The Coward's Way of War (21 page)

He picked up his helmet and donned it, before checking his rifle and body armour.  The briefing had warned that a number of minor riots had exploded down south, towards the Mexican border, and that the soldiers in New York might run into trouble.  There had been no organised attempt to break the blockade and escape into the countryside, but there had been some shooting from the city, mainly aimed at one or two soldiers on patrol.  The population of New York was growing hungry and, as he’d learned back in training, civilisation was never more than three missed meals away from collapse.

It struck him as surreal, as he climbed into his command vehicle and checked the onboard equipment, to be preparing for war in an American city.  The National Guard had been deployed to maintain civil order and disaster relief before, yet they had never faced such a...destructive situation.  Social trust, the social trust that bound America together, was eroding at a terrifying rate, which meant trouble.  Doug was old enough to understand a basic truth, one that eluded the younger and more idealistic sections of the population.  If there was no trust, there would never be any agreements or contracts, either between individuals or between nations.

He keyed his radio.  “Start your engines,” he ordered.  He trusted his men to have checked and double-checked their own equipment.  Some National Guard units allowed training to slip, but Doug and his superiors had been keen to run frequent refresher courses.  Indeed, they’d even set up a shooting range at the FOB and carried out constant firing practice.  “Let’s go.”

Between the Army, the National Guard and a handful of policemen, the road blocks had grown into a formidable obstacle.  There were concrete blocks, road-spikes and even signs warning of the danger of landmines.  A handful of Guardsmen had actually wanted to place real landmines in the general area, but their superior officers had vetoed the idea.  Mines were, even in times of crisis, politically unacceptable.  There was only one route through the traps and it was covered by heavy machine guns mounted on a pair of Bradleys and, less obviously, a number of concealed snipers.  It wouldn't have deterred a real army, even a third world militia, but it would stop anyone attempting to flee the city.  A set of helicopters and unmanned drones drifted over the lines, watching through a formidable array of sensors to ensure that no one managed to sneak through the blockade.

Doug waved goodbye to the men on duty and then looked down towards the city.  New York’s towering skyscrapers rose into the air, badly obscured by a rising pillar of smoke.  The briefing had noted that a warehouse on the opposite side of the city had caught fire and the New York Fire Department, already badly weakened by Henderson’s Disease and hundreds of other minor crisis points, had not yet managed to put it out.  There was a good chance, the briefer had added, that it was a case of arson.  The entire city was on a knife-edge and a single bad decision – a second bad decision, part of his mind added sourly – might start an explosion.  Doug had no idea what they would do if the city broke down into complete anarchy.  The resources the city could normally have called upon were engaged elsewhere.

Goddamned stupid Mayor
, he thought, as they entered the city’s outer suburbs.  The sight caused a sudden burst of homesickness in him and he considered, just for a second, diverting the entire convoy to his house.  Stephanie Ash, the thirteen-year-old girl who had worked for Lindsey and himself as a babysitter over the years, was stuck in his house, looking after his kids.  She had said, the last time they had spoken, that he was going to have to pay her over-over-overtime – they’d thought that Lindsey would be back in a few hours, not a week and a half – and, despite the joke, she had sounded nervous.  She was a young girl, largely out of her depth, completely isolated from the world.  He’d told her where he stored a pistol and some ammunition, but she had no idea how to fire the weapon and might well lose it if thieves or rapists broke into the house.

“Sir,” the driver said, “you should take a look at that.”

Doug followed his gaze, shaking his head.  New York was normally so congested that it was hard, even for a police car, to get anywhere at rush hour.  Now, the streets were almost empty, save for a handful of cars and pedestrians wearing masks.  They shied away from the soldiers, almost as if they were expecting them to start shooting at any moment.  A handful of wrecked cars had been pushed to one side and abandoned, something that struck him as odd.  If Henderson’s Disease hadn't been putting a dampener on the entire city, they would probably have been stripped down by now.  He swallowed hard as he glanced into an alleyway and saw a dead body lying on the ground, turning to mush.  Some poor bastard, probably a homeless bum, had caught the disease and just lost the will to live.

He glanced down into the interior of the Humvees and smiled as he saw the GPS screen.  Doug knew New York fairly well – he’d lived in the city for over a decade – but the system still came in handy.  Back at the FOB, his superior officers would be tracking his movements and would be able to send help if they ran into trouble, even though Doug was unsure what help they could send.  The armed forces were being pushed right to the limit.  He looked up and swore.  People were materialising out of the side streets and coming onto the roads.

“Slow down,” he ordered, as the horde of civilians kept coming.  Most of them looked to be from the inner cities; poor, hungry and desperate.  The vast majority were black, although he saw several Hispanic and white faces among the crowd.  Some of them were holding bricks, which they started to throw towards the convoy, while others were holding burning bottles filled with gas.  “Get ready to...”

The first missile bounced off the Humvees, leaving a dent behind.  The crowd threw object after object, some coming alarmingly close to harming the soldiers on top of the vehicles.  The driver slowed still further as the mob closed in, some producing pistols and even automatic weapons.  The first Molotov cocktail smashed to the ground barely a metre from the vehicle, sending a ball of flame billowing up into the air.  Doug swore aloud.  The situation had suddenly cascaded right out of control.  He’d seen what happened to patrols that were overrun by howling mobs and he had no intention of allowing it to happen to his men.

“Unsafe your weapons,” he ordered, keying the loudspeaker.  His voice echoed over the crowd.  “DISPERSE AT ONCE AND RETURN TO YOUR HOMES.  WE ARE AUTHORISED TO USE DEADLY FORCE!”

The mob didn't seem inclined to care.  Some of them were clearly drugged beyond any hope of reason; others just looked as if they wanted to fight.  A handful looked as if they wanted to break and run, but the press of the crowd behind them was pushing them forward. The hail of improvised weapons was growing stronger, threatening their lives.  Doug braced himself.  No matter what happened afterwards, no matter what they said about him when he was dragged in front of a court martial board, he didn't want to do it.  This wasn't going to be pretty.

Another Molotov cocktail slammed right into one of the Humvees and sent a soldier falling to the tarmac.  “Fire at will,” Doug ordered, tightly.  “Concentrate on the shooters.”

He lifted his own rifle, took aim at a young man wearing a face mask and shot him neatly through the head.  Doug didn't wait to see what happened to his target; he moved on to the next target, an older man carrying a pistol and a hopeless expression.  The man was still taking aim at the soldiers when Doug shot him through the head.  The other soldiers had opened fire as well, servicing their targets with a minimal amount of fuss, yet the mob seemed unwilling to be deterred.  It dawned on Doug that many of them probably felt that they had nothing left to lose, not after the Mayor had slapped them in the face.  He pushed the thought aside and kept shooting, allowing himself a sigh of relief when the mob finally started to fall back and broke up.  He saw over fifty bodies lying on the ground, including several who had been trampled to death when the mob had started to retreat.

“My God,” the driver breathed.  Doug shared his shock.  This was America.  The military didn't fire on civilians in America.  Their duty was to protect the American public, not fire on them...he wanted to recoil in horror, or to throw down his rifle in disgust.  “Sir, I...”

“Take us around the bodies,” Doug ordered harshly.  His voice sounded strange, even to him.  It was the voice of a stranger.  It wouldn't be long before they reached the distribution point, but even then there would be no rest for his weary men.  “Don’t argue with me, just do it.”

He keyed his radio as the driver obeyed.  “This is Papa-4,” he said, and briefly described the contact with the mob.  “We’re proceeding to our destination now...”

A burst of shooting cut off his words.  This time, it was far more professional, fired down from positions in the surrounding buildings.  Someone, he realised with a hint of rueful admiration, had set up a barricade made of cars and other materials while the mob had delayed them, once they’d realised what path the soldiers were taking to the hospital.  It was almost a professionally-planned ambush, one that might just work.  He dived out of the Humvee and took cover behind the vehicle, watching as his soldiers took cover themselves, snapping shots back towards their enemies.  His reluctance to use heavy weapons on American streets had faded away.

He keyed his radio, speaking rapidly into the mike as the shooting intensified.  For the moment, they were fairly safe, but they were pinned down – just as the unknown planners had intended.  He doubted that they wanted to pin the soldiers down indefinitely, or thought they could, with the NYPD’s SWAT teams in the city, but if they kept pushing, they might manage to exterminate his men and then take possession of the vaccine trucks.  There was nothing else worth so much risk.

“We have a drone inbound to help out, Papa-4,” the dispatcher said.  The young puppy didn't sound anything like as flustered as he should be, but then, he was miles away from the ambush.  “You just sit tight and we will introduce those bastards to the magic of Hellfire missiles.”

Doug rolled his eyes as one of their assailants appeared at the edge of the block.  The young fool held an assault weapon, yet instead of shooting towards the soldiers he was
posing
with his rifle, as if he was trying to impress the girls.  Two of Doug’s men shot him and sent his body flying over backwards.  Doug himself concentrated on the barricade, considering how best to get through it.  Going backwards wasn't an option.  The trucks would be hard to reverse while under fire.  He keyed his radio again and swore as he realised the truth.  They hadn't been the only targets.  New York, the very symbol of American power, was ripping itself apart.  The entire city was coming apart at the seams.

“Lindsey,” he breathed, as he took aim at another enemy fighter.  “Where are you?”

The opening moments of any attack are always filled
with confusion, shock and perhaps even awe.  The enemy may be willing to wreak havoc just to distract the good guys from the real threat.  Indeed, the dangerous force may be the smallest force involved on the battlefield.  That is particularly true of insurgencies and counter-insurgency campaigns.

- Captain Darryl Tyler

New York, USA

Day 17

Lieutenant Thomas Cook frowned as the three ambulances turned the corner and headed towards the Brooklyn Hospital Centre.  They were driving in a manner he could only describe as erratic, something that would have earned a ticket for any civilian unlucky enough to be caught by the NYPD.  He couldn't say that he was surprised – the emergency services were as overworked as everyone else in New York – yet it bothered him.  Police and ambulance drivers were trained to drive under extreme conditions.  A tired driver should have known better than to drive.

He scowled as the coach turned the corner, knowing what it meant.   New York had been preparing for terrorist attacks and atrocities before 9/11 had struck the city, but Henderson’s Disease had shown them just how inadequate their imagination actually was, when faced with such a massive crisis.  The medical teams had found themselves running out of dedicated emergency vehicles and had had been forced to press civilian vehicles into service.  Thomas would have preferred not to use such vehicles for police work, but he had to admit that the medical teams had had no other choice.  They had even picked up a number of volunteer personnel from the civilians, who were willing to risk exposure to Henderson’s Disease just to help others.  It almost made him feel less cynical about the human condition.  A policeman saw the true darkness within the human soul – he had seen the worst that humanity could offer – and yet, perhaps some humans were points of light, pushing back the darkness.

The NYPD had provided the hospital with heavy protection at first, but over the successive days most of the policemen had been pulled away to other duties.  The upswing in theft and violent crime was draining resources, as was a series of hoaxers trying to convince people that they had a cure – or a vaccine – for Henderson’s Disease.  Some of those cases had been heartbreaking, with a single mother spending all she had to buy a vaccine, which had proven itself useless when her four children had caught the disease and fallen badly ill.  Thomas, like most policemen, would have supported the harshest of punishments for the con man, yet God might have gotten there first.  The trickster had caught the disease himself.