by James Rosone
Roberto chuckled. “Oh, that’s right. I think Peng mentioned something about you to me…you and I met before at a party, didn’t we?”
Seth smiled. “Maybe. I’ve met so many people for Marshall. He has me doing so much these days. I just don’t want him to forget something important, especially as regards men such as yourself that got him elected.”
After taking several long sips of wine, Rob looked at Seth glassy-eyed. “First, Marshall is going to reverse the trade deals with the EU. You have no idea how bad those have been for the European countries, especially Germany and France. Next, he was going to stay out of eastern Europe and let the Russians do what they want with it. Third and last, he’s going to give China preferential pricing and access to American oil and natural gas. He was also going to give Peng a firm fixed price on a host of other trade goods and agriculture products if everyone agrees to help him remove Sachs from office.”
Seth furrowed his brow. “Was that all Peng wanted?”
“Oh, I almost forgot. I think he mentioned something about Taiwan and the South China Sea, but those really aren’t that big of a deal to America. I think those are more political issues to help President Chen maintain his popularity in China,” Rob said, almost as an afterthought.
Seth marveled at how effective a pharmaceutical interrogation could be. Trying to torture that kind of information out of someone was incredibly difficult. Letting a drug do it was far more effective. Still, he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was thankful the interrogation was being recorded because no one would believe what this guy was saying otherwise.
Slipping back into his roleplay, Seth replied, “Ah, that’s right. I think Marshall had mentioned something like this to me a while back. I just wanted to make sure I knew all the parameters of the deal. I think he may have forgotten that last part about the oil and natural gas to China. He said something about that kind of deal to Germany but not China.”
“No, that’s not right,” Roberto asserted. “That deal is for China—not Germany. Peng isn’t a man to be trifled with. Make sure Marshall knows that.” Roberto stuffed another forkful of potatoes into his mouth.
Seth finished his bite, then asked, “What happened in that meeting in Geneva with Foreign Minister Jiang? I heard he got angry and left to return to China.”
Roberto sighed audibly at the mention of Jiang. “There was a big argument between him, the Russians, the French, and Germans. I wasn’t in the meeting myself, but Johann told me it revolved around the other peacekeeping members being angry that the Chinese didn’t invade America when the EU force in the north did. They accused the Chinese of sabotaging the grand plan and put everything in jeopardy. After the meeting, Johann had me call Peng and try to find out what was going on with Jiang. Peng is in tight with President Chen and Minister Jiang.”
Nodding his head, Seth poured Rob another glass of wine. “What did Peng say?”
Roberto shrugged his shoulders. “Not much. He mentioned something about us needing to have more patience—that all would be revealed soon enough. I tried to get more out of him, but Peng was always a secretive kind of guy. I’m supposed to meet him in Geneva in another week. I’ll know more after I see him.”
Seth returned to their earlier conversation. “I’m still impressed with this entire plan, Rob. How elaborate. Was it Marshall’s idea, or was he just the benefactor?”
Rob let out a deep guttural laugh before he looked at Seth. “No, Marshall is just a patsy. He, like every other American president, is chosen and groomed for the position. That idiot Sachs is the first time since Kennedy that someone outside of the preordained leader managed to sneak their way into the White House. Kennedy didn’t even make it through his first term. Sachs wasn’t supposed to either, but the narrative about his past business dealings wasn’t strong enough to take him down. An assassin’s bullet would have been the better, more certain choice. It worked with Kennedy, and it would have worked with Sachs, but no—they wanted to try and publicly humiliate him instead of just eliminating him. Now look at the mess we’re stuck having to clean up.”
Roberto looked angry about how everything had been playing out with President Sachs. Seth knew he was hitting the right buttons, so he pressed on. “If Marshall is just the patsy, then who’s the real powerbroker? Should I be worried about some other arrangement he needs to keep?”
Roberto shrugged his shoulders again as he stuffed another piece of steak in his mouth. Through bites, he answered, “Lance Solomon. He’s part of that secret Yale group—what’s it called? Bones & Skull…Skull & Bones…yeah, that’s it. Skull & Bones. Lance…Lance is the American money guy and kingmaker. I was told at the time that he was a big shot at Goldman Sachs. This was several years ago when the plan was first formed. He’s the head of Goldman’s now. Powerful kingmaker that guy is—at least in American politics.”
Seth heard a small voice speak into his ear mic. “I think we’ve gotten enough for now. We need to digest and go over everything to see what more we may need to follow up on with him later. Let’s wrap this up and put this guy to bed.”
Very subtly, Seth nodded to no one in particular, letting the others monitoring the interrogation know he heard the instructions. Then he smiled as he slipped back into his roleplay. “Wow, Rob. I must say this has been a very informative lunch and great company. I’m glad we were able to make this meeting happen on such short notice,” he said cheerfully.
As they finished their meal, Seth made sure to ask Roberto questions about his wife and his adult children. When the servers came back and cleaned up the table, they brought them each a wonderful creamy chocolate mousse cheesecake for dessert, along with some coffee.
As Roberto drank his coffee, his eyes suddenly became heavy, and the man fell asleep in his chair. The servers then helped him over to a bed they pulled out of the wall and laid him down on it, placing a blanket over the top of him and a pillow under his head. The man would be out for hours if not a day as the drugs coursing through his body slowly wore off.
Standing up, Seth looked at his watch. He realized they’d been talking for nearly six hours. No wonder his back was aching and he felt exhausted. It was mentally taxing doing an interrogation beyond four hours.
When he left the interrogation room, Seth walked into the analyst room just down the hall. Several people clapped their hands as he walked in; a few even whistled and verbally congratulated him.
“Seth, you’re way too good at this job to stay in the Army. I’m going to have to find a way to convince you to stick around,” Smith said as he patted him on the shoulder.
Ashley Bonhauf walked up to him. “For a minute, I really thought you were going to torture that guy. He actually peed his pants when you turned that drill on.”
Seth smiled at the memory. “That was the goal,” he replied, “to make him so worked up and nervous over being tortured that as soon as we introduced the first drug, he’d be a Chatty Kathy and tell us everything.”
“OK, people,” Smith announced, loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear, “Seth got us a ton of new information and leads. We now need to start working on tracking it all down. When Mr. Lamy wakes up in twelve or more hours, I want to have additional follow-up questions ready for Seth to ask. So, let’s start figuring out what the gaps are and what else we need to close the loop on.”
The room then bustled with a renewed urgency. Smith, Seth, and Ashley walked off to one of the other rooms, where they’d have a private conversation with General Lancaster to figure out what to do with the information they’d just learned.
Chapter 18
Battle of Three Rivers
April 4, 2021
Michigan-Indiana Border
While many of the Dutch soldiers participating in this UN peacekeeping force had to surrender when Division Schnelle Kräfte got surrounded in Chicago, the 104th Commando Company had not been ordered to join them.
A day earlier, Wachtmeester Hans de Jager and a handful of Dutch co
mmandos had scouted out the city and identified where they were going to position their company of Michigan militia. After spending five weeks training the various Civil Defense Force militia groups across the state, they were making sure to put small units along all the major roadways that the federal forces would have to use as they made their way to Detroit and eventually into Canada. The commandos knew they ultimately couldn’t stop the American Army from capturing Three Rivers or the state of Michigan, but they could make that capture costly.
Two yellow school buses pulled into the parking lot of the Walgreens store on the corner of Millard Road and US Highway 131. Everyone exited the buses and milled around for a moment, waiting for any last-minute instructions before they headed out to their positions.
Wachtmeester Hans de Jager saw the gaggle forming and climbed up on the hood of one of the school buses. He motioned with his arms, beckoning everyone to circle around. De Jager looked at the faces of the men and women standing before him. Some showed excitement, some fear, but what he saw in all of them was a determination to defend their state and home from a tyrannical dictator in Washington.
He couldn’t be prouder of this militia team if he tried. He’d spent the last five weeks training them how to shoot, how to use machine guns, antitank rockets, grenades, and small unit ambush tactics. He’d grown to like these Americans. He saw their patriotism to their cause and their love of their friends, family, community, and country. It was hard knowing that after today, many of them were going to die. This was going to be their first real test against a professional army. He hoped with every fiber of his being that they’d do well and many of them would survive the day. This was his team now.
De Jager raised his hands to silence the chatter. “Listen up, people,” he shouted. “The federal forces are about two hours away from our position. This is the moment we’ve been training for—our first time we’ll be in combat together as the Michigan militia.”
A few members of the crowd cheered. Others gave each other a high five or slapped a friend jovially on the shoulder. They were excited.
“I want the Panzerfaust teams to head to your positions. Remember your training. Let the armored vehicles get close before you pop out and fire. Oh, and Carl—don’t forget to make sure the safety is off on the launcher before you leave your covered position.” Everyone started laughing at the mention of safety. One of the guys had forgotten to do that during their training, and they had summarily called him “Carl” ever since.
De Jager let them laugh for a minute easing the tension. Then he continued. “Once your rocket is ready, you need to aim and fire that bad boy quick. Do not stand there and wait to see your rocket hit the target. You need to get back under cover immediately and reload. Those federal soldiers are going to be looking for you guys in particular, and they will light you up if you give them a chance.”
De Jager scanned the audience. “Where’s Martin?” he asked.
A slender man near the back raised his hand. “I’m here, Staff Sergeant,” he called out.
Wachtmeester de Jager smiled. He still had to get used to being called by his American rank. “When you get settled up in your perch, I need you to do your best to stay out of sight and continue to relay what you see back to my command post. I’m not going to tell you guys where I’ll be set up for operational security, but I’ll be somewhat close by. When Martin here identifies where the federal forces are amassing, that’s where I’ll send our QRF teams to help.”
He took a deep breath before he went on. “This is going to be a tough fight, people. Expect the enemy to be ruthless. Make no mistake, friends—they are here to kill you. That means you need to kill them first. Now, I want everyone to get to their assigned positions and wait. Stay off the walkie-talkies and don’t change channels, or none of us will be able to communicate. As Martin relays the enemy positions, I’ll tell you when to attack. Don’t attack unless I tell you to, OK? This is important. If we’re going to win this fight, then I need you guys to listen to me, OK?”
“Yes, Staff Sergeant,” came the chorus from his group.
De Jager nodded at them. “OK, head to your positions and wait.”
As the group dispersed, de Jager walked up to Martin. “Hey, before you head up to your perch, I want you to have this,” he said. “It’s a small identification booklet we put together for you. It has some pictures of the various types of military vehicles you may see. When you relay the enemy positions, I need you to also help identify what type of vehicles you’re seeing. That’ll help me know how many enemy soldiers are coming toward each position, OK?”
Nodding, Martin took the little book. “Can I shoot at any of them?” he asked.
De Jager shook his head. “No. Your job is to help identify where the enemy is headed and what kind of vehicles they have, OK? If you start shooting at them, they’ll figure out where it’s coming from and take you out. You’re too exposed up there to last long. Oh, before you leave—when we start firing those mortars, I need you to help us identify where they are hitting, OK? It’s just like in training; tell us if we need to drop fifty meters or move fifty meters to the right. You’re our eyes and ears out there. We’re counting on you, Martin.”
De Jager placed a hand on the man’s shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “You can do this, Martin.”
Martin simply nodded, then headed off to his observation post.
De Jager turned around as he heard the whining engine noise of an armored vehicle approaching. A Boxer armored fighting vehicle pulled up near him, and one of the soldiers stuck his head out of one of the hatches and called out to him.
“Wachtmeester, are you ready to head to the next location?” they asked.
De Jager nodded. He walked around to the rear of the vehicle, climbed in and sat down. The Boxer immediately took off and started heading to check on their mortar team that was setting up a couple of kilometers away.
When they pulled up to the Hidden Marsh Sanctuary, the commandos hopped out to inspect the team that would be handling their mortars. A couple of trucks were parked nearby underneath some trees, and two Dutch commandos were going over the sighting of the mortars, making sure the first set of rounds would land roughly where they wanted the first ambush team to strike.
“Is everything ready?” de Jager asked.
“We’re as ready as we’re going to be,” his sergeant replied.
“Very well,” de Jager responded. “I’m going to head over to the command post. Make sure you keep these guys moving. Don’t stay in one firing position too long. The Americans will take you out if they have a mortar truck with them.”
With nothing more to be said, de Jager hopped back in the Boxer, and they drove to the command post. Once they pulled up to the home at the edge of the tree line, de Jager got out of the armored fighting vehicle and headed toward the house. Meanwhile, the driver moved the Boxer into the trees to help keep it out of sight of any surveillance drones that might fly over. Before de Jager walked into the house, he turned and looked down the road and surveyed the sky above. The day had started out nice and clear but was swiftly becoming overcast. Across the street and down the road a bit was a large church with a sign that read New Hope Assembly of God. De Jager said a silent prayer for his team of militia and then headed in.
Majoor Willem Graaf, their company commander, was the first to greet him. “Ah, Wachtmeester de Jager. Is everyone ready?”
“Ja. They’re as ready as they’re going to be. I just checked on the mortar team. Two of my sergeants are with them as well.”
Majoor Graaf nodded. “Good. The other platoons are ready as well. Our scouts show the American force is here,” he explained, pointing to a spot on the map approximately twenty kilometers away from the town. “I’m going to head to Battle Creek to check on the other platoons. Luitenant-kolonel van Rossum has the rest of the regiment spread out, covering the main roads leading to Detroit.”
“Good luck, Majoor. We’ll do our best to hold out here,�
� de Jager said. Then he snapped off a crisp salute.
Then the Majoor left with one other soldier to head to their next position.
Normally, there’d be at least a lieutenant or captain to help manage the coming battle. Sadly, both officers assigned to de Jager’s company had been killed earlier in the war. Thus far, no new replacements had arrived from Europe, so de Jager found himself in command of the unit.
With nothing more to do than wait, the soldiers in the house brewed up some fresh coffee and scrambled up some eggs for breakfast.
*******
God, I hope this is going to work, Martin thought.
He crawled over to get in position. Once in his little perch, Martin placed his Remington model 783 rifle down. It was a decent .308-caliber rifle with a scope, but nothing fancy like what the Dutch commandos had.
Martin had to keep reminding himself that he wasn’t a sniper, and he wasn’t supposed to shoot. He was just supposed to spot what was happening in the city and report what he saw.
Once he got settled in, he unfolded the IR-resistant blanket the commandos had given him and placed it over top of him and his rifle. He made sure his spotter scope was set up, and the little vehicle identification booklet was lying next to it so he could quickly reference it. He also placed a small notepad and pencil on the ground next to him. Before he forgot, he grabbed several protein bars from his patrol pack and put them near his notepad.
Nearly an hour went by before Martin heard something—a soft droning noise like a small airplane. Staying under the blanket, Martin started looking around for what was making the sound. While he couldn’t find it, he knew it was probably some sort of army surveillance drone. Those little devils were exactly why the commandos had given him an IR-resistant blanket to hide under. It would help shield him from a casual glance at his position and make sure his heat signature didn’t show up.
Pulling back from the spotter scope, he picked up his walkie-talkie to send in his first report.