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

by Marcus Richardson

  “The HAM net tonight has it that there’s a rumor going around that French and German troops have boarded passenger planes in Europe. Paratroopers I’m guessing. The first wave.”

  Erik was speechless.

  “I know, I had the same reaction. This shit is getting real, real fast. Personally, I think it’s just a rumor. I don’t think they can move that fast without committees. But…”

  “The National Guard guys didn’t come around today. This is the first time they missed their usual time. Now this rumor. That can’t be a coincidence. It’s what, a seven hour flight?”

  Ted put his hand up to stop Erik right there. “Dude, we got time. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the big cities will be the first targets. New York, Philly, LA…well maybe not Los Angeles. At any rate, they won’t come to little out of the way retirement towns like Sarasota. Besides, most people seem to have left here already. Why come here at all? The beaches?” Ted laughed. “No, trust me, they’ll go after Tampa and the Air Force Base at MacDill first. We got time to do a little fishing before the shit really hits the fan. We’re pretty much ready to roll as it is. We just gotta convince the girls. Besides, we also heard our boys are starting to trickle home at last. Got a big chunk of the 101st on U.S. soil today.”

  Erik was about to say something when Ted’s radio, set to the Watch frequency, squawked to life. “Ted, come in.”

  Erik grinned. He recognized Art’s voice—still new to so many people, but more trusted than most. He didn’t sleep much and monitored his HAM gear retrieved from his own radio shack almost 24 hours a day. They got most of their news from him now and his remote contacts around the nation and the world were invaluable.

  “Go ahead, Art.”

  “Can you come here and gimme a hand moving this receiver?”

  Ted’s eyes bulged. “On my way,” he said. To Erik he grunted, “Come on, he’s got something good.”

  “You’re using code with Art?” asked Erik as Ted grabbed shoes and the two men started for the Keep, where Art was holed up with his radio gear.

  “Yeah, since Lentz wants to keep a radio for himself, I told Art to ask me for help moving something if he gets any info. That way Lentz won’t block us out of it and we have first crack at the intel.”

  “Better hurry, this thing’s heavy,” crackled over the radio as Ted and Erik moved into the rain on their way to the Keep.

  “Shit. It’s serious.”

  Once inside the warm, dry radio room, they shut the door behind them and let their eyes adjust to the warm glowing light of the radio dials and equipment. After not having power for so many weeks, it was startling to Erik how odd it seemed that there should be light in this room without candles. Art quickly waved them over towards him and turned the volume up on the speaker next to his wheelchair. “Got a net going with some guys out west. Arizona, I think. He keeps talking about terrorists so I figured I’d stall ‘im until you got here.”

  “Go ahead, I got the antennae stabilized now,” said Art into the microphone mounted on the desk.

  “I say again, if you have access to government officials, tell them that we have uncovered a planned invasion of the United States…” a thick western accent drawled over the speakers.

  “Well, we know about that.”

  “You do?” asked the voice.

  “Yes, everyone does—the U.N. is sending troops our way—-“ said Art.

  “Not the damn U.N.! The Chinese! They’re sending a freakin’ army through Mexico to invade from the south!” said the voice, desperation lending credence to his claims. “We’ve already fought some skirmishes with the Mexicans. Some Al Qaeda guys have been lurking around down here stirrin’ up the illegals…They’re going to fight with the Chinese…” static broke up the conversation momentarily.

  “You’re breaking up, Regulator, come back,” called out Art. It was no use, the signal had faded in the storm’s wake and somewhere in the ionosphere the tenuous link had been severed between Arizona and Florida.

  “Anybody else getting a bad

  feeling about this?” asked Erik.

  THE LEADERS

  Enemies, Foreign and Domestic

  MALCOLM STEPPED OUT of the dark sedan and paused to check his reflection in the tinted window. Immaculate. He marveled at the difference a few weeks made. Just last month he had been the leader of a national movement, a real rebellion. He was on the run, dirty, hungry, and constantly looking over his shoulder. The Canadians were trying to appease the upset child to the south and hunted him almost as ferociously as the Americans had in Chicago.

  ‘Seek safety in Canada,’ his Arab friend Hakim had told him once. ‘When the time is right, you will find allies.’

  How right you were my friend. And powerful allies I found. With Ossad’s help, I was rescued and reborn. I am no fugitive now, but a ruler in exile. Exile. The word leant authority to his position. He smiled. There was not a damn thing the Man could do to him now.

  “Malcolm,” his mountain of a guard rumbled from the other side of the car. “Best be inside now. Not safe out the gates and the car,” he nodded to the stately Egyptian Embassy.

  I wonder where you are, Hakim? This day we save the rebellion and pave the way to our own country. Real freedom. Dr. King would be proud. Malcolm paused long enough to let the mountain know he didn’t fear anyone and made his own decision to move before turning to his guard.

  “Yossef, you worry too much, like an old woman,” he flashed his trademark smile when the man looked down in shame. “But you have my safety at heart, even before your own. You have been with me since the beginning. You got me out of Chicago and across the Great Lake. You have bled for me. For that, my friend, I am grateful—more than you will ever know.” Malcolm patted the huge man on his broad shoulder as he passed up the marble steps. The big man grinned sheepishly then scowled when his partner snickered.

  “You stay with the car. I go with Malcolm,” he barked, voice like so many boulders rolling down hill.

  Malcolm tried to sweep through the gilded doorway into Egypt’s Canadian Embassy, but was outshone by the gracious ambassador who acted as if he were meeting the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia.

  Remember, you are a soldier, not a diplomat. This is his world. You only need to live in it for today, then I shall have everything we need, Malcolm told himself.

  “My great friend! Welcome again, welcome!” cried the Ambassador. The two men embraced following Middle Eastern custom and kissed cheeks. As they walked the halls of the Embassy, Malcolm saw the place was bustling with activity. It was much more crowded than the first time he had arrived begging asylum. Aides and staffers ran from room to room, shuttling papers and phones. Fax machines hummed and phone banks cried out for attention. It was a war room. For indeed, Egypt was at war.

  “The filthy American Imperialists may have caused a lot of damage and killed many thousands of innocents, but by Allah’s will, we shall have our vengeance! It is as they say in America, this is only round one,” said the Ambassador as he ushered Malcolm into a state-of-the-art conference center. There was a large mahogany table in the center of the long room, polished to a high sheen and completely empty of design. The several chairs around it were of the thick-cushioned leather style favored by government types.

  A side table by a long row of bullet-proof windows held a simple serving tray and some glasses for the pitcher of ice water. A man nodded to them as they entered, informing the Ambassador that the camera on a tripod at the head of the table was ready for the conference. After the technician left, the Ambassador offered Malcolm a seat and shut the door.

  Malcolm hesitated to sit. Instead he turned to his host and said in a gentle voice, full of concern, “Any news of your family? When last we met, you were still trying to contact them after the attacks from that aircraft carrier. Were you able to find them…?” Malcolm had his hand on the Ambassadors arm as a sign of support.

  “Praise be to Allah!” the Ambassador’s face lit up with
a great smile. “Fatwimah and the children are safe—I found out yesterday,” the relief in the man’s voice was obvious.

  “Allah is indeed merciful, my friend,” Malcolm said with a genuine smile. It really was good news.

  “Allah ackbar,” intoned the Ambassador with a nod. He clapped Malcolm on the shoulder. “Now! On to business! Today we make history, no?”

  Malcolm nodded and sat down. “I am ready.” He turned to face the camera that the Ambassador switched on. At the same time, the large, full-wall flat screen television in front of the two men flickered to life, displaying a blue screen with white letters that read, ‘No Input’. After a few adjustments to a control on the massive conference table, the Ambassador grinned and looked at the screen. The giant face of the Secretary General of the United Nations appeared.

  “Ah, there you are my friends!” he boomed.

  “Hello, Mr. Secretary General,” said Malcolm, with a polite nod. He didn’t smile. For some reason, he didn’t fully trust this foreigner. Something about the U.N. chief’s eyes whispered to Malcolm that he should deal cautiously with the fellow.

  “Ossad, are we secure?” the giant face asked to the Ambassador.

  “Yes, sir. Only the three of us will hear what is to be said.”

  “Good, good!” The warm smile vanished. “Now, then. I trust you have read my proposal?” he asked, holding up a document that appeared to be the size of the conference table.

  Malcolm nodded. “I have. You are most generous in your offer of support.”

  “Yes, yes—can you deliver what we require?” asked the Secretary General, a hint of impatience and disbelief in his voice.

  “Yes.” The answer was flat, with no emotion at all.

  “What assurances do you offer?”

  Malcolm looked square into the Secretary General’s cold eyes with a stare that could freeze ice. “I led an assault on America’s ‘Second City’. I conquered the heart of Chicago and made the American government send an army to engage my forces. If I could not deliver what you require, I would not be alive today to tell you so. All that you ask of me is to harass the Americans when….I should say, if…you arrive.”

  “If? If!? I have just received word that the first wave is leaving Europe by plane and ship at this very moment. The hour of our invasion is at hand—“ burst the insulted U.N. leader.

  “Do not become overconfident, Mr. Secretary General. You will not waltz into America and win the hearts and minds of the people there over night. You have fought with them. I have fought against them. You will be lucky —and you know it—to get a single battalion on U.S. soil, let alone conquer a single state. And they have fifty of them, you know.” Malcolm was straining to keep his face emotionless and his body completely still. He was almost there….

  The Secretary General frowned. “We have an armada of planes loading as we speak. They will sweep across Europe and cross the North Pole—“

  “The Canadian government will not appreciate that, sir,” interrupted Ossad, the Egyptian Ambassador. It was the first he had heard of the actual plan for the invasion.

  “I do not care what they appreciate. Canada is in no position to stop us!” roared the Secretary General’s face on the screen.

  “But the Americans are,” countered Malcolm. The Secretary General froze with his mouth open and looked coolly at Malcolm, evaluating him seriously for the first time. “Their Air Force is mostly still in the U.S.. They will shoot your soldiers out of the sky like so many pigeons.”

  Before the Secretary General could explode with rage, Malcolm slipped in a grin and the sudden expression on his face caused the Secretary General to pause, calculating. “I,” said Malcolm, rising from his plush chair to walk to the side table. “Can guarantee your success.”

  The Secretary General’s face furrowed in thought. He looked at Ossad, who shrugged, then over to Malcolm. “Alright. I’m listening…” The expression on his face said, ‘Go ahead, amaze me. I dare you.’

  Malcolm slowly poured some ice water into a glass and savored a cold sip. He closed his eyes and relished the feeling of the cold, pure water travel down his throat. He could almost feel the Secretary General begin to tremble with anticipation.

  Casually turning to the screen, he twirled the water in his glass, making the ice dance. “I can deliver you airports in strategic metropolitan locations. Imagine, Mr. Secretary General, a safe landing zone in downtown New York. Or Tampa? Or Cincinnati, Seattle, Boston, Philadelphia? Others, many others, all over the country.” Malcolm watched the wheels turn on the Secretary General’s face as he calculated the offer. Malcolm pressed his closing argument.

  “The Brotherhood…my people…control the cities of America. We control the airports of America. If you reach the airports with your transport planes I can guarantee a safe landing site. If your planes survive the American Air Force, they will land unopposed in friendly territory. My people are ready to fight at your side. Do not underestimate our number,” Malcolm said as he took another drink of water, never taking his eyes off the Secretary General.

  The Secretary General knew at once Malcolm’s plan could seal the fate of the Americans swiftly. From secure landing fields, his forces stood a much better chance of initial survival. With an army of millions of rebels—poorly trained, equipped and lead they may be—the United Nations would be practically unstoppable. His image grew large as he leaned in towards the camera, mind made up.

  “And in return for holding the airports and raising an army….you ask for what?” he asked quietly, the barest hint of a smile played across his lips.

  Malcolm smiled.

  SARASOTA

  Voyage of the Tarpon Whistler

  THE NEXT MORNING, Erik, Ted, Susan and Brin gathered for breakfast in the breezeway. Even though the sun had barely broken the treeline, the early heat and humidity made the shady hallway an ideal spot to relax while the children played in the grass by the pond. Erik filled Susan’s plate with re-hydrated eggs and spoke around a mouthful of cold oatmeal. He was purposely spoiling the girls with some of his ‘good stuff’ out of the reserves that even Brin didn’t know about. “So whaddya think, ladies?”

  Ted swallowed some lukewarm rainwater from the night before and said, “Yeah, feel up for some seared tuna-steaks?”

  “Ted, my mouth is already watering,” said Brin with a smile.

  “Well, I’m all for fresh fish…” worried Susan as she doled out rehydrated scrambled eggs to the kids. “But I’m just not excited at having both of you gone at the same time—“

  “Sweetie, if I didn’t think the Guards could hold the fort for a few days, you know I wouldn’t even suggest going,” replied Ted.

  “I know,” she said. “I trust the guys, I just don’t trust Lentz. He’s behaving openly hostile. To both of you.”

  “And the way he talks to me…like I’m, a child!” Brin shriveled up her nose in anger. “It just pisses me off.”

  Erik pointed with his fork towards the pool. “Look, there’s Caesar now…I guess Pompey would be a better fit, actually.”

  “Pompous ass, that’s for sure,” muttered Ted. He slapped his thighs and stood up: “Well, I’ll go talk to him — hey, maybe it’ll cool things down if we’re gone a few days?” He got up amid protest from the women and walked over towards Lentz, humming a Marine Corps march cadence.

  Susan frowned, watching her children eat noisily. She suddenly got the feeling it would be very hard to feed her babies if they couldn’t get fish. She knew their food supplies, all of them, were getting dangerously low. Her heart was torn between her man and her children. In the end, she sided with her mother’s instinct. Sighing, she looked down at her half eaten breakfast, her appetite gone. “Well, I suppose we’ll be okay.”

  Erik and Brin shared a look. “I don’t want you to go either,” she said in a soft voice. “But we need the food.” Brin looked towards the pool deck where Lentz was shaking hands with Ted.

  “It’ll only be a few days. We�
�ll head to the marina soon, probably spend today scavenging and getting ready, then head out tomorrow, maybe the next day too. I can teach Ted how to sail, then see what we catch.” He ruffled the hair of Susan’s eldest son. “Would you like to eat some grilled fish?”

  The little boy, spitting image of Ted, squinted up at the red haired giant that was his daddy’s friend. “Can we bar-b-que it, mister Duke?” Susan stifled a laugh, Brin didn’t. Erik flushed. He was saved from a response when the boy’s half-sister found something “gross” by the pond. The boy jumped up, bar-b-que fish already forgotten and scampered off to investigate the new find.

  When Ted returned he found all three adults laughing as they cleaned up from breakfast. They stored the leftover water in bottles, packed up the food that could be saved and Susan had one of the children take the leftovers to Bernie. Waste was a cardinal sin anymore.

  “Well, Lentz actually thinks it’s a good idea.”

  Erik stopped in his tracks, hands full of dirty dishes. “He what? He just reminded me the fishing plan was cancelled, just yesterday.” Erik could feel the heat rush into his face.

  Ted raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, before I could say that, he said maybe he and the new council were too hasty. That we should just test it first and implement it on a larger scale if it’s a success.”

  “I don’t know whether to be relieved, happy, or suspicious,” commented Erik as Brin took the plates from him.

  “I’m all three,” mumbled Susan.

  “Well, I’ll be glad to help with the munchkins, Susan!”

  “Thank you, Brin,” Susan said with sincerity. “I was thinking, maybe we could get a homeschooling program set up. What do you think?”

  “You know, that would give a lot of parents a break if we could get all the kids together and have classes…” agreed Brin.