"Let's get inside the bank here, just in case." He tapped Erik on the shoulder. "All clear. Follow me—quietly…"
Erik shuffled a few steps backward and kept his weapon trained on the area where he’d thought he’d seen movement. When he could see the open doorway to the bank out of the corner of his eye, Erik shifted sideways and ducked inside, only raising his pistol from a possible target at the last possible second.
"Not bad," Ted whispered. "Guess you remembered what I taught you after all. Okay, there's a window over there, north side of the building. Get over there and cover it. I’ll cover the door from here." Erik took one step and crunched some broken glass under his boot. "And be quiet, for God's sake…" Ted whispered.
"Got it…" Erik muttered. He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness and gingerly made his way across the ransacked bank. It took longer than he wanted, but he finally made it to the north side of the building. His position occupied some long-gone manager’s corner office.
He slipped over the dust-covered executive desk and crouched at the corner of the window. His first thought was to peek around the windowsill, but he worried that would expose his head too much. Back against the wall, he quickly scanned the office. He opened the first drawer and rifled through some useless papers before he tried the second drawer.
"Score!" he whispered to himself. He pulled out a CD-ROM with a hand-written label that read, “Q3 Acct. Backup”.
Erik grabbed the disk and held it to the window. He could tell right away someone lurked around the corner of the drug store.
"Got somebody! Right where I first saw him. Corner of the drug store," he said.
"Good eyes," replied Ted. Erik heard the crunch of Ted’s boots on the debris in the lobby as he shifted position. "I got eyes on target," the Marine’s voice drifted in through the open office door.
"He's moving!" Erik warned in a loud whisper.
"Freeze! Hands in the air where I can see them! Do it, now!" Ted's voice rang out in a commanding tone. The sound of his voice shattered the eerie silence that enveloped the deserted town.
Erik watched the drama reflected on his CD. Whoever it was had frozen where they were. They looked left and right, as if they were searching for Ted.
"Do it now, or I will drop your ass!" hollered Ted. He waited two seconds, then fired his sniper rifle. The suppressed rifle popped and Erik could see a portion of the wall explode in a shower of brick and mortar just to the right of the target's head.
"The next one will be right between your eyes! Now, get on the fuckin’ ground!"
Erik saw their target drop and spread his arms. He stuffed the CD in his pack and made his way to the front of the bank. His makeshift mirror could come in handy again. As he approached Ted, he peered around the corner of the bank. "I only saw one person, it's gotta be him."
Ted whispered back, "Roger that. Cover me. I'm going across the street. Keep a bead on that asshole and if he so much as farts, blow his head off." He handed Erik the sniper rifle and drew his own pistol.
Erik shouldered the rifle and brought the scope to his eye. He tried to put the crosshairs on the prone figure at the end of the block. He tried a different hold and braced side of the rifle against the exterior of the bank and tried to calm his breathing. It was no use—the rifle moved too much for him to make an accurate shot. His hands started to sweat. The crosshairs jiggled all over his field of view and never rested on his target for more than a heartbeat. As he watched the crosshairs slide across the target’s shoulders once more, he didn’t think he could shoot him even if he wanted to…
He saw Ted rush across the street and move toward the target at an oblique angle. As Ted moved forward, his head swiveled left and right. Ted quickly closed the distance and put his pistol to the man's head. Confident that Ted now had the person under control, Erik let his gaze lift and scanned the streets looking for other threats. The only movement he saw was a bit of crumpled newspaper as it rolled by on a slight breeze. Bigby, Florida was a ghost town.
Erik turned his attention back to Ted. The ex-Marine waved him over. Erik trotted down the sidewalk toward Ted and his captive. "What gives?" he asked as he approached.
"He’s a local," replied Ted. He holstered his pistol and stood up. The man grunted with relief and got to his hands and knees.
"Despite that less than warm welcome," he said in a gruff voice that matched his rugged appearance. "I sure am glad to see you boys."
"You out here all by yourself?" asked Erik.
"Yeah.”
“What were you doing?" asked Erik.
The man regarded Erik with a skeptical eye. "Whaddya mean ‘what am I doing’? I'm looking for food. I came in looking for whatever scraps I could find. Gotta get something for the kids. Anything. Can’t hardly even find a squirrel anymore…”
“Be safer to have a buddy with you,” noted Ted. He took the sniper rifle back from Erik and slung it over his shoulder.
“Yeah, well, most of my friends been killed or run off. When them Russians came through, they burned everybody out—lost my house. I got the kids an’ my wife holed up in my huntin’ shack out in the woods." The man shrugged. "Gotta do what you gotta do, right?"
"Looks like the place has already been pretty well picked clean," observed Ted.
The man frowned. "Don't I know it. Don't have much of a choice though, do I? Next town is 10 miles that way," he said pointing a scrawny arm to the east. "They ain’t got no gas neither and anyway, most of the cars here in town done been shot up. Not much for it but to scavenge… Or hunt, but I guess I gotta save my bullets…"
"For what? Seems to me, putting food on the table’s the most important thing right now," said Erik.
"For starters, in case the Russians come back," the man said. He glared at Erik. "They come rollin’ through here again, they ain’t taking me an’ mine without a fight."
"Sir," said Ted quietly. "If the Russians come back, you won't be able to stop them. There's too many of them…"
"I know," said the man. He sighed and the spirit of defiance seem to leave his body as his shoulders sagged. "Gotta save at least enough bullets…" He swallowed. "For us."
Erik never thought he’d see the day when an average American talked about saving bullets to commit suicide with his family rather than starve or be taken captive by a foreign invader. It was surreal and for a moment Erik had nothing to say. When his senses finally returned, he opened a pouch on the back of his pack and handed over a handful of cans of food to the grateful man.
"Where… Where'd you get these?"
"Here and there," Erik said. "Back at the grocery store, there's a lot of stuff that's been left behind because people didn’t like the expiration dates… I guess…"
"I saw some of that stuff, but I figured it was all bad…"
"Nope," said Ted. "You gotta eat what you can. I'm pretty sure those expiration dates are just guidelines on the nutritional value of food. But when you're looking at tree bark and thinking it might taste like steak, even expired canned food—as long as it’s not full of bacteria or something—will go a long ways towards fillin’ an empty belly… I know."
“You're welcome to tag-along with us. We’re scavenging on our way, south,” offered Erik.
"Might be I will. Thank you."
The three men moved down the street and ducked into ruined shops on their way through Bigby. The local, formally introduced as Erastus Sewell, was able to explain how the town of Bigby had died. At the start of the Troubles, when the power had gone out he explained, the town leaders had decided to collect as many nonperishable foods as possible in one location—the police station. Bigby was too small to have a proper City Hall, everybody used the police station as a gathering place for any major town event. They’d even set up the town Christmas tree right in front, where the squad cars normally parked.
“When things went from bad to worse,” Sewell said, “a lot of folks just up and left. They were mostly the ones that lived on the
outskirts of town—most of ‘em hunters, some of ‘em workers in the local cannin’ plant.”
“Cannon plant? Here?” asked Erik. He looked around at the simple tourist-trap shops.
“Canning,” replied Sewell. “Oranges. We’re in Florida, y’know?”
“Oh.”
“What about when the Russians showed up?" asked Ted as he covered the entrance to a convenience store. Erik slipped inside and could hear the two men talk as he rummaged through broken glass and debris scattered across the floor. He had to focus—it would be easy to get an infected cut from the busted up metal shelves or jagged chunks of roofing material strewn about. As his boots crunched across the ground, he continued to listen to the conversation.
"Well, we weren’t quite sure what to make of it. I remember I was standing on the steps of the police station, talking with a few of my friends when we saw the first tank roll into town."
"Did it have big wheels? And kind of a gun that looked a little too small for the body?" asked Ted.
Erik bent down to pick up a can of tuna fish that been partially buried by acoustic ceiling tiles. He dusted it off and examined expiration date. It was still good for another month. One of the numbers had been partially rubbed off and he wasn't exactly 100% sure it was safe, but as hungry as he was, he didn’t care.
"Yeah, it had them big wheels. Looked like tractor tires."
"BTR. Armored personnel carrier,” replied Ted. "The group of Russians that rolled through Orlando was just the lead element—the scouts—of the main Russian army coming up from Miami. They got a couple of those BTR, a lot of troops, and more guns than you can shake a stick at."
"Damn, here I thought that thing was a tank. And you tell me it’s just part of some scouts?" Sewell whistled, a mournful sound. "Looks like the rest of the boys were smart to get out of town when they did. I should’a followed them."
Erik put the can of tuna fish in his pack and continued through a door on the other side of the cash register. He used the barrel of his pistol to lift ceiling panels that blocked his view of the floor. For the most part the place had been ransacked. A layer of dust on everything showed him that the little store had been abandoned after the initial looting. There were open bags of chips and cookies scattered all over the place along with animal droppings. It was a pig sty. He made his way back to the front door, ready to try somewhere else.
"Anyhow, them Russians rolled into town with loudspeakers blarin’… They said anybody who surrendered would be fed, clothed, and given a chance to get medicine if they need it. They were looking for supplies, not trouble.
Erik rejoined the men and held up one finger at Ted's raised eyebrow. "This place is picked clean. I found a can of tuna fish in there that should still be good, but that's it."
"Batteries? Maps? Anything else?" asked Ted.
"Nothing, man. It's like somebody opened the doors and said everything in here was free.”
"I'm been saying that just about every store I been to," said Sewell. He chuckled ruefully. "Worked through town three times in the last few weeks…been able to find enough to keep my kids alive, but that’s it. I ain’t eaten anything in two days."
Ted sighed and examined the afternoon sun. "We only got a couple more hours of daylight. We need to be south of town before dark." He turned and looked at Sewell. “How’d you like to get a little payback at the Russians?"
Sewell’s face darkened and took on a hard look. "You just tell me where to shoot, mister. Those bastards burned my house down, killed my brother and my wife's family—her whole family. They hauled off just about everybody left in town whether they wanted to go or not. You’re damn right I want payback."
Ted slapped the man on the back and grinned. "All right then. Erik and I are settin’ up a little plan of action. They got a prison camp southeast of here. Might be where they took your friends. Erik escaped yesterday, but both our wives and my kids are still there.”
“Damn. What you gonna do?” asked Sewell.
Ted looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “We’re gonna go get them.” His expression softened a bit. “We sure could use some help…"
The man's eyes brightened. "There’s still a handful of us out in the woods. All of us hunters. We normally hunt the four-legged kind, but I think in this case I can make an exception. Just tell me when and where to meet."
"You got a radio?" asked Ted.
"No, had an old CB—but lost it when the Russians burned down my house."
Ted motioned for Erik to turn around so that he could reach into his pack. "Erik and I have a couple spares…"
Sewell reached to take the radio and paused. "What’d you say your name was?"
"Ted Jensen."
Erik turned and extended his hand. "Erik Larsson.”
"I will be dipped in shit…" muttered Sewell. "You're the one them Russians a been talkin’ about. You're the one they want!"
Erik and Ted glanced each other. "What are you talking about?" asked Erik.
"The Russians!” said Sewell. He ran a claw-like hand through greasy hair. “They came through here, yesterday. I was still on my way in an’ hadn’t made it to town, but I could hear the loudspeakers. Kept goin’ on about some guy named Erik Larsson—they wanted him to turn himself in or…”
“Or what?” asked Erik.
“Well,” said Sewell. He swallowed. “I’m sorry, but they said they was gonna kill your woman. And your kids."
"My kids?" Erik felt a wave of panic surge through his chest. "Ted…"
The Marine nodded, his face set in stone. "I know. Put it out of your mind, man. Focus on the mission. Nothing we can do about them or the Russians right now. We need to get ourselves ready and launching our attack."
"Yeah," said Sewell. "Buddy of mine out in the swamp, he still has a radio, and he says the Russians been doing nothing but nonstop advertising that they're gonna kill your family if you don't turn yourself in. They got a real hard-on for you…"
"If you're serious about helping us throw cold water on them, here's what we need you to do…" began Ted.
CHAPTER 32
Assuming Command
THE SECRETARY-GENERAL’S FACE FROWNED on the large monitor. "What’s going on? Where's President Suthby?"
Daniel stood up from behind the President's desk and cleared his throat. "My apologies, Secretary-General. There was an assassination attempt—"
The Secretary-General's eyes went wide. "I was not aware of this. Why was I not informed immediately?"
Now it was Daniel’s turn to frown. "The President is stable, thank you for asking."
The Secretary-General narrowed his eyes. "Mark your tone, sir. You are an underling."
Daniel clasped his hands behind his back. "There, you are incorrect, sir. I am the closest thing this country has to a legitimate Vice President right now. I am the heir. The President is incapacitated. There is no one else on his staff—or in the country, for that matter—who knows as much about his plans as I do."
The Secretary-General's face softened. He appraised Daniel like someone examining a prized horse. At length, he nodded. "Fair enough. So… Mr. Jones, what exactly are your intentions?"
"My intentions? My intentions have always been the same: to safeguard the security of the United States and do what’s best for my country. To do what’s best for my President."
"To do what's best for your President…" mused the Secretary-General. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. He regarded Daniel through half-closed eyes, like a cat watching its prey. "I wonder… I wonder exactly what is best for the President. And if what is best for President Suthby is best for America?"
Daniel ground his teeth and struggled to keep his face neutral. "What exactly are you asking? I intend to carry forward President Suthby's platform and initiatives as he would have were he sitting in this chair right now." Daniel gestured to the stack of paperwork before him. "As Chief of Staff, I've been the one who prepared most of these documents. I know the
m inside and out. I know his plans and I know what he was attempting to do. There will be no discontinuity, as the assassin had hoped. There will be no uprising to overthrow our government. Things will move on as scheduled and in the end, the United States will emerge stronger than ever."
The Secretary-General laughed, a harsh sound. "Brave words, boy. We shall see if you can deliver on your promise. I will be keeping my eye on you…"
"As I will be keeping an eye on your forces while they parade about on our soil." Daniel relished the look of frustration on Secretary-General's face. "President Suthby informed me of his secret deal with you. I've been in on it since the beginning. And now it's time for us to discuss something…"
"And what might that be, Mr. Jones?"
"Right now, President Suthby is recovering… His condition is guarded. In fact, they just released him from the critical care unit.” Daniel looked down at his hands in an attempt to appear worried. "It really is a shame how this all happened, this being the most secure location the United States government could provide and all." He looked up at the image of Secretary-General. "The nation would surely mourn the loss of its new leader. But I wonder… I wonder if someone else—"
"Someone like you?" asked the Secretary-General. His lip curled in a half-smile.
"Perhaps," said Daniel. He kept his face completely devoid of emotion. "I won't say that I would turn down the position if offered, but it's not my first choice. I like to think of myself…" He reached to the desk and picked up a cup of water, swirled it as if it were brandy and took a sip, making the Secretary-General wait. He could tell the impatience was starting to eat at the other man. "I like to think of myself as more a behind-the-scenes player. It's less dirty that way."
The Secretary-General arched an eyebrow. "That is open to debate."
"Not as far as I'm concerned. I am the power behind-the-scenes here. President Suthby got his ideas through me. I nudged him in just the right moments, in just the right direction. And here we are."
Sic Semper Tyrannis Page 42