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

by Marcus Richardson

  “So…” said Captain Williams from behind them. “What’s it going to be, gentlemen? I have to tell you, before you answer,” he said, holding his hand up again to forestall Erik from speaking. “I liked how you operated, both in the apartment complex and on that boat. That’s the kind of soldier we try to train, but you got it naturally. I’d be proud to have you with us.”

  Erik and turned slowly to face the soldier. “What about boot camp? Training? Hell, I don’t even know when to salute or say ‘sir’ or…anything!” Erik said. He was trying to convince himself he hadn’t made up his mind, but Ted knew otherwise.

  Captain Williams smiled. “You know how to shoot an M-4. You know who the bad guys are. That’s all you really need to know. Besides, that’s where I come in. Don’t think that we’d just take anyone off the streets and throw a uniform on ‘em and expect them to be all they could be. The world has changed, son. Everything’s changed. What I want from you two is reconnaissance. I know it says staff,” he said, holding up the paper. “But this is war. I don’t need a staff. I need eyes and ears out ahead of me.”

  Ted turned around with a dark smile. “Now that I can do.”

  “I thought you’d say that,” grinned Captain Williams. “Here’s the deal: you two swear the Oath, I give you guns and gear and you range out ahead of us or go where I tell you to and scout things out. My men are going to spearhead the battalion, and I can’t go blundering north blind as a bat.” He put his hands on his hips, gripping the web belt at his waist. “It’s a long way to the other side of Orlando and there’s gonna be a lot of tight spots I hope to avoid. You two and some other’s we’ve picked up along the way will keep the main column clear of hotspots.”

  “Uniformed?” asked Ted.

  “No,” Captain Williams shook his head. “You’re going to be auxiliaries. Suit yourselves, BDUs or plainclothes. As long as you get me the info and cause some damage to the enemy, do what you want.”

  “So if we get caught, we’re hung as spies,” grumbled Erik. “Awesome.”

  “No war is without risk. That’s the nature of the game. And don’t fool yourselves. This is a full blown invasion.”

  Erik sighed again. Ted did nothing but watch him. “Well,” said the younger man. “Captain Williams I’ll be honest with you. I want to go north. Way north. My wife and I…we intend to head for Upstate New York. I have family there…”

  “I see,” said Captain Williams, his face downcast.

  “So you’ll understand…when this is over, I want to be turned loose to head north.”

  Captain Williams looked at Ted. Ted shrugged. The soldier turned back to the big civilian. “You help me out, son, and get us north of Tampa and I’ll make sure you get a damned armored escort north.”

  “Well,” Erik rubbed his hands together nervously. “Then I guess I’m with you.” He grinned, mind made up. “Do I call you Captain, or—“

  “’Sir’ will do just fine.” Captain Williams smiled. “I’m damn happy you two decided to join us. I hope you’ll understand, seein’ how we’re a bit pressed for time…I ah, took the liberty to…” he looked over his shoulder. “Sergeant!”

  Another soldier came through the door, arms fully loaded with gear. He was about as tall as Ted but had arms like Erik’s thighs. Where Erik was pale skinned, this man was dark, almost copper-skinned. His high cheekbones and long face told Erik of his Native American ancestry.

  “This is Sergeant Pinner. He was born and raised in the piney woods of central Florida. He knows this land like the back of his hand. He’ll be part of your squad. I trust you’ll respect his advice.” The Captain turned to the new soldier. “Sergeant, this here is Major Jenson and Lieutenant Larsson. Lieutenant, the Sergeant here is going to be your aide de camp.”

  Erik raised an eyebrow. The soldier grunted and deposited the gear on the table. “Sirs, I got you everything you’ll need but the guns. Rucksacks, boots, load bearing vests and helmets. Camo BDUs look like hunting outfits anymore, so I figured you might want them.” He stood back up and looked from Erik to Ted. His eyes met Ted’s and the two men watched each other for a few moments before Ted nodded. The Sergeant looked back at Erik as if he was appraising a horse before a race.

  Ted started to pick up some gear and get dressed. Erik slowly followed suit, still not quite believing what he was doing. The Sergeant stepped forward to assist him with the vest and connected it to his belt.

  “I know this is a shock to you, Larsson. But…well, there’s a lot of that going around lately,” Captain Williams said. He watched impassively as Erik and Ted got themselves equipped. “We’ll administer the Oath in a minute. First I want you to get over to the quartermaster and draw weapons. Pinner, take ‘em over.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ted glanced at Erik and smiled. “Damn you look like a real dirty grunt.”

  “How are we going to explain this to the girls?” asked Erik as Ted adjusted his helmet for a better fit. “I feel like we’re just pretending. It’s like Halloween.”

  “I’ll handle that,” replied Ted. “I’ve got lots of practice at The Talk.”

  “Jesus….I just joined the Army…” muttered Erik. Then he laughed. “Well, Grandpa would be proud.” Erik suddenly felt nervous. Hiding on a boat during a battle was one thing. Now he’d have to take part in it and stare down enemy soldiers, professionals. A quivering fear snaked itself around his heart and squeezed for a split second.

  What the hell am I doing?

  Sergeant Pinner seemed to read his mind. “Don’t worry, sir. It’s my job to make sure you stay alive. And kick some European ass while we’re at it.”

  Erik laughed. “In that case, I better bring you along when we tell Brin.”

  Outside, the battalion prepared to retreat north.

  Captain Williams looked over their shoulders out the window.

  “Today we retreat. Tomorrow, we fight back.”

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  Books by Marcus Richardson

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  Los Angeles, California.

  I HATE THESE things!” said Mike’s static-filled voice.

  Cooper grinned and adjusted his earbud radio receiver as he watched the dark surf flash by under his feet. He loved the feeling of freedom that filled his being when he was sitting on the platform strapped to the side of a Killer Egg. He turned his head to look through the open cavity body of the MH-6M Little Bird as it hugged the coast heading toward Los Angeles.

  “No better way to see the sights, Beaver,” was Jax’s scratchy reply from the other side of the small special operations helicopter.

  “Hooyah!” someone yelled.

  Cooper checked his dive watch and noted the time. 18:49. He glanced straight out to sea and could see the vestigial glow of the sunset over the long horizon line. A little behind and to the port side, the second fireteam of his platoon flew along in formation. Four more SEALs were sitting on that small helicopter. Two other
Little Birds were on the starboard side of his own, carrying 8 more SEALs. Team 9 was going in full-strength on this mission.

  He could barely hear himself think over the roar of the six-rotor engine a few feet above his head. That was fine, actually. He rather enjoyed the relative calm of this part of a mission. It didn’t matter if he was flying in the back of a heavy transport ready to do a HALO jump, clinging to the side of an SDV fifty feet below the ocean surface, or sitting on a bench on the outside of a helicopter racing along the Pacific Coast.

  God, what a job. Cooper was savoring this reprieve from his forced-retirement, but regretted knowing this might really be his last mission. He tried not to think about that and tightened the brace on his right knee.

  If it weren’t for the fact that the President’s personal security was at risk, he doubted he would have been tapped to lead his fireteam one last time. But the LT went to his defense and was adamant to the higher-ups: it was Cooper or bust.

  The pilot swung wide out over the ocean, about a half mile off shore of downtown Los Angeles, dipping the starboard side down. The maneuver rotated Cooper over onto his back so he was able to get a good look at the night’s crop of stars popping out of the deep purple sky.

  Something caught his eye. “You see that, Beaver?” he asked Mike, sitting next to him on the Little Bird’s port outrigger bench. “Ships on the horizon…”

  “Say again?”

  “I thought I saw ships on the horizon…”

  Mike leaned forward, looking. He shook his head. “There’s nothing there. Better get you some bifocals when we get back, old man,” he chuckled. Cooper held up his middle finger.

  The pilot’s no-nonsense voice crackled over their headsets: “Coming up on final approach. Viper flight, hit the deck.”

  In perfect formation, Cooper watched the trailing Little Bird swoop gracefully through the turn and then angle down to where it, along with Cooper’s vehicle, was skimming the ocean swells, just fifteen feet above the waves. He leaned out around Mike and could see the lights along the Santa Monica Freeway rapidly approaching. Cooper noticed how deserted the shoreline was as they roared toward the glittering line of white that was Santa Monica State Beach. He had heard that the flu was getting bad, but never thought it would empty the beach on a fine day like today.

  “Anyone want to stop at the Pacific Park?” asked Charlie from the second bird as they flew over the park. Cooper grinned, watching the few people walking around The Pier look up in surprise as the four small black helicopters split the peaceful evening air and flew overhead in an arrowhead formation.

  “Nest, Viper Lead. Viper flight is feet dry,” reported the pilot.

  “Roger that, Viper Lead,” replied the voice of the mission handler back at base.

  They followed the Santa Monica Freeway for a few minutes before approaching their destination. “Two minutes,” reported the pilot.

  “Get your shit wired SEALs, this is the real deal,” Cooper called out.

  He looked to his own load-out and checked his HK MP5 submachine gun. The integrated red-dot/laser and a rail-mounted tactical light, were all functioning properly. The front grip was secure and ready. One magazine fully loaded, a round in the chamber, and 4 more across the front of his tactical vest. He had his radio, a pouch loaded with M-79 rounds for the ‘pirate gun’ he had strapped to his pack. He also had an old K-Bar that had been handed down to him from his father, a Marine in the First Gulf War.

  “There’s the interchange…forty seconds…” announced the pilot. “Viper Two, on me. Viper Three and Four, take the triangle and call it.”

  “Roger that, Viper Lead.”

  “Shifting for approach on your starboard,” answered one of the pilots behind Cooper’s aircraft.

  “Viper Four has starboard flank.”

  “Here we go ladies…stay frosty,” said Cooper. The silence he received by way of reply was expected and comforting. His men were locked, cocked and ready. Nothing else need be said. They had executed protection-extraction missions before in enemy territory, under fire. Here, flying over Los Angeles at sunset, would be pure cake, but no one was slacking off.

  As he focused on the odd, arrow-shaped building that was All Saint’s Hospital, the sky behind him suddenly lit up to noon-bright.

  “Missile!” someone yelled.

  “Holy shit!” screamed Charlie.

  “SAM lights, Viper flight, evasive! Scatter!” yelled Cooper’s pilot. Without further warning, he pulled the Little Bird into a gut wrenching dive that caused the world to spin past Coopers head in a dizzying blur. The other pilots responded, creating a confusing jumble of chatter in Cooper’s ear.

  “Nnnnnh…” someone grunted.

  “Hang on!” roared Cooper.

  “Rooftop, two o’clock low, here comes—”

  Another explosion lit up the early evening sky, this time right in front of Cooper. Two screams were cut off in a hiss of static. As his own pilot forced the little helicopter to gyrate and drop even lower, he could see parts of the unfortunate Viper 3 and its passengers shoot out in all directions from the fireball.

  “No!” someone roared.

  “LT!” Cooper heard himself scream.

  “Taking small arms fire,” warned the pilot. “Hang on back there.”

  “I got targets on three rooftops—aaah!” yelled Jax.

  “Jax’s hit!” said Petty Officer Alexander Knuteson from the other side of the helicopter.

  Cooper was desperately scanning the buildings blurring past his field of view looking for targets. The pilot was flying forward even faster now, nose down, zipping in between buildings. Muzzle flashes to Cooper’s left caught his eyes as he struggled to keep his head level in the wind.

  “Tangos, seven o’clock high, the rooftop! Light ‘em up!” Cooper called out. He pulled his MP5 to his side and fired a burst in the general direction of the figures on the roof of the apartment building they roared past. He had little hope of hitting anything with the pilot jerking the aircraft as if he were flying drunk, but at least it gave the enemy something to think about. Three more weapons spat fire and bullets from his helicopter. He could see flashes coming from behind them and knew Charlie’s fireteam was shooting back as well. The broad starburst of Jax’s M60 shredded windows where someone had taken a few pot-shots at their aircraft.

  The pilot came to an intersection and dove for the street. Cooper felt sick to his stomach. That had never happened to him before. Making a hard bank to port, the pilot hung Cooper and Mike were almost low enough to touch the cars below. Cars, delivery trucks, motorcycles, and scooters were squealing out of the way of the little black helicopter as it cruised through the intersection doing 80 miles an hour only ten feet off the deck.

  Cooper got a blurred glimpse of windows exploding and more muzzle flashes. “They’re everywhere!” someone called out. Loud metallic pings and pops echoed around Cooper.

  “We’re taking damage,” grunted the pilot. “Losing hydraulics…hang on!” The helicopter was smoking now, leaving a curling black trail in the air about ten feet above street level. Cooper could see people running for cover.

  “There’s a parking garage, dead-ahead. Hit the roof, Viper Two!”

  “I’m right on your six…”

  “Ten seconds,” warned the pilot.

  As the Little Bird flared out over the upper level of the garage, dirt, gravel, and thick acrid smoke flew up into the faces of the four SEALs. Cooper ignored the stinging from his face and was thankful he had his clear goggles on. Ten feet, five…

  “Now!” he called out. Safety straps were ripped clear and his SEALs leapt from the still moving helicopter and rolled clear. In a heartbeat, the pilot hit the throttle and powered the aircraft up and away, engine whining, heading north in a cloud of smoke.

  As the Killer Egg lifted out of his line of sight, he could see the last remaining helicopter perform a similar maneuver on the building across the alley. It was a five-story medical building with
a few large air-conditioner units and heli-pad on the roof.

  In seconds, the helicopters had passed from sight and slipped in between taller buildings, effectively leaving the remaining SEALs in silence.

  “Cover, now!” hissed Cooper. His black-clad squad crouch-walked to the edge of the roof and ducked down below the short facade. They were in near-darkness – there was only one light on the roof, glaring balefully above the single roof-access door.

  “Ell-Tee?” Cooper said. He checked the frequency on his radio. “Echo? Stumpy, Little John—anyone, come in…”

  “What the fuck was that?” called out Charlie’s voice over the net.

  “Head count,” said Cooper, angrily pulling his clear eye-shield off his helmet. He looked at his fireteam.

  Swede was finishing up a field patch on Jax’s left arm. On his other side, Mike was peeking over the edge of the building with his next-gen night-vision goggles already in place.

  “Team 1, good to go,” Cooper said, satisfied that his squad was combat-ready.

  “Team 2 good to go. I think we lost both birds,” said Charlie from the next building’s rooftop.

  “I know,” Cooper said through gritted teeth. “Those assholes were waiting for us –“

  “On our whole flight path?” said Charlie’s voice in disbelief. “That’s not possible…”

  “Someone must have gave them our flight path. It was a Goddamn trap. In Los Angeles.” He punched the graveled roof by his side in frustration, but calmed himself after a second and called out, “Nest, this is Striker One, Actual, do you read me?”

  He got no response.

  “Hey Coop, I see some of ‘em on the building across the block to the south. I count six,” whispered Mike. “They’re right between us and the hospital.”

  “Nest, Striker One, Actual, do you read me?” Cooper called out again. Static was the response. “Tank, keep trying to raise fleet.”