Sic Semper Tyrannis (42 page)

“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.