Malcolm's hands came up. "I do not know what you talk about! I betrayed no one. It is you have betrayed me!"
The general laughed, a harsh, bark of a sound. He leveled the gun at Malcolm's forehead. The open barrel of the semiautomatic pistol looked like the entrance to a cave.
Malcolm could feel sweat on his forehead and adrenaline course through his body. His legs begin to tingle. "Please, put that down. We have to figure this out—"
Russian laughed again, then shouted an order at someone nearby. "We have no time and there is nothing to figure out. You were tasked with one thing—block tunnels and keep Americans from coming across."
"We tried! I had my best men—"
The general scoffed. "Your best men. Your best men were worthless! Americans walk all over you—"
"Like their ships walked all over yours? Like their planes walked over yours? Like their tanks walked all over your men?" spat Malcolm. He regretted his words as soon as he said them for the barrel of the pistol began to tremble in the general's hand. The man's face flushed with ager.
"My men broke through American lines north of here. All you had to do was hold them from coming through tunnel. But you could not do that. You put on pretenses of fighting back, but we both know you let them in.”
For the second time that day, Malcolm was speechless. “What?” he stammered.
“It was back door they needed,” Kristanoff continued through clenched teeth, “to take control of island and destroy experimental radar station."
"You and I both know," Malcolm tried to say in a calm voice, “it was not the American army that destroyed your toy. It was missiles fired from the ocean —"
“Do not try to convince me that Russian Navy is at fault here." The general took another step forward and pressed the barrel against Malcolm's forehead, the metal cold on his skin. Malcolm closed his eyes began to pray. There was nothing else for him to do. He had come so close and now it appeared that everything would end with a single gunshot. He had failed his people. He had failed his ancestors, he had failed Allah. When the gunshot never came, he opened his eyes slowly.
A Russian soldier whispered into the Kristanoff’s ear.
The general and the soldier spoke back and forth in that guttural language of theirs for a few moments, before the general's face softened. He abruptly pulled the gun from Malcolm's forehead and holstered it. He took a deep breath and said, "You are not worth bullet. I will save for enemies truly worthy of killing. Like Americans.” Malcolm was quick to notice Kristanoff’s hand remained on the pistol grip.
"I have no time to deal with you and your traitorous men. Americans are upon us. Mark my words, Brother Malcolm," the general said with a sneer. "If we are to survive this, you and I will have words. I have lost too many men to let this go." Before Malcolm could say anything in response, the general turned and shouted something to the room which drew immediate attention. He circled his arm above his head, spoke one more command, and every Russian dropped what he was doing, grabbed a weapon, and began to stream out of the building.
In a few moments, Malcolm was left in sole possession of the office building. He walked over to the window and looked down, thankful his heart rate began to slow. Russians poured out of the doors to the building like a flood of red-brown mud and mounted transports in the streets.
Malcolm felt the floor shudder. He looked up the street to the west and could see the ghostly image of a tank as it emerged from a cloud of smoke. He heard muffled shouts from the street as the Russians not yet in their vehicles began to panic. The tank fired again and he saw glass shatter and fall from office buildings down the street. Below him, the last transport erupted into a ball of fire and smoke. He could see flaming debris—and what he thought was a boot—sail past his window.
Time to go. Malcolm turned and grabbed an abandoned satellite phone from the nearest desk and sprinted for the exit. He had a phone call to make.
DANIEL LOOKED UP FROM the latest intel reports when a staffer handed him a secured phone. He arched an eyebrow as he took the phone. It still felt odd to have even limited satellite capabilities after months of nothing.
The young woman mouthed the word ‘Malcolm’ and backed away.
Daniel nodded, cleared his throat, and spoke into the phone. "Hello? Who am I speaking with?"
"Hello, Mr. Suthby. This is Malcolm."
"Ah, the infamous Malcolm. At last, we speak with each other. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but this is not President Suthby. I am Daniel Jones, the President's Chief of Staff."
"I have no time for these foolish games—put the President on the line. Now," growled Malcolm's voice.
"That won't be possible, Malcolm,” Daniel said. "The President is…currently indisposed—let's put it that way. I am handling all of his affairs of state for the time being. So, anything you have say to him, you may say to me…in all confidence, of course."
"Of course," said the voice on the other end. It fairly dripped sarcasm. "It makes no difference. I have no time to deal with this foolishness. Contact your President and tell him that if his offer of a truce still stands, I wish—"
Daniel gasped theatrically. "If the offer of a truce still stands? Surely you jest? You come to us now? You've been betrayed by your friends! The Russians—oh, I know all about them—are evacuating the southern portion of Manhattan. What makes you think we should take you at your word now, when you only come to us after having been abandoned?"
The silence on the other end of the phone gratified Daniel to no end. He smiled. "Hello? What have you to say for yourself now? We came to you with an offer of peace. We came to you, in order to—"
“I know exactly what you came to me for!" Malcolm said. "You sought to take advantage of us, you sought to crush this rebellion so that you may turn your attention to foreign-policy matters."
Daniel nodded, despite himself. "Be that as it may," said Daniel smoothly, "you believed that you were in a position of power and completely ignored us. Why should we bother to listen to you now?”
"How do you—"
"We are no longer the helpless government you knew." Daniel leaned back in the chair, put the phone on speaker, and laced his fingers behind his head. He was going to enjoy this. "Since you last talked with President Suthby, we've begun reviving power stations around the country. That's right, Philadelphia and handful of other cities now have power. Lights, electricity, air-conditioning, civilization. We are clawing ourselves back into the light, Malcolm, and pretty soon we won’t need your assistance for anything. In fact, shortly we’ll be able to not only handle the foreign threat, but we will resolve this little… rebellion of yours once and for all."
There, thought Daniel. Let him chew on that for a moment. He could hear shouts in the background from Malcolm's connection. Where the hell are you?
"What you say is the truth. By Allah's will, we have been brought to this low station." There was no arrogance anymore in Malcolm's voice. Only humility. Daniel couldn't place why, but that enraged him.
"So now you come slinking to me, asking for help?"
"No, I come slinking to President Suthby, asking for his help."
Daniel was not pleased. "I shall do my best to control my emotions and do what is right for the country. For both of us. Despite the fact that you have scoffed at our overtures of peace, I will be the better man and offer you the olive branch once more."
"Thank you."
"What's that noise I hear? Are you near the fighting?”
"No," said Malcolm's voice. "The Russians are evacuating. Your Army has scared them half to death. They are fleeing—"
"Yes, I know. I've seen the images from the drones we have overhead. That's neither here nor there. We will deal with them when the time comes."
"What do you propose, then?"
At last, the heart of the matter. Daniel looked at the map on the far wall. A few days earlier, Florida had been cut in half with a red marker, from Tamp to the Atlantic coast, straight through Orlando.
All points south were controlled by the Russians. Now the entire state of Florida was one red smear on the map. His gaze swept up the coast to New York City, where there was another red stain that covered parts of northern New Jersey as well. The Russian threat must be neutralized first. An idea came to Daniel that would possibly solve all of their problems.
"You and your people desire your own land, correct?"
"You know this to be true."
Good, he sounds depressed, defeated. Exactly the mental state I want him in. "Here's what I propose. Get as many of your people out of New York as you can—I will hold off the military and forbid them from attacking your people. Get them out and get them south. How is up to you—all of this is completely off the books, mind you. I cannot have our military transporting known rebels across the country."
"Transport? Where? Where would you have us go? I have—"
"Florida." Daniel sat back again and waited for the response. Malcolm took his time thinking it over.
"Florida? Why?"
"Florida now resides in the hands of the Russians. Thanks to President Suthby’s deal with the United Nations. I want it back. You want land. We were both betrayed by the Russians. We both want revenge."
"To what end?"
Daniel chuckled. "Malcolm, my dear man, the end that all of us require. Your people require living space. Florida has been all but depopulated, thanks to our Russian friends and President Suthby's evacuation order. So what are we left to do? Get your people Florida, raise your little rebellion down there, and take the state back. If you are successful in getting the Russians to leave, you can have it."
"All of Florida?"
Daniel took a sip of water from a glass on his desk. "Let's not be hasty. I will personally guarantee you that any territory you capture from the Russians—including major cities—you can keep when this is all over. Florida has already been severed from the United States and given to the United Nations. I have no interest in forcing it back into the United States as a whole unit. However it would go a long way towards satisfying the voters if we were at least able to bring at least part of Florida back into the Union. When all this is said and done, of course."
"What you get out of it?"
"What I get out of it, my dear Malcolm, is removing one prong of a two-front invasion by the Russians. Without their bases in Florida, we will be able to handle the Russians in New York all the more easy. When they have been dealt with, I will turn the full brunt of our military on the Chinese invasion of the southwest. That, Malcolm, is what I get out of it. It's what America gets out of it. Really, it's a win-win situation. You get living space, international recognition—provided by yours truly—and I get the Russians out of my hair so I can focus on the real threat."
"When we defeat the Russians, my people retain anything they leave behind."
It wasn't a question. "Of course, of course. Like I said, American forces have already withdrawn—we gave up any claim to materiel and supplies—including military bases—when the United Nations forced our hand and called for the general retreat north. Anything that you take from the Russians now would fall under President Reed’s Letters of Marque and Reprisal. Consider it spoils of war."
Silence met his proposal. Just when Daniel was about to ask if Malcolm was still there, the smooth voice appeared over the line once more. "Very well, I agree to your terms. I will contact my people and order a cessation of hostilities towards the United States immediately. As long as you will provide safe passage—my people and I will head south with all haste and begin to retake Florida."
"Pleasure doing business with you, Malcolm."
Daniel hung up the phone, well pleased with himself and his first piece of statesmanship. He drummed his fingers on the desk and sifted through the stack of updates. He looked at the medical report from this morning which bemoaned President Suthby's declining vitals.
Pity, that. He dropped the report in the trash and stood. Time to break the news to the staffers who so anxiously awaited word of President Suthby's condition and news from New York.
This was going to cement his role as leader of the remnants of the United States. Daniel Jones opened the door from the executive office and smiled at the cluster of staffers and aides waiting on his every word. These were the true believers. These were the core of his followers. They would spread the good news and he would be ushered in as leader of the free world.
GENERAL STAPLETON STEPPED DOWN from the command Stryker and brushed the dust off his pants. He adjusted the pistol belt on his hip and pulled a half-smoked cigar from his breast pocket. He glanced around at the destruction of lower Manhattan and smiled with satisfaction. His men had rounded up the last of the Russian forces and already marched many of them across the island to the makeshift prison camp set up on the western bank of the Hudson.
Of the rebels, he had seen neither hide nor hair—at least live ones. They had simply vanished in the night. Tucked tail and ran at the first opportunity. Pathetic.
Stapleton had faced down hardened insurgents in Iraq and Afghanistan. These homegrown rebels were nothing more than riffraff and street trash. So far he had only encountered two IED's. That would have been considered a good day in the Sandbox. These fools had no idea what they were up against.
"General, sir, incoming transmission from NORAD," called out one of his aides.
On the one hand, Stapleton was happy to have reliable communications with the chain of command. On the other hand, he rather missed being on his own in the dark. The politicians weren't nearly as intrusive and obnoxious when they couldn't get a hold of him.
Now there was some fool residing in NORAD, who used to be the head of the FEMA of all things, claiming to be President of the United States. He knew that would be something that would need to be dealt with soon, but he planned to meet with Admiral Nella and resolve that issue later.
He liked what he’d seen from the Admiral's file—and the squid that had been dropped off by helicopter a few hours back to lay out the proposals for his consideration had been eloquent in his support for the Admiral. He was a fighting admiral—sailors always admired them, he supposed.
Admiral Nella wanted a military coup. Stapleton was at first aghast at the mere idea, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Politicians scramble and spin their wheels and nothing is ever accomplished. If unelected bureaucrats like the head of FEMA could cobble together enough support to get himself declared President of the United States—even recognized by the United Nations for Christ's sake—then the country was in far worse trouble than he had originally thought. Despite the fact that they'd heard rumors that power was restored to Philadelphia, America was still in a shit-ton of trouble.
Admiral Nella's plan to fix all that was as bold as it was broad. Stapleton smiled as he dusted ashes off his hands. He’d had to burn the treasonous documents that the Navy Lieutenant had delivered, to ensure that only he and Admiral Nella remained aware of the plans.
The Admiral proposed a joint strike force, comprised of what was left of the Roosevelt strike group and Stapleton's 4th/ID. By land and sea, they would sweep down the coast of America, hopefully recruiting such home guard units as they might find until they converged on Washington itself.
Once liberated from the grip of the infamous Brotherhood, Admiral Nella proposed that they institute a military coup in order to restore the Constitution. The politicians who led the country to this impasse would be summarily dismissed and the government run by Admiral Nella and General Stapleton until such time as general elections could be held and the entire shebang restarted.
The only elected officials to be reinstated were ones that had yet to be elected. He grinned to himself as he reached out and took the satellite phone from a captain. It would come as a shock to the incumbents in Washington—or wherever the hell they scattered to thanks to President Reed. He would love to be a fly on the wall, to see the reactions on their faces when word was announced that Washington had been liberated by t
he Army working in conjunction with a strike group from the Navy.
For starters, Admiral Nella insisted that there be strict term limits on all members of Congress. Gone would be the days when someone might serve for 30, 40, or even 50 years. General Stapleton, for his part, had suggested that they ban—under strict penalties—all lobbying of politicians. No longer would politicians be bought and sold like commodities on the stock exchange. The Republic would function as the founders had intended it: private citizens would take up the call of civic duty and serve for a while. After the conclusion of their terms, they could then return home to the adoration of their constituents and let someone else take up the mantle.
That would be a government of the people, for the people, by the people. The monstrosity that the American bureaucracy had become in the last few generations or so would be wiped clean.
Hell, Stapleton thought, the Russians, the Chinese, even the United Nations—they’ve done a lot of the work for us. All we had to do is clean up the mess and glue the pieces back together.
He put the phone to his ear. "This is Stapleton, go ahead."
"General Stapleton, this is Daniel Jones,” said the voice on the other end of the scratchy connection.
Stapleton felt a frown crease forehead as he thought where he had heard that name. An eyebrow arched with realization. "The Press Secretary?"
"The President's Chief of Staff," said the voice in a tightly controlled manner.
Stapleton grinned. He had hit a nerve. Yet another pumped up, non-elected official thinking that he was running the show. "Which President?" asked Stapleton.
"President Suthby is… indisposed… at the moment."
"How convenient for you. Cat’s away, huh?" Stapleton pinned the phone against his shoulder and cheek, while he lit his cigar and began to smoke. He watched the first puff drift away from his head like a cloud. "And what exactly is the reason for the pleasure of your conversation this fine day? Mr. Chief of Staff."
"General Stapleton, I have orders for you."
Oh, Stapleton thought with barely contained mirth, this should be good. Carry-on you little shit.
Sic Semper Tyrannis Page 49