Sic Semper Tyrannis

by Marcus Richardson

  The Secretary-General leaned in close to the camera. "If you're so confident of your abilities, why not just kill the President now and be done with it? Why the theatrics?"

  Daniel thought for a moment, one finger resting on his lips. "Like I said, I don’t like to get my own hands dirty. All I'm doing is laying the groundwork. If President Suthby happens to pull through—praise God," said Daniel with a smile. "I would be happy to remain in my position, guiding the future direction of the United States through the President. If on the other hand," he said lifting his left hand for emphasis, "the worst should happen and our fears realized—with President Suthby's passing, someone new would need to take over the leadership of the country. That someone would need the immediate support of the United Nations to continue the good work that we have started. I just want to be clear. That that someone will be me."

  The Secretary-General leaned back in his chair and smiled. "And if we have someone else in mind?”

  Daniel dismissed the idea with a casual wave. "The American people will never stand for a foreigner taking over as chief executive. President Suthby and I have been able to hold off a major revolt—at this point in time a general uprising by the population would tear this country apart and our fears of Balkanization would become a reality. Your little ruse would cease to be effective. There are many nuclear installations, many thousands of weapons scattered across this nation. Do you really want an angry, patriotic American to start a nuclear war? If President Suthby dies, I take over. The people know me. Congress has approved me. In fact, I've checked, and for the most part Congress would be happier with me in charge than with President Suthby."

  The Secretary-General nodded, taking in Daniel's ultimatum. He glanced at some papers on his own desk before looking back at the camera. "Yes, my sources tell me the same thing."

  So, Daniel thought, you do have contacts inside Congress. That's interesting. He filed that thought away for future use and continued. "President Suthby has a…unique…personality."

  The Secretary-General barked a laugh. "The man is acidic. He pisses off far more people than he pleases."

  Now it was Daniel’s turn to nod. He stood up and moved around the side of the desk. He leaned on the corner and took a completely relaxed posture in front of the camera. Daniel suppressed a smile as the Secretary-General stiffened in his own chair, suddenly in the subordinate position. "He has made many enemies in Congress over the years as director of FEMA. Now that he has the powers of the presidency, he intends to ride rough-shod over everyone. I, on the other hand, have been the one to slink behind him soothing the ruffled feathers of Congress and patching up the burning bridges. They know me. They trust me. They like me."

  "Your argument is persuasive, Mr. Jones. I'm beginning to think that it might be more beneficial to your country and the United Nations if President Suthby never left the hospital."

  Daniel looked down at his hands and smiled. He hoped the expression was hidden from the camera sufficiently. "Nothing would make me sadder." He looked up at the screen. "Or happier."

  The Secretary-General cleared his throat and glanced down at the papers on his desk. Someone leaned into the camera and whispered in the man's ear. Daniel waited patiently. "Your proposal may have some merit. We will take it under advisement. We will discuss this later, pending the outcome of President Suthby's recovery. In the meantime," the Secretary-General said, lifting a paper off his desk. "There is a matter that I was going to discuss with President Suthby… It appears I must now discuss it with you."

  Now we’re getting somewhere, thought Daniel. "Yes,” he said, letting his face show concern. "The fighting in New York."

  "The fighting? You mean the skirmish between those half-starved rebels of yours and the handful of Russians patrolling the streets? No, no, no…that's not what I'm talking about. I refer to the sudden arrival of the aircraft carrier Theodore Roosevelt."

  Daniel knew in his heart that he should keep his face impassive, but he couldn't help the smile. That aircraft carrier was one tough nut to crack. Secretly he was thrilled that it had survived the Iranian attack. There'd been too many American deaths overseas at the hands of foreigners. He was happy that someone at least had made it home. He would need their support. He would need their firepower.

  "Yes, our military hardware seems to be surprisingly hard to kill, doesn't it?"

  "You may dispense with the poor attempt at humor," said the Secretary-General in a stern voice. "I am quite serious about this. The Russian delegation is fit to be tied. We were told that this carrier strike group and been destroyed—"

  "You mean when the Iranians lobbed a nuclear missile into the Eastern Mediterranean? Yes, we lost contact with them. Thanks to the Chinese, we lost all our satellites months ago. We had no idea where it was—let alone that Admiral Nella would decide to bring the entire strike group back to American waters." Daniel shook his head. "I've read the man's personnel files, this Admiral is one stubborn son of a bitch."

  The Secretary-General grunted in agreement. "Yes, I have them here. I don't think this man will ever give up. He has engaged the Russian fleet in New York harbor—"

  Daniel arched an eyebrow. That was news. "The Roosevelt is back in American waters?"

  The Secretary-General smiled his wolfish grin again. "You didn't know? Pity.” The smile vanished. “Well, at any rate, you won't get a chance to contact the Admiral—our Russian friends are going to handle this little problem."

  "I've seen the details on the Russian fleet," Daniel said, trying to steal back some momentum. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration. "If I remember correctly, it was an aircraft carrier—the only one they have, by the way—a handful of planes, a scattering of surface ships. Do you know the makeup of the Roosevelt Strike Group?"

  Secretary-General nodded. "The Roosevelt, an Aegis cruiser, two destroyers, various surface support vessels, and smaller defensive vessels. The last report I had, listed torpedoes fired at the Russian fleet—so at least one of the two submarines attached to the strike group has survived the Atlantic crossing. That is of little consequence, as the Russians have brought six submarines with them."

  Daniel whistled. "Six? That's gotta be the bulk of Russia’s North Atlantic surface fleet and a good chunk of their submarine forces…"

  "It is," confirmed Secretary-General. "Overkill, to be sure, but our Russian friends are nothing if not thorough. I imagine before the sun sets today the Roosevelt Strike Group will be nothing but broken and twisted hulls sitting on the bottom of Long Island Sound. The Russians have already taken control of Manhattan Island and established air superiority, so before this day is out we will be in complete control—"

  "We? You mean the Russians."

  "No, Mr. Jones, I mean the United Nations. Remember, Russia does not act alone in this. Russia is carrying out a Security Council directive to establish a safe harbor and beachhead for future expeditions. In fact, we have an international coalition gathering on the shores of Western Europe that will rival anything in history, including the D-Day invasion. When Russia captures New York City and solidifies its grip on the harbor—there will be nothing to stop that force from taking control of all of New England."

  Daniel nodded, trying to appear agreeable while he digested this new information. He cursed Suthby's acquiescence to the United Nations. They weren't planning on trying to protect the interests of America at all—he’d suspected that all along, but he had never guessed their intentions would be so broad.

  If they can control New England and Florida, there’ll nothing stopping them from pushing into the middle and taking Washington D.C., Daniel realized. If the United Nations takes control of Washington, it'll be a huge psychological victory. Daniel stood up and tried to organize his thoughts.

  For all intents and purposes the government of the United States was scattered across the continent. Thanks to President Reed and the COG protocol, it would be nigh on impossible to completely shut down the U.S. government. But, as long as everyo
ne was scattered to the wind, it was almost impossible for it to function, as well.

  Ironic, he thought, that the government looks more like the terrorist cell we’ve been trying to destroy for fifteen years than the imposing bureaucratic juggernaut that so many around the world fear. Daniel sat behind the desk again.

  "And what exactly will be my—I mean President Suthby's—position once all these objectives have been met?"

  The Secretary-General laughed. "I suppose someone will have to govern this vast empire in the name of the United Nations. You Americans have proven to the world that you cannot govern yourselves."

  "I think the American people—" Daniel began.

  "The American people are fools—they will go along with whoever has the power. When this is all said and done, the United Nations will have the power. We will control the American military; we will control your nuclear arsenal. Ostensibly the world will be safe from nuclear annihilation. For all intents and purposes," the Secretary-General said as if giving a lecture, “the United Nations will be in complete control of America. The Old World will finally reestablish its dominance over the New. Your little experiment in democracy has failed."

  So that's your endgame, Daniel thought. The world is falling apart at the seams and you want to do a land grab to satisfy some sort of European inferiority complex.

  "Fair enough,” Daniel said, calm on the outside, seething on the inside. “So you establish some figurehead ruler here. Are you going to import an entire government from Germany or Austria or Spain or Russia?” Daniel shook his head. “You honestly think that hundreds of millions of American citizens will blindly go along with some foreign dictator?"

  Secretary-General smiled. "A few weeks ago, I would have asked if you honestly thought they’d go along with an American dictator…I think we both know the answer to that question."

  GENERAL STAPLETON STOOD NEXT to an M1A2-Abrams and affectionately patted the reactive armor plating. He glanced around in the smoke-dimmed sunshine at the assembled army behind him, stretching off into the distance towards the west. He turned and faced the gaping maw of the Lincoln Tunnel. At last, he would be able to take action. The Russian counterattack which nearly crippled his forces before they had a chance to marshal had failed. It was his turn to strike back.

  "General, we're ready."

  General Stapleton returned the salute of his XO. They had gathered the entire 4th Division for one last push. It was all or nothing. They had taken Chicago—destroyed it, rather. But they had rooted out the seed of rebellion and the Midwest was safe. He had chased that rebellion east, where it had settled like a disease in New York City.

  It was time to operate.

  "Colonel, fire ‘em up. Let's take back this town."

  General Stapleton stepped away from the massive tank as the engine roared to life, echoed by 22 of its siblings. The noise was thunderous—it was glorious. He’d had no direct communication with whoever was in charge of the American fleet out in the harbor, but he’d been watching the battle all day. His men had too—he’d heard the cheers every time a Russian jet exploded or Russian ship sank into the water, twisted and smoking.

  He also knew that the carrier out there—someone had informed him that was the Roosevelt—was listing pretty bad and on fire. Fire on a ship was never a good sign—even a ground-pounder like Stapleton understood that. It would only be a matter of time before the Russians would either be victorious or think about expanding their influence to the west in an attempt to escape the navy.

  As soon as the navy had shown up, he had seen his opportunity. He would be the anvil to their sledgehammer. Under cover of darkness, he had ordered his troops to assemble in front of every serviceable tunnel along the Hudson. From what his scout helicopters could tell him—they couldn't get too close because of the damned jamming—the Russians were rather preoccupied with incoming missiles.

  That seemed prudent. General Stapleton had figured were he in their position, he would probably be preoccupied with buildings and skyscrapers falling down around his men, as well.

  Now, it was at last time to properly introduce the Russians to the Digital Division and make them aware of the fact that they should have paid attention. Now, it was payback time.

  General Stapleton climbed inside the back of his command Stryker, sat down behind the bank of computer monitors, and put on a headset. He keyed the mic that would transmit his voice to every tank, vehicle, and soldier equipped with a local area radio net. He could see the location of each unit under his command on the screens before him. He smiled.

  "Gentlemen, the hour of our destiny is at hand. It is time to liberate a great American city. You are all veterans now. What we did in Chicago must be repeated. However, we're not just facing rebels this time. We are facing soldiers. Professionals—men whom we have trained to fight against for generations. We are facing them head on for the first time. There is no doubt, however, about our ultimate victory. They may outnumber us, but this is our land, our country, our city.

  "To be clear, we shall show no mercy. Do not expect any from our enemy—the Navy has them penned in. They have nowhere to go. The city has been evacuated by all loyal citizens for weeks if not months now. The only people left in that cesspool across the river are rebels, sympathizers, and Russians. When we roll through these tunnels, when we sail across that river like Washington crossing the Delaware, we will destroy everything in our path."

  The general considered his next words carefully. Some part of him knew that he was about to make history and he wanted to be sure that posterity had something worth remembering. "I'm not going to give you some long-winded speech about what we’re about to do for the greater good of mankind or for peace or for the saving of our country. We are soldiers. We're here to kill the enemy. Let's get to it. Roll out!"

  Even through the armored hull of his command vehicle, general Stapleton could feel the earth shaking outside as his tanks rumbled past on their way through the tunnels. The Russians had till now faced his advance elements—scouts, helicopters, light mobilized infantry. Now, the iron fist of his mechanized armor had arrived.

  The man that had for his entire career been compared to General George S. Patton, Jr., truly felt what it must have been like to be America's greatest tank general.

  He keyed the mic and selected the first tank company’s commander. "Son, you find that radar tower the air National Guard has told us about and you take that thing out. The Russians think they have air superiority, we'll see what they do without their toy."

  "Copy that, Home Plate. Dagger-1 on the move."

  CHAPTER 33

  With Your Shield or On It

  MAJOR STROGOLEV EXAMINED THE map of Tampa displayed on the screen in front of him. He positioned his selector over the stadium southwest of the downtown area, right on the northern edge of the bay. He’d been informed it was the home of the local hockey team. A shame, he thought, that the assault will begin with the hockey team’s home ice—I always enjoy watching Team Russia play in the Olympics. It’s a nice big target, though, and teeming with civilian refugees.

  Once he’d selected the stadium as their primary target, the information was relayed to his troops via secure satellite link. It was American technology, but effective and it made his light, mobile strike force all the more deadly.

  He just hoped he had enough time before General Doskoy arrived with the main army.

  "You have your target, comrades. Commence the attack."

  He sat back in his chair and watched the data roll in. On the radar map he could see missiles streak across Tampa Bay on their way toward targets preselected by the Kremlin. He was going to attempt to do the same thing that he had done at Orlando—strike the vulnerable, most explosive, civilian targets that would drive any survivors straight into any Americans.

  Word must've spread about the U.N. required retreat. Since Orlando, his forces had run into only token resistance from half-feral units of the U.S. Army. All coordinated efforts had shift
ed north. Tampa would be easy for the taking, but Moscow was not in the mood for taking the city.

  The Kremlin had ordered Tampa to be punished.

  Strogolev would burn Tampa to the ground.

  He opened a bottle of water and took a sip as the first missiles impacted their targets and the little blue triangles turned and red squares and then disappeared on his computer screen. He chuckled at the irony as another wave and yet another after that began their flight toward downtown Tampa.

  Strogolev also kept an eye on the attached air wing as it looped in from the south. Intel suggested that most of the survivors in the city were in Ybor.

  He shifted his gaze to a larger map. A small detachment had been sent to fire incendiary rounds inside St. Petersburg. That peninsular city held the heaviest concentration of rebels—the mysterious Brotherhood—who’d already set fire to most of the town during the Troubles. Strogolev gambled that a precise strike in certain sections of St. Petersburg would reignite the riots and send the conflagration north.

  "Patch me through to the flight leader," Strogolev ordered.

  "Go ahead, I read you clear," said the fighter pilot as he tore through the skies over Ybor City.

  "You have your primary target in sight?" asked Strogolev.

  "Yes, sir. Target has been struck, we're moving on to secondary targets," said the pilot.

  Strogolev ignored the irritation in the pilot’s voice and demanded a visual update. He was jealous of the Americans and their ability to feed live data streams from all vehicles and planes into their command-and-control vehicles.

  "The entire south side is burning," said the pilot’s voice. Strogolev could hear the wind whistling past the cockpit in the background.

  "Banking right, missile away!" the pilot said. "Next target is the Skyway Bridge. Two and Three, take it out," called out the pilot.

  "Any civilian movement yet?"

  "Negative, I'm looping back around now to double check."