Sic Semper Tyrannis (5 page)

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.