Sic Semper Tyrannis (19 page)

Shit
.

He turned back and the Russian looked ready to laugh.  The arrogance just rolled off the paratrooper now that Pinner was barely moving on the ground, wallowing in his own blood.   The man shifted the knife back and forth between his hands, twirling the blade a little. 

He’s playing with me like a cat does with a bird that’s got a broken wing.  Son of a bitch.

Erik instinctively put his arms out and stepped back, trying to keep the women and children behind him.  The Russian laughed and picked up his pace.  He was actually strolling down the ramp. The sounds of a renewed gunfight down the alley didn’t even make him twitch now.  Erik could see he was staring at Brin and Susan.  He didn’t even consider Erik a threat anymore.

Erik charged.  He slipped his left arm free of the strap that held his pack and let the bulky thing slide down below his shoulders.  He spun as the surprise registered on the Russians face.  Suddenly, the thirty-pound burden that was constantly threatened to put Erik on his ass became a thirty-pound bludgeoning device.  He pulled with all his strength and heard with satisfaction a
whoosh
as the bag cut through the humid air on its flight toward the Russian’s head.

The Paratrooper easily blocked the pack as it swung around, but in doing so he took his eyes off Erik and raised the hand holding the knife into a position where it couldn’t be immediately used against anyone.  As the Russian was knocked backwards by the impact of all that gear, Erik noticed that the pack had shifted in flight—staring him right in the face was the
katana
, securely strapped to the side of his kit.

As the Russian backpedaled, the pack dropped.  Erik’s left hand shifted from the shoulder strap to the hilt of his sword.  Using the momentum of the bag to pull the sheath down, Erik ripped his arm up.  A flash of light took the attention of the Russian away from Erik as the ancient weapon came free.

Now it was the Russian’s turn to freeze for a moment as he saw three feet of polished, blazing-in-the-sun razor-sharp steel rise before his face.  He glanced down at the eight inch knife in his hands.  It was the last thing he ever did.

Using that brief distraction as the man contemplated the impotence of his own blade, Erik lunged forward and brought down the
katana
in a graceful, cross-body arc.  He felt the thin blade shudder as it hit the Russian’s tactical vest. However, the tip of the curved blade was just forward enough to neatly slice the paratrooper open at the base of his neck. 

A thin, red line appeared, like someone had marked him with a red pen.  The man’s eyes bulged and he tried to gasp but the sound that came out was more of a surprised gurgle.  He turned his head to look down the alley and the line on his neck widened to show it was not only a cut, but a deep one.  The skin separated and the red flesh underneath parted.  The Russian took a step backwards and tripped on the upslope of the ramp, the sudden movement causing a fountain of red to erupt from his neck, sprinkling color on the ramp in a semi-circle.  He fell over on his back, arms and legs working as if he were running.  The movement caused more blood to escape his body, the sprinkles joined by what looked like globs of spilled paint.

In seconds it was over—the Russian was still twitching feebly, but Erik was sure the man wouldn’t rise again. 

Erik rushed to Pinner’s side and dropped to his knees.  A quick touch to his neck told Erik Pinner was dead.  There was no pulse at all.  The body was still warm, his flesh firm and soft, but the life was already gone from his eyes.  Erik didn’t know what else to do, so he gently swept his hand over Pinner's face and closed his eyes.

Reality rushed back at Erik like a charging bull.  He looked up and down the alley.  No sign of the Russians or Ted.  The gunfire had stopped.  That could be good or bad.  Either way, he had to
move
.  Pinner had bought them time with his life.  Erik was determined not to waste that sacrifice.

“Let’s go,” he said in a hoarse whisper.  “Into the trees over there, come on!”

Susan, looking even paler—if that was possible—was the first to snap out of it.  She shook her head and nudged Brin.  Taking her youngest son by the hand, she moved up the ramp.  Brin, a pack on her back full of supplies, took the hands of Ted’s elder children and followed.

Erik started to realize they were going to make it to the safety of the trees when he heard the first shout.  He turned his head and saw three Russians running full tilt down the alley toward them.  “Keep going, hurry!” he said, pushing Brin forward.  They were a little over halfway across the alley.  The treeline was
right there
.  If they could just make it into the trees, they might have a chance of evading the Russians.  They just needed cover. 

Just a few more steps…

A shot rang out and a puff of asphalt appeared at Susan’s feet.  She screamed and pulled her son against her leg.  Another shot and a clump of pavement erupted at Erik's feet.  He got the message. 

Shouts from the right made him look.  Two more paratroopers were rounding the corner of the building.  They were trapped. 

Where the hell is Ted?  What do I do?

Brin looked at him, her face full of more fear than he’d ever seen.  He could feel his courage slipping away like a dream at the first hint of dawn.  The anger that had been replaced with fear, slowly gave way to resignation and defeat.  He felt his shoulders slump and exhaustion washed over him like a warm ocean, trying to pull him down.

The children cried, Brin screamed, the Russians shouted—voices bombarded Erik’s ears with alien words and commands.  They pointed their rifles and shouted.  He couldn’t tell what the hell they wanted him to do—get on the ground, raise his hands, or dance the polka.  Erik realized that he was still holding the bloodied
katana
in his left hand.  He dropped it, wincing as the steel clattered to the ground.

“I don’t understand you!” he yelled in desperation at the closest Russian, only a few yards away now, walking instead of running, waving his gun in a threatening manner.  “What do you want me to do?”

Behind him, Brin shrieked.  A split-second later he felt what seemed like a car crashing into the back of his skull.  As the ground rushed up to meet his face, he felt oddly aware that his dream of getting Brin to safety in the north was over.    He had let the Russians capture Ted’s family.  Brin.

You had one thing to do
, he scolded himself in a strange, dream-like voice.  It seemed…slow.

There was no pain when he hit the ground.  Just movement.  He could see through a haze of red mist that a fog must have rolled in—strange that it was red, though.  There was Brin, towering over him. She seemed taller than normal.  A man grabbed her arm and dragged her out of his vision.  He could see her scream, but couldn’t hear her voice.  That was odd.  As she left his vision, he noticed Susan fall to her knees, the stomach of her shirt now stained bright red.  The pale white of her skin stood out in stark contrast and caught his eye.   

Oh, there’s Ted’s kids…I wondered where they got off to…
  He felt the overwhelming urge to yawn.  He was so tired…so sleepy.  He just wanted to rest.

As his world faded to black, one last thought flitted through Erik’s mind—the last spark of a dying campfire:
…did someone shoot me?  Wh…what’s happening…?  Oh God…I can’t see…
 

There was no time for panic, just darkness.

Wait…Brin…

PART  TWO

Prisoner of War

CHAPTER 11

The Deal

PRESIDENT HANK SUTHBY PACED the war room like a caged animal.  His shirt sleeves had long since been rolled up to his elbows and his tie hung loose around his neck.  The collar was unbuttoned, partially to hide the coffee stain just below his throat.  He had bags under his eyes, he knew it—he knew he needed sleep, he knew he needed food, he knew he needed to sit and rest.  The events on the East Coast were swirling out of control to the point that if he didn't do something soon…if
something
right didn't happen for him or the country…

"I need an update and I need it
now!
" he said as he slammed his hand on the large, polished conference table that occupied most of the floor space in the room.

"I'm sorry, sir," said one of President Suthby's new aides.  He looked down and read from the top sheet in his hand:  "We haven't been able to contact General Stapleton—not since the video feed was lost.  There’s been scattered reports of a skirmish near Manhattan—it happened right around the time we lost contact."  The man looked up, a sheen of sweat reflecting off his forehead.  "It's like they just vanished, sir.”

“Maybe they got wiped out?” someone mumbled on the other side of the room.

“Jesus, what does
that
mean for us?” asked another new face.

The President fumed.  His people continued to banter about
what-if’s
and
maybe’s
…he tried to ignore them.  He paced again, hands on his hips, determined to replace general Stapleton. 

"Maybe the arrogant jackass just pulled the plug on his radio?  The man
insults
me, that’s what it means!  I ordered him to wait until
I
gave the command to take New York City.  I wanted time to talk to this Malcolm character.  I wanted time to try to resolve this conflict peacefully."  He looked up at the sea of faces in the war room.  Everyone was watching.  "Instead, this
general
decides he knows better what to do in a complex political situation.  So he severs communications with me.  With
me!
" 

He gestured at the map on the wall and sought Daniel's face in the crowd.  When he found his newly promoted Chief of Staff, he pointed a finger at him.  "You heard me—you heard me loud and clear when I told him to stand down the last time I spoke with him!  You all," he said sweeping his arms to encompass his loyal followers, "have seen what this man has done.  I think we have legal justification, as of right now, to declare General Stapleton a rogue element…"

"Sir, perhaps it would be best not to jump the gun on this," said Daniel.  He stepped forward through the throng of staffers to get closer to President Suthby.  In a quiet voice, not meant for the prying ears of the crowd, he whispered: “It might not be politically astute to declare general Stapleton rogue.  He happens to be in charge of the largest American army we have outside of…well, anywhere we can contact.  Besides, what does that make him?  Sympathizer with the rebels?  He's trying to destroy the rebels.  If he's not with them and he’s not with us, then what do we call him?"

"Damn it all, we have to do
something!
  My grip on this office—my ability to govern—is being called into question at every turn.  The Press—when they can get word out—have been hounding me.  I've got half of Congress," he said slapping his hand into a fist, "out for my head on a plate!  Most of the Republicans still don't see me as anything other than the head of FEMA.”

"Well," said Daniel.  "It's not like we've gotten a lot of congratulatory messages from foreign nations, is it?  Sir, until we start getting recognized by foreign powers—especially England—our position is going to be extremely tenuous.  Declaring a popular general, the man in charge of one of the last hopes for defense inside our borders at the moment a rogue agent?  It's just…" Daniel shrugged.  "I think it could backfire."

"Well," said President Suthby with a sigh.  His shoulders slumped and he put his hands in his pockets.  He felt deflated, defeated, useless.  But Daniel, as usual, was right to be cautious.  He figured he’d better learn to trust Daniel at some point, since the young man had yet to steer him wrong. 

He’s overly cautious
, thought President Suthby as he peered at his Chief of Staff. 
But sometimes being overly cautious can be a good thing.
  He nodded reluctantly. 

"Okay,” he sighed.  “Okay, let's do it your way.  If we can get State to get some foreign dignitaries to offer congratulatory messages…?"

"I'm on it, sir."

One of the staffers started clapping in the back of the room.  There was an excited scuffle of people as someone tried to force their way to the front.  A voice called out over the excited babble.  "Mr. President!" 

"Come on, folks—let him through," the President ordered quietly.

President Suthby smiled at the effect his words had on the people he’d surrounded himself with—it was like Moses parting the Red Sea.  The group in front of him simply split down the middle revealing a young man with a piece of paper clutched in his hand.  He looked no older than a teenager.  Most of the well-known veteran statesman, federal workers, and upper-level executives had fled for the hills at the first sign of trouble, back when the power had gone out during the summer.  Only a few had trickled back onto the reservation...  And of those few, less than half wanted to join the new president in his secret bunker under Cheyenne Mountain.

"Well," said the President, trying to hide the note of irritability in his voice.  "Let's have it."

"Sir," said the young man as he adjusted the glasses on his thin, pock-marked face.  "I think I've got really good news, sir.  This just came in,” he said holding up the paper like some sort of trophy.  “It's from the Governor of Pennsylvania.  They've successfully been able to reestablish contact with the Three-Mile Island facility!  Philadelphia and it’s the suburbs have power!"  The man continued to talk but the room erupted in cheers drowning him out.

The President held up his hands for quiet and was mildly irritated at the amount of time it took for his followers to understand his gesture.  "Come on, folks!  Settle down!  Let the man talk."  Once the crowd had quieted down, the President gestured for the young man to step closer.  "Now, go ahead and say that last part again?"

"Yes, sir," said the disheveled-looking staffer.  He adjusted his glasses, grinned at the President, and then cleared his throat.  He glanced down at the paper again and adjusted his glasses once more.  "It says here, that the governor has secured the facility with what National Guard troops he could muster.  The engineers and technicians are confident that given proper protection and a little time, they should be able to restore power to the whole of southeastern Pennsylvania in the next week or so!"  The cheering erupted again.  It was the first really bit of good news that they had had since the crisis began.

The President smiled, slapped the young man on his back and let his supporters have their moment in the sun.  It felt good to be happy about something again.  Slowly though, thoughts of the current situation in New York City, his tenuous grasp on power, and the ever present Russian threat in Florida began to erode that happiness.  He felt the smile fade from his face. 

"Okay, people, let's not get too carried away.  We still got a lot of stuff to take care of here.  Everyone stay focused."

Daniel stepped up next to him, a curious expression on his face.  He held out his secure satellite phone, which only rang for one person.  "Sir, the Secretary-General of the United Nations is holding for you."

As President Suthby took the phone from his Chief of Staff, silence spread across the room like a rising tide.  All eyes were on him.  "Mr. Secretary-General!" he said in his best good old boy routine.

The voice on the phone did not mirror his happiness.  "
Good day to you, Mr. President
."

Mr. President.  Hank Suthby, former director of FEMA, closed his eyes in relief.  If the Secretary-General of the United Nations was prepared to recognize his legitimacy, the rest of the world would not be far behind.  Those two little words erased most of the doubt in his mind and gave a desperately needed shot of confidence to the new
pro tem
President of the United States.  When he opened his eyes, the nervousness, the unease, the uncertainty, had all faded to mere background noise.  He began to feel for the first time like he really
was
the President of the United States.

"You can't possibly know how happy I am to hear your voice," he said, trying unsuccessfully to the keep smile from his face.

The foreign voice on the other end laughed politely.  "
I am terribly sorry I was not able to get through to you sooner… But it appears communications have not been exactly… normal these last few terrible months."

The President of the United States nodded gravely.  "Indeed, we've had our fair share of problems lately.  I must confess—I have not been fully up to speed on how the rest of the world is faring in this time of upheaval."

There was a deep sigh from the other end of the line.  "
Most of the rest of the industrialized world is faring about as you would imagine.  The United States has long supported and been the central pillar of the world's economy.  These last few months, hardly anyone has been able to get communications into or out of your country.  Civilian travel has all but disappeared since your airlines were grounded.  Without your communication satellites, many people do not wish to risk flying.  And that is just the beginning.  Shipments of food and supplies your country regularly provides to so many nations around the world have all but stopped.  I'm afraid we have been almost as much in the dark as you.  There is great concern around the world for the fate of the United States and her people.
"

President Suthby smiled. 
So
, he thought,
the Secretary-General was not alone in his own office.
He knows damn well what’s been going on in America—since day one.  He knows how tenuous my situation is.  He's playing some sort of sick game.  Well, two can play at that.

Out loud, he said: "The American people— and I personally—are deeply touched that the world community is so concerned.  However, I must say that the response we have seen to our troop withdrawals around the world has caused us not a little consternation.  Long-trusted allies seem to have turned on us.  I must formally protest the actions of the Russian Federation and their invasion of the American South.”

"
I was afraid you might say that
," said the Secretary-General.  He sighed again.  "
The Russian government has petitioned me to enforce sanctions against America.  Mr. President, I’m not sure you’re aware of the nature of the Russian presence in your country—the Russians are not acting on behalf of President Svoboda, but rather the people of the nations of the world.  They are in your country to preserve the peace and security of the United States.  Your predecessor did not agree at all with our actions.  I'm hoping, for the sake of your nation, that you will reverse the official stance of the United States and accept our sincere offer of help.  The United Nations
," he said quickly, not giving President Suthby time to respond, "
continues to strive for peace, security, and prosperity for the entire world.  A fractured and warring United States, torn by civil war—which is what appears to be happening now—is good for no one.  The Russian delegation was sent to bring food and medical supplies to the poverty-stricken people of south
."

"Well I thank them for their generosity and thoughtfulness…but I cannot disagree more about the means by which they have attempted to carry out their so-called mission of peace."  The President motioned for his staffers to return about their business.  He caught Daniel’s eye and signaled for his Chief of Staff to follow him as he retreated towards a private room.  He did not want the eyes of the people responsible for supporting his claim to power to hear what he was about to say.

"
Oh, come now Mr. President
," said the Secretary-General.  "
You can't seriously expect me to believe that you would turn down medical equipment, food, water, and portable shelter for the people of your country—who, I might add, have been without electricity and the comforts of modern civilization for some months now.
"

"I understand perfectly well what you're saying, Mr. Secretary-General," said the President as he watched the door to the room close.  Daniel folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the door.  Alone at last, President Suthby was willing to get down to business.  "Is this line secure?" he asked.

There was a slight pause and President Suthby thought he could hear what sounded like mumbled orders, shuffling paper, and finally a door shutting.

"It is now, Mr. President."

"Look, you and I both know what I need.  The question, is what do
you
need, Mr. Secretary-General?"

That irritatingly polite laugh echoed over the phone again.  “
Mr. President, how you do so love to get directly to the point.  It is a trait I have often admired about you Americans.  Well
," said Secretary-General's voice.  President Suthby imagined the man leaning forward over an exquisite desk at The Hague. "
Since you're determined to get to the crux of the issue, I shall be brief.  In order for me to formally recognize your claim to the presidency of the United States… You must withdraw your forces from New York City
—”