Sic Semper Tyrannis

by Marcus Richardson

  “Screw this.” The muzzle of Hughes’ M-4 suddenly appeared on camera, aimed down the path and let loose a three-round burst. The kids screamed at the noise of the rounds buzzing just feet over their heads. The noise was deafening in the confined space of the war room and the children scattered like so many rats.

  “Fuckin’ kids are against us, too! They’re throwing rocks! What the hell is this, Palestine?” commented Summers as he appeared at the edge of the screen.

  “To hell with them—look!”

  Instead of twenty or so gang-bangers hopping about shooting randomly, there were hundreds and hundreds of people down the street to the south.

  “Do my eyes deceive me, or are there white people in that crowd?” asked the President. “I was under the impression that most of them had been run out of New York?” Everyone in the War Room watched the main screen as the mob arrived on the scene and flowed toward the soldiers like a river that had jumped its banks.

  “You gotta be kidding me!” said Hughes. The front row of people—kids included in the mix—held all manner of sticks, rocks, bottles, guns, clubs, baseball bats…anything that could possibly be used as a weapon.

  “Keep moving!” he ordered, snapping the soldiers out of their momentary stares. “Head for the park’s north entrance—we gotta reach those Strykers! No one gets left behind!”

  In short order, Hughes and Summers were all that stood before the streaming mob from south of Washington Square Park. “Grenades!” called out Hughes. Summers’ image pulled out two grenades from his pouch just on the edge of the screen.

  The mob temporarily checked itself. The front ranks appeared uncertain. Those on the far edges began to filter through the trees and move to the left and right. The tide could not be contained and flowed in all directions as long as it moved forward.

  The front ranks of the mob looked questioningly towards the center. This was not lost on Hughes. His camera saw in the middle of the front row a few black men dressed in suits—they looked very out of place with the rest of the rabble. “Hope you’re getting this, NORAD…” The image crackled with static.

  A voice rang out across the distance between the mob and the soldiers loud and clear. “My Brothers and Sisters, here is the Man! Allah has delivered us to this point! The Man will try and scare us, but we are far stronger than him—and he knows it! Trust in Allah to guide us through to victory! Kill them all!” he roared. The crowd behind him thundered its approval. Gunshots erupted and peppered the ground around Hughes and his XO. The image sharpened abruptly.

  “Someone grab a screen-freeze!” ordered the Chief of Staff of the Army. “I think that’s—”

  “Now!” said Hughes. Summers threw his grenades on the edge of the screen.

  Hughes did the same, then, before they hit the ground: “Run!”

  The image suddenly filled with soldiers as they raced toward the north entrance of the park. Grenades went off like bombs behind them. Hughes glanced over his shoulder as he ran, wobbling the image enough that one of the staffers in the War Room turned away and threw up.

  Even the President had to admit he was a little queasy after watching the shaky camera for the past two hours. He tried to combat the unease in his stomach by focusing on the wave of humanity bearing down on the soldiers as they retreated.

  The terrified screams of those who had taken the brunt of the grenade blasts caused a mass panic among those trapped behind them. The explosions ripped through the first couple of ranks, rending unprotected bodies into so much hamburger. The throng wavered under the devastating attack of hand held explosives and rifle fire, then erupted in all directions, killing many more in the stampede than the two officers had with their grenades.

  A cloud of low lying smoke funneled down the canyon-like street, visible to Hughes’ right. Over the noise of the frenzied mob, the deep throaty roar of two enormous diesel engines began to resonate through the War Room speakers. A few more zig-zag steps to dodge bullets and Hughes caught sight of the Strykers. The drivers had already turned the big vehicles around and had the ramps lowered, ready for the retreating soldiers. The first of their unit had already taken up positions by the massive armored vehicles, sending rounds downrange toward the mob over the heads of their comrades.

  “There they are! Move!” shouted Hughes. He waved the men forward. “Open up that fifty!”

  The President couldn’t hear the driver’s response but Hughes barked a laugh as he ran. The turret-mounted .50-caliber on the command vehicle swiveled around and belched smoke and fire and noise in a constant stream of computer guided mayhem. Hughes slammed his back against the relative cover of the brick wall at the north park entrance. He panted, his breath booming through the war room speakers. He risked a glance around the corner and saw the grisly effect of the big M2.

  Rebels in the first rank of the mob were ripped to shreds in puffs and sprays of pink mist. Panic ensued and spread the crowd in a stampede. Some fought those behind in a vain attempt to escape the marauding machine gun mounted on top of the Stryker. The steady bap-bap-bap-bap drowned out everything except Hughes’ voice as he yelled for the last soldiers to climb aboard the waiting transports.

  A sickening thwack erupted over the speakers in the War Room. More than one person gasped. The President nearly jumped out of his chair as Hughes turned his head and everyone watching saw a body crash to the street mid-stride. They had been just a few steps from the safety of the Stryker’s waiting ramp.

  Summers cried out in pain as he clawed at his leg. He struggled to get to one knee. Hughes bent without hesitation and threw him over his shoulder. The camera tilted at an odd angle and shook as Hughes made for the Stryker, encouraged by the shouts of his soldiers waiting inside.

  “Goddammit, sir, put….put me down! You’ll get us both killed!” groaned Summers. More bullets smacked the pavement around them.

  “Pour it on boys!” one of the men inside the Stryker yelled. Six soldiers took aim and opened fire, creating a tunnel of flame and noise on the screen. The return of the background roar told everyone in the War Room that the mob had reformed and was out for blood.

  The President prayed silently for any wounded soldiers to die quickly. He leaned forward in his seat, joined by most of the people watching and held his breath, as if staring more intently at the screen might help propel Hughes forward just a little faster. He was afraid of what might happen should the mob take them alive.

  Hughes stumbled and he and Summers crashed into the base of the Stryker’s ramp with mutual grunts of pain. The camera looked to have been nearly ripped off Hughes’ helmet with the force of the impact. It hung down at a sickening angle, showing mostly the ground and metal plates of the ramp as Hughes got to his feet.

  Summers groaned again off-camera as soldiers scrambled to drag him aboard the armored vehicle. The President could hear voices from the mob, cursing the Man and threatening all sorts of unsavory activities against the soldiers. Above it all, the Stryker’s turret roared, sending death downrange. Still they came forward, surging over the bodies of their dead and dying, refusing to submit to defeat.

  “That’s it, hit the hatch!” someone called out.

  The camera wobbled a bit as Hughes sank into a jump seat and tried to fix his helmet. “Driver! Get us the hell out of here!” The image began to clear of static.

  Everyone in the War Room could hear rounds impacting the side and rear of the Stryker. They sounded shallow and high-pitched, almost insignificant. The President supposed that was true. He’d seen how thick the sides of that thing was before Hughes had tripped at the ramp. It would take more than pistols punch through the skin of that thing.

  After what seemed like an eternity in darkness, Hughes sighed as he noticed the exterior monitors brighten. Slowly the light built until the screens went white and then readjusted to daylight on the western side of the tunnel.

  Medics rushed over to the Stryker even before the ramp lowered to the sound of hydraulic whines.

 
“I’m Dr. Kipfer, I live nearby and came to help,” said an older man who loomed onto the screen as he gently guided Hughes out of the way. They pulled him out and set to work on the wounded right there on the ground in front of the tollbooths. Hughes looked down and reloaded his M-4. He kept a wary eye on the tunnel and on Summers.

  After a minute or so of frantic work, one of the medics bolted for the communications tent. The volunteer turned to address Hughes with a harried look on his face, unaware he was being broadcast directly to NORAD and the President. The rest of the squad hovered near by, just in range of the camera.

  “I’m sorry,” said the older doctor. “He’s lost a lot of blood…we can’t do much more for him now. He’s going to need a miracle. We’ve called for an air lift…” The doctor examined Hughes and concluded he wasn’t seriously injured, despite the dirt, rips and blood smearing his uniform.

  Hughes said nothing but moved toward Summers’ body. The camera showed he was breathing, but barely. He was clearly unconscious. The medics had set up a field IV drip and kept Hughes from getting too close. One was compressing some bandages over the open wound in the XO’s leg.

  More medics raced over with a stretcher. Hughes leaned back against a pockmarked M-ATV and tilted his head back, panning the camera into the sky. “What the fuck just happened?” he said to himself, looking at the smoke-filled skyline of New York in the distance.

  The civilian doctor returned to the other medics, standing a ways away, observing the scene in silence. “Guy’s got guts. From the looks of the wounded they ran into a helluva mess,” the volunteer said.

  “They all could have died ten times…” the civilian physician shook his head in disbelief. “And you say he went back to drag this pour man to safety?” he said, looking down at Summers.

  “4th/ID, Doc. We don’t leave our own behind,” Hughes growled as he brushed past. The camera recorded a look of surprise on the old man’s face.

  Overhead, another Black Hawk, marked on the side with a giant red cross, made its noisy approach just a minute too late.

  CHAPTER 26

  Home Waters

  ADMIRAL NELLA APPEARED WITHOUT warning at the bridge hatch, startling the sentry. “Admiral on the bridge!” the young Marine called out as the Old Man stepped through. The Admiral waved off his announcement and turned to Captain Davis, half-rising out of his captain’s chair. Another casual wave as he strolled over put the captain at ease.

  “I heard about the contacts to our south. They’re American, thank God,” he said in his gravelly voice.

  “Aye, sir,” said Captain Davis, settling back into his chair. He picked up his binoculars and scanned the horizon. “The frigate Jonestown, two destroyers, and an Aegis cruiser—Princeton.” Captain Davis smiled. “Princeton’s skipper, is my old Academy roommate—Nathan Hollis.”

  “Well, let’s raise Princeton, then,” barked the Admiral.

  “Go ahead, sir, channel’s open,” said the communications officer of the watch.

  Admiral Nella grabbed the closest microphone hanging from the ceiling and held it to his lips. “Ahoy, Princeton, this is Roosevelt," said the Admiral. "Sending IFF..." He nodded at the calms officer, who keyed the correct sequence at his computer terminal.

  A moment later: "Copy that, Roosevelt, glad to know you're all right."

  "This is Admiral Nella, I'm taking command of your vessels—"

  "Sir, without authentication I must follow my standing orders."

  Captain Davis reached for the Admiral's mic. "Holly, you read me?"

  There was a pause, then: "Davis? That you?"

  "Last time I checked—how you doing? How's Betty?"

  Another pause. "She was visiting her folks… When everything…"

  "In Miami? Jesus—"

  "Haven't heard from her since all this started."

  Captain Davis looked at his admiral. The older man shook his head sadly, but after a moment, he prompted Captain Davis to continue.

  "Holly, I'm sorry…" he said. Betty had been a friend of his since the Academy—he had even dated her before Nathan Hollis stole her heart.

  Hollis sighed. "Nothing I can do about her at the moment except pray… We all thought you were dead! God damn it's good to hear your voice. With all the reports of that nuke—"

  "Save it, Holly," said Captain Davis. He hoped his warning tone of his voice was enough. "I'll send over a Seahawk—what we need to discuss isn’t for radios."

  The voice on the other end of the line grew serious. "You bet. I’ll get the other skippers together. ETA?"

  Captain Davis raised an eyebrow at his bulldog of an Air Boss. The short, wide-shouldered man idly scratched at his brushy mustache as he reviewed a list in his hand. He glanced out the window at the flight deck, then double-checked the readout and held up one finger.

  "One hour," said Captain Davis.

  "Very well, we'll be ready. Princeton out."

  CAPTAIN NIKOLAI ILLYANOVICH STOOD at the helm of the Kalinski, one of Russia's state-of-the-art destroyers and smiled. Here he was, 15 years in the Navy and now cruising in front of the New York City skyline. Russian troops controlled the island and the Russian Navy now controlled the waters.

  It was a glorious first step toward bringing America to its knees.

  He would get the Order of Nakhimov for this, he was sure of it. Illyanovich sipped some strong Russian Caravan tea. He closed his eyes for a brief moment to savor the smoky flavor and let his imagination drift to the long-ago spice traders sitting around fires at night sipping the same tea.

  What a life of adventure that must have been! Ah, but am I not on a great adventure as well? Conquering America will go down in the history books as one of the greatest military feats of all time…

  Illyanovich opened his eyes and turned to examine the bridge. Everything was running smoothly. There was hardly any need for him to be present, but he wouldn't miss this for the world. His ship cruised unmolested into New York Harbor as a conquering hero. It was exhilarating.

  Before him, filling his forward windows, sat the Admiral Kodinski, the greatest ship in Russia’s possession. He knew that she paled in comparison to just one of the dozen infamous American supercarriers out there, but…. Illyanovich grinned at a sudden thought: there were no supercarriers here to compare with, were there? No, that wasn’t quite true. There was one, which he was confident had been chasing him for some time, but it was half-crippled and limping home to a trap.

  Her sister carriers were scattered around the globe, too busy trying to survive to worry about making it home. Those not on the open seas were trapped in dry-dock. Russian intelligence was convinced the threat of American carriers was minimal. And Russian intelligence was very, very good.

  There was no doubt about it—the Russian fleet coming into view through his main bridge windows was now the ultimate power on the Eastern Seaboard.

  "Captain!" called out his second in command.

  Illyanovich turned and raised a languid eyebrow. "What is it?"

  His XO leaned over the shoulder of the radar control officer. He turned to face his captain and said, "Sir, we’re picking up strong signals indicating surface vessels approaching from the south-southwest. They’re at the extreme range of our detection capabilities… But they must be American forces. We—"

  Illyanovich laughed. He took a long sip of his tea before answering. "Nyet, nyet. Don't get yourself worked up over nothing. It’s just the token force coming north out of Norfolk. I received word from Moscow about it this morning," he said nonchalantly. "The Americans are sending a pathetic show of force—to observe—can you believe it? Here we are conquering their greatest city and they send five or six ships to observe us. It is nothing. Yuri, wipe that frown off your face.” He took another sip of tea before continuing: “We have set the trap—the carrier is our top priority and when it has been sunk, then we will deal with these observers. What a great day for Mother Russia!"

  His XO had to wait for the cheer to make its w
ay around the bridge and die down before he could speak. He glanced out the windows at the tall, smoke-shrouded skyscrapers in the distance. "Sir, are you sure? We have no room to maneuver in this harbor—"

  “Yes, yes,” Illyanovich said, waving off his subordinate’s concerns, “Yuri, I'm quite sure. These Americans are all but defeated. They are going to beg us to save them from themselves. Did not General Kristanoff tell us how even the rebels readily turned over everything they had to him and his men?" Illyanovich laughed again. "Don't worry, once we're in position, we shall have more than sufficient air superiority.” He raised a finger. “And do not forget our submarines…"

  His XO frowned, completely unconvinced and ever the babushka, but nodded. “Yes, Captain."

  Captain Nikolai Illyanovich took another sip of tea and smiled to himself. He wondered if he should break out his dress uniform, when he welcomed the commander of the American vessels aboard his ship to observe the capture of New York…

  THE SPEAKER ABOVE COMMANDER Umbris’ head broke the tense silence in Hampton’s control room. “Conn, Sonar! Contact, bearing 15.9—surface vessels—looks like three or four.”

  He reached up and snatched a dangling mic from its post on the low ceiling. “Sonar, Conn, aye. Is it three or is it four, Donnahay? Who are we talking about?” asked Commander Umbris from the captain’s chair. He stood and moved across the circular command center to peer at a screen on the starboard side that showed an abridged version of what the sonar chief was looking at in the next room.

  “Definitely not ours, sir—I’m now registering six enemy surface vessels. Look like they’re Russian, sir…noisy bastards, too.”

  Commander Umbris stepped down off the raised platform surrounding the periscope stack. “XO has the Conn,” announced the COB.