Sic Semper Tyrannis (20 page)

“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  In return, once you have withdrawn your federal forces or at least attempted to persuade the state governors to do the same, and you have applied for protectorate status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, "s
ince 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.