After America ww-2

by John Birmingham

  Yusuf was stunned. He'd had no idea any of the families were even on the main island of the city. Although he had no woman of his own yet, he understood that all the families of the warrior-settlers were maintained safe and far away from the fighting. When he thought of them caught up in Kipper's infernal war, his reaction was identical to that of his comrades-outrage. The emir gestured for calm again before the men's anger could run away with them.

  "A small party ventured downtown a few days ago after we received reports of a sizable food store that remained untouched. They set out before the current fighting began, gathering supplies for the main family camp, when they came under fire from the Americans' artillery. Soldiers soon followed, and they took shelter, hiding nearby in the public library. They are still there now with just a handful of guards. The American numbers are small, just a platoon of militia, but more will surely follow. We need to get them out, along with whatever supplies they have salvaged, and then we need to hold that position as long as possible. You need to hold that position as long as possible. If you can do that, if you can give me the time, I will prepare a trap for the infidel that will break him at last. I ask you now, as men of the the Fedayeen Ozal, my very finest warriors, who is willing to give up his life that our women and children might live and our enemies fail?"

  The answering roar drowned out the sound of the rain and the rumble of battle for the first time Yusuf could recall. They ran, heedless of the rain that lashed at them, sometimes making it impossible to see more than half a block ahead. They ran, heedless of the many pitfalls and traps that lay in their way. Half-submerged wreckage and debris on which a man might trip and shatter his leg. Lethal depths, open manholes, yawning concrete mouths where rusted steel grates had given way and now lay like the jaws of the city, waiting to consume anyone foolish enough to fall headlong into them. They ran, bounding over barricades of crashed cars, darting inside the husks of looted shops whenever the dull chopping thud of rotor blades echoed through the empty canyons above them, warning of the approach of American helicopter gunships. They ran carrying the burden of their weapons and the extra ammunition they had been given, weight they bore by dropping food they would not need. They ran even when their legs grew hot and their muscles trembled and terrible barbed knots of pain spread through their bodies, starting as stitches in their guts and flaring into white-hot incandescent flames that burned their lungs. They ran without checking for snipers. Or mines. Or the cruder man traps left by the pirates and bandits who had passed through here before them. They ran counting the blocks they passed, but only at first. They ran when they lost count, and they ran all the harder when they had no idea how much farther they had to run. A couple of blocks from their destination Yusuf heard the crack and bark of small arms fire. The rain that had served to cover their passage down the long avenue that ran down to the library building had eased off, allowing him to spot the muzzle flashes of the American militia well before he blundered into them. Tony Katumu proved his worth immediately, pulling Yusuf and the other men of the saif off the main boulevard and nearly half a block to the east, where they threaded their way through a shambles of collapsed scaffolding, overturned buses, and crushed taxicabs in front of some sort of school or university.

  "If we cut through here, we can get into the library through a park just behind it," Tony said. "Without the Americans seeing us."

  Fighters from maybe half a dozen more saif had followed Yusuf and his men for no reason other than they looked like they knew where they were going. As they waded through filthy knee-deep water, the spasmodic gunfire increased in intensity. The other fighters were presumably engaging the enemy on the street. Yusuf wished he had some way of coordinating with his fellow saif commanders, but none of them had radios, and indeed they had never been trained to use them, even if they'd been able to salvage some. Instead, he was forced to do as commanders had done for millennia.

  "Quickly, gather on me," he cried out. The small war band, maybe twenty or thirty men strong, all of them heaving and gulping for air after their long run down through the city, followed him under a tower of iron scaffolding from which torn and ragged sheets of plastic flapped in the wind and rain. He hoped it would be enough to hide them should any Americans fly over. With everyone undercover, he explained the simple plan.

  "We are going to follow Tony through this block and across the road into a park behind the library where our people are trapped. We cannot get in through the front doors without being seen, but I hope… I am certain that God willing there will be another way in from the rear. If there is, we will take it. We will rescue our women and children, and the men of one saif will escort them back."

  He could tell from the way the men looked at one another that nobody was likely to volunteer for a task that involved running away from the infidel.

  "There is no shame in doing this," he insisted loudly. "Not only will those men bring honor to the Fedayeen Ozal, but they can aid the fight of those who stay here by returning with reinforcements and ammunition. We are going to need both because many Americans will die by our hands here today."

  He finished his speech with a rousing war shout, or as rousing as a boy of his age could manage when addressing a band of hardened fighters, many of whom were older than he. It worked, however. The men answered fiercely with their own shouts and cries.

  "Let us go, then," he said loudly over the drumming of the rain on the discolored plastic sheeting above them. "Tony, you lead."

  Tony Katumo seemed to stand a few inches taller with pride as he called out, "Follow me," and led the combined fedayeen of half a dozen saif into the fight.

  44

  Kansas City, Missouri On what level of hell do we find these people? thought Kipper.

  The satellite link was not the best, and at times the woman on the screen disappeared behind a blizzard of electronic snow. When the reception was good, however, there could be no mistaking the murderous look in her eyes. It was, thought the president, something akin to true madness, but a cold and watchful madness.

  "I'm sorry, Mister President," the woman shouted over the noise of the big military aircraft, "but my mission parameters are slightly different from that. I am not equipped for the sort of task you want me to undertake, nor do I have any of the overwatch or support I would need. I am on my own, sir, and hostile rendition is not my mission specialty."

  She's an assassin, Kip thought. She's going into New York to kill this guy, and she has no interest in anything else. He did his best to keep his reactions under control so that Ms. Monroe could not see him shaking his head in dismay. She bounced and shook on screen as the laptop into which she was talking was affected by turbulence. He wondered why they bothered with the encrypted video link. It seemed to make things just that much harder. He knew that Jed could feel him tensing up as the exchange went on and tried to wave off his chief of staff without the gesture being picked up by the little camera at his end of the exchange. The woman-the agent, he reminded himself-seemed to have little trouble maintaining her self-possession. But then, he thought, she probably wouldn't be very good at her job if she lost her cool at the first provocation or frustration.

  "Agent Monroe," he said trying to find the reasonable tone of voice he used when he was looking to avoid a fight with Barb. "I can understand this is difficult for you. They told me what happened to your family and that this Baumer guy, this emir or whatever he's calling himself now, was behind it…"

  Although that does raise the question of what the hell you're even doing working this case, he thought but did not say.

  "And we are indebted to you for tracing him so quickly to New York. But we need him alive if at all possible. I know it won't be easy. But they tell me you are very good at what you do…"

  "What I do, Mister President, is kill people. On orders from a duly constituted authority. I am the people's executioner, sir, not their fucking dogcatcher."

  The madness, or maybe it was just the anger, in her eyes finally flared,
and Kipper was able at last to see the human being to whom he was speaking to rather than a flat, affectless functionary who seemed more than happy to hide behind the bursts of static that frequently interfered with their connection.

  "… orry, Mr. President," she said as she emerged from a cloud of white noise. "I apologize for my outburst. But my point remains. New York is a combat zone, and Bilal Baumer is deeply entrenched there. He will be surrounded by his people, all of whom are tooled up for major combat operations. I cannot just walk in and put a bag on him. I can, however, decapitate his command and control network."

  "You mean kill him," Jed Culver said, taking the opportunity to speak at last. The secure communications room was small, not much more than an annex to the main area where the military had set up all its electronic gear and from which they were able to monitor the battle in New York in real time. Jed was forced to lean across as he spoke.

  "I mean kill him and everyone around him, including his first rank of commanders," the Echelon agent replied. Again, Kip had to stop himself from shaking his head. She was an unremarkable-looking woman, quite pretty but not at all as physically imposing as he would have expected. From what he could see of her on the little screen, she did not look much bigger through the shoulders than his wife, and once when she brushed a few strands of hair out of her eyes, he could see that her hands, although strong-looking and possibly a little scarred across the knuckles, were not as big as his own. He could not help but wonder what life paths had led her to be in a C-130, flying through the night toward the slaughterhouse of Manhattan. She seemed no more concerned by what she was heading into than Barb did when heading off to Pike Place Market. Less so, probably.

  Kipper was about to speak when Jed cut in over the top of him again.

  "Of course, the president could order you to secure Mister Baumer," he said.

  The woman appeared to smile behind the wash of static that briefly obscured her. "Yes, Mister Culver, he could. And I would die trying. But then you would have nothing. At least my way you have a chance to disrupt their command of the battle, and that can only mean fewer American casualties." She appeared to be looking directly at Kip as she said that.

  "How long before you go in?" the president asked in a resigned tone.

  She didn't need to check. "I have forty-three minutes until I jump," she said.

  "And how can you possibly locate him?" Kipper asked.

  "It won't be easy, sir, but the army and air force have sent through their latest intelligence, which will be a big help. And they have some good scans of midtown. Thermal imaging. There's a pretty little heat bloom coming out of the old Plaza Hotel and some foot traffic in the area that seems to indicate it's some sort of staging post. I'll start there. It's right in the middle of their turf and very close to my insertion point."

  "But how are you going to-" Kipper started to ask before Jed laid a hand on his forearm and squeezed gently, shaking his head. "Sorry, natural curiosity. I don't need to know."

  Kipper was sweating under the armpits and wondering what sort of leadership model he must be presenting to this strange homicidal female. He knew that many in the military were uncomfortable serving under a president who'd never served a day in uniform and was famously reluctant to commit to military action. But at least they took their uniforms off at the end of the day. This woman, this killer… he knew from his briefing notes that she had a family and that they were largely the reason for her involvement in all this. But nothing about her demeanor suggested a nurturing or loving side. She didn't have a uniform to take off. She was a killer down to her core.

  "Okay, look," he said. "I've made it something of a virtue in this job not to question the judgment of people in the field. I didn't like it when politicians used to do it to me, and I don't intend to start doing it to anybody else. Agent Monroe, you know best how to do your job, so I will leave you to do it. It will be difficult enough as it is. I acknowledge your point that taking out Baumer's leadership group should go a long way toward reducing our casualties. But do bear in mind that it would be of enormous value to us if we could talk to this character, whether he's their emir or sheikh or whatever he's calling himself or whether he's just middle management. Because if he is, snuffing him out might well end this fight, but there will be another one in the future. You mark my words."

  The woman disappeared again inside a brief wash of static and white noise. When she reemerged, she was nodding. "… do what I can, sir."

  "We are all doing what we can, Agent Monroe," Kip said. "I thank you for your efforts. I know they have taken you away from your family at a difficult time, and I know what you're doing is very dangerous."

  She looked as though she was about to say something, but the screen went black and a single electronic tone replaced the audio feed.

  "Looks like we lost her," Jed said.

  Kipper leaned back from the screen over which he'd been hunched without realizing it. He let go a long, ragged breath.

  "Jesus, Jed, where the fuck did she come from? And what the hell is she doing chasing after this guy when she has a personal involvement?"

  The White House chief of staff pushed his chair back from the table. He seemed entirely nonplussed by the exchange with Agent Monroe. "She's here because she has a personal investment, Mister President. Agent Monroe is not supposed to be out in the field anymore."

  Kip stood just as Colonel Ralls opened the door to their small, enclosed hot box and relayed the apologies of the tech guys for losing the link. He waved away any concerns. Broken communications links were an unfortunate reality nowadays.

  "You have an update from Governors Island on the supply situation, sir," Ralls said.

  "Thanks, Mike. Just give us a moment, would you?"

  His military aide backed out of the room, closing the door behind him. Kip wished he'd left it open. Even the brief draft of slightly less stale air from the big combat information center outside had been refreshing.

  "You were impressed with Agent Monroe, Jed," Kipper said. "I suppose she appeals to your Machiavellian side. And before you answer, just know that I am deeply unhappy to find out we ever had assassins on our payroll, let alone that we are still employing them."

  Culver broke the seal on a new bottle of water and sipped before he replied, "Well, technically, she works for the Brits now. Her file has her on attachment to them as a consultant since 2003. She transferred from U.S. line management after her mission in Paris went south."

  Kip deployed one of his darkest, most skeptical glares to let his chief of staff know he was not impressed with the rhetorical footwork. It only seemed to inspire Culver to come right back at him.

  "Okay. Am I impressed with her? Yes, dammit. I am. I didn't have a lot of time to read the deep background on the woman. London only told us about her mission, which was effectively freelance, about two hours ago. But yes, what little I've been able to find out about her does impress me. For one thing, she came this close to nailing the rat bastard who's been giving us so much grief on Manhattan and who, I might point out, came very close to taking your life and mine, before going on to cause us thousands of casualties. Frankly, Kip, if I knew we had the option of turning someone like her on this fucking tinpot mad mullah and saving ourselves all of the blood and sadness we've had to suck up the last few days, I would not have hesitated to recommend doing so."

  Kip knew that Culver was getting deadly serious whenever he dropped the honorifics. He was tempted to launch into a little speech about how his administration could not sanction murder, but it felt hollow with so many lives already lost in New York. Unlike Jed, he could not find it within himself to admire somebody who made her living from killing in the shadows. He had to acknowledge that Monroe had done them a great service in confirming the theory that the recently arrived jihadi fighters were playing an entirely different game from that of the pirate gangs scavenging the eastern seaboard. But he just could not see himself allowing any government of which he was the leader to re
main in the business of state-sponsored murder. And that was what Monroe was. Not a soldier. Not like Mike Ralls or Colonel Kinninmore or that poor, poor woman he had visited in the hospital. She was a publicly funded serial killer.

  "For now, I am willing to let her out on a long leash," said Kip. "But don't get any ideas about coming back to me in the future with plans to bring Agent Monroe home so you can call on her services for any other outstanding issues. And you know what I'm talking about, who I'm talking about."

  Culver shook his head. "Caitlin Monroe was very happily settled down on her farm in Wiltshire before Bilal Baumer tried to reach out and fuck with her. She could have come home, but she didn't. I think she understood she wouldn't be welcome."

  Kipper began moving toward the door, steering his chief of staff toward the exit with him. He couldn't fail to recognize the tone of disapproval in Culver's voice, just as he noted that Jed had not answered him directly, deftly sidestepping the issue of Agent Monroe's future. "I am sorry, Mister President," General Franks said on the screen back in the main room of the improvised combat center. "We do have stockpiles of weapons, but they're dispersed all over the country, often in places we haven't even surveyed yet. Funding for those survey teams is tight at the best of times, which draws out our lead time to exploit and recover ordnance, weapons, parts, and the like from any given site."

  Kipper rubbed the palms of his hands deep into his eye sockets. Painkillers had no effect on his headache, which had started well before he spoke to Caitlin Monroe and now gripped his head like an iron glove. His stomach quivered as the room threatened to begin spinning around him.

  "Everyone assured me that we had more than enough firepower," he said. "Not enough men but plenty of firepower."

  "On paper we do, Mister President," Franks said.