by G. R. Carter
There was plenty of security on the ground levels, mostly made up of untrained and wounded. A Raptor team flying over the previous day reported sandbag stations on each street corner around the town square. A few lightly armed Humvees patrolled the downtown streets surrounding the area. Their other option for finding Walsh was the old Carnegie Library, a building with similar construction to the courthouse. But both Warren and Fredericks agreed that the best chance to find Walsh was here, in the grandest building of his new capital city.
The teams padded down the walkway, each approaching the last door simultaneously. Fredericks felt his own heart pounding and he tried to steady his breathing. Tripp’s team flattened themselves against the wall, and in the dim light emanating from a cook fire on the ground floor below he could see his old friend’s face lift in a predator’s smile. He nodded deeply so Tripp could see, and then watched a hand reach over and turn the door knob and gently push it open. The first man of Frederick’s team approached the opening with his weapon raised, scanning back and forth.
As quickly as he stepped in, a gun blast roared and the man he flew back out like a parachute was dragging him from behind. No one watched the stricken man land, with each team quickly entering the doorway, crouching and moving to the sides. Another roar and Fredericks found himself temporarily blinded from the blast. He couldn’t tell if anyone else was hit, but waited a moment while his vision cleared. He heard the muffled pfft of an assault rifle, and heard a man screaming “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot! I’m a doctor!” Then another sharp shout of pain followed by silence.
“Hank secure the door!” Fredericks shouted. No reason to be subtle or silent now, the shotgun blasts would bring every Gray for a three-block radius.
Fredericks then turned to the interior office door in front of him. As if anticipating his next move, another shotgun blast tore through the door, scattering pellets throughout the room. Another yelp of pain and one of his team writhed on the floor in agony.
“Walsh, it’s Martin Fredericks. Throw down that gun or I’m going to end you!”
“You can’t end me, traitor. You don’t have the guts to come in here and fight me. That’s why you ran the last time, and that’s why you’ll try to run again. Except this time you’ll die like the dog you are,” a raspy voice spit back.
Fredericks took a split second to think. Another blast roared, this time appearing to have no specific target. Pellets ripped a bulletin board hanging on the wall next to the door, and everyone instinctively flinched. “Gotta go quick, Commander,” Zach Stevens said as he crouched behind.
Fredericks nodded and began to crawl on his stomach towards the door. A smoke canister popped and fizzed as it sailed over his head. Another roar answered the toss, and Fredericks heard a crumpled thud behind him. He began to crawl as fast as he could over the cold stone floor. Pulling his legs behind him and trying to keep his weapon ready, Fredericks felt his heart rate and breathing skyrocket.
He finally sprung to his feet, weapon pointed at the bed where he thought Walsh lay. Cold chills ran down his spine as he heard a shotgun rack, the distinctive sound that almost every human ear instinctively recognized as coiled death.
“Thought you could fool me again, right, Captain?” Walsh asked, using Frederick’s former rank in the American Army.
Fredericks froze, hands gripped on his weapon. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a frail man sitting in a bedside chair. The low light gleamed off of a scatter gun sitting in his lap. Without turning to face the threat he said, “We did, Walsh. Several times. Killing me won’t change the fact that your reign as dictator is over.”
A voice from outside the room shouted, “Commander Fredericks, is Walsh secured? Maggie is talking to the Grays who came up to find out what was going on.”
“Maggie?” Fredericks heard Walsh’s voice question. “Maggie Kemble is here?”
“Yes, Walsh, she is. She’s here to take over your place until America can have real elections. You’re done…over. Try to regain some of the dignity you once had. We can help you get sobered up and you can still do some good. Help me end this war! We can work together to fight the real enemy,” Fredericks pleaded.
He could hear Walsh begin to sob, losing control of his emotions. “Why? Why would Maggie turn on me, too? Does loyalty mean nothing now?”
Fredericks seldom felt real fear, a gift few humans possessed. Now that changed. He had planned on reasoning with the Walsh he once knew. A misguided man who must still have some of the love for his troops, who would recognize continuing the war now would mean senseless death. No honor, no glory, no greater good, just horrific death.
But whatever Syn Walsh consumed had robbed him of cognitive thought. Now just raw emotion poured out, meaning truly unpredictable behavior.
“Come on, Walsh, drop the gun. Let’s figure this out together,” Fredericks pleaded as he turned to the man.
“That’s Colonel to you, traitor! How dare you come into my capital and order me around! I’ll have you hung for desertion, and then quartered and sent to every corner of the empire to make an example of you!” Walsh screamed as though a spoiled child demanding respect from a parent.
“There is no empire anymore, Walsh. The Republic holds the best half of it and you’re losing more of the other half to the Caliphate every day. End this now so we can figure out a way to keep the Jijis out,” Fredericks said.
“How did it come to this?” Walsh sobbed again. Then a low primal roar and Walsh began to raise the shotgun again.
“Don’t do it!” Fredericks shouted, finally deciding he had no choice but to pull the trigger.
Click was the only sound from his own gun. He reached up to clear the jam, watching the look on Walsh’s face, knowing that he was going to die.
The barrel of the shotgun reached the level of Frederick’s head, then twisted and kept going until it reached Walsh’s chin.
“You can’t remove me from command, Captain Fredericks,” the hollowed-out man spat out. “Only I can.”
Fredericks watched in morbid fascination as the shotgun fired one last time, finally ending Colonel Darrian Walsh’s reign of terror.
*****
Maggie Kemble stood straight and proud on the second-story balcony surrounding the courthouse rotunda. The sun was up, allowing light to filter down from the beautiful glass dome above. Almost two hundred men and women gathered below on the main floor, quizzing one another for details and glancing up at the woman everyone knew to be the face of the New American home front. A few steps behind, the surviving strike force members held their weapons ready, not threatening but clearly dangerous. Each was dressed in the distinctive gray fatigues of a New American soldier, leaving no trace of evidence that this was a Red Hawk operation.
Kemble let the crowd continue to build in anticipation. Fredericks and Tripp stood on opposite sides of the open area, scanning the crowd like birds of prey looking for threats. There was no way to really keep weapons from making it into the crowd, but Maggie insisted on being right here, in front of as many Americans as they could summon. Fifty or five hundred, it didn’t matter. There were too many to fight against if Maggie couldn’t convince them.
Joe Warren made his way up beside Kemble. He glanced over at Fredericks and gave a short, sorrowful shake of his head. The gesture meant that the two men wounded by Walsh during the raid hadn’t made it through the night. Emotionless for now, Fredericks met Tripp’s eyes briefly, and then returned to scanning the throng below.
Finally, Kemble held up her hands to quiet the crowd. She smiled slightly, and Fredericks watched with amazement as the crowd’s excitement drifted from a boil to a simmer.
“I want to thank all of you for giving me a chance to speak,” Kemble began. “I’ve met many of you over the years. For those that don’t know me personally, my name is Margaret Kemble. I have served as the City Administrator of Lincoln City since before we changed the city’s name. I was married to Major Gage Kemble at the time of the Reset
when Major Kemble was second-in-command to Colonel Walsh. I hope you know that the events of last night were painful for all of us and that I wouldn’t be here with you right now if it wasn’t the most important thing I’d ever done.”
Anticipation rippled again then went quiet. She continued: “Colonel Walsh took his own life in his chambers last evening.”
This time the roar of the crowd overcame Kemble’s simple hand raising. Another figure moved up to her left. A tall man with a crew cut gathered his breath and with a shout overtook the entire ensemble of noise echoing off the stone walls, “Attention!”
The echoing of the chamber made the North Carolina accent of Major Tyler Eckert seem more pronounced than ever. “Men and Women of the New American Army! I have examined Colonel Walsh’s body and found what Mrs. Kemble says to be true. Now quiet down so the lady can give us some advice! That’s an order!”
The crowd once more settled to a reasonable sound, complying with their commanding officer’s demand.
“Thank you, Major Eckert,” Kemble began. She breathed a sigh of relief at his forceful control of the Grays below. There had been better than two hours of negotiations between the two after Walsh’s death. The first discussion was Eckert’s restraint at killing them all for what he perceived to be an assassination. The second discussion was for him to cede power to Kemble in the hopes of preventing any more bloodshed.
Eckert realized the dreams of a New American Empire were gone even before Walsh sacrificed the lives of thousands of Legionnaires in his quest to destroy the Red Hawks. Eckert knew the status of the war against the Caliphate and had effectively been running the efforts there. Without providing too many details, it was clear to Fredericks and Tripp that New America’s collapse was really just a matter of time. Eckert was a religious man, though he hid it from the famously anti-religious Walsh. He considered the Red Hawk raid a sign from a higher power…and the only way to prevent the last of his beloved troopers from being killed in a failed effort.
They all agreed on a few basic points during the rushed meeting overnight. The first point Eckert insisted on, that there would be no retaliation from the Red Hawks on any American. Tripp struggled with that at first, then gave in when convinced that most of the Grays responsible for any carnage to the frontier farms were now dead. The second was that, effective immediately, the Republic would help New America defend itself from the Aurorans and the Caliphate. Fredericks promised to try, and he related that he had the backing of Alex to do what was needed to slow the Caliphate advance.
The third was that all Americans got to retain their weapons and their unit status. They would keep the standards and awards given for bravery in service of New America. That hadn’t been discussed by Fredericks and Alex, but the Red Hawk commander didn’t see any immediate issues with that. Alex promised New America would quickly become a full-fledged province of the Republic, so their units would retain cohesion anyway.
As to leadership, Eckert had zero problems with handing the reins to Kemble. The lifelong soldier had no interest in playing politician, and with that weight lifted found renewed energy to defeat the threat from the north. Eckert agreed to send orders to every unit pointing their weapons toward Red Hawk territory to immediately make plans to rally at checkpoints along the northern front.
With a simple handshake, mortal enemies agreed to become allies. Fredericks and Eckert agreed that there would be those who couldn’t make the switch as easily as the leaders had; seven years of bad blood and brainwashing couldn’t be undone overnight. But both also agreed that the troops on the ground were exhausted from years of constant war. Most serving now didn’t even fully understand why the Americans and the Red Hawks began fighting in the first place. Now with a common enemy to fight, perhaps the sins of the past could be healed a bit sooner.
Kemble continued. “I want to assure each of you that Major Eckert and I will do everything we can to see to the safety and wellbeing of your homes and your families. We are declaring an immediate cease-fire with the Red Hawk Republic. They have agreed to halt all offensive operations against American soil, effective immediately.”
Audible sighs of relief surprised Fredericks. Walsh tried to make the Red Hawks out to be the boogie man, an effort that had clearly taken root amongst the younger rank-and-file. Oh well, no need to argue the point as long as they’re not trying to kill us now, he reminded himself.
Cheers broke out when Kemble smiled and said, “All territory currently occupied by the Red Hawk Republic will be place back under our administration, with relief food and fuel shipments to begin immediately.” Fredericks sensed Tripp shift slightly in his stance, clearly irritated at the thought.
“I want to say one other thing about that. The Red Hawks have also agreed to start flying air support missions against Caliphate and Auroran targets starting within the next week. Major Eckert will be coordinating with the Lead Centurions to provide a list of priority targets. Please meet with him immediately after we’re done here,” Kemble commanded.
“All right, my fellow Americans. We’re going to get through this together. There’s no sugar-coating the fact that we’ve had some setbacks, especially over the last year,” Kemble said with a gentler tone. “A few of you may be disappointed with the decision, but with Major Eckert’s agreement I will be taking over administration of New America. I understand your concern. He will retain field command of our forces, but I will be calling the shots on the ground here and in the occupied territories. At least until free and fair elections can be held.”
Kemble glanced over and nodded at Fredericks and then at Tripp. She would need their help in whatever came next. They seemed to share a common hope that now they could begin to rebuild. A handshake agreement that the Red Hawks would keep their word to America would have to be enough for now.
Red Hawk Republic
A steady clip-clop pierced the dead silence smothering the main street of Shelbyville, the tree-lined concrete and brick two-lane now renamed Olsen Boulevard. Six immense Belgian draft horses stepped in unison, nodding their heads up and down and tossing their creamy white manes rhythmically. Their light chestnut color reflected the afternoon sun, offsetting the night-black side panels of the hearse but matching its brass trim in brilliance. None of the massive beasts showed any effort pulling the large wagon wheels down the rolling street.
Every foot of the street was occupied by somber men, women and children. Some cried, others waved their broad-brimmed hats or handkerchiefs as soldiers marched solemnly before and after the funeral train. For weeks Sheriff Clark Olsen’s remains had laid in state under the dome of the Red Hawk Republic’s Capitol building. Now the beloved sheriff made his last trip to the beautiful red brick Domicile, itself a small-town Methodist Church before the Unified Church rendered other denominations a part of history.
The walk through the heart of Shelbyville was short, only about three blocks. To accommodate citizens wishing to pay their respects, the procession made a trip down to the western wall where just weeks before Red Hawk defenders had held off invading barbarians in one last desperate stand. Some of the surviving citizen militia and their Guardian canine companions were part of the honor guard making the walk along Olsen’s final trip.
The route circled by the building now serving as barracks for the Silver Shield of the Republic – the building had once been this county’s only hospital – and back to the Domicile again for private memorial services inside. Portable generators whirred outside on the asphalt parking lot next to the Unified Church’s administration building. Hundreds gathered in the former school building’s gymnasium, able to at least hear the church service via a scratchy speaker system patched together by the Wizards.
The hearse finally halted in front of the Domicile. Eight men waited as the back doors swung open and an elaborately decorated casket with a Republic flag draped over the top slowly slid out. The now infamous hawk strike symbol with outstretched talons and spread wings was prominent on the otherwise wh
ite background, and green bars ran parallel on the banner’s top and bottom. Each pallbearer was a member of the Silver Shield, the Founder’s very own unit selected strictly from original Okaw Self Defense Cooperative families. No one besides Phil Hamilton ever received such an honor guard, a fact not lost on the crowd.
After a public ceremony memorializing their bravery, all who died in service to the Republic were granted a private ceremony with a Reverend of the Unified Church before being placed in the Rings of Honor. Concentrically placed rings, each placed further out than the last from a large central monument made up the national cemetery of the Republic. In the innermost ring lay the graves of Phillip Hamilton and his Turtle crew who lost their lives in the first New America invasion along with some of the original members of the Okaw SDC. One spot had been saved over the years since the dedication of this field of honor, and now Clark Olsen would take his place to the right of the Founder himself.
Maryanne Olsen had petitioned Alex to have Clark buried at his home in Tower Hill but that was not to be. The good of the Republic came first, Alex had told her. That good was best served in a place to memorialize those who gave the ultimate sacrifice. Each of the men and women buried in the cemetery had an additional slot directly beside them for a spouse or loved one. Most had yet to be filled; some never would as the surviving spouse recovered and remarried. The post-Reset world was a hard one, and marriages were once again partnerships as much as romantic endeavors. Life moved on but the memories needed to remain. Olsen’s death would be memorialized in Republic myth, and pilgrims needed a place to honor him.