Power Games: Operation Enduring Unity I

by R A Peters

  Had the truck’s gunner simply snatched his backup rifle he would have easily finished off the exposed and unprotected sergeant major. In the heat of the moment, he took the time to swivel the turret ring around, hoping to perforate this asshole with his M240 machine gun. Brown dashed forward and below that limited plane the machine gun’s spindle could depress. He shoved his rifle through the open driver’s door and into the standing gunner’s crotch. The man above scrambled to navigate the weird angle of shooting straight down with his M4 when this psychopath shot his nuts off.

  Brown captured himself a Humvee and gun all right, but what a Pyrrhic victory. Before he could clamber into the turret the other guardsmen opened up on him. They knew full well both their compatriots were dead, and they weren’t about to let that go. Brown took cover behind the armored Humvee while hundreds of rounds gradually chewed it apart. He fired blindly around the fender from time to time, but more as a “screw you” than resistance.

  It was a good 10-yard dash to cover. No doubt about it, he’d gotten himself thoroughly pinned. Like an amateur, he let his passion control his actions. Only a matter of time until they flanked him and taught him a final lesson. Hell, exposed as he was, they only had to move a few dozen yards to get a better firing angle. All his extra gear sat uselessly back in his pickup truck. He counted the rounds in his last magazine. Not much he could do about that now.

  Brown half-sat on the steel bumper and wiped some blood from his face. His or someone else’s? Doesn’t matter. Stay focused. He gurgled piss warm water from the nipple of his Camelback, wishing he never quit smoking. The shooting around him picked up.

  Suppressive fire. The enemy was on the move. Maybe he could see them coming and take one or two more with him. “Fuck it.” They say your status in hell is judged by the size of your entourage. He aimed to be a bigwig when he got there.

  The whole time the sergeant major played Rambo, the smoke pouring out of the bus only increased. The tear gas canisters he accidentally triggered in the slaughter fest were part of that, but not all. The cloud was too dark. Those nonlethal devices created a fire in the cabin, as they so often do when used in confined quarters. Now, that small fire shouldn’t have been such a big deal. There wasn’t so much combustible material in there to begin with.

  Sadly, there were plenty of combustible fumes pouring in from the ruptured fuel tank. Not all of that shot went straight through the target. They ricocheted all over the place. This, as well, shouldn’t have been a problem. The gas was diesel after all and not flammable…at room temperature. After being heated for five minutes by the fire though, things got considerably more dangerous.

  When the bus finally exploded, Brown’s heart stopped, but his legs didn’t. He took maximum advantage of that brief opportunity when the soldiers thought they were being attacked from the rear. He dashed 10 yards to the nearest lot, vaulted over the low fence with one hand and got out of sight without a single shot following.

  Brown paused long enough to take in his men, trapped in the locked prison transport, burn alive. Downwind of the inferno, the soul-killing stench of burning hair and oily flesh consumed him. In his long career, he’d seen some shit, but nothing like this.

  He checked the rifle’s magazine while his stomach lurched. Seven rounds left. What could he do? The hardest thing Brown had ever done in his life was turn his back right then. It wouldn’t do his boys any good for him to get captured. Well, nothing would do them any good now. His legs were cement, his joints rusted, but he kept on pushing. He ran until clearly out of danger and then kept going. The adrenaline kept the pain at bay better than any pill.

  To say anger propelled John Brown was wrong. The burning heat inside him could not be expressed in words, but it could be expressed in action. No mere man escaped from the scene. That was a nuclear bomb running loose in America.

  *

  The suggestion by some investigators that a lone wolf attacked the convoy was considered nonsense, at best. Others saw it as a blatant cover up. A single assailant didn’t kill nine armed policemen and soldiers and then murder all the prisoners. Obviously, the rebels slaughtered these defenseless detainees to send a message to the president. One congressman after another promised that such atrocities would not go unpunished.

  For their part, no one in Florida’s command structure knew what the hell to make of the massacre. Why would the president send in a Special Forces rescue team after the prisoners were being turned over? There was only one possible explanation. The president must want to send a strong message that he didn’t need to negotiate, because he could just take what he wanted.

  To the opposition leaders that was proof enough he’d gone way beyond political posturing. Full-blown dictator mode. The president, or at least his followers, truly wanted to seize permanent power. It terrified Dimone and his cohorts. When they realized that the great big game just got real…well, they were tempted to throw in the towel. They probably would have too, if they had lived in a world immune to public opinion.

  If the speed of headline events had been pushing them along too fast before, after the massacre the train went totally off the rails. That simple initial press release from some clueless Florida bureaucrat stating that 30 federal soldiers perished during a routine prison transfer could not have been more inflammatory.

  Since there were no reporters there to speculate on things, the facts of the attack were gathered quickly and leaked even faster. Everyone received the same information without spin. Unfortunately, the facts alone don’t always lead to the truth.

  State officials were reluctant, at first, to admit they had tried to give the men back. Who wanted to appear weak when things were coming apart? That tightlipped strategy was all the proof that the pro-Fed media needed to run wild. For their part, the Federal Government’s contradictory statements and general confusion as to what the hell was going on proved their culpability in the bloodbath.

  While everyone blamed everyone else, only one thing was clear: assassinations and atrocities were just the beginning. Fewer people cared every day who became president. The big national debate was over how to get revenge. How to change the system to keep this craziness from ever happening again came in second, but who should be president? Who cares!

  Americans aren’t quick to collective anger, but once they’ve committed to something, they are unshakable. They must see it through to its dreadful end.

  Atlanta, Georgia

  14 February: 1130

  “Brothers and sisters, this isn’t a matter of politics. This isn’t some squabble over legal technicalities or any other mundane human affair. This is a matter of good versus evil. As believers and as Americans, we don’t serve any one man. We serve the Lord of Righteousness. God is our master and liberty our reward. Sadly, in these dark days, God is ignored and freedom threatened. Are we to sit idly by while the Forces of Darkness consume our great land?”

  The well-known preacher was in top form and not even warmed up yet. His “aw-shucks” demeanor wasn’t intended to hide his oratory mastery, but accentuate it. From his tone to the practiced pacing and power gestures, he kept the congregation hanging off every word. Whether they bought into his rhetoric or not, no one could just simply ignore him.

  “What would have happened if Moses, or Thomas Jefferson, had just thrown up their hands? If they had said, ‘I’m not the political type. I don’t want to get involved. It’s not my fight.’ My dear friends, I haven’t seen such a worthy fight in all my life! Not since the days of the Apostle Matthew has the light of Truth been in such jeopardy! The wolf is at the door. The devil is trying to extinguish this world’s last flame of freedom with the cold, dark waters of tyranny!”

  He shifted focus away from his congregation of 2,000 and towards the cameras reaching out to a million more. His tone softened. “I’m not saying that that man in the White House is necessarily the anti-Christ, as foretold in Revelations. He may be just laying the groundwork. An unwitting agent of the Prince of Darkness.
I don’t know; the devil has not yet revealed his self. What he has made clear, however, is his ultimate purpose.” He carefully built up righteous fervor.

  “In order to begin their reign of hell the forces of evil must destroy the only nation standing in the way! Not since the time of jack-booted Nazis have we been so close to the abyss. With ‘wars and rumors of wars’ abounding, you could argue that we are indeed approaching the End of Days, but why? Why, I ask you, must it be so? God warned us about these End Times, not to scare us, but so that we might fight for Him! That we might make ready and avoid this great calamity.” Perfectly timed tears welled in his kind eyes.

  “I hope, nay, I must believe that my beloved America, God’s great gift of freedom and righteousness to mankind, cannot be beyond redemption. That we will not go easily into that dark night! That we will honor the memory of our forefathers that stood up to the last king America had and cried out in one loud voice: Give me liberty or give me death!” He stabbed that black Bible into the air like a sword.

  “Whether you are saved or not doesn’t enter the question here. Even a non-believer can love freedom. However, as Christians, we have a special commandment from our Lord to defend liberty. The only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good people to stand idly by. Will you do nothing? Fathers, look at your families. Mothers, look at your children. Do you think the gathering clouds will storm somewhere else? Do you really believe the Devil, or the ordinary variety of opportunistic evil men always following him around, will just leave you alone? That your loved ones will be magically safe? That they will take everyone else’s freedom but yours?!”

  His tightly controlled showmanship slipped with the raw passion in his voice. Even his long serving camera crew in the sound booth were taken aback by his genuine angst. The display of human weakness only heightened the effect of his words. No one minded how far he deviated from any widely accepted religious doctrine.

  “But, my brave brothers and sisters in faith, we are not alone. Nay, the Lord of Hosts is on our side. He promises to protect anyone who will believe in and stand with Him with all the righteous fire of Heaven! We can and we must drive the forces of evil and corruption back to the depths of Hell where they came from. He will carry the battle for us; we need only have the courage and the faith to stand with our God! From Genesis to Revelations, the Bible has always had a clear message: good can triumph over evil, if only the good will act!”

  The standing applause was far from universal. Several parishioners wordlessly slipped out. Some stormed out more dramatically and still others passionately argued with the person next to them. The fierce ovation and screams of “Amen” and “Hallelujah” from the majority drowned out those dissenters. The preacher took the time to catch his breath and compose himself. He gave that trademarked humble grin.

  “I can see I’m preaching to the faithful here! So, you’re probably wondering what, exactly, should I do? Well that, you warriors of Christ, is a personal matter between you and God. He calls each to serve in different ways. Pray on it. Search your souls and accept His calling, even if that doesn’t fit with what you want to do.” His fatherly tone turned more thoughtful.

  “Some are simply refusing to pay their income taxes, refusing to help finance evil. It’s a small, but powerful and growing movement. Others, like those brave stalwarts of freedom in Florida, believe now is the time to take up arms directly against tyranny. The movement out west to cut out the cancer of corruption and form a new government grows stronger every day. Which is the most effective method? I’m not sure. I just know God works in mysterious ways. Fact is, anyone resisting the enemy of Justice and Liberty, in even a small way, is my brother or sister and worthy of my respect.”

  He paused, eyes closed, and nodded at the ceiling.

  “What the Lord has made clear is that the time for wailing and gnashing of teeth has past. It is time to gird ourselves with the righteousness of God in faith and seek battle with the foes of Light. As Christians and as Americans we owe it to our God, our forefathers and, most importantly, to our children. One day, my not yet born grandchildren will ask me, ‘Grandfather, what did you do during the Second American Revolution?’ And I’ll proudly look them in the eyes and say, ‘I’m why it’s called a revolution and not Armageddon!’ ”

  This wasn’t the only preacher, priest, rabbi, mullah or “guru” proselytizing against the government. Across the country, thousands invoked similar messages, even if to smaller congregations and without television coverage. However, since this was America, no consensus opinion could be found. For every religious leader speaking out against the government, another passionately called for a vigorous defense of democracy. Those few calling for peace and moderation were, in the eyes of friend and foe alike, supporting the government.

  Even the Pope’s numerous addresses for peaceful dialogue and vague pleading that both sides respect the rule of law and democratic processes were considered provocative. Naturally, each side read between the lines and found what they believed in his words. Pro-government sects hyped his “support” and the American Roman Catholic church, already at sharp odds with the president over his previous political stances, were deeply offended. Before too long they would finally follow through with their years of threats and officially break with the Church.

  Whatever each side called it– a war for freedom against tyranny, protection from anarchy, justice for a thousand different sins or plain old fashioned devil fighting– the one common theme among them all was that this war…would be a holy war.

  Chapter 6

  Northeast Florida

  15 February: 1000

  Reni’s Redneck Yacht Club on the St. Marys River might have made great barbecue, but they made a poor Checkpoint Charlie. The military standoff over the Hwy 17 bridge on the Georgia/Florida border should have been hilarious… and not so goddamn scary.

  When the last federal employee angrily crossed the border, a National Guard Humvee followed behind them and blocked the bridge. The gunner, with all seriousness, pointed his .50 Cal machine gun at a federal M2 Bradley on the far bank. From a distance, he looked full of deadly resolve.

  The only resolve he held, as he stood there shaking in fear, was to abandon his weapon and dive into the water below if the Feds moved so much as one inch forward. This crap was insane! He wasn’t about to piss his life away over some publicity stunt.

  *

  Jessica and her cameraman stood in the middle of the bridge, pretending the hate-filled glances from both sides were directed at each other, and not them.

  “Damn, there’s nothing more exposed than being in the middle, huh?” The cameraman just spun around in a slow arc.

  “Who cares? This is a friggin’ amazing! We’re the only crew around. Don’t worry, Jes, I won’t forget you when I’m rich and famous.”

  He stopped his panning and zoomed in on the soldiers, weaving a story in film more powerful than anything Jessica could write. Despite the violence and rhetoric, so many Americans still viewed the whole “Florida crisis” as one great big joke.

  At least, before he and Jessica arrived on the scene. Across the country, the stunning video of resolute soldiers squaring off across no-man’s-land raised long-forgotten ghosts in the older generation.

  The footage even roiled up most of the disconnected youthful skeptics. An entire generation that didn’t remember the passions and stakes of the Cold War had no personal frame of reference for this new danger. In many ways, that left them more susceptible to the propaganda from both sides. They lacked the anti-rhetoric inoculations the older generation spent many terrifying years accumulating.

  Which was a shame, because it wouldn’t be the middle-aged called upon to settle this issue on the battlefield. One thing truly hadn’t changed over the years. Despite all the hi-tech toys, war was still about old men talking and young people dying.

  Perhaps things wouldn’t get so bad. Within moments of Jessica’s latest “frontline” report, millions of people rus
hed to Google who their congressperson was for the first time. Most House members’ websites were shut down within seconds by what amounted to a denial of service attack. The DC branch Post Office would have to rent a warehouse for the overflow snail mail. Those slightly better connected or better at research kept an army of temp workers trapped on the phones for days.

  This sudden resurgence of civil participation in the political process didn’t help the situation. The US House of Representatives weren’t famous for their moral courage or strong leadership to begin with. The shocks from the last few months were way too much for those poor lawyers. In their entire careers, nothing had ever really been expected of them, but now people were demanding bold, genuine leadership. This was sure as hell not what they signed up for.

  Jessica cleared her throat and steadied herself as the cameraman focused on her.

  “This is Jessica Sinclair, coming to you live from the funeral of democracy…”

  Her producer ran up and slashed a hand across his throat. He covered his phone, but kept it to his ear. “You’re getting preempted. We’ll have to wait and see what position the chief editor wants to take on this new development.”

  “What development? We’re about to roast the president over the fire here. Shake up the country! What could be a bigger story than that?”

  The producer winked. “Believe me; I just saved your ass. Take a look.” He switched his phone over to CSPAN, of all places. For the first time in history, this special joint session of Congress was far from dull.

  Between the reluctant recall of Florida’s 27-member congressional delegation and the untimely death of Scott and Pierce, their two most crucial leaders, the House was in an incredible state of disarray, to put it mildly. Jessica’s report was merely the straw that crushed the camel’s back. Congress had teetered on the edge for weeks. Most of the special interests already rerouted their river of lobbying cash to flood state legislatures and various “grassroots, community based organizations.” Which was such a sweet term that ignored the armed nature of these civic-minded citizens.