Sic Semper Tyrannis

by Marcus Richardson

  "Any rebels your men encounter are to be given wide berth. Hostilities are to cease between anyone claiming association with the Brotherhood and the armed forces of the United States. You are to give them free permission to travel in the country. Do you understand these orders, general?"

  Stapleton nearly spat the cigar out of his mouth. "You want me to do what? You want me to let these people—who burned our cities to the ground and killed untold thousands of Americans…” He was incredulous. “You want me to just let them walk away?"

  "That is correct, general. There has been a peace treaty—"

  "My how things change…the Chief of Staff to an unelected President takes over, and suddenly the United States is not only negotiating with terrorists but reaching accords with them." The general spat in disgust. "I do not recognize your authority, or your orders. Mr. Chief of Staff."

  "You will recognize my orders, general. My authority was vested in me by the President—"

  "An unelected president has no authority to vest."

  "That may be your opinion, but—"

  "There is no opinion about it, boy. It says so in the Constitution. The President shall be elected. President Suthby—if you can call him that—was never elected. He was appointed. By foreign powers. Powers who are also in league with the very Russian bastards that I'm killing and driving from our land as we speak. As far as I'm concerned, you're in league with them. That makes you a traitor. This transmission is over."

  Stapleton hung up on the indignant squawk from the other end of the line and smiled. He tossed the phone to a passing soldier and leaned against the sea wall overlooking the Upper Bay. He blew a lungful of smoke into the air, and peered through the haze at the collection of still-burning hulks and wrecks out in the water. The massive U.S.S. Theodore Roosevelt picked its way through the flotsam, heading toward shore with what remained of its escort ships.

  All it took was the deaths of two Russian subs and the whole invading navy had scattered like cockroaches. The suicide run of Anzio had sealed the deal for the surface ships, the Admiral had said. Stapleton shook his head. He couldn’t blame the sub captains, really. He sure as hell wouldn’t want to face Roosevelt without any assistance.

  That right there is one hell of an impressive sight, he thought. Let the rebels see that steaming up the Potomac as my tanks come down from the north and we'll see who runs this country.

  Any doubt that he had about Admiral Nella's plan had been evaporated by that little prick under Cheyenne Mountain. Chief of Staff. A damn glorified secretary trying to give orders to a general. The man who liberated Chicago and New York City. The man who crushed the rebellion. What a crock.

  Stapleton spat into the waters below and wondered what fate would have in store for America. It would be a long, slow march to Washington.

  “Bob,” he said around his cigar.

  “Sir?” Vinsen folded the map he had been examining and waited.

  “Let’s start laying in supplies. When we’re finished mopping up these Slavic pukes, we’re rolling south.”

  “South, sir?”

  “South.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Propaganda

  THE ENGLISHMAN WITH SLICKED hair cocked his head and looked disapprovingly at the camera. "It is with great sadness that this day we report the United Nations has declared total victory in its campaign—its illegal campaign—to occupy the American city of New York. To what end, we can only speculate.

  “Indeed, as much of the civilized world teeters on the edge of societal breakdown and riots are increasingly large and violent in Europe, it is perhaps even more shocking that the United Nations would sanction such reckless behavior from Russia. What is the U.N. playing at? Will there be global implications if Russia succeeds? What will happen if they fail?

  “To answer some of these questions, we now go live to our embedded correspondent, Martin Surles, who is with the Russian contingent now based out of LaGuardia International Airport, just north of New York City. Martin?"

  The grainy image on the black and white television screen switched from the glowing, technology-filled studios in London to a dimly lit room which could have been in any office building in the world. The plain white walls behind the reporter—ridiculously dressed in a flak jacket and tanker’s helmet—had a motivational poster with an eagle in the background. He could have been standing in a post office or a kindergarten classroom.

  "That's right, Roger, I'm standing here with Russia’s 442nd tactical logistics battalion. I've just received word that reinforcements are due to arrive and assist in the final mop up of New York City itself. And I have to say, the amount of military hardware and personnel that the Russian army has been able to move into this area—as fast as it has—is quite impressive."

  A little picture-in-picture box appeared in the top right corner of the screen and displayed the concerned face of the studio anchor. "Martin, can you give us any more information on the rumors that an American army has arrived on the scene and launched an attack on the southern tip of Manhattan? We've been getting disturbing reports from HAM radio operators around Britain that corroborate the rumors."

  The reporter in the flak jacket stared at the television camera for a few moments like a deer caught in headlights, then nodded his head as he listened to the delayed transmission from the studio. "Yes, Roger, I can confirm those reports. The Russians here are aware of the fact that there is an American presence on the mainland. The officers here emphasize it is a small presence, though it nonetheless caused no end of consternation about an hour ago, when we had an air raid drill. One Colonel, speaking on condition of anonymity, informed me that a massive Russian fleet has entered the harbor. We won’t have a proper look until morning but I’m told it is the largest fleet of Russian warships to engage in a campaign in foreign waters since World War II."

  "So," said the anchorman as the picture-in-picture window swapped and the studio set filled the screen while the combat reporter’s face shrunk to a tiny image in the top right corner. "What we know at the moment, stands as this: there has indeed been some fighting between the Russians and Americans for control over Manhattan—and a Russian fleet has in fact taken up residence in New York Harbor. The Russians now have complete control of New York City and more importantly LaGuardia International Airport—where, from what I understand, hourly flights of troops and materiel are being airlifted in from Europe."

  "That's correct Roger," said the man on the ground. "I've seen a tremendous amount of military hardware come through here. I haven't seen something like this since the opening days of the war on terror."

  "With the Russian occupation of the state of Florida and now the conquest of New York City, is it fair to say that Russia’s motivation is considerably more than mere humanitarian relief?"

  The field reporter’s face filled the screen once more. "I'd say that's a fair assumption, Roger. We hear nothing out of The Hague except protestations of innocence. The Russians, we are told, are bringing unprecedented amounts of supplies and much needed doctors and medicine to the American people—yet I've seen nothing arrive here at LaGuardia other than tanks, trucks, and hundreds if not thousands of soldiers. This looks more like an invasion than—"

  Rough voices shouted in the background and a soldier stepped in front of the camera. The tip of his rifle blocked the view of the reporter’s face. There was some more shouting, some shoving, and the camera image on the small black and white TV shuddered. When the static snow cleared, the reporter was flanked by two Russian soldiers, grim-faced with weapons at the ready.

  "Martin, are you quite sure everything is okay? Are you safe? What of those soldiers—"

  The reporter’s face said it all. He was terrified. "These… these soldiers have just arrived… and asked me to not talk about…"

  "For God’s sake, Martin, be careful! Stop broadcasting if you must, but do not antagonize the Russians!" warned the anchorman. He sounded more like a concerned father than news man.


  Someone off-camera shoved a crumpled piece of paper in front of the reporter. His wide eyes darted back and forth between the men with guns and the new arrival. Before long he looked down and took the paper in hands that trembled. An off-camera voice grumbled something unintelligible.

  The reporter looked up at the camera. "I have… I have been instructed… I mean, they want me to read this statement."

  “Go ahead Martin," said the anchorman. “The world is listening."

  "Very well then," said the reporter. He cleared his throat again. "Victorious Russian forces have completely routed the American—pardon me, the illegal—American forces who have violated international law in attempting to wrest control of Manhattan from the United Nations. At great loss of life, Russian troops have protected the innocent and defeated the rogue general in charge of the 4th Infantry Division. The American forces were routed and chased back across the Hudson River."

  The reporter looked up and blinked at the camera, beads of sweat visible on his forehead. His eyes darted off-camera once more before he looked back to the paper. His voice was high and tight, but he continued to read: "This day marks the end of American sovereign rule over greater New York City.”

  "Good Lord," said the voice of the anchorman in London.

  “This day marks the beginning of a peaceful resolution of this conflict, in which the United Nations claims all territory known until recently as the United States of America. Today—" the reporter looked back up at the screen, his eyes darted back and forth. “Uh…hang on here…wait just a moment…” He turned and cocked his head, listening.

  The soldiers on either side of him heard it as well. They looked at each other over the reporters head and then started to glance about warily. More and more voices could suddenly be heard, all in Russian. The reporter saw his chance and began to speak rapidly over the din.

  "Roger, I don't know if you can still hear me, but we hear what are apparently, air raid sirens—" The low, mournful wail of emergency sirens began to break through over the ruckus on the screen.

  "Air raid sirens?" asked the anchorman from London. "Why are there emergency sirens going off—Martin, can you hear me?"

  "Roger! It's definitely air raid sirens that I'm hearing—the Russians are extremely agitated right now—I can see men running about in every direction—there's a great commotion—"

  The camera image shook violently and static filled the screen for a moment before the image returned and someone picked the camera up off the floor. The voices in the background raised to a cacophonous roar, as the reporter tried to shout over the noise. “—see that? That was a bomb! And there's another! My God, look at the explosion—"

  "Martin? What's happening? Can you still hear me?"

  "Roger, I don't know if you can still hear me, but it appears that LaGuardia is under attack—I see planes in the sky, and bombs exploding—"

  Another soldier rushed into the room and began to shout at the reporter. The newsman dropped his microphone and stepped back, hands up before a quick burst of an AK-47 silenced his journalistic integrity. The soldier turned to the cameraman and the last image that appeared on the screen was the muzzle flash directed toward the camera.

  The screen went black with two simple words plastered across the middle: NO SIGNAL.

  Almost instantly, the little box in the top right corner containing the image of the anchorman in London expanded to fill the screen.

  "Oh, my God!" the anchorman said as he put a hand to his mouth. He looked visibly shaken. "Oh my—good heavens. If you are still with us, please be advised that what you have just seen was a live broadcast out of LaGuardia International Airport. We were just speaking with the BBC's own Martin Surles who’d been embedded with advancing Russian forces. It appears that the forward base the Russians had occupied at LaGuardia has come under attack. Martin reported—again, if you're just joining us—that there were planes in the sky and bombs exploding at the airport. The Russians were completely caught by surprise and…" The man's voice shook and there were tears in his eyes.

  "I'm sad to say that it appeared…" He cleared his throat, and gamely continued. "It appears that Martin has been killed by Russian soldiers, who then attacked our cameraman, Tony Norris. May God rest their souls," the anchorman said, eyes downcast. “But rest assured, we—”

  The image on the screen began to shake and static filled the screen. Saldid reached out and slapped the television, nearly spilling his beer in the process. He cursed when the image did not improve and switched off the antique black-and-white television set in a huff.

  Hakim sighed and took another sip of his ice cold beer. He propped his feet up on the cantina table and gazed out over the blue crystalline waters of the southern Gulf of Mexico.

  He and Saldid had worked their way across central Mexico and arrived in Cancun some days ago. He couldn’t remember how many. He glanced at the half-empty beer bottle as it dripped moisture onto the stained tablecloth.

  Perhaps I need to cut back…

  At any rate, it had been a long, tedious journey…they had hired taxis and any transport they could find to get here. But the next leg of their mission was about to begin and Hakim could not wait to start. Idly sitting around drinking himself into a stupor and chasing the local girls with Saldid—all in order to keep their cover of traveling businessmen intact, of course—had become tiresome.

  The news broadcast, however had been eye-opening. Long trained in the art of propaganda, Hakim knew right away what had happened. The Americans had completely sacked New York City. That much was clear, else the reporter would have been reporting with victorious Russian troops from the steps of the New York Stock Exchange, not cowering in some guarded room at LaGuardia International Airport a dozen miles away.

  If there truly had been a great battle, if there truly had been a great victory for the Russians, there would've been pictures and video. Lots of footage. They would've wasted no time at all in taking the reporter at the very first opportunity out to see the wreckage of the American forces. No… Hakim was sure that if there had actually a battle, the Americans had won handsomely. There was no other explanation.

  "I grow tired of this place, brother. I wish to return to America, to continue our fun," grumbled Saldid from the next chair. The man was already half drunk and it was only 9 o'clock in the morning. He eyed the waitress, a tired looking middle-aged woman who lacked all her teeth. “I like blondes. These senoritas are…”

  “Old?” asked Hakim.

  “And fat. American girls…” Saldid sighed and took a long swig from his beer. “Oh, how I miss them. If it were Spring Break…” He looked around casually. “The college girls scream a lot more, did you know?”

  “Yes,” muttered Hakim. He had heard. A lot. Saldid was ravenous and apparently insatiable, even when half-drunk at 9 in the morning. Hakim said a silent prayer for Saldid’s salvation.

  I understand that you must test me, Allah, but might there be another way? He took another sip from his drink and ignored the irony. He watched his partner stuff another fish taco into his mouth and chew noisily. Hakim frowned.

  The man is a pig and a sinner of the worst kind. But, Hakim said to himself with a silent sigh, he is my brother in the teachings of Allah and we're still on mission.

  "Pace yourself, Saldid. Once we board the ship, we will have more than two days before we make land.”

  "I cannot wait," Saldid said around a mouthful of fish taco. Bits of meat and lettuce dribbled from the corner of his mouth. The sauce smeared through his thick, bushy mustache made him look like a fool.

  "Indeed, nor can I,” said Hakim, hiding his disgust. “But we must be patient, brother. Remember, Allah will provide all things to those who are patient."

  Saldid rolled his eyes and nodded his head. "Yes, yes, I remember my lessons. I just want to remember what it feels like to take the life of an infidel. We did not have enough time…"

  Saldid’s voice trailed off as the waitress appeared and asked
in Spanish if they required anything else. She winked at Saldid and smiled. Hakim nearly spit his beer out when he saw Saldid pale and offer a weak-as-milk smile in return. The man was terrified.

  "Gracias, but no,” said Hakim. He switched to fluent Spanish with ease: "We will be departing soon. Thank you for your hospitality, please take this as a token of our gratitude." He handed the surprised woman a wad of pesos. That’s probably a month's salary for her, thought Hakim.

  His handler would be upset about wasting resources, but what did Hakim care? In their rampage through the Arizona, he and Hakim had not only killed and raped but had looted every American body for money. They had more money now then they knew what do with—to spread that wealth among these poor oppressed Mexicans seemed as a good an idea as any.

  "Look! There it is! Running that point over there," said Saldid in Arabic. He jumped to his feet and knocked over his chair, spilling his beer. "I see it,” he said, forced to squint in the morning sun. “It looks…"

  Hakim stood slowly and wiped the crumbs off of his shirt with his stained napkin. He reminded himself that the midday prayer call was only a few hours away. He would need time to clean the sin off Saldid. With reluctance, he glanced where Saldid pointed and saw a fishing trawler emerge around the palm tree-covered point some mile and a half in the distance. Hakim could see that the white hull was streaked red with rust.

  It appeared that their accommodations would not be worthy of a cruise line review. He grimaced at the thought of what awaited them for the next two days as they tossed about on the Gulf of Mexico in that rust bucket. Saldid will complain every minute. Allah, give me the strength not to kill him.

  He glanced down at the condensation that dripped from his beer. He picked up the bottle and drained it, savoring the bitter taste of the dark Mexican ale. "Drink up, Saldid. I doubt we shall have access to such refreshments for a while."

  "I hear they have restored power in America—"