Sic Semper Tyrannis

by Marcus Richardson

  "Yes, sir.” The young man stood at attention and held the paper in straight arms before him as he read. “Captain Stepanovich reports that there was an uprising at the prison camp yesterday."

  Strogolev's boots hit the floor as he stood. "What? Yesterday? Give me that!" He snatched the paper from trembling hands. Strogolev scanned the paper, skipping the pleasantries and looking for details. Thirty-seven Americans involved. Eighteen Russian casualties. Four of the compound’s buildings destroyed in fire. Strogolev looked up at the soldier. "Was there any radio communication?"

  "No… No, Sir. We have had no contact with Captain Stepanovich since we left Orlando. Until now."

  Strogolev scratched his chin. He continued to read the dispatch. "Ah," Strogolev mumbled. Good old Gregor. I knew I could rely on you.

  Strogolev had become concerned when he thought that Stepanovich had failed to report the uprising as it happened. However, from the report it appeared that the revolt included the destruction of the prison camp administration building, which housed most of their communication gear.

  "What happened, Gregor?" he mumbled. He dropped the printout on the desk and turned to stare out the window, hands clasped behind his back.

  "So…Gregor thinks he has a Special Forces captive. Very interesting."

  Someone cleared their throat behind him. He turned to see his political attaché standing at attention in the doorway to the expansive office. "Sir, I think General Doskoy will not be happy to find out about Captain Stepanovich’s unusual…tactics…when dealing with these prisoners."

  Strogolev arched an eyebrow at his Moscow-appointed spy. It was like the Cold War all over again. The man was a decent enough fellow, but his job was not to be a soldier but rather a witness for politicians back home. His presence had been thrust upon Strogolev by Colonel Doskoy—General Doskoy—of course.

  The little pig of a man had explained that the complications involving Russia's entanglement with the United Nations in New York required that Moscow send observers to make sure that all of Russia's actions henceforward would be in strict compliance with international law. The resources and land that Russia could acquire through this expedition were far too important to lose over technicalities of minor treaties. They could not afford to ruffle feathers at The Hague.

  "I am not entirely sure, comrade, of what you speak?" said Strogolev. He folded the dispatch neatly and tucked it into the left breast pocket of his uniform.

  "I read the dispatch, just as you did, major,” said the attaché. He moved into the room, fingers trailing over the dusty picture frames on the walls depicting the previous owner with important politicians. “Captain Stepanovich has tied an American—whom he believes to be the leader of the little revolt—to a tree and left him surrounded by the rotting bodies of his fellow conspirators.” He paused, hands behind his back and frowned, taking on the attitude of a schoolmaster scolding his pupils. “A barbarous tactic, to say the least. I also noted that the man has been denied food and water as punishment for killing our soldiers. This is in direct violation of international law against the treatment of prisoners of war. The Geneva Convention—"

  "The Geneva Convention does not apply in this situation,” said Strogolev. He turned away from the irritating officer and looked out the window again. A storm gathered on the western horizon. Light puffy clouds gave way to dark towering thunderheads. It fit with his mood.

  “When this man was captured, Captain Stepanovich informed me that not only was our mystery prisoner not in uniform—he was dressed as a civilian—he was carrying military weaponry and accompanied by soldiers in uniform.” He turned around to smile at the look of surprise on the spy’s face. “Since he was not a uniformed combatant, as far as I or anyone in Moscow are concerned, he is to be treated accordingly. The Geneva Convention does not apply to non-uniformed combatants. I see no problem with how Captain Stepanovich has handled the situation.” He fixed the attaché with a dangerous look. “Do you?"

  The political attaché considered Strogolev’s statement for a moment. He clasped his hands behind his back again and appeared to try and recapture the air of the schoolmaster. "You may have a point, major. I will include this in my report to Moscow. However, I must insist that the man at least be given at least food and water. We must show the world that we are not nekulturny barbarians, yes?"

  Strogolev stood next to his political attaché and watched ducks swim across the square lake below. The man had a point. There was no sense in trying to antagonize any limp-wristed foreign governments. That would do nothing to further his career. He nodded. "Very well, I shall issue orders to that effect immediately."

  You my friend, he thought darkly, will merit watching.

  ERIK’S FINGERS BURNED LIKE frostbite as blood rushed into his hands. He’d been tied to the tree all day and the pins and needles up his arms and legs were almost unbearable. If Ted hadn’t caught him, Erik would have collapsed to the ground when cut free.

  "Easy—easy there, buddy," whispered Ted as he slowly lowered Erik to the sandy soil. He looked around. "Come on, we gotta get you outta here." Ted gathered up the strips of rope and stuffed them into a pocket.

  "I thought you'd been killed...” Erik felt strength returning to his legs as Ted half-dragged into the bushes. That was when Erik noticed the Ted was dressed as a Russian.

  "What the hell, man?

  Ted hissed at him to be quiet. "Don't be so loud, there are guards still out here.” He pulled out a large rucksack from under a fallen palmetto. “This was the best I could find, okay? Don’t worry, I got some for you, too, if you think your sense of fashion can stand it. Now strip down and put these on. I got a pistol for you, too.”

  "I don't suppose you have any food or water in there, do you?" asked Erik as he worked at his torn shirt with bloodied, trembling hands. "Been tied to that damn tree all day and I haven't had more than a sip of water. No food since yesterday." Erik could not remember a time when his mouth ever felt so dry. His stomach had long since stopped rumbling, as he began to accept his own death. But the thirst had never left.

  Ted rummaged in his Russian rucksack and pulled out a bottle of warm water. Without taking his eyes off the surrounding pine forest, he tossed it to Erik. "Here, drink up. There's more where that came from."

  Erik tore the top off of the bottle with thick-feeling fingers and drained it in seconds. He was still thirsty, but the maddening desire for moisture in his mouth had been satisfied for the moment. Erik leaned back against the stump of the tree as he started to put on the Russian uniform. His fingers brushed a ragged hole in the front of the shirt as he stretched it over his head.

  "I take it you didn't get this from a supply truck?"

  Ted grinned in the gathering darkness. The early evening shadows from glancing across his face made his teeth shine white. Now he really looked like some sort of devil. "Yeah, the guy who wore it last didn't want to give it to me when I asked him nicely."

  Erik swallowed and tried to get that thought out of his mind as he put on the stolen clothing. He focused on getting the pants on—no easy task with his abused hands. "Where you been?" he asked as he struggled with the Russian clothing.

  "Never mind me, is…Susan…? My kids?"

  Erik nodded in the fading light. "She's alive, man, but she needs medical attention and she needs it bad. She tore open her wound from the Freehold…"

  "Yeah,” Ted said. He sighed and looked down. “We guessed that when we left the medical depot… I was worried that she…"

  Erik finished getting dressed and grunted with the effort. Instead of filthy and torn scraps of clothing, he now had bloody and torn Russian clothing. Snatched off a dead man. He mentally shrugged—at least he was fully clothed. He finished lacing up his boots and whispered "She's one tough lady, Ted. Your kids are handling it better than most. I saw Junior—"

  “You saw him? He's okay?" asked Ted with an urgency that surprised Erik.

  "He's fine. The Russians are treating the women a
nd children a lot better than they’re treating the men, that's for damn sure." Erik leaned back against a pine and caught his breath. "I didn't see the others, but Junior was definitely doing okay. Ted… Susan—"

  "If she can make it, she will. If she doesn't…" Ted's voice trailed off and Erik thought for a moment that he saw his friend shudder. "If she doesn't," Ted said, his voice stronger. "I'll kill every one of those sons of bitches myself."

  Erik muttered, “Get in line, buddy.”

  Ted pulled a pistol out of the pack, a Russian design Erik had seen the guards carry. “This is the MP-443 Grach. I know, it looks a lot like—”

  Erik took the pistol and held gingerly. The weight felt good. “Skip the history lesson, how do I kill Russians with it?”

  A lopsided smile spread across Ted’s camouflaged face. After a few seconds to show Erik how the safety worked and how to rack the slide without tearing a finger off, he handed over two spare magazines. Erik slipped them into a cargo pocket on his pants and sighted down the barrel of the pistol at a tree in the distance. The light was failing and he could hardly make out the outline of the pine boughs now.

  Ted's voice was suddenly quiet. "Erik, is Brin…?"

  Erik looked down, resting his elbows on his knees. He could feel the individual grains of sand that coated his pants. "Yes, she's alive. But… I think the Russians… I mean, I heard…"

  Ted's face softened. He reached out to put a hand on Erik shoulder. The strong grip on his shoulder gave Erik some comfort. He wasn’t alone anymore.

  "You don’t need to tell me. Whatever happened, that's between you and Brin. She's just as tough as Susan. If anybody can pull through this it's those two. We had some training on this back in the Corps—when something like this happens, the only thing you can do is be there. Be there and make sure she knows that you're there for her, but be patient."

  "I'm going to kill Stepanovich."

  Ted withdrew his hand and the smile returned. "I like the sound of that voice. Who’s Stepanovich?" he asked.

  Erik frowned. "He's the son of bitch in charge of this hellhole. He thinks I'm some sort of Special Forces operative—singled me out for interrogations and beatings… He thinks I'm the one who was leading our escape attempt… He killed those men… They…" Erik's voice began to waver, and he couldn't quite force the words out.

  He’d been staring at their faces all day. Men who’d shared his grief, his punishment, his pain. They’d believed in him, they’d been thankful for news of their families. And they’d paid for it with their lives.

  "Those men…" Ted said quietly as he looked through the leaves of their hideout towards the bodies stacked up around Erik's tree. "They didn't die in any escape attempt, did they?"

  "Some did…" whispered Erik. “But only a few.”

  "Son of a bitch."

  Erik's head hung lower. "Yeah…"

  Ted was silent for a moment, then he reached under the leaves and pine needles by his side and uncovered a long rifle with a large scope on it. Erik saw a nice, if oddly-shaped wooden stock and what looked like a suppressor mounted on the end of the barrel. The rifle looked alien.

  "What the hell is that?"

  "This my friend, is the instrument of our revenge." Ted inserted a magazine that looked like it only held four or five large rounds. He dusted off the scope, aimed toward the camp and peered through the scope."

  Erik's hand gripped his pistol tighter. "What's the plan?"

  Ted got up and shouldered the rifle. He turned back to Erik and said, "First, we wait for full dark—shouldn’t be too much longer." He flashed that demonic smile over his shoulder once more. "Then we give these assholes something to be afraid of."

  THE SUN HAD SET an hour before and Captain Gregor Stepanovich had just finished a satisfying meal with his top lieutenants. Things were progressing well now that the little rebellion had been put down. The American soldiers—still over 200 of them—that had not taken part in the uprising had seen what befell their comrades. Stepanovich imagined that by now their spirits were completely broken. If not their noses—the stench from the rotting corpses around Larsson permeated the entire camp.

  The women and children had been cowed even more than before the uprising. The situation was perfect. Everything was back under control, precisely the way Stepanovich preferred.

  He politely dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin, then folded it neatly and placed it next to his silverware, just so. The plate had been meticulously cleaned of the food prepared by his detachment cooks. They had found a treasure trove of canned meats and vegetables in a storehouse when he’d taken control of this religious retreat. It wasn’t up to the standards of the meanest chefs back home in Moscow, but it sure as hell beat army rations.

  He reached out and adjusted his fork and knife so that they pointed directly at 11 o’clock, tines down. Gregor Stepanovich was nothing if not precise. He smoothed the front of his uniform, pushed back his chair and stood. The junior officers around the table leapt to their feet, one knocked a chair over in the process.

  "Please," said Stepanovich waving casually at his officers. He smiled. "Continue. I merely wish to go outside for a smoke and check on our famous captive."

  The others sat down quietly and a few resumed picking at their food, but his second in command watched Stepanovich carefully. It was obvious the man wanted to ask a question and Stepanovich was only mildly irritated that he did not have the balls to speak up.

  "You have something to say, Mishe?" Stepanovich locked his hands behind his back and waited patiently.

  "Sir…" stammered the young officer. Color bloomed up his neck. "Shall I have a guard go with you?"

  Stepanovich laughed. He had been sure the man was going to offer some sort of rebuke or doubt about the treatment of the Special Forces operative who had masterminded the escape attempt that nearly destroyed the prison. No food and water was about as lenient as Stepanovich felt at the moment. Larsson would get his comeuppance, he would see to that personally. The explosion that had destroyed the administration building had also taken out most of his personal possessions, including his war diary—which he had hoped to turn into a book when he retired. It's not every day a gutter rat from the slums of Moscow gets to humble the world's only superpower. He had spent weeks writing that diary and now it was just a charred pile of ashes.

  "I don't think we’ll be seeing any further trouble out of Mr. Larsson, do you?"

  "Of course not, sir… But—"

  "Afraid of alligators, are we?" asked Stepanovich with a wry smile. When Lieutenant Mishe Uritski opened his mouth again, Stepanovich raised his hand and tried to placate the younger man. "Very well, Mishe, send a guard—I promise to stay on the inside of the perimeter fence.” He patted his belt. “I will have my sidearm, remember? I don't think I have anything to fear from alligators, raccoons, wolves, jack rabbits—or any other of the myriad creatures that lurk in the night." The other officers chuckled politely.

  He watched in satisfaction as Uritski’s face began to color. It was good to embarrass the young bloods every now and then. It reminded them who exactly was in charge.

  Stepanovich left the mess hall and paused outside in the still-humid air to light up a cigarette. He took his first puff and savored the rush of nicotine. He began to stroll across the camp. Two soldiers stood at attention as he passed one of the American cabins. He returned their salutes with gusto and continued his leisurely stroll, satisfied that everything was shipshape and proper.

  There would be no rest for his own men, of course. As there would be no leniency for the Americans. This camp would be the best prison camp General Doskoy had ever seen. Stepanovich made a mental note to invite the general to come visit soon, before the ambitious little man tried to catch up with Major Strogolev in sacking Tampa. Doskoy was only a few miles away at his headquarters based at Disney World, it wouldn’t take him long to arrive.

  Stepanovich chuckled as he blew out another lungful of smoke into t
he dark Florida night. Disney World. What a perfect place to house Russia's Southern Command. The command center was probably inside the famous castle. General Doskoy always did have a flair for the dramatic.

  As Stepanovich approached the clearing where they had tied Erik Larsson, he stopped. In the darkness, he could see nothing but the dim outline of the tall pine tree that had served as a sentencing post. But that wasn't what had stopped him in his tracks—it was the silence.

  The cigarette hung limp from the corner of his mouth as Stepanovich drew his pistol and racked the slide. He looked around uneasily. Something was wrong. He’d spent enough time in Florida to know that as soon as the sun went down, the world came alive with sounds. Crickets, cicadas, birds, bats, and God only knew what other disgusting creatures that made noise constantly throughout the nights in this tropical wasteland.

  Yet here he was, not 20 feet from where he’d tied his most valuable prisoner and there was nothing but silence. The only sound he could hear was the whispering of a slight breeze through the canopy of pines above him. He crouched and slowly began to make his way toward the tree were Larsson had been tied.

  The smell hit him first. The stench of the all the bodies was like a physical barrier. The sickly-sweet odor had wafted all across the camp during the day, but it smelled more like a hint of decay. Here, facing the wall of death in person, the smell was almost overpowering. Stepanovich held his breath and crept forward.

  Something wasn't right and he had to find out what that something was before he raced back to raise the alarm and looked like a complete fool. He began to regret not having guards with him. As he grew closer to the wall of decomposing flesh, he could see where Larsson should have been.

  Stepanovich pulled the flashlight off his utility belt and clicked on the small LED light. The little blue beam was not capable of lighting up a large area, but it provided enough light for him to see that the tree Erik Larsson had been tied to was bare. He directed the light towards the ground at the base of the tree. In the sandy dirt, he could see footprints and drag marks. Something had happened here and Larsson had disappeared—even the ropes that bound him to the tree were gone. He could see no blood other than some dark smears on the tree itself. There was no sign of Larsson.