Sic Semper Tyrannis

by Marcus Richardson

  Strogolev waited for a few tense moments. How long would it take for the survivors to clog the streets and bog down anyone trying to escape? In Orlando it'd only taken a handful of minutes. On the way from Orlando to Tampa, they found nothing but empty towns. Everyone who had been able to fled north with the rest of the American army. As much as he desired an easy victory, Strogolev would not to relax until he knew what surprises Tampa held.

  "Yes, there they are—I see survivors exiting buildings. We have multiple targets on foot."

  Strogolev leaned back and closed his eyes in relief. It began. "You have free reign choose your targets as you will. Weapons-free."

  "Yes, sir. Confirm weapons-free. All units, attack pattern Fox, execute, execute, execute!"

  Strogolev turned his attention back to the computer screen and plotted his next move. Red circles on the screen indicated the BTR's—all of them except for the command BTR were making their way down the main highway straight for the heart of downtown Tampa. They were flanked by two columns of soldiers on foot.

  They crept through the outer suburbs and burned everything in their path. It was slow going, slogging through neighborhoods like that, but reports that civilian survivors were beginning to flood the streets kept him optimistic.

  Strogolev swiveled in his chair and turned to face the opposite wall where another screen glowed with the depiction of downtown Tampa through the unblinking eyes of a drone. The pilot operated it from a building well behind the outskirts of the bay city. The man had been set up with a guard, some food and water, and the portable drone command-and-control station. Strogolev keyed another comms frequency.

  "Drone control, zoom in on sector A-2."

  "As you wish, sir," replied the pilot’s voice. Strogolev watched as the camera swiveled and zoomed into the sector he required. It showed the leading edge of the BTR column. He watched the BTRs rumble down a placid suburban street. They fired high-explosive rounds in silence. American houses exploded like they had been made of toothpicks. Flaming debris filled the air and blanketed the streets.

  The BTRs rumbled over everything in their path and blasted cars pushing cars right off of the street. Foot soldiers swarmed behind them, rummaging through houses, collecting trophies and supplies as they went. Strogolev had issued orders for the men to search houses quickly as they went through. Stragglers would not be tolerated.

  He was satisfied to see squads leapfrog past each other in an effort to graze off the land as they moved forward. The men had fairly salivated at the chance to acquire loot. Everyone wanted to bring home pieces of Americana to show family and friends or sell on the black market. After all, Russia still had power…so anything that required electricity would still work in the Motherland. Strogolev knew that even though the Americans were starving and without water, they would still hold onto their precious electronics.

  Satisfied that the ground assault proceeded as planned, he swiveled back to the other side of the BTR and continued to monitor the air assault.

  A large fire, according to one of the pilots, had already engulfed the south side of Tampa. It was spreading fast. It'd been a long dry summer and fall and there were no automatic sprinklers or fire departments to put out fires now. The firestorm that they had started in Orlando paled in comparison to the one that began to devour Tampa. He checked his watch—the assault had been under way for all of 15 minutes.

  The pilots reported increased winds and had to pull back as the smoke reduced visibility to dangerous levels. It was not enough. Strogolev ordered his artillery to fire more rockets into Tampa.

  The BTR commander cut into his headset. "Sir, General Doskoy is reporting that he is within two hours of arrival. He is demanding that you contact him immediately."

  Strogolev ignored him. Now was not the time to placate his commander. He had stolen Orlando from the obnoxious little man, yet Doskoy had not only managed to seize the glory for himself, he gained a promotion to boot. Strogolev vowed that would not happen again. He’d contacted the Kremlin before he launched his assault and received prior approval for his plans. He had promised that taking Tampa would hasten the fall of the entire state. Aleksei Strogolev, not Andros Doskoy, would go down as the man who captured Florida.

  Strogolev smiled as Tampa burned.

  ERIK CROUCHED UNDER THE wide-leafed bush and waited. He tried unsuccessfully to force his tense body to relax. Ever so slowly, he pulled his Russian pistol forward and checked it—it still had a round in the chamber. The magazine was full. He had 18 shots.

  He slowly peeled back a leaf that blocked his vision. The last 20 feet across the clearing toward the front of the women's facility was empty.

  There'd been a lot of Russian activity lately that had been centered on the prison camp. Either someone important was on their way or the Russians were preparing to leave the area. Either way, he and Ted had run out of time. They would leave the prison camp with their families today or not at all.

  Erik checked his watch again. Almost time for the assault and Ted was nowhere to be seen. He slowly turned his head and peered to the left and right. He couldn’t spot any of their new allies from Bigby due to the pine forest. They were backwoods frontiersman, modern-day pioneers. He wasn’t surprised they could hide so well. After all, they lived more off the land than anyone Erik knew.

  The plan Ted designed called for Erik to stake out a position in front of the women's facility. Ted would arrive just before the assault began and check-in with Erik before he moved off to a location where he had a good field of fire into the camp. He would use the captured sniper rifle to try and provide cover for the families as they fled.

  In the meantime, the hunters would split into two groups. One would attack from the west, the other from the east at the same time. The Russians would be torn between the sniper and men attacking from two directions at once. During the confusion, the plan was for Erik to slip into the women's facility, bust open the doors, and turn everyone out.

  They hoped during the confusion Erik would be able to extract Brin, Susan, and the kids. The hunters, a few of them veterans themselves, took it upon themselves to rescue the rest of the American soldiers during the assault.

  Erik had no doubts about what his fate might be should this, their last-ditch attempt at liberation fail. There was no other course of action. Erik pushed the thought from his mind. Failure was simply not an option. If ever there was a time in his life to say ‘come home with your shield or on it’, this was it.

  Erik nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand suddenly gripped his shoulder. "Easy there, chief," whispered Ted.

  He turned his head and cursed at his friend. "You damn-near gave me a heart attack."

  "Hey, I'm Recon, remember? I'm supposed to do that." He grinned. Ted’s white teeth were in stark contrast to the war paint smeared across his face.

  "Yeah let's hope the Russians react the same way."

  "We’re all set," Ted hissed. He let go of Erik's shoulder and began to slip away into the bushes. "The attack is a ‘go’. Wait for my signal."

  "Wait—what signal?" whispered Erik in a panic. Ted didn't answer. When Erik looked over his shoulder, there was no movement and no sign of Ted. The man was a ghost.

  Well, Erik told himself, when the bodies start to drop, I guess I'll have my signal…

  Erik decided to shimmy forward about three feet to reach the very edge of cover and prepare for a full-on sprint to the front door of the women's quarters. He didn't have long to wait.

  Erik was able to see at least three guards as they milled around the women's cabin. The burned husk of the administration building that had been destroyed during Erik's failed first attempt at escape smoldered next door. He was at last able to admire Purnell's handiwork. Whatever the hell the man had touched off, it'd made one holy mess of that building.

  The roof had vanished over half the building. Three of the four walls had caved-in and were charred to a crisp. If anyone was inside there… Erik didn't want to think about th
at. There was a good chance someone had died when that building had exploded. The Russian commander, Captain Stepanovich, was the one person he knew had survived.

  That son of a bitch is going to die today.

  Erik heard what sounded like a clap of thunder explode from the forest to his left. One of the three guards in front of the women's cabin went slack before he fell to the ground like a rag-doll. Ted had removed the silencer on the sniper rifle.

  “Fire for effect,” he’d said.

  A blossom of what looked like red paint had been splattered against the front wall of the building where the guard had been standing. Before the echo of the shot faded, there was another and a second Russian went down.

  The last guard screamed and dropped to the ground in an attempt to save his life. In less than a heartbeat, Ted's rifle roared one more time and the Russian on the ground twitched, then lay still.

  As Erik launched himself to his feet, he couldn't help but admire the fact that Ted had just dispatched three soldiers in a couple of seconds. And Ted had complained that he preferred bolt-action rifles. Erik didn’t even want to think about how insanely accurate the Recon Marine would have been with a rifle of his choosing.

  Erik blocked out the thunder of Ted's rifle firing again—and again—as he ran across the clear space between the forest and the front of the cabin. He side-stepped the bodies and lowered his shoulder to throw his entire weight at full speed into the door to the women's cabin.

  The wooden door exploded in a shower of splinters and busted pine planks. Erik felt a momentary stab of pain in his right shoulder and neck as he careened through the door, just before his face impacted the ground on the inside. He had expected a little more resistance—whoever had built the cabin clearly had not anticipated the need to keep people out. Momentarily dazed, it took Erik a couple seconds to get to his feet and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He still had the pistol in his hand, so that was a good sign. Off to his right, in the darkness, he heard a voice yell in Russian.

  Just like Ted had told him, without hesitation he rolled to the left and brought up his pistol. He sighted down his arm toward where he thought the sound came from and squeezed the trigger three times in quick succession. The explosion of fire and sound from his pistol reverberated inside the building even louder than Ted’s sniper rifle outside. Erik, though temporarily blinded, did not stop and dropped to the ground again. He rolled onto his injured right side back toward his original position. His eyes had adjusted and as he got up from his roll and aimed where he thought his target might be. He saw someone thrash around on the floor and held his fire.

  He had been right. They had posted guards inside the women's cabin. Before he could take another step, a woman screamed and launched herself at the guard on the floor. As he opened his mouth to call for Brin, two more women landed on the Russian. They screamed as they kicked and punched the wounded man.

  Erik heard another shout in Russian behind him and spun to face the shattered doorway. A guard appeared and held a rifle in front of him. The Russian shouted again and swung the rifle side to side, as if seeking a target in the darkness.

  Erik knew he only had a few seconds before the man's eyes adjusted to the darkness. As he aimed his pistol at the man’s chest, a body crashed in to the guard from the shadows and knocked the rifle to the floor. Women appeared out of the darkness and forced the man back outside. They piled on him like sharks in a feeding frenzy. His screams of anger turned to screams of pain their hands and feet connected with his now defenseless body.

  Aware of no other threats in the immediate vicinity, Erik turned and made his way toward the rear of the building where he had last seen Susan. He called out for Brin as a tidal wave of women and children made a break for the open door. Erik raised the pistol above his head and tried to clear a path with his injured right arm as he fought against the current of bodies heading for the door. Their voices rose to the point that Erik’s ears hurt.

  The attack was in full force now and even over the screaming he could hear Ted's rifle bark again, mixed with the deep rat-tat-tat of AK-47s. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard hunting rifles echo in the distance.

  Erik got halfway through the building before the press of bodies became too much and he was slowly and inexorably forced towards the front of the building again. He called out to Brin over and over again, interspersed with shouts for Susan and the children. Women around screamed in terror. The noise level was deafening. Without warning, he suddenly felt the familiar grip of Brin’s soft hand in his.

  "Brin!" he gasped

  "You came back! You're alive! You came back!" she said as she shoved a woman out of the way in order to throw her arms around Erik's neck.

  "Where’s Susan? Where's the kids?" asked Erik. He tried to shelter her from the press of people as they turned and began to work their way toward the door, carried along by the flow of bodies.

  Over the sounds of battle outside and the screaming inside, Brin yelled, "They moved her to another building. They took the kids with them."

  Erik cursed their luck. The AK-47s grew louder. He could hear shouts and screams from outside the building now. The Russians had launched their counterattack.

  "We don't have much time. We've got to get out of this building and find Susan and the kids!"

  "This way!" Brin said as she pulled him toward the side wall. As the women and children tried to escape, they surged toward the middle of the pathway. Erik followed her lead and knocked aside empty cots.

  Just as they reached the shattered entrance an explosion at the rear of the building knocked most of the remaining prisoners to the floor. A hundred voices rose as one in a cry of panic and frustration. Erik reached the limit of his patience. The press of bodies would get them both killed and he would not allow that to happen, not now.

  He grabbed Brin around the waist turned his left shoulder forward and flung women out of his way like a bulldozer. The open door and freedom lay just ten feet away and by God nothing was going to stop him this time. Erik barreled through the bottleneck at the door and they staggered into the early light of day. Most of the women ran straight out the door into the main area of the prison camp. Only a few stragglers veered left and right in an attempt to find cover.

  Erik, a head or taller than most of the women, spotted a group Russian soldiers as they approached with AK-47s leveled. He saw his chance and practically threw Brin toward the corner of the burned-out administration building. He crouched low as they ran and used the riot to hide their movement. It worked. He collapsed in the rubble behind a partially destroyed wall. Brin landed on top of him, out of breath.

  “You’re shaking like a leaf,” Erik said. “We’re almost there…just—”

  "Did you see how many made it?"

  A dozen AK-47s fired a volley on full auto and drowned out his answer.

  THE SHARP REPORT OF a Dragunov sniper rifled alerted Gregor Stepanovich that something was seriously amiss in his prison camp. He knew of no reason for one of his men to fire that particular weapon. More importantly, he knew that one of those rifles had been stolen when Erik Larsson had escaped.

  Not in the Special Forces. Ha! I knew it…

  Stepanovich frowned. He was in the middle of an especially brutal interrogation, one he’d desperately like to finish. Irritation mounted inside him as he stepped back to wipe his hands clean of American blood.

  The soldier in front of him looked up from the floor, his face a complete ruin. The insolence of the man—he actually smiled at Stepanovich. The American spat blood and a few teeth onto the ground at Stepanovich his feet, then coughed. After all that he’d done to the prisoner, the fool still smiled in defiance.

  Americans are insane.

  "You find something funny?" Stepanovich said as he dropped the bloody rag to the ground and reattached his utility belt. That Dragunov rifle cracked again and again. The walls of the interrogation cabin muffled the sound but it was still plenty loud.

  "Y
eah…this game is over, Ivan…" hissed the gap-toothed prisoner.

  Stepanovich spoke in English: "You honestly expect me to be frightened by your sad defiance? You will die today, you know?" He looked at the clipboard on the table nearby. “Mr. Purnell.”

  The American’s insolent smile widened. The torn flesh of his lips spread into a hideous grimace of death. "So will you, pal." He spat a bloody gob at Stepanovich’s feet. It splattered his boot and left a gory smear.

  Stepanovich froze when heard a different rifle that had a deeper, sharper report. It was no Russian weapon that was for sure. That could only mean one thing—an outside attack. Locals.

  Stepanovich drew his sidearm and shot the American prisoner in the forehead, finally erasing that gruesome smile. He holstered the weapon and without another sound stepped over the body. He crossed the interrogation room and threw open the door. His ears were assaulted by the screams of dying soldiers—his soldiers—and the dull roar of what sounded like hundreds of voices from the east.

  The women. It has to be Larsson. He’s back to collect his woman.

  "And now the trap is sprung.” He pulled the radio from his belt and brought it to his lips. "This is Captain Stepanovich—squad one, execute your orders! Squad two, move to your backup positions and cover the women's containment building. Everyone else get to your positions! We’re under attack!"

  "Captain! Squad four is taking fire from the woods outside cabins three and nine!" his radio yelped. Stepanovich turned his head and listened to the sound of what appeared to be single-shot rifles echo across the compound. He turned and begin to run in that direction to help coordinate defense. Halfway there, the radio squawked again.

  "Captain! Cabins 11 and 12 under heavy attack! They're everywhere! There in the trees!"

  Before Stepanovich could get the radio to his mouth, it broke squelch one more time. "Sniper! Sniper by the admin—" the transmission ended abruptly.

  Impossible! The locals had been pacified—he had seen to that personally. He’d sacked every town and looted all the supplies he could. The survivors had been driven into the woods!