Sic Semper Tyrannis (31 page)

"Can you see anything?  Muzzle flashes?"

The young man was so scared, he couldn't reply.  He shook his head and gripped his rifle tighter, his head swiveling back and forth between the area where the shots had come from and his commanding officer.

Someone made a mad dash across the street and raced around the front of the van, heading for the drone terminal.  This brave soldier had left his weapons and gear across the street behind a burned-out car.  He was counting on speed to save his life.

It didn't work.

The third body fell next to the drone terminal before Chun heard the crack of the rifle in the distance.  "This is intolerable," he muttered to himself through gritted teeth.  He made his way to the rear of the van again and stood there in the darkness, half expecting a 5.8x42mm bullet to find his head.  He forced himself to calm down, to remain control of the situation.  "Jan!"

"Sir!" came the response from across street.

"The sniper is shooting from the north—it's got to be one of those two on that ridge we spotted with the drone.  Is there any other way to get control of the drone?"

"Yes!"  Chun could almost hear the man slap himself in the face.  "The backup control unit—it's inside the van."

Chun thought about his options.  He could continue sending people to sit and die at the drone control station, which wasn't necessarily a problem—he had more than enough soldiers to accomplish his mission and lose some to the sniper.  Or, he could throw open the back of the van and dive in and find the auxiliary control computer. 

"Can it get a signal through the van?" he called out.

Another rifle shot echoed from the north, and since there was no sound of a body impact in the ground or soldiers screaming, he had to assume it was a miss.  He smiled.

"He's dead!" someone shrieked, a second before the sound of a person throwing up reached Chun’s ears.

The smile faded. 
Damn.  That makes four.  Whoever this bastard is, he's an excellent shot.

"I… I don't know, sir.  In theory it should—" said the uncertain voice.

"I'm not interested in theories, Jan!  My men are dying!  I need to know where the hell to direct our counterattack! Can it be done?  Yes or no?"

"The specs say yes, sir—but we've never tested it under conditions like this!” said Jan’s voice in the darkness.

Fair enough,
Chun thought.

WHOOPS, LOOKS LIKE WE got somebody trying to be a hero,” chuckled Jerry.  "Got movement at the rear of that van.  This one’s going be a little tricky, but…"

Lance winced at the sudden sound of the rifle.  He wished he had night vision to be able to watch the chaos in the Chinese encampment.

"Ha!  Got ‘im through the door!"  Jerry adjusted his aim.  “This thing ain’t so bad.  I’m used to a bolt-action rig, but semi-auto sure makes my job easier.  

“Did you get the officer yet?”

Jerry scanned the Chinese encampment with the scope for a few tense moments.  "Yep… He's on the ground…"

THERE’D BEEN NO WARNING.  Chun groaned as he gripped his shoulder—felt like his arm was on fire.  He could only imagine what it must look like.  He lay there writhing in the dirt at the rear end of the van, feeling bits of glass and metal trickle down from the ruined door above him.  He had moved as quickly as he could to reach the door handle and throw it open as a shield. 

The infernal sniper had shot right through the door and knocked him on his ass.  Four inches higher, though, and the bullet would've turned his head into a broken eggshell.  He knew he should be grateful for that, but the pain from his shoulder was too intense. 

He screamed in agony and tried to apply pressure to the gushing wound.  The bullet must have destroyed part of his upper arm as well.  He couldn't feel his fingers or move his right arm in any way.  He could hear the shouts of concern from his men, but all his energy was spent in trying to stop the flow of blood from his ruined shoulder.

DANG IT, JUST CLIPPED ‘im.  Hold still, son—I’ll put you out of your misery…” muttered Jerry.

Lance looked down at his scratch pad and clicked on his red-tinted light.  "Ten rounds left," he said.

The rifle roared one more time.  "That got ‘im," reported Jerry.  He paused for a moment, scanning the battlefield. 

“Nine,” said Lance.

"I think the plan is working, man.  Doesn't look like anybody's trying to make their way to that van.  Everybody's trying to hide.  I don't see the joker that was carrying around that cup of coffee, either.  I think he may have been the commander.”   Jerry chuckled.  “Like fish in a barrel.”

“Good news all around," said Lance. "Can you take any more shots?"

"Oh yeah, there's a few I can still reach out and touch.  Like…" The rifle barked and Lance's night vision was ruined by the jet of flame that shot out the front of the barrel.  "Good night," the sniper said.  "That did it.  Look at ‘em run!"  Jerry laughed. 

Lance could only imagine the scene.  What would he do?  If he and Rob were standing in some command post and Regulators started dropping like flies.  And then Rob went down.  Would he stand, search for the sniper, or would he haul ass to the nearest cover and try to regroup?

The rifle belched flame and noise once more.  Jerry cursed.  "Yeah, I missed you.  Hold still… I'll make up for that…" He adjusted his hold on the rifle and fired again.  "Ha!
Gotcha!
”  He looked up from the rifle.  “You know, I'm not the biggest fan of Chinese hardware," Jerry said as he shifted position.  "But this here rifle’s too damn sweet.  Might have to do some tinkering with this during the daytime…"

"Just make sure you keep an eye on that van—I don’t want anybody getting near the drone controls…" said Lance.  He checked his watch.  Now was as good a time as any.  "Keep up the pressure, Jerry.  It's time to fight back." 

Lance removed the radio from his belt and pressed transmit key.  "All Regulators, all Regulators, this is, Two.  Let's do this!  Everyone break from cover and get to your assigned positions!  Go, go, go!"

He handed the spare magazine of Chinese bullets to Jerry.  "Here you go.  I need to get moving.  It's gonna take me a while to get down this ridge…"

CHAPTER 21

Breakout

GENERAL STAPLETON LOOKED UP from the map that he’d been studying when he heard noise outside.  The ground shook, a very slight tremble from the movement of dozens of tanks.  At last, the main bulk of his army had arrived.  A smile spread across his face as the door to his command center opened and XO strolled in slapping at the dust on his uniform.  He saluted smartly and removed his Kevlar helmet.

General Stapleton reached across the table and shook hands with his trusted lieutenant, Colonel Robert Vinsen.  The man looked tired and dirty.  Stapleton figured he had probably been riding in the turret of an M-ATV most of the way—it was how he rolled.  That was one of the reasons why he was Stapleton’s most trusted lieutenant.

“Glad to see you made it in one piece Bob.”

Vinsen nodded.  “What we got, sir?”

Right to the point.  Another reason Stapleton liked his XO so much.  “Here’s the sitrep,” he said as he leaned over the map table and placed a finger on LaGuardia International.  “The rebels have expanded their base of operations and taken LaGuardia.  Sometime in the middle of the night, the sneaky bastards opened up airspace to a fleet of Russian airliners and cargo planes.”

“Russians?  Christ.  Reinforcements?”

The general shook his head.  “Yes and no.  We’ve been able to spot at least 300 soldiers that weren’t there yesterday.  However, they’re also unloading all kinds of supplies, vehicles, and one
thing
about the size of a train car.” He searched in the pile of papers and produced a large black and white image.  “We got this off one of the handheld drones two hours ago.  Don’t know what the hell it is,” he said, hands on hips, “but the Russians sure are proud of it.  It’s got continuous security and they’ve been struggling to get the damn thing—get this—on top of one of the skyscrapers downtown.”

“Jesus.  Looks like the size of a SCUD launcher.  You think it’s some kind of missile?”

“Don’t know,” Stapleton admitted.  “Seems like a lot of trouble for something that could be launched from the ground…”  He folded his arms across his chest and grunted.  “One of my radar techs thinks it could be their new GTB.  They kept the damn thing under a tarp, but this kid is positive that that’s what it is.”

Vinsen stood up and stretched his back.  He frowned down at the map.  “GTB?  What the hell is that?”

“That’s what I said,” Stapleton said with a grin.  He handed a cigar and lighter over to his tank commander.  “It’s some kind of theoretical radar installation.  Only it’s not
just
radar—it acts like some kind of directed beam weapon.”  Stapleton raised his hands in an act of exasperation.  “Yeah, I know, it sounds like something out of
Star Wars
, but my radar man tells me that the damn thing’s been in the works since the Cold War.  It makes some kind of shield or something against our radar signals.”

“And the directed energy part?”

“Hell if I know.  But,” the general said tapping the map, “whatever it is, Ivan thinks it’s important enough to drag a whole battalion along with it and put the damn thing on top of a skyscraper.  We gotta pool going on whether or not they’ll drop the damn thing,” the general chuckled.

“Way I see it, maybe we just make sure they don’t get a chance to get that thing operational, whatever it is.”

Stapleton’s brief jocularity vanished.  “Exactly my thinking, Bob.  I want your boys checked in, loaded up, and rolling through the tunnels in an hour.  Hit ‘em hard, hit ‘em fast.”

“The only way.”  Vinsen tossed the drone image down onto the map.  “What’s the most recent intel we got?”

“Unfortunately, you’re looking at it.”  General Stapleton frowned.  “Every time we tried to send a drone over the lines in the last few hours, it’s been shot down.  We didn’t have to worry about it with the rebels—they’re just a bunch of looters.  But now that Ivan’s on the scene, he’s bringing some bigger guns to bear.  It won’t be easy.”  The general balled his fists and rested them on the table.  “Dammit, if we’d just arrived one day earlier.  Just
one
day.  We could’ve had this place bottled up and had a nice welcoming committee waiting for the Russians when they landed at LaGuardia.  Now,” he said standing up and gesturing at the map, “it’s gonna be a damn nightmare to fight our way through to get to the airport.”

Vinsen puffed on his cigar and glanced thoughtfully at the map.  A wreath of bluish smoke hung about his head.  “Gonna take some casualties…”

The general sighed.  “Don’t I know it.  But damn if I’ll be the one who lets them capture the city.  We took Chicago—”

“Against a bunch of rioters, and street thugs, sir.  Now we’re outnumbered 2 to 1 and the Russians are involved.” Vinsen chewed on his cigar for a moment, then said: “We been able to establish contact with the Pentagon yet?”

“That’s the other problem,” Stapleton replied as he moved around the table and sat down in a chair.  He ran a hand through the close-cropped brush of gray hair on his head.  “With President Reed dead, that fool who’s been running FEMA is in charge—”

“I heard something about the United Nations accepting us as a protected nation, some bullshit like that?”

“Yeah, horseshit from start to finish.  Never thought something like this could happen in my lifetime.”  The general shook his head sadly.  “It’s a goddamned disgrace.  And, to top it off, that little dipshit from FEMA has the balls to call me not once, but
twice
to demand that I recognize his legitimate authority and stand down.”

“Stand down?  Are we sure it’s him?”

“That’s the bitch of it all!  First call was unauthenticated.  I had no problem laughing in his face and hanging up.  The second call,” the general said rubbing one temple and closing his eyes, “had the proper authentication, straight out of NORAD.  Whoever he is, this Suthby character has access to the right people and the right codes.  He’s looking more and more legit.”

“Could be a Russian trick,” muttered Vinsen.

“I know.  I haven’t agreed to anything, yet.  But it’s starting to worry me.  We just need to get inside the city, take out the airport, and knock Ivan on his ass.”  The general stood up.  “We can sort out the political mess later.” 

“Just say when and my boys will roll through this town like Sherman through Atlanta.  Russians or no Russians.”

Stapleton chuckled, then shook hands with his colonel.  “When you’re ready, set up the feed.  I’ll monitor from here.”

“Yes, sir,” said Colonel Vinsen around his cigar.  He grabbed his helmet in one hand and saluted with the other.

As the door shut behind him, General Stapleton heard shouted commands.  His army was preparing for war.  He glanced down at the map and looked at all the red circles around the rebel defensive positions.  There were so many of them.  And they were flushed with the thrill of victory after repulsing that ill-devised raid from the National Guard.  He shook his head.
Damned fools.  If they had just waited a moment until I arrived and took full command…

Well,
he thought to himself,
I can’t be everywhere.

The door to the command center burst open again and the Major from communications, Rachel Winston, strolled through with an excited look on her face.  She saluted smartly and handed over a dispatch. 

“What’s this?” he asked gruffly.

“Just established contact with New Jersey Air National Guard, sir.  They’re sending a squadron of F-16s our way!”

General Stapleton smiled.  “Get them our codes and call signs, then inform Colonel Vinsen he’s going to have help.”

MALCOLM STARED OUT THE plate-glass window in disbelief at the sheer number of Russian soldiers milling about in the streets far below.  It was shocking to see how fast downtown had been overrun with soldiers.  The Russians had performed the exact opposite of his own disorganized, chaotic takeover.  They had rolled in on trucks and commandeered civilian vehicles, unloaded squads of soldiers at each street corner, secured buildings—at the expense of his own people—and moved on.  Always on the move, always heading west.  It was a tide of red/brown camouflage.  It was more than a little disconcerting, but Malcolm figured he had little other option than to accept what Allah gave him.

Samir fidgeted next to him.  “I am not comfortable with how fast they are taking things from us, Brother.”

Malcolm shrugged.  “At least they bring food and medicine to our people,” he said.  There’d certainly been no complaints in that department.  The Russians were as good as the Secretary-General’s word.  They’d brought truckloads of food with them on those planes last night.  And now that most of the men and women he’d assigned to guard the approaches to New York City had a few good meals, even his fighters were optimistic about their chances again. 

“They did, yes,” admitted Samir.  He adjusted his glasses.  “But…they have taken our buildings, our headquarters,” he whispered.  He glanced nervously over his shoulder at the two officers lounging in chairs near the only door to Malcolm’s command center penthouse.  They had been assigned as liaison officers and had radios to contact General Kristanoff should Malcolm need anything.

Malcolm considered them little more than prison guards. 
In a prison of my own making. 
He sighed.

A burst of static-filled Russian erupted from one of the soldiers’ radios.  Malcolm watched as the two Russians talked to each other.  They radioed something back in that gruff language of theirs and high-fived each other.

“Well, they certainly look excited about something,” muttered Samir.

Malcolm casually strolled over to the Russians, ignoring their wary looks.  One actually reached for his rifle.  He ignored the implied insult and spoke down to them like he would any subordinate.  “What was that?  News?”

They looked at each other.  One shrugged.  The other spoke in halting English, “General Kristanoff says they attack.”

“Who?  The Americans?”

“Nyet
,” said the youth, shaking his head. 
“
Russian navy.”  He mumbled around some foreign words and then his face brightened as he found the right phrase in English.  “Great fleet.  They come now
.
”  He nodded and smiled, pleased with his translation attempt.

“Malcolm!  Come see!”  Malcolm turned to look at Samir.  His lieutenant was engrossed with something outside the window. 

Malcolm hurried back to the floor-to-ceiling window and peered down into the city streets below.  A column of Russians on foot, led by six captured SUVs snaked its way west towards the Holland Tunnel.  He turned to Selim and smiled.

“I do not like this…these Russians presume too much.  They are taking our fight from us now!”

“Come,” said Malcolm as he slapped Samir on the shoulder.  “We shall have time to dwell on such things after.  For now, I want to get down to the docks in time to see this mighty fleet arrive.”

THE DOOR TO THE command center opened and the sound of gunfire poured in with the daylight.  General Stapleton looked up from his plans to see a winded aide-de-camp stagger forward.

“Sir!  The Russians!  There advancing—”

The general jumped to his feet and reached for his helmet.  “How’d they get the drop on us?”

“The soldier wiped dirt from his face.  “Sir, we were preparing, we had maybe another 15 minutes before we started into the tunnel.  Snipers opened up on six different outposts at the same time.  The Russians have a lot more troops than we thought!”

The general rushed outside into the warm autumn afternoon.  He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light.  His ears told him what was happening before he could see clearly through the drifting smoke.  The rapid bark of Kalashnikov rifles in the distance—lots of them—told him that the Russians were close.  Too close. 

An Apache attack helicopter roared overhead so close the downdraft buffeted everyone on the ground and kicked up a blinding screen of dust and grit.  It buzzed the area like an angry wasp and headed for the Holland Tunnel entrance.  Stapleton ignored the downdraft and dragged his staffer with him as he headed towards the first defensive position at the entrance to the Holland tunnel.  He turned to face the young lieutenant and screamed over the Apache’s noise: “Get Colonel Vinsen on the horn—tell him to move his men, now!  We need to shore up all the defenses.  Tell him to abort the attack—I want his men to hold the line!  We can’t let these Russian bastards escape from New York!”

“Yes, sir!” the young soldier said before he turned and ran off into the distance shouting for assistance.

The general turned and was immediately approached by a group of officers.  “Sir!  You need to get out of here, sir!  It’s too dangerous—”

Ten feet to the general’s left, a soldier who had been adjusting his helmet screamed and fell on his back.  The man next to him suddenly jerked and fell forward onto his face, seconds later.

“Sniper!” someone shouted.

A major, acting more like a linebacker than soldier, tackled General Stapleton and drove him to the ground.  Puffs of dirt erupted around them as bullets began to pepper the pavement nearby.  Stapleton shouted for the officers to get their men some cover and ordered suppressive fire on the entrance to the tunnel.  He was struggling against two pairs of hands that were trying to pull him back to a safe spot behind a tollbooth.