Sic Semper Tyrannis

by Marcus Richardson

  Someone spoke in Russian and they didn't sound too happy. Erik ducked back around the corner and quickly trotted over to Susan’s cot.

  "Look, I don’t have much more time." He pulled Brin to her feet and kissed her gently. She melted into his arms and kissed him back with a surprising intensity.

  "Stay safe," she whispered and placed a finger on his lips.

  "I will—you too. Take care Susan and be ready. I’ll come for you."

  "I know." She forced a smile. “I love you,” she whispered.

  They held hands for a few more seconds until heavy footsteps behind them announced the arrival of Russian guards. They said something in their own language to each other and one stood forward, leveling his rifle at Erik's stomach.

  The other spoke: "You! Time’s up. Captain Stepanovich wants to speak with you. Now."

  AS ERIK WAS DRAGGED once more out of the interrogation building, he realized two things. One: the Russians had made a serious mistake in letting him see Brin. His resolve to resist their interrogations and find a way to escape had strengthened ten-fold. There was no force on earth that was going to keep him here now.

  Two: they let him view too much of the prison camp. The last interrogation had gone on for hours. His wrists were bloody from the tight ropes that burned him as he sat in the chair. His back ached and his knees throbbed from being beaten with rifle butts. He knew the side of his face was swelling—he couldn't breathe through his nose, so he figured it had been broken.

  But for the first time since he'd been captured, there was a fire in his belly. A rage, really. It burned at such a white-hot intensity, if there'd been 3 feet of snow on the ground, he could've walked unscathed in shorts and a T-shirt. One all-consuming thought had been drilled in his mind with every heartbeat.

  Revenge.

  He would avenge his wife against the Russians, he would kill the commander of this place. Erik vowed he would stand over Captain Stepanovich and smile as the man's blood spilled out around him on the ground. He was going to escape and he was going to make sure that he and the other soldiers burned this place to the ground.

  As he staggered back toward his own cabin in the dark, his customary guards on either side of him, Erik tried to glance about and detect any other useful information on the way. There were campfires set up around the other cabins. Most of them now had their own barbed wire fences—just like the one that enclosed the women and children.

  So… The Russians aren’t planning on leaving this place anytime soon. They seem to be strengthening their defenses and trying to make things at least little more comfortable for their prisoners. That's interesting.

  As they rounded the final cabin, Erik noticed with startling realization that his cabin, the farthest one into the woods from the others, had no fenced-in yard. There was no place for the men in his cabin to at least get some fresh air and exercise.

  One of the guards unlocked the door—Erik noticed it was a heavy chain with a padlock—kicked it open and before he could blink, Erik felt himself lifted off the ground and tossed through the door.

  He rolled over on his side, spitting dirt out of his mouth and groaning with pain that racked his body. Before the door could even start to shut, he felt a few pairs of hands gently help him to his feet.

  "You okay, sir?" asked a voice in the darkness.

  Someone was tried to wipe the dust off the front of his tattered and bloody uniform. "Sons of bitches really did a number on you this time, huh, sir?"

  Erik spit a glob of blood onto the dirt floor. He smiled in the darkness. "Didn't say a word," he muttered with pride.

  He felt more than one hand slap him on the back in congratulation. "We'll make a soldier out of you yet, sir!" That brought around of chuckles the darkness.

  Erik stood there rubbing the bloody wounds around his wrists. He quickly relayed the information that he had been able to gather about the location of the camp, the setup of the administration building, and especially the facilities for the women and children.

  "You done good, sir. You done real good. All right boys," said Purnell. "What do you think? Is it possible?"

  "Damn straight," said Tenet’s voice. "I have an idea…"

  "Does it involve me killing some Russians?" asked Erik in a low, dangerous voice.

  "Oh, hell yes, sir," said Tenet.

  "Then count me in. I got a score to settle with that Captain Stepanovich. He took me to see my wife," Erik said.

  The silence in the cabin was deafening. "Was she here, then?" asked Purnell.

  "Yeah, she's here. She's in with the other women and children." Erik explained how he’d met Brin and the situation of the other women and children. He told them where their buildings were in relation to the other buildings.

  A plan was finalized and Erik became the keystone of their escape.

  "All right then," said Purnell. "I doubt they’ll be back before sunrise. It's their pattern. So," he said with a clap his hands, “everybody try to get some shuteye, except for…” Erik could barely see the sergeant point to other soldiers. “You, you, and you. You're on first watch. When these bastards show up to grab Lt. Larsson in the morning, we’ll be ready for ‘em.”

  "Hooah," Erik growled.

  CHAPTER 19

  The Arrival

  MALCOLM STOOD AT THE base of the truck-mounted stairway and waited for the commanding officer of the Russian forces to exit the first plane to land at LaGuardia International. The Russian, another white man to Malcolm's everlasting displeasure, deigned to extend a hand and merely stood there staring at Malcolm for a few seconds. The military commander reeked of arrogance. Malcolm decided to break the ice first.

  "General, on behalf of the Brotherhood, I welcome you to New York City. The airport is yours."

  The general kept his eyes locked on Malcolm's for another second, just a moment too long into the awkward silence. He reluctantly tore his cold, gray eyes away and looked around the deserted airport. In the distance, Malcolm could see the ever present fires that raged out of control on the northern half of Manhattan Island.

  He frowned. Malcolm had sent people up there to take care of the wanton destruction. He figured sooner or later, the fires would spread south and engulf the whole island. Manhattan was his fortress, the last best hope for a Brotherhood victory. New York City had to be saved at all costs. The Russians were here to make that happen.

  He looked back at the Russian general who was issuing orders to his officers as they poured out of the plane.

  The city must be held, Malcolm told himself as he inwardly cringed at the sight of the foreign troops. Even if it means handing over temporary control to these fools.

  The general returned his gaze—reluctantly it seemed—to Malcolm and finally nodded. An awkward smile spread across his face. He spoke, but to Malcolm, it sounded like he had sandpaper in his mouth. Malcolm shook his head and shrugged.

  "Da, yes, yes I see. You do not speak Russian?"

  "Unfortunately not, general…?"

  "Kristanoff," the man barked. He put his hands on his hips and looked around the airport once more. Most of the terminals had passenger jets still parked there, empty since the crisis during the summer. "We will make use of these planes, yes? We will have them refueled and returning to Europe for more supplies and men by morning."

  "If you'd like, I can take you to where we've set up our regional headquarters…" Malcolm said one arm gesturing toward the air-traffic control tower. As they walked, Malcolm kept a close eye on the activities of the Russians. He was amazed they had just gotten off an international transoceanic flight. It must've been at least an 8 hour flight yet the men had a spring in their step and smiles on their faces as they unloaded plane after plane. Malcolm looked up in the sky at the glittering lights. There were at least 20 more planes coming in for a landing, their lights stretched far out over the ocean.

  "You have quite the army assembled here, general."

  The Russian looked up at the sky, watching the plane
s approach. The noise from all those jet engines was deafening. General Kristanoff had to yell to be heard. "Da! This is greatest air transport operation in Russian history. My country has ever undertaken. Thanks to you securing airport, it will be complete success!"

  Malcolm waited until they were in the relative peace and quiet of the main terminal before he spoke. "You should know, General Kristanoff,” he said, trying out the man’s name, “the airport is not yet 100% secure. The government has sent an army to drive me from this island. They mean to take back New York City and I fear they mean to take it the same way they took Chicago." When the general merely raised an eyebrow in question, Malcolm continued as they headed toward his headquarters. "The man in command on just on other side of Hudson River is the one who destroyed Chicago."

  "This man, this general, he attacked his own city? Chicago is great city, nyet?" asked the General as he took a proffered cup of coffee from a brother.

  Malcolm invited the general over towards a quiet corner of the command room where maps of New York City had been tacked up on the walls. He showed Kristanoff a particularly large map on the far wall next to a large window opening out over the tarmac. Another plane had landed in the time it took them to reach the room. Malcolm was amazed at the sight out the window: there were hundreds of Russians out there now.

  They are multiplying like cockroaches. Soon, he feared, we will be outnumbered and outgunned. He turned back to the map and pointed out the red dots on the west side of the Hudson, completely blockading Manhattan.

  "These indicate positions that we have scouted. This General Stapleton has set up positions here, here, and his main task force seems to be located right…here," he said pointing at the Holland tunnel entrance. "Just on the other side of this tunnel."

  Kristanoff moved closer and peered at the map, one hand rubbing his chin. "Da, I see. Excellent positioning. This man is a strategic." The Russian took a sip of coffee and made a sour face. "This coffee, I could never get used to it. Perhaps some tea?"

  Malcolm mumbled an order to one of his aides, who ran off to find some tea. "General Kristanoff, refreshments aside, do you think that you will have enough people to hold the city…or at least push General Stapleton out of the way? I need open access to the mainland in order to resupply and bring in more fighters."

  "Oh, not now… But soon." The general put the coffee cup down on a nearby table. “Have no worries, comrade, I require access to mainland as well.” He placed his hands behind his back and examined the map. "You know, I never dreamed of day when I stand here, in New York City. Invading United States." He shook his head and clucked to himself.

  Malcolm's eyes shifted to the large window as yet another plane landed. In the distance, one more appeared to be making its final approach.

  "I was under the impression that this was not an invasion—rather a component of the protectorate status under which the United States has been placed. This is a United Nations operation correct?"

  "Oh," said the Russian looking sideways Malcolm. "Of course. Of course. The Secretary-General assures me this is strictly peacekeeping mission. Your deal stands."

  Malcolm tapped the side of his leg in thought. "I recall a telephone conversation with the Secretary-General in which he proclaimed that you would be bringing…some sort of gift. He said it would help us to secure the region from the American military. What is this gift?"

  The Russian chuckled softly to himself. He turned towards the window and looked at the collection of military transports and civilian airplanes. LaGuardia Airport was large but it was starting to fill up. There were planes everywhere. Streams of Russian soldiers spread over the tarmac as they began to take up positions around the expanding perimeter.

  The last two planes to land appeared to be military cargo planes to Malcolm. Huge clamshell doors at the front and rear of the plane opened like the gaping maw of some enormous beast. A small army of crewmen spilled out of the aircraft to unload huge pallets wrapped in cargo netting. The general pointed at the second airplane.

  "They emerge from plane now."

  Malcolm focused on the indicated plane. A long shape appeared through the open nose doors. It looked like the airplane was a giant bird regurgitating food for its young. Whatever the object was, it seemed to have taken up the entire interior. "What is it?" Malcolm asked in a hushed voice.

  "That is GTB-3." The general turned to look at Malcolm and a wicked smile spread across his face. In the dim lighting of the air-traffic control building, he looked like the Devil himself. "It will ensure air superiority over New York City. Is highest powered directional electronic jamming device in world. We will install atop one of…” Kristanoff paused, his face creased in thought. “Da! Skyscraper. We will install atop skyscraper downtown and it will protect skies from American interference over all Manhattan—probably mainland as well."

  Malcolm looked back out of the odd thing that was emerging from the airplane. Dozens of soldiers were helping to pull it out using long ropes. The rhythmic pulling and slackening of the ropes made the cargo look like some sort of horrendously large insect emerging from a cocoon.

  "What, uh…what does it do?" asked Malcolm. He couldn’t escape the feeling of dread rising in the pit of his stomach. The Secretary-General had mentioned nothing about establishing air superiority over New York.

  "I cannot explain technical specifications. You understand.”

  “No, I am afraid I do not.”

  The Russian shrugged. “It is…how you say? Complicated. Da, is very complicated. But, what it does, it does very well, my friend. GTB-3 blocks all radar transmissions and creates directed energy field…"

  As the Russian droned on, slipping in words from his native tongue to describe what the intricate machine actually did, Malcolm could feel himself losing interest. The white devil in front of him was explaining how the thing sent out a mass of electrons that clouded the atmosphere which not only jammed incoming radar signals, but scattered them so that any planes that were outside of the dome of protection would see nothing but a black hole. Underneath the dome, the Russians could hide entire air division, and no one on the outside would be the wiser unless they actually saw them with their own eyes.

  “In effect,” said the general confidently, “this device will completely sever New York City from rest of United States. Any hope of air superiority Americans have will be crushed when they encounter GTB-3. It has never been seen by western eyes. I have tested it extensively myself against Chinese,” he said hands clasped behind his back. “GTB-3 signals are so strong, if we target specific aircraft and pinpoint all radio dishes at once, we can successfully scramble entire electronic package on target aircraft.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Malcolm.

  The general frowned at Malcolm’s ignorance. “It results in uncontrolled crash 80% of time.”

  Malcolm was impressed, but he thought he might be more so if he knew exactly what the hell the general had been talking about. For all intents and purposes, it sounded like it would do nothing to stop America’s Air Force, or the Army’s cursed helicopters. Malcolm understood enough, however, to know that the device would do nothing about the ground forces that were camped across the Hudson River. He asked general about his plans for dealing with that little problem.

  “Da,” said the General. He glanced out the window and gestured towards yet another airplane making a landing. “I bring with me nearly 4,000 soldiers, all weapons and supplies. This should be more than adequate to dispatch army that defeated you.” The general ignored Malcolm’s angry glare and continued.

  “These men are elite from western Siberia. I train them myself, you know. I have two companies of spetsnaz as well.” He sniffed and clasped his hands behind his back as he looked out the window, watching another airliner land. “We will deal with these Americans and shortly New York will become New Leningrad.” The general laughed. He turned when the doors to the room opened and a cadre of soldiers walked in carrying Kalashnikov rifles. Th
e general turned back to a surprised Malcolm.

  “Acting in accordance with directives from Secretary-General, I hereby take command of facility. Thank you for assistance, but your presence is no longer required. We will begin final destruction of Americans across river.”

  The statement came off much polished, too rehearsed. However, Malcolm put aside his fear and surprise, and said: “Have at it, with my thanks. I have more than enough to worry about elsewhere. I will pull my men out and we can meet again at my headquarters downtown.”

  The general nodded, but there was a look in his eyes that unsettled Malcolm. Like a wolf eating its meal, yet hungry for more. The general smiled but it did not reach his eyes. “Comrade Malcolm, I look forward to reunion.”

  A GENTLE SHAKE OF his shoulder woke general Stapleton from a much needed deep sleep. He slowly opened his eyes in the darkened room and his first coherent thought was to reach for the pearl-handled .45 on the floor by his cot. “What is it?”

  “Sir,” said Major Stafford. “You need to see this. Someone is resupplying the rebels inside New York City. We think it’s the Russians, sir.”

  Stapleton was immediately alert as he sat up and reached for his uniform. “Russians? What’s the sitrep?”

  Stafford began to rattle off information the general found did not make his morning ritual any easier. He grumbled to himself as he dressed.

  “One of our drones spotted a train of airliners and cargo planes flying into LaGuardia.”

  “How many?” grumbled the general as he buckled on his pistol belt. “Walk with me.”

  “Yes, sir. At last count, there were 27 aircraft.”

  “Twenty-seven?” blurted general Stapleton. He stopped, hand on the doorknob. “God in Heaven, they really slipped one past us.”