“I know,” said the Admiral in a quiet voice as if reading his carrier captain’s mind. “Will he do it? Sink civilians?”
Davis knuckled his back. He stifled a yawn and focused on the tactical display that depicted the locations of his squadrons. One circled Roosevelt itself. The ground-attack planes were on station over the foreign fleet and the interceptors—quickly running low on fuel—were still there as well.
“Nest, Hawk Lead—they’re not turning aside…” warned the voice of Lt. Cmdr. Riggs, one of his best pilots.
“Crazy bastards,” muttered Davis.
“They’ll turn,” said the Admiral. “Or Umbris will put ‘em on the bottom of the ocean. Either way, our problem will be solved.”
Roosevelt’s captain couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right about this situation. “Sir, have you considered the possibility that this is a trap?”
The Admiral grunted. He was quiet a moment, then nodded and spoke: “Yes, I have. If so, they’re going to be disappointed. I’m not splitting the Strike Group—not sending Anzio out to intercept. We’re going to stick together and bull our way through this…whatever it is.” He reached up and pointed at the floor-to-ceiling digital threat display. “If they’re up to something, I think two squadrons of F-35’s and Hampton are more than enough to wipe this little fleet off the map.”
“Torpedo in the water!” called out a seaman at the carrier’s defensive control center. “Hampton’s got a fish in the water, sirs.”
HAWK LEAD, YOU SEEIN’ this?” called out Jonesy’s voice. “I got a torpedo in the water—Hampton’s firing on them!”
“Christ,” muttered Riggs. He pulled his Lightning into a gradual turn to starboard so he could get a better view. Sure enough, a long white snake was inching its way towards the little fleet. From this altitude, Hampton looked more like a shark than a submarine.
“You are firing at us!” screamed the Russian captain’s voice. “We have not provoked—”
The torpedo found its mark and the first ship in the fleet, the one flying the French flag, seemed to stop in its tracks—as if it had run into an invisible wall in the ocean. A fireball emerged from the bow and obliterated the front section of the ship. Riggs was amazed to see chunks of steel and decking splash into the water around the front of the doomed ship.
“Nest, Hampton has engaged. First ship has been hit. Repeat, Hampton has engaged. Please advise,” Riggs said into his mic. He was not relishing firing on the unarmed merchant vessels—especially that cruise ship—but the stubborn bastards were deliberately calling the Old Man’s bluff.
Stupid.
After a brief pause in which Riggs could only hear the whistling of the wind and the whoosh of his on-board oxygen system, his radio broke squelch: “Hawk Lead, Nest, you are weapons-free to engage enemy targets. Hammer Flight is on your six O’clock high and will be on station in ten, over.”
“Hawk Lead copies all, out.” He switched to his squadron frequency. “All right Hawks, you heard the man, weapons-free. Call your targets. Let’s get this over with and go home.”
“I don’t like this man,” said Jonesy as he formed up off Riggs’s wingtip for their attack run.
Riggs looked out the cockpit to his wingman’s plane and nodded. “I don’t either.” He watched as Jonesy opened the missile bay doors and two heat-seeking anti-aircraft missiles emerged from the belly of his stealth fighter. Riggs flipped the switch to arm his own missiles and heard the electric motors whine as he prepared for combat.
Below, Hampton had fired three more torpedoes. Two had already found their marks. Three ships were on fire—the French vessel was already half under the waves. There were people in the water now and a few life rafts.
“Please stop this! We are not armed—this is a violation of international—”
Riggs angrily silenced his radio. He set his jaw and ordered his squadron to attack.
“This is not cool…” said Jonesy.
“Cut the chatter, Two,” Riggs said, immediately regretting his tone. Jonesy deserved better than that. In a more controlled voice, Riggs added, “Remember, Hawks, these jokers—their countries—have declared war on us. They have deliberately attacked us and killed our people—your shipmates, your fellow aviators. Your brothers in arms. These guys are trying to get in front of the Big Stick to slow us down, to keep us from getting home. Remember that,” he said, adjusting the settings on his wildly chirping targeting computer. Damn thing was trying to tell him he was not targeting an aircraft, as if he didn’t know.
The cross-hairs turned red. “These assholes may not be armed, but they are just as dangerous as their buddies. The Old Man said nothing was going to stop us from getting home. That’s just too damn bad for Ivan down there.” His computer stopped chirping and began to buzz.
“I’ve got tone. Hawk Lead, fox two!” He pulled the trigger and felt the slight tremble as the first missile was loosed and shot forward like a smoke-trailing arrow toward the biggest target below—the cruise liner.
“Hawk Two, fox two!”
A chorus of missile launch alerts filled his headset. He saw white streaks appear in the sky from all directions as the squadron of Lightings tightened the noose on the fleet below. Riggs saw his missile detonate against the smoke stack of the cruise ship in a ball of fire. He closed his eyes and prayed for forgiveness then begged for the strength to do what had to be done. Jaw clenched in frustration, he fired another missile into the hapless, dying fleet of “protesters”.
This is murder.
CHAPTER 6
Assuming Command
MALCOLM STEPPED FROM THE armored car and let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting in the underground parking garage. He stretched and felt a wonderful crack in his lower back. It had been a long, tiresome journey, driving from Montreal to New York under cover of darkness these last few days.
His enormous bodyguard, Yossef frowned at their accommodations and walked around the car, looking for anything out of the ordinary. “It appears safe, Malcolm,” he said, his voice deep as the Hudson River.
Malcolm yawned and collected his briefcase. He had spent the car ride—and the downtime at safe houses during the day—making plans for New York. The Brotherhood’s last major city had to be held at all costs. His deal with the U.N. Secretary-General—his dream for America—depended on keeping New York free.
“There is no one to meet you.” The disgust in Yossef’s voice was clear as day.
“Yes, so it seems,” replied Malcolm. He patted his doting guard on one massive arm and tried to smile through the anxiety. Had something happened? “Come,” he said, motioning towards the only illuminated door in the dark cavernous garage. “Let’s see what we can find.”
“Malcolm, you are sure this is the right place?”
Malcolm grinned. “I assure you, Yossef, we are in the right place. This building is going to be my new headquarters.”
As they approached the door, Malcolm thought he could hear something. Almost like a moan. He paused, cocked his head and tried to listen. “Do you hear something?” he whispered.
Next to him, he heard the rustle of fabric and slight click of the safety on Yossef’s sidearm. The big man gently nudged Malcolm aside and made for the door, pistol out in front of him. It looked like a toy in his massive hand. “Stay back,” he rumbled.
Malcolm took a few more steps forward, not willing to alone in the near-darkness of the massive, empty garage. It was childish to be fearful—he was a grown man—but nonetheless he felt safer as he grew closer to his mountain of a bodyguard.
Each step echoed in the garage. The sound fought against a rhythmic thumping noise and definite moans that Malcolm could tell were emanating from the other side of the access door. He stopped in his tracks the instant he knew what was going on and frowned. Anger replaced anxiety and fear. He walked forward with a purpose, catching Yossef before the bigger man had reached the door.
Without a word, Malcolm grabbed the door a
nd flung it open. A shriek of surprise mixed with a groan of pleasure as a well-endowed Sister—topless with her shorts around her ankles—tumbled forward onto the ground at Malcolm’s feet.
A skinny, mostly naked and sweaty Brother yelped and fell over backwards in a futile attempt to cover his nakedness and fell unceremoniously on his ass in the lit stairwell.
“The fuck, man!?” he yelled as he rubbed his ass and tried to yank his pants up. He staggered to his feet and reached for his rifle, leaning casually against the cinder-block wall of the stairwell.
His erstwhile partner rose unsteadily to her knees and turned glassy, doe-like eyes on Malcolm. She wobbled there and tried to reach for Malcolm. “Ooh, hey baby…I was just finishing up…you want some too?” she said in a drug-induced sigh.
She rolled her eyes and giggled as Malcolm angrily swatted her groping hands away from his pants.
“What is the meaning of this…this outrage!?” roared Yossef. He pointed his pistol at the now cowering man.
Footsteps echoed down the stairwell as Malcolm collected himself and gently pushed the wretched Sister out of his way. She fell over on the hard concrete and giggled, sprawling on her back, exposing her nakedness even more. He frowned and stepped past her, focusing on the erstwhile guard.
“Oh…oh, shit…you’re him!”
“Yes,” growled Yossef. “Him.”
A sweaty man in spectacles barreled down the last flight of steps and staggered to a stop just short of the scene at the bottom. “Oh no,” he moaned.
Malcolm’s face lit up. “Samir!” He reached out and embraced his regional commander in a hug of sincere friendship. “My friend! I am glad to see you well.”
Samir grimaced as he pulled back from his leader’s embrace. “I apologize, Brother, this shameful—”
Malcolm waved him off. To be honest, he was more tired than angry and just wanted some unbroken sleep. But first he had to get a lay of the land. “Think nothing of it. I believe Yossef can ensure our friend will not be lax in his guard duties again,” he turned to Yossef. “Am I correct?”
“You are,” said the mountain in a voice so low with menace the guard, still on the floor trying to dress himself with shaking hands, seemed to pale. The half-naked woman threw up noisily and no one paid her any mind.
“Come, Brother, I want to take you to our command center…” Samir said, adjusting his glasses. His brow was covered in a sheen of sweat. “Such as it is.”
Malcolm followed his friend up the first flight of stairs. He tried to ignore the sound of Yossef as he slugged the negligent guard. The smaller man’s muffled cry of pain had no effect on Malcolm.
“What is the current situation?” he asked Samir.
“Get that woman covered up…” echoed Yossef’s voice as Malcolm and Samir passed the first level and continued to climb. Another faint thud and then the only sound Malcolm heard was his own footsteps and Samir’s explanation.
“The Man has been sending in scouts all throughout the city. We have found more than two dozen soldiers sneaking about. Sadly, most have escaped.”
Malcolm nodded serenely—more so for Samir’s nerves than his own. “I expected as much. Now that Chicago has fallen, New York is our last major city in the North. I have been out of communication with our Brothers and Sisters in the West and South—”
“Malcolm,” said Samir, pausing on the third floor landing. “Before we go any further, let me express my sincere condolences on the loss of…on your loss. Your brother will be missed. He was a true hero of the faith.”
The flash of anger that flared to life in Malcolm’s soul was quenched just as quickly as it was born. The genuine pain and sympathy in Samir’s eyes soothed Malcolm’s spirit. He nodded and put a hand on Samir’s thin shoulder.
“Thank you Brother. It means a great deal to me. Tahru is with Allah now, enjoying his eternal reward.”
“Allah hu Akbar,” intoned Samir with bowed head.
“Allah akbar,” replied Malcolm solemnly. He looked up and sniffed away a tear. “Now,” he said with a worried glance up the stairwell. “How many floors…?”
“Seven more, Brother. Our engineers have been working on the elevators using ropes, pulleys and muscles. We have no power and our fuel reserves are long since depleted. We have candles at night and nothing more.”
Malcolm sighed. How sad that the once mighty New York City could be reduced to such a…Medieval…state. “Come,” he said with a friendly slap on Samir’s shoulder. “Let us continue. Please,” he said and gestured for Samir to lead on. “What have you heard from our Brothers and Sisters elsewhere?”
Samir spoke over his shoulder in the darkened stairwell as they climbed, his voice struggling against the echoes of their shoes on the concrete steps. “From the West, we have heard almost nothing—we are hopeful that means our forces are holding their own. But the last news we had through the HAM network was that Los Angeles and much of Southern California has been reduced to ashes.”
“The fires,” nodded Malcolm. “Yes, tragic.”
“Some say it was the hand of our Brown Brothers that started the fires.”
Malcolm frowned. “Yes, I have heard.” How much was true he did not know, but he was sure that Hakim and his friends had been trying to use the Brotherhood all along.
“From the south we receive hourly reports about the Russians. They are intent on conquering Florida it seems. Perhaps even the whole of the south. Our Brothers still hold Tampa and parts of Orlando. Jacksonville is in ruins now and the Man is in retreat.”
“Well,” Malcolm said around a puff of breath. He winced as he stumbled into the next landing in the dark. “At least that is some good news.”
“About the only, I fear,” said Samir.
“Why do you say that?”
Samir sighed as he reached the sixth floor landing. “Our scouts on the mainland report the Man is beginning to grow his presence here. We were just starting to get a reliable flow of food and supplies from the nearest Burroughs—and now Army vehicles are starting to appear at strategic points. Bridges, tunnels, the main roads.”
“Are they in force?”
“No,” said Samir, relief evident in his voice. He paused to catch his breath at the next floor. “They move fast and never stay more than a few hours in the same spot. Some say it is only a few vehicles. I believe they are scouts for a much larger force.”
Malcolm nodded at his regional commander’s astute assessment. “I agree. They are probing our lines, trying to find the extent of our domain. We saw some similar tactics in Chicago.” He thought for a moment. “Are they concentrating anywhere? Anywhere at all? Where have they been seen the most?”
“Near the tunnels. Never in the tunnels, but on the far side from Manhattan.”
Malcolm shifted his briefcase to his left hand. The grip was sweaty and he nearly dropped it. How many more stairs, for the love of Allah?
A door crashed a few floors above them, the sound painful to Malcolm’s ears. He flinched. Samir paused and grew quiet.
“Samir!” a voice shouted from high above them. The sound echoed past them and disappeared into the stairwell abyss.
“Yes?” he answered.
“A scout has just radioed—he has found the Man at the Holland Tunnel!”
“Again?” asked Samir. He sighed and began climbing again.
“Yes—they are setting up lights—many vehicles and more men than we have seen since the first fighting!”
Malcolm heard Samir turn on the stairs. “It is starting.”
“Yes,” agreed Malcolm, his voice grim. “We must hurry—I need to see a map.”
Looks like I will get no sleep this night…
GENERAL STAPLETON STEPPED DOWN out of the Killer Egg helicopter and walked away from the still roaring rotors in a slight stoop. The instant he had taken the required number of steps from the small aircraft to be safe from the blades that cut the air above his head, he stood up straight.
He was st
anding in the middle of the great mass of roads that fed into the Holland Tunnel. Before him stretched the darkened skyline of New York City across the Hudson River. America’s First City. Gotham. Now just another name in a sad collection of pitch-black hell-holes spread across the humbled nation. Millions of people had been thrown into the Middle Ages: no running water, no sanitation, no food delivery, no electricity, no cops…the list went on.
One of his aides rushed to his side and saluted. The young man was in his full kit, complete to the helmet strapped on his head. Stapleton suppressed a grin. Another point of pride in the swirling shit-storm around him: even though his command staff were not used to being on the front line, they were acting like hardened veterans.
Because New York was about to be a war zone.
“Sir,” the lieutenant hollered over the roar of the helicopter as it lifted off in a cloud of dust and pebbles. “If you’ll come with me, I can take you to the command center.”
“Lead on, MacDuff,” Stapleton muttered. He always felt more alive when he was on the front lines. This was where he was meant to be, not hiding behind some desk and millions of dollars of technology and communications equipment half a world away from the fighting. A general should lead by example. A general should lead his men into battle. A general should lead.
Old Caesar had the right idea, he thought to himself as he passed a group of soldiers hauling gear into a Port Authority substation. A figure on the roof of the two story, narrow-faced little building was attaching one hell of a collapsible satellite dish to the roof. A ring of M-ATVs had their headlights on the building, providing illumination in the pitch-black night.
As they neared the building, Stapleton could hear more than one helicopter in the area. A line of headlights stretching to the west and north indicated the main body of his division as it approached. The first ones through had been the scouts and advance guard—men and women tasked with finding a suitable location for his field headquarters and for securing the access points to this side of Manhattan. The next group would be approaching more slowly, clearing the clogged highways and roads of cars abandoned during the height of the summer when the lights first went out and panic had gripped the Big Apple.
Sic Semper Tyrannis Page 8