Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3) (15 page)

Before Ted could get a word in edgewise, the sheriff moved on down the line of vehicles, shouting out instructions to the drivers.

Ted slammed the door and gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles.
 
"This deal's getting worse by the minute."

Brin reappeared between the front seats.
 
"I got the kids laying down in the back under as much cover as I can find.
 
What did the sheriff have to say?
 
Is this it?"

"He wants you to man the turret," Ted said.
 
"He wants us on the ground with the others."

Brin looked at Erik.
 
"That wasn't part of the deal," she said.

"I know.
 
I don't like it any more than you—"

"I
told
you I didn't like that sheriff.
 
There's something rotten here—why the hell can't you see that?"

"I—" said Erik.

She put her hands up to forestall further argument.
 
"Don't—I can't do this right now."
 
She turned and shuffled away.

Ted shifted the M-ATV into gear and the big Caterpillar turbo-diesel roared as the convoy split.
 
He followed the truck in front of them through the winding streets without a word.
 
Erik watched as they passed the courthouse and a few small shops.
 
Abandoned cars had been pushed on to the sidewalks to clear the streets.
 
In the distance Erik saw a roadblock of cars, charred and full of bullet holes.
 

"This place has seen some fighting," he muttered.
 
"Those 'bad seeds' the sheriff talked about look like they did some damage here."

"Stay frosty," Ted said.
 
"I think Brin's right, this is looking like a raw deal."

"Great, we're rolling into town to get into a battle and you have to go and tell her she was right."
 
Erik looked at Ted.
 
"She's already pissed at me, now you want to make her gloat about it too?"

Ted grunted.
 
"Just be happy she's here to be pissed at you."

Erik looked down at the floor.
 
God dammit.
 
"I'm sorry…"

The M-ATV came to a stop.
 
"Save it," Ted said, focused out the windshield.
 
"It's showtime."

Erik looked up—the Dunham town jail filled his view.
 
A black man standing guard by the double front doors stared with an open mouth as the M-ATV came to a stop in front of him.
 
He stumbled backward and bumped into the doors, dropping his hunting rifle in the process.
 
Ted laughed as the man scrambled to throw open the door.

"What'd I tell you?"

The radio on the center console broke squelch.
 
"All right boys, you know what to do.
 
Jensen, Larsson, let's get this show on the road."
 

Erik looked back between the seats and caught Brin as she moved forward toward the turret.
 
The look on her face was a mixture of emotions.
 
Her eyes flashed, but her lips parted like she wanted to say something.
 
She closed her eyes and looked away before disappearing up in the turret.

This better be worth it.
 
Why can't people just leave us alone?
 
All I want to do is get home…

Chapter 16

Blackmail

G
ENERAL
S
TAPLETON
LOOKED
AT
the force allocation screen inside his command Stryker. He tapped it and grinned. Admiral Nella's fighters had found the tail edge of Malcolm's force exactly where he'd predicted, just north of Philadelphia.
 
The information had already been relayed back to Nella, so there was no point in calling. Half of the fighter squadron, represented by three blue triangles, circled over the city. The others continued south.

Stapleton tapped a few commands into the keyboard and the map was replaced with a real-time view from the pilot’s seat of an F-35C on CAP.
 
The jet wove in and out of thick black columns of smoke pouring up through the downtown area. This had to be the work of Malcolm's horde—the fires were too fresh and too much of the city lay undamaged.

The pilot banked his fighter into another left-handed turn and Stapleton saw most of the roads leading out of the city swarmed with vehicles of all shapes and sizes. It was to be expected—this wasn't an actual army, more a ragtag group of gang-bangers and idealists, probably chock full of communists, anarchists, and any other dregs of American society they could be convinced to tag along.

He tapped another command into the control panel and his view switched to the squadron leader. The top right corner of the screen listed the pilot as
Lt. Cmdr. Riggs
.
 

Stapleton watched the grainy image and scanned the ground. The fighter was streaking ahead, attempting to find the vanguard of Malcolm's army. Something interesting caught his eye. It must've piqued the pilot's interest as well because the plane descended and turned in a slow banking maneuver to get a better look.

Stapleton spotted a mass of rebel fighters, streaming forward, many running for cover and jumping off overpasses into the bushes and trees that lined the interstate. Those not on the interstate scattered like roaches as the jet swooped overhead.

He grinned around his cigar stub.
You guys think you own the world, don't you? Couple of jets come screaming in overhead and you lose your shit.
 

Stapleton tapped the corner of the touchscreen to zoom in and shifted the image farther south. Ahead of the army lay a significant empty stretch of road. In front of that gap was a solid wall of cars, trucks and pedestrians.

What the hell is this? Two divisions?

He wished there was a way to ask the pilot to get closer. His view was read-only—he had no ability to communicate with individual pilots.

The pilot must have been thinking the same thing, because he straightened out following the road south, dropping even lower to get a better look at the strange convoy of vehicles and pedestrians in front of Malcolm's people.

Stapleton realized what it was: exodus. Panicked civilians from all walks of life—from those that drove Yugos to those that drove BMWs—had all banded together to flee the advance of Malcolm's army. He was looking at the tail end of a massive civilian evacuation of Philadelphia.

He quickly backed out of the feed from the squadron leader and switched to one of the planes still over Philadelphia.
 
Those who had remained, and those who had been drawn back to America's onetime capital by the prospect of electricity were now streaming away again in all directions. The advance of Malcolm's horde had stirred up a humanitarian tidal wave.

Stapleton killed the feed and leaned back in his chair.
This changes everything. He's moving faster than we thought.
 
There'll be an uncontrollable surge in every major city if we don't stop him
.

He reached for the secure sat phone to contact Nella when the radio in his helmet chirped.

"Command Actual, Ghost 2-1."
 

"Actual copies—send it."
Now what?

"I have a group of 12 unidentified foot mobiles approaching from the south. They're pushing an abandoned vehicle in front of them. Please advise."

Before Stapleton could repeat the rules of engagement regarding civilians, two more Strykers at the head of the column reported similar encounters.

"Ghost 2-1, Actual. Can you determine if the foot mobiles are hostile?"

The response was immediate.
"Negative, Actual. No weapons in sight, but they're coming at us and not slowing down.
 
Everybody else we saw ran for the hills. Please advise—range to target, 50 meters."

Stapleton frowned. "Actual to all units: hold your fire, do not engage. Repeat: do
not
engage unless fired upon. Hold your positions."

"Actual, Chaos 2-1, the foot mobiles in front of me are getting something out of the back of a car."

Stapleton chewed his cigar.
 
Dammit, now what?

"Molotovs! Foot mobiles are hostile, repeat foot mobiles are hostile!"

Stapleton slammed his fist down. The descriptions from the other Strykers came in, painting a picture of kids and old folks in wheelchairs trying to block the interstate and the side roads. It was a desperate last-ditch attempt to delay the inevitable. Malcolm had sacrificed his weakest units in a rearguard action.

"They're targeting civilians!"
warned Ghost 2-1.

Stapleton keyed his mic. "All Stryker units, this is Actual. Change in ROE. Engage the enemy. I repeat: engage, engage, engage! Clear that road!"

The confirmations came in, and the blue squares on his screen moved forward from where they'd stopped. The eight-wheeled vehicles rolled through Malcolm's blockade. As he listened to the grim accounts from the Strykers as they plowed through the ineffective rearguard, another transmission came to his attention.

"Actual, Lighthouse."

"Go ahead, Lighthouse."

"Receiving incoming transmission on an unsecured line designated for official DHS use only."

Stapleton clenched his jaw, squeezing the tobacco juice from the cigar in his lips in his teeth.
 
Daniel the pretend President. I don't need this.
He keyed his mic. "Ignore it, Lighthouse."

"Apologies Actual, caller identified himself as Malcolm."

Stapleton paused.
 
Malcolm? This is interesting.
"Very well."

He changed frequencies to the secure code last used by Daniel. None of this made sense.
How did Malcolm get this channel and code authorization? The only way would be if that little twerp Jones gave it to him…

"I see you are not following the orders put forth by your president."
 

"I do not take orders from him," Stapleton grunted.

"In that case we have other things to discuss."

He laughed. "Enlighten me."

"I have in my possession one Lieutenant Colonel Caroline Edwards, of the New Jersey Air National Guard. Say hello, Colonel Edwards."

Stapleton held his breath.
 
Not possible.

"Whom I speaking with?
" asked a shaky female voice.

Shit
.
 
"This is General Joseph Stapleton, U.S. Army, 4th Infantry Division." He moved his hands across the keyboard. "Authentication please?"

"Edwards, Caroline. Lieutenant Colonel, 75th New Jersey Air National Guard.
 
278-35-9625. I'm being held in—"
 
The line crackled as the phone transferred hands.
 
She yelled something in the background about 'rowhouse'.

"Colonel Edwards!"

Malcolm's voice returned, cool as ice.
 
"That's enough. I assume you can confirm the authenticity of my guest?"

Stapleton's eyes scanned the screen as the computer related the truth of Edwards' identity. A picture appeared next to the her file, and he skimmed down the screen looking at her service record.
 
She was the pilot he'd watched shot down over New York City. Everything matched—it had to be her.
 

He swallowed.
 
"I confirm her identity."

"Good, then you know what comes next."

"What?"

"You must call off your attack dogs. Get the jets away from my people and…"

Stapleton stared at the screen, looking into Col. Edwards' eyes.
 
I'm sorry.
 
"And what?" he asked, watching the screen that depicted his Strykers moving across the rebel lines.

"I've just been informed that you have slaughtered most of my rearguard. That was unfortunate, general. The blood of children and the elderly are now on your hands. May Allah forgive you."

"I'm going to give you one chance to turn her over—"

"You are not in a position to dictate to me, general. You may have destroyed Chicago and New York, but you will
not
stop me now. This is your last warning. Turn back or your Col. Edwards will be executed."
 

The transmission ended. Stapleton cursed and stared at the screen, his jaw tight.
 
You better pray for mercy to whatever God you believe in, Malcolm, because you'll get none from me.

His radio chirped.
 
"Actual, Lighthouse—the Strykers have pushed through the hostile foot mobiles. Awaiting your orders."

"What's the time-frame on the armored cav?" asked Stapleton, switching computer screens to bring up the force asset map.

"On scene in 30."

Stapleton pulled the cigar out of his mouth and tossed it out the hatch, then reached for a fresh one from his coat pocket. "Alert Ghost and Chaos to hold position and wait until Vinsen arrives. In 30 minutes, we'll begin the assault on Philadelphia. Whatever units are there will attack—remaining units will engage as they approach. Confirm receipt of order."

"Lighthouse copies all."

"Actual out."

Stapleton leaned back in the command chair. The Stryker rumbled through another pothole. Malcolm was right. First Chicago, then New York. How many cities would he have to destroy to put a stop to that snake in the grass?

Chapter 17

Jailbreak

T
HE
RADIO
ON
THE
center console crackled.
 
"This is it, boys!
 
We got the drop on them—everybody get ready!"

Erik looked at Ted.
 
"This doesn't feel right."