Sic Semper Tyrannis (48 page)

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
s
omeone
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, w
hen 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.