Maybe there is some justice in this world, Nixon thought as he patted the God Card in his pocket.
CHAPTER 21
ORLANDO, FL
“That’s just the way: a person does a low-down thing, and then he don’t want to take no consequences of it. Thinks as long as he can hide it, it ain’t no disgrace.”
— Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
AS THE NEXT FEW WEEKS rolled by, several convoys had been destroyed and scores of agents had been killed. Nixon’s attempts to catch the elusive rebels had been an utter failure. Hitting the insurgent’s camps only worked when they stayed still, but they were constantly moving. Whenever Nixon’s men raided a suspected site, they found it abandoned and often booby-trapped. He’d lost four men so far to sophisticated explosives, and he’d failed to kill more than a handful of the enemy. Now, Nixon was in Bedford’s office, trying to explain his lack of success. Drosky was stationed by the director’s door and had the satisfaction of listening to Bedford’s screams and roars of fury at Nixon’failures.
Drosky looked over at a pretty secretary who now occupied a desk in Bedford’s waiting area. She was a young, well-endowed Latina from Miami who barely spoke English. Her only responsibility seemed to be occasional private visits to Bedford’s office where he would “dictate memos,” although these supposed directives never seemed to materialize to the rest of the world.
As one particularly vile curse found its way through the thick walls, Drosky nodded to the girl, getting a seductive smile in reply.
A moment later, the director’s door was flung open as Bedford threw a final, profanity laced command at the cowering agent.
“You get this under control, Nixon. If you don’t, I’ll have you buried so deep you’ll be fertilizing the rice paddies in China. Do you understand me?”
“Yes sir. I’ll get it done.”
Bedford slammed the door, leaving Nixon at the mercy of Drosky’s sharp tongue.
“That went well,” Drosky deadpanned. “You guys having a beer after work?”
Nixon’s eyes flared, his fists clenching as he attempted to control his rage. The agent placed his beret back on his head, completing his self-created uniform. The black ninja outfit would have been comical if it weren’t for the fact that Nixon had earned the right to wear it. His counter-insurgency efforts had resulted in hundreds of deaths in Miami, although his efforts so far in Orlando had been less than stellar.
“Just warming up”, Nixon said as he brushed past.
Their eyes locked, neither man backing down.
As the agent passed Drosky, he turned and made a gun out of his thumb and fingers. Pointing it as John, he depressed his thumb like a pistol hammer strike.
“Bang! See you next time, Drosky.” Nixon said with a smile, before turning to leave the director’s reception room.
As he opened the room’s outer door, something thudded into the wall next to his head. Turning to his right, the smug agent staggered back as he saw the blade of a Ka-Bar knife buried in the drywall about a foot away.
Drosky approached the trembling man, grabbed the knife’s handle, and pulled. He removed the blade from the wall and sheathed it in one smooth motion. He returned to his post and stood calmly by the door. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched Nixon gather himself and quickly leave the room. A smile creased Drosky’s face as he noticed a wet stain on the front of Nixon’s pants.
“I think he is going to change his clothes,” the secretary said with a grin, in broken English.
“Yeah, I think he is.”
Just then, the speaker on the woman’s desk came alive. “Lucia, please come in here. And bring your pen and pad.”
They both knew what that meant, another “private” session with the fat DHS director.
With a sigh, the girl got up from her chair and adjusted her form-fitting pencil skirt. She primped her white silk blouse and checked her face with a compact makeup mirror. She looked up at John with a brave but defeated smile and walked to the closed door.
“I’m sorry,” Drosky murmured.
The girl stopped and gave Drosky a look. “I’m free tonight,” she said.
“I’m not.” John simply replied.
The secretary took a breath and entered the room. If experience was any guide, she’d be back soon. Their boss wasn’t one to take long at anything he did.
***
Nixon scurried out of the director’s office. The knife had been inches from punching through the back of his head. More than the act itself, it frightened him that he hadn’t seen Drosky as such a threat. He’d have to re-evaluate the situation and determine the best way to get rid of him.
Nixon put that problem away because he had bigger fish to fry. Bedford had put him in charge of crushing the budding insurgency, but his efforts had been a total failure so far. What had started out as a twenty-five-man strike force had been reduced to nineteen by the insurgents. The tactics he had used in Miami were inadequate in this city. The insurgents were more organized, better trained, and seemed to anticipate his moves. His efforts so far had been a failure.
To make matters worse, another column of supplies had been raided, leaving Bedford with a shortage of both men and machines. The AT4s stolen in the first raids were being used with great effect when the rebels took out the lead and rear elements of the convoy, trapping the remaining vehicles in between. Crossing lanes of fire from pre-placed firing positions had decimated the column, resulting in the deaths over fifty more agents and loss or theft of tons of food and weapons. If this continued, it wouldn’t be long before the insurgents would be better armed than the government.
“Take us home,” Nixon said to his driver.
He leaned back in his seat and tried to come up with a plan. He had to think out of the box, and he had to do it quickly. Nixon had no doubt that if he didn’t produce results soon, he would not live to see end of summer.
When they arrived at the hotel, Nixon walked into the wing of the resort that his group had occupied. Doors were left open and the sounds of video games and movies were flooding the hall. Even the moans of passion from one of the rooms failed to distract the agent as he walked down the hallway, pondering his next move. Approaching his own suite, he noted the sound of a movie he had seen before. It was a science-fiction flick about an interstellar crew of rebels that were fighting a future government. In an attempt to capture the rebels, the government killed all the people that had worked with them over the years.
He suddenly remembered a line from the movie, and his next move crystalized in his brain.
“That’s it!” Nixon said, remembering the quote. “If your quarry goes to ground, leave no ground to go to!”
***
Lieutenant Ferraro was tired of the heat. Since moving to Orlando from Fort Knox, he’d been doing nothing but putting out fires between the military and their DHS friends.
Now, a third column of supplies had been destroyed and Bedford was complaining that it would be almost a month before another shipment could be arranged. The DHS director was infuriating—and more importantly, he was a corrupt and incompetent man. Rumors of graft and prostitution were rampant, and the airport was awash with “dignitaries” from Washington, D.C., as they brought their families and mistresses to the costal resorts DHS had impounded.
Ferraro’s family was quartered in one of the city’s central apartment buildings. They occupied a two-bedroom unit on the top floor of one of three federally built, four-story buildings. The square structures were painted in muted pastels and reeked of government design, with no esthetic qualities to the complex.
His wife had been reluctant to move, but his position as liaison put him at the top of Orlando’s military food chain. The perks of command were now available for his family, which changed his wife’s attitude about the move. At least that problem had been solved as she flitted about with visiting high-ranking official’s spouses, enjoying the Grand Cypress resort and even taking the kids to West Pa
lm Beach for a weekend.
But for Ferraro, the problems of command never ended, so he decided to wander about in thought, clearing his mind in anticipation of the coming day. Walking in the early morning heat was oppressive, especially compared to the cool, fresh summer air he’d left back in Kentucky. But the eighty-degree morning temperature was downright frigid compared to the expected afternoon high of ninety-six. And he didn’t even want to think about the humidity, the kind that made his uniform damp and thick with hot, sticky moisture. So walking now was about the only time he’d be able to enjoy a quiet stroll, even though he’d likely be drenched in sweat by the time he got to his office.
Ferraro passed by the tower where many of the DHS agents lived. The front of the structure was always a beehive of activity as the men and women scurried back and forth between their new home and DHS headquarters just a few blocks away. He stopped and watched as people in uniform entered and left the building. Groups stood in the plaza in front of the building, and the roads were devoid of vehicles, used now as pedestrian walkways. In fact, several square blocks of the area were free of any traffic other than foot. It was nice to see people engaging in normal activities even though they were all federal agents and not average citizens.
Well, it’s a start, he thought.
Instead of taking his normal morning path, Ferraro decided to continue down the road, moving beyond the tall building. The center of the city was returning to normal, at least in this limited area.
Generators weren’t needed in town other than as backups now that the area was being fed by the Stanton Energy Center. The electric plant east of town was getting limited a limited supply of coal that was being brought in by train from West Virginia. After losing several shipments to bandits, DHS had begun providing on-board security for the trip. The reliable deliveries allowed a steady stream of electricity to be generated.
To bring power back to the center of town, the feeder lines into the city had to be verified as safe, and all power to uninspected buildings had to be cut off. If they had simply pulled the switch to feed the entire area, a deteriorating electric box or simply an oven or stove that had been left on could ignite a house fire that would rage out of control. It took months for the technicians to clear and certify the buildings before power could be reinstituted.
Suddenly, the nearby generators to the tower kicked in, deafening the lieutenant and forcing him to cover his ears.
Damn, he thought. Someone must have taken out another transformer.
One of their biggest problems now was the citizens of the city that hadn’t complied with the government’s orders to report to a relocation camp. These survivors lived on the scraps in the areas outside of downtown, and their wrath at the government seemed to know no bounds. Since the electricity was reestablished a few weeks ago, power interruptions had become a daily part of their lives. Ferraro didn’t have a problem with people choosing to stay home and make a go of it. In some ways, he was impressed with those that had survived so far. But their vindictiveness in shooting out the newly installed transformers, just to make the government center lose power, angered him. If they chose to live like that, fine. But don’t hurt those that are here to help. At least, that’s the way he thought of it.
“I need some help here!” Ferraro heard someone shouting from behind one of the generators that were attached to the tower.
The lieutenant jogged toward the sound of the voice and found a technician struggling with an access panel that was askew and in danger of falling. The man was holding the massive plate of metal as diesel squirted out of a hose that ran from an adjacent fuel truck.
“Grab this while I shut off the pump!”
Ferraro took the technician’s place and kept the panel from twisting free. One of the hinges had broken when the mechanic had opened it, and it was in danger of ripping the other hinge off if he let it drop. Moments later, the generator shut down, and the fuel stopped hemorrhaging onto the concrete pad.
“Thanks,” the man said. “Ever since we got electric, these engines have been turned on and off almost every day.”
The two men positioned the metal plate back in place and twisted the access panel’s handle to lock it.
“These things were made to run without shutting down,” he continued. “Every time we have to restart them, there’s a specific procedure that needs to be followed. If I’m not here, the idiots inside just come out and flip the switch. Next thing you know, something goes wrong and I’m out here fixing their stupidity.”
“I know the feeling,” Ferraro said with a smile. “If people just followed the rules, we’d have a lot fewer problems.”
“Amen, brother.”
The technician grabbed his toolbox and hustled back into the bowels of the building, leaving Ferraro next to the silent machine. As the lieutenant turned to leave, he glanced at the panel one more time and something caught his eye. He leaned in and examined the writing on the side of the generator. Specifically, at its serial number: MAR49304Y.
Jesus! Could it be?
Several weeks ago, he’d received a memo from Kuris with a list of generator serial numbers and a command to report back to the captain if they were found. Ferraro had handed the order off to DHS. Since they installed the generators and did maintenance on all their equipment, he had asked them to check their records and let him know if these units were here. They never got back to him.
Without any explanation as to why those generators were to be found, Ferraro had let the matter go and went on with his assigned duties. Now, looking at the serial number, he got a sinking feeling that DHS might have let him down. He’d remembered the code because his daughter’s name was Mary, and those letters were in several of the serial numbers. Ferraro wrote the number down and retreated to his office.
“Sergeant,” he said as he entered. “Where is that list of serial numbers from Fort Knox?”
The aide opened a cabinet and retrieved the list. Ferraro took the paper and sat at his desk. It didn’t take him long to discover that the number on the list and the one on the generator downtown were the same.
“Get Captain Kuris on the satellite phone,” Ferraro commanded.
A few moments later, his aide brought the phone into Ferraro’s office and handed it to the lieutenant.
“Ferraro, here,” he said into the device.
“Hi, Lieutenant. How’s Orlando treating you and your family?”
“Very good, sir. Thank you for asking.”
“That’s good. What can I do for you?”
“Sir, it’s about that list of generators you were asking about.”
The phone went silent, and Ferraro thought they’d lost their connection.
“Sir, are you still there?”
“Yes. Yes, Lieutenant. I’m here.”
“I found one of the generators. I don’t know if there are any more here. I directed DHS to review their records and report back to me if they found any of the serial numbers in their files. They hadn’t reported back, but I ran across one of them attached to a high-rise here in town.”
There was another long pause. “Lieutenant, I’m going to get back to you. Does anyone else know what you’ve found?”
“Just my aide, sir.”
“You two keep this quiet. That’s an order. I’ll get back to you by the end of the day to give you further orders.”
“Yes sir,” Ferraro said with hesitation. “Can I ask, is this important? If I can be blunt, sir, you sound a bit off.”
“Yeah, Lieutenant. I’m a bit off,” Kuris replied. “I’m going to tell you a story, and you will not repeat it unless I say so. Is that understood?”
“Yes sir,” Ferraro replied. “I understand.”
Ten minutes later, Ferraro handed the phone back to his aide in the office’s reception room.
“Sergeant, you are not to mention anything about this serial number or my phone call to anyone. Is that understood?”
“Yes sir,” the sergeant said, but there w
as doubt in his eyes. “Is there something going on?”
Ferraro smiled grimly. “The wrath of God himself is coming to Orlando, and we’re about to see it for ourselves.”
CHAPTER 22
ORLANDO, FL
A FEW WEEKS LATER, THE GULFSTREAM C-20b rolled to a stop outside the maintenance hangar. Lieutenant Ferraro stood attentively outside the aircraft along with four armed soldiers as the door to the jet dropped down, allowing a ten-step ladder to extend to the ground.
Captain Kuris stood in the opening and nodded to the lieutenant. Moments later, General Lester appeared and strode down the extended stairs.
The four guards turned away from the arriving dignitaries, their battle rifles at low ready as they scanned their designated fields of fire for signs of danger. Lieutenant Ferraro approached the steps and stopped ten feet short. Snapping to attention, he threw up his best salute.
Lester, recognizing his former aide, returned the salute. Ferraro dropped his arm to his side, but before he could say a word of welcome, Lester reached out and shook his hand.
“Ferraro, good to see you.”
“Y-yes sir,” Ferraro stammered. “Thank you.”
“You’ve done a great job here. I won’t forget it.”
“Thank you, sir. But I would recommend we get moving as soon as possible. It’s dangerous to linger here.”
“Lead the way, Lieutenant.”
The general, Kuris, and Ferraro strode to a waiting Stryker, its outer hull reinforced by sandbags. A 50-caliber M2 was manned on the top. The rear door was down, creating a ramp, and the men walked at a hunch and then took seats along the mobile infantry carrier’s bench seats. As the armored eight-wheeled vehicle began to roll, the general turned to Ferraro.
“A Stryker? Is it that bad?”
“It can be, sir. DHS has lost control of parts of the city. It’s in my report.”
“Yes, I read it. I thought that the route from the airport was secure?”
Charlie's Requiem: Resistance Page 19