Sic Semper Tyrannis (55 page)

"When we defeat the Russians, my people retain anything they leave behind."

It wasn't a question.  "Of course, of course.  Like I said, American forces have already withdrawn—we gave up any claim to materiel and supplies—including military bases—when the United Nations forced our hand and called for the general retreat north.  Anything that you take from the Russians now would fall under President Reed’s Letters of Marque and Reprisal.  Consider it spoils of war."

Silence met his proposal.  Just when Daniel was about to ask if Malcolm was still there, the smooth voice appeared over the line once more.  "
Very well, I agree to your terms.  I will contact my people and order a cessation of hostilities towards the United States immediately.  As long as you will provide safe passage—my people and I will head south with all haste and begin to retake Florida
."

"Pleasure doing business with you, Malcolm."

Daniel hung up the phone, well pleased with himself and his first piece of statesmanship.  He drummed his fingers on the desk and sifted through the stack of updates.  He looked at the medical report from this morning which bemoaned President Suthby's declining vitals. 

Pity, that.
  He dropped the report in the trash and stood.  Time to break the news to the staffers who so anxiously awaited word of President Suthby's condition and news from New York.

This was going to cement his role as leader of the remnants of the United States.  Daniel Jones opened the door from the executive office and smiled at the cluster of staffers and aides waiting on his every word.  These were the true believers.  These were the core of his followers.  They would spread the good news and he would be ushered in as leader of the free world.

GENERAL STAPLETON STEPPED DOWN from the command Stryker and brushed the dust off his pants.  He adjusted the pistol belt on his hip and pulled a half-smoked cigar from his breast pocket.  He glanced around at the destruction of lower Manhattan and smiled with satisfaction.  His men had rounded up the last of the Russian forces and already marched many of them across the island to the makeshift prison camp set up on the western bank of the Hudson. 

Of the rebels, he had seen neither hide nor hair—at least live ones.  They had simply vanished in the night.  T
ucked tail and ran at the first opportunity.
 
Pathetic
.

Stapleton had faced down hardened insurgents in Iraq and Afghanistan.  These homegrown rebels were nothing more than riffraff and street trash.  So far he had only encountered two IED's.  That would have been considered a good day in the Sandbox.  These fools had no idea what they were up against.

"General, sir, incoming transmission from NORAD," called out one of his aides.

On the one hand, Stapleton was happy to have reliable communications with the chain of command.  On the other hand, he rather missed being on his own in the dark.  The politicians weren't nearly as intrusive and obnoxious when they couldn't get a hold of him. 

Now there was some fool residing in NORAD, who used to be the head of the FEMA of all things, claiming to be President of the United States.  He knew that would be something that would need to be dealt with soon, but he planned to meet with Admiral Nella and resolve that issue later.

He liked what he’d seen from the Admiral's file—and the squid that had been dropped off by helicopter a few hours back to lay out the proposals for his consideration had been eloquent in his support for the Admiral.  He was a fighting admiral—sailors always admired them, he supposed.

Admiral Nella wanted a military coup.  Stapleton was at first aghast at the mere idea, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.  Politicians scramble and spin their wheels and nothing is ever accomplished.   If unelected bureaucrats like the head of FEMA could cobble together enough support to get himself declared President of the United States—even recognized by the United Nations for Christ's sake—then the country was in far worse trouble than he had originally thought.  Despite the fact that they'd heard rumors that power was restored to Philadelphia, America was still in a shit-ton of trouble.

Admiral Nella's plan to fix all that was as bold as it was broad.  Stapleton smiled as he dusted ashes off his hands.  He’d had to burn the treasonous documents that the Navy Lieutenant had delivered, to ensure that only he and Admiral Nella remained aware of the plans.

The Admiral proposed a joint strike force, comprised of what was left of the
Roosevelt
strike group and Stapleton's 4th/ID.  By land and sea, they would sweep down the coast of America, hopefully recruiting such home guard units as they might find until they converged on Washington itself. 

Once liberated from the grip of the infamous Brotherhood, Admiral Nella proposed that they institute a military coup in order to restore the Constitution.  The politicians who led the country to this impasse would be summarily dismissed and the government run by Admiral Nella and General Stapleton until such time as general elections could be held and the entire shebang restarted.

The only elected officials to be reinstated were ones that had yet to be elected.  He grinned to himself as he reached out and took the satellite phone from a captain.  It would come as a shock to the incumbents in Washington—or wherever the hell they scattered to thanks to President Reed.  He would love to be a fly on the wall, to see the reactions on their faces when word was announced that Washington had been liberated by the Army working in conjunction with a strike group from the Navy. 

For starters, Admiral Nella insisted that there be strict term limits on all members of Congress.  Gone would be the days when someone might serve for 30, 40, or even 50 years.  General Stapleton, for his part, had suggested that they ban—under strict penalties—all lobbying of politicians.  No longer would politicians be bought and sold like commodities on the stock exchange.  The Republic would function as the founders had intended it: private citizens would take up the call of civic duty and serve for a while.  After the conclusion of their terms, they could then return home to the adoration of their constituents and let someone else take up the mantle. 

That
would be a government of the people, for the people, by the people.  The monstrosity that the American bureaucracy had become in the last few generations or so would be wiped clean.

Hell
, Stapleton thought,
the Russians, the Chinese, even the United Nations—they’ve done a lot of the work for us.  All we had to do is clean up the mess and glue the pieces back together.

He put the phone to his ear.  "This is Stapleton, go ahead."

"
General Stapleton, this is Daniel Jones,
” said the voice on the other end of the scratchy connection.

Stapleton felt a frown crease forehead as he thought where he had heard that name.  An eyebrow arched with realization.  "The Press Secretary?"

"
The President's Chief of Staff
," said the voice in a tightly controlled manner.

Stapleton grinned.  He had hit a nerve.  Yet another pumped up, non-elected official thinking that
he
was running the show.  "
Which
President?" asked Stapleton.

"
President Suthby is… indisposed… at the moment
."

"How
convenient
for you.  Cat’s away, huh?"  Stapleton pinned the phone against his shoulder and cheek, while he lit his cigar and began to smoke.  He watched the first puff drift away from his head like a cloud.  "And what exactly is the reason for the pleasure of your conversation this fine day?  Mr. Chief of Staff."

"General Stapleton, I have orders for you."

Oh
, Stapleton thought with barely contained mirth,
this should be good.  Carry-on you little shit.

"
Any rebels your men encounter are to be given wide berth.  Hostilities are to cease between anyone claiming association with the Brotherhood and the armed forces of the United States.  You are to give them free permission to travel in the country.  Do you understand these orders, general?
"

Stapleton nearly spat the cigar out of his mouth.  "You want me to do
what?
  You want me to let these people—who burned our cities to the ground and killed untold thousands of Americans…”   He was incredulous.  “You want me to just let them walk away?"

"That is correct, general.  There has been a peace treaty—"

"My how things change…the Chief of Staff to an unelected President takes over, and suddenly the United States is not only negotiating with terrorists but reaching accords with them."  The general spat in disgust.  "I do not recognize your authority, or your orders.   Mr. Chief of Staff."

"You
will
recognize my orders, general.  My authority was vested in me by the President—"

"An unelected president has no authority to vest."

"That may be your opinion, but—"

"There is no opinion about it,
boy
.  It says so in the Constitution.  The President
shall be elected
.  President Suthby—if you can call him that—was never elected.  He was
appointed
.  By foreign powers.  Powers who are also in league with the very Russian bastards that I'm killing and driving from our land as we speak.  As far as I'm concerned, you're in league with them.  That makes
you
a traitor.  This transmission is over."

Stapleton hung up on the indignant squawk from the other end of the line and smiled.  He tossed the phone to a passing soldier and leaned against the sea wall overlooking the Upper Bay.  He blew a lungful of smoke into the air, and peered through the haze at the collection of still-burning hulks and wrecks out in the water.  The massive U.S.S.
Theodore Roosevelt
picked its way through the flotsam, heading toward shore with what remained of its escort ships. 

All it took was the deaths of two Russian subs and the whole invading navy had scattered like cockroaches.  The suicide run of
Anzio
had sealed the deal for the surface ships, the Admiral had said.  Stapleton shook his head.  He couldn’t blame the sub captains, really.  He sure as hell wouldn’t want to face Roosevelt without any assistance.

That right there is one hell of an impressive sight,
he thought. 
Let the rebels see that steaming up the Potomac as my tanks come down from the north and we'll see who runs this country
.

Any doubt that he had about Admiral Nella's plan had been evaporated by that little prick under Cheyenne Mountain. 
Chief of Staff
.  A damn glorified secretary trying to give orders to a
general
.  The man who liberated Chicago and New York City.  The man who crushed the rebellion.  What a crock.

Stapleton spat into the waters below and wondered what fate would have in store for America.  It would be a long, slow march to Washington. 

“Bob,” he said around his cigar.

“Sir?”  Vinsen folded the map he had been examining and waited.

“Let’s start laying in supplies.  When we’re finished mopping up these Slavic pukes, we’re rolling south.”

“South, sir?”

“South.”

CHAPTER 38

Propaganda

THE ENGLISHMAN WITH SLICKED hair cocked his head and looked disapprovingly at the camera.  "
It is with great sadness that this day we report the United Nations has declared total victory in its campaign—its illegal campaign—to occupy the American city of New York.  To what end, we can only speculate.

“Indeed, as much of the civilized world teeters on the edge of societal breakdown and riots are increasingly large and violent in Europe, it is perhaps even more shocking that the United Nations would sanction such reckless behavior from Russia.  What is the U.N. playing at?  Will there be global implications if Russia succeeds?  What will happen if they fail?

“To answer some of these questions, we now go live to our embedded correspondent, Martin Surles, who is with the Russian contingent now based out of LaGuardia International Airport, just north of New York City.  Martin?
"

The grainy image on the black and white television screen switched from the glowing, technology-filled studios in London to a dimly lit room which could have been in any office building in the world.  The plain white walls behind the reporter—ridiculously dressed in a flak jacket and tanker’s helmet—had a motivational poster with an eagle in the background.  He could have been standing in a post office or a kindergarten classroom.

"That's right, Roger, I'm standing here with Russia’s 442nd tactical logistics battalion.  I've just received word that reinforcements are due to arrive and assist in the final mop up of New York City itself.  And I have to say, the amount of military hardware and personnel that the Russian army has been able to move into this area—as fast as it has—is quite impressive."

A little picture-in-picture box appeared in the top right corner of the screen and displayed the concerned face of the studio anchor.  "
Martin, can you give us any more information on the rumors that an American army has arrived on the scene and launched an attack on the southern tip of Manhattan?  We've been getting disturbing reports from HAM radio operators around Britain that corroborate the rumors.
"

The reporter in the flak jacket stared at the television camera for a few moments like a deer caught in headlights, then nodded his head as he listened to the delayed transmission from the studio.  "
Yes, Roger, I can confirm those reports.  The Russians here are aware of the fact that there is an American presence on the mainland.   The officers here emphasize it is a small presence, though it nonetheless caused no end of consternation about an hour ago, when we had an air raid drill.  One Colonel, speaking on condition of anonymity, informed me that a massive Russian fleet has entered the harbor.  We won’t have a proper look until morning but I’m told it is the largest fleet of Russian warships to engage in a campaign in foreign waters since World War II.
"

"
So
," said the anchorman as the picture-in-picture window swapped and the studio set filled the screen while the combat reporter’s face shrunk to a tiny image in the top right corner.  "
What we know at the moment, stands as this: there has indeed been some fighting between the Russians and Americans for control over Manhattan—and a Russian fleet has in fact taken up residence in New York Harbor.  The Russians now have complete control of New York City and more importantly LaGuardia International Airport—where, from what I understand, hourly flights of troops and materiel are being airlifted in from Europe
."

"
That's correct Roger,
" said the man on the ground.  "
I've seen a tremendous amount of military hardware come through here.  I haven't seen something like this since the opening days of the war on terror
."

"With the Russian occupation of the state of Florida and now the conquest of New York City, is it fair to say that Russia’s motivation is considerably more than mere humanitarian relief?"

The field reporter’s face filled the screen once more.  "
I'd say that's a fair assumption, Roger.  We hear nothing out of The Hague except protestations of innocence.  The Russians, we are told, are bringing unprecedented amounts of supplies and much needed doctors and medicine to the American people—yet I've seen nothing arrive here at LaGuardia other than tanks, trucks, and hundreds if not thousands of soldiers.  This looks more like an invasion than—
"

Rough voices shouted in the background and a soldier stepped in front of the camera.  The tip of his rifle blocked the view of the reporter’s face.  There was some more shouting, some shoving, and the camera image on the small black and white TV shuddered.  When the static snow cleared, the reporter was flanked by two Russian soldiers, grim-faced with weapons at the ready.

"Martin, are you quite sure everything is okay?  Are you safe?  What of those soldiers—"

The reporter’s face said it all.  He was terrified.  "
These… these soldiers have just arrived… and asked me to not talk about…
"

"
For God’s sake, Martin, be careful!  Stop broadcasting if you must, but do not antagonize the Russians!
" warned the anchorman.  He sounded more like a concerned father than news man.

Someone off-camera shoved a crumpled piece of paper in front of the reporter.  His wide eyes darted back and forth between the men with guns and the new arrival.  Before long he looked down and took the paper in hands that trembled.  An off-camera voice grumbled something unintelligible.

The reporter looked up at the camera.  "
I have… I have been instructed… I mean, they want me to read this statement.
"

“
Go ahead Martin,
" said the anchorman.  “
The world is listening
."

"
Very well then
," said the reporter.  He cleared his throat again.  "
Victorious Russian forces have completely routed the American—pardon me, the
illegal
—American forces who have violated international law in attempting to wrest control of Manhattan from the United Nations.  At great loss of life, Russian troops have protected the innocent and defeated the rogue general in charge of the 4th Infantry Division.  The American forces were routed and chased back across the Hudson River.
" 

The reporter looked up and blinked at the camera, beads of sweat visible on his forehead.  His eyes darted off-camera once more before he looked back to the paper.  His voice was high and tight, but he continued to read:  "
This day marks the end of American sovereign rule over greater New York City.
”

"
Good Lord,
" said the voice of the anchorman in London.

“
This day marks the beginning of a peaceful resolution of this conflict, in which the United Nations claims all territory known until recently as the United States of America.  Today—
" the reporter looked back up at the screen, his eyes darted back and forth.  “
Uh…hang on here…wait just a moment…
”  He turned and cocked his head, listening.

The soldiers on either side of him heard it as well.  They looked at each other over the reporters head and then started to glance about warily.  More and more voices could suddenly be heard, all in Russian.  The reporter saw his chance and began to speak rapidly over the din.

"
Roger, I don't know if you can still hear me, but we hear what are apparently, air raid sirens
—"   The low, mournful wail of emergency sirens began to break through over the ruckus on the screen.

"
Air raid sirens?
" asked the anchorman from London.  "
Why are there emergency sirens going off—Martin, can you hear me?
"

"
Roger!  It's definitely air raid sirens that I'm hearing—the Russians are extremely agitated right now—I can see men running about in every direction—there's a great commotion
—"

The camera image shook violently and static filled the screen for a moment before the image returned and someone picked the camera up off the floor.  The voices in the background raised to a cacophonous roar, as the reporter tried to shout over the noise.  “
—see that?  That was a bomb!  And there's another!  My God, look at the explosion—
"

"Martin?  What's happening?  Can you still hear me?"

"
Roger, I don't know if you can still hear me, but it appears that LaGuardia is under attack—I see planes in the sky, and bombs exploding—
"

Another soldier rushed into the room and began to shout at the reporter.  The newsman dropped his microphone and stepped back, hands up before a quick burst of an AK-47 silenced his journalistic integrity.  The soldier turned to the cameraman and the last image that appeared on the screen was the muzzle flash directed toward the camera.

The screen went black with two simple words plastered across the middle:
NO SIGNAL
.

Almost instantly, the little box in the top right corner containing the image of the anchorman in London expanded to fill the screen.

"
Oh, my God!
" the anchorman said as he put a hand to his mouth.  He looked visibly shaken.  "
Oh my—good heavens.  If you are still with us, please be advised that what you have just seen was a live broadcast out of LaGuardia International Airport.  We were just speaking with the BBC's own Martin Surles who’d been embedded with advancing Russian forces.  It appears that the forward base the Russians had occupied at LaGuardia has come under attack.  Martin reported—again, if you're just joining us—that there were planes in the sky and bombs exploding at the airport.  The Russians were completely caught by surprise and…
"   The man's voice shook and there were tears in his eyes. 

"
I'm sad to say that it appeared
…"  He cleared his throat, and gamely continued.  "
It appears that Martin has been killed by Russian soldiers, who then attacked our cameraman, Tony Norris.  May God rest their souls,
" the anchorman said, eyes downcast.  “
But rest assured, we
—”

The image on the screen began to shake and static filled the screen.  Saldid reached out and slapped the television, nearly spilling his beer in the process.  He cursed when the image did not improve and switched off the antique black-and-white television set in a huff.

Hakim sighed and took another sip of his ice cold beer.  He propped his feet up on the cantina table and gazed out over the blue crystalline waters of the southern Gulf of Mexico.

He and Saldid had worked their way across central Mexico and arrived in Cancun some days ago.  He couldn’t remember how many.  He glanced at the half-empty beer bottle as it dripped moisture onto the stained tablecloth. 

Perhaps I need to cut back…
 

At any rate, it had been a long, tedious journey…they had hired taxis and any transport they could find to get here.  But the next leg of their mission was about to begin and Hakim could not wait to start.  Idly sitting around drinking himself into a stupor and chasing the local girls with Saldid—all in order to keep their cover of traveling businessmen intact, of course—had become tiresome.

The news broadcast, however had been eye-opening.  Long trained in the art of propaganda, Hakim knew right away what had happened.  The Americans had completely sacked New York City.  That much was clear, else the reporter would have been reporting with victorious Russian troops from the steps of the New York Stock Exchange, not cowering in some guarded room at LaGuardia International Airport a dozen miles away.

If there truly had been a great battle, if there truly had been a great victory for the Russians, there would've been pictures and video.  Lots of footage.  They would've wasted no time at all in taking the reporter at the very first opportunity out to see the wreckage of the American forces.  No… Hakim was sure that if there had actually a battle, the Americans had won handsomely.  There was no other explanation.

"I grow tired of this place, brother.  I wish to return to America, to continue our fun," grumbled Saldid from the next chair.  The man was already half drunk and it was only 9 o'clock in the morning.  He eyed the waitress, a tired looking middle-aged woman who lacked all her teeth.  “I like blondes.  These senoritas are…”

“Old?” asked Hakim.

“And fat.  American girls…” Saldid sighed and took a long swig from his beer.  “Oh, how I miss them.  If it were Spring Break…”  He looked around casually.  “The college girls scream a lot more, did you know?”

“Yes,” muttered Hakim.  He had heard.  A lot.  Saldid was ravenous and apparently insatiable, even when half-drunk at 9 in the morning.  Hakim said a silent prayer for Saldid’s salvation. 

I understand that you must test me, Allah, but might there be another way?
  He took another sip from his drink and ignored the irony.  He watched his partner stuff another fish taco into his mouth and chew noisily.  Hakim frowned.