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

by Marcus Richardson

  “I see it,” replied Malcolm. He stole a glance at his brother. As the battle wore on, his brother’s slang seem to be less and less apparent.

  The helicopter gunner swiveled his 30mm gun to aim at the fifth floor of the irritating building and let loose a salvo, smashing windows and ripping bodies apart. The shell casings rained down to form a glittered waterfall that crashed into a spreading puddle of smoking brass on the street below.

  The helicopter paused and the loud buzz of its machine gun disappeared. It hovered over the intersection seeking confirmation of the gunner’s kills as the two National Guard trucks roared down the street. Soldiers hung off the sides and fired towards the growing number of rioters who appeared out of alleys and burning buildings to harass their retreat.

  “Why d’ey stop shootin’?” asked Tahru, pointing at the helicopter as it hovered.

  Malcolm had a terrible premonition. He grabbed his own radio and barked a command, “Sharpshooters, get out of there!”

  More muzzle flashes peppered out from the busted windows. The rioters were moving to the sixth floor. Not fast enough.

  The chopper shuddered as six missiles, three from each pod on either side of the aircraft, leapt out of their harnesses and streaked across the intersection. The missiles shot right through a section of busted out windows and disappeared inside, leaving smoke trails behind. In less than a quarter-second, the entire floor erupted outwards, blowing glass, bits of office furniture and insurgents out over the intersection in a bright fireball.

  “Nice!” The pilot held control of his helicopter till the blast wave past, then, when he saw no more targets on the FLIR, The helicopter reluctantly turned to the north in a lazy circle and caught up with the two retreating trucks just as they crossed the bridge. The cop cars were moved back into place as a barricade and the sortie was over.

  “The Man has decided to up the ante, my Brothers,” Malcolm said to his gathered lieutenants an hour later. They were having a council of war deep in the Sears Tower.

  “The Man has used his military might to attack us. It is time to take the next step. Abaad,”

  “Yes, Brother,” replied the skinny black man in the back. He inclined his head in a polite bow.

  “I need to you to inform our other Brothers and Sisters that tonight we unleash the gangs. Tell them it is time for anarchy. We need to get the word out about what the Man is doing to us.”

  “As you say, Brother Malcolm, it will be done, by Allah’s will.” The communications chief for the Brotherhood nodded and his lieutenant slipped out the door. He and a few others in the movement had become somewhat decent HAM operators. It was the only way to be able to communicate when the power was lost and the government inevitably took control of the nation’s radio broadcasting stations. All this and more the Arabs had informed the Brotherhood, and time after time what they said would happen had come true. Malcolm and the others watched Abaad move to his communications rig and fire it up.

  Tonight would be a bad night for the Man…

  NORAD

  North American Air Defense Command

  WHAT HAVE YOU got for me?” asked the President with a sad grin. He wearily sat down at the conference table in the War Room for his evening briefing. It had been another long day dealing with his department heads, especially Hank from FEMA, and the Congressional leaders from their hidey-holes.

  They’re just itching to get into a political fight over this mess, the President thought darkly as he surveyed the War Room. Arrayed about him were monitors that depicted the faces of the Joint Chiefs and the Secretaries of Defense and State.

  “Sir,” said SecDef’s image while glancing at the latest reports from New York, Chicago and Los Angeles. “We’ve had some engagements with rioters and National Guard units.”

  “Go on…” said the President warily. “Gimme some details.”

  “Well, in Chicago, General Collrade reports the loss of two tanks—“

  “Rioters destroyed two of our tanks?”

  “Actually, they…the ah—“ offered the Army’s top General. The President silenced him with a look. He recovered and began again. “They got the tanks by destroying the bridge we were attempting to cross into downtown Chicago. Both tanks fell in the river and sank. The crews were lost, sir. Eight men.”

  The President put his elbows on the table and steeped his fingers in thought. The cameraman set up at the end of the table focused in on him for the benefit of the cabinet members watching their own screens.

  “I gave them the order to fight fire with fire…”

  “Well…ah, they did. Collrade ordered a return fire, killing an unknown number of rioters with another of his tanks. Then, on the other side of the city, an Apache was used in tandem with ground forces to extricate a bunch of cops that had been pinned down and surrounded by rioters. In the process, the Apache took out several rioters and…” the SecDef’s image looked closely at his paperwork. “It appears the helicopter also fired missiles into an office building, destroying an entire floor…”

  “He fired a tank at a bunch of rioters? Missiles at an office building?” asked the Secretary of State, incredulous.

  “Tim, it wasn’t too long ago you were wearing a uniform like mine—you and I both know those ‘rioters’ are something more. They took out a major highway bridge—we’re talking six lanes of concrete and steel! That’s a lot of demo work for a bunch of race rioters, don’t you think?” The general turned his attention to the head of the table. “Mr. President, I’m not entirely convinced we’re dealing with a simple riot situation anymore,” warned the Army Chief of Staff.

  “Rioters or not, we’ve got to put this insurrection down, gentleman. I want more details about this missile shooting, Don. No--I want the overall picture first,” said the President.

  “I know it’s stereotypical, but everything we’ve heard about the reasons behind the rioting sounds like the standard ‘American Islam’ type bullshit.”

  “It is,” chimed in the National Security Advisor. No one heard her come in the room, and more than one man flinched in surprise. “We just confirmed it in Detroit. They got a prisoner who spilled his guts.”

  “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” the President said, rubbing his hands together. “Well, Alicia, don’t keep us waiting?” invited the President, one hand extended for her to take a seat at the table.

  Instead, she grabbed a remote off the table and turned on one of the digital display screens, showing a map with the various cities experiencing ‘racial riots’. The country was displayed in a calming blue color, except for the angry swatches of red, where the riots had broken out. Atlanta was a black circle, indicating destruction of the city.

  “What we were able to ascertain from the captive is that there’s a group, calling itself the Brotherhood, or something like that, based in Chicago,” she used a laser pointer to highlight the Windy City. “They are a group of militant Black Muslims. They have connections with other groups like themselves in most of the major cities…New York, Detroit, Boston, Atlanta, L.A., Houston, Jacksonville, Richmond, St. Louis…”

  “Okay, we can see the map, Alicia, it’s a lot,” said the President, cutting her off. To read off a complete list would be too dispersing for him today. “Just tell us what you found out.”

  “Yes, sir. I have my people working with the FBI and CIA, but from what we know right now, it seems this Brotherhood somehow in league with the Al Qaeda splinter group that launched the power-grid strike. We don’t know why or how, but they were able to time the riots to start when we’d be most vulnerable.”

  “Sounds like a load of horse shit to me,” grunted the SecDef. “Those riots would probably have started without coordination—how long do any of you think peace will be maintained in any city, once the food and water supply dries up in a few days…with no power, nothing to do, panic rising and a small, overburdened police force? We’re gonna have real trouble on our hands come next week.”

  General murmuring
broke out around the table and an argument started between the NSA and the Army. Someone mentioned the latest estimate from the largest power companies that suggested it would be at least two to three weeks before they could completely repair the damage to their core relay stations, let alone start to get power turned back on in limited areas of the country. They were looking at a time table in months, not days.

  “Alright people, settle down,” the President said, raising his voice above the din. “Now this is beginning to make sense—but why are they timing their attacks? What goals do they have? Who sponsored this?”

  “The prisoner said they were going to create some kind of Islamic utopia,” the NSA shrugged, putting the word ‘utopia’ in quotes with her hands. “He wasn’t able to tell us much.”

  “Well, why the hell not?” asked SecDef.

  “He died shortly after being captured, sir. The skirmishing between National Guard units and rioters in Detroit has gotten significantly more intense since news of the escalation in Chicago got out.”

  “Got out? How? We have control of just about all the radio broadcasting stations in the country,” said the President, looking over his FCC report.

  “The rioters evidently found some way to communicate outside the standard airwaves,” replied the National Security Advisor. She didn’t need to mention the implications of that revelation.

  “Okay…so they all riot at the same—or about the same—time. There’s some ulterior motive, we think. Next, when things in Chicago and New York get a little out of hand, Detroit goes off—” summed up the President, trying to grasp the entire situation at once.

  “Sir, Los Angeles is facing a different problem.”

  “What now?”

  “It seems that the race riots in Los Angeles are taking on a third aspect—the large Latino community seems to be taking up arms against both the race rioters and the National Guard forces. I’m afraid between the two groups, the Guard is just outnumbered. The reports we’re getting in from Governor Martin are not looking good. The fighting is sporadic and largely located on the edge of the rioting zones. There’s one here,” the NSA indicated a map of Los Angeles with her laser pointer, “And another, larger riot in South Central.”

  “What is this, everyone wants to fight at once?” asked the President. He rubbed his throbbing forehead with the palm of his hand.

  “Governor Martin ordered the city and state police to form a perimeter in the hopes of containing the fighting, but even with the National Guard to back them up, there’s just too much going on. When the cops pulled out to try and escort civilians, gang wars erupted. It’s absolute pandemonium in L.A. tonight, sir. Gonna be pretty bad.”

  “Okay,” the President sighed.

  The people around the table knew that tone of voice. Something was coming. More than one person sat up a little in their seats.

  “It’s fairly obvious to me that the National Guard just can’t handle this on its own,” the President suggested, looking for comments. They hadn’t even gotten to the other major cities. The Guard was on its heels everywhere except Chicago, it seemed, and there only because they used overwhelming military force.

  “That would be our assessment as well, sir,” said the SecDef’s somber image.

  “Agreed,” said the National Security Advisor, sitting down in her seat across from the President.

  “Very well. I’m going to place the National Guard under the control of Northern Command. Have General Young out at Peterson Air Force Base coordinate everything from NORAD. I want blanket authority, people.”

  The various images of the Joint Chiefs showed they could barely contain their glee. “I want the military to take over now and clean things up properly. No more pussyfooting around, people. We have to nip this in the bud, now before this turns into a full-scale rebellion.

  “We’re going to put everything under one umbrella to smooth this mess out.” The President paused, considering again the weight in his coat pocket that signified the emergency orders drafted by the Director of FEMA…Hank had nearly begged him to sign the orders today.

  No, not yet…dammit.

  “Sir, do I have to warn you, more than two-thirds of our military forces are still all over the planet?” cautioned SecDef. “We haven’t begun pulling them back yet—“

  “Do it then.”

  “Done,” replied SecDef, folding his arms on screen.

  “I want just bare minimums everywhere we can spare it. No, you know what?” the President paused and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “In places like Kosovo—in fact, any U.N. mission, I want our boys out, now.”

  “Gladly, Mr. President,” said the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, a four-star Air Force general. His counterpart from the Army smiled.

  “The U.N. isn’t going to like that at all, sir. They’ve offered us another chance at help, we can’t just throw it in their face. I think we’ll need some time to draft a response—“ started the SecState.

  “Tell ‘em to mind their own fucking business! How’s that for a response? I’ll be damned if I’m going to have American cities burned to the ground because I couldn’t get my military home on account of the United Nations being offended!” the President replied vehemently.

  “The U.N. has jerked our chain one too many times, Tim, and I for one have had it with that group of buffoons. We’ll see how much trouble they start if we’re not there to back them up or pay their rent!”

  “Aye, aye, sir, we’ll handle it,” Chief of Staff for the Navy spoke up.

  “What about the Middle East?” asked SecDef, trying to diffuse the situation. “We got a lot tied up over there.”

  “Bring ‘em all home, Al. Navy too. The Middle East screams on a daily basis that they don’t want us there. Fine! We’ll leave. They caused this mess with their damn terrorism, they can take care of themselves while he patch things up at home,” the President ordered. He paused for a second, anger visibly clouding his worried face.

  “Sir, I don’t think pulling our troops out will send the right message,” began the Secretary of State after regaining his composure. “It’ll show everyone that all they have to do is strike us at home to influence what we do and where we do it. Sir, it’ll look like we’re tucking tail and running.”

  “Tim’s got a point there, sir,” agreed the image of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs reluctantly. “I don’t like it any more than you, but the rest of the world is going to see us as weak if we pull out completely.”

  “When we find out exactly who did what and where they came from, the Middle East and whoever the hell sponsored these attacks is going to wish they’d never heard of America,” the President promised through clenched teeth, balling his fists on the tabletop.

  “Then we’ll see who thinks we’re weak.”

  SARASOTA

  The Clock is Ticking

  ERIK AND STAN sat in lawn chairs by the small pond in the middle of their apartment complex, watching things around them get worse as the sun set. It would soon be time for their third nightly gathering. Erik’s wind up emergency radio sat between them, pumping out conflicting reports from America and England.

  “I just don’t get it…we’re supposed to have Freedom of Speech and all that, right?” asked Stan, staring at the radio.

  “Yup. Guess the President decided that’s got to be restricted a bit, at least on the part of the Press. It doesn’t make sense. Why now?”

  “This whole shitty situation…it just sucks,” complained Stan with a sweep of his arm.

  “I agree…” said Erik, his mind jumping ahead to what might happen. “But look at it this way—we were getting reports for the past two days about all the bad stuff going down around the country. First it was the airliners falling from the sky—“

  “Which we still don’t know why, or what flights. My God, if I had family on a plane when the power went out, I’d be an absolute wreck right now.“ Stan laughed, a bitter, barking sound. “More so than I am.”

  “Yeah, th
at does suck, not telling us what happened.” Erik sipped some water and thought for a moment, listening to the serenade of the nighttime insects. “But maybe the government at least informed the people who’s loved ones were killed,” shrugged Erik. “At any rate, the radios were effectively the only form of communication left to us—the TVs all died when the power went out, so no cable news.”

  “Well, sure, Erik, but there’s a lot of people out there with generators, I’m sure someone could have seen the TV.”

  “And of those people with generators, how many do you think would hook up their TV instead of their water pumps, or freezers, or microwaves? Generators can’t run everything—at least not the ‘average’ ones you get at Wal-Mart and Home Depot. But just about everyone has a radio and at least a few batteries laying around.”

  “Or one of these cool things,” said Stan, patting Erik’s radio affectionately. “Man, if you hadn’t had this thing, we might all still be in the dark.”

  Erik waved off the compliment. He didn’t want sentiment like that growing. He resolved to be more careful in the future when admitting what preparations he had in stock. He didn’t want people, even neighbors, to view him as a supply depot, or worse, a target, should things get more desperate.

  “I’m sure we could have heard the same stuff with regular radios and batteries…but that’s not my point. Radio was the most effective and pretty much the last way to get the word out to people. What do you remember from those broadcasts in the last few days?”

  Stan thought for a minute. “Hell, everything was doom and gloom. First they told us about the power going out…then about the terrorists that did it and the ones that claimed responsibility. Then it was the planes that crashed, then the riots started—then we found out they were race riots. Last thing I remember was something about forest fires out west.”

  Erik snapped his fingers. “Right! And what affect did it have?”

  Stan grimaced. His face told the story of a man who realized a younger person was educating him in something he by rights should already know. He sighed and replied, “Well, it scared the hell out of me—“