Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) (74 page)

The
Homeland Security chief decided it was time to test the waters of his new
powers.  "I didn't ask for your opinion
or
approval."  He
almost smiled at the instant flush of purple under the collar of the old man on
the monitor.  "Now, what's the status of our inbound soldiers?"

The head of
the Army spoke up.  "Our first units were caught in the invasion last
night.  I don't know how to explain it but some of our planes were shot down
along with the Europeans.  We lost a lot of good men.  It's inexcusable." 
The General was furious and barely contained his contempt for the Air Force. 
Planeloads of combat hardened soldiers, shot down like so many clay pigeons by
their own brothers in arms.  It was worse than disgusting.

"Have
you tracked down who is responsible for this tragedy, General?" asked
Hank.  He shifted his most imposing gaze towards the screen that displayed the
face of a very downtrodden looking head of the Air Force.

"I
assure you, my men had the correct codes for those planes.  The codes checked
out as hostile and all those damn airliners all looked the same.  It was a
glitch!"

"Horseshit!"
retorted the Army chief.  He took the loss personally, as if he had lost his
own sons in the worst case of friend-fire casualties in the nation's history.

Hank
enjoyed every second of it and struggled to keep a smile off his face.  He was
too busy watching the top Generals of both the Air Force and the Army yell and
accuse each other to notice the Commandant of the Marines was watching
him
.

After a few
more heated minutes, Hank reluctantly decided it was time to play peacemaker. 
"Alright, gentlemen, that's enough."  Slowly the two men calmed down.

"There. 
Now, fighting each other is going to get us exactly nowhere.  We don't have the
luxury of time to bicker amongst ourselves.  We need a unified front to repel
this invasion.  Now..."

"Excuse
me,
Secretary
Suthby," the old Devil Dog said in a voice like
rusted iron nails hitting a chalkboard at 60 miles per hour.  SecDHS winced
visibly.  The emphasis the Marine Commandant put on the word
secretary
caused a slight reddening of Hank’s face.

"Acting
Command-in-Chief," replied Hank with a finger up in instruction.

"Have
we located the Vice President yet,
Secretary
Suthby?"  The old
Marine did it again just to agitate him, Hank was sure of it.

He adjusted
his collar and loosened the suddenly constricting tie.  "No," he
said, a little shake in his voice.  "We've got everyone prowling for
him," he continued, gaining strength in his lie.  "From DHS on down
to local cops.  If that plane survived the landing, we'll find him."

"Seems
to me, he should be the person in that chair.  Seems to me that his
disappearance is mighty…
convenient
."

Hank
flushed completely, a frown creased his face
.  The impudence of this man! 
Old fart probably just thinks I'm a paper pusher...I'll have to make an example
of him.
  There was a quiet burst of bitter laughter in his mind. 
I
actually had nothing to do with that.  Old fool doesn't know how off base he
really is.

"I
think, uh, what the general is trying to say—" started the Secretary of
State, ever the peacemaker.

"What
the general is saying is, he doesn’t like holding briefings for his
Commander-in-Chief, when said Commander is asleep," interrupted the head
of the Marine Corps.  He pointed a thick finger towards the camera in front of
him, which caused his image on the screen in front of Hank to take on a very
menacing aspect.  "And he really doesn’t like holding briefings when additionally
the Vice President is missing and we can't get hold of—"

Hank put
his hands on his chest as a gesture of surprise and righteous indignation. 

"Oh, I
know your little paper says you're in charge,
Mr
. Suthby.  But you're
almost complete lack of respect or grief over the deaths of hundreds, if not
thousands of our own soldiers, combined with—" the screen went black.

About damn
time!
Hank raged inside his head. 
I'm paying those A/V techs to monitor this and
cut out dissent.  I'll have to have a word with them about acting sooner. 
Typical.  You want something done right, you gotta do it yourself.

"What
happened?  I lost my feed..." the Secretary of Defense started to say.

"No,
we're still here," said the head of the Navy.

"Are
you all still there?" asked Hank, a look of concern on his face.  Everyone
was still present, except for the troublesome Marine.  He lied through his
teeth.   "My signals are getting very fuzzy.  Can you all hear me?" 
He looked off-camera to someone who wasn't there.  "Get that cleared
up!" he barked to the empty room.

In another
room on the other side of the cavernous base under Cheyenne Mountain, a DHS
technician was scrambling the signal from NORAD.  Everyone else at the briefing
would think the signal loss of the Marine Corp Commandant was part of the
larger problem NORAD was experiencing.  If he did it right.  He was paid a lot
of money to make sure it was right. 

"Gentlemen,
I apologize, but we're going to have to reschedule.  Continue with your
coordinated efforts—I'll contact you—"  Hank began, trying to appear like
he was squinting through a snowstorm, to show that he was having a hard time
seeing his Joint Chiefs of Staff.

The acting
commander in chief never got to finish his statement as a side door to his
conference room burst open.  There was a scuffle outside the door and some
grunts before a breathless staffer rushed in followed by a furious security
guard. 

"Sorry
sir, he got the drop on me—"

"Sir! 
The President's dead!  Agent Perez said I should find you immediately."

No one in
the room or on the monitors was more shocked than Hank Suthby. 
That's
impossible!  They gave me...
his mind raced.  Then with a clarity he hadn't
experienced in a long time, his mind found the answer like a slap to the face. 
They gave me the wrong dosage...those idiots!! This will ruin everything!  
Okay...think, Hank!  You've got to act fast!  It's only been,
what...fifteen...twenty minutes since they took him to his quarters?
  He
flicked his eyes to a wall clock.  9:47am MST. 
Secret Service shift change
coming up...have to do it now.

The Joint
Chiefs erupted into tele-chaos.  Questions were shouted, curses flew.  He tried
to ignore the intense focus he was now under and calm down the others.

"Just
calm down—"

"Did I
just hear that right?  The President is dead?" asked Secretary of Defense.

"How
the hell can you expect us to calm down?  The President is dead!" roared
the Army Chief of Staff.

"How?"
asked the top Navy admiral.       

"I
want details!" demanded Secretary of Defense.

"What
do we do now?" asked the Secretary of State.  He took his glasses off and
wiped his eyes.  He had been fairly close to the President.

Hank
stood.  "Gentlemen, let me figure out what's going on here.  I'll get back
to you with the details.  Hopefully we'll get this signal problem fixed as
well.  I'm not going to take anything at face value yet.  In the meantime, I
suggest you focus on your war efforts and above all,
this information does
not leave this meeting.
  Do I make myself clear?  If this is true and word
got out right now, it would have a devastating effect on our country.  Just
give me some time to sort things out first."

The top
general of the Army shook his head.  "I don't have time for this—"

The others
began to chime in, more questions, a few fingers pointed.  The volume increased
ten-fold.  "You can't just tell us to calm down—"

"How
do we know he's dead?"

"What
the hell do we do now—?"

"—status
on the Vice President—"          

"—need
to notify the Speaker of the House—-"

The
situation was spiraling out of control.  Hank needed to act and act
fast
. 
He pushed the
KILL FEED
button on the table.  The entire wall of screens
went dead.  Silence descended on the room. 
Finally...
  In a bit of
morbid irony, he suddenly realized why the President was always rubbing his
temples.

"What
are your orders, sir?" the nervous staffer asked.  He had heard about the
Executive Order granting the head of Homeland Security all the powers the
President normally had plus many most Presidents could have only dreamed
about.  He didn't know there were a lot of powers in that E.O. that our first
Presidents not only did not want, but feared.

The
security guard stood there, mouth open in shock.  He blinked and looked from
the staffer to Hank.  Mouth closed, he waited for orders as well, though the
look on his face was one of utter confusion.

Hank
smiled. 
That's the kind of initiative I like.
  He walked over to the
young man and put a fatherly hand on his shoulder.  "Take me to the
President.  I need to know exactly what's going on."  He glanced out the
door.  His hand-picked DHS Supplemental Security personnel were rushing down the
hall, radios crackling. 

Well...it's
a little fast, but my people seem to be taking it in stride.   Now...to see to
the Secret Service.

As the two
men stepped through the door a gunshot down the corridor caused the young
staffer to flinch. The security guard drew his weapon and darted into the
hallway, in search of the threat.

"Stay
behind me, sir!"

Hank
focused on the staffer.  On the collar of his DHS emblazoned beige Polo shirt
was a little award pin.  It was how his team had identified people they could
trust and bring in to the organization.  They made up some bureaucratic contest
and the award was a little silver star, to be worn by the winner. 

Hank smiled
at his own genius in devising that little plan.  He asked casually,
"What's your name, son?  I think I'm going to need people I can trust
around me now..."

TED NOTICED, FOR the
third time, the eyes in the rearview mirror as they glanced at him.  He was
tired from the short night last night on the beach—had it really been last
night?—and the long day shuttling Guardsmen from the marina to safety.  Now he
was just plain exhausted and looking forward to getting back to Susan and the
kids.  The eyes were starting to piss him off.

"You
keepin' an eye on the road, soldier?" asked Ted with a lopsided grin and a
slight attitude.  The eyes shifted to Erik, who sat next to Ted in the rear of
the military vehicle.  The medic, Ell-Tee, as her soldiers called her, sat in
the front seat, reviewing some documents.  Ted figured they were reports of the
wounded.  She was adding notes to the papers, updating the numbers and
injuries.

The driver
swerved around some charred cars in the middle of the wide street called Bee
Ridge, continued to head west towards the interstate.  Behind them was one of
the three Humvees loaded to the gills with the Lieutenant's squad plus the men
from the Marina.  In the middle of the convoy were the ambulances—Humvees with
extra large box-cabs attached to accommodate the wounded.  Bringing up the rear
was the last Humvee, a soldier manning the M2 machine gun turret. 

"Just
not used to having...
civilians
...in my vehicle, that's all," came
the acid filled reply.  Erik noticed the way the sergeant had said
"civilians".

Ted
returned the gaze in the mirror, one warrior to another, with a steely eyed
look that had unmanned more than one drunk at bars in the past.  "He's no
civilian.  More like a Viking."  Erik looked at Ted and grinned through
the grime, salt-spray and exhaustion.

At least
I'm not shaking like before
...he thought to himself
.  Hah, some
Viking....I lost my ship.

"And
you?" the driver asked, eyes back on Ted.

"I've
done some wetwork," Ted mumbled, eyes out the window.

The driver
grunted his disbelief, but kept his eyes on the road for the rest of the brief
trip.  Ted scanned out the left passenger window, repulsed at the damage that
had been done to the strip malls and gas stations that lined the street. 
Abandoned cars were everywhere, most with shot up windows.  More than one body
could still be seen slumped over the wheel. 

Even with
the windows up, the stench was almost unbearable.  It was like a physical
barrier they had to tunnel into.  Erik's stomach roiled.
  That's just
sick...it's been weeks since everything went to hell.  These people were left
to rot...

As they
drew near the apartment, Erik suddenly stiffened in alarm.  His senses went
into high alert and the smell all around them was totally forgotten.  
"Ted!" he croaked, his throat constricted in fear.  He clawed at the
window to lower the bullet proof glass and only ended up smearing it with
grime.

Something
in Ted's battlefield experienced remembered a young Marine speaking just like
that before getting capped by an Iraqi.  He was instantly on full alert and
wired.  He snapped his head to the right to try and see what had spooked Erik.

"Smoke! 
The Freehold's on fire...something's burning!" cried Erik in a voice that
nearly broke with emotion. 
No God, no...not after all we did to get
back...no, please...

The medic
in the front seat pointed out the turn for the driver.  She grabbed a radio and
gave out orders.  "Miller, lead the ambulances to 75.  Riojas, you're on
me—we're going to check this out.  I want that Ma Deuce warmed up and
ready."

She turned
in her seat and stared at the two men in the back.  She had to adjust her
helmet to see Erik, directly behind her.  "When we stop, everyone gets out
and hunkers down till I send a scout. 
Am I clear?
" she asked.  It
was obvious she was used to compliance.

"Yes,
ma'am," Erik said, glad someone else was making the decisions.

Ted stared
out the window.  His hands were white with tension, wrapped around the M-4 he
still carried.  He said nothing.

The
acknowledgements from the other vehicles crackled over the speaker on the dash
as the driver slowed—just a little—before taking the right hand turn off of Bee
Ridge towards the Freehold’s main gate.  Erik and Ted were forced to hang on to
the doors to keep from sliding into each other.  Out of the corner of his eye,
Ted saw the following Humvee and ambulances speed past and continue on towards
the interstate a few miles west.  He could hear the heavy tires of the tail
Humvee skip off the pavement and chirp as that driver followed close on their
vehicle.

The two
Humvees pulled up straight across the entrance to the Freehold and ground to a
stop.  Doors flung open and everyone filed out of the trucks and crouched down
behind the bulk of the vehicles.

"Any
movement?" asked the medic over her shoulder to the second vehicle.  The
only man who didn't exit was the M-2 .50 caliber machine gun operator.  Erik
crouched behind the left rear wheel of his Humvee and watched as the gunner
swiveled in his turret, scanning for targets.  He had lifted up a roof hatch
and appeared to have some sort of clear shield in front of him to deflect
incoming fire.  Erik stared for a moment.  It looked for all the world like a
Humvee windshield had been cut down and mounted on the machine gun.  The closer
he looked at the second vehicle, the more he realized that the men and women he
was accompanying were simply making do with what they were given.  The shiny
new military toys went overseas to the combat troops.  The home guard got the
leftovers and retreads.  He frowned at that thought.  

It ain't
lookin' good for the home team...Wonder what the rest of the National Guard out
there has to deal with...this is a big country
.  The thought was
almost as sobering as the sight of a military vehicle full of soldiers in front
of his apartment. 

"I got
nothin'," the M-2 gunner said in a tone so close to normal Erik could
hardly believe it.

Here his
home was on fire—he risked a quick look around the bumper—the main gate was
smashed open with what looked like a flatbed truck half sticking out…and the
soldiers were acting like nothing untoward had happened. 

Now
that
was training.  Erik wished he could have had troops like that to work with,
then shook his head to clear his thoughts.  He recognized how tired he was. 
Mind's
beginning to wonder.  This isn't good...Focus, dammit!

There were
no signs of life; no noise, no fighting and most disturbing of all to Erik was
the absence of any of his guards.  The thick black smoke roiled into the sky
and cast a dull gray light on the world around them.  It partially blocked the
late afternoon sun.  He could hear the blood roaring through his ears as
adrenaline began to course through his tensed body.  Other than the cackle and
whoosh of the fire, he heard nothing.

The attack
was earlier in the day...
  He glanced at Ted, saw the pale look to the
Marine's dangerous face. 
He knows.  We were rescuing the soldiers at the
Marina when...
  Erik couldn't finish the thought.

"Roger,
no movement here," said the driver.

Ted dropped
to the sun warmed ground under the high-clearance vehicle and scanned
everything he could see.  "Nothing through the gates beyond the
truck," he reported quietly.

Everyone
waited: the driver, the Lieutenant, Ted, Erik, the four soldiers in the second
Humvee and the roof gunner behind his improvised bullet shield.  No one spoke
for a few tense moments and just when Erik was about to ask the medic if he
could go in, she spoke.

"Alright,
Riojas and Cooper, get up to that gate and check it out," she said, waving
her hand forward.  "We'll cover.  Ready?"

"Hooah,"
was the whispered reply from two voices in unison.  All business.

“Go!"
she hissed, rifles rippled and waited as the two men weaved  around their
vehicle and crouched-ran to both sides of the shattered main gate.  They
checked angles and took a quick look by turns.

"Nothing...lot
of bodies, and debris,” Riojas whispered.

"Same
thing over here, and that building to the south is on fire too," reported
Cooper.

Without
taking his eyes off the gate or his gun sights, the driver whispered to Ted,
"You never answered my question..."  He glanced at Ted's shirt. 
"Been to the sandbox?"

Ted had
crawled out from under the truck and was positioned next to the large
sergeant.  Erik fought the urge to roll his eyes.  He could recognize a pissing
contest when he saw one.  Obviously the driver was a combat vet and was sizing
up Ted.

Reflected
movement in the window next to his head caught Erik's eye.  He turned to see a
filthy man explode from the shrub lined ditch behind them and take a step
towards their vehicle.  He had a scuffed up chrome plated pistol and was in the
motion of bringing it up to fire right into their backs.  He held it sideways,
like a gangster in a rap video.

Ted didn't
see the man, but he saw Erik flinch.  Faster than the Erik thought possible,
Ted turned to the right, simultaneously using his left hand to snatch the
sheathed knife off the sergeant's vest rig.  It only took half a second for Ted
to complete his spin, but by then the other man had his pistol up, mouth open
in a scream.  He pulled the trigger.

What
happened next was something Erik would remember for the rest of his life. 
Without the slightest flinch, wince or hesitation, Ted moved forward, directly
into the path of the bullet and the open maw of the pistol.  From as close as
they were, the gun sounded like a cannon had gone off in their faces.  It
looked like one too.

The bullet
penetrated Ted's right shoulder and exploded out the back in a spray of red mist. 
Erik was horrified to see the dark hole open as the bullet exited, as if in
slow motion, then watch as the torn flesh of Ted's shoulder closed back up
slightly.  He could swear he saw what looked like ripples on a pond radiate
from the wound through the thick muscles of Ted's shoulder.

He had no
time to react to his friend being shot, however.  Ted was already on the man
who shot him, the sergeant's knife plunged deep to the hilt in the attackers
chest with a satisfying sound.  The force of the impact stopped the attacker on
a dime.  He dropped to the ground in a heap, his heart sliced almost in two by
the expert killer Erik had come to know as a friend. 

He's right
handed,
flashed through Erik's head. 
Ted just walked through a bullet and cut that
guy's heart out with one slice of his
left
hand.  Like a walk in the
park.  Ho-leeeey
shit
.  That is one scary dude.
  Erik's mind did not
even register that he had fallen over in surprise and was sitting on his duff
while the Marine stood over the crumpled body of their assailant.

The M-4,
still clutched in Ted's now bloody right hand, was unused.  He casually bent
down, jerked the knife free and cleaned it on the twitching body, then handed
it back, handle first to the driver.

"Recon,"
was all Ted said as he walked past.

The
sergeant blinked.  The contest was over.  Game, set, match: Marine. 
"Hooah," he said quietly.

"My
God!" gasped the Ell-Tee.  She dove into the vehicle's first aid kit and
set to work on Ted's shoulder.  "You need to sit down...you're
bleeding."

Ted looked
at her, his face like granite.  "I've had worse, ma'am.  Just patch me
up.  My wife and kids are in there.  Your men said it's clear."  He jerked
his head towards Erik, who only now though to pick himself up off the asphalt
where he had fallen over backwards during the surprise attack.  "We're
going to get our families."  It wasn't a request.

Ted's
mention of their families cast the butterflies in Erik's stomach to a sudden,
fiery death.  Fear was replaced by a white hot, seething anger that had been
glowing in the back of his mind and suddenly burst into an explosion of rage. 

Someone had
attacked their home.  They were gone not even 36 hours and someone had
attacked.  Erik was beyond furious.  All the preparations he had made, the
training, the sweat, the work of drilling movements into his men.  All of that
predicated on the thought that he would
be
here when things went south. 
And of all the hours and days to choose from, they attacked while he was
absent.  Brin faced God only knew what...by herself.

He mentally
shook his head to clear his thoughts and focus the anger to a needle sharp
point.  His only remaining thought was to get to Brin.  He reached inside the
cab of the Humvee and hefted a spare rifle.

Ted raised
an eyebrow as the medic applied some anti-biotic cream and sprinkled clotting
powder in the wound then bandaged his shoulder.  She had cut away his right
sleeve to expose the wound better.

“Sorry,”
she said and tightened the bandage.  “This is all we got left after picking up
all the boys you brought in.  We’ll get you patched up proper when we get back
to base.”