Lance.  He checked his watch.  Now was as good a time as any.  "Keep up the pressure, Jerry.  It's time to fight back."

Lance removed the radio from his belt and pressed transmit key.  "All Regulators, all Regulators, this is, Two.  Let's do this!  Everyone break from cover and get to your assigned positions!  Go, go, go!"

He handed the spare magazine of Chinese bullets to Jerry.  "Here you go.  I need to get moving.  It's gonna take me a while to get down this ridge…"

CHAPTER 21

Breakout

GENERAL STAPLETON LOOKED UP from the map that he’d been studying when he heard noise outside.  The ground shook, a very slight tremble from the movement of dozens of tanks.  At last, the main bulk of his army had arrived.  A smile spread across his face as the door to his command center opened and XO strolled in slapping at the dust on his uniform.  He saluted smartly and removed his Kevlar helmet.

General Stapleton reached across the table and shook hands with his trusted lieutenant, Colonel Robert Vinsen.  The man looked tired and dirty.  Stapleton figured he had probably been riding in the turret of an M-ATV most of the way—it was how he rolled.  That was one of the reasons why he was Stapleton’s most trusted lieutenant.

“Glad to see you made it in one piece Bob.”

Vinsen nodded.  “What we got, sir?”

Right to the point.  Another reason Stapleton liked his XO so much.  “Here’s the sitrep,” he said as he leaned over the map table and placed a finger on LaGuardia International.  “The rebels have expanded their base of operations and taken LaGuardia.  Sometime in the middle of the night, the sneaky bastards opened up airspace to a fleet of Russian airliners and cargo planes.”

“Russians?  Christ.  Reinforcements?”

The general shook his head.  “Yes and no.  We’ve been able to spot at least 300 soldiers that weren’t there yesterday.  However, they’re also unloading all kinds of supplies, vehicles, and one thing about the size of a train car.” He searched in the pile of papers and produced a large black and white image.  “We got this off one of the handheld drones two hours ago.  Don’t know what the hell it is,” he said, hands on hips, “but the Russians sure are proud of it.  It’s got continuous security and they’ve been struggling to get the damn thing—get this—on top of one of the skyscrapers downtown.”

“Jesus.  Looks like the size of a SCUD launcher.  You think it’s some kind of missile?”

“Don’t know,” Stapleton admitted.  “Seems like a lot of trouble for something that could be launched from the ground…”  He folded his arms across his chest and grunted.  “One of my radar techs thinks it could be their new GTB.  They kept the damn thing under a tarp, but this kid is positive that that’s what it is.”

Vinsen stood up and stretched his back.  He frowned down at the map.  “GTB?  What the hell is that?”

“That’s what I said,” Stapleton said with a grin.  He handed a cigar and lighter over to his tank commander.  “It’s some kind of theoretical radar installation.  Only it’s not just radar—it acts like some kind of directed beam weapon.”  Stapleton raised his hands in an act of exasperation.  “Yeah, I know, it sounds like something out of Star Wars, but my radar man tells me that the damn thing’s been in the works since the Cold War.  It makes some kind of shield or something against our radar signals.”

“And the directed energy part?”

“Hell if I know.  But,” the general said tapping the map, “whatever it is, Ivan thinks it’s important enough to drag a whole battalion along with it and put the damn thing on top of a skyscraper.  We gotta pool going on whether or not they’ll drop the damn thing,” the general chuckled.

“Way I see it, maybe we just make sure they don’t get a chance to get that thing operational, whatever it is.”

Stapleton’s brief jocularity vanished.  “Exactly my thinking, Bob.  I want your boys checked in, loaded up, and rolling through the tunnels in an hour.  Hit ‘em hard, hit ‘em fast.”

“The only way.”  Vinsen tossed the drone image down onto the map.  “What’s the most recent intel we got?”

“Unfortunately, you’re looking at it.”  General Stapleton frowned.  “Every time we tried to send a drone over the lines in the last few hours, it’s been shot down.  We didn’t have to worry about it with the rebels—they’re just a bunch of looters.  But now that Ivan’s on the scene, he’s bringing some bigger guns to bear.  It won’t be easy.”  The general balled his fists and rested them on the table.  “Dammit, if we’d just arrived one day earlier.  Just one day.  We could’ve had this place bottled up and had a nice welcoming committee waiting for the Russians when they landed at LaGuardia.  Now,” he said standing up and gesturing at the map, “it’s gonna be a damn nightmare to fight our way through to get to the airport.”

Vinsen puffed on his cigar and glanced thoughtfully at the map.  A wreath of bluish smoke hung about his head.  “Gonna take some casualties…”

The general sighed.  “Don’t I know it.  But damn if I’ll be the one who lets them capture the city.  We took Chicago—”

“Against a bunch of rioters, and street thugs, sir.  Now we’re outnumbered 2 to 1 and the Russians are involved.” Vinsen chewed on his cigar for a moment, then said: “We been able to establish contact with the Pentagon yet?”

“That’s the other problem,” Stapleton replied as he moved around the table and sat down in a chair.  He ran a hand through the close-cropped brush of gray hair on his head.  “With President Reed dead, that fool who’s been running FEMA is in charge—”

“I heard something about the United Nations accepting us as a protected nation, some bullshit like that?”

“Yeah, horseshit from start to finish.  Never thought something like this could happen in my lifetime.”  The general shook his head sadly.  “It’s a goddamned disgrace.  And, to top it off, that little dipshit from FEMA has the balls to call me not once, but twice to demand that I recognize his legitimate authority and stand down.”

“Stand down?  Are we sure it’s him?”

“That’s the bitch of it all!  First call was unauthenticated.  I had no problem laughing in his face and hanging up.  The second call,” the general said rubbing one temple and closing his eyes, “had the proper authentication, straight out of NORAD.  Whoever he is, this Suthby character has access to the right people and the right codes.  He’s looking more and more legit.”

“Could be a Russian trick,” muttered Vinsen.

“I know.  I haven’t agreed to anything, yet.  But it’s starting to worry me.  We just need to get inside the city, take out the airport, and knock Ivan on his ass.”  The general stood up.  “We can sort out the political mess later.”

“Just say when and my boys will roll through this town like Sherman through Atlanta.  Russians or no Russians.”

Stapleton chuckled, then shook hands with his colonel.  “When you’re ready, set up the feed.  I’ll monitor from here.”

“Yes, sir,” said Colonel Vinsen around his cigar.  He grabbed his helmet in one hand and saluted with the other.

As the door shut behind him, General Stapleton heard shouted commands.  His army was preparing for war.  He glanced down at the map and looked at all the red circles around the rebel defensive positions.  There were so many of them.  And they were flushed with the thrill of victory after repulsing that ill-devised raid from the National Guard.  He shook his head. Damned fools.  If they had just waited a moment until I arrived and took full command…

Well, he thought to himself, I can’t be everywhere.

The door to the command center burst open again and the Major from communications, Rachel Winston, strolled through with an excited look on her face.  She saluted smartly and handed over a dispatch.

“What’s this?” he asked gruffly.

“Just established contact with New Jersey Air National Guard, sir.  They’re sending a squadron of F-16s our way!”

General Stapleton smiled.  “Get them our codes and call signs, then inform Colonel Vinsen he’s going to have help.”

MALCOLM STARED OUT THE plate-glass window in disbelief at the sheer number of Russian soldiers milling about in the streets far below.  It was shocking to see how fast downtown had been overrun with soldiers.  The Russians had performed the exact opposite of his own disorganized, chaotic takeover.  They had rolled in on trucks and commandeered civilian vehicles, unloaded squads of soldiers at each street corner, secured buildings—at the expense of his own people—and moved on.  Always on the move, always heading west.  It was a tide of red/brown camouflage.  It was more than a little disconcerting, but Malcolm figured he had little other option than to accept what Allah gave him.

Samir fidgeted next to him.  “I am not comfortable with how fast they are taking things from us, Brother.”

Malcolm shrugged.  “At least they bring food and medicine to our people,” he said.  There’d certainly been no complaints in that department.  The Russians were as good as the Secretary-General’s word.  They’d brought truckloads of food with them on those planes last night.  And now that most of the men and women he’d assigned to guard the approaches to New York City had a few good meals, even his fighters were optimistic about their chances again.

“They did, yes,” admitted Samir.  He adjusted his glasses.  “But…they have taken our buildings, our headquarters,” he whispered.  He glanced nervously over his shoulder at the two officers lounging in chairs near the only door to Malcolm’s command center penthouse.  They had been assigned as liaison officers and had radios to contact General Kristanoff should Malcolm need anything.

Malcolm considered them little more than prison guards.  In a prison of my own making.  He sighed.

A burst of static-filled Russian erupted from one of the soldiers’ radios.  Malcolm watched as the two Russians talked to each other.  They radioed something back in that gruff language of theirs and high-fived each other.

“Well, they certainly look excited about something,” muttered Samir.

Malcolm casually strolled over to the Russians, ignoring their wary looks.  One actually reached for his rifle.  He ignored the implied insult and spoke down to them like he would any subordinate.  “What was that?  News?”

They looked at each other.  One shrugged.  The other spoke in halting English, “General Kristanoff says they attack.”

“Who?  The Americans?”

“Nyet,” said the youth, shaking his head.  “Russian navy.”  He mumbled around some foreign words and then his face brightened as he found the right phrase in English.  “Great fleet.  They come now.”  He nodded and smiled, pleased with his translation attempt.

“Malcolm!  Come see!”  Malcolm turned to look at Samir.  His lieutenant was engrossed with something outside the window.

Malcolm hurried back to the floor-to-ceiling window and peered down into the city streets below.  A column of Russians on foot, led by six captured SUVs snaked its way west towards the Holland Tunnel.  He turned to Selim and smiled.

“I do not like this…these Russians presume too much.  They are taking our fight from us now!”

“Come,” said Malcolm as he slapped Samir on the shoulder.  “We shall have time to dwell on such things after.  For now, I want to get down to the docks in time to see this mighty fleet arrive.”

THE DOOR TO THE command center opened and the sound of gunfire poured in with the daylight.  General Stapleton looked up from his plans to see a winded aide-de-camp stagger forward.

“Sir!  The Russians!  There advancing—”

The general jumped to his feet and reached for his helmet.  “How’d they get the drop on us?”

“The soldier wiped dirt from his face.  “Sir, we were preparing, we had maybe another 15 minutes before we started into the tunnel.  Snipers opened up on six different outposts at the same time.  The Russians have a lot more troops than we thought!”

The general rushed outside into the warm autumn afternoon.  He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light.  His ears told him what was happening before he could see clearly through the drifting smoke.  The rapid bark of Kalashnikov rifles in the distance—lots of them—told him that the Russians were close.  Too close.

An Apache attack helicopter roared overhead so close the downdraft buffeted everyone on the ground and kicked up a blinding screen of dust and grit.  It buzzed the area like an angry wasp and headed for the Holland Tunnel entrance.  Stapleton ignored the downdraft and dragged his staffer with him as he headed towards the first defensive position at the entrance to the Holland tunnel.  He turned to face the young lieutenant and screamed over the Apache’s noise: “Get Colonel Vinsen on the horn—tell him to move his men, now!  We need to shore up all the defenses.  Tell him to abort the attack—I want his men to hold the line!  We can’t let these Russian bastards escape from New York!”

“Yes, sir!” the young soldier said before he turned and ran off into the distance shouting for assistance.

The general turned and was immediately approached by a group of officers.  “Sir!  You need to get out of here, sir!  It’s too dangerous—”

Ten feet to the general’s left, a soldier who had been adjusting his helmet screamed and fell on his back.  The man next to him suddenly jerked and fell forward onto his face, seconds later.

“Sniper!” someone shouted.

A major, acting more like a linebacker than soldier, tackled General Stapleton and drove him to the ground.  Puffs of dirt erupted around them as bullets began to pepper the pavement nearby.  Stapleton shouted for the officers to get their men some cover and ordered suppressive fire on the entrance to the tunnel.  He was struggling against two pairs of hands that were trying to pull him back to a safe spot behind a tollbooth.

Chaos erupted.  The telltale whine of incoming mortar rounds made everyone pause.  Soldiers ran for cover as the noise grew in volume.  The ground shook with successive explosions.  The command center went up in a mighty fireball, showering anyone within 100 feet with broken bits of mortar, brick, and office furniture.

Stapleton adjusted his helmet and drew his sidearm.  The smooth, pearl-handled grip on his custom .45 felt comforting in his hand.  He leaned around the corner of the tollbooth and could see the entrance to the Holland Tunnel straight ahead.  Smoke billowed out of the tunnel.  It was red smoke, the kind used to signal aircraft.

“Here they come!” he shouted in a hoarse voice.  “Concentrate fire on the entrance to the tunnel!”

To his satisfaction, he heard the sound of an M60 open up from somewhere to the right.  His men had scrambled for cover under the sniper and mortar fire.  Now as the first Russians appeared in the tunnel, they had no one to shoot but were easy targets themselves.

Stapleton watched in helpless frustration—his pistol was no good at this distance.  Russian soldiers leapfrogged their way up through debris and over abandoned and destroyed cars as they made their way close to the very edge of the ragged American line.

First one, then another fell screaming.  The soldiers around General Stapleton began to pour fire toward the tunnel entrance.  Russian bodies piled up and still they came.  More than one tried to throw a grenade.  One went off just on the other side of the Stapleton’s tollbooth.  The noise was deafening and instead of gunfire, all he heard was a loud high-pitched ringing.

The major next to Stapleton, who had appointed himself bodyguard to the general, said something and then handed over a radio.  Stapleton shook his head and the man shouted: “Sir, the outpost just north of us is reporting they’re being overrun!”

Stapleton took the radio and barked orders for troop deployments.   He needed intel and he needed it now.  More importantly, he needed Vinsen’s armored fist to join the fray.  “Honeybadger, I need a sitrep!”

A few tense moments lapsed as the screams of various units engaged in the battle clogged the airways.  At last someone called for the net to be cleared before Colonel Vinsen’s voice came through loud and clear.  “I’m three miles north of your position, enemy forces are pouring out of the tunnel.  OP Two has been completely destroyed—they’re trying to wedge us.  I’ve moved half my squads back and we’re going to hold them at the interstate.”

Major Winston appeared in the distance behind a nearby security shack, waving in an attempt to get Stapleton’s attention.  He grabbed the arm of the soldier next to him.  Pointing at the frantic major in the distance, he said, “Give her some covering fire!  She’s in contact with the Air National Guard.  We need some support—”

Another mortar shell exploded on the opposite side of the building that Winston was trying to hide behind.  She was knocked to the ground and struggled to get up.  Soldiers nearest her lay down suppressive fire on the entrance to the tunnel while two men raced off to help the dazed officer to her feet and bring her to the general.

Once safely behind the tollbooth, the general helped her reattach her helmet.  “Tell me you got a hold of those jet-jockeys!”

“That’s what I was on my way to tell you, sir,” she said.  Coughing, she tried to catch her breath.  “They’re only a few miles out, they’re selecting targets as we speak,” she gasped.  She handed over a smaller radio unit to the general.  “Channel 3.”

The general switched to the proper channel and radioed, “Air National Guard, this is Command Actual, how copy?”

“Roger that, Command Actual, this is Joker One, F-16 lead element inbound your location.  I suggest you pull your boys back, or be prepared for some danger close.”

“We’re ready!” Stapleton replied without hesitation.  “Bring it!”

“Copy that, Command Actual.  Keep your heads down—coming in hot.”

Stapleton grabbed his main radio and said in a voice that was calmer than he felt, “All units this net, this is Command-Actual.  Fast movers inbound—repeat, friendly fast movers inbound.  Danger close, danger close, danger close!”

One of his bodyguards pointed at the sky: “Look!”

“Duck and cover, people!” shouted the general.  He never saw the squadron of F-16’s in perfect formation as they screamed in from the southeast right over the Russian advance.

There was a tremendous roar—louder than anything he’d experienced in the last few decades.  General Stapleton felt the ground shake to the point where he thought his ribs might burst from his chest.  For a second he thought his eardrums would explode from the pressure.  And then all was quiet.  There was no ringing in his ears this time, just silence.

General Stapleton tried to say something, but the acrid smoke was too thick and ended up coughing dust.  He couldn’t catch his breath and opened his eyes to see a swirling world of gray.  Angrily he rubbed the soot, smoke, and dust from his face.  His vision grew clearer, but he was still hampered by the thick smoke of the battle.  Faintly, he heard some low moans from the soldiers around him.  He felt a wetness on his cheek and scratched it absently.  Even in the cloudy gloom, he could tell his finger came away red.  Stapleton’s ears were bleeding.

But he was alive.  Painfully, he crawled his way to the edge of the shattered tollbooth and peered around the corner.  It felt like he had been in a bar fight that lasted 12 hours.  His body was bruised, battered, and tired.  He peered through the smoke as the shifting winds parted the screen of dust in front of him.  He saw the entrance to the Holland Tunnel, or rather, what had been the entrance.  Whatever the hell those fighter jocks had dropped had collapsed damn tunnel and turned it into a graveyard.  He could see murky water seeping up from cracks in the pavement.

“I think—” said Major Winston, pausing to cough.  “I think they collapsed the tunnel!”

General Stapleton could tell that she was shouting by the cords standing out on her neck, but he only heard her voice as a whisper.

He looked around him and can see other soldiers coming to and shaking each other to make sure everyone was okay.  He could hear no gunfire.  He took another glance around the corner and saw only the bodies of broken soldiers, both Russian and American.  There was no movement.

“Son of a bitch.  That’s the last time I make fun of the Air Force…”

CHAPTER 22

The Burden of Leadership

PRESIDENT SUTHBY LOOKED AT the faces of his makeshift Cabinet.  The Joint Chiefs were represented not by the actual men who were appointed under President Reed, but by the highest ranking officers of each branch that he could find.  The commanding officer of NORAD itself had been promoted on the spot to the Chief of Staff of the Air Force.  The Navy and Marine Corps were bit harder to find on short notice.  A colonel from the Army had been field promoted to brigadier general, in order to claim the title of Chief of Staff of the Army.

“Well, we know something’s going on in New York City, but what exactly do we know?” asked Daniel.

The newly minted brigadier general looked at President Suthby.  “I’m getting reports from a few units outside of New York that the Russians have reinforced the rebels on Manhattan Island.  Last word we had from General Stapleton was that a number of Russian airliners and cargo planes had landed late last night and offloaded supplies and reinforcements.”

“I gathered as much from my conversation with that man,” said Suthby in a sour voice.  “That doesn’t tell us exactly what the hell is going on, though.”

“No, sir, it doesn’t.”  The brigadier general looked embarrassed.  He shot a glance at the Chief of Staff of the Air Force and cleared his throat.  He looked down at the papers in front of him and continued, “General Stapleton was planning to mount an offensive using elements from the remainder of his division which had arrived from Chicago this morning.  Unfortunately, before he could do so, the Russians mounted a surprise attack, hitting 9 of our 13 outpost along the Hudson River.  We think, based on pictures from handheld drones, that they also launched an expedition in New Jersey by crossing Long Island Sound.  They may be attempting to capture Long Island itself, as well.”

President Suthby put his head in his hands and sighed.  “That stupid fool.  I told him to back off.”  He looked up at Daniel.  “Didn’t I tell him to stand down and shore up his defenses?”

Daniel nodded grimly.  “Indeed you did, sir.”

Suthby turned back to the military men, anger clouding his face.  “Well, what’s the bad news then?  Was this general Stapleton wiped off the map?  What happened?  Why did we lose contact?”

The Chief of Staff of the Army cleared his throat again and shift papers.  “Sir, it appears that the Russians succeeded in wiping out most of our northern outposts.  They were able to gather a sizable number of troops on the western shore of the Hudson and began to turn our flank.  About two hours ago they began moving south.”

The President sighed.  “You’re telling me they’re going to wipe out Stapleton’s army—the last one we have standing in the Northeast?  That arrogant son of a bitch disobeyed my orders and now the entire army’s going to get wiped out for it.”  He closed his eyes and began rubbing his temples.

“Sir,” said the calm, deep, confident voice of the Chief of Staff of the Air Force.  “We were able to coordinate with the New York Air National Guard and bring down some assets—a squadron of F-16s—they were able to launch a successful counterattack against the main Russian forces.”

“What I want to know,” said the Army general with a renewed vigor, “is whether or not these Russians are operating under direct sanction of the United Nations?”

Suthby frowned and looked down at his desk.  How was he supposed to handle this?  He knew eventually this question would come up, he’d just hoped for a little more time.  The Russians and their aggressive actions in Florida and now New York had forced his hand a little too early.

So, he was left with a hard choice: tell the generals that yes, the United Nations sanctioned the Russians takeover of Florida and New York City as hangman’s-price for the protectorate status that he had negotiated for… Or, inform them that the Russians were acting on their own, which is what he thought the general wanted to hear anyway and deal with the consequences of lying to his Cabinet later.

Suthby frowned, deep in thought.  It’s far easier to take on one country than the entire world.  He sighed.  “General, you know about as much as I do, but I can tell you right now, I had no prior knowledge of this through my communications with the Secretary-General.  I don’t think the United Nations is sanctioning this event.  And if they do, the wanton destruction and confiscation of American property will be a sticking point in further negotiations.”

“”Well, thank goodness for that.”

Suthby shot the Air Force general an irate look for the sarcastic comment.  He was growing a little too big for his britches already.  Suthby marveled again at the arrogance that seemed inbred in all military men.

“Here’s the deal—until we can get reliable communications established with The Hague, we’ve got to assume that if these Russians take any aggressive action, they will be acting on their own.  According to my conversations with the Secretary-General, the United Nations is supposed to be standing by to offer assistance to us and in no way wants to take land, prisoners, or property.”

“Sir,” said the Chief of Staff of the Navy in a low voice.  “Permission to do something.  Anything.  We have a handful ships available out of Norfolk that were in dry dock for refit when all this mess went down.  They’re not exactly shipshape and battle-ready, but they might be enough of a presence in New York harbor to give the Russians pause about whether or not they want to expand the territory they’ve already taken.”

Suthby stared at the Admiral.  There was merit to his plan.  If he could send a small fleet of ships north to New York to patrol the seas, it would show the Russians they do not own the whole of America.  Suthby nodded.  “A projection of force,” he said, “might be just enough to show the United Nations that America is not completely down and out.”

Daniel concurred.  “That in itself could help our negotiating position with the Secretary-General for more aid and support of your presidency, sir.”

Suthby nodded and placed his hands palm down on the desk.  “Very well, Admiral, that sounds like an excellent idea.  Make it happen, then send me the details—I want to know ship types, sizes, crew complements, the works.  With all of our satellites still down, we’re going to have to rely on word-of-mouth and paper communication to keep track of everything.”

A smile spread across the Admiral’s face.  “Of course, sir.  My pleasure.  Thank you, sir.”

Suthby was a little unsettled by the old man’s smile.  He wasn’t the most senior admiral in the navy, but he was the most senior man the President could call on at the moment.  The admiral had been visiting NORAD as part of a joint task force exercise when the power crisis had struck a few months back.  He had stayed to help coordinate the naval response.

From what Suthby could tell of his personnel files, the new naval chief had served a long and honorable if not exciting career through multiple conflicts for the navy.  Steady, dependable, and loyal were the words that appeared most often in his paperwork.  Suthby made a mental note to keep an eye on this one.  He tried to write some notes down on a piece of paper, to stall and give himself time.  At length, he looked up.

“Okay, gentlemen, let’s see if I have everything straight.  So far, we have the Russians landing in force in New York City—taking control of Manhattan and LaGuardia.”  The Army General nodded solemnly.  Suthby spread his hands.  “There are rumors of a Russian fleet approaching New York City.   However, we’re going to dispatch our own set of ships, not so much to meet the threat as to monitor the situation.”  He turned to the Air Force General.  “Do we have any extra air assets that I need to know about?”

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs frowned and harrumphed from his side of the desk.  “Sir, most of my forces are deployed overseas.  What we have left is spread thin, mostly in the hands of the various state National Guards.  I authorized the dispatch of a squadron of F-16s out of Jersey to assist in the defense of New York City.  They’re providing close air support as we speak.”  He looked down at his notes.  “I’m coordinating with the ANGs from nearby states—Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Vermont, and Pennsylvania—in order to get some more wings in the air.  But…communications are spotty.  I don’t know if my orders got through or not.”  He sighed.  “Most of what I can find so far are tankers and transport planes.  We had a sizable number of ANG fighters, however when the Russians invaded Florida many of them were shipped south to meet that threat.  A small percentage of them came back.  These bastards timed everything very well,” the old man said.  His face was heavy with grief and anger.

The Army’s Chief of Staff spoke up.  “They knew we would send people south, they knew most of our front-line troops were overseas, and they knew when they timed the hit on us what little defense we put up could be wiped out quickly.”

“Mr. President,” said the Chief of Staff of the Air Force, “my standing orders have been to keep the squadrons under low profiles across the country—we need to gather what strength we have, protect the assets that are still viable, and prepare to launch counterattacks.”

“You’re telling me we’ve all but lost the air war and it hasn’t even started yet?” asked Suthby, unable to hide the acid in his voice.  “Reports like this are just getting hard for me to believe.  This is the United States of America, gentlemen.  How the hell can something like this happen and leave us so utterly devastated?”

“Sir, with all due respect,” interjected Daniel, scanning his notes, “almost 80% of our combat troops and assets were stationed overseas at the beginning of this conflict.  We’ve been spread thin for decades.  It is through no fault of your own that the situation has arisen—your predecessors and Congress have done everything they could to eviscerate our military in order to bring us in line with the rest of the world.  President Reed being the shining example to the contrary.”

Suthby sighed.  “I’ve inherited a real mess, haven’t I?”  He waited for the commiserating responses from the gathered generals and their aides, but heard only the sound of the air quietly whistling through a vent in the ceiling.  He cleared his throat.  “In that case, what’s the status of our troops coming home from overseas?  Where are we at?”

The Chief of the Army smiled. “Sir, I’m happy to report three brigades from the 7th have returned safely back to American shores.  They arrived from Europe over the past 48 hours, on commandeered airliners and a few C-17’s.”

The Chairman spoke up, “The majority of our stealth bombers are still on home soil and accounted for.  We have solid contact with about half.  That’s a considerable amount of firepower still at our disposal, sir.”

“What about special forces?” asked Daniel.

“Roughly 2/3 of our special forces command has been spread out across the globe,” the Chairman said to Daniel, “as advisors in call kinds of third-world countries.  I wouldn’t worry about them.  Of all our troops, they have the smallest footprint and are the most capable of going gray and getting home.”

“Going gray?” asked the President.

“Yessir,” said the Chairman, looking a little uncomfortable discussing such a topic.  “Our SpecOps boys are trained to blend in with the locals, to disappear and pose no threat until it’s time to drop the hammer.  We’ve had them in Afghanistan for over a decade, learning the languages and customs.  Hell, they even have beards down to their chests.”   The Chairman shook his head.  “No, if anyone is going to get home, it’ll be them.  Delta, SEALs, you name it—they’re resourceful, highly trained, and highly motivated to defend this nation.  They’re our fanatics.  We may not hear from them, and it may take a while, but I think in the end most of them will make it home.”

“I have two SEAL Teams ready for action, Mr. President,” said the Admiral.  “I had already prepared orders for SEAL Team One—they’re in California, sir—to attempt to locate the Vice President.”

“Good, good!” said Suthby.  Inside he shuddered with revulsion and fear.  Oh, my God, they can’t find him.  They can’t!

He shot Daniel a worried look as the Joint Chiefs lapsed into a quiet discussion on tactics.  He needed to wrap this meeting up quickly so he and Daniel could plan the next phase of their operation.  The Vice President’s fate had to be sealed.  Soon.

“Well, gentlemen,” said Suthby, sighing, “if we’re able to get our people safely home, is there a way for us to coordinate a counter—”

“Sir,” said the Chief of Staff of the Army, his hand raised to interrupt the President, “I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation our troops are facing overseas.  Former allies, the worst of which we’ve seen in Germany, are turning against us at every corner.”

The Admiral nodded, giving support to the brigadier general.  “It’s the same with the Fleet,” he said sourly.  “I’ve got ships turned away from once-friendly ports like you wouldn’t believe.   We’ve lost seven cruisers and two destroyers in the past 48 hours after coming under attack from ‘friendly’ forces.  The Russians sank a few and the tag-team of the Germans and French—if you can believe that—nearly took out a sub.  Not to mention the fact that we’ve completely lost contact with the Roosevelt Strike Group.  We’ve confirmed that Iran launched a nuclear warhead at the fleet.  Well, they launched it at Israel, is what they’re saying.”

“My God,” hissed Suthby.  “That’s an act of war!  What kind of intel do we have on this?”

“Sir,” said the Chairman.  “I was here at NORAD when it happened—the Iranians aimed for the fleet, I’ll bet my career on it.  They launched a couple of missiles during the initial phase of our attack on the Egyptian Air Force.  Came out of nowhere.  One was a dud and impacted the Eastern Med.  The other struck too close for home to the Roosevelt.  We weren’t sure if she survived or not, but if the nuke detonated on the surface…”

The Admiral filled in the blanks.  “An ICBM of the type Iran possesses detonating on the ocean’s surface—it would’ve wiped out most of the strike group.  Any survivors would probably be long dead by now from radiation sickness even if they managed to get into life rafts.  Our only hope is that it was a subsurface detonation.  In which case, we probably lost the two subs that were part of the strike group—depending on where they were—but as for the rest of the strike group…”

The Admiral shrugged, an especially disturbing gesture from a man whose face appeared so set in stone, weathered by the elements during a lifetime at sea.

Suthby had known from the beginning that the situation was dire—after all, he had orchestrated a large portion of it—he just hadn’t realized it had gotten this bad.  How the hell am I gotta pull us out of this mess?  He asked himself. I’m still trying to play catch-up—I was never briefed on military matters or national security when I was head of FEMA.  This shit is all above my pay grade.

President Suthby frowned.  “Surely, gentlemen, these attacks on our forces overseas aren’t completely crippling, are they?”

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs shook his head.  “Unfortunately, sir, my staff and I fear that it’s actually much worse than what we’ve been seeing.  The reports we’re getting are sporadic and widespread.  However, there are many elements of our armed forces overseas that have failed to report in at all—they seemed to have vanished off the face of the Earth.  We’re still trying to track down each and every unit, but for the most part we have to assume that they have either been destroyed or captured.”

“Jesus,” whispered Suthby.  I was wrong—it’s a hell of a lot worse than I thought…

“Sir, right now the largest single cohesive combat unit we control—with some measure of reliable communication—is the 7th Fleet, currently near Hawaii,” said the Admiral.  “The way I see it, we have two options.  One, we bring the fleet in as close to the California coast as possible to act as a defensive screen.  We’ve got two carrier strike groups—Reagan and Nimitz—and trust me, two carrier strike groups can be a formidable force.  They should be able to fend off just about anything anyone cares to throw at us at the moment from the Pacific.”

Suthby leaned forward in his chair, staring at the Admiral.  “And option two?”

The Admiral smiled again.  “Sir, there is a Chinese Army operating on American soil.  At the moment, the Nimitz Strike Group is in the western Pacific and is the single most destructive force on that side of the planet.  We could use it and send the Chinese a strong message.”

Suthby shuddered at the thought.  Letting a carrier strike group slip the leash and attack some of the nations that have attacked America is one thing, he told himself.  Letting this Admiral turn what’s left of the navy against China is quite another.  If what they’re saying is true and there really is a Chinese army in the southwest, attacking them at this moment might make things much, much worse—considering the fact that we don’t really have anything else to back us up at the moment.

The President drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment, gathering his thoughts.  Daniel saved him.  “Admiral, as much as I would like to see bloody vengeance visited upon those sneaky bastards, I think the best course of action should be caution.”

Suthby snapped at the chance Daniel provided.  “Agreed.  If what you say is true, General,” Suthby said with a nod towards the Air Force Chief of Staff, “and we do have a Chinese army laying waste to the southwest, I think the prudent course of action would be to bring the Nimitz strike group close to shore.  We can   use its air power to attack that army in Arizona.”

“Gentlemen, our top priority is to defend America and protect her citizens.  Right now, her citizens are bleeding and dying in the southwest.  Worst case scenario, there’s nothing there and we wasted a week transporting a fleet across the Pacific Ocean.  In which case, they’re still be on the coast and able to defend California and intercept anything coming across the ocean to attack the mainland.  Best case, they can wipe out this army causing so much trouble for Arizona.”

The Admiral considered this for a moment.  His eyes never left the President’s.  He finally nodded.  “A wise course of action, sir.”

“Good, I’m glad you agree.  Admiral, make it happen.”  Suthby stood up, effectively ending the meeting.  “Gentlemen, I want updates every half-hour and any time a significant number of our troops arrive from overseas, I want to be informed immediately—no matter the time of day.  Understood?”

He received a chorus of “Yessir!” in reply.

Suthby watch them file out of the war room.  He sighed and sank back into his chair.  Staring at the map on the wall, he once again had to fight the urge to admit that he was in over his head.

Is this really what I wanted?  To rule a country so beset by catastrophe and destruction?  If I do what’s necessary to save this nation, will there be anything left worth ruling?

He looked out the stack of papers on his desk and noticed the report that said 90% of all of America’s strategic nuclear weapons were still under direct control of the Armed Forces.  It seemed no matter what happened to America’s troops overseas, she still had the ability to obliterate entire nations with the push of a button.

Suthby smiled.

CHAPTER 23

Falcon Down

FALCON DRIVER LIEUTENANT COLONEL Caroline “Kitty” Edwards had to double check her targeting computer.  Just a moment ago she had delivered a 1000 pound JDAM on a Russian BTR.  The doomed vehicle had made its way toward one of a string of Army observation outposts along the Hudson River.  As she pulled up and away from the river and looped around to the west, the targeting computer chirped to tell her that all targets had vanished.

She ignored the dizzying blur of roads, trees, and buildings outside her canopy as she rolled the powerful single engine ground attack fighter into a hard right-banking turn.

There you are…  She had no trouble spotting the burned-out husk of the BTR belching black smoke into the crisp autumn sky.  Likewise, the remains of two transport trucks parked next to the wrecked personnel carrier were easy to see.  She glanced down at the blank HUD.

“What the hell?” She tried to lock-on manually but the damn computer fought her—it insisted there was nothing there to target.

“Joker Lead, this is Four—I just lost my targeting computer!” said the voice of her wing man, Captain Tom Rivers, callsign “Geek”.

“Lead, this is Six—I got a glimpse of some funky interference or something before mine crapped out, too…”

“Lead copies all—Jokers, try to lock on manually,” Edwards commanded.  In frustration, she snapped her F-16E into a hard roll and roared over the Hudson, drawing some small arms fire in the process.  She hoped someone down there would target her plane, so the computer would have to recognize a threat.

“Joker Lead, Two, we still got tone up here,” said the voice of her squadron XO, Major Wally Hendricks.  Wally’s six Falcons were operating north of her position, trying to counteract the Russian advance.

On their way into the fight, Edwards had seen the Russians pouring out of tunnels halfway up Manhattan Island.  She knew the main force of Americans was anchored at the Holland tunnel where General Stapleton had set up his HQ.  She had split her fighter-wing and sent half with Wally.  She tasked Wally with stopping the Russian flanking maneuver and protecting the flank of the American ground troops along the Hudson.  Her planes would attempt to defend General Stapleton’s HQ.

“Copy that Hangman,” she grunted.  She rolled her fighter to the left.  She switched frequencies to contact the American ground forces and glanced down at the scrambling Russians below.

“Army, this is Joker Lead—all our targeting computers just tanked.  I think the Russians just applied some jamming gear…”

Before she heard a reply, the digital instrument displays in the cockpit blinked and jiggled before restarting.  Every alarm in her cockpit went off, creating a confusing symphony of electronic wails and whistles.  “What the hell?” she said.

“Geek!  What happened?  My screens are all—” a sickening fear settled in her stomach as she pushed the stick hard over and the plane did not respond.  One of the louder alarms alerted her to the fact that the powerful General Electric F110 turbo fan engine that propelled her fighter through the skies had flamed out.  Without the computer guidance and electronic control system, without the power generated by the engine, she had no way to control the speeding fighter.  Her ailerons and flaps were all controlled electronically—Edwards’ F-16 took on the flying characteristics a large gray brick.

She fought the rising panic that was welling up inside her as the plane began to wobble in its flight path.  She kept trying to restart the engine and the targeting computer.  All the while she frantically called out over the radio for anyone who could hear: “This is Joker Lead, I’ve lost all power, lost all electronics, lost all controls.  I’m going in!  Mayday, mayday, mayday!”

Edwards knew by the stunning silence that either her radio was not transmitting or she was not able to hear the replies of her fellow pilots.  Either way, a cold, calculating part of her brain—well-trained over her long distinguished career as a pilot—told her that she only had a few seconds before she had to pull the ring and eject.

Her crippled F-16 started to roll to the left and sailed over the Hudson River, heading downtown.  The moment before she looked down at her dead instruments for the final time, she saw something odd sticking off the top of a skyscraper.  It looked like the biggest radio tower she’d ever seen.  There were all kinds of equipment and people swarming around its base.  It looked like it had been slapped on top of the building—recently.  The jet wobbled in the air as her computer’s oddly accented female voice whined, “Pull up, pull up, pull up, pull up…”

She tore her eyes off the strange radio tower and tried one more time to start the engine.  A gust of wind buffeted the dying aircraft and it began a slow steady spiral down towards the ground.  Instinct told her now was her last chance.  She reached down between her legs and grabbed the divided yellow-black metal ring.  She pulled up and back as hard as she could.

Edwards felt more than heard a series of loud bangs.  There was a bright flash on both sides of her peripheral vision.  The next thing she knew she felt the cold wind outside her aircraft slap her in the face.

Edwards felt like her entire body was being pressed down through the seat of her flight suit as her back took the brunt of the force involved in the ejection process.  She watched in disbelief as the cockpit fell away from her in a heartbeat and then all she heard was the roar of the wind rushing past her helmet.  For a split second she was completely weightless, suspended at the top of her ejection arc, yet not quite falling.  The seat flew off, pulled by its own parachute.  Her parachute opened and after a smooth jerk, she found herself drifting over the surreal landscape below.  Her back throbbed and her neck felt like she’d been in a car accident, but she was alive.  The same could not be said for her plane.

Edwards gasped as the bitter wind abused her face.  The parachute twisted and she was able to see the burning ruins of what was once the picturesque New York City skyline.  The blanket of smoke hanging over the city went straight up and then ballooned out in all directions.  Looking down, she saw tiny Russians on the eastern bank of the Hudson scrambling to get out of the way as her plane careened down towards their position uncontrolled.  She smiled, secure in the knowledge that even though she’d lost her plane, she would at least take out another vehicle that belong to the Russian invaders.

Drifting east through the smoke of a city on fire, she could see that odd radio tower again.  It looked so out of place.  There were definitely people scurrying around the base and even more down on the street.  She could see several military vehicles down there. What the hell is that?  Is that what killed my bird?

A shot rang out from the streets below and her heart skipped a beat.  She glanced down over the tops of her boots at the ground a few hundred feet below.  She was going to land in Russian occupied territory.  There were several figures milling about, watching her descent with some excitement.  From her vantage point, she could tell they were all armed with rifles.  Spotlights lit up the smoke around her as she drifted into the noxious clouds swirling through the concrete canyon of downtown Manhattan.

“Oh, this is not good…”

GENERAL STAPLETON STOOD ON the embankment with his hands on his hips and surveyed the damage caused by the repulse of the first Russian attack.  His command center had barely survived.  His headquarters was in a smoldering ruins, he had lost about 20 good men, and the Holland Tunnel entrance was completely destroyed.  While that prohibited the Russians from making another assault in this direction, it also stopped him from launching his own planned assault on downtown New York City.

The Air National Guard had done one thing and that had been to put an effective and immediate stop to the first Russian advance on his position.  After that, it turned into a comedy of errors.

One of the F-16s had soared over the Russian lines blowing up vehicles and dispersing troops.  As it lined up for another attack, however, its wings had started to wobble, flares started spitting out the things ass and then it slowly started to spiral in towards the Russian position like a wounded duck.  General Stapleton assumed at first it was just the pilot showing off.  He was, after all, a simple infantryman at heart.

The maneuver certainly looked fancy enough to be some sort of stunt, to his eyes.  He saw the pilot eject and watched as the airplane soared straight down and crashed into the Russian lines.  He knew then something had gone terribly wrong, because it wasn’t the only airplane to do that.  He’d watched in horror as three of the six F-16s fell out of the sky.   It was as if they had suddenly given up the will to fly.  Almost as soon as the airstrike had begun, it was over.

The remaining three F-16s circled well west of the Hudson and one of the pilots had explained they’d lost all contact with the other fighters after electronics failures had been reported.  The last thing Stapleton had heard, the lead pilot—the first to go down—had radioed in some kind of strange Russian jamming that not only affected radar, but the planes’ electronics as well.

“That’s one hell of a jamming device, to be able to the knock planes out of the sky like that…” he muttered to himself.  Over his shoulder, he called, “I saw a parachute in the smoke over there.  We get the pilot back?”

He heard the major radio that question up to the remaining F-16s that were circling the Hudson like angry hornets.  One of their own had gone down—their squadron leader, no less—into enemy held territory.  General Stapleton knew exactly how he’d feel under the same circumstances.  Something had to be done.  Now.

He focused his binoculars across the river to the two ferries and a handful of smaller boats that were lined up on the docks on the far side.  It looked to him like the Russians were preparing to cross the river.  Damn fools.

“Now that,” said Colonel Vinsen as he crested the top of the embankment, “is just plain crazy.”  He stood next to Stapleton looking across the river with his own binoculars.  “It’s suicidal.  They know we hold this bank.  Why the hell are they trying to send infantry across?  They have no air support.”

“It may not matter,” muttered Stapleton, eyes still on the boats across the river.  He could just barely make out the figures milling around on the docks.  “Whatever knocked our planes out of the sky, the Air Force hasn’t been able to get past the river.  If our planes can’t get in there, we may as well not even have them.”

“I’ll have the men deploy at the positions you marked out,” said Vinsen.  He lowered his field glasses.  “Armor should be returning soon.  I’ll have them positioned back across the interstate and out of range of anything Ivan might have.”

“Poor man’s artillery,” grunted Stapleton.

“You betcha.”

Stapleton nodded his consent.  “Well, let’s bring the division up and prepare for the assault.  I want the bulk of our forces to the north.  We lost three outposts up there—I’m not in a mood to let the sons of bitches get away with it.”

“Yes, sir.  I’ve already dispatched the cavalry.  They’ll loop around to the west and come in from behind to secure what’s left of those tunnels the Russians used earlier.”

“Very well.”  Stapleton lowered his own field glasses and turned to climb down off of the embankment.  “Have our top recon squad form up by the tunnel entrance.”  He glanced up at the smoke filled sky.  “Those pilots saved our asses—the least we can do is go rescue…” he turned around.  “Who was in that plane?”

“Uh,” said Major Winston.  She looked at a sheet of paper in her hands, smeared with blood.  “Lieutenant Colonel Caroline Edwards.  Fifteen-year veteran, three tours in the Sandbox.  She’s decorated, sir.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” muttered the general.  “We’re sure as hell not letting her stay over there.”

“No, sir,” growled the Colonel.  “I know just who to send.”

“Do it.  I want us in and out, clear?  We’ll hit ‘em with the tanks and make a fine diversion.”  He handed the field glasses off to one of his staff and then called out, “Lieutenant, get me NORAD on the line.  I need to talk to the President.”

There was a good chance, he worried, that if the Russians somehow managed to break through his lines, they’d pour into eastern New York and have free reign in the state.  He’d been out of the loop for too long and didn’t know how many—if any—units had arrived from overseas.  He also didn’t know who the hell was in charge and who would be sending reinforcements his way.  However, he knew that he had to swallow his pride and contact that S.O.B. claiming to be the president if he was going to get anything else done offensively.

Damn all politicians, he thought to himself darkly.

As the lieutenant returned with a sat phone in hand, a shout went up from one of the sentries on top of the embankment.

“Ships!  We got us a fleet, out there, sir!”

“Of course we do,” Stapleton growled.  He remounted the embankment grumbling about old soldiers and bad knees.  Slightly winded but standing astride the top of the river wall once more, he looked in the direction that the soldier was pointing.  Sure enough, off in the distance on the horizon several shapes appeared.  Big ships.

The question was, whose were they?  Stapleton grabbed his field glasses again and focused.  They were definitely warships, he could tell by the silhouettes.  Those were no commercial vessels.  They were long, lean, and looked menacing.  The distance was still too great for him to be able to tell what flag they flew.  He hadn’t heard anything about any Navy assets arriving on scene, but then again, he hadn’t really had very meaningful conversations with the man claiming to be president, either.

Stapleton chewed his cigar.  “Anybody see any flags?”

A half dozen or so soldiers that were standing on top of the embankment responded in the negative.  “They’re still too far out, sir.”

“Winston!”

Behind him on the ground behind the embankment, the major’s response wafted up.  “Yes, sir?”

“Scrounge up some radio gear, I don’t care how you find it—we got us a fleet of about ten… no, twelve ships out there on the horizon.  South-southeast.  See if you can raise them.”  He chewed his unlit cigar in silence for another few moments.  “And while you’re at it, see if you can find any other friendlies in the area available to assist us.  Air Force, Navy, Marines… Hell, I’ll even take a Coast Guard cutter at this point!”

“Understood, sir.”  Winston replied.

Stapleton focused his attention on the largest of the vessels on the horizon.  It had to be one big son of a bitch.  For the first time in his professional life, General Thaddeus Stapleton prayed to God the Navy was on the way.

CHAPTER 24

Abandon All Hope

AT LAST, THE DAY had arrived.  Erik and the other prisoners were going to make their break for freedom.  He had been on watch a few hours earlier and had only rested lightly since.  He heard the rattle of the lock and chain on the outside of the door and quickly whispered an alert that went around the darkened room.  The men got up and into their places.

Erik felt his heart rate pick up.  He pretended to be asleep on his side, his back to the door.  This time, Erik made sure he was a good 10 paces inside the room.  With the usual crash of a heavy boot on the wood door, dim light entered the room.

As usual, two Russians entered.  Erik rolled over onto his other side to watch them enter and take a peek straight out the door behind them.  One had a gun trained on Erik, the other looked warily around the room.  They were alone.  Erik shifted his gaze to the prisoner hiding in the shadows to the left of the door.  He nodded at Erik.  Erik waited until the Russians were almost on top of him before he gave the agreed-upon signal.

"Morning fellas!"

The Russians paused.  Erik had never greeted them before.  The Americans hidden in the shadows on either side of the door quickly stepped behind the guards as two more men on either side attacked them.  The men behind the Russians clamped their arms over their faces so they couldn't scream for help.  In seconds, the two Russians were on the floor, tackled by three or four Americans each.  Purnell stepped up and grabbed the discarded rifle.  He moved to the door and stuck his head out before ducking back inside.

"Coast is clear," he whispered.  "There's nobody out there.”

“All right guys," said Erik when he got to his feet.  "It's go time."

The unconscious Russians were dragged off to the far corners of the cabin where they were bound together and gagged with strips of rotted cloth.  Erik’s men quickly relieved their prisoners of any useful tools, weapons, or food they had in their possession.

When everybody was as well armed and ready as possible, they gathered at the door.  Purnell split the 23-man unit into squads.

Erik took a knife from one of the Russians and led a five-man unit tasked with freeing the women and children.  Purnell took the main body of Americans to the administration building where they planned to confront Captain Stepanovich personally.  The rest of the men had been tasked with releasing captives from the other buildings.

Erik waited at the door while Purnell led his squad out and the remaining prisoners spread out among the other cabins.  He turned to the five men waiting behind him waiting in the darkness.  "Let's go."

Erik wove a path way through the pines.  The Bible camp was so deep in the woods that the other escapees were already lost among the trees.  A gentle breeze wafted between the trees.  It felt good to feel cool air on his face.  Above him, the tall pines whispered to each other under the dome of smoke from Orlando.

Erik paused behind a particularly thick pine.  He peered around the trunk and saw a pair of cabins in the distance.  All they had to do was get past those, sneak around to the south through another copse of trees and they would arrive at the rear of their target building.  "Okay guys, almost there.  It’s on the other side of those buildings," he said, pointing through the trees.

"Easy as eatin’ pancakes," said one of the men.

"Quiet!" another hissed, "Guards, 2 o'clock.”

Erik waited until the guards were facing away and deep in a conversation before he gave the order to attack.  He and his men sprinted across the cleared ground and pounced on the guards.  The first fell under the assault of two men into a pile of flailing arms and legs.  The second guard had just enough time to turn and elicit a surprised gasp before Erik tackled him head-on.

In the ensuing struggle, Erik forgot that he still held the knife.  When he disentangled himself, he noticed that the blade had sunk deep under the Russian’s ribcage.  The man—not much more than a teenager, really—gasped for breath like a fish out of water, his eyes wide and darting left and right.  He tried to speak through the pink-frothed spit which bubbled up from his lungs.

Erik sat back on his heels.  His hands trembled and dripped crimson blood on the dirt.   He stared at the handle of his knife as it stuck up out of the Russian’s chest.  Muffled screams behind him announced the death of the other guard.  Erik looked from his hands to the soldier and back one more time.  He had stabbed…a boy.

“You okay, sir?” asked one of the men as he helped himself to the Russian’s gear.

Erik just stared at him.  He couldn’t answer, not with all that warm, sticky blood on his hands.  How could he be okay?  He was responsible for a long, lingering, painful death…of a child, really… Thoughts and worries raced through his head as if a dam had broken.  The kid hadn’t even been looking when Erik had attacked him like…

Like that escaped prisoner that attacked Brin and Susan back at the Freehold.

Erik shuddered and closed his eyes.  What’s happening to me?  What have I become?  Erik saw a replay of the   convict’s face as he’d driven his katana through the man’s neck.  How surprised he had looked…

“Sir?” asked a voice, tight with tension.  “Sir, are you okay?”

Erik opened his eyes and the world rushed to meet his reeling consciousness.  He glanced at the ring of dirty, desperate looking men.  Americans.  Escaped prisoners.  He looked down at the struggling form of the dying Russian at his feet.

The young Russian thrust a blood-stained hand at Erik, seeking help or mercy.  He tried to speak again and coughed on his own blood.  The fear in his eyes was real.  It made Erik’s chest tighten with sympathy.

He had his whole life ahead of him…maybe a girl back in Russia.  Now he knows he’s about to die, to go see whatever God he believes in…or just to…end.  The thought was almost more than Erik’s tortured mind could bear.

Rough hands shook his shoulder.  “Sir, snap out of it.”  Corporal Delano’s voice cut through the doubt and fear in Erik’s mind like a knife.  “I feel sorry for him, too.  He’s just a kid.  But dammit, he’s the one who invaded our country.  He’s the one who killed our friends.”

Erik stared into the man’s eyes.  Delano was completely void of compassion or hesitation.  The corporal waited for Erik to finish the Russian.  He took Erik’s knife from the Russian’s chest with a sickening squelch and offered it to Erik by the blood-slick blade.  He raised an eyebrow.

Anger suddenly flared in Erik.  Delano was right.  This kid—maybe he had been drafted—picked the wrong country to invade.  He put on the uniform, he shot his rifle and he took his chances.  The house always wins.  Erik frowned and thought of what the Russians had done to Brin.  All doubt vanished from his mind.  He was suddenly ashamed.   Erik snatched the knife and drove it deep into the Russian’s throat.   He felt the blade bite deep as it sliced the spinal cord.  The boy’s eyes flew open and his body stiffened before the light faded from his eyes and it was over.

Erik ripped the knife free from the boy’s neck and stood, anger clouding his face.  He was about to move toward their target when he noticed Delano stripping the Russian’s uniform.  “What are you doing?” he whispered.

“For the fence.  You said they had barbed-wire around the women and children, right?” Delano asked.  He tugged at the torn, bloody shirt.  “When we get there, we throw this over the wire and use it to make a hole.”

By the time they arrived at the building housing the non-combatants, Erik’s group had swelled to nearly fifteen men.  They had been joined by others, freed from nearby cabins.  So far, not a shot had been fired.

As far as he knew, the Russians were completely ignorant of the prison break.  That was confirmed when Erik crawled to the edge of the treeline and saw four guards milling about smoking cigarettes in the yard behind the women’s building.  They laughed about something, unaware that death waited in the forest just twenty feet away on the other side of the fence.

Delano moved his team into the shadows along the treeline to Erik’s left.  Erik found a man to relay the plan to the rest of his squad, spread out to his right.  He settled in to wait for the signal from Purnell.   Eventually, the guards split up and causally moved to the four corners of the yard.

Corporal Delano returned from the left flank. He whispered, “They’re nervous, sir.  Rooks, like the one you knifed.”

“Rooks,” Erik muttered. Like the one you knifed.

“Shouldn’t be too hard to take ‘em down when Sarge lights up that admin building.”

“Wonder how he’s going to—” Erik began.  A ground-shaking explosion split the night and the roaring overpressure knocked everyone on their assess.

“Fuck!” hooted Delano.  “Sarge don’t know how to do anything if it ain’t big and loud!”  The others chuckled quietly as they witnessed a glowing fireball ascend into the gloomy pre-dawn sky.

Erik watched the four guards as they raced toward the expanding pillar of smoke and debris on the far side of the women’s building.  It was the best chance they’d get.

“Now!” he hissed.  He ran forward and draped the bloody clothes that Delano had collected over the barbed-wire and pushed down.  He found it surprisingly easy to hold the wire down far enough for a man to clear the fence without slowing his stride.  They rushed by in a blur to attack the guards who had slipped around the building.

“Here, sir, let me.  Go get your wife,” Delano said, suddenly at Erik’s side.

“Thanks—everyone follow me!”  Erik charged across the exercise yard and rushed into the open side door of the women's quarters.  He could hear the sound of a dozen men hot on his heels.

A nagging thought occurred to him that he’d heard no shouting or gunshots from the men who’d raced off to attack the Russian guards.   Had his men so completely surprised them they’d been taken down without firing a shot?  Erik pushed the worries from his mind as he descended into the pitch-black of the women's cabin.

He immediately felt something was wrong.  There was no sense of presence.  When he’d been there the day before, people and cots had been stacked like cordwood along the long walls.  There’d been screaming children, entire families.  There had to have been close to a hundred people.

Erik slowed to a stop and peered around in the darkness.  There should damn near be a riot going on.  Right now.  Erik heard nothing, except the confused mutterings of his own men searching the darkness and the occasional distant gunshot from outside, muffled by the wooden walls of the cabin.

“Sally?  Where are you?” called out one of his men.

“Mel, baby, it’s me!  We escaped!  Mel?” said another.

"What the hell?"  Erik said.

“Where is everyone?” asked Delano.

“Brin!” Erik shouted.

A deep rumble from outside caused everyone in the building freeze.  Erik turned toward the open door.  A string of gunfire erupted from outside.

"Trap!  It’s a God damn trap!" a man outside shouted right before he was cut down.  Erik saw the spray of bloody mist that hung in the air for a split second after the man's body crumpled to the ground.

"NO!" Erik cried.  He was so close.  He’d seen Brin here yesterday!  All he had to do was get out of this building—she had to be here somewhere.  As one, the men around him began to scatter and seek shelter.  He nearly dropped his knife when someone crashed into him in the darkness and screamed about his own children.

The far wall exploded in fire and light.  When Erik picked himself up off the floor, he could see the shining headlights of the Russian BTR through the gaping hole in the wall.  Rubble, shattered bricks, and chunks of wood had been scattered for 20 feet in all directions.  Under the watchful gaze of the BTR, Russians poured in through the wall shouting commands and waving rifles.

A flashlight snapped on and floodlights brought in from outside.  The interior of the women's cabin was illuminated for the first time and Erik saw that his entire team had been well and neatly trapped by more than 20 Russians armed with assault rifles, backed up by an armored personnel carrier.

The thought occurred to Erik that he should turn and run.  Escape, the voice urged him, get out, do anything possible to get away.  You’ve got to come back and save Brin another day.  But the Russians had thought of that, too.  Erik turned to look at the door that they had entered from and saw three more Russians throw the body of an American to the floor.

It was over.

"Brin…" Erik whispered.  The chill hand of depression began to worm its way around his heart.  For one shining moment, a flicker of hope had kindled in his soul—he would be able to pull Brin and Susan and the kids from this despicable place and escape.  They could reunite with Ted somewhere on the outside.  The chance they would actually be able to make their way north and escape the whole war… It had seemed so damn close.  And now…

As the Russians dragged him away, handcuffed and gagged, Erik did not resist.  All care and worry for himself had vanished.  Only one thought remained as he was shoved through the door.

Where had they taken Brin?  And how the hell was he going to find her now?

Damn you, Ted.  Where the hell are you?

CHAPTER 25

SAR

MALCOLM STOOD IN FRONT of the floor-to-ceiling window and sipped a cup of steaming coffee.  He examined the mug in his hand which proclaimed the previous owner had been the world's greatest boss.  He smiled and looked once again out over the skyline of New York City.  His city.  The city of the Brotherhood.  The last bastion in the northeast.  He simply had to hold the city—just long enough for the rest of the U.N. to arrive.

"When are the rest of our friends supposed to arrive, again?" he asked.

"Two more days, Brother Malcolm," said Samir, perusing a report.

Malcolm turned back to the window and gazed out over the rooftops, just starting to catch the first rays of the dawn.  Somewhere out there to the west, the Man—the one who had killed Tahru and destroyed Chicago—gathered his forces.

This time, Malcolm told himself, there will be no running away.   I will stand and fight.  To the death if necessary.  New York will be an example to the world of what the Brotherhood can do.  He glanced over his shoulder at his Russian liaison officers.  This time, I have help.  And more is coming.  Soon.

"Brother Malcolm, we are receiving word from one of our scouts that there is a concentration of the Man’s soldiers at the Holland Tunnel."

“Tanks?”

“No.”

Malcolm turned around and put his coffee cup on the closest desk.  He walked over to a large desk that displayed a map of New York.  He looked down and traced the line of the Holland Tunnel with his finger.  “They want their pilot back.”

“They will never get her.  I made sure that our best men are watching her.”  Samir puffed his chest out with pride.  “The Russians are mad, but I told them she was our prisoner.”

Malcolm looked up at Samir and said, "Are we ready?"

His lieutenant nodded.  "Yes—I made sure of it myself."

Malcolm looked back down at the choke-point the Holland Tunnel interchange provided for the Man.  This General Stapleton, he thought, thinks he will be able to roll over us, force his way into Manhattan and use this as his entryway.

"We have many new recruits." he said.  “Are they ready and in position?”

Samir nodded again and adjusted his glasses.  "We do," he said, “and they are.  It is strange, though.  They only decided to join when they found out that they would get a chance to fight real soldiers.  During the rioting and demonstrating, when everything was about trying to gain the attention of the world, very few outside the Brotherhood spoke up."

Malcolm smiled. "It means," he said, “that our brothers and sisters are ready for a fight!"

"Well," said Samir, "the Man appears to be spoiling for a fight as well.  I think it will start at the Holland Tunnel.  Our friends,” he said, glancing at the Russians, “have already broken through the barricades to the north and are pouring across the river."

Malcolm glanced out the window when he saw sunlight reflecting off something in the air.  He pointed. "You see?  The Man sends his helicopters and drones to spy on us when he discovers his jets are useless.  You are right, Brother Samir.  I believe this is it."

Malcolm stood and raised himself to his full height.  The men and women of his support staff stopped their tasks and watched.  When Malcolm had complete silence, he stretched out his arms, and proclaimed in a loud voice: "Are you ready for a war?"

The cheers of his people were cut short by the muffled sounds of explosions.  Malcolm looked out the window and saw puffs of smoke along the Hudson.  He grabbed a pair of binoculars and peered through the smoky haze outside.

“Artillery fire,” said one of the Russians in a thick accent.   He moved up next to Malcolm.

Malcolm frowned at the Russian. I know you are a spy for Kristanoff.  Gotta keep the natives in line, right?

“Where did they get artillery?” he asked.

The Russian shrugged.  “Could be pulled behind Jeep.  Could be self-propelled.  Could be missiles.  Could be many things.”  He grinned.  “Be glad we are here and not there,” he said with a nod toward the line of smoky mushrooms sprouting along the western shore of the Hudson.  Buildings shook and trembled, facades crumbled, windows shattered and still the barrage continued.

“I don’t see any guns on the shore over there…” Malcolm muttered.

The Russian chuckled.  Malcolm gritted his teeth and gripped the binoculars so tight he half-worried they’d break.  He thinks I’m some ignorant civilian.

“If they use proper artillery—or even tanks—they could be mile or more away.  We will never know where they shoot from.  Better to know where they shoot at—and be somewhere else, dah?”

Malcolm swallowed his anger as a building crumbled and collapsed into the river.  Even as far away as the other side of the island, he could feel the floor tremble with the massive structure’s death.

“Dah,” he replied.

MR. PRESIDENT, WE’VE GOT the uplink from the SAR team now, sir,” said the soldier’s image on the computer screen.

Hank Suthby felt himself grin at the confirmation of his office.  President Suthby.  Damn if he didn’t like the sound of that.  He was beyond happy that the Joint Chiefs accepted the Congressional Resolution to name him President pro tem.   When the Press acknowledged the truth, he would be home free.

The President rolled up his sleeves and sat down in the large swivel chair at the head of the massive conference table.  Others began to move toward chairs around the table, bringing papers and coffee cups with them.  They were finally going to see what things looked like on the ground in New York and no one wanted to miss the show.

President Suthby’s NORAD War Room was up and running at full capacity.  It was an exact duplicate of the room deep under the White House, deep under Cheyenne Mountain.  Even a direct hit by a Soviet-era nuke wouldn’t penetrate to this room.

“What are we looking at here, Colonel Vinsen?” asked President Suthby.  He looked at the monitor on the wall, showing the view from a recon soldier’s helmet-mounted video camera.  The picture was slightly out of focus.  He tried to hide his anger that General Stapleton himself wasn’t conducting the video briefing.  The man was infuriating—he had claimed some urgent need for his presence elsewhere and sent this colonel to do his job instead.

“This is the helmet cam of…” the colonel’s image shifted a little as he read a piece of paper.  “Major Michael Hughes.  He’s part of my advance recon group.  Major Hughes will be leading the rescue attempt.”  The officer’s image turned off-screen.  “Winters, ask him to get things a little better focused for us…”

A few seconds later, the image from Major Hughes’ camera blurred to the right and suddenly came into focus.  “Is that better, sir?” asked a booming voice.

“This isn’t two-way?” asked President Suthby, leaning back in his chair and signaling to have the volume dropped a little.  “I thought this was the Digital Division?”  A few nervous titters echoed around the room.  The constant whump-whump-whump of a nearby helicopter caused glasses of water to vibrate on the conference table.

“Sorry sir.  This is all we could scrape together on the fly.  Most of our best gear is still in-bound from Fort Hood.  That blur there is Manhattan.  Hughes’ team is in a Black Hawk being dropped in on our side of the Lincoln Tunnel.”

“Our side?” asked the President.  “Wait, the Lincoln Tunnel?  I thought General Stapleton was set up at the Holland Tunnel?”

“Yessir,” said Colonel Vinsen’s stark image on the small monitor.  The grizzled commander appeared embarrassed.  “The other side of the tunnel is considered occupied territory, sir.  No one goes in.  No one comes out.  When the Russians made their assault, the Holland was pretty much destroyed.  We’ve moved our teams north to the Lincoln.  We lost an entire company in there before the General arrived and issued orders to hold the line.  Governor Watkins insisted the National Guard be deployed and they were never heard from again…”

The camera panned to a man standing next to Major Hughes dressed in gray-black uniform and fully-loaded for combat.  Pouches full of ammo were strapped to his tactical vest and he carried a small pack for supplies, but was not overly burdened.  They were there to rescue Lt. Col. Edwards and get out.  The soldiers on the screen stared in disbelief at what they saw across the Hudson.

Black smoke hung like a cloak over the lower-half of Manhattan Island.  Even from this distance, it was easy to point out the conflagration that raged in the heart of the city.  Fires were everywhere.   Midtown was hidden completely by smoke.  Brooklyn, Queens…everywhere in the vast metropolis, it seemed to President Suthby, fire and smoke poured into the sky.  Towers of smoke rose into the atmosphere.

President Suthby cringed as he thought about all the anger and hate that must have fueled those fires.  It hurt his soul to know that Americans were causing the damage down there.  “My God, it’s worse than 9-11.”

He made a mental note to follow-up with the Chief of Staff of the Navy.  They needed to get a few ships up to New York to put on a show of force, ASAP.  He didn’t need to complicate his position with the U.N. any further—they needed New York, not a pile of ashes.  It was the price for international recognition as legitimate leader of America.  At the same time, he had to show he was doing something or the American people would never forgive him for allowing…this.

At the terminals of the Lincoln Tunnel, police cars were easy to discern as a thin line of multi-colored strobe lights holding back the apparent anarchy that gripped Manhattan.

MAJOR HUGHES’ SAR TEAM had gathered just inside the shadow of the tunnel’s entrance.  There were ten soldiers, including himself.  They all knew the mission, they knew the risks.  They were willing and ready to go get that pilot back.  Everyone was locked, loaded, and ready to rumble.  He keyed his throat mic and turned to look toward the command tent in the distance.  “We’re good to go, Colonel.”  He hoped on a sour note that the President—whoever the hell he was—enjoyed the show.   It would be difficult enough to retrieve the pilot without worrying about being a cameraman.

“Roger that, Seeker 1, Actual.  Good hunting.”

“Let’s load ‘em up,” Hughes ordered.  His XO, Captain Jonas Summers turned and shouted over the noise of an approaching Black Hawk.  The team to climbed up into the waiting Stryker Infantry Fighting Vehicles, ten feet inside the tunnel.  The massive, eight-wheeled diesel rigs were too wide to fight side by side, so one, equipped as a reconnaissance vehicle, was farther down the tunnel.  The headlights of the two rumbling behemoths lit up the tunnel like daylight.

As his men filed up the rear ramp, Maj. Hughes sighed and looked around the American encampment.  A veteran of two tours in the Sandbox, he’d never expected to see anything like this on U.S. soil.  It looked more like a scene out of Tikrit than New York.

“Seeker 1, Actual, Seeker 2-1.  We’re all set,” reported Summers.  Hughes had to cover his earpiece with a gloved hand to block the noise of the Black Hawk as it landed.  He stood there in the downdraft, squinting as dust and pebbles stung his face.  The side door opened and a medic waved to the waiting crowd of orderlies and injured.  A few soldiers rushed forward carrying stretchers loaded with wounded.

Maj. Hughes hoped the President got an eyeful.  A pair of medics rushed past him with a bloody soldier on a stretcher, shouting for the helo to wait.   He shook his head and joined his men in the rear of the second Stryker.

PRESIDENT SUTHBY MARVELED AT the image on the wall-sized screen.  It was beyond odd to see a military helicopter loading wounded soldiers in the middle of the toll-booth area at the Lincoln Tunnel.  He watched, hypnotized, as the Black Hawk clawed its way into the sky and turned west, heading for its next stop.  Hughes’ camera swiveled back to show the open interior of an APC packed with soldiers.  The camera tilted to the right as Hughes leaned around the side of the vehicle and the President could see there was another of the huge machines further down the tunnel.   A red light illuminated the vehicle’s interior, casting an eerie glow on the soldiers’ grim faces.

A loud klaxon sounded as Maj. Hughes entered the armored vehicle and took a seat along the right hand wall.  The camera angle made it hard to see, but it looked to the President like the Major was peering at some sort of computer screen.

“Roger that 2-1, let’s roll,” said the major’s voice in response to some unheard radio transmission.  The video feed shimmered with motion-induced feedback.  “Gonna be kinda rough in here, Mr. President,” he said.  “Hope you’re still with me…”

“Oh, don’t worry, son,” said President Suthby as he leaned back in his chair.  An aide handed him a glass of Scotch on the rocks.  He took a sip and watched the screen.  “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

AT THE LOW POINT of the tunnel, the lead Stryker began the long, bumpy climb back up toward New York.  Major Hughes watched it on the screens in his vehicle.  The small monitors served as windows, depicting the dark world outside the armored Stryker.  Hughes frowned at the abandoned cars which choked the tunnel.  Even over the rumbling of the big diesel engine, he could hear the sound of the first Stryker smashing cars and trucks out of its way.  Broken glass and plastic glittered in the lights of their armored transports as the soldiers drove uphill toward the tunnel exit.

“Cars getting thick up here, sir.  Gonna have to slow down some,” advised the driver.

So many people were trapped down here when the shit had hit the fan back in the summer…they just got up and left their cars.  He peered through the camera into the gloom around them as the Stryker rumbled forward.  He decided that if his car had been stuck down in the belly of this dark tunnel, he sure as hell would have left it, too.

“2-1, Actual.  Tell your driver to keep the hammer down.  That pilot is counting on us.”

“Roger that.”

Hughes turned and looked over the troops in his vehicle.  To a man, they were busy checking and rechecking weapons.  A few casual nods and hand motions were all the talking they needed.

“Starting to detect light up ahead.  I think we’re almost there,” said the voice of the driver.

“2-1, Actual.  Watch for movement at the exit.  Keep it scoped.”

Soon enough, the darkness ahead of even the rear Stryker began to give way to the light of day as they climbed higher up the exit ramp.  As the mouth of the tunnel widened, the lead Stryker pulled off to the left and Maj. Hughes’ driver parked on the right.

“Right here’s, good,” Hughes called out over the vehicle command frequency.

“Yes, sir,” replied the driver, hidden in the cockpit forward of the vehicle commander in his turret.  He brought the vehicle to a stop behind a crude barrier made of abandoned civilian cars.  The camera showed swirling smoke so thick it appeared to be an overcast day.   Just behind them on the other side of the tunnel the sun was shining in afternoon glory.

“Any contacts?” asked Hughes as he manipulated the camera control to pan around the tunnel exit.  He zoomed past a sign pointing toward New York 495 and peered into enemy territory.

The streets on the other side of the barricade were deserted, but trash, debris and a few bodies were in plain sight.  Ash fluttered about in the air and the ever present smoke created patches of fog that drifted through their field of view.  Abandoned cars on sidewalks and in the middle of the road made the scene before him surreal.

Hughes glanced down at the map on his forearm digital display.  The blinking blue dot—the last known location of the pilot—glowed over a park to the south of their location.  He pinched-zoomed and saw it was Washington Square Park.   That was where he’d start the search.

“Driver, can you get us through this barricade?” he asked.  “We need to get moving south.”

“Hooah, sir.”  The Stryker shuddered as the driver shifted into gear.  “Hold on to your butts, ladies.”

IT WAS CLEAR TO the President that the people of New York had mostly fled on foot when the rioting began and spread with the fires.  The initial violence had apparently erupted from Midtown Manhattan.  The worst damage seemed to be concentrated just outside the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel.

Major Hughes swung his head back around to look at the soldiers inside the Stryker and the image on the screen in the War Room blurred for a moment, then focused once more.

“We’ve had reports of runners in this area, so everyone stay sharp when we disembark,” Hughes said.  He pointed at one of the grim-faced men.  “That means you, Compos.  No heroics today.  I ain’t telling Maria you got your ass killed over this, you get me?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the man with a barely perceptible nod of his head.

“Eyes in the sky say the road’s clear all the way to our target area,” said a voice off-camera.

The camera panned left as Hughes turned around to see the speaker.  Then it tilted down as another soldier unfolded a map by flashlight.  Hughes reached out to help steady one side as the paper crinkled, the noise loud even over the rumble of the Stryker’s engine.

“God damn, this town is big…” the soldier muttered quietly, examining the map.  The camera got a good shot of Hughes’ hand on the edge of the map.

Suthby frowned.  “Can we get him to move?  I can’t see anything…”   He looked around the room but only saw shrugs.

After a discussion over fields of fire and small unit tactics that the President found completely uninteresting, the soldier finally folded up the map and tucked it away.  Hughes turned to look at his wrist-mounted map.  The screen showed some unintelligible symbols and a blinking blue dot.

“All right, people—we’re approaching the target.  Get your shit wired.”

The screen jerked as their vehicle came to a stop and the engine cut off.  After the constant droning of the Stryker’s engines for the past 30 minutes, the silence was deafening.  None of the soldiers moved.  It was as if they were holding their collective breath.   President Suthby heard a barely audible, low, constant rumble.

“What’s that?” he asked to an aide.  The younger man shrugged and walked over to a control panel to ask a technician.

“What’s all that noise?” echoed Major Hughes’ voice on the main screen as he checked his M-4.

“I got nothing up here!” called out a voice from in the semi-darkness.

“That’s the driver, sir,” offered the Chief of Staff of the Army.

“I gathered that,” said Suthby with a sour note.

“Camera’s not showing shit.  All right, pop the hatch, let’s have a look-see.”  Hughes jostled for position as the soldiers got to their feet.  He did one more visual check of his men and then hit the hatch release button.  The lights went out and a green flashing light lit the crew compartment.

“Stay frosty, people.”

The sound of hydraulic pumps and seals releasing crackled over the speakers in the War Room just as a pencil-thin beam of light appeared on the screen and began to widen into an all-encompassing white.

MAJOR HUGHES RUSHED OUT of his Stryker rifle up and at his shoulder.  He took three steps off the ramp and scanned his immediate surroundings.  Seeing no threats, he moved to the side of the big APC and took a knee to get his bearings.  Behind him, he could hear his men fanning out and securing the area around their vehicle.

The driver had parked in the intersection of 5th Avenue and Washington Square North, pointing the nose of the Stryker right at the Washington Square Arch.  Hughes found himself on the right side of his vehicle, facing west.  The apartment buildings that lined the street on the north side had been partially burned to the ground.  Soot-covered rubble blocked the road further west where one had collapsed.

Hughes keyed his throat mic.  “Seeker 2-1, Actual.  I got bodies in the street up Square North.  How copy?”

“Five by, Actual.  We’re out and in position.  East is clear.”

“Get across the street into the park, let’s see what we can find.”

“Roger that.”

“Anybody got a visual on what’s causing that noise?” Hughes asked as he watched his team leapfrog across the trash-littered street into the park.

“Negative,” replied one of the men.  “But someone sure did a number on the arch.  There’s two cars sticking out of the damn thing.  Stinks over here.”

“That’s ‘cause these bodies been here since the summer, man.  Shit…”

“Cut the chatter—”

“Hey!  I got foot mobiles to the east!” called out a voice behind him.  Hughes spun around to see one of his vehicle commander point east from the hatch on top of his Stryker.

A car full of people careened around the corner of University Place.  A hubcap flew off the left front tire and continued to clatter across the street.  Hughes jerked his head back to the right to peer down the street and his rifle followed a split second later.

The car fishtailed as it approached, tires squealing.  Arms of various colors were flailing out every window.  Three more cars followed in pursuit, guns popping in the distance.  A bullet ricocheted off one of the Strykers and whistled over Hughes’ head.  He ducked around one charred corner of the arch.

“Cover!” he yelled.

His team scattered and sought defensive positions.  The men that had been in his Stryker gathered around the base of the Arch.  Captain Summer’s squad fanned out into the parkland nearby, hiding behind trees and walls.

“Permission to engage!” said the Stryker commander.

“Granted!  Give those civvies some cover,” ordered Hughes.  Rules of engagement be damned, there was a car-load of people fleeing for their lives from three groups of men with guns.  He knew his squad was tasked with finding and rescuing the pilot, but his orders to not engage the enemy outside of those parameters had chafed him from the moment he’d read them.

Hughes leaned around the corner of the Arch in time to see the .50 on top of his Stryker erupt in an ear-splitting rattle of fire and lead.  The first of the pursuing cars stopped as if it had hit a brick wall.  The hood crumpled under the computer targeting system’s relentless assault.  In less than a second, the car exploded and collapsed on the ground in a flaming heap.  The turret on the Stryker swiveled to the next car, which swerved around the first and crashed into a brownstone townhouse.

Hughes shifted his gaze to the third car.  That driver whipped his car out of the line of fire and pulled a U-turn in the middle of the street.  The engine raced and he left black marks in the road as he exited the area.  The Stryker sent a few rounds downrange and shattered the car’s rear window.

DANIEL GASPED AND LEANED forward over the conference table next to President Suthby.  “What’s happening?   What’s causing that static?”

“Some kind of interference, sir.  It’s not on our end,” said a technician in the shadows behind the group.

“Sssh!” hissed the President.

Major Hughes’ helmet-cam rolled around the corner of the Washington Square Arch.  Less than a block away, the car full of refugees had crashed into a street lamp.  The result was a tangled, broken mess of metal and flesh.

“Sir!” Captain Summers grunted off-camera, aiming his M-4 down the street towards the accident.  The barrel of the weapon appeared on the left of the screen.  “Do we render aid?”

Static blurred the screen, partially obliterating Hughes’ reply.  “—two men, but make it quick.  We’re not here to engage the enemy,” replied the major.   The image on the screen focused on the smoking hulk of the car wrapped around the light post.  Two people had been ejected through the bloody, shattered windshield.  A third—or what looked like part of a third person—hung from the rear passenger window.  Debris and broken glass covered the intersection.  Hughes’ camera could pick out at least five bodies and pieces of bodies spread out around the crash site.

The President heard shots fired in the distance.  They sounded like firecrackers.  The screen shifted as Hughes crouched and ordered commands for his soldiers to take cover.  After a moment, when no attack came, he spoke, “They’re just shooting—”  More static broke through.  Then it cleared and the screen shifted back to the car crash and the two soldiers cautiously picking through the wreckage.

“Any survivors?” Hughes yelled.

“Negative, sir!” replied one of the soldiers.  “God, what a mess.”

“Fine.  Get back here,” Hughes said and waved at the two men to return to the main group.

“Sir!  I got a lock on the seat transponder!” said a new voice off-screen.  Major Hughes jerked his head around to find the soldier who had spoken.

“Where?”

A soldier with his rifle on his back and carrying a black box strapped to his chest pointed south.  “That way, about half a click.  Good signal strength, sir.”

“Let’s move out, ladies, we got a pilot to rescue!” Hughes called out.  The image panned down as he thumbed the fire selector on his rifle.

“Keep an eye out for cars, people.  Can’t tell who’s who right now,” called out Summers’ voice.

MAJOR HUGHES WATCHED HIS soldiers move out using two-man elements. They covered both sides of main north-south path through the park.  Two men jogged up the left side of the path covering their field of vision.  Across the way another two man unit did the same, covering the way in front of the team across the path.  The entire unit leap-frogged this way across the park, never encountering a single soul.  Every now and then gunfire and screams echoed on the wind.  It was tense progress and by the time they reached the southern edge of the park, Maj. Hughes was sweating and ready to blast the first thing that moved.

Where the hell is everyone?

“Hold up,” crackled Captain Summers’ voice in his ear.  “We got the ejection seat.  Retrieving the data recorder now.”

“Got a blood trail here,” said another voice.

He saw everyone in front of him take a knee and scan their flanks.  Maj. Hughes took a quick look and seeing no threat, jogged up the path from his position in the middle of the column to find Summers at the front.  He found his XO crouched behind the brick wall facing Washington Square South Street.

“What’s up?” he whispered as he took a position with his back against the wall.

“Paulie found the blood, sir.  She was here all right.  Lots of boot tracks.  We’re thinking something like five or six guys got her.”

“Shit,” said Hughes.  “Do we know what direction?”

Summers nodded.  “Southeast,” he said, motioning with his hand caddy-corner across the street.  “Blood trail leads that way but stops at the street.  My guess is the Russians got her and moved her to a vehicle.”

“God damn it,” hissed Hughes.  “If we’d been given the green light earlier we might have had a chance at finding her.”  He leaned against the wall and adjusted the grip on his rifle.  Now where do we go?

“Listen,” Summers said, holding up a hand.

Hughes was silent for a moment.  He heard the chirping of birds in the trees around them, another faint scream in the distance and…there.  Something was making a repeating sound, carried ever so faintly on the wind.  It was there, then it wasn’t.

“A drum?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“I think so.  It’s getting louder.  The natives are getting restless.”

Hughes ignored the dry humor.  “Any contact with HQ?”

Summers frowned.  “Not since before we left the Strykers.  Whatever that Russian thing is that brought down our pilot, it’s killed our comms above squad-level.”

“Line-of-sight only,” muttered Hughes.  “This day just keeps getting better.”  He shifted his weight and paused.  He heard something new.

“Voices.  You hear that?”

“Yeah,” whispered his XO.  “Kinda echo-y. Like someone talking on a loudspeaker.”

“Sirs, look,” said a soldier on the other side of the park entrance.  He pointed down the street to the south past a sign that proclaimed the next block belonged to the NYU Skirball Center for the Performing Arts.

Hughes stood up enough that his head crested the wall.  He saw a pickup truck speeding towards them, only one headlight shining through the smoky gloom.

“Cover!” said Summers.

It was too late---the speeding truck had already closed enough for one of the passengers to spot the soldiers.  The truck swerved towards them and the horn began honking.   Hughes watched, incredulous, as the truck slowed and turned broadside so that a few of the figures in the truck bed could brandish weapons.  Gunfire erupted and rounds began to chip away at the brick wall.

The soldiers scattered and sought cover, dodging bullets.  The eagle-eyed corporal across the entrance to the park jerked and tumbled to the ground.  He thrashed about and screamed until his partner dragged him out of the line of fire.

“Return fire!” bellowed Hughes.  He squeezed off a three-round burst.  His squad’s M-4s fired back with resounding barks, causing the men in the truck to duck and jump out on the other side.  Compared to the distant firecracker pot-shots, his soldiers sounded like they were carrying field artillery.

One of the men to his rear let loose with the squad M-60.  Hughes ducked back around the wall to make sure his men were behind adequate cover.  To his horror, he saw another soldier, face-down in the middle of the path leading back into the park.  A pool of dark red was spreading from under him.

The heavy-weps sergeant stepped up past the body of his trooper and brought the big Browning automatic to his shoulder.  “Rivers, Trent!  Get Immelsen behind that tree!  Move!”

“Summers, get someone across the street—flank ‘em!”

“Sir!”  The squad’s XO moved off into the bushes and took two soldiers with him.

Hughes turned back to see the casings fly around Sergeant Rykes as he thundered away at the rebels.  The noise from Rykes’ M-60 was intense and the truck quickly transformed into Swiss cheese.  One black skinned arm popped up over the truck and fired a pistol blindly, jihadi style.  A round struck Rykes in the chest and he staggered backwards before he fell to the ground in a stream of curses.

“Rykes!” screamed Hughes.  He turned his attention back to the truck and poured three-round bursts into the crew cab to keep the occupants nervous.  “Someone check on him!” he called over his shoulder.

“He’s okay!” replied a voice behind him.  “Vest took the round.”

Hughes refused to let up the pressure on the truck.  Most of the rebels had taken refuge on the far side of the bullet-riddled vehicle.  The passenger in the front seat hadn’t been lucky enough to move.  Blood smeared the inside of what remained of the shattered window.  The damned horn continued to honk.  It almost sounded like a pattern—some kind of code.

“Oh, shit,” Hughes muttered with realization.

“We got company!” yelled Summers over the radio from across the street.  He crouched in a doorway.   “Comin’ in from the south!”

Two more cars appeared in the smoky haze, speeding down the street guns blazing.  Rebels were being drawn to the gunfight like sharks to blood.

“Major!  We got trouble on our left flank!”

MAJOR HUGHES, HIS BACK to the wall, turned to his right and took aim at the late model Ford Crown Vic heading towards their embattled position as it picked up speed.  Hughes must have spotted the driver.   He squeezed off a controlled three-round burst and the windshield exploded.  The car swerved to the right and crashed headlong into the Skirball Center.  A handful of rebels screamed as they fought each other to escape the wreckage.

The President and his senior advisers watched with no small amount of a satisfaction as Hughes directed more fire into the side windows of the car.

Static filled the screen again.

“Damn it all,” muttered the President.

The image returned, but look like a 1950s TV broadcast.  Static snow danced across the screen.  The President could feel a headache in his future.  The camera shook as Hughes got to his feet and moved along the wall toward the stalled car.  He paused to fire a few more rounds with his M-4 and in the process, risked a look over the wall at the intersection.

The street thugs had set up their cars in a loose “Y” formation anchored on the shot-to-hell pickup.  They crouched behind the shelter of the “V” of the Y.   Summers and his team were still across the street.  Hughes could see they were in danger of being flanked.  Once the other cars had arrived on scene, Summers’ mission to get behind the truck had been nullified.

In a brief break in the gunfire one of the rebels behind the bullet-riddled pickup truck lobbed a flaming bottle towards the park entrance.

“Molotovs!” Hughes called out, but it was too late.  The bottle clipped the top of the wall, exploding in a fireball and spreading a blanket of flames over a soldier positioned nearby.  The gooey flames dropped with a splash down on the doomed man, containing him in a gelatinous hell.

“Napalm?” screamed Hughes.  “Summers!  Get out of there!  Everyone, pull back!”

“Jesus.  Homemade napalm,” muttered the Chief of Staff of the Army.  President Suthby waved at the man to be quiet.  It was like watching the most realistic movie of all time.  He didn’t want to miss a second of it because some General wanted to have a running commentary.

“These assholes are acting like guerrillas, not street thugs!  What the hell is going on?” someone shouted off-camera.

“Where the hell are the Russians?” muttered the Air Force General.

The camera depicted the beginning of an orderly retreat by most of the Americans.  Hughes pointed at a soldier nearby.  “We need to give Captain Summers a chance to get back across the street.  Grenades—on three!”

The static-filled view on the screen swiveled down to show Hughes’ hand as he ripped a fragmentation grenade from his vest.  He looked up at the other soldier and nodded.   They both pulled pins.

“One,” he said and looked down at the grenade in his hand.

“Two…”  The camera panned back up to look at the other soldier who nodded, arm cocked and ready to throw.

“Three!”  Hughes grunted and the camera jerked as he lobbed his grenade with expert aim towards the pickup truck, joining another in the air.  The grenades bounced just in front of the truck then disappeared under it before exploding.  The back of the truck lifted into the air, buoyed by the explosion of unused napalm bottles.  Rebel fighters flew in every direction.  The shockwave knocked everyone down within thirty feet.

Hughes was blasted over as he cursed.   The camera image blurred and shook until at last it focused on the smoke-filled sky.  Bits of flaming debris coated in napalm rained down.

“Christ,” Hughes grunted while struggling to his feet.  “The hell did they have in that truck?”

Captain Summers appeared in the field of view as Hughes got to his feet and helped a wounded soldier up.   He began to drag a screaming soldier with him.

A few men held the line and provided covering fire with a steady stream of rat-tat-tat triple bursts.  The surviving rebels in the street had regained some composure and began to return fire.  More and more of the rebels dropped to the street as the soldiers began their withdrawal.

“Go, go, go!  Back through the park—head for the Strykers.  All units, head for the Strykers!”

“Why don’t they just call the tanks?” asked the President without taking his eyes off the wall-sized screen.

“Uh, I think they call it a fighting vehicle, sir, not a tank,” said Daniel.

“Whatever, why the hell don’t they just radio for them to come help?  They’re armored, right?”  He squinted at the static in an attempt to follow the action.

“Well, sir, they’re having communications issues, sir,” said the Chief of Staff of the Army.  “Major Hughes mentioned line-of-sight earlier.  That means they can only communicate with someone they can see.  It’s a side effect of the Russian jamming device, I’m afraid.  Like the static we’re seeing.  Our people are trying to come up with a work-around.”

Something bounced off Hughes’ helmet, causing his head to jerk forward and the image to fill with static again.  The President saw the image clear as Hughes spun to his left and faced down a side path shadowed by smoke and trees.  A few kids screamed defiance and threw bits of trash and rocks at him.

“What the hell are you doing?” he screamed.

“Fuck you, Whitey!” one of the youths hollered, lobbing a piece of wood.

The President could tell by the voice it was a girl.  “Good Lord, she’s just a child!” he lamented.

“This is getting out of control,” muttered the Admiral.

“We gon’ kill you all!” shrieked the image of a boy next to her as he threw rock.  It sailed harmlessly past his head as Hughes ducked, skewing the camera image on the large wall screen.  The President gasped as the rock appeared to fill the screen before it disappeared.  A chorus of anti-Whitey screams and curses rained down on him along with rocks and sticks and broken bottles.

“Screw this.”  The muzzle of Hughes’ M-4 suddenly appeared on camera, aimed down the path and let loose a three-round burst.  The kids screamed at the noise of the rounds buzzing just feet over their heads.  The noise was deafening in the confined space of the war room and the children scattered like so many rats.

“Fuckin’ kids are against us, too!  They’re throwing rocks!  What the hell is this, Palestine?” commented Summers as he appeared at the edge of the screen.

“To hell with them—look!”

Instead of twenty or so gang-bangers hopping about shooting randomly, there were hundreds and hundreds of people down the street to the south.

“Do my eyes deceive me, or are there white people in that crowd?” asked the President.  “I was under the impression that most of them had been run out of New York?”  Everyone in the War Room watched the main screen as the mob arrived on the scene and flowed toward the soldiers like a river that had jumped its banks.

“You gotta be kidding me!” said Hughes.  The front row of people—kids included in the mix—held all manner of sticks, rocks, bottles, guns, clubs, baseball bats…anything that could possibly be used as a weapon.

“Keep moving!” he ordered, snapping the soldiers out of their momentary stares.  “Head for the park’s north entrance—we gotta reach those Strykers!  No one gets left behind!”

In short order, Hughes and Summers were all that stood before the streaming mob from south of Washington Square Park.  “Grenades!” called out Hughes.   Summers’ image pulled out two grenades from his pouch just on the edge of the screen.

The mob temporarily checked itself.   The front ranks appeared uncertain.  Those on the far edges began to filter through the trees and move to the left and right.  The tide could not be contained and flowed in all directions as long as it moved forward.

The front ranks of the mob looked questioningly towards the center.  This was not lost on Hughes.  His camera saw in the middle of the front row a few black men dressed in suits—they looked very out of place with the rest of the rabble.   “Hope you’re getting this, NORAD…”   The image crackled with static.

A voice rang out across the distance between the mob and the soldiers loud and clear.  “My Brothers and Sisters, here is the Man!  Allah has delivered us to this point!  The Man will try and scare us, but we are far stronger than him—and he knows it!  Trust in Allah to guide us through to victory!  Kill them all!” he roared.  The crowd behind him thundered its approval.  Gunshots erupted and peppered the ground around Hughes and his XO.  The image sharpened abruptly.

“Someone grab a screen-freeze!” ordered the Chief of Staff of the Army.  “I think that’s—”

“Now!” said Hughes.  Summers threw his grenades on the edge of the screen.

Hughes did the same, then, before they hit the ground:  “Run!”

The image suddenly filled with soldiers as they raced toward the north entrance of the park.  Grenades went off like bombs behind them.   Hughes glanced over his shoulder as he ran, wobbling the image enough that one of the staffers in the War Room turned away and threw up.

Even the President had to admit he was a little queasy after watching the shaky camera for the past two hours.  He tried to combat the unease in his stomach by focusing on the wave of humanity bearing down on the soldiers as they retreated.

The terrified screams of those who had taken the brunt of the grenade blasts caused a mass panic among those trapped behind them.  The explosions ripped through the first couple of ranks, rending unprotected bodies into so much hamburger.  The throng wavered under the devastating attack of hand held explosives and rifle fire, then erupted in all directions, killing many more in the stampede than the two officers had with their grenades.

A cloud of low lying smoke funneled down the canyon-like street, visible to Hughes’ right.  Over the noise of the frenzied mob, the deep throaty roar of two enormous diesel engines began to resonate through the War Room speakers.  A few more zig-zag steps to dodge bullets and Hughes caught sight of the Strykers.  The drivers had already turned the big vehicles around and had the ramps lowered, ready for the retreating soldiers.  The first of their unit had already taken up positions by the massive armored vehicles, sending rounds downrange toward the mob over the heads of their comrades.

“There they are!  Move!” shouted Hughes.  He waved the men forward.  “Open up that fifty!”

The President couldn’t hear the driver’s response but Hughes barked a laugh as he ran.  The turret-mounted .50-caliber on the command vehicle swiveled around and belched smoke and fire and noise in a constant stream of computer guided mayhem.  Hughes slammed his back against the relative cover of the brick wall at the north park entrance.  He panted, his breath booming through the war room speakers.  He risked a glance around the corner and saw the grisly effect of the big M2.

Rebels in the first rank of the mob were ripped to shreds in puffs and sprays of pink mist.  Panic ensued and spread the crowd in a stampede.  Some fought those behind in a vain attempt to escape the marauding machine gun mounted on top of the Stryker.  The steady bap-bap-bap-bap drowned out everything except Hughes’ voice as he yelled for the last soldiers to climb aboard the waiting transports.

A sickening thwack erupted over the speakers in the War Room.  More than one person gasped.  The President nearly jumped out of his chair as Hughes turned his head and everyone watching saw a body crash to the street mid-stride.  They had been just a few steps from the safety of the Stryker’s waiting ramp.

Summers cried out in pain as he clawed at his leg.  He struggled to get to one knee.  Hughes bent without hesitation and threw him over his shoulder.  The camera tilted at an odd angle and shook as Hughes made for the Stryker, encouraged by the shouts of his soldiers waiting inside.

“Goddammit, sir, put….put me down!  You’ll get us both killed!” groaned Summers.  More bullets smacked the pavement around them.

“Pour it on boys!” one of the men inside the Stryker yelled.  Six soldiers took aim and opened fire, creating a tunnel of flame and noise on the screen.  The return of the background roar told everyone in the War Room that the mob had reformed and was out for blood.

The President prayed silently for any wounded soldiers to die quickly.  He leaned forward in his seat, joined by most of the people watching and held his breath, as if staring more intently at the screen might help propel Hughes forward just a little faster.  He was afraid of what might happen should the mob take them alive.

Hughes stumbled and he and Summers crashed into the base of the Stryker’s ramp with mutual grunts of pain.  The camera looked to have been nearly ripped off Hughes’ helmet with the force of the impact.  It hung down at a sickening angle, showing mostly the ground and metal plates of the ramp as Hughes got to his feet.

Summers groaned again off-camera as soldiers scrambled to drag him aboard the armored vehicle.  The President could hear voices from the mob, cursing the Man and threatening all sorts of unsavory activities against the soldiers.  Above it all, the Stryker’s turret roared, sending death downrange.  Still they came forward, surging over the bodies of their dead and dying, refusing to submit to defeat.

“That’s it, hit the hatch!” someone called out.

The camera wobbled a bit as Hughes sank into a jump seat and tried to fix his helmet.  “Driver!  Get us the hell out of here!”  The image began to clear of static.

Everyone in the War Room could hear rounds impacting the side and rear of the Stryker.  They sounded shallow and high-pitched, almost insignificant.  The President supposed that was true.  He’d seen how thick the sides of that thing was before Hughes had tripped at the ramp.  It would take more than pistols punch through the skin of that thing.

After what seemed like an eternity in darkness, Hughes sighed as he noticed the exterior monitors brighten.  Slowly the light built until the screens went white and then readjusted to daylight on the western side of the tunnel.

Medics rushed over to the Stryker even before the ramp lowered to the sound of hydraulic whines.

“I’m Dr. Kipfer, I live nearby and came to help,” said an older man who loomed onto the screen as he gently guided Hughes out of the way.  They pulled him out and set to work on the wounded right there on the ground in front of the tollbooths.  Hughes looked down and reloaded his M-4.  He kept a wary eye on the tunnel and on Summers.

After a minute or so of frantic work, one of the medics bolted for the communications tent.  The volunteer turned to address Hughes with a harried look on his face, unaware he was being broadcast directly to NORAD and the President.  The rest of the squad hovered near by, just in range of the camera.

“I’m sorry,” said the older doctor.  “He’s lost a lot of blood…we can’t do much more for him now.  He’s going to need a miracle.  We’ve called for an air lift…”   The doctor examined Hughes and concluded he wasn’t seriously injured, despite the dirt, rips and blood smearing his uniform.

Hughes said nothing but moved toward Summers’ body.  The camera showed he was breathing, but barely.  He was clearly unconscious.  The medics had set up a field IV drip and kept Hughes from getting too close.  One was compressing some bandages over the open wound in the XO’s leg.

More medics raced over with a stretcher.  Hughes leaned back against a pockmarked M-ATV and tilted his head back, panning the camera into the sky.  “What the fuck just happened?” he said to himself, looking at the smoke-filled skyline of New York in the distance.

The civilian doctor returned to the other medics, standing a ways away, observing the scene in silence.  “Guy’s got guts. From the looks of the wounded they ran into a helluva mess,” the volunteer said.

“They all could have died ten times…” the civilian physician shook his head in disbelief.  “And you say he went back to drag this pour man to safety?” he said, looking down at Summers.

“4th/ID, Doc.  We don’t leave our own behind,” Hughes growled as he brushed past.  The camera recorded a look of surprise on the old man’s face.

Overhead, another Black Hawk, marked on the side with a giant red cross, made its noisy approach just a minute too late.

CHAPTER 26

Home Waters

ADMIRAL NELLA APPEARED WITHOUT warning at the bridge hatch, startling the sentry.  “Admiral on the bridge!” the young Marine called out as the Old Man stepped through.  The Admiral waved off his announcement and turned to Captain Davis, half-rising out of his captain’s chair.  Another casual wave as he strolled over put the captain at ease.

“I heard about the contacts to our south.  They’re American, thank God,” he said in his gravelly voice.

“Aye, sir,” said Captain Davis, settling back into his chair.  He picked up his binoculars and scanned the horizon.  “The frigate Jonestown, two destroyers, and an Aegis cruiser—Princeton.”  Captain Davis smiled.  “Princeton’s skipper, is my old Academy roommate—Nathan Hollis.”

“Well, let’s raise Princeton, then,” barked the Admiral.

“Go ahead, sir, channel’s open,” said the communications officer of the watch.

Admiral Nella grabbed the closest microphone hanging from the ceiling and held it to his lips.  “Ahoy, Princeton, this is Roosevelt," said the Admiral.  "Sending IFF..."  He nodded at the calms officer, who keyed the correct sequence at his computer terminal.

A moment later: "Copy that, Roosevelt, glad to know you're all right."

"This is Admiral Nella, I'm taking command of your vessels—"

"Sir, without authentication I must follow my standing orders."

Captain Davis reached for the Admiral's mic.  "Holly, you read me?"

There was a pause, then: "Davis?  That you?"

"Last time I checked—how you doing?  How's Betty?"

Another pause.  "She was visiting her folks… When everything…"

"In Miami?  Jesus—"

"Haven't heard from her since all this started."

Captain Davis looked at his admiral.  The older man shook his head sadly, but after a moment, he prompted Captain Davis to continue.

"Holly, I'm sorry…" he said.  Betty had been a friend of his since the Academy—he had even dated her before Nathan Hollis stole her heart.

Hollis sighed.  "Nothing I can do about her at the moment except pray… We all thought you were dead!  God damn it's good to hear your voice.  With all the reports of that nuke—"

"Save it, Holly," said Captain Davis.  He hoped his warning tone of his voice was enough.  "I'll send over a Seahawk—what we need to discuss isn’t for radios."

The voice on the other end of the line grew serious.  "You bet.  I’ll get the other skippers together.  ETA?"

Captain Davis raised an eyebrow at his bulldog of an Air Boss.  The short, wide-shouldered man idly scratched at his brushy mustache as he reviewed a list in his hand.  He glanced out the window at the flight deck, then double-checked the readout and held up one finger.

"One hour," said Captain Davis.

"Very well, we'll be ready.  Princeton out."

CAPTAIN NIKOLAI ILLYANOVICH STOOD at the helm of the Kalinski, one of Russia's state-of-the-art destroyers and smiled.  Here he was, 15 years in the Navy and now cruising in front of the New York City skyline.  Russian troops controlled the island and the Russian Navy now controlled the waters.

It was a glorious first step toward bringing America to its knees.

He would get the Order of Nakhimov for this, he was sure of it.  Illyanovich sipped some strong Russian Caravan tea.  He closed his eyes for a brief moment to savor the smoky flavor and let his imagination drift to the long-ago spice traders sitting around fires at night sipping the same tea.

What a life of adventure that must have been! Ah, but am I not on a great adventure as well?  Conquering America will go down in the history books as one of the greatest military feats of all time…

Illyanovich opened his eyes and turned to examine the bridge.  Everything was running smoothly.  There was hardly any need for him to be present, but he wouldn't miss this for the world.  His ship cruised unmolested into New York Harbor as a conquering hero.  It was exhilarating.

Before him, filling his forward windows, sat the Admiral Kodinski, the greatest ship in Russia’s possession.  He knew that she paled in comparison to just one of the dozen infamous American supercarriers out there, but….  Illyanovich grinned at a sudden thought: there were no supercarriers here to compare with, were there?  No, that wasn’t quite true.  There was one, which he was confident had been chasing him for some time, but it was half-crippled and limping home to a trap.

Her sister carriers were scattered around the globe, too busy trying to survive to worry about making it home.  Those not on the open seas were trapped in dry-dock.  Russian intelligence was convinced the threat of American carriers was minimal.  And Russian intelligence was very, very good.

There was no doubt about it—the Russian fleet coming into view through his main bridge windows was now the ultimate power on the Eastern Seaboard.

"Captain!" called out his second in command.

Illyanovich turned and raised a languid eyebrow.  "What is it?"

His XO leaned over the shoulder of the radar control officer.  He turned to face his captain and said, "Sir, we’re picking up strong signals indicating surface vessels approaching from the south-southwest.  They’re at the extreme range of our detection capabilities… But they must be American forces.  We—"

Illyanovich laughed.  He took a long sip of his tea before answering.  "Nyet, nyet.  Don't get yourself worked up over nothing.  It’s just the token force coming north out of Norfolk.  I received word from Moscow about it this morning," he said nonchalantly.  "The Americans are sending a pathetic show of force—to observe—can you believe it?  Here we are conquering their greatest city and they send five or six ships to observe us.  It is nothing.  Yuri, wipe that frown off your face.”  He took another sip of tea before continuing:  “We have set the trap—the carrier is our top priority and when it has been sunk, then we will deal with these observers.  What a great day for Mother Russia!"

His XO had to wait for the cheer to make its way around the bridge and die down before he could speak.  He glanced out the windows at the tall, smoke-shrouded skyscrapers in the distance.  "Sir, are you sure?  We have no room to maneuver in this harbor—"

“Yes, yes,” Illyanovich said, waving off his subordinate’s concerns, “Yuri, I'm quite sure.  These Americans are all but defeated.  They are going to beg us to save them from themselves.  Did not General Kristanoff tell us how even the rebels readily turned over everything they had to him and his men?"  Illyanovich laughed again.  "Don't worry, once we're in position, we shall have more than sufficient air superiority.”  He raised a finger.  “And do not forget our submarines…"

His XO frowned, completely unconvinced and ever the babushka, but nodded.  “Yes, Captain."

Captain Nikolai Illyanovich took another sip of tea and smiled to himself.  He wondered if he should break out his dress uniform, when he welcomed the commander of the American vessels aboard his ship to observe the capture of New York…

THE SPEAKER ABOVE COMMANDER Umbris’ head broke the tense silence in Hampton’s control room.  “Conn, Sonar!  Contact, bearing 15.9—surface vessels—looks like three or four.”

He reached up and snatched a dangling mic from its post on the low ceiling.  “Sonar, Conn, aye.  Is it three or is it four, Donnahay?  Who are we talking about?” asked Commander Umbris from the captain’s chair.  He stood and moved across the circular command center to peer at a screen on the starboard side that showed an abridged version of what the sonar chief was looking at in the next room.

“Definitely not ours, sir—I’m now registering six enemy surface vessels.  Look like they’re Russian, sir…noisy bastards, too.”

Commander Umbris stepped down off the raised platform surrounding the periscope stack.  “XO has the Conn,” announced the COB.

Umbris walked through the hatch into the boat’s sonar station and put a hand on Donnahay’s shoulder.  “All right, show me what you got.”

“Yes, sir.”  Donnahay pointed at the screen, indicating the growing list of surface contacts.  The computer displayed the sonar return as a constant waterfall of green data.  There were seven “rocks” in the flow, interrupting the waterfall with telltale signs that indicated surface vessels.  “We got seven now, sir.  Whoops, make that eight.  I think we stumbled onto a fleet.”

Umbris pointed at the first ship.  “Is this position correct?”

“Yes, sir, it is.  That’s the Kalinksi-class destroyer we’ve been chasing.  Ivan’s cruising right at the mouth of the Hudson.”

Umbris cursed and snatched a mic from above Donnahay.  He keyed the transmit button.  “Conn, Sonar.  This is the captain.  Bring us up to transmission depth.”

“Sonar, Conn, aye.  Transmission depth, aye, sir,” responded the deep voice of Lt. Cmdr. Whitaker.

Umbris headed back to the control room and made his way to the communication station.  As he walked, he felt the comfortable tilt of the deck as Hampton knifed upwards through the Atlantic, toward a depth of about 90 feet measured from her keel.  Umbris had driven his people hard on their journey across the Atlantic, but they had met the challenge head on.  He was damn proud of his men.

The damage Hampton had suffered during the attempted nuclear strike back in the Eastern Med had, for the most part, been repaired.  He was confident that his boat could now contact naval headquarters and other ships—if they could ever establish an uplink with the satellites.

Why the hell they still couldn’t do that was a mystery.

Roosevelt was a different matter, since she had taken severe damage in the nuclear strike.  The aircraft carrier could no longer contact the outside world and could barely communicate with its own strike group.  In order to talk with Roosevelt’s captain, Umbris had to bring his boat up enough so his UHF/VHF antennae could pick up signals.  Sub commanders never liked going that shallow in wartime.  Umbris would much rather stay deep and hidden, where Hampton could be the hunter and not an easy target.

Hampton and her sister subs were the tip of the spear for Roosevelt’s strike group.  Normally she could be found ranging as far as 200 miles ahead of the aircraft carrier’s main core of ships.  However, since communications were now limited to line-of-sight, she averaged about 15 miles separation.  Dangerously close.

After weeks of navigating the Atlantic—suddenly dark and devoid of any and all commercial shipping—Roosevelt and her strike group was now within spitting distance of the American coastline.  They had been on course for arriving in Norfolk, Roosevelt’s home port, when Hampton discovered a single Russian destroyer wandering out in the Atlantic all by its lonesome.

Well, Umbris thought, wandering around wasn’t exactly what it had been doing.  The damn thing was hauling ass as fast as its twin-screws could propel it through the water.  Her skipper sure as hell doesn’t give a damn about the amount of noise that he’s making.  Umbris figured he could have heard the Russian ship from the other side of the Atlantic.

So Hampton had bird-dogged the destroyer and it led the strike group straight to New York City.  Now the destroyer had joined a larger fleet—no Frenchmen here—this was a real threat.  The Russians were serious when it came to naval warfare.

Umbris stepped back into the control room and stood behind the sailor manning the Hampton’s communication center.  Most of the screens that usually displayed all kinds of radio and electronic transmissions from fleet command or Roosevelt were blank.  “Okay, sir, I’ve got Roosevelt on the line for you,” he said.  He reached up and handed the microphone headset to his captain.

INCOMING MESSAGE FROM HAMPTON, sir," called out a midshipmen from the other side of the combat information center buried deep in Roosevelt’s island.   Captain Davis looked up from his daily reports and his cold cup of coffee.

"Let's have it."

"Sir, Hampton reports: ‘Have established contact with eight Russian surface vessels parked just north of Sandy Hook.  The closer we get, the more ships we’re picking up.  We could be looking at a significant fleet.  Please advise.’  End transmission."

Davis glanced at Admiral Nella, who glared at the floor to ceiling tactical display.  On the left-hand side the outline of the Atlantic seaboard of the United States glowed a pale, transparent green.  Blue arrows in a tight cluster about 300 miles offshore represented the Roosevelt Strike Group.  A single blue point, much closer to the coastline, marked Hampton’s location.  Eight red dots appeared between Hampton and Manhattan.  The Russian fleet.  As Davis watched his Admiral, a ninth red dot appeared.

"It’s a trap," he muttered as he stepped up next to the Admiral.

The Old Man rubbed his chin.  "Could be.  Could also be an invasion force.  We know the Russians have been attacking our people all around the globe—hell, they sank Coral Sea off the coast of Libya…"

"You really think the Russians are invading New York City?" asked Davis.  Even after all they'd seen, he still found it hard to believe that anyone would be so bold as to invade the continental United States.

"Well, we have two options,” said the Admiral.  “We make for Norfolk and hope that it’s still there or we sneak up on Ivan and start a littoral engagement."

The Admiral checked the ship’s clock.  It was time for the subs to surface and receive transmissions.  He turned to the comms officer of the watch.  “We have a live feed with Hampton?”

“Yes, sir.”

He grabbed a mic. "Hampton, this is Nest Actual.”

"Yes, sir,” said Rick Umbris’ voice over the CIC speakers.

"You get any more hits?"

"We just picked up what looks like a 10th vessel.  Sonar signature shows it's an Admiral Kodinski-class carrier.”

Admiral Nella shot a look at Davis.  He brought the mic to his mouth.  “Hampton, execute NEPTUNE GOAL, repeat: execute NEPTUNE GOAL.”

“Aye, aye, Actual.  Confirm execute NEPTUNE GOAL.”

“Good hunting, Hampton.  Nest Actual out.”

"Helm, CIC,” called out Davis.

“CIC, Helm, aye.”

“Adjust course to bring us into New York.  All ahead full.”  He replaced the mic before the order confirmation was announced.

“I will be God-damned if I allow a Russian carrier to park in New York Harbor.  Son of a bitch!” growled the Admiral.

"There's something I thought I'd never see," said Davis as red dots numbers 11 and 12 appeared in New York Harbor.  He touched the controls on the screen and the map zoomed-in to show Manhattan, western Long Island, and northern part of New Jersey.  The Russian ships clustered north of Sandy Hook, blocking the entrance to the Upper Bay.  They moved sedately toward the southern tip of Manhattan Island, as if daring Roosevelt to give chase.  At this scale, Hampton didn't even register on the map.

"I know what you’re thinking," said Nella, holding up a hand to stop Davis before he could object.  “It’s a trap.  It’s clear as day.  They’re leading us on a merry chase right up the gullet of the Hudson.  Then they use their smaller size to keep us pinned between the shores.  Right?”

Davis stared at the Admiral.  “I don’t give a damn what they think they’re doing, we’re going to sink every last one of them.”  He turned away from the glowing tactical display.  “CAP, retask the Hawkeye—I want to know where the Russian fighters are.  Get your intercept squadrons in the air."

"Signal the fleet," said the Admiral.  He folded his arms on his chest and glared at the map.  "Battle stations."

HEY, I GOT NEW contacts over here!" announced the radar control officer on-board Zeus, one of Roosevelt’s two E-2C Hawkeyes.  The twin-prop AWACS had been cruising along at its highest altitude in order to give the greatest range possible to the Roosevelt Strike Group.  Right now they could ‘see’ at least 600 nautical miles in every direction, greatly enhancing the radar coverage that the injured carrier could pull on its own.  They had the Russian fleet parked in New York Harbor in their sights.  Approaching from the south, off the coast of the Delmarva Peninsula, another cluster of ships appeared.

"You tag IFF yet?" asked the voice of the pilot over the drone of the twin turboprop engines which propelled the plane through the sky at a leisurely 400 miles an hour.

The radar technician turned the appropriate switches and smiled at the response his screen displayed.  "They're ours!  I have five ships.  They should be within hailing distance."

"Well, let's see who we got out there, eh?" said the pilot.  "Sure will be nice to see some friendly faces for a change."

CAPTAIN DAVIS, ZEUS IS reporting they've made contact with five new surface vessels to our south—Americans!" said the communications officer.  A cheer went up around the CIC as the tired sailors got their first good news of the cursed cruise.

When the noise died down, Davis walked over to the comms station.  The sailor was lost in concentration as he adjusted the gain on his control panel.  “That doesn’t make any sense, sir,” he muttered.

“What you got?” asked Davis.

“It’s odd, sir,” said the comms officer.  “Zeus says the ships claim they’re under direct orders from CINCATLANT to observe the Russian fleet in New York harbor, not engage."

"Say again?" asked the Admiral, his voice cutting through the background noise like a knife.  Everyone in the CIC went silent.

"Yes, sir, that's what I said,” reported the comms officer.  He touched his headset again.  “Zeus repeats: They are under direct orders to not engage the Russian fleet, merely observe."

"Observe what?" growled the Admiral.  "Damn Russians could be conquering New York City for all we know…”

CHAPTER 27

Apex Predator

IT WAS THE DAY after his failed escape attempt when Erik realized without a doubt that he was going to kill Captain Stepanovich.  And he would enjoy it.

He'd seen death before.  He'd killed before.  The early days of the Troubles back in the Freehold had well-prepared him to face death.  But it had never been like this.

After spending the night in solitary confinement, Erik had been brought to the edge of the pine forest just north of the women's quarters.  He’d been tied to a tree and left there, surrounded by the bodies of the American prisoners who’d been executed for their attempt at escape.  He stood without food or water all day, forced to stare at the faces of the men he’d tried to lead to freedom.  He had spent the morning looking at each corpse, hoping that he wouldn’t find the men from his cabin.  He gave up when he saw Sgt. Purnell staring back at him with glassy, lifeless eyes.

Erik couldn’t even close his eyes—every time he tried to blind himself to the horrific sight before him, the faces of his men floated before him.  It was better to look.  Each one of the men had a single bullet hole in the forehead.  The pile of bodies attracted hundreds of flies that multiplied into countless thousands by the heat of the afternoon.  It was the smell, though, that pushed him to his breaking point.

Captain Stepanovich told Eric that all too often, when a mission went wrong, the officers took the blame and the enlisted walked away Scot-free.  Erik had stoically held his tongue and simply stared at the man.

"This time," the Russian had said with a slow smile.  "You shall pay a price befitting your rank.  However, the price you pay shall be shared by the men who served under you and carried out your nefarious orders."

That had been shortly after sunrise.  Very soon after that, Erik heard rifle shots in the distance.  In a stately procession the Russians had dragged the bodies of the men who had shared his prison one by one across the camp for everyone to see before dumping them in a semicircle at Erik's feet.

He cried—he could do little else.  It went on and on for hours.  He screamed, he struggled, he tore at the ropes that bound him to the tree until he felt blood, slick on his arms and back and legs.  All to no avail.

The Russians left the bodies on the edge of the fenced-in yard where the women were allowed to roam.  Erik knew that at least some of the men at his feet had family on the other side of that barbed-wire fence, just like he did.  And now those families knew that Erik had caused their deaths.

Some small part of him had to admire the Russian.  Erik very much doubted there would be another escape attempt from anyone after this.  He knew deep down that his spirit was one breath from being completely shattered.  He had come so achingly close…

The Russian had also promised the smell of the dead would attract predators at night.  Erik would get little sleep.  By nightfall, Erik had resigned himself to the fact that he would never see Brin again—she'd been hauled away before his eyes.   The Russians had laughed as Brin wept.

As the sun set and painted the gray overcast sky into a watercolor palette of swirling pinks and oranges, Erik prepared himself for death.  He knew what predators lurked in the pine woods of Florida.   At some point, something would get brave and decide to take a bite out of him in order to sample a fresh meal.  And then it would all be over.  He hoped it would be swift.

Rustling leaves behind him sent a chill down Erik’s spine.  Fear bloomed in his chest and suddenly he wasn’t ready to die.  Not when the there was still light left in the world.  Not while Brin might still be alive.  He stiffened against the rough bark of the pine tree.

When the bloodied ropes fell away from his hands, an astonished Erik saw before him a predator.  One far more dangerous than any animal the Russian prison commander could imagine.  An apex predator.

"You okay?" asked Ted.

MAJOR ALEXI STROGOLEV SAT collapsed onto the chair of his temporary command post.  He wiped the sweat from his brow and laid his tanker’s helmet on the polished desk.  With a sigh of relief, he leaned back in the plush executive chair and propped his feet up on the desk.  He grinned at the sight of dirt and sand falling off his combat boots onto the gleaming wooden desk.  He reached out a hand and took an ice-cold Coke from one of his soldiers.

"Sir—"

Strogolev raised a hand for silence as he savored the first crisp, sweet, cold embrace of the carbonated beverage.  After that first gulp burned his throat, he let out a sigh and opened his eyes.  Before him, through the wide expansive windows stretched one of the thousands of lakes that dotted central Florida.  This one had clearly been man-made, custom tailored for the office complex that he was now using as his forward headquarters.

His men were relaxing by the water’s edge.  Some had even took the opportunity to go swimming.  He smiled and took another sip of the cold drink.  Let them relax.  He had driven his men hard and forced his scout brigade far out ahead of Colonel Doskoy’s.

General Doskoy.

Strogolev frowned.  The pompous ass was a general now.  Was there no justice left in the world?  Word came down from Moscow overnight that Colonel Doskoy had shown tactical brilliance in the sack of Orlando and conquest of southern Florida.  For his efforts, Moscow had decided to reward him with a field commission to Brigadier General.

The man had not one ounce of integrity in his body.  Instead of securing weapons and ammunition for his forces or making even a backhanded note of Strogolev’s near complete victory in Orlando, Doskoy had cloaked himself in glory.  All of it.  What was worse, however, was the official ass-reaming Strogolev had received—publicly—after the General announced his own promotion.

He called me too ambitious, Strogolev fumed.  Son of a motherless whore.

Strogolev had been incensed.  He was so mad his only option had been to get out from under Doskoy's presence, take his scout battalion and push toward Tampa.  He chose to focus on the next objective.   Strogolev realized it was childish and petulant to leave in such a huff, but it was either that or he would have pulled his sidearm and shot the General in his pig-like face.  And that wouldn't do his career any good.

So he now found himself about halfway to Tampa.  There'd been token American resistance from isolated civilians and fleeing soldiers, but his scout battalion had been fully capable of handling the surviving Americans.

He had discovered from captives acquired on the road to Tampa that nearly all the local American forces were in retreat.  Any soldiers north of Orlando were already heading for Georgia.  A few of the prisoners had suggested that the soldiers in Tampa were preparing to head north as well.

That little morsel of information was something Strogolev had somehow forgotten to report to General Doskoy.  As far as the general and Moscow were concerned, the Americans were putting up stiff resistance at every turn.  In fact, only the civilians were putting up stiff resistance, Strogolev found.  He had lost six more men just that morning to an IED hidden at a petrol station.

He took another swig of Coke.  The cold, refreshing beverage did wonders for his mood.  His quartermaster had found a stash along the way and had kept it on ice—where he’d found that, Strogolev did not need to know.  No matter what happened, Strogolev swore his quartermaster would receive a promotion.  He looked at the cold bottle in his hands, condensation dripping down its garish red exterior.  The man had earned a promotion and then some.

Despite the fact that it was October, Strogolev found the humidity in Florida oppressive.  He’d never been a fan of the tropics.  Indeed, some of his fondest memories were from time spent training in Siberia.  No, Alexi Strogolev was definitely a cold warrior.

"Sir," prompted the soldier again.

Strogolev closed his eyes and sighed.  He could not keep out the cares of the world for long.  Invasion is such difficult work, he thought.  Looking down at the Coke in his hand again, he smiled.  But it does have benefits.

"Very well," he said with a sigh. “Let's have your all-important report.”

"Sir, we have new communication from Captain Stepanovich."

Strogolev interlaced his fingers behind his head and relaxed in the chair.  “All right, what does the good Captain Stepanovich have to say?"

"Well…" stammered the young soldier as he read the dispatch.  "He… He says…"

"Spit it out, man."  Strogolev's mood was darkening.  The soldier before him was nervous to read the report.  That meant bad news.  "Just tell me what the report says," Strogolev said slowly.  He sat up and placed his hands on the chair’s armrests in a slow, deliberate movement.

"Yes, sir.”  The young man stood at attention and held the paper in straight arms before him as he read.  “Captain Stepanovich reports that there was an uprising at the prison camp yesterday."

Strogolev's boots hit the floor as he stood.  "What?  Yesterday?  Give me that!"  He snatched the paper from trembling hands.  Strogolev scanned the paper, skipping the pleasantries and looking for details.  Thirty-seven Americans involved.  Eighteen Russian casualties.  Four of the compound’s buildings destroyed in fire.  Strogolev looked up at the soldier.  "Was there any radio communication?"

"No… No, Sir.  We have had no contact with Captain Stepanovich since we left Orlando.  Until now."

Strogolev scratched his chin.  He continued to read the dispatch.  "Ah," Strogolev mumbled.  Good old Gregor.  I knew I could rely on you.

Strogolev had become concerned when he thought that Stepanovich had failed to report the uprising as it happened.  However, from the report it appeared that the revolt included the destruction of the prison camp administration building, which housed most of their communication gear.

"What happened, Gregor?" he mumbled.  He dropped the printout on the desk and turned to stare out the window, hands clasped behind his back.

"So…Gregor thinks he has a Special Forces captive.  Very interesting."

Someone cleared their throat behind him.  He turned to see his political attaché standing at attention in the doorway to the expansive office.  "Sir, I think General Doskoy will not be happy to find out about Captain Stepanovich’s unusual…tactics…when dealing with these prisoners."

Strogolev arched an eyebrow at his Moscow-appointed spy.  It was like the Cold War all over again.  The man was a decent enough fellow, but his job was not to be a soldier but rather a witness for politicians back home.  His presence had been thrust upon Strogolev by Colonel Doskoy—General Doskoy—of course.

The little pig of a man had explained that the complications involving Russia's entanglement with the United Nations in New York required that Moscow send observers to make sure that all of Russia's actions henceforward would be in strict compliance with international law.  The resources and land that Russia could acquire through this expedition were far too important to lose over technicalities of minor treaties.  They could not afford to ruffle feathers at The Hague.

"I am not entirely sure, comrade, of what you speak?" said Strogolev.  He folded the dispatch neatly and tucked it into the left breast pocket of his uniform.

"I read the dispatch, just as you did, major,” said the attaché.  He moved into the room, fingers trailing over the dusty picture frames on the walls depicting the previous owner with important politicians.  “Captain Stepanovich has tied an American—whom he believes to be the leader of the little revolt—to a tree and left him surrounded by the rotting bodies of his fellow conspirators.”  He paused, hands behind his back and frowned, taking on the attitude of a schoolmaster scolding his pupils.  “A barbarous tactic, to say the least.  I also noted that the man has been denied food and water as punishment for killing our soldiers.  This is in direct violation of international law against the treatment of prisoners of war.  The Geneva Convention—"

"The Geneva Convention does not apply in this situation,” said Strogolev.  He turned away from the irritating officer and looked out the window again.  A storm gathered on the western horizon.  Light puffy clouds gave way to dark towering thunderheads.  It fit with his mood.

“When this man was captured, Captain Stepanovich informed me that not only was our mystery prisoner not in uniform—he was dressed as a civilian—he was carrying military weaponry and accompanied by soldiers in uniform.”  He turned around to smile at the look of surprise on the spy’s face.  “Since he was not a uniformed combatant, as far as I or anyone in Moscow are concerned, he is to be treated accordingly.  The Geneva Convention does not apply to non-uniformed combatants.  I see no problem with how Captain Stepanovich has handled the situation.”  He fixed the attaché with a dangerous look.  “Do you?"

The political attaché considered Strogolev’s statement for a moment.  He clasped his hands behind his back again and appeared to try and recapture the air of the schoolmaster.  "You may have a point, major.  I will include this in my report to Moscow.  However, I must insist that the man at least be given at least food and water.  We must show the world that we are not nekulturny barbarians, yes?"

Strogolev stood next to his political attaché and watched ducks swim across the square lake below.  The man had a point.  There was no sense in trying to antagonize any limp-wristed foreign governments.  That would do nothing to further his career.  He nodded.  "Very well, I shall issue orders to that effect immediately."

You my friend, he thought darkly, will merit watching.

ERIK’S FINGERS BURNED LIKE frostbite as blood rushed into his hands.  He’d been tied to the tree all day and the pins and needles up his arms and legs were almost unbearable.  If Ted hadn’t caught him, Erik would have collapsed to the ground when cut free.

"Easy—easy there, buddy," whispered Ted as he slowly lowered Erik to the sandy soil.  He looked around.  "Come on, we gotta get you outta here."  Ted gathered up the strips of rope and stuffed them into a pocket.

"I thought you'd been killed...”  Erik felt strength returning to his legs as Ted half-dragged into the bushes.    That was when Erik noticed the Ted was dressed as a Russian.

"What the hell, man?

Ted hissed at him to be quiet.  "Don't be so loud, there are guards still out here.”  He pulled out a large rucksack from under a fallen palmetto.  “This was the best I could find, okay?  Don’t worry, I got some for you, too, if you think your sense of fashion can stand it.  Now strip down and put these on.  I got a pistol for you, too.”

"I don't suppose you have any food or water in there, do you?" asked Erik as he worked at his torn shirt with bloodied, trembling hands.  "Been tied to that damn tree all day and I haven't had more than a sip of water.  No food since yesterday."  Erik could not remember a time when his mouth ever felt so dry.  His stomach had long since stopped rumbling, as he began to accept his own death.  But the thirst had never left.

Ted rummaged in his Russian rucksack and pulled out a bottle of warm water.  Without taking his eyes off the surrounding pine forest, he tossed it to Erik.  "Here, drink up.  There's more where that came from."

Erik tore the top off of the bottle with thick-feeling fingers and drained it in seconds.  He was still thirsty, but the maddening desire for moisture in his mouth had been satisfied for the moment.  Erik leaned back against the stump of the tree as he started to put on the Russian uniform.  His fingers brushed a ragged hole in the front of the shirt as he stretched it over his head.

"I take it you didn't get this from a supply truck?"

Ted grinned in the gathering darkness.  The early evening shadows from glancing across his face made his teeth shine white.  Now he really looked like some sort of devil.  "Yeah, the guy who wore it last didn't want to give it to me when I asked him nicely."

Erik swallowed and tried to get that thought out of his mind as he put on the stolen clothing.  He focused on getting the pants on—no easy task with his abused hands.  "Where you been?" he asked as he struggled with the Russian clothing.

"Never mind me, is…Susan…?  My kids?"

Erik nodded in the fading light.  "She's alive, man, but she needs medical attention and she needs it bad.  She tore open her wound from the Freehold…"

"Yeah,” Ted said.  He sighed and looked down.  “We guessed that when we left the medical depot… I was worried that she…"

Erik finished getting dressed and grunted with the effort.  Instead of filthy and torn scraps of clothing, he now had bloody and torn Russian clothing.   Snatched off a dead man.  He mentally shrugged—at least he was fully clothed.  He finished lacing up his boots and whispered "She's one tough lady, Ted.  Your kids are handling it better than most.  I saw Junior—"

“You saw him?  He's okay?" asked Ted with an urgency that surprised Erik.

"He's fine.  The Russians are treating the women and children a lot better than they’re treating the men, that's for damn sure."  Erik leaned back against a pine and caught his breath.  "I didn't see the others, but Junior was definitely doing okay.  Ted… Susan—"

"If she can make it, she will.  If she doesn't…" Ted's voice trailed off and Erik thought for a moment that he saw his friend shudder.  "If she doesn't," Ted said, his voice stronger.  "I'll kill every one of those sons of bitches myself."

Erik muttered, “Get in line, buddy.”

Ted pulled a pistol out of the pack, a Russian design Erik had seen the guards carry.  “This is the MP-443 Grach.  I know, it looks a lot like—”

Erik took the pistol and held gingerly.  The weight felt good.  “Skip the history lesson, how do I kill Russians with it?”

A lopsided smile spread across Ted’s camouflaged face.  After a few seconds to show Erik how the safety worked and how to rack the slide without tearing a finger off, he handed over two spare magazines.  Erik slipped them into a cargo pocket on his pants and sighted down the barrel of the pistol at a tree in the distance.  The light was failing and he could hardly make out the outline of the pine boughs now.

Ted's voice was suddenly quiet. "Erik, is Brin…?"

Erik looked down, resting his elbows on his knees.  He could feel the individual grains of sand that coated his pants.   "Yes, she's alive.  But… I think the Russians… I mean, I heard…"

Ted's face softened.  He reached out to put a hand on Erik shoulder.  The strong grip on his shoulder gave Erik some comfort.  He wasn’t alone anymore.

"You don’t need to tell me.  Whatever happened, that's between you and Brin.  She's just as tough as Susan.  If anybody can pull through this it's those two.  We had some training on this back in the Corps—when something like this happens, the only thing you can do is be there.  Be there and make sure she knows that you're there for her, but be patient."

"I'm going to kill Stepanovich."

Ted withdrew his hand and the smile returned.  "I like the sound of that voice.  Who’s Stepanovich?" he asked.

Erik frowned.  "He's the son of bitch in charge of this hellhole.  He thinks I'm some sort of Special Forces operative—singled me out for interrogations and beatings… He thinks I'm the one who was leading our escape attempt… He killed those men… They…" Erik's voice began to waver, and he couldn't quite force the words out.

He’d been staring at their faces all day.  Men who’d shared his grief, his punishment, his pain.  They’d believed in him, they’d been thankful for news of their families.  And they’d paid for it with their lives.

"Those men…" Ted said quietly as he looked through the leaves of their hideout towards the bodies stacked up around Erik's tree.  "They didn't die in any escape attempt, did they?"

"Some did…" whispered Erik.  “But only a few.”

"Son of a bitch."

Erik's head hung lower.  "Yeah…"

Ted was silent for a moment, then he reached under the leaves and pine needles by his side and uncovered a long rifle with a large scope on it.  Erik saw a nice, if oddly-shaped wooden stock and what looked like a suppressor mounted on the end of the barrel.  The rifle looked alien.

"What the hell is that?"

"This my friend, is the instrument of our revenge."  Ted inserted a magazine that looked like it only held four or five large rounds.  He dusted off the scope, aimed toward the camp and peered through the scope."

Erik's hand gripped his pistol tighter.  "What's the plan?"

Ted got up and shouldered the rifle.  He turned back to Erik and said, "First, we wait for full dark—shouldn’t be too much longer."  He flashed that demonic smile over his shoulder once more.  "Then we give these assholes something to be afraid of."

THE SUN HAD SET an hour before and Captain Gregor Stepanovich had just finished a satisfying meal with his top lieutenants.  Things were progressing well now that the little rebellion had been put down.  The American soldiers—still over 200 of them—that had not taken part in the uprising had seen what befell their comrades.  Stepanovich imagined that by now their spirits were completely broken.  If not their noses—the stench from the rotting corpses around Larsson permeated the entire camp.

The women and children had been cowed even more than before the uprising.  The situation was perfect.  Everything was back under control, precisely the way Stepanovich preferred.

He politely dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin, then folded it neatly and placed it next to his silverware, just so.  The plate had been meticulously cleaned of the food prepared by his detachment cooks.  They had found a treasure trove of canned meats and vegetables in a storehouse when he’d taken control of this religious retreat.  It wasn’t up to the standards of the meanest chefs back home in Moscow, but it sure as hell beat army rations.

He reached out and adjusted his fork and knife so that they pointed directly at 11 o’clock, tines down.  Gregor Stepanovich was nothing if not precise.  He smoothed the front of his uniform, pushed back his chair and stood.  The junior officers around the table leapt to their feet, one knocked a chair over in the process.

"Please," said Stepanovich waving casually at his officers.  He smiled.  "Continue.  I merely wish to go outside for a smoke and check on our famous captive."

The others sat down quietly and a few resumed picking at their food, but his second in command watched Stepanovich carefully.  It was obvious the man wanted to ask a question and Stepanovich was only mildly irritated that he did not have the balls to speak up.

"You have something to say, Mishe?"  Stepanovich locked his hands behind his back and waited patiently.

"Sir…" stammered the young officer.  Color bloomed up his neck.  "Shall I have a guard go with you?"

Stepanovich laughed.  He had been sure the man was going to offer some sort of rebuke or doubt about the treatment of the Special Forces operative who had masterminded the escape attempt that nearly destroyed the prison.  No food and water was about as lenient as Stepanovich felt at the moment.  Larsson would get his comeuppance, he would see to that personally.  The explosion that had destroyed the administration building had also taken out most of his personal possessions, including his war diary—which he had hoped to turn into a book when he retired.  It's not every day a gutter rat from the slums of Moscow gets to humble the world's only superpower.  He had spent weeks writing that diary and now it was just a charred pile of ashes.

"I don't think we’ll be seeing any further trouble out of Mr. Larsson, do you?"

"Of course not, sir… But—"

"Afraid of alligators, are we?" asked Stepanovich with a wry smile.  When Lieutenant Mishe Uritski opened his mouth again, Stepanovich raised his hand and tried to placate the younger man.  "Very well, Mishe, send a guard—I promise to stay on the inside of the perimeter fence.”  He patted his belt.  “I will have my sidearm, remember?  I don't think I have anything to fear from alligators, raccoons, wolves, jack rabbits—or any other of the myriad creatures that lurk in the night."  The other officers chuckled politely.

He watched in satisfaction as Uritski’s face began to color.  It was good to embarrass the young bloods every now and then.  It reminded them who exactly was in charge.

Stepanovich left the mess hall and paused outside in the still-humid air to light up a cigarette.  He took his first puff and savored the rush of nicotine.  He began to stroll across the camp.  Two soldiers stood at attention as he passed one of the American cabins.  He returned their salutes with gusto and continued his leisurely stroll, satisfied that everything was shipshape and proper.

There would be no rest for his own men, of course.  As there would be no leniency for the Americans.   This camp would be the best prison camp General Doskoy had ever seen.  Stepanovich made a mental note to invite the general to come visit soon, before the ambitious little man tried to catch up with Major Strogolev in sacking Tampa.  Doskoy was only a few miles away at his headquarters based at Disney World, it wouldn’t take him long to arrive.

Stepanovich chuckled as he blew out another lungful of smoke into the dark Florida night.  Disney World.  What a perfect place to house Russia's Southern Command.  The command center was probably inside the famous castle.  General Doskoy always did have a flair for the dramatic.

As Stepanovich approached the clearing where they had tied Erik Larsson, he stopped.  In the darkness, he could see nothing but the dim outline of the tall pine tree that had served as a sentencing post.  But that wasn't what had stopped him in his tracks—it was the silence.

The cigarette hung limp from the corner of his mouth as Stepanovich drew his pistol and racked the slide.  He looked around uneasily.  Something was wrong.  He’d spent enough time in Florida to know that as soon as the sun went down, the world came alive with sounds.   Crickets, cicadas, birds, bats, and God only knew what other disgusting creatures that made noise constantly throughout the nights in this tropical wasteland.

Yet here he was, not 20 feet from where he’d tied his most valuable prisoner and there was nothing but silence.  The only sound he could hear was the whispering of a slight breeze through the canopy of pines above him.  He crouched and slowly began to make his way toward the tree were Larsson had been tied.

The smell hit him first. The stench of the all the bodies was like a physical barrier.  The sickly-sweet odor had wafted all across the camp during the day, but it smelled more like a hint of decay.  Here, facing the wall of death in person, the smell was almost overpowering.  Stepanovich held his breath and crept forward.

Something wasn't right and he had to find out what that something was before he raced back to raise the alarm and looked like a complete fool.  He began to regret not having guards with him.  As he grew closer to the wall of decomposing flesh, he could see where Larsson should have been.

Stepanovich pulled the flashlight off his utility belt and clicked on the small LED light.  The little blue beam was not capable of lighting up a large area, but it provided enough light for him to see that the tree Erik Larsson had been tied to was bare.  He directed the light towards the ground at the base of the tree.  In the sandy dirt, he could see footprints and drag marks.  Something had happened here and Larsson had disappeared—even the ropes that bound him to the tree were gone.  He could see no blood other than some dark smears on the tree itself.  There was no sign of Larsson.

He followed the tracks with his light to the bushes on the other side of the clearing.  Had some alligator appeared out of the darkness and taken Larsson to his death?  Stepanovich swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.  He felt like he was being watched.

Stepanovich shook the foolish thought away.  It was sheer ridiculousness.  Alligators couldn't cut through that many ropes, no matter how sharp their teeth were—they were mere animals, stupid beasts.  Just a big lizard, really.  They would never be smart enough to not only cut the ropes from Larsson’s wrists and ankles but then take them as well.  Besides, there would be blood everywhere…

No, someone helped him escape, or Larsson escaped on his own.

The unnatural silence started to unnerve him.  He turned and slowly looked in all directions holding the pistol out and ready to fire.  Someone was out there, he was sure of it.  He couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched.  His eyes darted left and right and his head never stopped swiveling as he searched the faceless trees and bushes along the edge the clearing.  Someone could be hiding behind any one of those plants, holding a weapon trained on him right now.

It certainly wouldn't do if I were shot out here in the dark all alone…

Stepanovich began to slowly retrace his steps back toward the main compound.  As he drew away from the clearing the stench subsided and he was able to breathe easier.  He backed his way around the path until he was closer to one of the American prison cabins.  He turned and ran for the cabin—it was time to raise the hue and cry.

“Sound the alarm!  Larsson has escaped!"

Stepanovich skidded to a stop as he rounded the corner of the cabin.  There was no one there.  The two guards he’d saluted earlier were gone.  There was not even any sign that anyone had been there.  Anger welled up inside him.  He walked over to the door and noticed in the darkness it was ajar.  He kicked the door open and shined his flashlight into the cabin.  It was one of the smaller ones.  If he remembered correctly, there should've been 15 Americans in there chained to the walls.

The blue beam of light illuminated empty chains and a bare, dirt floor.

Stepanovich turned and shined the flashlight into the darkness of the main prison camp.  There should be guards patrolling this area, he realized.  There was no one.  Anger mixed with fear inside his chest.

What the hell is going on here?

And still there was that unnatural silence.  Where were the bugs?  Where the birds?

Stepanovich spun around again, keeping the pistol ready.  He could feel a cold sweat begin to trickle down his back as he crept past another empty cabin.  His flashlight beam started to tremble slightly and he tightened his grip.  In the distance, the silence around him was pierced by a startled shriek that was choked short.

Stepanovich spun and pointed his gun in the direction of the scream.  He crept across the dirt pathway and headed toward the next cabin.  If he was going to meet his death tonight, he would do it as a Russian, on his feet, shooting his weapon in the face of his enemy.  There would be no cowering shriek of fear from Gregor Stepanovich this night.  He gripped the reassuring solidness of his pistol even tighter as he walked.  He was a soldier.  It was time to act like one.

He rounded the corner of the next cabin and was relieved to see two Russians rush out of the darkness from the other side of the compound, Kalashnikovs at the ready.

"Captain!  Are you okay?" asked the first.  He was a head taller than his compatriot.

"We heard a scream…"

Stepanovich nodded.  He had men to command.  He holstered his pistol, clicked off the flashlight and replaced it on his utility belt.

"Raise the alarm, Erik Larsson has escaped.  The cabin over there," he said jerking his thumb over his shoulder.  "It’s empty—there are 15 Americans on the loose."

The taller soldier pulled a radio off his belt and spoke quickly, alerting the command post.  He looked confused for a moment, then tried again.  "Sir, I get no response."

"What?  Let me see that," said Stepanovich, his hand outstretched.

“I don’t think it’s broken…” the soldier said as he handed over the radio.

"This is Captain Stepanovich, raise the alarm—we have another escape attempt in progress!”  He waited a moment for the air raid siren to start.  Nothing.  Even the damn bugs remained silent.  Stepanovich keyed the mic again: "Repeat, prison break!  Sound the alarm!   Command, answer me, damn you!  Do you read me?"

The radio was useless.  Stepanovich cursed and tossed it back to the tall soldier.  He caught the radio and clipped it back to his belt, a frown forming on his lips.  He opened his mouth to say something and a red mist suddenly erupted behind his head accompanied by a loud smack.  A small circle appeared between his eyes and the man's mouth hung open.   He dropped to the ground in a limp pile.

Stepanovich froze in confusion, looking down at the body at his feet.  Did his eyes play a trick on him in the dim light?  The man had been standing right there when it sounded like he’d been slapped—then he just fell.  What had happened?  He had heard nothing but a wet smack.  Like someone slapping a side of beef with a baseball bat.  The sandy soil turned dark red as blood gushed out of the man's head.  Stepanovich stood there for another few heartbeats staring at the body at his feet, willing his mind to catch up to reality.  The second guard needed no such time to make his assessment of the situation.

"Sniper!"

Stepanovich threw himself against the side of the building in time to see the second guard’s head jerk sideways before he too tumbled to the ground.  The soldier landed on his back, arms and legs spread out like a rag doll.  His day pack kept his chest elevated, but his neck was limp and his head hung backwards at an unnatural angle.

“Shit!” hissed Stepanovich.  He had heard no rifle.  Where was the shooter?  He scanned the darkness but saw no lights in the suddenly oppressive forest.  He bolted for the command center, hoping that whoever the hell was out there would have a harder time hitting a moving target.

THAT’S ENOUGH FOR NOW," Ted announced.  He lowered the silenced rifle to a prepared bed of pine needles on the ground.

Erik was incredulous.  "What do you mean?  Stepanovich was right there—why didn't you take the shot?"

Ted frowned.  "Because I need him alive for this plan to—”

“I don’t understand, that asshole doesn’t deserve to live another second!”

“Keep your voice down, dammit!” hissed Ted.  “Look, I don't expect you to understand what I'm doing.  Just trust me."

"So it was okay to take out the two guards and the command post but not the guy that—"

"Erik, listen to me.  If we take him out, what's stopping the rest of the soldiers from killing everybody in this camp, including our wives?  And my children?" Ted asked through gritted teeth.  He began to slither out of their impromptu sniper’s hide.

Erik shook his head and stared at the prison camp.  Lights flickered on across the clearing and more than a few gunshots popped in the distance.  Erik crawled out of the tangle of bushes, vines, and branches haphazardly thrown together to create a visual break.

Ted crouched behind a large tree repacking his Russian rucksack.  He stood up and shouldered the pack, slinging the rifle over his back.  "Come on, we’d better get the hell out of here before sunrise."

Erik stood and brushed off the pine needles.  "What?  We need to go in there and get—"

"No," said Ted shaking his head.  "We can't go in there right now.  You know that, man.  We go in there now, guns blazing and the only thing that will happen is we’ll get killed and they’ll probably execute our families out of spite."

Erik fumed at the patience in his friend’s voice.  He turned from Ted and stared back toward the camp.  In the distance he could hear faint shouting.  They were on the opposite side from the two buildings that held the women and children.  He turned back to Ted, hands on his hips, slowly bringing his breathing under control.

"All right, we’ll do it your way.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Ted muttered.

“But I still don't understand.  We need to go get Brin and Susan and the kids."

Ted stepped forward and slapped Erik on the shoulder.  "And we will, we will.  Trust me when I tell you, there is no force on this earth that will stop me from getting to our families.  We get them back…and Ivan will pay."  Ted's face was so deadly serious, that for a moment Erik was simply speechless.

Ted turned and made his way north, away from the prison camp.

"I don't know," whispered Erik as he reluctantly followed his friend.  "This feels so wrong.  Every fiber of my being is screaming at me to charge back there and get Brin…"

Ted turned around.  "And that my friend, is what the Russians expect you will do.  I guarantee it, Erik, they've got people in there watching Brin and Susan and the kids right now.  You are what's called a high-value target to them."  He laughed ruefully.  "If they knew the truth about you, this whole thing would be kinda funny.  However," he said, suddenly growing serious, "because they think you're Special Forces and you have now escaped, our families have gotta be in danger.  But I couldn’t think of any other way to go about rescuing them without your help.  There’s only so much one man can do."

"Even if he’s a Marine?"  Erik asked with a smile.

“Recon does have its perks," Ted said with a chuckle.  "Now come on," he whispered.  "Follow me.  We gotta get well north of here by sunrise.  I've got a little camp in the woods.  We need to plan our next move."

"What is it that you think we can do that won't endanger the girls and your kids?" asked Erik as he ducked underneath a low pine tree branch.  The sounds from the prison camp faded into the background and vanished.  The pine forest grew so thick that Erik found it hard to even see the lights of the prison compound when he turned to look.

Ted glanced over his shoulder and whispered, "We need to stay away from gut reactions—that's what the Russians want.  They know they have our families.  They know we’re coming."

"Well, they know I am.  I don’t think they know you’re out here,” Erik said.  He tried to stay on the path that Ted forged in the darkness, but his friend was shorter and the trees didn’t give Ted so much of a problem.  “What about all those guys that were in that cabin?"  Erik asked.  He felt his anger rising once more.  "I tried to rescue them once, I a lot of guys killed, I had to look…”  Erik stopped walking.  “They made me watch, man…"

Ted turned around and fixed Erik with a stare.  "What you've been through the last 24 hours is a lot.  And it sucks.  You lost a lot of men.  Trust me when I tell you, you are not the first officer to lose a lot of men and you won't be the last.”  He looked down thoughtfully.

In a quiet voice he said, “What separates the good officers from the bad is the ability to compartmentalize things.  Yes, it sucked and those men died.   But if you do not push that aside and worry about it afterward, then our families are as good as dead, already."  Without waiting for an answer, Ted turned and continued hiking through the woods.

Despite the fact that Ted walked slow and quiet, Erik found it hard to keep up.  He winced every time he stepped on a twig, or snapped a branch on the ground.  He could not hear Ted at all—it was like the man was a ghost.  Erik felt slightly claustrophobic in the quiet closeness of the dark forest.

“What about the men in that cabin?  Stepanovich went in…it was empty…”

"Don't worry about those guys," whispered Ted from up ahead.  His voice drifted back through the darkness and Erik felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.  "I got them out before I came for you."

A wave of relief washed over Erik.  "Where are they?  Are they going to help us take back the prison camp?"

"Yes and no.  Keep up, will ya?  If you fall behind out here—”

“Hey, I’m no super soldier, remember?” hissed Erik as a tree branch slapped him in the face.

“Neither am I,” grunted Ted’s voice up ahead.  “I’m Recon.  I don’t expect you to be an expert woodsman, Erik, but try to sound less like an elephant, okay?”

“Jesus,” muttered Erik.  “Everyone’s a comedian…”

“Look,” said Ted.  “I sent some of those men off to establish contact in Tampa.  There's all kinds of army units scattered between here and there.  I figured one of them has got to find somebody with radio.  A few others I sent off to find civilians.  We need supplies, weapons, and help.  The rest are at the camp that I made by now, or least I hope they are—I gave them pretty good directions.  I picked the strongest, the smartest, most experienced to be our fighters."

Erik pondered this for a few moments as he crashed through the undergrowth.  "The Russians want to make an example of us…" Erik whispered.

Ted chuckled softly up ahead.  "Well, that's about to backfire.  We’re gonna make an example of them."

CHAPTER 28

Sic Semper Tyrannis

THEY’RE READY FOR US, said Daniel as he held the door open to the President’s office.

President Suthby sighed.  He stood from behind his desk—a poor replica of the one in the White House—and stretched his back.  He had no idea the most powerful man on the planet had so much paperwork to do on a daily basis.  Sign this, approve that, read this, memorize that…there had been a never-ending stream of staffers and aides rushing into his office since the day the remnant of Congress had grudgingly approved his leadership.

Now that the U.N. had also given legitimacy to his reign, he began to see memos and notes from foreign dignitaries and embassies.  Suddenly everyone wanted to meet or talk with the ex-FEMA chief who was President.

“All right, lead on, MacDuff,” he muttered as he followed Daniel down the utilitarian corridor.

“You getting enough sleep, Mr. President?  ‘Cause you look tired,” commented Daniel.

“Oh, I get as much as you let me.  I’ll rest when I’m dead—we’ve got a country to save, right?  So, what’s on the docket this afternoon?”

Daniel checked some papers in his hands as he lead the way toward the briefing room.  “Another video conference with the new Speaker—”

The President groaned.  “Let me guess.  He’s going to remind me that as soon as the Vice President is found—assuming he’s alive—he will be sworn in as the legitimate President for the remainder of Reed’s term.  I’ve heard that threat at least twenty times.  Why does he insist on reminding me of it daily?”

“What’s left of Congress is afraid of you and your new pals at the United Nations, sir.  We’ve got to solidify your leadership by smoothing feathers first.  Stroke their egos and remind them again that you are on a pro tem basis.”

“Anything to distract from the ‘protectorate status’, huh?”

Daniel chuckled.  “You got it, Mr. President.”  Daniel nodded to an Air Force captain who paused to salute the President.

“Hey, what do you think they’ll call me when the Florida transfer is complete and we’re officially a UN state?  Governor?  Governor-General?  I kinda like the sound of that.”  Suthby gave a half-assed salute to the captain and ignored the man’s frown as he walked past.

“One thing I’d love to change is the requirement that all these soldiers have to salute me all the time.  It’s a ridiculous waste of time and effort.”

Daniel glanced sideways at his boss. “Sir, I don’t think that’s in your purview.  You’re talking about a military tradition that goes back to the time of the Caesars…”

The President sighed again.  “I know, I know.  Jesus!  We taking the long way?”

Daniel apologized about the circuitous trip through the spartan halls of the Cheyenne Mountain facility.  “Some scheduled maintenance down the normal route—they have to clean the air system or something…I asked,” he said noticing the President’s face.  “They said it’s because all the extra people now living here.  This place wasn’t designed as a fallout shelter for half of Washington.”

“I don’t know how you memorized the map of this place so quickly.”

“It’s my job, Mr. President,” said Daniel.  He paused at a nondescript door and held it open.  “Here we are, sir.  I took the liberty of setting up the videoconferencing equipment over here until the maintenance is all wrapped up.  We won’t even have access to that wing of the facility for a few more days.”

“What a hassle.”  The President swept into the makeshift conference room and saw two Air Force officers next to a polished oak desk.  One held a tray of tea and cookies, the other had the “football” chained to his wrist.  The President took the tea with thanks—he was in desperate need of a mid-afternoon caffeine fix.  “Where you from, soldier?” he asked the server.  He never noticed the color rise on the young man’s neck.

“Air Force, sir,” he said quietly.  “The Army has soldiers.  We’re airmen.”

President Suthby looked at the young officer—a lieutenant, if he was reading the insignia right—the man looked just out of the Academy.  Now I’ve got kids reminding me I don’t belong.  He settled in the chair with a sigh.

“Okay, airman. Where are you from?”

The younger officer looked down at him.  “Florida, sir.  St. Petersburg.  My whole family…” his voice, thick with emotion, trailed off and he looked up to stare above the President’s head, blinking back tears.  His jaw clamped shut, but Suthby could see the muscles twitching away under the olive-toned skin.

“What’s your name, lieutenant?” asked the President.

“Garcia, William James, sir.”

“Have you heard from your family…since…?”

“No, sir.”

President Suthby took another sip and looked at the briefing document that Daniel handed to him.  Absently, he said, “A lot of people have lost contact with their families this past year.  I hope they’re okay.”

“No you don’t.”

The President took a second to register the comment.  He blinked and looked up at the young lieutenant.  “Pardon me?”

“I said, no…you…don’t.  You don’t give a damn about my family, or anyone else in Florida.”

“Check yourself, lieutenant,” warned the officer with the football.

President Suthby stood up.  “No, no, let’s hear him out.  Please, Lt. Garcia.  Enlighten me on how I could have handled the situation better.  With all your years of experience in international law and military tactics, I’m sure you’ll be able to come up with a better solution to our problems with the Russians and the U.N. in no time.”

The young man was sweating now, his forehead shone in the lights.  A dangerous glint to his eyes hinted at the rage boiling just beneath the surface.  “For starters, sir, you should never have agreed to withdraw from Florida.  Never.  That’s—”

President Suthby waved his left hand dismissively.  “Ridiculous.  The ‘never surrender’ argument.  Like I haven’t heard that from the Joint Chiefs enough in the last three weeks.  Jesus Christ. What do you people think?”  He glanced around at Daniel and the officer chained to the nuclear launch controls.  “You think I wanted to give away Florida to the Goddamn Russians?”

“President Reed would never have done it.  Sir.”  The lieutenant took a deep breath and stood ram-rod straight.  “A real American would never have done it.  You’re no President.  You’re a…a…”

“A what?” asked the President, shooing away the Secret Service who had stepped into the room, hands on weapons.  “It’s okay, I want to hear what the loyal opposition has to say.  Tell me, Lt. Garcia.  What would you call me?”

The young man looked around at all the angry faces in the room.  “A…tyrant.”

“Aaaaah….” said the President.  He looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes, took a deep, calming breath.  “I see.  A tyrant.”  He opened his eyes and looked at Daniel, whose face was set in stone.  There was an odd look in his Chief of Staff’s eyes as he stared at the outspoken airman.

Suthby continued: “You see?  I knew this would happen.  I do everything in my power to save this country and I’m labeled a tyrant for my efforts.”  He shifted his gaze back to Garcia and frowned.  “Is this sentiment shared by your…what do you airmen call your buddies…your squadron-mates?”

“I’m not the only one that thinks you’re selling our country up the creek.”

“Well, now that we’ve cleared the air…”  Suthby was about to tell the Secret Service to haul the fool away when he had a moment of inspiration.  “Wait,” he said, staying the agents once more with a raised hand.  “Lt. Garcia, if you could say one thing to me—without repercussions—on behalf of your fellow disgruntled airmen, what would it be?  I’m seriously interested—I need to know what the troops are thinking.  Okay?  No hard feelings.  I want the truth.”

“The truth, sir?” asked the young officer in a shaky voice.

Suthby nodded, barely controlling the seething rage that boiled just beneath the surface.  “The truth.”

“Well…”  Garcia relaxed a bit and stood at-ease, hands behind his back.  He glanced around, his eyes resting on the President, the officer with the football, Daniel, and the two Secret Service Agents in turn.  In a blur of movement, he whipped his left arm around and in his hand he gripped a knife.  The blade reflected the overhead lights in a flash as it sliced the air on its way toward President Suthby’s chest.

“Sic semper tyrannis!” the young officer screamed as he lunged.

Hank Suthby gasped as he felt the cold blade dig deep into his body.   Searing pain flashed across his mind like blood-red lightning.

PART  THREE

Honorable Discharge

CHAPTER 29

Battle Stations

ROOSEVELT’S AIR BOSS STRAIGHTENED up at his station and put a hand to his headset.  He nodded, then turned to face the ship’s captain. "Coming into range now, sir.  We’re just shy of 300 nautical miles."

Captain Davis stood before the tactical glass in the CIC and frowned.  He was about to send his fighters into combat over American waters.  His E-2C Hawkeye had long since been aloft and had spotted a primitive Russian combat air patrol.

Probably got a few fighters up for show.  After all their army already controls the city.  They think Roosevelt’s dead somewhere in the eastern Med… What do we have to fear?

He put his right index finger to his lips, lost in thought.  It was 0330.  Right on schedule.  The Roosevelt Strike Group, a cluster of dots about the same size as the Russian fleet sat just outside the enemy’s known radar range.  The smaller cluster of blue dots—Princeton and her escorts—cruised less than 100 nautical miles to the south.  He had changed Roosevelt's course so they could link up before entering the Russians’ detection zone.

Normally he would have charged straight in, guns blazing and bombs flying—but Roosevelt was barely operational and half the strike group was in dire need of a dry dock.  The other half was at the bottom of the Med.  Princeton and her ships would go a long ways to bolster Roosevelt's capabilities… Still…

He glanced at the Air Boss.  The fireplug of a man waited like a well-behaved but vicious guard dog, eager for the ‘kill’ command.  He'd already briefed Davis on the fact that Roosevelt’s fighter squadrons only had munitions for one or two more sorties.  If they couldn't resupply soon, the Big Stick would be about as useless as one in a gunfight.

No, this engagement had to use all the assets of Admiral Nella’s command—including the subs.  The admiral already sent them in about as close as he dared.  They were poised and ready to launch cruise missiles and torpedoes on the hapless Russian fleet.

Davis glanced at the list of available squadrons on the right side of the massive tactical display.  F-35C Lightnings and F-18 Super Hornets.  They alone could probably sink the entire Russian fleet, but the Old Man was adamant—they must throw everything at Ivan in one fell swoop.  They must destroy the Russian fleet and put on such an overwhelming display of force that the ground troops in New York City would want to surrender.

"Sir?" asked the Air Boss quietly.  "We are now within striking distance."

"Very well," said Captain Davis.  He removed his finger from his lips and pointed at the dot on the map representing Hampton.  That was the key to victory.  Hampton had to take out some of the Russian fleet or it would be game over.

"Bring us to general quarters.  It's show time, people."

Davis picked up his coffee and sipped the strong brew in the red glow of the night lighting in the CIC.  They had finally made it home.   After all the death, betrayal, destruction, and senseless fighting to sail across the Atlantic… Roosevelt was just one more battle away from friendly soil.  He glanced at the Air Boss over the rim of his mug.  "Launch 'em."

LIEUTENANT COMMANDER RIGGS WAITED impatiently for the deck crew to finish prepping his plane for launch.  Like many of the aviators aboard Roosevelt, Riggs loved a good catapult launch.  The press of the
G's as his plane hurtled off the flight deck, the sudden speed, the adrenaline rush—it was something special, something sacred, shared only by his fellow aviators.

He watched the deck crew scurry about and heard the dull clank of the shuttle hold-back bar as it locked in place on his Lightning's nose wheel.  Riggs scanned his cockpit once more—all systems were go—his 5th generation  fighter hummed with barely restrained power, coiled and waiting for release.

He knew in the catapult control pod, the little bubble of a structure just out of his peripheral vision, the shooter was making the final adjustments to the catapult’s steam piston and power settings.  When that officer—always a fellow aviator—was satisfied everything was by the numbers and in the green, they’d push the red button and send Riggs into the sky.

Movement in his rear-view mirror drew his eye.  The jet blast deflector lifted up behind his idling aircraft.  He saw a black wall of heavy heat-coated steel instead of the rest of the flight deck.  Without it, the blast from his F-35's powerful Pratt & Whitney turbofan engine would be too dangerous to the rest of his squadron stacked, up behind him.

Riggs saw a hand-sign from a green-shirt so he pulled back on the stick, watching the HUD displays change as his ailerons and flaps cycled through their test movements.

All good—his plane was loaded and ready to fly.  He got the signal to go to max power and shoved the throttle all the way forward.  The engine whined and the plane trembled as it fought the catapult shuttle that held it in place.

Riggs watched the man outside swing his arm and point toward Roosevelt's bow.  He dropped to a knee and held his arm straight, pointing forward.  The steam-driven piston under the flight deck rocketed the shuttle forward, dragging Riggs’ F-35.

He grinned like a schoolboy as he felt the pull of gravity force him into his seat.  One second he was surrounded by the gray bulk of the carrier, the next he saw nothing but blue sky and bluer water.

Riggs quickly climbed upward through 1,000 feet and then glanced over his shoulder.  After only one large loop around the carrier, the rest of Hawk flight was in the air behind him.  Roosevelt could launch two F-35s every 90 seconds.  His squadron was an impressive sight, made more so by the fact that Hammer flight was already cruising at 1500 feet and the other two squadrons aboard Roosevelt would be launching in the next few minutes.   Thirty minutes after the captain issued the order, there would be upwards of 60 American fighters heading toward the Russian fleet.

Riggs keyed his mic, "All right Hawks, you know the drill.  This is seek and destroy.  Call your shots, eliminate the air targets first.   Let’s go clear the skies."

Before long, Riggs spotted the New York coastline and the offending Russian Navy parked in the Lower Bay.  That was when everything started to go wrong.

The first thing Riggs noticed was there were a lot more ships on the horizon than the briefing had mentioned.  He’d been told by Captain Davis there were only eight or nine Russian warships, including one aircraft carrier.  Riggs blinked.  All total there was upwards of 20 ships occupying New York harbor.

He glanced down to check his targeting computer and noticed that there were only eight ships listed on the radar screen.

"What the hell?"

"Hey, you see what I'm seeing?" asked Jonesy’s voice.  Riggs glanced to starboard and saw his wingman look back at him.  "Something ain't right with my targeting computer."

Warnings sounded in his helmet.  Riggs glanced down and saw the forward-looking radar screen shake and quiver as lines of static began to interrupt the signal.  "Nest, Hawk Lead—picking up some interference here, looks like the Russians are jamming us.  Be advised, Nest, I have visual on the Russian aircraft carrier and there are 19 surface vessels, repeat there are one-niner surface vessels."

The reply from Roosevelt was a static-filled, garbled mess.  Riggs repeated his information, watching the distance to target close as his fighter screamed across the sky toward the enemy.  Riggs checked his radar again while he waited for Roosevelt to reply.  The targeting computer still insisted there were only 8 Russian vessels.

Another insistent warning buzzed in his helmet.  "Someone's trying to get tone on me!"

"Same here!" said Jonesy’s voice.

Riggs looked where he expected to see half a dozen Russian jets circling over their aircraft carrier.  Instead he saw the smoke part and spotted dozens of angry dots weaving about in the sky.  There were at least 30 or 40 enemy aircraft waiting for his squadron.

"It's a trap!" he called out.  "Hawks, scramble!  Hammer flight, take evasive action!"

Riggs slammed the throttle forward and pushed the plane hard to port.  He grunted as his aircraft responded like greased lightning and dove for the deck.  New warnings chirped and wailed inside his helmet.  First it had been the targeting computer alerting him to the fact that someone was trying to lock onto his aircraft with a missile.  Then the targeting computer went dead, then the collision avoidance system began screaming that he was about to run into a building.  Next, the altitude monitor chirped that he was losing altitude too fast.  Warnings popped up that he was losing thrust.   Everything that could possibly go wrong was going wrong with his aircraft.

“Pull up!  Pull up!  Pull up!” squawked a female-sounding robotic voice in his helmet.

Riggs ignored the schizophrenic computer and took another glance out the canopy.  To his dismay, he saw contrails in the sky—the Russians had launched their missiles.   Static-filled transmissions from his own squadron began to fill his ears, overloading the wails of his alarm systems.

He could hear the chatter from Hammer flight as they prepared for their run.  He tried to pull out of his dive and found his plane sluggish.  Not only were his instruments jammed, but something was interfering with his ability to actually fly the damn plane.

"All aircraft this net, be advised—the Russians are using some kind of high-powered jamming equipment—” He grunted, trying to force his plane out of a suicidal kiss with the ocean below.

He managed to level out a hundred feet off the deck.  His wobbly plane screamed over the churning surface of the water and struggled to rise any higher.  He’d managed to turn his aircraft around and headed back out to the open sea, away from the Russian Armada.

"Nest be advised, whatever they’re using, it really screws with your flight controls."

As he passed the 10 mile mark from Manhattan, all the alarms went silent in his aircraft.  His controls returned to normal.  The radar screen again showed only ten enemy planes in the sky.  "Whoa, Nest, Hawk Lead—about 10 miles out from the enemy flattop, everything has returned to normal—I repeat, seems to be a 10 mile barrier on the jamming!"

He turned his F-35C north, grateful for the smooth, fluid response the aircraft returned to him when shifted the joy stick in the slightest.  He looked to port and watched in horror as two explosions left inky blots in the sky.

The Russians had set a fine trap.  Riggs gritted his teeth and prepared to turn back into the fray.  There was no going back.  Roosevelt wouldn’t last at sea much longer.  Admiral Nella had made it clear.  This was their last stand.  Riggs was going to make sure it counted.

MALCOLM STOOD AT THE end of the quay and watched the massive Russian fleet maneuver closer towards the southern tip of Manhattan.  He had been promised a show of force, but what he saw before him was something out of a World War II documentary.  He had never seen such an impressive collection of large naval ships.

He couldn’t stop looking at the Russian aircraft carrier.  It was the biggest thing in the water and had a long, up-turned nose on the front.  Bow.  A ship’s nose is called the bow, he told himself.  It was an odd-looking beast compared with the familiar image of the U.S. Navy’s supercarriers.

Malcolm shifted his gaze into the sky and tried to keep one of the Russian fighter jets in his field of view.  It was hard to do—the jet and its friends were tearing-ass across the sky high above the carrier.

“So many jets…” muttered Samir.

Malcolm glanced over at his second in command—likewise glued to his own binoculars.  “Yes—the Russians have set a trap for the Man.  When he arrives with his token fleet from the south, they will be slaughtered.”

“Need there be so much bloodshed?” sighed Samir.  “Cannot they just agree to let us alone by now?”

Malcolm sneered behind his binoculars.  “They will never stop until they are destroyed.  It is their way.  These Russians will own the waters around New York by sundown.  So many American ships have been sunk overseas by our foreign allies, there will soon be no one left to challenge us.”

In the distance, two jets took off with muted roars from the Russian aircraft carrier.  The oddly sloped flight deck looked like a ski-jump jutting out off the front of the ship.  He’d seen plenty of movies over the years and knew that American pilots flew straight off the front and climbed up into the sky gradually.  The Russian pilots seemed to slingshot up off their ship at a gut-churning angle.  He shook his head.  Military-types were crazy the world over.

“No one to challenge us, yes,” agreed Samir.  “Except them,” he said in a tired voice.

ADMIRAL NELLA STOOD NEXT to Captain Davis on Roosevelt’s crowded bridge.  The two officers stared out the bank of windows facing the bow of the mighty carrier.  The last of Roosevelt's interceptors clawed their way into the sky as white billowy steam rolled across the deck from the catapults.  The Admiral couldn't believe his ears.

"Jamming?  What the hell kind of jamming can interfere with all of a plane’s systems and affect flight controls?"

Davis frowned.  "Whatever the hell it is, I don't like the sound of it."  He pointed at the digital display hanging from the ceiling in front of the Captain's Chair.  "We’ve already lost three from Hawk flight and two from Hammer flight.  Just listening to what chatter we can decipher tells me that something is seriously wrong out there."

The Admiral folded his arms and stared out the slanted window towards the horizon.  A hundred miles further west lay the shoreline of New York City and the much larger than expected Russian fleet in the Upper Bay.  He slammed a fist down on the closest railing.

It was the endgame.  Without taking his eyes from the pitching bow, the Admiral said quietly, "Let's bring the rest of the fleet in line and unleash the cruisers."

CAPTAIN NIKOLAI ILLYANOVICH CALMLY looked out his ship’s aft bridge windows.  The order had gone out to the fleet to make ready for battle, so Russia’s one and only aircraft carrier was now spitting jets into the sky, looking for a fight.  He could hear from the loudspeakers above his captain's chair that the air battle was going extremely well for Mother Russia.

He smiled and took another sip from his fine black tea.  The age of American dominance over all things military was finally coming to a crashing halt.  After today, there would be no doubt that Russia would rule the world's oceans.  He was sure this day would go down as one of the greatest naval engagements in modern history.

Ah, if only I was in one of those planes up there…

A junior officer approached him and handed over a clipboard for his signature.  He glanced down at the report, nodded to himself, and signed off on the requisition.  Glancing out the windows once more, a smile returned to his face as he saw a missile erupt in a cloud of smoke from the side of one of the Russian cruisers and streak into the sky seeking an American plane.

The trap had been perfectly set and now it had been perfectly sprung.  The jamming device that the Army had deployed in downtown New York City was just as effective as he'd been promised.  He could not be happier.  It would be like shooting fish in a barrel.  He took another sip of tea.

“First, Yuri,” he said to his XO, “we will clear the sky of those planes they sent up to harass us.”

Yuri grunted.  “F-35C.  Stealth fighter.”  He shook his head.  “Even with our jamming, they will not be easy to kill.”

Illyanovich raised an eyebrow and glanced at his lieutenant.  “But we outnumber them.  Surely you have more faith in our own pilots, yes?”

“Of course, captain,” replied the XO.  Color crept up his neck above his uniform.  “I am concerned about the surface vessels that are approaching from the south—”

The captain exhaled loudly and waved off his lieutenant’s concern.  “One half-dead carrier and what looks like a handful of damaged destroyers and guided-missile cruisers.  No match for the fleet we have assembled here.  This day will go down in naval history, Yuri!  Try to show a little enthusiasm.”

He held up his hand for silence when the loudspeaker broke squelch—he had the command frequency piped into the bridge so he could hear the chatter while he watched the air battle.  It was most exhilarating.

“Commander, have your bombers break formation and target the enemy cruisers as soon as they are within range.  The dogfighting should be over soon,” the voice of the carrier’s captain announced.

Illyanovich smiled and took another sip of tea.  There were no submarine threats in the area and with the jamming device operating on Manhattan, there wasn’t a whole lot for his destroyer to worry about.  Time to enjoy the show.

COMMANDER UMBRIS FROWNED OVER the shoulder of his sonar chief.  The readout before him showed twenty surface vessels, not nine.  This was no token fleet, but a combined carrier battle group representing 90% of Russia’s North-Atlantic fleet.

From Moscow with love…

Umbris returned to the command room.  “Cap’n has the conn,” called out Whitaker.

"All hands to battle stations," Umbris said as he strolled toward the periscope stack.  A klaxon sounded the alert and the soft blue lighting in the ops center changed to red.  Non-essential personnel shut down their duty stations and exited quickly to get to their assigned damage control stations.  The boat fairly hummed with pent up aggression.

“Bring us to launch depth,” Umbris called out as he watched the tactical display update information.  He ignored the sound of Whitaker bringing the boat up from the murky depths and focused on the positions of the Russian ships on his display.

“Coming to launch depth now, sir,” announced the sub driver.

“Flood the bays and pop the doors,” Umbris said, still watching the Russian fleet.

“Flooding tubes and opening torpedo bay doors, aye, sir,” said the Fire Control Technician of the Watch.  The young man’s voice held steady.  “Coming to launch depth, sir.”

“Very well,” said Umbris.  He reached up and pulled down a dangling mic.  “WEPS, CONN—I want firing solutions on as many targets as you can handle, but get me that carrier first.”

“CONN, WEPS.  Firing solutions on all targets, aye, sir,” replied the weapons control chief.

“Let’s spool up the Tomahawks.  This is a bigger threat than anyone realized.  I want to be able lop some heads off quick.”

“Aye, sir.”  Whittaker turned and bellowed out the orders to bring the Hampton’s battery of Tomahawk cruise missiles online.

A few tense moments passed.  Umbris watched the ship’s clock tick by critical seconds.  The constant training he pushed his crew through paid off—the ship was ready launch and send enemy ships to Davy Jones’ Locker a full three seconds faster than the best recorded drill time.

“CONN, WEPS: Firing solutions locked in for the carrier, sir.”

Umbris frowned.  Something was off.  There were no Russian subs…anywhere.  The Russians had the second largest navy in the world and were infamous for their obsession with submarine warfare.  For a surface fleet to attack New York without submarines…it was beyond strange.

Surely they had to accompany that carrier—hell, they only have one…

He waited two more minutes until the time designated by NEPTUNE GOAL to start his attack.

“WEPS, CONN.  Fire as you bear.”

ADMIRAL NELLA FROWNED AS he examined the floor-to-ceiling tactical display in Roosevelt’s Combat Information Center.  The darkened room was lit only by the softly glowing terminals and touchscreens that ringed the room.  Captain Davis stood on the other side of the display and circled the Russian fleet with his finger, leaving a thin red line around the cluster of red dots.

“From nine to suddenly nineteen ships.  Whatever they’re using to jam us in the air isn’t having an effect on the subs, thank God,” said the captain.

“That’s something,” grunted the Old Man.

“Sir,” reported a sailor from the comms terminal.  “Zeus reports they’ve calculated the radius of the jamming based on communications from our fighters.”

“Throw it up on the screen, ensign,” said Davis.

“Aye, sir.”

The display changed to a large gray-blue swatch of land and ocean, centered on the southern tip of Manhattan.  A blinking yellow dot indicated the center of the jamming zone.  The Russian fleet sat well inside its sphere of influence.  Davis sucked air through his teeth as he watched the dozens of blue dots—his fighters—moved around like gnats in front of a bug zapper, as they dodged in an out of the jamming zone, trying to engage the Russians.

As they watched, two more blue dots brightened and then went out.  Two more aviators had just met fiery deaths over American waters.

“That jamming is killing us.  Any effect on the cruisers?” asked Admiral Nella.

“Sir, Anzio reports that cruise missile targeting solutions have been reduced to half-mile radius accuracy.”

“Jesus,” muttered Davis.  Without that jamming, he would have been confident that Anzio’s skipper could have dropped a cruise missile through a window on one of the Russian ships—maybe right into the bridge.  But half-mile accuracy?  They would most likely hit water and kill fish, not Russians.  The cruisers were effectively out of the fight.  Unless…

“Torpedo in the water!” called out another voice.

The tactical screen changed, illuminating six small blue triangles that appeared in front of the dot that represented Hampton.   Davis tapped the screen with the fingers of his right hand.  A zoom-box appeared over top of the main display, showing the location and vectors of the torpedoes.  Target lines shot out from the triangles and intersected with Russian ships.  Three of the torpedoes aimed for the carrier.

The Admiral pointed at Princeton’s little flotilla on the screen.  “She’s outside the jamming radius.”  He raised his voice and called out, “Order Princeton and her escorts to target that jamming signal.  I want a full Tomahawk strike.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Where the hell are their subs?” asked Davis.

The Admiral held up his hand.  “If we don’t get that jamming knocked out, we’re not going to win this fight.  If Princeton can’t shut it down, Anzio will attack—then the subs.  Send the coordinates of that jamming site to the fleet.  We’ve got to knock that thing off-line.”

Another circle appeared on the map—a yellow tinted one centered on the Russian fleet.  “SAM launches, sirs—Zeus is reporting multiple launches.  The Russian ships are moving to engage us.”

“Enemy torpedoes in the water!” a high pitched voice called out in the semi-darkness.

Six red blips appeared out to sea, well east of Roosevelt.   A handful of larger red dots flickered into life and then disappeared as fast as they had appeared.  The Admiral sighed.

“Well, at least now we know where the Russian subs are…”

“Prepare countermeasures and alert the fleet.” Davis said.

The Air Boss nodded.  “Already vectored our LAMPs helos—we’ll run ‘em to ground.”

“Good, locate and attack the subs, we’ll send the destroyers after them,” said Davis.  He knew it was only a matter of time before the anti-sub helicopters launched from Roosevelt found the Russians and began dropping sonar markers and light torpedoes.  The destroyers would hone in on those markers like hound dogs.

“Aye, sir,” replied the Air Boss.

“Reese and Madison moving to intercept the Russian subs, sir.  Reese reports they have contact with four Russian Akula-class submarines,” said the young man at the comm station.  He watched the captain with one hand on the headphones he wore.  In the red-tinted darkness he looked like some sort of insect-like alien.

“They’re going after Anzio!” someone said.

Davis turned back to the tactical display in time to see a red dot disappear near the Anzio’s position.  Another one collided with the ship’s image and a yellow circle appeared.  Two of the remaining torpedoes were destroyed by the other cruisers and the last two kissed the hulls of Roosevelt’s destroyer escorts.

“Reese and Madison are hit,” reported the ensign at comms.  “Reese’s dead in the water but afloat.  No further contact from Madison…”

“I got a lock on those subs, they’re moving fast, coming right at us, sir.”

“Torpedo in the water!  Multiple contacts!”

“Oh my God,” muttered Davis.  The threat screen lit up like a Christmas tree.

ANOTHER EXPLOSION ECHOED ACROSS the Upper Bay.  Malcolm turned his attention away from the Russian warships and looked up at the greasy smear in the sky where an American jet had been destroyed.  He trained his binoculars on the smoky blossom and smiled as he saw the bits and pieces of the broken plane fall out of the cloud.  Beside him, General Kristanoff laughed.

"You see?  We swat them from sky like flies.  They will be unable to resist us."

As the general relayed orders over his radio, Malcolm looked up the street behind them, down the long canyon of concrete towers on the southern end of Manhattan.  Halfway down the deserted street he could see floodlights in the smoky gloom.  He had asked about all the commotion and Kristanoff had explained it was the location of the Russian secret radar weapon.  Truck-sized generators that belched black smoke into the air had been parked in the street.  Thick cables snaked out from the generators and disappeared into the closest building.

He couldn't see it through the smoke, but he knew that at the top of that building was a huge radar structure that the Russians had hauled up there over the course of the last 24 hours.  He'd never seen such industrious activity.  It'd been a remarkable feat, he thought, just flying the damn thing across the ocean.   He’d watched as Russian engineers used an intricate cable system to pull the massive structure up the side of the 20-story skyscraper.  He shook his head in wonder.

It is amazing, he thought, the lengths that man will go to destroy himself.  If only we could apply ourselves equally to the task of making peace.

Another boom thundered across the water.  He turned and looked up at the sky and saw an explosion fade into a puff of smoke.  This one had a white trail that led back down to the deck of one of the Russian ships.

The general laughed again.  "Ha ha!  There!  You see?  Not bad, for Navy."

Malcolm was about to ask about a bright spot high above the Russian fleet when the General’s radio broke squelch and an excited voice spoke Russian.  The General froze mid-laugh.   As Malcolm tried to train his binoculars on the point of light, the Russian general shouted into his radio.  The man was clearly agitated about something, but Malcolm could not figure out what—

"We have to leave.  Now!" he said.  Kristanoff grabbed Malcolm's arm and dragged him away from the edge of the dock.

"What?  Why?" Malcolm stuttered.  Another explosion echoed in the distance and as much as Malcolm wanted to turn and look, something about the way the General tried to get away from the dock made Malcolm nervous.

Kristanoff let go of Malcolm's arm and began to jog toward his command vehicle.  He screamed orders into his radio as he ran.  Malcolm could see in the distance up the street that the soldiers who’d operated the generators for the radar weapon had begun to head for cover.

That's not a good sign, Malcolm thought as he raced to catch up the frantic Russian general.

"What is it?"  Malcolm shouted.

Kristanoff reached the side of his armored personnel carrier—Malcolm had thought it quite arrogant that the Russian had deemed himself so important that he only traveled away from LaGuardia in a tank, but now he was beginning to understand why the high-ranking officer did so.  The general opened the hatch and urged Malcolm forward.

"The Americans!  They have launched missiles!"

Malcolm reach the hatch as Kristanoff disappeared inside.  He took one last look at the radar weapon site and saw boxy Russian trucks swerve across the intersection as their drivers tried to flee.

"I thought you said that machine of yours would stop them from being able to do things like launch missiles?"

"Get inside!  Yes," the general said.  He sat down in his command chair and motioned for Malcolm to take a seat as the large ramp at the rear of the vehicle lifted off the ground.

"BTG-3 will stop fighter planes, scramble targeting computers, fry electronics—if within range.  Missiles fired outside range—like cruise missiles my men detected—will still fly toward target, but instead of pin-point accuracy, they will be…close."

Malcolm peered out the shrinking view of the outside world as the ramp continued its process of closing up and sealing off the armored vehicle.  "How close?"

Malcolm gasped as the office building across the street from the Russian radar installation exploded in a cloud of fire and debris.  He could actually see a ring of disturbed air expand outward from the explosion—the overpressure shockwave.  The sound, even through 4 inches of armor plating, was loud.  The big vehicle shook and as the shockwave passed over, Malcolm gripped the edges of his seat in terror.

The armored personnel carrier lurched forward as the general relayed directions for the driver to get them out of the danger area.  Malcolm reached onto his seat to grab the seatbelt and fumbled with shaking hands for a few moments.  He looked down and realized that there was no seat belt.

The Russian general laughed again.  "This is military vehicle, nyet?  We have no seatbelts!"

"That was one missile?"

The Russian’s smile faded.  "Da, one of eight headed our way.  They appear out of nowhere—which tells me there must be submarines out there somewhere."

Malcolm would never be sure, but he swore at the time that he felt the massive BTR jump off the ground as another explosion erupted nearby.  It sounded to him like it was right on top of them.  Kristanoff turned a small black-and-white monitor around so Malcolm could see through the external cameras.

Mostly he saw a lot of smoke, and fire.  A building up the street had been immolated by a cruise missile.  The missile struck toward the lower part of the building and vaporized a corner.  The driver slowed and turned up a side street as the camera focused on the partially destroyed building.

“Hang on!” yelled Kristanoff.

Malcolm watched, mouth open in surprise as the building collapsed across the road and into the bay.  The little screen went white as a wall of sea-spray fell out of the sky and blanketed the BTR.

RIGGS SWORE INTO HIS oxygen mask.  His F-35 fought every move he made as if the damn thing wanted to be blasted out of the sky.  Half his squadron had already been shot down and he would be too, if he couldn’t get his plane either under control.  He had to get out of range of that jamming device.

His F-35 shuddered and Riggs grimaced as another flare ejected itself to port and sailed off to a useless death.  The damn plane was going completely apeshit and there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

He could see Russian missiles claw their way up into the sky from the surface vessels below.  His plane was having a conniption fit over all the threats—real and imagined—but he had to ignore everything and focus on controlling the bucking aircraft.

A missile streaked just in front of his plane and he swore again as he flew through the smoke trail.  He followed the missile over his shoulder and saw an F-18 disappear into a flower of fire and smoke.  That marked three Hammers he’d seen buy the farm.  The chatter over the garbled radio was a lot quieter now than it had been a few moments earlier.

“Goddammit!” he yelled in frustration.

A huge pillar of smoke suddenly erupted out of the mass of skyscrapers on the southern tip of Manhattan.  One of the cruise missiles he’d been warned about must have found its mark.  The alarms suddenly silenced and the plane woke up—his lightest touch on the stick was all it took to send the fighter into a graceful dive out of the path of an oncoming missile.  The HUD flickered in his helmet and normalized.  Accurate targets appeared and the computer tracked and identified them in a split-second.

His plane was back and ready to fight.  The targeting computer locked on to an Su-33 that had just blasted an one of the Hammers out of the sky.

“About time!  Hawk flight, Hawk Lead, I got my controls back.  Let’s clear the road, boys!”

“I got tone—Fox three!” called out Jonesy, his voice loud and clear over Riggs’ helmet.

Riggs waited patiently as he slipped in behind a fleeing Su-33.  Like a cheetah running down a gazelle, every move the Russian made, Riggs countered and stayed right on his six. When the tone buzzed in his ear signifying he had missile lock, Riggs squeezed the thumb button on the joystick in his right hand and saw an AMRAAM missile streak away from his plane.  He flipped over into a starboard roll and looked for a new target.  As he circled, he glanced up and saw with satisfaction that his missile had done its job.  The Su-33 disappeared into a ball of smoke and fire.

His targeting computer chirped to indicate it had another Russian in its sights and was ready to fire.  “My turn,” Riggs muttered as he locked on to the weaving fighter.

The radio erupted with missile launch calls and whoops as the Americans turned the tide and Russian planes vanished from the sky in inky blots of smoke and fire.  Riggs led the charge and in minutes, had exhausted his supply of air-to-air missiles.

“Okay, Hawk One, step aside,” grumbled the voice of the XO of Hammer flight.  “Hammer flight is starting attack run.”

“Have at it, Hammer.”  Riggs pulled off his oxygen mask and basked in the cool air on his face.  He grimaced as what was left of his squadron formed up around him in a loose diamond pattern.  His interceptors had done their job—Roosevelt now owned the skies over Manhattan.  He glanced at the scarred, chewed up F-35s.

“Hawks, sound off,” he called.  “Radio check.”

“Two, five-by-five,” replied Jonesy.

“Seven, standing by.”

“Eight, good to go.”

“Four, five-by.”

Silence followed the last transmission.  Riggs counted to thirty before he closed his eyes.  He had seven letters to write.  My God…we own the skies, but at what price?

CHAPTER 30

Aftermath

LANCE COULD FEEL A heavy pressure on his chest.  Opening his eyes, he saw only darkness.  For a terrifying moment, he thought he’d gone blind.

Last thing he remembered, there'd been an explosion near his location.  He heard an incredible roar and the world went orange–white.  Then black.  He remembered saying a quiet prayer as he stepped under the cover of the trees and entered the open space in a sprint to reach the burned-out rubble of the nearest house.  He remembered a vicious firefight—the crack of hunting rifles and M4s contrasted mightily with the bark of Chinese AK-47s.

He remembered how the rubble on the ground had abused his knees as he’d crawled around the corner of a demolished house.  He’d seen one of the Chinese APCs down the street.  Two regulators had rushed from the house across the street—or what was left of it—out into the open and froze when they spotted the APC.  Lance had shouted for them to take cover and they ran toward him.

The last thing he remembered was the muzzle flash from the main gun on the APC.

Lance became acutely aware of searing pain on the right side of his face.   He tried to move his arm to touch his face, but he was pinned to the ground.  He tried instead to maneuver his hands until he found the edge of what used to be a wall.  The crushing weight on his chest was forcing him to hyperventilate.  He had to do something fast.  Ignoring the panic that threatened to paralyze him, he pushed up with his shoulders.  The wall barely moved.

Lance clenched his jaw and put all his strength into the effort and felt the debris on top of his chest shift just enough for a lungful of air.  He noticed when he lifted the chunk of wall from his chest he could see daylight at the edges.  He didn't have time to wonder how long he’d been unconscious as the wall was threatened to overwhelm his burning muscles.

Lance shifted his hips through a white-hot stab of pain and forced his left knee to prop up the wall.  It was just enough for him to wiggle his right leg free.  He pushed with every ounce of strength he had and lifted the debris just enough so he could wriggle out.  The wall collapsed after he moved, showering him with dust and ash.

He lay there on his side, facing what was left of someone’s house.  When he’d arrived in town, the house had already been burned to a crisp.  Now it was just an ugly pile of rock, bits of drywall, and charred studs sticking up like the ribs of some mythical beast.

He coughed and wiped the grime from his eyes, then tested the skin on his face with the fingertips of his right hand.  He winced and imagined that he must look like a half-roasted chicken.  He slowly got to his knees but ended up back on his heels, panting with the effort.  As his eyes adjusted to the brightness of the midmorning sun, he glanced around the landscape of Hell itself.

He tried to call out and found his throat clogged with dust.  After a painful cough or two, he staggered to his feet and looked around the desolate landscape once more.

Several homes in the subdivision still smoldered.  Black smoke obscured the sun like passing rain clouds.  He brushed some of the dust off his chest.  From the feel of it, he’d have some real impressive bruises the next day.

He turned an ankle after a few hesitant steps in the loose rubble and nearly went down again.  After he caught his balance, Lance muttered a curse under his breath and staggered away from the charred house into the street.

"Hello?" he asked shouted.  Still no answer.  That was bad.  He had no idea where his rifle had gone.  He remembered the feel of it in his hands when the APC had fired—after the explosion, there had been nothing.  It was like someone had switched off a chunk of his memory.

Try as he might, Lance could see no other living soul in the charred wasteland that had been Pine Bluff, Arizona.  He limped forward down the street and called out survivors.  No one answered.  Lance clenched his jaw and hobbled forward, determined to reach the courthouse.

As he approached the ruined building, still two blocks in the distance, he could see thick black smoke pouring from what was left of the roof.  His pace quickened and he ignored the pain from his right leg.

Where the hell is everybody?

There was no sign of the Chinese other than the destruction they had left in their wake.  The comms van that Jerry had been shooting at the previous night was nowhere to be seen.  Lance spotted blood stains in the street and on the sidewalk.  Lance smirked through the pain in his leg.  Jerry had done his job well.  Bits of glass and broken metal covered the street like a dusting of hail.   He could see skid marks leading away from the ruined courthouse—someone had left in a hurry.

Across the street, Lance could see that every window in the front of the courthouse had been blown out.  The question remained, did the explosion happen outside or inside?  The black column of smoke that reached up from the roof into the sky appeared like an accusing finger, the smoke thick and acrid.  He wrinkled his nose and sniffed involuntarily as he reached the wide, charred marble steps.

"Hello?" Lance shouted once more.  His voice echoed off the front of the building, but there was still no answer.  Down the street he could see bodies in the road—some looked like soldiers, some like Regulators, and more than a few were clearly civilians.  He began to climb the steps to the blasted entrance to the courthouse and then noticed part of the facade of the building had collapsed, effectively sealing off the front.  Cursing again, he hobbled around to the north side and stopped in his tracks.

A Border Patrol SUV, its doors wide open had been parked on the grass next to an emergency exit.  It idled a little rough, but proved someone was still alive.   Lance swallowed and hoped they were the good guys.

Lance picked up his pace again and made for the emergency exit.  The door had been propped open with a discarded AR-15.   He ducked into the dark interior and could feel the residual heat inside the building.  A dull, crackling roar seemed to emanate through the walls wherever he turned.  He saw no flames, but the heat was oppressive and smoke writhed along on the ceiling like a living thing.

"Hello!  Regulators?  Border patrol?  Anybody?"

Voices.  He heard voices.  They came from up ahead and down a corridor.  He staggered in the smoke-filled darkness and turned when he saw light flicker off of a marble wall.  A flashlight.  He approached the corner and his fingers twitched.  He desperately wished he had his rifle with him.  He peered around the corner and saw flashlights cast eerie silhouettes in the smoke.

"—see anyone else?"

A second person coughed.  "This is hopeless…" More coughing.

"Hey!"  Lance called out in relief.  "Are there any other survivors?"

Lance blinked as two flashlights lit up his face.  He held up a hand to block the light.

"Who's there?" a harsh voice called out.

"Lance Bryton—who the hell are you?"

The flashlights dropped to the floor and illuminated a clear path for him to reach the two speakers.  "Glad to see you made it, Mr. Bryton," said a familiar voice.

"This is the second time I can say I'm glad to see you, Agent Levine," Lance said.

"It's a God-awful mess in here.  I've got my boys looking outside, but so far we haven't found any survivors.  Just bodies."

"Where are they?" asked Lance, trying to keep hold of his voice.

Agent Levine sighed.  "Down there, in the basement.”   He shined his light down a rubble-strewn staircase.  “We cleared a path through the debris but it's pretty bad…"

Lance didn't bother listening to the rest of the man's words—he was already on his way over the rubble pile.  At the bottom of the stairs, a green glow stick lit a corner of the smoke-filled basement.

“You sure you want to go down there?” asked Agent Levine.

Lance ignored him and kept going.  "Rob?  Rob, you down here, buddy?"

Lance took two steps and tripped on something in the darkness, landing flat on his face.  He grunted in pain and rolled off the body of Ed Franks.  He didn't look dead.  Ed looked peaceful, like he was resting.

Smoke inhalation, Lance thought as he suppressed a cough.  The smoke in the basement was even thicker than it was on the main floor.  He figured there must be a vent or something that had funneled smoke into the room and suffocated his brothers.  The last stand of the Regulators.

Lance searched Ed's body.  Through the tears threatening to spill from his eyes, he found a working flashlight.  He turned it on despite the tremor in his hands and swung the beam around the darkness.  He recoiled in horror.  There were bodies everywhere.  Part of the ceiling had collapsed in the far corner, and feet and arms stuck out underneath the rubble pile.

Lance shuffled deeper into the nightmare.  He felt the cool moisture of tears on his cheeks as he saw body after body, friend after friend.  He could see a cluster of forms in the opposite corner.  Lance closed his eyes—he knew what he would find there, but he limped forward anyway.

Rob lay against the corner of the building, his AR clutched to his chest, eyes closed as if asleep.

Lance fell to his knees and wept.

CAPTAIN ENLAI JAN ADJUSTED his helmet.  He felt uncomfortable preening like this, but there was no alternative.  After all, when one takes a video teleconference with the Ministry of Defense, one must look his best.

One of the command staff conscripts snapped a salute and then flashed a wry smile.  "Ready, sir?" the young man asked.

Jan tried to ignore the rising taste of bile at the back of his throat.  He was not sure his career would survive the failure at Pine Bluff.  No less than the Undersecretary for the Great Leader and the Minister of Defense had ordered Colonel Chun to hold the town.  And then the Regulators—those deceitful American terrorists—had holed up in the basement of the courthouse.   The terrorists had mounted a counterattack and the Colonel had been killed—which, in his mind, had been the one bright spot in the whole situation.  Jan believed his response had been perfect and had been instrument in the successful repulsion of that attack.  He took a deep breath and looked at the camera.

Regrettably, certain orders had been misunderstood in the confusion after Colonel Chun’s death and the courthouse had been destroyed.   Jan frowned.  On top of that, what had been left of the local civilian population had been killed when a psychopathic conscript had torched that church.  Just another casualty of a non-volunteer army, to Jan’s mind.

Jan knew Chun’s orders to round up the civilians into one spot had placed them in such a precarious situation.  Even though he was not himself a Christian, destroying a house of worship—of any religion—was anathema to the young captain.  It just went against all his training to kill unarmed civilians in such a disgraceful manner.

He swallowed audibly.  He was doomed.

"The feed is coming online now, sir," said the newly promoted communications chief.  He had been fourth in line for his current position.

Jan straightened his back and squared his shoulders.  Whatever happened, he would accept it with honor intact.  "I'm ready."

He sat inside what was left of the drone van after some hasty patch jobs.  The large screen built into the side of the van also contained an embedded camera.  It was from this location that Chun had delivered his briefings to the politicians back in Beijing.  And now that onerous job had fallen on Jan’s shoulders.

The screen flickered and came to life as the image focused from thousands of miles away.  A heavyset man in a smartly tailored business suit sat behind a wide desk top of glossy wood.  The man smoked a cigarette and a gray haze floated over his head.  He had sleepy, half-closed eyes that gave the distinct impression of a dragon guarding its horde of gold.

"Greetings Honorable Minister," said Jan with the slightest of bows.

The Minister’s eyes snapped open and the cigarette paused halfway to his mouth.  A thin tendril of smoke emanated from the tip of the glowing cigarette.  The Minister looked at a paper on his desk before he glanced up at the camera.  "Where is Colonel Chun?"

Jan cleared his throat.  "I regret to inform you, Honorable Minister, sir, that Colonel Chun is dead."

Now he had the politician's full attention.  His eyes opened wide and the cigarette unceremoniously dumped into a full ashtray.   He leaned forward, elbows on the table and peered into the camera.  It looked as if he wanted to climb through the lens.  "What is the meaning of this?  What happened?  Quickly, man, tell me!"

Jan tried to ignore the fear that swelled in his soul at the urgent tone of the Minister.  Surely his fate had been sealed.  "The terrorists attacked us in the middle of the night—there were snipers.  We lost many brave men, including the Colonel."

"What is your name?"

The young captain stiffened.  "Captain Enlai Jan, Honorable Minister, sir."

"Very well, Captain Jan.  Tell me what happened."  The man paused to light up another cigarette and darted his eyes at the camera.  "Mind you, give me the brief rundown—I want to know what happened, when, and how it was handled.  Give me the full detailed report later.  I have a meeting with the Undersecretary soon."

Jan took a deep breath as he watched the Minister blow smoke towards the camera.  He could almost smell the cigarette smoke and the realization made him crave one of his own.  "They struck without warning, sir.  They were able to avoid detection from our drone…"

He continued talking for 15 breathless minute and explained the gruesome events of the horrible night he'd survived.  As Jan wrapped up the tale, explaining how orders had been confused in the heat of battle and the church and courthouse had been destroyed with complete loss of all American lives, he snapped his head ramrod straight and waited.  The next words out of the Minister’s mouth would signal his fate had been sealed.

The Minister of Defense hid his expression behind those half-lidded eyes.  Instead of a screaming fit, he merely nodded and puffed quietly on his cigarette.  As seconds ticked on into minutes, a bead of sweat rolled down Jan's neck.  He tried to remain calm and patient but worried he would scream if the politician failed to say something—anything—soon.

At last the minister spoke.  "Captain Jan, you've shown exemplary fortitude in the call of duty and acted with—as far as I can tell—the best interests of China at heart.  I applaud your quick thinking and swift, decisive actions.  At last this terrorist threat is all but destroyed.  Our mission may proceed as planned."  The minister stabbed out his cigarette, leaned back in his chair, and intertwined his fingers across his paunch.   "I am most impressed by you, Captain."

Jan nodded as relief washed over him like waves at a beach.  "Thank you, Honorable Minister, sir.  I only wish to serve China to the best of my abilities."

"Yes, about that.  It seems we are short a Colonel."

Jan held himself perfectly still.  This was not what he had expected at all.

The Minister cleared his throat and sat up straight in his chair.  "Yes, I think you will do nicely."  He snapped his fingers at someone off-screen and offered a quick smile for the camera.  Someone handed the Minister a sheaf of papers.   He sorted through them and selected one with a flourish.  He handed back the rest of the papers and smoothed the one he’d selected on his desk.  Jan swallowed as he watched the Minister chose a fountain pen from an ornate jade stand and began to write furiously.

As he wrote, he spoke: "For courage above and beyond the call of duty, for tactically assessing the situation that led to the salvation of the Battalion and at the same time accomplishing the primary objectives assigned by your commanding officer…I, Po Sin, duly appointed Minister of Defense of the People's Republic of China, hereby ordain and declare Captain Enlai Jan be given with immediate effect the battlefield commission of Colonel.  With all due rights, privileges, and duties, etc., etc., etc.…"

The lieutenant standing next to Jan opened his mouth in surprise and flashed a big thumbs-up sign.  It was all Jan could do to keep from smiling as he watched in his peripheral vision while his fellow soldiers high-fived each other and celebrated in silence.

"Signed this day, by my hand…" muttered the Minister.  "Po Sin."  He finished the signature with a flourish and replaced the fountain pen back on its stand.  He held up the paper and smiled again at the camera.

"I shall have a facsimile of this delivered to you immediately.  You will keep an electronic version for your safekeeping and I will hold this in my office until you return at the conclusion of your mission.  Congratulations, Colonel Jan."

"Thank you.  Thank you, Honorable Minister, sir.  I don't know what to say…"

"And that is why I believe I have made the correct choice."  The Minister paused to light another cigarette. "Your first order, Colonel Jan, shall be to expedite the removal of your forces from eastern Arizona and reestablish contact with the main body of our forces.  By now, they should be finished with Flagstaff and well on their way toward southern California.  You will make all haste to link up with them and complete the primary objective of establishing a beachhead on the coast of California.”  He paused to exhale a small cloud of gray smoke.  “There are to be no more delays, Colonel.  Reinforcements are already en route and we must have safe harbor for them when they land.  Am I clear?"

"Absolutely, sir," replied Colonel Jan.  Colonel.  He rather liked the sound of that.  His parents would be so proud.  He couldn't wait to get off of this call, retreat into his tent, and pen a letter to his father.

"Very good, Colonel.  I look forward to reading your full report.  Please continue with the exemplary work.  All of China is proud of you."

THE DOOR TO THE border patrol SUV opened and sunlight exploded into the darkened interior Lance showed no reaction.  He sat there, staring at the back of the passenger seat.  He knew behind him in the cargo area lay the body of his best friend.  Many times they’d rode watch together, drank together, and suffered interminable watches along the Mexican border together.  All their plans for the future, the safety of the Regulators and their families…the protection of the country they both loved so dearly…

Gone.

His whole future was gone.  Lance looked down at the crumpled, blood-stained Stetson in his lap.  It was all he had left of Rob.   He slowly turned in his seat and climbed out of the vehicle when Agent Levine politely cleared his throat.  Even the intense pain in his side had been numbed by the grief that gripped his soul.  The accusing glares of several women at the compound did not help matters.   Jerry Baersfeld stepped up and gently placed a hand on Lance's shoulder.

"We thought we’d lost you, brother."

Lance nodded because he figured that was the only reaction that would be expected given the circumstances.  Personally, Lance thought it might have been better had he been killed instead of Rob.  For one thing, he wouldn’t be faced with the insurmountable challenge set before him now.  Rob had been the undisputed leader of the Regulators for years, always with Lance as his trusted right-hand man and second in command.  Now Rob was gone.

Lance looked down at the blood-stained hat gripped in his hands.  Absently, he brushed some of the dust and soot from the bent rim.  His fingers traced a stain on the left side.  Was it Rob's blood?  Was it someone else's?  He'd never know.  It didn't matter.

"What are we gonna do now, Lance?" Jerry asked quietly.

Agent Levine gently nudged Lance away from the vehicle and started him toward the door to the main compound.  Most of the women and one or two of the walking wounded remained where they were in the gravel clearing.  Lance, Jerry, and others wrapped in blood-stained bandages made their way inside where the cool, darkened interior did little to soothe Lance’s raw nerves.  As a group they guided Lance toward a chair in the communications room.  The chair that had been Rob's favorite.    The message was clear.  Lance was the undisputed leader now.

Lance paused and looked down at the chair.  It had been with Rob since the beginning on that drink-filled night so long ago when the two friends had decided that something must be done about the illegal immigration problem in Nogales.  It wasn't long after that the Regulators had been born.

And now the Regulators had died.

Something shifted inside Lance’s soul.  The realization that the Regulators were no longer a viable force for good caused his legs to feel week.  He let them buckle and sank into the comfort of the chair.  Sitting in Rob's chair, holding Rob's hat, he could almost feel Rob's presence in the room…almost see his disapproving frown.  Rob’s old lever-action rifle leaned against the wall, almost begging to be held.  He looked away.

No, Lance thought.  Not disapproving… Sad.  Yeah, that’s it.  Rob would be sad, but not angry.

Deep in his soul, Lance had always figured they would meet an end like this.  They were operating under paramilitary rules out in no man's land.  The government didn't want to enforce the law, the people did.  They had always known they were going to be left out to dry at some point.  Lance just never figured to so many of his friends would die as a result.  He never counted on Rob having to die.  Lance had always assumed that he would be the first to go.

Lance had always been more willing to take chances, more rash in his decisions, more bold in his plans of action.  Rob had always been the voice of caution, reason, and logic.  When the two had combined their ideas and plans, the Regulators had proven to be an almost unstoppable force.

And now?

"Lance…I know it looks bad," said George Franks.  He had a red bandage tied around his head and his face was darkened by soot and dried blood.  His clothes reeked of smoke and he had a wicked cough, but he was on his feet and still had the wild-eyed look of an avenger.  "We ain't finished yet… I mean, what I mean is…"

"What George is trying to say…" began Jerry.

"Don't bother, boys."  Lance didn't even recognize his own voice, it was so distant.  He sighed.  "We’re finished."  Lance looked up.  The concerned faces of the surviving Regulators stared back at him through bloodshot eyes.  Every one of them had been injured in the fight.  Lance shook his head slowly.  "It's over."

"Now come on, Lance," began George.  His eyes bulged and the cords stood out in his neck as he tried to restrain himself.  "My brother died, just like Rob, just like the rest of… I will not allow—"

Lanced looked down at the hat, his finger tracing the soft felt of the brim.  "We couldn't stop them.  They rolled in here, masters of the universe, and destroyed everything."  He looked up again and met George’s angry gaze with a stare of his own that felt no emotion at all.  George blinked and took a step back from Lance.  He paled like he had seen a ghost.

"I grieve for Rob too," George said quietly.  "But if we just give up, then what the hell did they die for?"  He looked at the others in the room.  "What did any of them die for?  What have we been fighting for these past 10 years?"

"A dream…Just a dream."  Lance was so tired.  All he wanted to do was sleep, escape into the nothingness of unconsciousness and forget everything.  The pain of failure was too much.  Everything that he was had been tied up in the Regulators.  And it was gone, now.  All of it.

"That's not good enough!" hissed George.  He slammed his fist down on the desk hard enough to rattle empty coffee mugs.  "I will not stand by and just give up!  My brother died.  You hear me?  He died!  We've been together all our lives!  These Chinese sons of bitches—"

Lance stared at the hat, remembering the last long discussion of strategy he’d had with Rob as they drove north from Nogales.  George Franks’ shouting faded to a dull background noise.

Lance was back in Rob's truck, leading the convoy north in retreat from Nogales, from their homes.  Lance had been the one that almost gave up, then.  A lopsided smile curled the corner of his lip as he remembered Rob telling him to buck up, put his big boy pants on, and get ready for the long haul.

Rob had been reluctant to engage the illegal immigrants—he’d only wanted to act as eyes and ears to help the Border Patrol.  Lance had been the one to push for direct contact, for apprehending them, and dragging the immigrants to the Border Patrol.  But after the arrival of the Chinese, it had been Lance who’d had the first doubts.

"You know what we’re doing this for?"  Rob had said, staring through the windshield as they rolled down the desert highway.

Lance had remained silent.

"We do this because we love this country—we want to leave it better than we found it.  And that won't happen if we let the Chinese run roughshod over us."

Lance remembered not answering.  He’d stared out the window at the blurred landscape of dry rocks and sagebrush.

Rob had ignored his friend’s silence and continued.  "Those men who suffered at Valley Forge, who died by the hundreds and thousands at Gettysburg—they sacrificed everything so that their children would not have to sacrifice.  If you look back in our history, doesn't seem to have worked out very well.  Seems like every generation we got another war we have to fight to save our children from having to fight another war after us.  Now it's our turn…"

Lance remembered being embarrassed by his answer almost as soon as he said it.  "Doesn't seem like there's much left to be fighting over anymore."

He remembered Rob had almost run them off the road, so quick had flared his anger.  "Don't give me that bullshit!  As long as one American, one patriot still breathes, then everything is worth fighting for.  The people that came before us, they hacked this country out of the wilderness to forge this land in steel and blood.  The Founders wanted to make this country endure forever.  And so far, every generation has defended it against attacks from outside and within.  And now, just when we’re on the ropes, everybody wants to tuck tail and run."

"Ain't that what we’re doing right now?" Lance had said bitterly.

"Lance, what we’re doing is called a tactical withdrawal."  Rob had laughed.  "The Chinese think we’re running, the immigrants think we’re running, the terrorist think were running.  We’re simply relocating.  When we’re ready, on our terms, we’ll strike back.  And you know why we’re going to win?"

Lance had pulled himself away from the window, feeling his spirit return.  He looked at his friend, still staring out at the open road, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles.  "We're going to win because this is our land.  Our country.  For starters, we have nowhere else to go.  They've backed us into a corner, not given us any escape route, and taken away everything we had.  You know what that makes us?"  He looked at Lance.

"Desperate?"

Rob shook his head, and a wicked smile spread across his face.  "That makes us the most dangerous enemies they could possibly have.  We got nothing left to lose, brother."

"—lost everything, already!" yelled George.  Jerry almost looked ready to fight.

"The Regulators are dead."

The three men in the room paused in their argument and as one turned to stare at the titular leader of their doomed organization.  George opened his mouth to protest, but Lance held up a hand and stalled his voice.

"You know it, I know it.  We’ve suffered too many losses," Lance said quietly.  "Between firefights on the border with them illegal immigrants, being harried by the Chinese, and now this mess I've let us all into…"

“You did what you had to do to rescue Rob and the others—"

Lance shook his head.  "I will always blame myself," Lance said sadly.  He flashed a quick smile at George.  "I appreciate you saying otherwise, but it was my fault and everybody out there knows it," Lance said with a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder.  He'd seen the looks on the faces when he exited the vehicle.  He came back, but too many others didn't.

"No, the Regulators are finished."  He looked at the men for a moment.  "There's only a handful of us left, the last ones who can walk and fight.  Everybody else is dead or so wounded that they can't move out of bed.  Sure, we got a dozen or so Border Patrol guys still with us, but that's it.  Less than 20 men against an entire army of foreign invaders.  It just ain’t gonna happen, boys.  We’re done."

"But," stuttered Jerry.  He looked around the room and pointed at the radio behind them.  "What about those folks from Tucson?  They’re on their way here, right now.  They've got a couple hundred people with them!  Not to mention all the families that made it out Tucson before the Chinese burned to the ground…"

Lance nodded.  "Yeah, and how many will be left after we make another attack on the Chinese?  A hundred?  Fifty?  Don't you get it?  It's always going to end in the same result.  They're military.  We're not.  They got bigger guns, better training…No matter what we do, we’re going to get cut apart.  We can't fight them toe to toe."

Lance's statement seem to take the air out of the room.  All three of the Regulators before him found seats and sat heavily.  George was the last one standing.  He simply collapsed on the edge of the desk and stared at the floor.

"But…”  Lance took a breath.

This land is still worth fighting for…

He could almost hear Rob’s voice in his head.  When Lance spoke again, his voice had more strength.  “Just because the Regulators are finished as an organization doesn't mean I'm willing to give up."

"Well, if the Regulators are done…What’re we gonna we do?"

"I know what I'm going to do," Lance said.  Dark thoughts flashed through his mind, a way to find escape from the pain, a way to atone for his sins.  For the deaths of so many friends.  "I'm going to load up on all the ammo and weapons I can carry and track down these Chinese fucks and take as many of them out with me as I can."

"Lance, going after them for revenge…" said Jerry.  “It’s…”

"Oh, it's well beyond revenge.  I will not be satisfied with revenge.  I seek cold, hard, retribution."

George jumped to his feet.  "I'm in!"

Lance stood, decision made.  He felt the spirit return to him.  A sudden strength returned to his damaged body.  He ignored the pain and smiled.  "It feels good to have a purpose again."

"Whoa, boys.  Let's think about this, okay?"

"I'm done thinking, Jerry" said Lance.  "That's all I've been doing since I woke up under that pile of rubble down in town.  This may not be for everybody—hell, I'd be disgusted if it was."

"So what do we tell the families?  The widows?"

"I don't know.  Sorry won’t cut it.  I don’t think anything I tell them will help."  Lance shrugged.  "Let them take all the food and supplies they want.  They can carry out Rob's last order and head north if they want.  Hell, they could head south, east or west.  But me and anyone who wants to come with me—we’re going after the Chinese.  And we’re bringing death with us."

CHAPTER 31

Scavengers

ERIK LOOKED UP FROM the open tin can and scanned the empty parking lot.  He savored the taste of the jellied, processed meat as it slid down his throat and filled his stomach.  As Erik leaned against the supermarket’s wall, he could feel the heat of the day through the bricks.  He rolled his eyes in ecstasy.

"Oh my God, this tastes so good…"

Ted mimicked a retching sound from the other side of the corner and chuckled.  "Man, I couldn't eat that shit back before the world ended.  Now that it's been expired for a few months, I don't think I'd be able to chew on it any better.  I think I'll skip."

"What?” asked Erik.  He looked at the can of SPAM in his hand.  “This stuff lasts forever, right?  Besides, I haven't had a decent meal, in…" Erik shoveled another spoonful of the pink, salty meat paste into his mouth.  He chewed thoughtfully.  "Honestly, I don't even know the last time I had a decent meal.  Probably back in Sarasota.  Remember that night on the Tarpon Whistler?  That fish we grilled up on that little spit of land?"

Ted's eyes never stop roaming the deserted streets of the small town they had discovered.  "Oh yeah," he said in a hushed voice.  He scanned the streets with his rifle checking the distance to see if anyone was following them.  "That was some damn good fish."

"Yeah," Erik said quietly around a mouthful of SPAM.  "I remember you coming back on board the ship—"

"Boat.  That little thing was a boat," Ted said.

"Boat, whatever… You scared the shit out of me that night when you climbed up out of the water."  Erik laughed as he scraped the sides of the can for the last dredges of meat and gobbled it without a thought to manners.  He tossed the can on the ground and winced as the sound echoed around them.

"Would it kill you to be a little less noisy?"

"Come on, man, you don't think there's anybody still in this town, do you?  The Russians must've been through here already.  Anybody that hasn't left yet is either dead or on their way."  Just to be safe, though, Erik peered around before he opened a can of peaches.  "Man, these things smell good.  Sure you don't want any?"

Ted chuckled.  "Nah, go ahead.  I filled up earlier.  I've been eating high on the hog since you were captured."  Ted glanced around the streets once more.  A frown creased his face.  "I don't have much of an appetite lately, anyway.  Can’t stop thinking about Susan and the kids, you know?"

Erik slowed his ravenous consumption of the sweet fruit chunks.  "Yeah… If I didn't know that they were being fed better than the men, I'd be a lot more concerned."   He sighed and looked at the half eaten canned fruit.  "I guess I don't have much of an appetite anymore, either."

Ted glanced over his shoulder.  "For fuck's sake, don't waste it.  Man up and finish it off."

Erik brought the can to his lips, careful to avoid the sharp edges and drained the can of juice before scooping up the last of the fruit.  He carefully placed the can on the ground next to the other empty cans from his meal.  As he stood, he dusted off the front of his shirt and re-shouldered his pack.

"You ready?" asked Ted.  "I don’t think we’ll be lucky enough to find any more food here… So, the sooner we find some cover, the sooner I’ll feel safer.  Something don't feel right."

Erik drew his Russian pistol.  He pulled the slide back, made sure there was a round in the chamber and brought it up to scan the alley behind them.  "I guess I'm ready.  Where we headed now?"

"South.  Now that we've looped up north and west away from the camp, it's time to come down and pay a visit to our Russian friends from a direction they're not expecting."  Ted started to walk down the length of the front of the building, his rifle at the ready.  Erik followed and made sure to check behind them every few steps.

He had to admit, the little town of Bigby, Florida, did have a certain creepiness factor about it.  They hadn't seen a single Russian soldier, but they'd seen the handiwork of their foragers.  Most of the shops had caved-in walls.  Scorch marks and bullet holes—big holes—peppered just about every building and car they found.  Erik had yet to see a single intact window in the whole place.

Erik realized the food and drink the American captives at the prison camp had been enjoying had likely been lifted off of small towns like Bigby.  The Russians were like locusts in that regard.  They stripped the land clean as far as they could in every direction.

"Stay frosty back there…” Ted whispered.  “Something is making my trigger finger itchy…"

Erik tightened his grip on the pistol and looked behind them once more.  He thought he saw movement out of the corner of his eye by the rear of a building down the street.  The drug store.  He immediately froze and dropped to one knee.  "Movement, behind us,” he hissed.

"Got a target?" whispered Ted.

"Nope, but I think I saw somebody duck around the corner down the street.  By the drug store.”  He shook his head.  “I don't see anything now.  "

"Let's get inside the bank here, just in case."   He tapped Erik on the shoulder.  "All clear.   Follow me—quietly…"

Erik shuffled a few steps backward and kept his weapon trained on the area where he’d thought he’d seen movement.  When he could see the open doorway to the bank out of the corner of his eye, Erik shifted sideways and ducked inside, only raising his pistol from a possible target at the last possible second.

"Not bad," Ted whispered.  "Guess you remembered what I taught you after all.  Okay, there's a window over there, north side of the building.  Get over there and cover it.  I’ll cover the door from here."  Erik took one step and crunched some broken glass under his boot.  "And be quiet, for God's sake…"  Ted whispered.

"Got it…" Erik muttered.  He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness and gingerly made his way across the ransacked bank.   It took longer than he wanted, but he finally made it to the north side of the building. His position occupied some long-gone manager’s corner office.

He slipped over the dust-covered executive desk and crouched at the corner of the window.  His first thought was to peek around the windowsill, but he worried that would expose his head too much.  Back against the wall, he quickly scanned the office.  He opened the first drawer and rifled through some useless papers before he tried the second drawer.

"Score!" he whispered to himself.  He pulled out a CD-ROM with a hand-written label that read, “Q3 Acct. Backup”.

Erik grabbed the disk and held it to the window.  He could tell right away someone lurked around the corner of the drug store.

"Got somebody!  Right where I first saw him.  Corner of the drug store," he said.

"Good eyes," replied Ted.  Erik heard the crunch of Ted’s boots on the debris in the lobby as he shifted position.  "I got eyes on target," the Marine’s voice drifted in through the open office door.

"He's moving!"  Erik warned in a loud whisper.

"Freeze!  Hands in the air where I can see them!  Do it, now!"  Ted's voice rang out in a commanding tone.  The sound of his voice shattered the eerie silence that enveloped the deserted town.

Erik watched the drama reflected on his CD.  Whoever it was had frozen where they were.  They looked left and right, as if they were searching for Ted.

"Do it now, or I will drop your ass!" hollered Ted.  He waited two seconds, then fired his sniper rifle.  The suppressed rifle popped and Erik could see a portion of the wall explode in a shower of brick and mortar just to the right of the target's head.

"The next one will be right between your eyes!  Now, get on the fuckin’ ground!"

Erik saw their target drop and spread his arms.  He stuffed the CD in his pack and made his way to the front of the bank.  His makeshift mirror could come in handy again.  As he approached Ted, he peered around the corner of the bank.  "I only saw one person, it's gotta be him."

Ted whispered back, "Roger that.  Cover me.  I'm going across the street.  Keep a bead on that asshole and if he so much as farts, blow his head off."  He handed Erik the sniper rifle and drew his own pistol.

Erik shouldered the rifle and brought the scope to his eye.  He tried to put the crosshairs on the prone figure at the end of the block.  He tried a different hold and braced side of the rifle against the exterior of the bank and tried to calm his breathing.  It was no use—the rifle moved too much for him to make an accurate shot.  His hands started to sweat.  The crosshairs jiggled all over his field of view and never rested on his target for more than a heartbeat.  As he watched the crosshairs slide across the target’s shoulders once more, he didn’t think he could shoot him even if he wanted to…

He saw Ted rush across the street and move toward the target at an oblique angle.  As Ted moved forward, his head swiveled left and right.  Ted quickly closed the distance and put his pistol to the man's head.  Confident that Ted now had the person under control, Erik let his gaze lift and scanned the streets looking for other threats.  The only movement he saw was a bit of crumpled newspaper as it rolled by on a slight breeze.  Bigby, Florida was a ghost town.

Erik turned his attention back to Ted.  The ex-Marine waved him over.   Erik trotted down the sidewalk toward Ted and his captive.   "What gives?" he asked as he approached.

"He’s a local," replied Ted.  He holstered his pistol and stood up.  The man grunted with relief and got to his hands and knees.

"Despite that less than warm welcome," he said in a gruff voice that matched his rugged appearance.  "I sure am glad to see you boys."

"You out here all by yourself?" asked Erik.

"Yeah.”

“What were you doing?" asked Erik.

The man regarded Erik with a skeptical eye.  "Whaddya mean ‘what am I doing’?  I'm looking for food.  I came in looking for whatever scraps I could find.  Gotta get something for the kids.  Anything.  Can’t hardly even find a squirrel anymore…”

“Be safer to have a buddy with you,” noted Ted.  He took the sniper rifle back from Erik and slung it over his shoulder.

“Yeah, well, most of my friends been killed or run off.  When them Russians came through, they burned everybody out—lost my house.  I got the kids an’ my wife holed up in my huntin’ shack out in the woods."  The man shrugged.  "Gotta do what you gotta do, right?"

"Looks like the place has already been pretty well picked clean," observed Ted.

The man frowned.  "Don't I know it.  Don't have much of a choice though, do I?  Next town is 10 miles that way," he said pointing a scrawny arm to the east.  "They ain’t got no gas neither and anyway, most of the cars here in town done been shot up.  Not much for it but to scavenge… Or hunt, but I guess I gotta save my bullets…"

"For what?  Seems to me, putting food on the table’s the most important thing right now," said Erik.

"For starters, in case the Russians come back," the man said.   He glared at Erik.  "They come rollin’ through here again, they ain’t taking me an’ mine without a fight."

"Sir," said Ted quietly.  "If the Russians come back, you won't be able to stop them.  There's too many of them…"

"I know," said the man.  He sighed and the spirit of defiance seem to leave his body as his shoulders sagged.  "Gotta save at least enough bullets…"  He swallowed.  "For us."

Erik never thought he’d see the day when an average American talked about saving bullets to commit suicide with his family rather than starve or be taken captive by a foreign invader.  It was surreal and for a moment Erik had nothing to say.  When his senses finally returned, he opened a pouch on the back of his pack and handed over a handful of cans of food to the grateful man.

"Where… Where'd you get these?"

"Here and there," Erik said.  "Back at the grocery store, there's a lot of stuff that's been left behind because people didn’t like the expiration dates… I guess…"

"I saw some of that stuff, but I figured it was all bad…"

"Nope," said Ted.  "You gotta eat what you can.  I'm pretty sure those expiration dates are just guidelines on the nutritional value of food.  But when you're looking at tree bark and thinking it might taste like steak, even expired canned food—as long as it’s not full of bacteria or something—will go a long ways towards fillin’ an empty belly… I know."

“You're welcome to tag-along with us.  We’re scavenging on our way, south,” offered Erik.

"Might be I will.   Thank you."

The three men moved down the street and ducked into ruined shops on their way through Bigby.  The local, formally introduced as Erastus Sewell, was able to explain how the town of Bigby had died.  At the start of the Troubles, when the power had gone out he explained, the town leaders had decided to collect as many nonperishable foods as possible in one location—the police station.  Bigby was too small to have a proper City Hall, everybody used the police station as a gathering place for any major town event.  They’d even set up the town Christmas tree right in front, where the squad cars normally parked.

“When things went from bad to worse,” Sewell said, “a lot of folks just up and left.  They were mostly the ones that lived on the outskirts of town—most of ‘em hunters, some of ‘em workers in the local cannin’ plant.”

“Cannon plant?  Here?” asked Erik.  He looked around at the simple tourist-trap shops.

“Canning,” replied Sewell.  “Oranges.  We’re in Florida, y’know?”

“Oh.”

“What about when the Russians showed up?" asked Ted as he covered the entrance to a convenience store.  Erik slipped inside and could hear the two men talk as he rummaged through broken glass and debris scattered across the floor.  He had to focus—it would be easy to get an infected cut from the busted up metal shelves or jagged chunks of roofing material strewn about.  As his boots crunched across the ground, he continued to listen to the conversation.

"Well, we weren’t quite sure what to make of it.  I remember I was standing on the steps of the police station, talking with a few of my friends when we saw the first tank roll into town."

"Did it have big wheels?  And kind of a gun that looked a little too small for the body?" asked Ted.

Erik bent down to pick up a can of tuna fish that been partially buried by acoustic ceiling tiles.  He dusted it off and examined expiration date.  It was still good for another month.  One of the numbers had been partially rubbed off and he wasn't exactly 100% sure it was safe, but as hungry as he was, he didn’t care.

"Yeah, it had them big wheels.  Looked like tractor tires."

"BTR.  Armored personnel carrier,” replied Ted.  "The group of Russians that rolled through Orlando was just the lead element—the scouts—of the main Russian army coming up from Miami.  They got a couple of those BTR, a lot of troops, and more guns than you can shake a stick at."

"Damn, here I thought that thing was a tank.  And you tell me it’s just part of some scouts?"   Sewell whistled, a mournful sound.  "Looks like the rest of the boys were smart to get out of town when they did.  I should’a followed them."

Erik put the can of tuna fish in his pack and continued through a door on the other side of the cash register.  He used the barrel of his pistol to lift ceiling panels that blocked his view of the floor.  For the most part the place had been ransacked.  A layer of dust on everything showed him that the little store had been abandoned after the initial looting.  There were open bags of chips and cookies scattered all over the place along with animal droppings.  It was a pig sty.   He made his way back to the front door, ready to try somewhere else.

"Anyhow, them Russians rolled into town with loudspeakers blarin’… They said anybody who surrendered would be fed, clothed, and given a chance to get medicine if they need it.  They were looking for supplies, not trouble.

Erik rejoined the men and held up one finger at Ted's raised eyebrow.  "This place is picked clean.  I found a can of tuna fish in there that should still be good, but that's it."

"Batteries? Maps?  Anything else?" asked Ted.

"Nothing, man.  It's like somebody opened the doors and said everything in here was free.”

"I'm been saying that just about every store I been to," said Sewell.  He chuckled ruefully.  "Worked through town three times in the last few weeks…been able to find enough to keep my kids alive, but that’s it.  I ain’t eaten anything in two days."

Ted sighed and examined the afternoon sun.  "We only got a couple more hours of daylight.  We need to be south of town before dark."  He turned and looked at Sewell.  “How’d you like to get a little payback at the Russians?"

Sewell’s face darkened and took on a hard look.  "You just tell me where to shoot, mister.  Those bastards burned my house down, killed my brother and my wife's family—her whole family.  They hauled off just about everybody left in town whether they wanted to go or not.  You’re damn right I want payback."

Ted slapped the man on the back and grinned.  "All right then.  Erik and I are settin’ up a little plan of action.  They got a prison camp southeast of here.  Might be where they took your friends.   Erik escaped yesterday, but both our wives and my kids are still there.”

“Damn.  What you gonna do?” asked Sewell.

Ted looked at him like he’d grown a second head.   “We’re gonna go get them.”  His expression softened a bit.  “We sure could use some help…"

The man's eyes brightened.  "There’s still a handful of us out in the woods.   All of us hunters.  We normally hunt the four-legged kind, but I think in this case I can make an exception.  Just tell me when and where to meet."

"You got a radio?" asked Ted.

"No, had an old CB—but lost it when the Russians burned down my house."

Ted motioned for Erik to turn around so that he could reach into his pack.  "Erik and I have a couple spares…"

Sewell reached to take the radio and paused.  "What’d you say your name was?"

"Ted Jensen."

Erik turned and extended his hand.  "Erik Larsson.”

"I will be dipped in shit…" muttered Sewell.  "You're the one them Russians a been talkin’ about.  You're the one they want!"

Erik and Ted glanced each other.  "What are you talking about?" asked Erik.

"The Russians!” said Sewell.  He ran a claw-like hand through greasy hair.   “They came through here, yesterday.  I was still on my way in an’ hadn’t made it to town, but I could hear the loudspeakers.  Kept goin’ on about some guy named Erik Larsson—they wanted him to turn himself in or…”

“Or what?” asked Erik.

“Well,” said Sewell.  He swallowed.  “I’m sorry, but they said they was gonna kill your woman.  And your kids."

"My kids?"  Erik felt a wave of panic surge through his chest.  "Ted…"

The Marine nodded, his face set in stone.  "I know.  Put it out of your mind, man.  Focus on the mission.  Nothing we can do about them or the Russians right now.  We need to get ourselves ready and launching our attack."

"Yeah," said Sewell.  "Buddy of mine out in the swamp, he still has a radio, and he says the Russians been doing nothing but nonstop advertising that they're gonna kill your family if you don't turn yourself in.  They got a real hard-on for you…"

"If you're serious about helping us throw cold water on them, here's what we need you to do…" began Ted.

CHAPTER 32

Assuming Command

THE SECRETARY-GENERAL’S FACE FROWNED on the large monitor.  "What’s going on?  Where's President Suthby?"

Daniel stood up from behind the President's desk and cleared his throat.  "My apologies, Secretary-General.  There was an assassination attempt—"

The Secretary-General's eyes went wide.  "I was not aware of this.  Why was I not informed immediately?"

Now it was Daniel’s turn to frown.  "The President is stable, thank you for asking."

The Secretary-General narrowed his eyes.  "Mark your tone, sir.  You are an underling."

Daniel clasped his hands behind his back.  "There, you are incorrect, sir.  I am the closest thing this country has to a legitimate Vice President right now.  I am the heir.  The President is incapacitated.  There is no one else on his staff—or in the country, for that matter—who knows as much about his plans as I do."

The Secretary-General's face softened.  He appraised Daniel like someone examining a prized horse.  At length, he nodded.  "Fair enough.  So… Mr. Jones, what exactly are your intentions?"

"My intentions?  My intentions have always been the same: to safeguard the security of the United States and do what’s best for my country.  To do what’s best for my President."

"To do what's best for your President…" mused the Secretary-General.  He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers.  He regarded Daniel through half-closed eyes, like a cat watching its prey.  "I wonder… I wonder exactly what is best for the President.  And if what is best for President Suthby is best for America?"

Daniel ground his teeth and struggled to keep his face neutral.  "What exactly are you asking?  I intend to carry forward President Suthby's platform and initiatives as he would have were he sitting in this chair right now."  Daniel gestured to the stack of paperwork before him.   "As Chief of Staff, I've been the one who prepared most of these documents.  I know them inside and out.  I know his plans and I know what he was attempting to do.  There will be no discontinuity, as the assassin had hoped.  There will be no uprising to overthrow our government.  Things will move on as scheduled and in the end, the United States will emerge stronger than ever."

The Secretary-General laughed, a harsh sound.  "Brave words, boy.  We shall see if you can deliver on your promise.  I will be keeping my eye on you…"

"As I will be keeping an eye on your forces while they parade about on our soil."  Daniel relished the look of frustration on Secretary-General's face.  "President Suthby informed me of his secret deal with you.  I've been in on it since the beginning.  And now it's time for us to discuss something…"

"And what might that be, Mr. Jones?"

"Right now, President Suthby is recovering… His condition is guarded.  In fact, they just released him from the critical care unit.”  Daniel looked down at his hands in an attempt to appear worried.  "It really is a shame how this all happened, this being the most secure location the United States government could provide and all."  He looked up at the image of Secretary-General.  "The nation would surely mourn the loss of its new leader.  But I wonder… I wonder if someone else—"

"Someone like you?" asked the Secretary-General.   His lip curled in a half-smile.

"Perhaps," said Daniel.  He kept his face completely devoid of emotion.  "I won't say that I would turn down the position if offered, but it's not my first choice.  I like to think of myself…" He reached to the desk and picked up a cup of water, swirled it as if it were brandy and took a sip, making the Secretary-General wait.  He could tell the impatience was starting to eat at the other man.  "I like to think of myself as more a behind-the-scenes player.  It's less dirty that way."

The Secretary-General arched an eyebrow.  "That is open to debate."

"Not as far as I'm concerned.  I am the power behind-the-scenes here.  President Suthby got his ideas through me.  I nudged him in just the right moments, in just the right direction.  And here we are."

The Secretary-General leaned in close to the camera. "If you're so confident of your abilities, why not just kill the President now and be done with it?  Why the theatrics?"

Daniel thought for a moment, one finger resting on his lips.  "Like I said, I don’t like to get my own hands dirty.  All I'm doing is laying the groundwork.  If President Suthby happens to pull through—praise God," said Daniel with a smile.  "I would be happy to remain in my position, guiding the future direction of the United States through the President.  If on the other hand," he said lifting his left hand for emphasis, "the worst should happen and our fears realized—with President Suthby's passing, someone new would need to take over the leadership of the country.  That someone would need the immediate support of the United Nations to continue the good work that we have started.  I just want to be clear.  That that someone will be me."

The Secretary-General leaned back in his chair and smiled.  "And if we have someone else in mind?”

Daniel dismissed the idea with a casual wave.  "The American people will never stand for a foreigner taking over as chief executive.  President Suthby and I have been able to hold off a major revolt—at this point in time a general uprising by the population would tear this country apart and our fears of Balkanization would become a reality.  Your little ruse would cease to be effective.  There are many nuclear installations, many thousands of weapons scattered across this nation.  Do you really want an angry, patriotic American to start a nuclear war?  If President Suthby dies, I take over.  The people know me.  Congress has approved me.  In fact, I've checked, and for the most part Congress would be happier with me in charge than with President Suthby."

The Secretary-General nodded, taking in Daniel's ultimatum.  He glanced at some papers on his own desk before looking back at the camera.  "Yes, my sources tell me the same thing."

So, Daniel thought, you do have contacts inside Congress.  That's interesting. He filed that thought away for future use and continued.  "President Suthby has a…unique…personality."

The Secretary-General barked a laugh.  "The man is acidic.  He pisses off far more people than he pleases."

Now it was Daniel’s turn to nod.  He stood up and moved around the side of the desk.  He leaned on the corner and took a completely relaxed posture in front of the camera.   Daniel suppressed a smile as the Secretary-General stiffened in his own chair, suddenly in the subordinate position.  "He has made many enemies in Congress over the years as director of FEMA.  Now that he has the powers of the presidency, he intends to ride rough-shod over everyone.  I, on the other hand, have been the one to slink behind him soothing the ruffled feathers of Congress and patching up the burning bridges.  They know me.  They trust me.  They like me."

"Your argument is persuasive, Mr. Jones.  I'm beginning to think that it might be more beneficial to your country and the United Nations if President Suthby never left the hospital."

Daniel looked down at his hands and smiled.  He hoped the expression was hidden from the camera sufficiently.  "Nothing would make me sadder."  He looked up at the screen.  "Or happier."

The Secretary-General cleared his throat and glanced down at the papers on his desk.  Someone leaned into the camera and whispered in the man's ear.  Daniel waited patiently.  "Your proposal may have some merit.   We will take it under advisement.   We will discuss this later, pending the outcome of President Suthby's recovery.  In the meantime," the Secretary-General said, lifting a paper off his desk.  "There is a matter that I was going to discuss with President Suthby… It appears I must now discuss it with you."

Now we’re getting somewhere, thought Daniel.  "Yes,” he said, letting his face show concern.  "The fighting in New York."

"The fighting?  You mean the skirmish between those half-starved rebels of yours and the handful of Russians patrolling the streets?  No, no, no…that's not what I'm talking about.  I refer to the sudden arrival of the aircraft carrier Theodore Roosevelt."

Daniel knew in his heart that he should keep his face impassive, but he couldn't help the smile.  That aircraft carrier was one tough nut to crack.   Secretly he was thrilled that it had survived the Iranian attack.  There'd been too many American deaths overseas at the hands of foreigners.  He was happy that someone at least had made it home.  He would need their support.  He would need their firepower.

"Yes, our military hardware seems to be surprisingly hard to kill, doesn't it?"

"You may dispense with the poor attempt at humor," said the Secretary-General in a stern voice.  "I am quite serious about this.  The Russian delegation is fit to be tied.  We were told that this carrier strike group and been destroyed—"

"You mean when the Iranians lobbed a nuclear missile into the Eastern Mediterranean?  Yes, we lost contact with them.  Thanks to the Chinese, we lost all our satellites months ago.  We had no idea where it was—let alone that Admiral Nella would decide to bring the entire strike group back to American waters."  Daniel shook his head.  "I've read the man's personnel files, this Admiral is one stubborn son of a bitch."

The Secretary-General grunted in agreement.  "Yes, I have them here.  I don't think this man will ever give up.  He has engaged the Russian fleet in New York harbor—"

Daniel arched an eyebrow.  That was news.  "The Roosevelt is back in American waters?"

The Secretary-General smiled his wolfish grin again.  "You didn't know?  Pity.”  The smile vanished. “Well, at any rate, you won't get a chance to contact the Admiral—our Russian friends are going to handle this little problem."

"I've seen the details on the Russian fleet," Daniel said, trying to steal back some momentum.  His eyebrows furrowed in concentration.  "If I remember correctly, it was an aircraft carrier—the only one they have, by the way—a handful of planes, a scattering of surface ships.  Do you know the makeup of the Roosevelt Strike Group?"

Secretary-General nodded.  "The Roosevelt, an Aegis cruiser, two destroyers, various surface support vessels, and smaller defensive vessels.  The last report I had, listed torpedoes fired at the Russian fleet—so at least one of the two submarines attached to the strike group has survived the Atlantic crossing.  That is of little consequence, as the Russians have brought six submarines with them."

Daniel whistled.  "Six?  That's gotta be the bulk of Russia’s North Atlantic surface fleet and a good chunk of their submarine forces…"

"It is," confirmed Secretary-General.  "Overkill, to be sure, but our Russian friends are nothing if not thorough.  I imagine before the sun sets today the Roosevelt Strike Group will be nothing but broken and twisted hulls sitting on the bottom of Long Island Sound.  The Russians have already taken control of Manhattan Island and established air superiority, so before this day is out we will be in complete control—"

"We?  You mean the Russians."

"No, Mr. Jones, I mean the United Nations.  Remember, Russia does not act alone in this.  Russia is carrying out a Security Council directive to establish a safe harbor and beachhead for future expeditions.  In fact, we have an international coalition gathering on the shores of Western Europe that will rival anything in history, including the D-Day invasion.  When Russia captures New York City and solidifies its grip on the harbor—there will be nothing to stop that force from taking control of all of New England."

Daniel nodded, trying to appear agreeable while he digested this new information.  He cursed Suthby's acquiescence to the United Nations.  They weren't planning on trying to protect the interests of America at all—he’d suspected that all along, but he had never guessed their intentions would be so broad.

If they can control New England and Florida, there’ll nothing stopping them from pushing into the middle and taking Washington D.C., Daniel realized.   If the United Nations takes control of Washington, it'll be a huge psychological victory.  Daniel stood up and tried to organize his thoughts.

For all intents and purposes the government of the United States was scattered across the continent.  Thanks to President Reed and the COG protocol, it would be nigh on impossible to completely shut down the U.S. government.   But, as long as everyone was scattered to the wind, it was almost impossible for it to function, as well.

Ironic, he thought, that the government looks more like the terrorist cell we’ve been trying to destroy for fifteen years than the imposing bureaucratic juggernaut that so many around the world fear.  Daniel sat behind the desk again.

"And what exactly will be my—I mean President Suthby's—position once all these objectives have been met?"

The Secretary-General laughed.  "I suppose someone will have to govern this vast empire in the name of the United Nations.  You Americans have proven to the world that you cannot govern yourselves."

"I think the American people—" Daniel began.

"The American people are fools—they will go along with whoever has the power.  When this is all said and done, the United Nations will have the power.  We will control the American military; we will control your nuclear arsenal.  Ostensibly the world will be safe from nuclear annihilation.  For all intents and purposes," the Secretary-General said as if giving a lecture, “the United Nations will be in complete control of America.  The Old World will finally reestablish its dominance over the New.  Your little experiment in democracy has failed."

So that's your endgame, Daniel thought.  The world is falling apart at the seams and you want to do a land grab to satisfy some sort of European inferiority complex.

"Fair enough,” Daniel said, calm on the outside, seething on the inside.  “So you establish some figurehead ruler here.   Are you going to import an entire government from Germany or Austria or Spain or Russia?”  Daniel shook his head.  “You honestly think that hundreds of millions of American citizens will blindly go along with some foreign dictator?"

Secretary-General smiled.  "A few weeks ago, I would have asked if you honestly thought they’d go along with an American dictator…I think we both know the answer to that question."

GENERAL STAPLETON STOOD NEXT to an M1A2-Abrams and affectionately patted the reactive armor plating.  He glanced around in the smoke-dimmed sunshine at the assembled army behind him, stretching off into the distance towards the west.  He turned and faced the gaping maw of the Lincoln Tunnel.  At last, he would be able to take action.  The Russian counterattack which nearly crippled his forces before they had a chance to marshal had failed.  It was his turn to strike back.

"General, we're ready."

General Stapleton returned the salute of his XO.  They had gathered the entire 4th Division for one last push.  It was all or nothing.  They had taken Chicago—destroyed it, rather.  But they had rooted out the seed of rebellion and the Midwest was safe.  He had chased that rebellion east, where it had settled like a disease in New York City.

It was time to operate.

"Colonel, fire ‘em up.  Let's take back this town."

General Stapleton stepped away from the massive tank as the engine roared to life, echoed by 22 of its siblings.  The noise was thunderous—it was glorious.  He’d had no direct communication with whoever was in charge of the American fleet out in the harbor, but he’d been watching the battle all day.  His men had too—he’d heard the cheers   every time a Russian jet exploded or Russian ship sank into the water, twisted and smoking.

He also knew that the carrier out there—someone had informed him that was the Roosevelt—was listing pretty bad and on fire.  Fire on a ship was never a good sign—even a ground-pounder like Stapleton understood that.  It would only be a matter of time before the Russians would either be victorious or think about expanding their influence to the west in an attempt to escape the navy.

As soon as the navy had shown up, he had seen his opportunity.  He would be the anvil to their sledgehammer.  Under cover of darkness, he had ordered his troops to assemble in front of every serviceable tunnel along the Hudson.  From what his scout helicopters could tell him—they couldn't get too close because of the damned jamming—the Russians were rather preoccupied with incoming missiles.

That seemed prudent.  General Stapleton had figured were he in their position, he would probably be preoccupied with buildings and skyscrapers falling down around his men, as well.

Now, it was at last time to properly introduce the Russians to the Digital Division and make them aware of the fact that they should have paid attention.  Now, it was payback time.

General Stapleton climbed inside the back of his command Stryker, sat down behind the bank of computer monitors, and put on a headset.  He keyed the mic that would transmit his voice to every tank, vehicle, and soldier equipped with a local area radio net.  He could see the location of each unit under his command on the screens before him.  He smiled.

"Gentlemen, the hour of our destiny is at hand.  It is time to liberate a great American city.  You are all veterans now.  What we did in Chicago must be repeated.  However, we're not just facing rebels this time.  We are facing soldiers.  Professionals—men whom we have trained to fight against for generations.   We are facing them head on for the first time.  There is no doubt, however, about our ultimate victory.  They may outnumber us, but this is our land, our country, our city.

"To be clear, we shall show no mercy.   Do not expect any from our enemy—the Navy has them penned in.  They have nowhere to go.  The city has been evacuated by all loyal citizens for weeks if not months now.  The only people left in that cesspool across the river are rebels, sympathizers, and Russians.  When we roll through these tunnels, when we sail across that river like Washington crossing the Delaware, we will destroy everything in our path."

The general considered his next words carefully.  Some part of him knew that he was about to make history and he wanted to be sure that posterity had something worth remembering.  "I'm not going to give you some long-winded speech about what we’re about to do for the greater good of mankind or for peace or for the saving of our country.  We are soldiers.  We're here to kill the enemy.  Let's get to it.  Roll out!"

Even through the armored hull of his command vehicle, general Stapleton could feel the earth shaking outside as his tanks rumbled past on their way through the tunnels.  The Russians had till now faced his advance elements—scouts, helicopters, light mobilized infantry.  Now, the iron fist of his mechanized armor had arrived.

The man that had for his entire career been compared to General George S. Patton, Jr., truly felt what it must have been like to be America's greatest tank general.

He keyed the mic and selected the first tank company’s commander.  "Son, you find that radar tower the air National Guard has told us about and you take that thing out.  The Russians think they have air superiority, we'll see what they do without their toy."

"Copy that, Home Plate.  Dagger-1 on the move."

CHAPTER 33

With Your Shield or On It

MAJOR STROGOLEV EXAMINED THE map of Tampa displayed on the screen in front of him.  He positioned his selector over the stadium southwest of the downtown area, right on the northern edge of the bay.  He’d been informed it was the home of the local hockey team.  A shame, he thought, that the assault will begin with the hockey team’s home ice—I always enjoy watching Team Russia play in the Olympics.  It’s a nice big target, though, and teeming with civilian refugees.

Once he’d selected the stadium as their primary target, the information was relayed to his troops via secure satellite link.  It was American technology, but effective and it made his light, mobile strike force all the more deadly.

He just hoped he had enough time before General Doskoy arrived with the main army.

"You have your target, comrades.  Commence the attack."

He sat back in his chair and watched the data roll in.  On the radar map he could see missiles streak across Tampa Bay on their way toward targets preselected by the Kremlin.  He was going to attempt to do the same thing that he had done at Orlando—strike the vulnerable, most explosive, civilian targets that would drive any survivors straight into any Americans.

Word must've spread about the U.N. required retreat.  Since Orlando, his forces had run into only token resistance from half-feral units of the U.S. Army.  All coordinated efforts had shifted north.  Tampa would be easy for the taking, but Moscow was not in the mood for taking the city.

The Kremlin had ordered Tampa to be punished.

Strogolev would burn Tampa to the ground.

He opened a bottle of water and took a sip as the first missiles impacted their targets and the little blue triangles turned and red squares and then disappeared on his computer screen.  He chuckled at the irony as another wave and yet another after that began their flight toward downtown Tampa.

Strogolev also kept an eye on the attached air wing as it looped in from the south.   Intel suggested that most of the survivors in the city were in Ybor.

He shifted his gaze to a larger map.  A small detachment had been sent to fire incendiary rounds inside St. Petersburg.  That peninsular city held the heaviest concentration of rebels—the mysterious Brotherhood—who’d already set fire to most of the town during the Troubles.  Strogolev gambled that a precise strike in certain sections of St. Petersburg would reignite the riots and send the conflagration north.

"Patch me through to the flight leader," Strogolev ordered.

"Go ahead, I read you clear," said the fighter pilot as he tore through the skies over Ybor City.

"You have your primary target in sight?" asked Strogolev.

"Yes, sir.  Target has been struck, we're moving on to secondary targets," said the pilot.

Strogolev ignored the irritation in the pilot’s voice and demanded a visual update.  He was jealous of the Americans and their ability to feed live data streams from all vehicles and planes into their command-and-control vehicles.

"The entire south side is burning," said the pilot’s voice.  Strogolev could hear the wind whistling past the cockpit in the background.

"Banking right, missile away!" the pilot said.  "Next target is the Skyway Bridge.  Two and Three, take it out," called out the pilot.

"Any civilian movement yet?"

"Negative, I'm looping back around now to double check."

Strogolev waited for a few tense moments.  How long would it take for the survivors to clog the streets and bog down anyone trying to escape?  In Orlando it'd only taken a handful of minutes.  On the way from Orlando to Tampa, they found nothing but empty towns.  Everyone who had been able to fled north with the rest of the American army.  As much as he desired an easy victory, Strogolev would not to relax until he knew what surprises Tampa held.

"Yes, there they are—I see survivors exiting buildings.  We have multiple targets on foot."

Strogolev leaned back and closed his eyes in relief.  It began.  "You have free reign choose your targets as you will.  Weapons-free."

"Yes, sir.  Confirm weapons-free.  All units, attack pattern Fox, execute, execute, execute!"

Strogolev turned his attention back to the computer screen and plotted his next move.  Red circles on the screen indicated the BTR's—all of them except for the command BTR were making their way down the main highway straight for the heart of downtown Tampa.  They were flanked by two columns of soldiers on foot.

They crept through the outer suburbs and burned everything in their path.  It was slow going, slogging through neighborhoods like that, but reports that civilian survivors were beginning to flood the streets kept him optimistic.

Strogolev swiveled in his chair and turned to face the opposite wall where another screen glowed with the depiction of downtown Tampa through the unblinking eyes of a drone.  The pilot operated it from a building well behind the outskirts of the bay city.  The man had been set up with a guard, some food and water, and the portable drone command-and-control station.  Strogolev keyed another comms frequency.

"Drone control, zoom in on sector A-2."

"As you wish, sir," replied the pilot’s voice.  Strogolev watched as the camera swiveled and zoomed into the sector he required.  It showed the leading edge of the BTR column.  He watched the BTRs rumble down a placid suburban street.  They fired high-explosive rounds in silence.  American houses exploded like they had been made of toothpicks. Flaming debris filled the air and blanketed the streets.

The BTRs rumbled over everything in their path and blasted cars pushing cars right off of the street.  Foot soldiers swarmed behind them, rummaging through houses, collecting trophies and supplies as they went.  Strogolev had issued orders for the men to search houses quickly as they went through.  Stragglers would not be tolerated.

He was satisfied to see squads leapfrog past each other in an effort to graze off the land as they moved forward.  The men had fairly salivated at the chance to acquire loot.  Everyone wanted to bring home pieces of Americana to show family and friends or sell on the black market.  After all, Russia still had power…so anything that required electricity would still work in the Motherland.  Strogolev knew that even though the Americans were starving and without water, they would still hold onto their precious electronics.

Satisfied that the ground assault proceeded as planned, he swiveled back to the other side of the BTR and continued to monitor the air assault.

A large fire, according to one of the pilots, had already engulfed the south side of Tampa.  It was spreading fast.  It'd been a long dry summer and fall and there were no automatic sprinklers or fire departments to put out fires now.  The firestorm that they had started in Orlando paled in comparison to the one that began to devour Tampa.   He checked his watch—the assault had been under way for all of 15 minutes.

The pilots reported increased winds and had to pull back as the smoke reduced visibility to dangerous levels.  It was not enough.  Strogolev ordered his artillery to fire more rockets into Tampa.

The BTR commander cut into his headset.  "Sir, General Doskoy is reporting that he is within two hours of arrival.  He is demanding that you contact him immediately."

Strogolev ignored him.  Now was not the time to placate his commander.  He had stolen Orlando from the obnoxious little man, yet Doskoy had not only managed to seize the glory for himself, he gained a promotion to boot.  Strogolev vowed that would not happen again.  He’d contacted the Kremlin before he launched his assault and received prior approval for his plans.  He had promised that taking Tampa would hasten the fall of the entire state.  Aleksei Strogolev, not Andros Doskoy, would go down as the man who captured Florida.

Strogolev smiled as Tampa burned.

ERIK CROUCHED UNDER THE wide-leafed bush and waited.  He tried unsuccessfully to force his tense body to relax.  Ever so slowly, he pulled his Russian pistol forward and checked it—it still had a round in the chamber.  The magazine was full.  He had 18 shots.

He slowly peeled back a leaf that blocked his vision.  The last 20 feet across the clearing toward the front of the women's facility was empty.

There'd been a lot of Russian activity lately that had been centered on the prison camp.  Either someone important was on their way or the Russians were preparing to leave the area.  Either way, he and Ted had run out of time.  They would leave the prison camp with their families today or not at all.

Erik checked his watch again.  Almost time for the assault and Ted was nowhere to be seen.  He slowly turned his head and peered to the left and right.  He couldn’t spot any of their new allies from Bigby due to the pine forest.  They were backwoods frontiersman, modern-day pioneers.  He wasn’t surprised they could hide so well.  After all, they lived more off the land than anyone Erik knew.

The plan Ted designed called for Erik to stake out a position in front of the women's facility.  Ted would arrive just before the assault began and check-in with Erik before he moved off to a location where he had a good field of fire into the camp.  He would use the captured sniper rifle to try and provide cover for the families as they fled.

In the meantime, the hunters would split into two groups.  One would attack from the west, the other from the east at the same time.  The Russians would be torn between the sniper and men attacking from two directions at once.  During the confusion, the plan was for Erik to slip into the women's facility, bust open the doors, and turn everyone out.

They hoped during the confusion Erik would be able to extract Brin, Susan, and the kids.  The hunters, a few of them veterans themselves, took it upon themselves to rescue the rest of the American soldiers during the assault.

Erik had no doubts about what his fate might be should this, their last-ditch attempt at liberation fail.  There was no other course of action.  Erik pushed the thought from his mind.  Failure was simply not an option.  If ever there was a time in his life to say ‘come home with your shield or on it’, this was it.

Erik nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand suddenly gripped his shoulder.  "Easy there, chief," whispered Ted.

He turned his head and cursed at his friend.  "You damn-near gave me a heart attack."

"Hey, I'm Recon, remember?  I'm supposed to do that."   He grinned.  Ted’s white teeth were in stark contrast to the war paint smeared across his face.

"Yeah let's hope the Russians react the same way."

"We’re all set," Ted hissed.  He let go of Erik's shoulder and began to slip away into the bushes.  "The attack is a ‘go’.  Wait for my signal."

"Wait—what signal?" whispered Erik in a panic.  Ted didn't answer.  When Erik looked over his shoulder, there was no movement and no sign of Ted.  The man was a ghost.

Well, Erik told himself, when the bodies start to drop, I guess I'll have my signal…

Erik decided to shimmy forward about three feet to reach the very edge of cover and prepare for a full-on sprint to the front door of the women's quarters.  He didn't have long to wait.

Erik was able to see at least three guards as they milled around the women's cabin.  The burned husk of the administration building that had been destroyed during Erik's failed first attempt at escape smoldered next door.  He was at last able to admire Purnell's handiwork.  Whatever the hell the man had touched off, it'd made one holy mess of that building.

The roof had vanished over half the building.  Three of the four walls had caved-in and were charred to a crisp.  If anyone was inside there… Erik didn't want to think about that.  There was a good chance someone had died when that building had exploded.   The Russian commander, Captain Stepanovich, was the one person he knew had survived.

That son of a bitch is going to die today.

Erik heard what sounded like a clap of thunder explode from the forest to his left.  One of the three guards in front of the women's cabin went slack before he fell to the ground like a rag-doll.  Ted had removed the silencer on the sniper rifle.

“Fire for effect,” he’d said.

A blossom of what looked like red paint had been splattered against the front wall of the building where the guard had been standing.  Before the echo of the shot faded, there was another and a second Russian went down.

The last guard screamed and dropped to the ground in an attempt to save his life.  In less than a heartbeat, Ted's rifle roared one more time and the Russian on the ground twitched, then lay still.

As Erik launched himself to his feet, he couldn't help but admire the fact that Ted had just dispatched three soldiers in a couple of seconds.  And Ted had complained that he preferred bolt-action rifles.  Erik didn’t even want to think about how insanely accurate the Recon Marine would have been with a rifle of his choosing.

Erik blocked out the thunder of Ted's rifle firing again—and again—as he ran across the clear space between the forest and the front of the cabin.  He side-stepped the bodies and lowered his shoulder to throw his entire weight at full speed into the door to the women's cabin.

The wooden door exploded in a shower of splinters and busted pine planks.  Erik felt a momentary stab of pain in his right shoulder and neck as he careened through the door, just before his face impacted the ground on the inside.  He had expected a little more resistance—whoever had built the cabin clearly had not anticipated the need to keep people out.  Momentarily dazed, it took Erik a couple seconds to get to his feet and let his eyes adjust to the darkness.  He still had the pistol in his hand, so that was a good sign.  Off to his right, in the darkness, he heard a voice yell in Russian.

Just like Ted had told him, without hesitation he rolled to the left and brought up his pistol.  He sighted down his arm toward where he thought the sound came from and squeezed the trigger three times in quick succession.  The explosion of fire and sound from his pistol reverberated inside the building even louder than Ted’s sniper rifle outside.  Erik, though temporarily blinded, did not stop and dropped to the ground again.  He rolled onto his injured right side back toward his original position.  His eyes had adjusted and as he got up from his roll and aimed where he thought his target might be.  He saw someone thrash around on the floor and held his fire.

He had been right. They had posted guards inside the women's cabin.  Before he could take another step, a woman screamed and launched herself at the guard on the floor.  As he opened his mouth to call for Brin, two more women landed on the Russian.  They screamed as they kicked and punched the wounded man.

Erik heard another shout in Russian behind him and spun to face the shattered doorway.  A guard appeared and held a rifle in front of him.  The Russian shouted again and swung the rifle side to side, as if seeking a target in the darkness.

Erik knew he only had a few seconds before the man's eyes adjusted to the darkness.  As he aimed his pistol at the man’s chest, a body crashed in to the guard from the shadows and knocked the rifle to the floor. Women appeared out of the darkness and forced the man back outside.  They piled on him like sharks in a feeding frenzy.  His screams of anger turned to screams of pain their hands and feet connected with his now defenseless body.

Aware of no other threats in the immediate vicinity, Erik turned and made his way toward the rear of the building where he had last seen Susan.  He called out for Brin as a tidal wave of women and children made a break for the open door.  Erik raised the pistol above his head and tried to clear a path with his injured right arm as he fought against the current of bodies heading for the door.  Their voices rose to the point that Erik’s ears hurt.

The attack was in full force now and even over the screaming he could hear Ted's rifle bark again, mixed with the deep rat-tat-tat of AK-47s.  He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard hunting rifles echo in the distance.

Erik got halfway through the building before the press of bodies became too much and he was slowly and inexorably forced towards the front of the building again.  He called out to Brin over and over again, interspersed with shouts for Susan and the children.  Women around screamed in terror.   The noise level was deafening.  Without warning, he suddenly felt the familiar grip of Brin’s soft hand in his.

"Brin!" he gasped

"You came back!  You're alive!  You came back!" she said as she shoved a woman out of the way in order to throw her arms around Erik's neck.

"Where’s Susan?  Where's the kids?" asked Erik.   He tried to shelter her from the press of people as they turned and began to work their way toward the door, carried along by the flow of bodies.

Over the sounds of battle outside and the screaming inside, Brin yelled, "They moved her to another building.  They took the kids with them."

Erik cursed their luck.  The AK-47s grew louder.  He could hear shouts and screams from outside the building now.  The Russians had launched their counterattack.

"We don't have much time.  We've got to get out of this building and find Susan and the kids!"

"This way!" Brin said as she pulled him toward the side wall.  As the women and children tried to escape, they surged toward the middle of the pathway.  Erik followed her lead and knocked aside empty cots.

Just as they reached the shattered entrance an explosion at the rear of the building knocked most of the remaining prisoners to the floor.  A hundred voices rose as one in a cry of panic and frustration.  Erik reached the limit of his patience.  The press of bodies would get them both killed and he would not allow that to happen, not now.

He grabbed Brin around the waist turned his left shoulder forward and flung women out of his way like a bulldozer.   The open door and freedom lay just ten feet away and by God nothing was going to stop him this time.  Erik barreled through the bottleneck at the door and they staggered into the early light of day.  Most of the women ran straight out the door into the main area of the prison camp.   Only a few stragglers veered left and right in an attempt to find cover.

Erik, a head or taller than most of the women, spotted a group Russian soldiers as they approached with AK-47s leveled.  He saw his chance and practically threw Brin toward the corner of the burned-out administration building.  He crouched low as they ran and used the riot to hide their movement.   It worked.  He collapsed in the rubble behind a partially destroyed wall.  Brin landed on top of him, out of breath.

“You’re shaking like a leaf,” Erik said.  “We’re almost there…just—”

"Did you see how many made it?"

A dozen AK-47s fired a volley on full auto and drowned out his answer.

THE SHARP REPORT OF a Dragunov sniper rifled alerted Gregor Stepanovich that something was seriously amiss in his prison camp. He knew of no reason for one of his men to fire that particular weapon.  More importantly, he knew that one of those rifles had been stolen when Erik Larsson had escaped.

Not in the Special Forces.  Ha!  I knew it…

Stepanovich frowned.  He was in the middle of an especially brutal interrogation, one he’d desperately like to finish.  Irritation mounted inside him as he stepped back to wipe his hands clean of American blood.

The soldier in front of him looked up from the floor, his face a complete ruin.  The insolence of the man—he actually smiled at Stepanovich.  The American spat blood and a few teeth onto the ground at Stepanovich his feet, then coughed.  After all that he’d done to the prisoner, the fool still smiled in defiance.

Americans are insane.

"You find something funny?"  Stepanovich said as he dropped the bloody rag to the ground and reattached his utility belt.  That Dragunov rifle cracked again and again.  The walls of the interrogation cabin muffled the sound but it was still plenty loud.

"Yeah…this game is over, Ivan…" hissed the gap-toothed prisoner.

Stepanovich spoke in English: "You honestly expect me to be frightened by your sad defiance?  You will die today, you know?"  He looked at the clipboard on the table nearby.  “Mr. Purnell.”

The American’s insolent smile widened.  The torn flesh of his lips spread into a hideous grimace of death.  "So will you, pal."  He spat a bloody gob at Stepanovich’s feet.  It splattered his boot and left a gory smear.

Stepanovich froze when heard a different rifle that had a deeper, sharper report.  It was no Russian weapon that was for sure.  That could only mean one thing—an outside attack.  Locals.

Stepanovich drew his sidearm and shot the American prisoner in the forehead, finally erasing that gruesome smile.  He holstered the weapon and without another sound stepped over the body.  He crossed the interrogation room and threw open the door.  His ears were assaulted by the screams of dying soldiers—his soldiers—and the dull roar of what sounded like hundreds of voices from the east.

The women.  It has to be Larsson.  He’s back to collect his woman.

"And now the trap is sprung.”  He pulled the radio from his belt and brought it to his lips.  "This is Captain Stepanovich—squad one, execute your orders!  Squad two, move to your backup positions and cover the women's containment building.  Everyone else get to your positions!  We’re under attack!"

"Captain!  Squad four is taking fire from the woods outside cabins three and nine!" his radio yelped.  Stepanovich turned his head and listened to the sound of what appeared to be single-shot rifles echo across the compound.  He turned and begin to run in that direction to help coordinate defense.  Halfway there, the radio squawked again.

"Captain!  Cabins 11 and 12 under heavy attack!  They're everywhere!  There in the trees!"

Before Stepanovich could get the radio to his mouth, it broke squelch one more time.  "Sniper!  Sniper by the admin—" the transmission ended abruptly.

Impossible!  The locals had been pacified—he had seen to that personally.  He’d sacked every town and looted all the supplies he could.  The survivors had been driven into the woods!

Lenin’s balls, how the hell are the Americans still able to mount a coordinated attack?

Hunting rifles crackled in the distance at the same time from both the left and his right.  Over all the noise, the Dragunov reigned supreme.  He could only imagine what casualties his men suffered.

He paused, his pistol in one hand, his radio in the other.  He couldn’t decide where to head first.  No matter where Stepanovich turned, his men died, cut down by unseen attackers.  It wasn't possible!

"Squad one in position, there's fighting inside the women's quarters!  They’re starting to come out!"

Larsson.  That's where he would be.  So who fired the Dragunov?  Stepanovich turned and sprinted toward the north end of camp where the women's cabins had been.  He raised the radio to his lips as he ran.

"Kill them!  Kill them all!  All units this net, shoot anything that moves!  Execution orders are in effect!"  He hoped his men had the stomach to follow through with the ultimate solution to his prison problems.  He had handpicked most of the guards for just such a detached ability, but never actually expected to need the ‘nuclear option’.  The chaos before him left little room for strategy, however.  He needed to end this revolt and he needed it to end now.

As he rounded the last building before the women's cabin, he heard the musical sound of at least a dozen AK-47s touch off in unison.  The crescendo of terrified screams rose to an angelic level as he scrambled around the corner and brought his pistol up, ready to join in the melee.

ERIK THREW HIS BODY on top of Brin's when he heard the AK-47s.  They both screamed—the sound was terrifyingly close.   The collapsed wall of the admin building was the only barrier between them and the massacre.

"Come on, we've got to get out of here!" Erik said over the noise.  He helped Brin to her feet and when he was sure that no one had seen them emerge behind the wall, the two of them sprinted forward.

Brin tugged on Erik's hand.  "We can't just leave them!”

Erik yanked her forward harder than he’d meant.  "It's too late for them!"  The screams of the wounded and dying nearly caused him to vomit, but he continued pulling Brin away from danger with relentless determination.

"But, you have a gun!" Brin pleaded.

Erik reached the corner of the charred building and brought Brin close to his chest, shielding her from the noise of the slaughter behind the wall.

“There’s children in that crowd…” Brin whimpered.

"I have a pistol,” Erik snapped.  There's at least a dozen trained soldiers out there with fully automatic rifles.  If I step out and start shooting, they’ll cut us both down in a heartbeat.  We've got to get out of here—there's nothing we can do to save those women…"

And children… Erik closed his eyes against the pain in his heart.  All those young lives ended in such terror and pain.  It was inhuman.  It was pure evil.  He clenched his jaw until his teeth hurt and opened his eyes.  It was as if he could hear Ted’s voice whisper in his ear: Mission first.  Get.  Brin.  Out.

Erik peaked around the corner of the rubble pile and saw that the coast was temporarily clear.  The Russians had advanced toward the women's cabin.   Erik hoped no one would see them if they made a mad dash to the next cabin.  Beyond that cabin, there was a 30 foot patch of open space before the safety of the forest.

Freedom.  It was within his reach.  Maybe 100 feet away.

The sniper rifle cracked in quick succession.  Ted fired faster than ever—he must’ve seen the slaughter.  Erik hoped he wouldn’t snap the Dragunov in half in a rage.

Erik could no longer tell from where shots had been fired.   Hunting rifles popped in the trees all around the prison camp, AK-47s roared, the screams of the dead and dying,

And then something else.

Erik saw a figure emerge from around the corner of the cabin opposite them and skid to a stop in the loose gravel.  The man was armed only with a pistol and a radio, his eyes locked on the front of the women's cabin.

Stepanovich.

Erik's blood ran cold and time slowed to a crawl.  Erik released Brin from his grasp and ignored her shriek of protest.  He launched himself around the corner at Stepanovich, the Russian who had orchestrated his capture slaughtered the prisoners.   He had allowed his men to… With Brin…

Stepanovich ran toward the slaughter in front of the women’s cabin in slow motion.  Erik had just 20 feet to cross before vengeance would be his at last.  He started to bring his pistol up.  At the same time, Stepanovich caught his movement and those cold eyes swung to lock on Erik's.  Stepanovich stumbled and slowed to a stop as he raised his own pistol.  He shouted something at Erik in Russian.

Before either of them could get a shot off, dozens of freed American prisoners poured around the corner and swept Stepanovich away like a twig on a raging river.  The roar of their combined fury drowned out even the AK-47s. Erik paused for the briefest of moments to watch the tidal wave of anger and hate crash into the rear of the Russian line.

The Russians never had a chance.  The enraged American prisoners ripped the outnumbered guards to pieces.  As the carnage intensified, Erik sought out Stepanovich.  He brought his pistol up in a two-handed grip as he spun around and checked every angle.

Stepanovich was gone.

Then Brin was at his side:  "Snap out of it, Erik, we've got to get Susan and the kids!"

She led the way around the remains of the administration building to one of the smaller cabins in the prison.  Erik was right on her heels and only fired his weapon at a lone Russian who appeared around the corner and tried to get off a shot at Brin.  Erik wasn’t the best marksman in the world and he’d been running—the shot went wide and the Russian went down clutching his shoulder where it met his neck.  His rifle fell in the middle of the walkway as he screamed.  Brin reach the front door but Erik paused to scoop up the AK-47 before he followed.

Erik burst through the open door pistol first.  He fully expected another Russian guard.  Brin was close on his heels, but just far enough back to avoid injury when a man jumped out of the shadows and slammed something hard against Erik's head.  As he fell, he at least knew that she had not been hit.  Erik clattered to the ground, the rifle and pistol flung across the dirty wooden floor.  He landed painfully on his side and blinked away bright spots in his vision for a few seconds.  He heard the sounds of a struggle and a woman screamed.  It sounded like Susan.

Erik rolled over on his back and blinked through the pain as he looked up at the darkened ceiling.  His hands slapped the floor as he looked for a weapon.  A thunderous crash of gunfire erupted and the room was lit like daylight for a split-second.  Erik snapped back to his senses and scrambled to his feet.

Stepanovich took a step back from Susan.  She held her hands to her mouth.  As Stepanovich continued to move back, Erik saw Ted's eldest son, Mark, crumpled in a heap on the ground.  He wasn’t moving.  Stepanovich looked down at the young body and sneered.  Erik saw his chance and charged, screaming his rage.

Susan shrieked and slapped at Stepanovich as he tried to raise his gun.   He fired once at her before he attempted to get a bead on Erik.  He was too slow.  Erik crashed into him and sent both of them to the floor in a heap of fists and curses.

A white-hot fury consumed Erik as his hands sought Stepanovich’s throat.  The Russian was nothing if not well-trained, though, and quickly slipped both of his hands in between Erik's.  With a grunt of satisfaction, the prison camp commander spread his arms in a whip-like motion, knocking Erik's grip aside.  At the same time he raised one leg and kneed Erik in the stomach—it was enough to force the air out of his lungs in a whoosh and cause him to roll aside.

Erik ignored the pain in his stomach as he continued his roll and bounced up on his feet, gasping for breath. Stepanovich stood up and fumbled at his belt.  Erik saw he was trying to pull a knife free.  Thinking only of keeping himself between the Russian and Brin, he flung himself once more at Stepanovich.

He felt a satisfying crunch and shooting pain in his left hand as the knuckles of his fist connected with Stepanovich’s right cheek.  The Russian grunted as his head snapped back, but instead of falling over he latched his free hand on Erik's wrist and pulled him closer as the knife exited the sheath on his hip.

Erik was bigger and he knew he was stronger with a longer wingspan.  However, Stepanovich had pulled him in close and now Erik knew a knife was coming for his midsection.  His last option was to use his head.

As he fell forward he swung down with all the strength in his neck and shoulders and connected his forehead with the bridge of Stepanovich’s nose.  The Russian howled in pain and fell against the floor.  Erik rocked back on his heels as the world spun around him.  He’d never hit someone with a head butt before and it felt like he’d just run face first into a concrete wall.  Idly, he wondered if he'd done it right.

As the world around him came into focus again, he could see the Russian crouched before him.   Blood ran freely down his face in a crimson stream as he clawed at the pistol on the ground.  An evil sneer spread across his lips as he took aim at Erik's face.

Before he could pull the trigger, Susan crashed into his side and sent them both back to the floor.  Now it was Erik's chance to grab the weapon.  In one smooth motion he reached out, scooped it up and got to his feet.

"Get out of the way, Susan!" yelled Erik.

Susan was beyond hearing.  She screamed, clawing at Stepanovich’s face.  She snapped at him with her teeth.  It was like watching a honey badger attack a lion.  She had just witnessed her son gunned down right in front of her—Erik could not imagine the rage that drove her forward.

Susan wrapped her hands around Stepanovich’s neck as he tried to knock her aside.  Despite the obvious size mis-match, she attempted to smash the back of his head against the floor as she screamed through a flood of tears.

Erik shifted his gaze off the fight for a moment and quickly took in the scene around him.  He saw the body of Ted’s son.  Mark hadn’t moved and a dark stain had spread underneath his shoulder.  Behind him, the two younger kids held each other and cried.  He didn't see were Brin had gone, but she wasn't near the Russian and that was good enough.

Erik tried to adjust his angle so that he could take a shot without injuring Susan, but she refused to cooperate.  Every time Stepanovich shoved her away, she launched herself at him again.  She kicked, slapped, and clawed at his face.  Stepanovich had raised his arms like a boxer, shielding his head to conserve his strength.  He tensed, coiled like a spring and Erik knew it wouldn’t be much longer before he struck back at Susan.  The hurricane of blows that rained down on his face and chest would have to abate soon—no one could keep that up for long.

Then it happened.  Stepanovich whipped one hand out like a snake and grabbed hold of a clump of Susan’s matted hair.  She gasped in surprise as he yanked back and delivered a punch with his other hand directly to her neck.

In triumph, Stepanovich threw her off him like a blanket and kicked her in the stomach, hard.  Susan crashed into a cot next to the far wall and lay still.  Stepanovich turned toward Erik and froze when he saw the barrel of the pistol just a few feet from his own face.  A smile began to form on his face and he slowly wiped some of the blood from his chin with the back of his hand.  He coughed, spat blood on the floor, and chuckled.

"Not special forces, eh?" he grunted.

Erik thumbed the hammer back on the pistol and leaned in closer, willing himself to pull the trigger.  He couldn't understand why he hadn't already done so.  Something held him back.  Some thought in the back of his mind fought through the anger and the fury that drove him to destroy this vile creature.   It warned him that if he pulled the trigger right now, if he applied just a few ounces of pressure and eviscerated the Russian’s head with a blast from the pistol, he would become no better than that which he sought to destroy.  The man was unarmed and beaten half to death.

Erik argued with himself.  Shooting him now is no different than killing that convict back at the Freehold.  Just pull the damn trigger!

His hesitation was enough to give a brief moment of confidence to the Russian.  "You know, your wife—"

The tremendous retort of an AK-47 erupted over Erik’s shoulder and he flinched as the entire cabin lit up from the muzzle flash.  Three shots were fired, but only one connected with the Russian’s chest.  It pinned him to the floor on his back.  A surprised look passed on his face as he collapsed.  Two clean circles of light appeared in the wall behind him.  Erik whirled and dropped to a knee as he took aim at the new threat.

Before him, Brin held an AK-47 with trembling arms.   A tendril of smoke slithered up into the air from the end of the barrel.  The look on her face was not anger, or even fear.  It was the look Erik would assume someone might have when having to put down a rabid dog.  Cold, not necessarily ruthless, but efficient.

He reached out to her.  “Brin?  Hey, sweetie, can you—”

Brin's face darkened and she brushed past Erik, bringing the rifle up to her shoulder.  She screamed, a sound of such hatred that Erik would never have assumed possible from his wife.  The AK-47 erupted into light and noise.  She fired over and over again, and emptied the entire clip into the twitching body of what was left of Captain Stepanovich.

Erik was stunned and only snapped back into action when he heard the click that signaled the banana-shaped magazine on the AK-47 had emptied.  Brin still shrieked her outrage and shook the rifle at Stepanovich’s body as if she still fired.  Erik got up and slowly placed a hand on top of the warm barrel.   He holstered his pistol and gently cupped his wife's face with his throbbing left hand.  Something in there was badly bruised, if not broken.  He shoved the thought aside and focused on Brin.  She wouldn’t look at him and he had to slowly apply pressure to his hand to turn her head in order to see the tears in her eyes.

Her breathing was fast and shallow—he could see sweat on her forehead.  The primal rage that made her eyes almost glow as she dispatched Stepanovich faded and serene coolness returned.  She blinked once, then twice, and finally recognized her husband before her.  She turned her head back to the rifle and let go of it as if it had been a poisonous snake.  She took a step back, and one hand went to her mouth as she gasped at the sight of what she had done.

Erik pulled her to him and embraced her in a tight hug, until she finally wrapped her arms around him and hugged back.  Over the top of her head he watched as the children rushed to their mother.

"Momma?" squeaked Junior.  His high pitched toddler's voice brought Erik back to the room and the Freehold—it seemed like a lifetime ago—when he had found Susan shot in the stomach.

"Mommy?  Can you hear me?" asked Ted's daughter, Lindsey, in a shaky voice.

Brin gently removed herself from Erik's embrace in order to reach Susan.  She carefully rolled her friend over and checked for a pulse.

"I'm alive," groaned Susan.  "But my baby…"

Erik knelt and placed a hand on Mark’s throat.  He rolled the youth onto his back and saw the finality of the situation.  Not at all sure what to do, Erik gently moved his hand over Mark’s smooth face and closed his eyes.  He looked up at Brin and shook his head slightly.

Lindsey knew exactly what that meant and began to cry.  Brin bent down and whispered something in Susan’s ear and then hugged her friend.  The two women wept together.  Susan moaned again, her grief pouring out of her in a low undulating wave.

An explosion outside jarred Erik's mind back to the escape.  He dashed to the open door and peeked around the corner as more freed American soldiers rushed by screaming for revenge.

The crack of hunting rifles now completely drowned out the bark of AK-47s.   The battle seemed to be closer—or Erik's hearing had been damaged from the close quarters combat—he couldn't tell which.

Then he heard the tell-tale whump-whump-whump of the BTR’s main gun.  Erik turned back toward the women and children inside the cabin.

"Brin!  Can Susan walk?  We've got to go—now!  This is gonna be our only chance!"

Brin helped Susan get to her feet and checked her blood-stained shoulder.  "She's been shot!"

"I can make it," said Susan through gritted teeth.  "I've got to find Ted."

Erik could see the edge of the forest not far in the distance.  He bent down and gently lifted Mark.  Erik grimaced as he saw how emaciated Ted's children had become on the strict rationing of the Russians.  Mark, who would been a robust 12-year old, now felt little more than a sack of potatoes in his arms.  Erik’s hands grew slick with Mark’s blood.  He clenched his jaw.  Mission first.

"Everybody follow me—we’re going to get out of here.  Kids, we’re going to go find your daddy.  Okay?"

He was rewarded by a blank, bloodshot stare from Lindsey and a slow nod from Junior.  They moved next to him and Teddy gripped the side of Erik's pants.  Erik tried smiled him, but worried that with all the dirt, blood, and grime smeared on his face he might look like some sort of nightmare.

"That's good, Teddy.  Hold on tight.  Now hold onto your sister, too.  I'm counting on you, little man."

Through his tears, the faintest hint of a smile spread on the toddler's face.  Erik turned to his wife.  "You ready?"

Another explosion, this one much closer, lit up the inside of the cabin.  Erik could see debris and flaming chunks of wood land on the ground outside the cabin.  The chaotic sounds of battle continued to grow louder.  The radio on Stepanovich’s belt broke squelch and urgent Russian voices began talking over each other.  Erik turned to leave but a figure with a rifle appeared in the doorway.

"There you are!" exclaimed Sewell in relief.

Erik's heart skipped a beat, but a smile spread across his face.  "Get out of the way!  I got the VIPs, we gotta get out of here!"

"Okay—" the local hunter's eyes adjusted to the darkness and he took in the limp form of Mark.  "Jesus!  Hurry up and follow me.  I know shortcut—we’ll sneak off into the woods and head out to the rendezvous point"

"Where's… Where's Ted?" gasped Susan.

"No time!" Sewell said.  He turned and glanced down the path toward the rest of the prison camp.  "Shit!  Here they come.  You gotta go now—go, go, go!”   He pulled Erik through the door and pushed him toward the forest.  The women and children began to exit and Sewell raised his rifle and fired toward the Russians as they ran.   Erik saw a group of prisoners race up behind the guards but they were too far away to help.

Erik paused just long enough for Brin and Susan to catch up.  "Go!  Straight ahead into the bushes!  I'm right behind you!"

Bits of dirt exploded at their feet as the Russians fired.   The children screamed.

"Kids, run for the trees!  Go, as fast as you can!”  Erik yelled.  Teddy didn't need any other encouragement.  He let go of Erik's pants and bolted for the bushes, closely followed by his older sister.

Erik turned back to make sure that Brin and Susan got safely past him.  He heard a cry of pain and saw Sewell drop to the ground clutching his stomach.  Four Russians still advanced.  Erik saw one reach for something in a hip pouch.  The group of prisoners tackled the guards and for a moment the threat disappeared.

Sewell staggered to his feet.  A red stain smeared his left hip.  "Just got nicked,” he said at Erik’s concerned look.  “Go—" he said.  He waved Erik away.

Eric made for the forest.  Mark’s legs and arms slapped against Erik’s side with each step.  He clenched his jaw and focused on Brin at the edge of safety as she urged him forward.

The kids stood just inside the treeline as Brin and Susan caught up with them.  Erik was only a few steps behind when he saw it.  A small round object hit the ground between Erik and the women.  Time slowed down.  Erik pushed off his left leg as he watched the grenade roll to a stop not two feet from where Brin Susan and the kids cowered at the edge of the forest.

"Grenade!  Get—" but he knew he was too late.  Erik half-expected a bright flash of light and searing pain as the grenade exploded, shredding him, his wife, Ted's wife, and Ted's children in one bloody instant.  The fight to save the kids, to save the women—it would have been all be for nothing…ended by the lucky throw of a dying Russian soldier.

Erik continued to thrust forward, frustrated by the way everything seemed to have slowed down.  It was like trying to run in a dream.  The harder you pushed, the slower you ran.  His eyes shifted up and saw Susan's mouth open as she yelled something.  He saw Susan shove Brin aside, directly into her children.  As Brin and the kids disappeared into the bushes, Erik's gaze rested on Susan.  She locked eyes with him for a moment and gave the briefest of smiles as she fell forward, her eyes open and arms outstretched.   She landed directly on top of the grenade.

"NO!"  Erik roared.

The grenade detonated and Susan's body disappeared in a cloud of smoke and noise.  Erik skidded to a stop, caught off balance by the noise and fell over backwards.  Before he could even get to his feet, Sewell grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him to his feet.  He left a bloody handprint on Erik’s shirt.

"Go, go!  There ain’t nothing can be done for her now!  The Russians are counterattacking—it’s over!  Everybody’s runnin’ for the hills!" Sewell shoved Eric roughly forward.

Erik’s last look at what was left of Susan's crumpled, lifeless body as he staggered into the bushes was one that would stay with him for the rest of his days.

CHAPTER 34

Into Harm's Way

DOUG MITCHEM, CAPTAIN OF the Aegis guided-missile cruiser Anzio, struggled to see through the thick smoke that obscured his vision inside the CIC.  His ship was wounded, but still in the fight.  Torpedoes had sunk the destroyers Reese and Madison just aft of Anzio's transom.  Missiles fell out of the sky from the Russian planes and had pummeled the carrier strike group.  Anzio had retaliated in kind and launched her full complement of cruise missiles into southern Manhattan in an attempt to take out the radar weapon that had disabled Roosevelt’s fighters.

Word had come in over the patched communications link to Roosevelt that they had succeeded—the American fighters, now free to operate over Manhattan, began to dispatch their Russian counterparts.  The tide had turned and the carrier strike group moved in for the kill.

That was when the Russians subs had struck.  Out of nowhere.  Anzio's skipper had been caught completely off guard—there had not been a single sonic signature for 300 nautical miles.  It was an impossibility that he didn't have time to fathom.  Anzio’s LAMPS helo had been destroyed when a wounded SU-33 had crashed into his aft flight deck.  As the helicopter exploded into a ball of fire, the ability to track down and kill the Russian subs went up in smoke.

There were a couple additional LAMPS that took off from Roosevelt in an effort to put some pressure on the Russians subs, but Mitchem figured it would be too little, too late to save Anzio.  He checked the status of his ship’s weapon systems.  Every cruise missile bay was empty.  All antiaircraft missiles had been fired.  He’d ordered target acquisitions for the few anti-ship missiles left and the 20mm Phalanx CIWS gun pods were still online.   That was it.  Anzio was almost completely empty.

They began to take shells from the surviving Russian cruisers.  Explosions and plumes of white spray popped all around them as Mitchem tried to navigate Anzio in a zigzag pattern to avoid fire.  It was a losing proposition and he knew it, but his options were few.

He figured the only consolation was the fact that Anzio was still between the Russians and Roosevelt.  His primary mission was to defend the carrier at all costs and that was something he could still do.  For a few more minutes, at least.

Another shell hit the reinforced hull of the bow.  An explosion of smoke and sparks blossomed at the front of the ship.  He felt Anzio shudder.

"Impact, portside bow!" reported the damage control officer of the watch.  Mitchem turned and looked at the young man's face.  He didn't look like he was much older than 20 and there was a smear of blood streaked on the side of his head from a gash to his scalp.  The young sailor wiped the sweat out of his eyes and put a hand to his ear, listening to his headset as it squawked with the inter-ships comms.  He turned to face the Captain.  "Sir!  Damage control reports that the anchor chains have been severed—"

An explosion somewhere aft rocked the ship.  Mitchem felt the sickening sensation of the deck starting to tilt.  He closed his eyes.  Anzio was dying.

"She's listing!" called out the ship’s XO.

Mitchem gritted his teeth and glanced at the shattered tactical display screen.  He cursed as the ship shuddered violently and the movement nearly brought him to his knees.  He stood up with some effort and limped his way toward the bridge.

"Captain on the bridge!" someone called out as he burst onto Anzio’s bridge.  The scene through the smoke outside was right out of a World War II documentary.  Planes screamed through the sky, chased by missiles.  Explosions dotted the air as antiaircraft guns from both sides lit up the gray sky.  What was left of the Russian fleet in the distance belched smoke and fire as American Tomahawks rained down on them.

Out the shattered port windows, Mitchem could see the dying carcasses of Reese and Madison as they began to sink.  The bow of Reese jutted up into the air at an obscene 40° angle.  The bulbous sonar dome designed to stay just underneath the water at the tip of the ship glistened rust red in the dim afternoon light.  He could see men and women jumping off the doomed ships into the cold Atlantic.

"Torpedo in the water!" called out a voice from behind him.

Mitchem had seen enough.  He grabbed the nearest mic as it swayed drunkenly in the air and brought it to his lips.  "This is the Captain!  Abandon ship, abandon ship!  Repeat, abandon ship!  This is not a drill!  All nonessential personnel get to your assigned stations for evacuation!  Senior staff report to the bridge!"   He turned to the midshipmen at the helm.  "I'll take over from here, son."

"Captain has the helm, I stand relieved."

Mitchem smiled at the man's—boy’s really—insistence on keeping with formality.  He directed the young midshipmen to head toward the aft hatch and get to his assigned life raft.

His XO entered the bridge and used a filthy handkerchief to wipe sweat from his face.  "Captain?"

"What I'm about to do violates every rule in the book.  But the way I see it, we’re out of options.  We can either sit here and be ripped to shreds by those Russians—or we can do our job—protect TR at all costs.  I don't expect you to follow along with me, but—"

"I always thought the Captain going down with his ship all by his lonesome was a load of horseshit.  I’m staying.  She’s mine, too, sir."

Mitchem grinned.  "Glad to have you."  The rest of the command staff entered the bridge and without word took up stations monitoring the ships vitals.  Mitchem took a silent head count and nodded as his chief officers flashed him determined smiles.  None of them had decided to head to their assigned checkpoints.

"Gentlemen, this is a volunteer mission.  If any of you decide you want to evacuate with the rest of the crew—" the ship shuddered again and tossed two of the officers to the deck.  "It will not be reflected upon your service record, nor will your bravery under fire be questioned."

No one moved.

"What are your orders, sir?" asked the XO.

Mitchem turned his attention back to the shattered windows of the bridge.  He could smell the clean, salt-tinted air of the ocean as it wafted into the bridge.  The cloud of smoke parted and Anzio knifed through the smoky haze while listing to starboard.

"She's taking on water, starboard-aft, by the flight deck," said the chief engineer.

Mitchem set his jaw.  "That cruiser there dead ahead seems pretty cocky with those four-inch deck guns.  Roosevelt's been coming under fire.  We’ve got to do something."  He took a glance at his crew.  Nothing but grim determination faced him.  He nodded one final time.  "This is your last chance, people.”

"We’re with you, sir.  Hundred percent,” said the XO.

"All right then," said Mitchem.  "Signal Roosevelt. Anzio's last transmission: Am engaging the enemy, heading into harm’s way."

"Signaling Roosevelt, aye," said the ship’s chief medical officer.

"Give me everything we've got."  He looked out the window as Anzio’s deck hummed at full throttle.

“That cruiser’s turning.  She’s coming broadside…” warned the XO.

Mitchem glared at the Russian ship.  “Ramming speed!”

LIEUTENANT COMMANDER RIGGS LOOKED out over the port side of his F-35 as he circled over the naval battle.  He had dropped his ordinance and inflicted as much damage as he could to the Russian fleet.  But it was not without cost.  Of the 12 hawks in his squadron, only 4 had survived.

As he looped low over Manhattan, he could see American ground forces rolling through.  He’d heard from Zeus that they’d made contact with the 4th Infantry Division, currently attempting to wrest control of Manhattan from the Russians.

Riggs saw the army had done an excellent job—the Russian presence was limited to the extreme southern tip of Manhattan.  But on his overflight, he saw many more Russians troops and vehicles flowing out of LaGuardia.  He knew that would be their next target, but he and the rest of his squadron would have to land in order refuel and reload their weapons.  And from what he could see, Roosevelt was in no condition to receive her fighters.

Just as he thought the battle was going to be over in a victory for the Americans, it looked like all hope would be lost.  Zeus relayed an urgent message that there were Russian subs behind the fleet now, launching torpedoes into the American line.  The Russians had already taken out half the escort fleet around Roosevelt.

He could tell by the way water foamed behind Roosevelt’s transom that Admiral Nella had ordered flank speed, headed deeper into the bay.  Riggs quickly guessed what the Admiral was thinking.  Get the ships as close to land as possible.

If they were going down, they’d better do it within swimming distance of shore.  There were thousands of lives at stake.  And he knew that the protection force was running low on ammo after their long hard-fought battle to get out of the Mediterranean Sea and the skirmishes in the middle of the Atlantic.

"Hey!  Check out Anzio, 3 o'clock low," called out Jonesy.  Riggs swiveled his head to starboard and gently nudged the joystick to roll his aircraft.  Below him, he could see smoke and fire as it billowed from the aft section of the guided-missile cruiser.  She looked to be at flank speed, running straight at what was left of the Russian fleet.  His gaze shifted to the enemy.  The Russian cruisers maneuvered and sought to hit Anzio with deck guns.  He could see the white spray erupt like geysers near the surface around Anzio as she advanced.  They were training their shots.

It won’t be long now…

"Man overboard!  Man overboard!” called out one of the Hawks.

"I got people in the water—looks like they're abandoning Anzio," said Jonesy.

"Zeus copies all," was the terse response from the E2-C Hawkeye, 150 miles away.

Riggs knew that was a bad sign.  If the only response to American sailors jumping off the side of a ship  currently on fire and making all speed toward the enemy line was "copy all"…that could only mean one of two things.

One, they were well aware back in the CIC on board Roosevelt of Anzio's condition and either approved, or could do nothing about the evacuation of the guided-missile cruiser.

Or two, things were going too poorly for the Americans for the command staff on Roosevelt to worry about the captain ordering his sailors to abandon ship.  And if things are that bad, Riggs thought darkly, I need to find an airport.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flare erupt on the side of Anzio as one of the Russian ships scored a direct hit on the port side superstructure.  He fumed, wishing that he still had some ordinance remaining.

"Hammer Lead, Hawk Lead!" he called out.

After a moment the reply came back, "Hawk lead—go ahead," replied Hammer’s XO.

"Any of you guys still packin’?   Looks like Anzio could sure use some help."

"Negative, Hawk Lead, we’re empty."

"Shit…" muttered Riggs.  There was little he could do from his position roughly 1500 feet above the battle.  The Hawks were out of ammo and orbited, waiting for a chance to land.

“Missile launch!" called out Jonesy.  “South-southwest—"

"It's gotta be one of ours," replied Riggs.  He watched in silent fascination as one, then two, then three Tomahawk missiles erupted from the surface of the water southwest of the fleet.  They shot into the air on plumes of fire and smoke and leveled off for flight.  The missiles arched over the American line, shot forward and embedded into the side of three of the remaining Russian cruisers.   The fireballs and resultant black smoke obscured the ships completely from view in seconds.

Riggs smiled at the whoops and yells of triumph coming over the radio.  He watched as one final cruise missile attempted to go after the last remaining Russian cruiser.  Four bright streaks of light erupted from the side of the Russian cruiser and anti-missile ordinance leapt in to the sky and destroyed the final cruise missile.

“Guns, guns, guns!” ordered Hammer’s XO.  “Let’s chew ‘em up, boys!”

Riggs watched as the F-18s dive-bombed the Russian fleet.  They zipped in and out of the smoke near the surface and strafed the invading vessels with their M61 Vulcan Gatling guns.

“Hawk Lead, Nest,” crackled over his helmet.  “What’s your TOT?”

“Nest, be advised,” Riggs said as he glanced at his fuel gauge, “we are bingo fuel.”

“Roger that Hawk Lead.  You are clear for landing.  Repeat, clear for landing.  Bring ‘em home to reload while you still can.”

“Nest, Hawk Lead, copy that.  We’re on our way.”

Riggs checked his screens.  It would take an hour to get his planes back to Roosevelt, refuel, reload, and launch again.  There were still a few Russian ships down there aiming for the carrier.  All that stood between them and Roosevelt was Anzio.  Their last chance was for Anzio to block the Russian cruiser from reaching Roosevelt.

ADMIRAL NELLA STOOD STOCK still, his face emotionless.

Captain Davis turned from the admiral back to the fractured tactical display board.  The fiber optic cabling was still intact, so most of the lights still worked—however there was a large crack running right down the center of the board.  He didn’t want to think about the kind of force it had taken to crack that massive screen deep inside Roosevelt.

"Sir, I said—"

"I heard you," the Old Man said in a quiet voice.  "There's nothing we can do now but watch and wait."

Davis struggled to contain his surprise.  He’d just informed his commanding officer that Anzio was steaming at flank speed straight into the heart of what was left of the Russian line.  Doug Mitchem was on a suicide mission and the Admiral just stood there, hands clasped behind his back as he stared at the tactical display.

"Admiral, I think—"

"Captain, there is nothing we can do.  I see what Mitchem is attempting to accomplish."

Davis stepped closer so that his voice would not carry across the active CIC.  "I see what he's doing to—he's committing suicide."

“The men and women who sailed Anzio are now in the Atlantic.  We need to coordinate resources to rescue them."

"But, sir, Anzio—"

"Anzio is going to shove a spear straight into the heart of the Russian line," hissed Admiral Nella.  He turned to face Davis.  The intensity of his voice put Davis back on his heels.  "Our fighters are out of ammunition.  Our ships are out of missiles, TR’s listing so bad we might not be able to recover our planes.  We are running on empty here.  This is our last chance to make it through.  Captain.”

Davis stiffened at the rebuke.  “Sir.”

In a normal tone, Admiral Nella called out: “Signal the fleet—what's left of it—to make all speed for Anzio's position.  Flank speed for everyone."  The Admiral's face softened.  "Doug Mitchem is a good sailor.  His sacrifice will not be forgotten."

THE CAPTAIN OF THE last combat effective Russian missile cruiser smiled to himself despite the chaos on his bridge.  The Americans had put up a stiff fight, there was no mistaking it—but they had not launched missiles in a few minutes—a sure sign that they were out of ammunition.  He’d suspected this might happen after naval intelligence informed him that they’d not had a chance to resupply after their Atlantic crossing.  He'd heard about the battles this American strike group had fought in the Mediterranean.  They’d been denied access to once-friendly ports in Italy.  That bit of news had meant that by the time they reached America, they would be dangerously low on everything.  Including ammunition.

Most of the Russian fleet lay at the bottom of the bay, but not Orkesk.  She was a proud ship, one of the few state-of-the-art missile cruisers Russia possessed.  Even though she’d sailed with a half complement of ammunition, what she had left should be more than enough to take out the Aegis cruiser bearing down on her.

As his underlings shouted orders to contain the damage that would be sustained during the brief but intense battle, the captain pulled up his binoculars and peered out the port window.  Half a kilometer out, the sleek Aegis cruiser trailed smoke into the sky as if it were a steam powered dreadnought from the previous century.  He could not imagine what his American counterpart was thinking.  It was either one of the bravest acts he'd ever seen or one of the stupidest.

"Coordinate with Doschevsky and Minsk," the Captain ordered his fire control team.  "I want everything we've got trained on the front of that ship!"

"Sir," was the response from behind him.  "Doschevsky reports damage to their forward deck guns, they can’t—"

"Minsk has only one salvo remaining!" said another voice.

The captain brought his binoculars up to his eyes again and gritted his teeth in frustration.  If only he had been given a full load of ammunition—if only the entire fleet had been given so.  But Russia was strapped for cash and this entire expedition was a last-ditch attempt to gain valuable property and resources in America.  Moscow did not deem it necessary or prudent to fully arm the fleet they had sent on such an important mission.

Never mind, the captain told himself.  It matters not.  The Americans appear to be as toothless as we are now.  He wants to play a game of chicken, eh?

"Hold your fire until the minimum safe distance is reached—I want maximum damage!"

He continued to watch as the mortally wounded cruiser, listing to starboard, as it bore down on his position.  My God, he thought, she’s fast.  Even after taking all that damage…The naval office will be well pleased with my report when this is over for sure.  They have no idea what these Aegis cruisers can really do…

"She's coming into minimum safe distance!" his fire control officer warned.  "Course unchanged.  He’s not turning, captain!”

"Fire everything we have, straight on her bow!" roared the Captain.  The ship shook beneath his feet as the forward and aft deck guns unleashed hell.

A tremendous explosion shattered the graceful tip of the American cruiser.  Fire exploded in a perfect flower petal pattern.  The aim of his gunners had been spot on.  A wall of smoke and flame instantly obscured the American ship.

"We sunk her!" a young voice cried out.

"Look at that!" cheers erupted on the bridge.

The captain frowned.  Young fools.  These are the men Moscow gives me to defeat America?  They’re children!  He held his breath.  For the span of a few heartbeats, he let himself begin to believe that his men were right.  He could well imagine how it must have felt on the American ship—like they had run into a brick wall.  The amount of firepower that his vessel had just poured into the very front of the American ship had been impressive by anyone's standards.  The captain told himself that there was no way she could have survived.

To his horror, the jagged, burned prow of the American ship exploded through the smoke, spewing fire as it emerged, like some vengeful dragon.  Her course remained unchanged.  If anything, to his veteran eyes, she looked like she’d increased speed.  At least the demon ship appeared to be listing even farther to starboard.

In seconds, the entire length of the ship had emerged from the smoke cloud and he could see the full extent of the damage that he had just poured onto her.  She would never fight again, that much was clear.  The superstructure bore a gaping hole in the forward section, the deck was crumpled, and the entire ship looked as if it was ready for the scrap yard.  Yet still she powered forward, billowing smoke and fire behind, ready to capsize any second.  The madman at the helm of that ship must have been an expert sailor to keep her on track at such speed.

"She means to ram us!" a nervous voice called out behind him on the bridge.

The captain frowned.  We have no time to maneuverer.  Of course she means to ram us, you twit.  We stand between her and home.  I would do the same…

"Captain!" his XO cried, panic in his voice.

The captain shook his head sadly.  He had turned Orkesk to face the American cruiser broadside in order for him to present his deck guns one last salvo.  Now the Americans were within the minimum range of his guns—they were only seconds away from impact and nothing could be done.  Even if he ordered full speed from his own engines, the ship would not move fast enough to avoid impact.  He had waited too long, had been too sure of his own victory.

"All hands brace for impact," he said quietly.  The flaming, twisted, mutilated hulk of the American cruiser bore down on them as the bridge erupted into panicked screams.  The closer it got, the faster it seemed to be go.  "My God, she's big…"

The last thing the captain ever thought as thousands of tons of American steel slammed into his vessel at more than 40 knots was that they had almost done it.  The Russian fleet had gone toe to toe with a supercarrier strike group—and they had almost brought them to their knees.

Almost, he thought as he was flung to the deck during the impact.  As darkness descended upon him, over the screams of the wounded and the shrieking of bent and twisted metal, the captain told himself that they had almost done it.

CHAPTER 35

Unconditional Surrender

GENERAL STAPLETON PULLED THE binoculars away from his eyes as he rode through the deserted streets of downtown Manhattan.  He relished the cool air on his face and rested his hands on the rim of the Stryker’s upper access hatch.  He smiled.  Victory was assured.  He could see the path Vinsen’s tanks had made as their heavy treads had torn up the main roads.  Asphalt chunks lay scattered all over the road, mixed with the debris from collapsed buildings.  Between the sudden flurry of missiles that fell out of the sky and his tanks wantonly destroying everything in their path, the southern tip of Manhattan had been turned into a Grade A shit-show in the span of an afternoon.

Scores of bodies littered Wall Street—Russian and rebels alike.  A handful of those who had surrendered had already been rounded up and shipped back across the Hudson to holding areas on the mainland.  Every now and then calls went out over the net that there were snipers in the buildings, but they were fewer now that the blitz had rolled through.  The Digital Division had proved to be an unstoppable steel fist that had crushed all before it.

The 4th/ID rolled past abandoned Russian vehicles and weapons everywhere they turned.  Manhattan looked for all the world like Beirut, with bigger buildings.

Smoke poured out of open windows on just about every major building that lined Water Street.  Stapleton did not even bother to consider the cost to replace and repair everything—that wasn't his problem.  The rebels had called down the thunder when they had enlisted the Russians to help them take New York City, and by God, he’d forced them to reap the whirlwind.

“General,” said the voice of the Stryker commander.  Stapleton cocked his head as he listened to the little speaker inside his tanker’s helmet.  "Sir, Dagger 2-1 is reporting signs of white flags at their 12 o'clock."

He slapped the roof of the Stryker and dropped down inside the rumbling behemoth.  Surrounded by the latest digital wizardry that linked him to every unit under his command, he tapped the appropriate screen and pulled up the location of Dagger 2-1.

Whatever miracle the tech boys had pulled to get his data uplink working again had paid off in spades.  As he looked at the deluge of information on his screens he thought back to Chicago.  Each and every one of the screens had been black.  The Digital Division had been forced to operate like any analog army.

Two days earlier—about the time a scout had reported seeing lights on in a parking lot—the uplinks suddenly reappeared and the Digital Division was back.  Stapleton assured himself he could have taken New York City without tech, but…he ran his hands over the keys and screens as if the machines could feel his caress.  It was so much more fun with technology.

Dagger 2-1’s position popped up on the far side of Manhattan.  The unit had parked on the shore.  Another tap and he saw the video feed from the cameras mounted on their M-ATV.  They were flanked by lead elements from a Stryker patrol and part of the main tank column.   A good number of dismounted infantry had spread out through the area and worked their way across the island.  Everything south of Canal Street was now completely under American control.

"Dagger 2-1, Eagle’s Nest-Actual," he said.

"Eagle’s Nest-Actual, Seeker 2-1, go ahead."

"You have visual on white flags?"

"Affirmative.  I have visual on several foot mobiles waving a white flag.  I have a large number of enemy foot mobiles behind them. They’re dropping weapons and surrendering."

"Hot damn!" said General Stapleton as he slapped the console of the BTR.  He turned and casually scanned the forward-looking display that depicted what Dagger 2-1 saw.  A figure that brandished a Kalashnikov burst out of the building half a block ahead on the left.  The man froze in the middle the street as if to gauge his options before he started to run back to the building he’d just exited.

Stapleton could hear the whine of electric motors as the turret on the Dagger 2-1’s M-ATV swiveled and locked on to its target.  The vehicle rocked momentarily and when the image stabilized, he could see a small crater in the street where the rebel had stood.  There was nothing left of him, not even a scrap of clothing.  The camera zoomed in on the Kalashnikov rifle 20 feet away, a twisted piece of metal that looked like modern art in the middle the road.

Stapleton grinned.  He keyed his mic "Dagger 2-1, Eagle’s Nest-Actual.  Nice shot.  Now, keep the rest of them contained.  Actual is Oscar Mike."  He switched frequencies to address the vehicles of his command staff.  "Eagle’s Nest, Eagle’s Nest Actual.  Change of plans—we have a large number of enemy foot mobiles offering surrender at the location I'm sending you now.  New objective: set up HQ at that location.  Transitioning support troops to provide cover."

As the acknowledgments from his command staff began to filter in, Stapleton turned his attention back to their route.  The cameras mounted on the outside of the Stryker showed scenes of complete destruction all around. Cars long since looted and burned during the Troubles had now been completely obliterated or blown inside some of the buildings.  Most of the buildings had sustained heavy damage from the advance of his armored cavalry.  The side streets that had been filled with uncollected trash for months were now littered with bodies of enemy combatants.

Even though the air filter system was set to maximum, the stench nearly overpowered Stapleton the farther east he traveled.  Stapleton pulled out a fresh cigar and started to chew it thoughtfully, anything to get the smell out of his nose.  He sorely wished that he was able to light up inside the vehicle, but he consoled himself with the thought that they were only a few blocks away from their destination.

When the command convoy finally emerged from what was left of the concrete canyon and entered the open space near the Manhattan Bridge.  He found himself speechless.  The scene before him was something that altogether was unexpected.

Over the protests of the Stryker commander that the area had not yet been swept clear of snipers, he threw the hatch open and climbed up onto the observation platform.  Through his binoculars, he scanned forward and saw what had to be close to a thousand Russian soldiers sulking under the watchful eyes of his dismounted infantry and a few tanks.  The Russians had segregated themselves from an equally large group of rebels who sat or lay down on the ground in clumps.

The rebels looked much worse than the Russians.  At least the Russians acted like they’d had a decent meal in the last 48 hours.  For the most part the rebels looked like scarecrows, pants and clothes hung off their emaciated bodies.  Stapleton realized that the stranglehold he’d put on New York City had served its purpose well.

In the distance, he could still hear the faded echoes of his tanks as they destroyed the remaining enemy outposts.  Sporadic gunfire drifted through the complex maze of streets and buildings on the breeze from the ocean.

Stapleton dismounted the Stryker and lit up his cigar.  He walked past grinning soldiers and returned their snappy salutes with pride.  A cluster of American troops stood guard over two individuals who had been separated from the rest of the captured enemy.  Stapleton made his way over there, secretly pleased that his command staff just now caught up to him.

He knew he would catch flack for that at the next command council—Vinsen loved to remind Stapleton how valuable he was—but he didn't care.  Certain moments defined the career of an army general—they needed to be appreciated without two dozen hangers-on.  The surrender of Manhattan Island was something he wanted to savor on his own.

Stapleton’s boots crunched on the broken glass and debris that covered the street as he marched up to the two prisoners. One was a tall Russian, the other an equally tall black man who looked sick.  Stapleton placed his hands on his hips and stood there gazing at them as he puffed on his cigar.   He let the aromatic smoke waft around his head and provide temporary relief from the stench of the ravaged city.

The sight before him did not impress.  The Russian stood ramrod straight, dried blood smeared across his angular face.  It was hard to tell his age, but the insignia on his collar suggested that he was a Lieutenant Colonel.  The man had clearly been wounded and had a bloody bandage tied around his left thigh.  He had been stripped of his equipment and weapons and stood before Stapleton wearing nothing but his uniform, boots, and a belt.  The Russian looked down his aristocratic nose at Stapleton.

Stapleton grunted.  The Russian still had his pride.  He shifted the cigar to the side of his mouth and turned to regard the rebel.  This man was just as tall as the Russian—perhaps 3 inches taller than Stapleton himself—but stood hunched over on unsteady legs.  Stapleton imagined that if he sneezed hard enough, the rebel would fall flat on his back.  He looked sick and weak.  He looked hungry.  Defeat haunted his eyes and sweat rolled off his forehead.  Where the Russian stared straight ahead and stood at attention, the rebel tried to retain some of his swagger and regarded the soldiers with a sullen stare.  Finally, his eyes—unfocused as they were—alighted on Stapleton and narrowed.

"So you the honky in charge?"

Stapleton exhaled a plume of blue-gray smoke into the man's face and turn to the Russian.  He ignored the rebel’s hacking cough and removed the cigar from his mouth.

"And whom do I have the honor of speaking with?" Stapleton asked in his most diplomatic tone.   He idly fingered the worn leather strap on his holster.

The Russian shifted on his feet and glanced at Stapleton out of the corner of his eye.  He said something in Russian and shook his head slightly.

Stapleton closed his eyes and put the cigar back in his mouth.  "Anybody here speak Russian?" he barked.

"Sir, yes sir!" an eager young voice said behind him.

Stapleton waved the soldier forward with his left hand, never taking his eyes off his prisoner.  "Get up here and talk for me, son."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, ask this man his name and rank."

"My name is Lieutenant Colonel Feydor Kushinski,” the interpreter said after the Russian spoke.

"And what exactly are his intentions?"

When the message had been relayed, the Colonel turned and snapped his heels together.  "I've come to seek terms for the surrender of my men.  I have no wish to see them slaughtered.  We do not wish to die for…" His eyes glanced sideways at the rebel next to him.  "A lost cause."

Stapleton laughed when the interpreter finished translating.  "A wise move.”  He slapped the soldier on the back.  “All right, tell him this:  Here my terms.  I will accept nothing less than unconditional surrender.  You will give up your arms and be processed into a prisoner of war camp, where my superiors will decide what your fate will be."

The interpreter spoke and the Russian’s face paled.  "I… You—"

Stapleton turned to face the rebel.  "You heard my terms?"

The black man spit at Stapleton's feet.  "Yeah, I heard ‘em.  Don't mean I understand the hell you sayin’."

General Stapleton smiled around his cigar.  "It means if your people don't agree to be taken to a prisoner of war facility, without weapons, rights, or privileges… I will order my tanks to open fire and kill every single one of you right here and now.” Do you accept my terms?"

The man's eyes went wide as he looked at the open maw of the 120mm barrel of an M1A2 Abrams.  The tank commander had heard Stapleton's words and swiveled the main gun around to point directly at the enemy leaders.  Stapleton promised himself that he would deliver that tank commander a case of beer at the earliest opportunity.  It was that kind of showmanship that made the perfect impression on vanquished enemies.  You are defeated and you will be destroyed if you do not surrender.  It is useless to resist.

“I will only ask this one time: Do you accept my terms?”

"Yeah,” said the rebel, eyes still fixed on the tank.  “Shit yeah, man, we give up.  As long as you got food and water, we give up.  Just point that thing somewhere else!"

Stapleton smiled and turned back to the Russian.  "And your response, sir?"

He waited for the interpretation and blew a smoke ring.  The Russian nodded.  Stapleton could see it was painful for the man to have to admit defeat.  He had a certain amount of respect for that.  He supposed had their roles been reversed, he would probably react the same way.  He would do anything to save the lives of his men.  Of course, I wouldn’t have led them into a clusterfuck like this, either, he reminded himself.

"Very good then."  Stapleton pull the cigar out of his mouth with his left hand and reached out his right.  The Russian shook it with a firm, if cautious grip.  "You and your command staff will dine with me.  We'll be setting up our headquarters here.  Have no fear, Colonel.  You and your men will be treated with the utmost respect and courtesy. I'm thinking in no time we’ll have you on your way back to the Motherland."

The Colonel's eyes lit up in wonder as the interpreter delivered the message.  He nodded enthusiastically and spoke in Russian.

Stapleton put the cigar back in his mouth and puffed while he waited for the translation.  "What the hell’s babbling about?"

The sergeant next to him grinned.  "Sir, he says that he’s extremely happy to have made your acquaintance and has some caviar in his command vehicle.  He would be happy to share."

"Fish eggs.  Fucking disgusting." Stapleton growled.  He smiled and nodded at the Russian.  "Tell him I would be delighted."

The sergeant tried unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh before he delivered the message.

"Sir!  We've established contact with our ships out there in the bay!" a voice called out behind him.  Stapleton reached out a hand and a pair of large field glasses were dropped into his grasp almost instantly.  He brought them to his eyes and called out, "Somebody get me a radio!"

He could see that the battle on the water was nearly over.  The fleet that he had witnessed sailing into the bay with such pride a few days before had been reduced to the smoking hulls of only a few ships.  The rest had already slipped below the waves.  Fighter planes roared overhead, every one of them American.

The unmistakable bulk of an American aircraft carrier on the horizon brought a smile to his lips.  He looked again and the smile vanished.  She was tilted over.  A lot.  That wasn’t good.  No wonder the planes overhead were buzzed around like angry hornets—there was no way they could land on that carrier.

"Inform our good friends in the Navy that we've taken control of Manhattan and would greatly appreciate their assistance in helping us take back LaGuardia.  They might find it of some use, I think."

A soldier from his command Stryker looked up from his terminal.  "Sir, I have Admiral Nella on the line, in command of the Roosevelt Strike Group.  He's asking to speak to you, sir.  He says he would like to meet for a council of war."

Stapleton arched an eyebrow as he watched a flight of jets form up over the southern tip of Manhattan in perfect formation.  The Navy certainly put on a fine display.  In the distance, an explosion racked one of the few Russian ships afloat.

"Tell the good Admiral that I would be delighted.  At his convenience.  Although, he'll have to provide his own transportation…"

"Yes, sir.  The Admiral sends his regards and says that he wishes to discuss…"

Stapleton turned away from the binoculars and looked over his shoulder.  "Discuss what, son?"

“Politics, sir."  The young man blinked and looked up at his commanding officer.  "He said he wants to talk politics.  That doesn't make any sense…and he won’t say anything else."  He shook his head.

Stapleton turned back to look out over the glassy water of the Upper Bay.  Why would the Admiral in charge of a carrier strike group want to talk to the general in charge of the largest army on American soil… About politics… A unique sensation settled in the pit of his stomach.  Fear, excitement, and curiosity mixed together to form a concoction that was rarely felt by a man of Stapleton's loyalty.

"Inform the Admiral I will be most happy to oblige."  He took another look at the captured Russians and rebels.  "For God’s sake, somebody get these poor bastards some food.  They look like they're about ready to eat us."

CHAPTER 36

Yankee Devils

MINISTER PO SIN SETTLED into his comfortable chair with an expressive smile on his face.  Despite some minor setbacks caused by the American terrorist group, his plan was back on schedule.  He had earned praise from the Great Leader himself, and the ire of his former friend, Party Undersecretary Shin Ho.

He had planned a lavish personal party later that night with some choice girls from Taiwan delivered by his personal valet.  Po Sin checked his watch.  Only a few hours until he could kick off the celebration.  He had snatched victory from the hands of Shin Ho.  Oh, the look on his old friend’s face had been positively divine.  He only wished he could have had a picture…

He was going to check in one last time for the day with the task force and his new colonel.  The young man had behaved himself well—Po Sin figured that the boy might well earn a further promotion out of this if he continued to maintain his course and victory was achieved as planned.

The door to his office opened after a quick double knock and Fai stepped in, eyes down at the floor.  "Undersecretary Shin Ho has arrived—"

"Fai!  Very good!"  Po Sin staggered to his feet, reminding himself that he needed to cut back on the sweets.  "Send him in, send him in."

"At once, Minister."  Fai’s face brightened a little at his boss’s good mood.

The familiar form of his old friend stepped into the room and despite their differences over the course of the expedition, a smile spread across his face.  "Well, it looks like you've nearly done it."

Po Sin shook his head, and spread his hands.  "I had nothing to do with it, it was our brave men in uniform who—"

The Undersecretary waved off Po Sin's feigned humility.  He sat down heavily in the plush seat across from the Minister's desk.  "Oh come now, aren't we beyond all the bullshit?”  The smile vanished.  “At least have the graciousness to accept my surrender.  You were right.  I was wrong and you have succeeded.  Your plan will succeed now.  Our Great Leader is mightily impressed."

"Well, I…" Po Sin was taken off guard by Shin Ho's honesty.  He smoothed his coat and tie and settled as gracefully as he could into his chair.

"I am impressed as well.  It is been a master stroke of tactical prowess.  Splitting the forces like that in order to take care of the terrorist threat was genius."  Shin Ho shook his head.  “I wouldn’t have done that.”

"Oh, you flatter me…"

Shin Ho shook his head again.  A sad smile spread across his face.  "I assure you, flatteries is not my intention.  I merely give you honest praise and convey to you the words of the Great Leader himself."

Po Sin's eyes flew open.  He struggled to maintain a stoic, measured expression on his face.  He cleared his throat politely and reached for the remote on his desk.  "Well, this is most welcome news.  Thank you.  I was about to communicate with the newly-promoted commander of the smaller force.  He should be connecting with the main expedition tomorrow.  I just wanted to touch base with him one last time before I headed home."  He aimed the remote at the monitor on the far wall and clicked a button and a large screen came to life.  He arched an eyebrow and looked at his old friend.  "Which reminds me, I'm having a little… get together… Tonight," he said, hint of a smile curling his lips.

"A little get together?" said Shin Ho smile splitting his own face.  He arched an eyebrow.  "Will this perchance be one of your infamous soirees?"

Po Sin grinned.  "Just like old times.  I have arranged for some choice delicacies to be flown in from Taiwan."

Shin Ho grinned like a cat.  "Well then, I will inform my wife that I will be delayed tonight."

Po Sin laughed.  "You are so quaint!  So Western in your considerations for your wife."  He laughed again.  He failed to see the dangerous look the crossed his friend's face.  "I tell my wife nothing, except when to turn around and bend over!"  He roared at his own wit.

Before Shin Ho could respond, the screen flickered and the blurry face of a Chinese soldier appeared.  When the uplink had been completely established, the young man's face resolved into a mask of surprise and shock.  His eyebrows disappeared underneath his helmet.  And for a moment his eyes went so wide, he looked like one of the half-breeds that lived in America.  "Honorable Minister!"

"Yes," Po Sin said with a dramatic wave of one hand.  "It is I, Honorable Minister himself!"  He laughed at the pained expression on the soldier’s face.  "Run along and get your Colonel, if you please.  I would speak with him."

“At once, sir!"   The soldier saluted so sharply, Po Sin was afraid that he would snap his own neck.

In less time than Po Sin had expected, the young Colonel appeared on screen.  He must have been waiting for the call.  Po Sin smiled.  He liked that kind of dedication.  Especially when it was aimed at himself.

The young man cleared his throat.  "Honorable Minister, you do me great honor—"

Po Sin waved away the pleasantries.  "I'm here for your status update, Colonel not flattery."  His voice was stern, but the smile on his face indicated that the flattery was not only accepted, but would be expected in the future.  He shot a quick wink at Shin Ho, who flashed a weak smile in return.

"Of course, Honorable Minister.  Our mission proceeds as planned," the young Colonel said.  "We've routed the American terrorists.  They are no longer a threat to us.  I've pushed my men hard and we have come within shouting distance of the main Battalion.  I expect we will link up with them at first light."

"Excellent," said Po Sin.  "Now, I wanted to discuss with you—"

A muffled noise got the Colonel's attention and he quickly turned away from the camera.  Anger flashed inside Po Sin.  How dare you look away while I’m talking—

"What was that?"  The Colonel asked someone off-screen.

The camera shook and the image of the Colonel destabilized as indistinct shouting erupted in the background.  Po Sin couldn't be sure, but it sounded like the staccato fire of automatic rifles in the background.  What the hell is going on over there?

"Colonel?  What is the meaning of this?"

"Honorable Minister!  We are under attack!  I—"

There was a horrible electronic screech and the image destabilized for a moment.  Po Sin mashed buttons on his remote.  He had to get the link reestablished.  After a few tense moments, the screen flickered back to life, but there was something wrong with the image.  Everything seemed distorted.

"The camera is on the ground," observed Shin Ho.

"Colonel!"  Po Sin shouted.  "Colonel Jan!"

No matter how loud Po Sin shouted, there was no response.  There was no face on the screen, but they did see what looked like a boot appear for a moment.  They could hear distinct sounds of fighting, shouting, and bursts of gunfire.  Whatever had happened, it had reached the command tent.  In less than a minute, it was over.  Silence was the only thing they heard over the speakers.  Po Sin was about to comment that the camera must have been destroyed when a piece of paper fluttered across the screen.

“What was—” began Shin Ho.

“Sssh!” hissed Po Sin, one hand up.  He heard something.  He cocked his head and cranked up the volume on the monitor.  It sounded like… Boots scuffling in dirt?  Or maybe someone dragging something heavy?

“I hear voices!” whispered Shin Ho.  “They sound like orders.”

"Was that English?" asked Po Sin.

Shin Ho shook his head.  "I can't tell, it was too quiet."

The camera suddenly rose off the ground, creating a momentary sense of vertigo in Po Sin's expansive gut.  Someone set it—none to gently—back on its tripod and a green light on the wall signified that Po Sin once more had directional control of the camera.  He picked up the remote and thumbed the switch to pan the camera around.

The camera showed a scene out of a nightmare.  Bodies—Chinese bodies—littered the dusty ground around the command-and-control tent where the communications equipment was stored.  Blood was everywhere in dark swatches on the ground and splashed against the side of a vehicle.  In the distance he could see figures move to and fro, in and out of tents which…

“Are those tents on fire?” asked Shin Ho.  “This is outrageous!”

Po Sin ignored him.  He panned the camera back over the bodies towards the opposite side of the Chinese encampment.  Two vehicles were on fire.  The others, though, began to move.  A man exited one of the vehicles and slapped its side before it drove off in a cloud of dust.

"What the hell is going on?" asked Shin Ho.

Po Sin shook his head and continued to search for Colonel Jan.  “Who could have done this?” he muttered.

Suddenly a rough, barbaric face appeared in the screen—too close, so that it was out of focus.  Po Sin rocked back in his chair in surprise.  One of Shin Ho’s aide yelped.   The expression on the unshaven man’s face was clear despite being out of focus.

Hatred consumes this man, observed Po Sin.  The white devil was angry, his rage visible under sweat and blood.  The white skin and shaggy cheeks, an all-around unkempt look pegged the man as American.  But the eyes… The man's eyes held an expression that Po Sin had never seen before.  He looked…possessed.

The man started to speak.  Po Sin glanced at Shin Ho who shrugged.  Po Sin snapped his fingers at Fai who nodded and raced out of the room for a translator.  Even though every transmission through his office was recorded and translated, he wanted the information this barbarian was babbled on about, and he wanted it now.

The unshaven American, angry now that he did not get a response, shook the camera and shouted as he stepped back, pointing off-screen.  He was like one of the great apes at the zoo—they vented their frustration at human technology and slapped their chests and grunted and in the end accomplished nothing.

Po Sin took the man’s repeated gesture to the left as a signal to move the camera.  He shot a glance at Shin Ho, who shrugged, then panned the camera.  There, on his knees surrounded by the bodies of his command staff, was Colonel Jan, his face bloodied and battered.  His hands were tied behind his back and an American stood guard, a large rifle aimed at the back of Jan's head.

"You see," whispered Po Sin, "they are terrorists, they look just like those fools from the Middle East…"

Shin Ho shook his head.  "No… These men are different."  He ignored the babbling American on the screen, as the men gesticulated wildly and growled something at the camera.  “They don’t hide their faces in shame like the Arabs.  These men are proud of what they do and fear us little.”

"Do you think they'll kill him?" asked Shin Ho absently.  “I was rather getting to like the boy.”

Po Sin shook his head and tried not to smile.  "Never.  These Americans are always telling us and the world of their moral standards.  They always look down upon our little friends in the Middle East—" someone off-screen appeared with a gun in his hand.

This man walked across the camera's field of view, placed it to the temple of Colonel Jan’s head and without any further fanfare, pulled the trigger.  A wave of blood shot off the screen and Jan fell face first into the dirt.  His head deposited chunks of flesh and gore on the ground.

“Barbarian!” cried Po Sin, completely shocked.  These Americans were not following their own rules!

The man who murdered Colonel Jan turned toward the camera and Po Sin recoiled at the cold expression on his face.  Despite the fact that he had just slaughtered a rising Colonel in the Chinese Army without so much thought as a man putting down the runt of a litter of pups, there was no anger or hate in the man's eyes.

This man is different, thought Po Sin.  This man is far more dangerous than the religious zealots we conspired with to start the campaign.  There is… nothing behind those eyes.  He is empty.

The barbarian stepped close to the camera and his face filled the screen on Po Sin's wall.  The Minister of Defense of the People's Republic of China involuntarily leaned back in his chair as he sought distance between himself and the devil on the screen.

The American whispered something into the camera and the image went dark.

“We’ve lost the signal,” said Po Sin.  The uplink light glowed red.

"I didn't catch that, what did he say?" asked Shin Ho.

Po Sin shook his head.  “It was too quiet.”  He picked up the remote and hit the rewind button to reel back the last few seconds of the transmission.  He looked down at the remote and hit the play button, then turned the volume up.

The American’s ugly face, covered in sweat and dirt and blood and hair, filled the screen once more.  Those cold, empty eyes stared back.  Gray, like the color of an ocean before a vicious storm.  They held no emotion, no threat, no overt hatred.

"There is a man to be feared…" whispered Shin Ho. “He will prove far more dangerous than those Regulators.”

Po Sin hissed for his friend to be quiet.  He rewound the man's whispered statement one more time and cranked the volume to maximum.  What he heard sent a chill down his spine.  It was not English—it was Latin.

He watched the man’s lips mouth three simple, little words.  Three words with a powerful message.

"Sic semper tyrannis."

CHAPTER 37

Betrayal in the Big Apple

MALCOLM PUSHED HIS WAY past grim-faced Russian soldiers and gasped for breath as he made it to the final landing of the stairwell.  Next time, he promised himself, we set up our headquarters on the ground floor.  Another soldier burst through the fire exit door and glared at Malcolm for a moment before he shouldered past laden with electronic equipment.  As the door opened Malcolm could hear shouts in Russian and great excitement from the hallway.  He worked his way through the throng of soldiers and technicians until he made it to the actual command room.

Through the open door he saw chaos.  The Russians—many wrapped in bloody bandages—rushed about dismantling the command center.  They removed monitors, portable control centers, and all manner of electrical equipment.   Malcolm was speechless.  He’d needed to see it with his own eyes to believe the reports…now he wished he hadn’t bothered.

In the face of the American offensive, his Russian allies had decided to flee even faster than they had arrived.

A soldier slammed into Malcolm’s shoulder and shoved him out of the way with a curse.  Malcolm shoved back and he nearly lost his load of equipment before another soldier caught him and a third escorted them both out of the door, glaring at Malcolm the entire time.  Malcolm found Kristanoff shouting orders on the other side of the room.

"Why do you run?"

The general frowned at him.  "You should know—you betray us!"  The general walked around the desk and calmly drew his sidearm.

Malcolm's hands came up.  "I do not know what you talk about!  I betrayed no one.  It is you have betrayed me!"

The general laughed, a harsh, bark of a sound.  He leveled the gun at Malcolm's forehead.  The open barrel of the semiautomatic pistol looked like the entrance to a cave.

Malcolm could feel sweat on his forehead and adrenaline course through his body.  His legs begin to tingle.  "Please, put that down.  We have to figure this out—"

Russian laughed again, then shouted an order at someone nearby.  "We have no time and there is nothing to figure out.  You were tasked with one thing—block tunnels and keep Americans from coming across."

"We tried!  I had my best men—"

The general scoffed.  "Your best men.  Your best men were worthless!  Americans walk all over you—"

"Like their ships walked all over yours?  Like their planes walked over yours?  Like their tanks walked all over your men?" spat Malcolm.  He regretted his words as soon as he said them for the barrel of the pistol began to tremble in the general's hand.  The man's face flushed with ager.

"My men broke through American lines north of here. All you had to do was hold them from coming through tunnel.  But you could not do that.  You put on pretenses of fighting back, but we both know you let them in.”

For the second time that day, Malcolm was speechless.  “What?” he stammered.

“It was back door they needed,” Kristanoff continued through clenched teeth, “to take control of island and destroy experimental radar station."

"You and I both know," Malcolm tried to say in a calm voice, “it was not the American army that destroyed your toy.   It was missiles fired from the ocean —"

“Do not try to convince me that Russian Navy is at fault here."  The general took another step forward and pressed the barrel against Malcolm's forehead, the metal cold on his skin.   Malcolm closed his eyes began to pray.  There was nothing else for him to do.  He had come so close and now it appeared that everything would end with a single gunshot.  He had failed his people.  He had failed his ancestors, he had failed Allah.  When the gunshot never came, he opened his eyes slowly.

A Russian soldier whispered into the Kristanoff’s ear.

The general and the soldier spoke back and forth in that guttural language of theirs for a few moments, before the general's face softened.  He abruptly pulled the gun from Malcolm's forehead and holstered it.  He took a deep breath and said, "You are not worth bullet.  I will save for enemies truly worthy of killing.  Like Americans.”  Malcolm was quick to notice Kristanoff’s hand remained on the pistol grip.

"I have no time to deal with you and your traitorous men.  Americans are upon us.  Mark my words, Brother Malcolm," the general said with a sneer.  "If we are to survive this, you and I will have words.  I have lost too many men to let this go."  Before Malcolm could say anything in response, the general turned and shouted something to the room which drew immediate attention.  He circled his arm above his head, spoke one more command, and every Russian dropped what he was doing, grabbed a weapon, and began to stream out of the building.

In a few moments, Malcolm was left in sole possession of the office building.  He walked over to the window and looked down, thankful his heart rate began to slow.  Russians poured out of the doors to the building like a flood of red-brown mud and mounted transports in the streets.

Malcolm felt the floor shudder.  He looked up the street to the west and could see the ghostly image of a tank as it emerged from a cloud of smoke.  He heard muffled shouts from the street as the Russians not yet in their vehicles began to panic.  The tank fired again and he saw glass shatter and fall from office buildings down the street.  Below him, the last transport erupted into a ball of fire and smoke.  He could see flaming debris—and what he thought was a boot—sail past his window.

Time to go.  Malcolm turned and grabbed an abandoned satellite phone from the nearest desk and sprinted for the exit.  He had a phone call to make.

DANIEL LOOKED UP FROM the latest intel reports when a staffer handed him a secured phone.  He arched an eyebrow as he took the phone.  It still felt odd to have even limited satellite capabilities after months of nothing.

The young woman mouthed the word ‘Malcolm’ and backed away.

Daniel nodded, cleared his throat, and spoke into the phone. "Hello?  Who am I speaking with?"

"Hello, Mr. Suthby.  This is Malcolm."

"Ah, the infamous Malcolm.  At last, we speak with each other.  I'm sorry to disappoint you, but this is not President Suthby.  I am Daniel Jones, the President's Chief of Staff."

"I have no time for these foolish games—put the President on the line.  Now," growled Malcolm's voice.

"That won't be possible, Malcolm,” Daniel said.  "The President is…currently indisposed—let's put it that way.  I am handling all of his affairs of state for the time being.  So, anything you have say to him, you may say to me…in all confidence, of course."

"Of course," said the voice on the other end.  It fairly dripped sarcasm.  "It makes no difference.  I have no time to deal with this foolishness.  Contact your President and tell him that if his offer of a truce still stands, I wish—"

Daniel gasped theatrically.  "If the offer of a truce still stands?  Surely you jest?  You come to us now?  You've been betrayed by your friends!  The Russians—oh, I know all about them—are evacuating the southern portion of Manhattan.  What makes you think we should take you at your word now, when you only come to us after having been abandoned?"

The silence on the other end of the phone gratified Daniel to no end.  He smiled.  "Hello?  What have you to say for yourself now?  We came to you with an offer of peace.  We came to you, in order to—"

“I know exactly what you came to me for!" Malcolm said.  "You sought to take advantage of us, you sought to crush this rebellion so that you may turn your attention to foreign-policy matters."

Daniel nodded, despite himself.  "Be that as it may," said Daniel smoothly, "you believed that you were in a position of power and completely ignored us.  Why should we bother to listen to you now?”

"How do you—"

"We are no longer the helpless government you knew."  Daniel leaned back in the chair, put the phone on speaker, and laced his fingers behind his head.  He was going to enjoy this.  "Since you last talked with President Suthby, we've begun reviving power stations around the country.  That's right, Philadelphia and handful of other cities now have power.  Lights, electricity, air-conditioning, civilization.  We are clawing ourselves back into the light, Malcolm, and pretty soon we won’t need your assistance for anything.  In fact, shortly we’ll be able to not only handle the foreign threat, but we will resolve this little… rebellion of yours once and for all."

There, thought Daniel. Let him chew on that for a moment.  He could hear shouts in the background from Malcolm's connection.  Where the hell are you?

"What you say is the truth.  By Allah's will, we have been brought to this low station."  There was no arrogance anymore in Malcolm's voice.  Only humility.  Daniel couldn't place why, but that enraged him.

"So now you come slinking to me, asking for help?"

"No, I come slinking to President Suthby, asking for his help."

Daniel was not pleased.  "I shall do my best to control my emotions and do what is right for the country.  For both of us.  Despite the fact that you have scoffed at our overtures of peace, I will be the better man and offer you the olive branch once more."

"Thank you."

"What's that noise I hear?  Are you near the fighting?”

"No," said Malcolm's voice.  "The Russians are evacuating.  Your Army has scared them half to death.  They are fleeing—"

"Yes, I know.  I've seen the images from the drones we have overhead.  That's neither here nor there.  We will deal with them when the time comes."

"What do you propose, then?"

At last, the heart of the matter.  Daniel looked at the map on the far wall.  A few days earlier, Florida had been cut in half with a red marker, from Tamp to the Atlantic coast, straight through Orlando.  All points south were controlled by the Russians.  Now the entire state of Florida was one red smear on the map.  His gaze swept up the coast to New York City, where there was another red stain that covered parts of northern New Jersey as well.  The Russian threat must be neutralized first.  An idea came to Daniel that would possibly solve all of their problems.

"You and your people desire your own land, correct?"

"You know this to be true."

Good, he sounds depressed, defeated.  Exactly the mental state I want him in.  "Here's what I propose.  Get as many of your people out of New York as you can—I will hold off the military and forbid them from attacking your people.  Get them out and get them south.  How is up to you—all of this is completely off the books, mind you.  I cannot have our military transporting known rebels across the country."

"Transport?  Where?  Where would you have us go?  I have—"

"Florida."  Daniel sat back again and waited for the response.  Malcolm took his time thinking it over.

"Florida?  Why?"

"Florida now resides in the hands of the Russians.  Thanks to President Suthby’s deal with the United Nations.  I want it back.  You want land.  We were both betrayed by the Russians.  We both want revenge."

"To what end?"

Daniel chuckled.  "Malcolm, my dear man, the end that all of us require.  Your people require living space.  Florida has been all but depopulated, thanks to our Russian friends and President Suthby's evacuation order.  So what are we left to do?  Get your people Florida, raise your little rebellion down there, and take the state back.  If you are successful in getting the Russians to leave, you can have it."

"All of Florida?"

Daniel took a sip of water from a glass on his desk.  "Let's not be hasty.  I will personally guarantee you that any territory you capture from the Russians—including major cities—you can keep when this is all over.  Florida has already been severed from the United States and given to the United Nations.   I have no interest in forcing it back into the United States as a whole unit.  However it would go a long way towards satisfying the voters if we were at least able to bring at least part of Florida back into the Union.  When all this is said and done, of course."

"What you get out of it?"

"What I get out of it, my dear Malcolm, is removing one prong of a two-front invasion by the Russians.  Without their bases in Florida, we will be able to handle the Russians in New York all the more easy.  When they have been dealt with, I will turn the full brunt of our military on the Chinese invasion of the southwest.  That, Malcolm, is what I get out of it.  It's what America gets out of it.  Really, it's a win-win situation.  You get living space, international recognition—provided by yours truly—and I get the Russians out of my hair so I can focus on the real threat."

"When we defeat the Russians, my people retain anything they leave behind."

It wasn't a question.  "Of course, of course.  Like I said, American forces have already withdrawn—we gave up any claim to materiel and supplies—including military bases—when the United Nations forced our hand and called for the general retreat north.  Anything that you take from the Russians now would fall under President Reed’s Letters of Marque and Reprisal.  Consider it spoils of war."

Silence met his proposal.  Just when Daniel was about to ask if Malcolm was still there, the smooth voice appeared over the line once more.  "Very well, I agree to your terms.  I will contact my people and order a cessation of hostilities towards the United States immediately.  As long as you will provide safe passage—my people and I will head south with all haste and begin to retake Florida."

"Pleasure doing business with you, Malcolm."

Daniel hung up the phone, well pleased with himself and his first piece of statesmanship.  He drummed his fingers on the desk and sifted through the stack of updates.  He looked at the medical report from this morning which bemoaned President Suthby's declining vitals.

Pity, that.  He dropped the report in the trash and stood.  Time to break the news to the staffers who so anxiously awaited word of President Suthby's condition and news from New York.

This was going to cement his role as leader of the remnants of the United States.  Daniel Jones opened the door from the executive office and smiled at the cluster of staffers and aides waiting on his every word.  These were the true believers.  These were the core of his followers.  They would spread the good news and he would be ushered in as leader of the free world.

GENERAL STAPLETON STEPPED DOWN from the command Stryker and brushed the dust off his pants.  He adjusted the pistol belt on his hip and pulled a half-smoked cigar from his breast pocket.  He glanced around at the destruction of lower Manhattan and smiled with satisfaction.  His men had rounded up the last of the Russian forces and already marched many of them across the island to the makeshift prison camp set up on the western bank of the Hudson.

Of the rebels, he had seen neither hide nor hair—at least live ones.  They had simply vanished in the night.  Tucked tail and ran at the first opportunity.  Pathetic.

Stapleton had faced down hardened insurgents in Iraq and Afghanistan.  These homegrown rebels were nothing more than riffraff and street trash.  So far he had only encountered two IED's.  That would have been considered a good day in the Sandbox.  These fools had no idea what they were up against.

"General, sir, incoming transmission from NORAD," called out one of his aides.

On the one hand, Stapleton was happy to have reliable communications with the chain of command.  On the other hand, he rather missed being on his own in the dark.  The politicians weren't nearly as intrusive and obnoxious when they couldn't get a hold of him.

Now there was some fool residing in NORAD, who used to be the head of the FEMA of all things, claiming to be President of the United States.  He knew that would be something that would need to be dealt with soon, but he planned to meet with Admiral Nella and resolve that issue later.

He liked what he’d seen from the Admiral's file—and the squid that had been dropped off by helicopter a few hours back to lay out the proposals for his consideration had been eloquent in his support for the Admiral.  He was a fighting admiral—sailors always admired them, he supposed.

Admiral Nella wanted a military coup.  Stapleton was at first aghast at the mere idea, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.  Politicians scramble and spin their wheels and nothing is ever accomplished.   If unelected bureaucrats like the head of FEMA could cobble together enough support to get himself declared President of the United States—even recognized by the United Nations for Christ's sake—then the country was in far worse trouble than he had originally thought.  Despite the fact that they'd heard rumors that power was restored to Philadelphia, America was still in a shit-ton of trouble.

Admiral Nella's plan to fix all that was as bold as it was broad.  Stapleton smiled as he dusted ashes off his hands.  He’d had to burn the treasonous documents that the Navy Lieutenant had delivered, to ensure that only he and Admiral Nella remained aware of the plans.

The Admiral proposed a joint strike force, comprised of what was left of the Roosevelt strike group and Stapleton's 4th/ID.  By land and sea, they would sweep down the coast of America, hopefully recruiting such home guard units as they might find until they converged on Washington itself.

Once liberated from the grip of the infamous Brotherhood, Admiral Nella proposed that they institute a military coup in order to restore the Constitution.  The politicians who led the country to this impasse would be summarily dismissed and the government run by Admiral Nella and General Stapleton until such time as general elections could be held and the entire shebang restarted.

The only elected officials to be reinstated were ones that had yet to be elected.  He grinned to himself as he reached out and took the satellite phone from a captain.  It would come as a shock to the incumbents in Washington—or wherever the hell they scattered to thanks to President Reed.  He would love to be a fly on the wall, to see the reactions on their faces when word was announced that Washington had been liberated by the Army working in conjunction with a strike group from the Navy.

For starters, Admiral Nella insisted that there be strict term limits on all members of Congress.  Gone would be the days when someone might serve for 30, 40, or even 50 years.  General Stapleton, for his part, had suggested that they ban—under strict penalties—all lobbying of politicians.  No longer would politicians be bought and sold like commodities on the stock exchange.  The Republic would function as the founders had intended it: private citizens would take up the call of civic duty and serve for a while.  After the conclusion of their terms, they could then return home to the adoration of their constituents and let someone else take up the mantle.

That would be a government of the people, for the people, by the people.  The monstrosity that the American bureaucracy had become in the last few generations or so would be wiped clean.

Hell, Stapleton thought, the Russians, the Chinese, even the United Nations—they’ve done a lot of the work for us.  All we had to do is clean up the mess and glue the pieces back together.

He put the phone to his ear.  "This is Stapleton, go ahead."

"General Stapleton, this is Daniel Jones,” said the voice on the other end of the scratchy connection.

Stapleton felt a frown crease forehead as he thought where he had heard that name.  An eyebrow arched with realization.  "The Press Secretary?"

"The President's Chief of Staff," said the voice in a tightly controlled manner.

Stapleton grinned.  He had hit a nerve.  Yet another pumped up, non-elected official thinking that he was running the show.  "Which President?" asked Stapleton.

"President Suthby is… indisposed… at the moment."

"How convenient for you.  Cat’s away, huh?"  Stapleton pinned the phone against his shoulder and cheek, while he lit his cigar and began to smoke.  He watched the first puff drift away from his head like a cloud.  "And what exactly is the reason for the pleasure of your conversation this fine day?  Mr. Chief of Staff."

"General Stapleton, I have orders for you."

Oh, Stapleton thought with barely contained mirth, this should be good.  Carry-on you little shit.

"Any rebels your men encounter are to be given wide berth.  Hostilities are to cease between anyone claiming association with the Brotherhood and the armed forces of the United States.  You are to give them free permission to travel in the country.  Do you understand these orders, general?"

Stapleton nearly spat the cigar out of his mouth.  "You want me to do what?  You want me to let these people—who burned our cities to the ground and killed untold thousands of Americans…”   He was incredulous.  “You want me to just let them walk away?"

"That is correct, general.  There has been a peace treaty—"

"My how things change…the Chief of Staff to an unelected President takes over, and suddenly the United States is not only negotiating with terrorists but reaching accords with them."  The general spat in disgust.  "I do not recognize your authority, or your orders.   Mr. Chief of Staff."

"You will recognize my orders, general.  My authority was vested in me by the President—"

"An unelected president has no authority to vest."

"That may be your opinion, but—"

"There is no opinion about it, boy.  It says so in the Constitution.  The President shall be elected.  President Suthby—if you can call him that—was never elected.  He was appointed.  By foreign powers.  Powers who are also in league with the very Russian bastards that I'm killing and driving from our land as we speak.  As far as I'm concerned, you're in league with them.  That makes you a traitor.  This transmission is over."

Stapleton hung up on the indignant squawk from the other end of the line and smiled.  He tossed the phone to a passing soldier and leaned against the sea wall overlooking the Upper Bay.  He blew a lungful of smoke into the air, and peered through the haze at the collection of still-burning hulks and wrecks out in the water.  The massive U.S.S. Theodore Roosevelt picked its way through the flotsam, heading toward shore with what remained of its escort ships.

All it took was the deaths of two Russian subs and the whole invading navy had scattered like cockroaches.  The suicide run of Anzio had sealed the deal for the surface ships, the Admiral had said.  Stapleton shook his head.  He couldn’t blame the sub captains, really.  He sure as hell wouldn’t want to face Roosevelt without any assistance.

That right there is one hell of an impressive sight, he thought.  Let the rebels see that steaming up the Potomac as my tanks come down from the north and we'll see who runs this country.

Any doubt that he had about Admiral Nella's plan had been evaporated by that little prick under Cheyenne Mountain.  Chief of Staff.  A damn glorified secretary trying to give orders to a general.  The man who liberated Chicago and New York City.  The man who crushed the rebellion.  What a crock.

Stapleton spat into the waters below and wondered what fate would have in store for America.  It would be a long, slow march to Washington.

“Bob,” he said around his cigar.

“Sir?”  Vinsen folded the map he had been examining and waited.

“Let’s start laying in supplies.  When we’re finished mopping up these Slavic pukes, we’re rolling south.”

“South, sir?”

“South.”

CHAPTER 38

Propaganda

THE ENGLISHMAN WITH SLICKED hair cocked his head and looked disapprovingly at the camera.  "It is with great sadness that this day we report the United Nations has declared total victory in its campaign—its illegal campaign—to occupy the American city of New York.  To what end, we can only speculate.

“Indeed, as much of the civilized world teeters on the edge of societal breakdown and riots are increasingly large and violent in Europe, it is perhaps even more shocking that the United Nations would sanction such reckless behavior from Russia.  What is the U.N. playing at?  Will there be global implications if Russia succeeds?  What will happen if they fail?

“To answer some of these questions, we now go live to our embedded correspondent, Martin Surles, who is with the Russian contingent now based out of LaGuardia International Airport, just north of New York City.  Martin?"

The grainy image on the black and white television screen switched from the glowing, technology-filled studios in London to a dimly lit room which could have been in any office building in the world.  The plain white walls behind the reporter—ridiculously dressed in a flak jacket and tanker’s helmet—had a motivational poster with an eagle in the background.  He could have been standing in a post office or a kindergarten classroom.

"That's right, Roger, I'm standing here with Russia’s 442nd tactical logistics battalion.  I've just received word that reinforcements are due to arrive and assist in the final mop up of New York City itself.  And I have to say, the amount of military hardware and personnel that the Russian army has been able to move into this area—as fast as it has—is quite impressive."

A little picture-in-picture box appeared in the top right corner of the screen and displayed the concerned face of the studio anchor.  "Martin, can you give us any more information on the rumors that an American army has arrived on the scene and launched an attack on the southern tip of Manhattan?  We've been getting disturbing reports from HAM radio operators around Britain that corroborate the rumors."

The reporter in the flak jacket stared at the television camera for a few moments like a deer caught in headlights, then nodded his head as he listened to the delayed transmission from the studio.  "Yes, Roger, I can confirm those reports.  The Russians here are aware of the fact that there is an American presence on the mainland.   The officers here emphasize it is a small presence, though it nonetheless caused no end of consternation about an hour ago, when we had an air raid drill.  One Colonel, speaking on condition of anonymity, informed me that a massive Russian fleet has entered the harbor.  We won’t have a proper look until morning but I’m told it is the largest fleet of Russian warships to engage in a campaign in foreign waters since World War II."

"So," said the anchorman as the picture-in-picture window swapped and the studio set filled the screen while the combat reporter’s face shrunk to a tiny image in the top right corner.  "What we know at the moment, stands as this: there has indeed been some fighting between the Russians and Americans for control over Manhattan—and a Russian fleet has in fact taken up residence in New York Harbor.  The Russians now have complete control of New York City and more importantly LaGuardia International Airport—where, from what I understand, hourly flights of troops and materiel are being airlifted in from Europe."

"That's correct Roger," said the man on the ground.  "I've seen a tremendous amount of military hardware come through here.  I haven't seen something like this since the opening days of the war on terror."

"With the Russian occupation of the state of Florida and now the conquest of New York City, is it fair to say that Russia’s motivation is considerably more than mere humanitarian relief?"

The field reporter’s face filled the screen once more.  "I'd say that's a fair assumption, Roger.  We hear nothing out of The Hague except protestations of innocence.  The Russians, we are told, are bringing unprecedented amounts of supplies and much needed doctors and medicine to the American people—yet I've seen nothing arrive here at LaGuardia other than tanks, trucks, and hundreds if not thousands of soldiers.  This looks more like an invasion than—"

Rough voices shouted in the background and a soldier stepped in front of the camera.  The tip of his rifle blocked the view of the reporter’s face.  There was some more shouting, some shoving, and the camera image on the small black and white TV shuddered.  When the static snow cleared, the reporter was flanked by two Russian soldiers, grim-faced with weapons at the ready.

"Martin, are you quite sure everything is okay?  Are you safe?  What of those soldiers—"

The reporter’s face said it all.  He was terrified.  "These… these soldiers have just arrived… and asked me to not talk about…"

"For God’s sake, Martin, be careful!  Stop broadcasting if you must, but do not antagonize the Russians!" warned the anchorman.  He sounded more like a concerned father than news man.

Someone off-camera shoved a crumpled piece of paper in front of the reporter.  His wide eyes darted back and forth between the men with guns and the new arrival.  Before long he looked down and took the paper in hands that trembled.  An off-camera voice grumbled something unintelligible.

The reporter looked up at the camera.  "I have… I have been instructed… I mean, they want me to read this statement."

“Go ahead Martin," said the anchorman.  “The world is listening."

"Very well then," said the reporter.  He cleared his throat again.  "Victorious Russian forces have completely routed the American—pardon me, the illegal—American forces who have violated international law in attempting to wrest control of Manhattan from the United Nations.  At great loss of life, Russian troops have protected the innocent and defeated the rogue general in charge of the 4th Infantry Division.  The American forces were routed and chased back across the Hudson River."

The reporter looked up and blinked at the camera, beads of sweat visible on his forehead.  His eyes darted off-camera once more before he looked back to the paper.  His voice was high and tight, but he continued to read:  "This day marks the end of American sovereign rule over greater New York City.”

"Good Lord," said the voice of the anchorman in London.

“This day marks the beginning of a peaceful resolution of this conflict, in which the United Nations claims all territory known until recently as the United States of America.  Today—" the reporter looked back up at the screen, his eyes darted back and forth.  “Uh…hang on here…wait just a moment…”  He turned and cocked his head, listening.

The soldiers on either side of him heard it as well.  They looked at each other over the reporters head and then started to glance about warily.  More and more voices could suddenly be heard, all in Russian.  The reporter saw his chance and began to speak rapidly over the din.

"Roger, I don't know if you can still hear me, but we hear what are apparently, air raid sirens—"   The low, mournful wail of emergency sirens began to break through over the ruckus on the screen.

"Air raid sirens?" asked the anchorman from London.  "Why are there emergency sirens going off—Martin, can you hear me?"

"Roger!  It's definitely air raid sirens that I'm hearing—the Russians are extremely agitated right now—I can see men running about in every direction—there's a great commotion—"

The camera image shook violently and static filled the screen for a moment before the image returned and someone picked the camera up off the floor.  The voices in the background raised to a cacophonous roar, as the reporter tried to shout over the noise.  “—see that?  That was a bomb!  And there's another!  My God, look at the explosion—"

"Martin?  What's happening?  Can you still hear me?"

"Roger, I don't know if you can still hear me, but it appears that LaGuardia is under attack—I see planes in the sky, and bombs exploding—"

Another soldier rushed into the room and began to shout at the reporter.  The newsman dropped his microphone and stepped back, hands up before a quick burst of an AK-47 silenced his journalistic integrity.  The soldier turned to the cameraman and the last image that appeared on the screen was the muzzle flash directed toward the camera.

The screen went black with two simple words plastered across the middle: NO SIGNAL.

Almost instantly, the little box in the top right corner containing the image of the anchorman in London expanded to fill the screen.

"Oh, my God!" the anchorman said as he put a hand to his mouth.  He looked visibly shaken.  "Oh my—good heavens.  If you are still with us, please be advised that what you have just seen was a live broadcast out of LaGuardia International Airport.  We were just speaking with the BBC's own Martin Surles who’d been embedded with advancing Russian forces.  It appears that the forward base the Russians had occupied at LaGuardia has come under attack.  Martin reported—again, if you're just joining us—that there were planes in the sky and bombs exploding at the airport.  The Russians were completely caught by surprise and…"   The man's voice shook and there were tears in his eyes.

"I'm sad to say that it appeared…"  He cleared his throat, and gamely continued.  "It appears that Martin has been killed by Russian soldiers, who then attacked our cameraman, Tony Norris.  May God rest their souls," the anchorman said, eyes downcast.  “But rest assured, we—”

The image on the screen began to shake and static filled the screen.  Saldid reached out and slapped the television, nearly spilling his beer in the process.  He cursed when the image did not improve and switched off the antique black-and-white television set in a huff.

Hakim sighed and took another sip of his ice cold beer.  He propped his feet up on the cantina table and gazed out over the blue crystalline waters of the southern Gulf of Mexico.

He and Saldid had worked their way across central Mexico and arrived in Cancun some days ago.  He couldn’t remember how many.  He glanced at the half-empty beer bottle as it dripped moisture onto the stained tablecloth.

Perhaps I need to cut back…

At any rate, it had been a long, tedious journey…they had hired taxis and any transport they could find to get here.  But the next leg of their mission was about to begin and Hakim could not wait to start.  Idly sitting around drinking himself into a stupor and chasing the local girls with Saldid—all in order to keep their cover of traveling businessmen intact, of course—had become tiresome.

The news broadcast, however had been eye-opening.  Long trained in the art of propaganda, Hakim knew right away what had happened.  The Americans had completely sacked New York City.  That much was clear, else the reporter would have been reporting with victorious Russian troops from the steps of the New York Stock Exchange, not cowering in some guarded room at LaGuardia International Airport a dozen miles away.

If there truly had been a great battle, if there truly had been a great victory for the Russians, there would've been pictures and video.  Lots of footage.  They would've wasted no time at all in taking the reporter at the very first opportunity out to see the wreckage of the American forces.  No… Hakim was sure that if there had actually a battle, the Americans had won handsomely.  There was no other explanation.

"I grow tired of this place, brother.  I wish to return to America, to continue our fun," grumbled Saldid from the next chair.  The man was already half drunk and it was only 9 o'clock in the morning.  He eyed the waitress, a tired looking middle-aged woman who lacked all her teeth.  “I like blondes.  These senoritas are…”

“Old?” asked Hakim.

“And fat.  American girls…” Saldid sighed and took a long swig from his beer.  “Oh, how I miss them.  If it were Spring Break…”  He looked around casually.  “The college girls scream a lot more, did you know?”

“Yes,” muttered Hakim.  He had heard.  A lot.  Saldid was ravenous and apparently insatiable, even when half-drunk at 9 in the morning.  Hakim said a silent prayer for Saldid’s salvation.

I understand that you must test me, Allah, but might there be another way?  He took another sip from his drink and ignored the irony.  He watched his partner stuff another fish taco into his mouth and chew noisily.  Hakim frowned.

The man is a pig and a sinner of the worst kind.  But, Hakim said to himself with a silent sigh, he is my brother in the teachings of Allah and we're still on mission.

"Pace yourself, Saldid.  Once we board the ship, we will have more than two days before we make land.”

"I cannot wait," Saldid said around a mouthful of fish taco.  Bits of meat and lettuce dribbled from the corner of his mouth.  The sauce smeared through his thick, bushy mustache made him look like a fool.

"Indeed, nor can I,” said Hakim, hiding his disgust.  “But we must be patient, brother.  Remember, Allah will provide all things to those who are patient."

Saldid rolled his eyes and nodded his head.  "Yes, yes, I remember my lessons.  I just want to remember what it feels like to take the life of an infidel.  We did not have enough time…"

Saldid’s voice trailed off as the waitress appeared and asked in Spanish if they required anything else.  She winked at Saldid and smiled.  Hakim nearly spit his beer out when he saw Saldid pale and offer a weak-as-milk smile in return.  The man was terrified.

"Gracias, but no,” said Hakim.  He switched to fluent Spanish with ease: "We will be departing soon.  Thank you for your hospitality, please take this as a token of our gratitude."  He handed the surprised woman a wad of pesos.  That’s probably a month's salary for her, thought Hakim.

His handler would be upset about wasting resources, but what did Hakim care?  In their rampage through the Arizona, he and Hakim had not only killed and raped but had looted every American body for money.  They had more money now then they knew what do with—to spread that wealth among these poor oppressed Mexicans seemed as a good an idea as any.

"Look!  There it is!  Running that point over there," said Saldid in Arabic.  He jumped to his feet and knocked over his chair, spilling his beer.   "I see it,” he said, forced to squint in the morning sun.  “It looks…"

Hakim stood slowly and wiped the crumbs off of his shirt with his stained napkin.  He reminded himself that the midday prayer call was only a few hours away.  He would need time to clean the sin off Saldid.  With reluctance, he glanced where Saldid pointed and saw a fishing trawler emerge around the palm tree-covered point some mile and a half in the distance.   Hakim could see that the white hull was streaked red with rust.

It appeared that their accommodations would not be worthy of a cruise line review.  He grimaced at the thought of what awaited them for the next two days as they tossed about on the Gulf of Mexico in that rust bucket.  Saldid will complain every minute.  Allah, give me the strength not to kill him.

He glanced down at the condensation that dripped from his beer.  He picked up the bottle and drained it, savoring the bitter taste of the dark Mexican ale.  "Drink up, Saldid.  I doubt we shall have access to such refreshments for a while."

"I hear they have restored power in America—"

Hakim shook his head.  "In a few of the northern cities.  Florida is still dark.”  He watched as the wary waitress moved away from them, but she kept her eye on Saldid.  Hakim decided they had worn out their welcome.  It was time to go.  “Come, let us prepare our luggage."

CHAPTER 39

A Good Dream

ERIK STOOD AND DUSTED the sandy soil from his hands.  It was the saddest job he’d ever had to do, but it was done.  He turned and put a hand on Ted's shoulder as the Marine wept in silence over the shallow graves of his wife and eldest son.

"Mark was a good boy, Ted.  He died protecting his mother."

Ted looked up from where he squatted on the ground next to the grave.  "I never formally adopted him, you know?” he said in a soft, hoarse voice.  He sniffed and rubbed the back of his sleeve under his nose.  “Susan and I had been married and living together for almost 10 years—and I just… We just… We never got around to—"

"He knew you loved him," said Eric quietly.  "You adopted him in your heart.  That's all it matters.  The paperwork is just for the government.  And they're not around anymore to care, are they?"

Ted sighed and got to his feet, the bones in his joints cracked and popped.  "You know, I'm fast approaching the age where a man in my profession gets to say he's ‘too old for this shit’."  Ted looked down at the lump of sand and dirt covered in pine needles.  Two stones and a rough wooden cross marked the final resting place of Susan and Mark Jensen.  He swallowed hard.  "I can't believe they’re gone."  He closed his eyes and clamped a blood encrusted fist across his face.

Erik wasn't sure what to say.  His body fairly vibrated with the idea that they were now free of the Army, once and for all.  At the same, time he felt a soul-crushing guilt he couldn’t do more for Ted.  But, what more could you say to a man who just lost his wife and adopted son?  And it wasn't like they had simply died in a car accident or died after a long illness.  They had been gunned down—murdered—by invading Russian soldiers.  Erik frowned.  What the hell do you say to that?

Eric shook his head in disbelief at the way their fate worked.  Just a few short months ago, he had been sitting in his car on the way to the store to buy stuff.  Life had been so simple.  His wife and been working, he had been attempting to get his Master’s degree and find a job as a teacher.

And now?  Eric looked down at the dirt and sand on his hands.  The smell of the dead soldier that had occupied the uniform he now wore invaded his nostrils.  He couldn't wait to change.  He brushed his hands on his pants.  He still felt dirty.  He had killed men.  Brin had killed.  The world had gone bat-shit crazy.

"This is where you're supposed to tell me that time heals all wounds…" Ted said quietly.

"You're the one that's good about pep talks, remember?"  Erik said.  "I'm sorry, man.  I really am.  I don't know what else to say—I was never any good at expressing my feelings.  Just ask Brin."  Erik winced at the mention of his wife's name.  “Dammit, I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have said that…”

"Don't worry about it," the former Marine said.  His voice sounded completely defeated.  "I don't have the energy, to cry, anyway.  I'm spent."  He looked at Erik with bloodshot eyes and a face that seemed to hang under his helmet.  “You know?”

"Come on," said Erik.  He put an arm around Ted's shoulder and gently turned him away from the graves.  The quicker he could get Ted thinking about the rest of his children, the better.  The quicker they could all escape north, the better.  The quicker they could get the hell away from the Russians, the better.

As they exited the little clearing in the pine trees where they had buried Susan and Mark, they approached the M-ATV where Brin and the kids waited.  Brin sat in the driver seat, one pale leg out the open door, the captured AK-47 across her lap.  Erik raised an eyebrow in question.  She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the backseat and nodded.  The kids were asleep.

"I don't even remember when we picked that up…" Ted said as he jutted his chin toward the battle-scarred M-ATV.

"I don't suppose you remember much of the last four hours, do you?" asked Erik.  "You’ve been through a lot, man.  Don't worry about it."

Ted stopped and looked at Erik in the face.  "Thank you.  Thank you for getting my kids out.  Thank you for…I never thanked you for bringing Mark…"

"Don't thank me," said Erik.  He looked down at his sandy boots and forced the memory of Susan’s face as she fell on the grenade from his mind.  He could feel the nightmares coming and it wasn’t even noon yet.  "I tried…I’m so sorry.  If—"

Ted shouldered his Russian sniper rifle and sniffed.  "You did what you could, brother.  You did more than most civvies could have.  Hell, you did more than most of the men in that prison camp could have.”  Ted stepped in front of Erik.  “For that, I thank you.  We both know Susan had been injured anyway—honestly, I don't think she would've made it very far even if we had escaped earlier.”

“But, we—”

“We both understood that, Erik.”  Ted shook his head.  “She'd already made her peace with God.  I've been preparing myself for a while.  It's Mark’s…”   Ted’s voice trailed off.  He swallowed, took a breath and continued, “It’s his…death…that hurts the most."  Ted stood there for a moment and stared back toward the secluded spot where they had hidden the graves.  “Saying it out loud makes it real…”

"But," said Erik as they reach the M-ATV.  He leaned towards the window and motioned with his hand.  "That right there’s a hell of a reason to keep going, isn't it?"

The two men stood in full battle load-out and peered through the vehicle window at the sleeping forms of Ted’s surviving children.  The smile on Ted's face told Erik all he needed to know.  The Marine would be okay, in time.

"It sure is,” muttered Ted.  “I don't know what I do if I'd lost all of them.  I don't know what I'm going to do, now that I've lost one.  But we'll get through it, together."

"You okay?" asked Brin softly from the driver’s seat.  A frown of worry creased her forehead.

Ted and Erik exchanged a glance.  "I should be asking you the same question," said Ted in a quiet voice.  "Listen, whatever happened—" he held up a hand as Brin started to speak.  "Just listen.”  He waited until she nodded slightly.

He turned and looked at Erik before continuing: “I've had training on how to be a prisoner.  I've had training on what to do when captured.  You haven’t.”  He pointed at Erik.  “Neither has he and you guys both went through a lot of deep, nasty shit.  Okay?”  He put sunglasses on and slapped his own chest. “I have to get over what happened to me—what happened to my family.  For them," Ted said as he placed his hand on the tiny, armored ballistic window behind which his children slept.

"I don't have a choice.  I need them.  You two need each other.  You've got to get over whatever it was that happened.  In your own time in your own way.  Some people like to talk about it.  Others don't.  That's up to you," Ted said.  "When you're ready, just know that if you need someone to talk to, I'm here.  Both of you."  He looked around the clearing and removed the rifle from his shoulder.

“This war is just starting and we have a long trip ahead of us.  We’ve all got to get our shit wired or we’ll all end up dead.”  He looked at Erik.  “And I have no intention of losing any more of my family.  Is that understood?”   He got nods from both Erik and Brin.

Ted shifted the straps on his tactical vest and sighed.  “Here’s the deal.  When we get to your parents’ place in New York, we’ll all drink a bottle of Scotch and have a good long cry together.  Until then, we man up and deal.  We cut down anyone that gets in our way and we stop for nothing.  Agreed?”

“Oorah,” said Brin with a slight smile.  Ted put his fist out and bumped knuckles with her.

“Agreed,” said Erik.  Ted gave Erik a one armed hug and slapped him on the back.

"So what's the plan?" asked Erik, struggling to keep his voice normal.

Ted sighed and put his rifle in the front seat.  "First, we gotta get the hell out of Dodge.  We're still in the danger zone.  Ivan’s just south of us.  If I was him, I'd have men out roaming the woods looking for us.  They know who we are—they really know who you are—" he said and pointed at Erik.  "If I was whoever’s in charge now, I wouldn't rest until I brought you back and slit your throat."

Erik suppressed a shutter and swallowed.  "Well, I for one am glad you're not in charge, then.  I'm glad the guy that was in charge, is dead."  He looked at Brin, but she simply turned away and went to get into the M-ATV.  The suicide door on the other side shut quietly behind her.

"You sure she's okay?" asked Ted.

Erik watched his wife as she got comfortable in between the sleeping children.  "You didn't see what she did to Stepanovich.  She's okay…I think…”  Erik looked at Ted and frowned.  "Hey, I just realized—we never got those free passes from Captain Winters, man.  If we get caught in this thing—"

"Then we won't get caught, will we?  Don't worry about that, Erik.  All we gotta do is keep moving north, right?  We’ll ditch this thing if we need to and grab civvie wheels."  He plucked at the blood-stained Russian camo on his chest.  “And some new clothes…”

"Right.  Finally.  Yes.”  Erik took a deep breath and let it out slow.  He noticed for the first time that off in the distance, he could see blue sky.  They were near the edge of the Orlando smoke dome.

“My parents have a place up on Lake Champlain—all we have to do is get there."

Ted stood in the open driver’s door and rested an arm on the roof.  "You sure about our supplies?"

Erik nodded.  He grabbed his rifle and walked around the M-ATV to get in the front passenger door.  He paused, one foot on the running board.  The M-ATV had incredible ground clearance that would likely come in handy soon, but Erik still couldn’t get used to how high up it rode.

"Yeah, while you were…" Erik cleared his throat.  "The back is full of food, gas, water, and all the medical supplies we could scrape together from what the locals had scavenged from the camp.  I think.”  He rested an arm on the passenger seat and rubbed the sweat from his face.  “I don’t know, most of it’s in Russian, so it could be toilet paper.   But hopefully whatever the hell we grabbed will get us a good ways down the road.  After that, I don't know…"

Erik slapped the roof of the M-ATV.  He glanced at the M2 .50-caliber machine gun in the turret.  “Hope the hell we won’t need that."

“You’ll be glad to have it if we do.”  Ted peered at him over the top of his sunglasses.  “Besides, every adventure begins with a single step, right?”

Erik chuckled softly.  "Man, I am so ready for this fucking adventure to be over.”  He picked at a bullet scar on the passenger door.  “I just want to sit back in an Adirondack chair, fishing pole in one hand, a beer in my other, and watch the sun set over Lake Champlain with Brin.  Is that too much to ask?"

Ted started the M-ATV and it fired up with throaty roar that shattered the stillness of the pine forest.  He shook his head.  "No, that's not too much to ask at all.  It's a good dream, brother.  Especially after all the shit we've survived."  He looked down the dirt road heading north through the pines.  Ted stared into the distance, his hands gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles.  “That’s a good dream…”

Erik took one last look at the pines that surrounded the clearing.  He suppressed a shudder at the memory of being tied to the tree back at the prison camp.  The faces of the dead men, stacked in front of him like cord-wood, floated across his mind unbidden.

I hate pine trees.

Out loud, he said, “Let's go chase that dream."

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About the Author

MARCUS GRADUATED FROM the University of Delaware and later earned his J.D. at the age of 26.  Since then, he has at times been employed (or not) as: a highly over-qualified stock boy, cashier, department manager at a home furnishings store, assistant manager with a national arts and crafts chain, an acting store manager with the same chain, an unemployed handyman, husband, cook, groundskeeper, spider-killer extraordinaire, stay-at-home-dad, and writer.

He currently lives with his wife and children behind the cheddar curtain (he’s a Bears fan living in Wisconsin)—and he couldn’t be happier you’re taking the time to read this.

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Books by Marcus Richardson

The Future History of Amierca

Alea Jacta Est

Sic Semper Tyrannis

The Wildfire Saga

Apache Dawn

False Prey (Novella)

Sic Semper Tyrannis

Table of Contents

- PART ONEU.S. Govt. Property

- CHAPTER 1The High Ground
- CHAPTER 2 Exile
- CHAPTER 3 The Skirmish
- CHAPTER 4 Wolverines!
- CHAPTER 5 None Shall Pass
- CHAPTER 6 Assuming Command
- CHAPTER 7 Run and Gun
- CHAPTER 8 Quagmire
- CHAPTER 9 Press Release
- CHAPTER 10 The Battle of Orlando

- PART TWO Prisoner of War

- CHAPTER 11The Deal
- CHAPTER 12 Fall of Orlando
- CHAPTER 13Retreat Orders
- CHAPTER 14General Population
- CHAPTER 15The Trap
- CHAPTER 16Dragonfire
- CHAPTER 17 A President by any other name...
- CHAPTER 18Prison Camp
- CHAPTER 19The Arrival
- CHAPTER 20 Shots in the Dark
- CHAPTER 21Breakout
- CHAPTER 22 The Burden of Leadership
- CHAPTER 23Falcon Down
- CHAPTER 24Abandon All Hope
- CHAPTER 25SAR
- CHAPTER 26Home Waters
- CHAPTER 27Apex Predator
- CHAPTER 28Sic Semper Tyrannis

- PART THREEHonorable Discharge

- CHAPTER 29Battle Stations
- CHAPTER 30Aftermath
- CHAPTER 31Scavengers
- CHAPTER 32Assuming Command
- CHAPTER 33 With Your Shield or On It
- CHAPTER 34Into Harm's Way
- CHAPTER 35Unconditional Surrender
- CHAPTER 36Yankee Devils
- CHAPTER 37 Betrayal in the Big Apple
- CHAPTER 38Propaganda
- CHAPTER 39A Good Dream