"Amen to that. All right, enough sight-seeing. Let's go find us some rebels." Riggs leveled out his ride and pushed the throttle forward, increasing speed and pulling away from the Strykers. "Just keep in touch with Zeus. I don't want any Russians surprising us."
"I think we got them all," replied Jonesy.
Riggs grimaced. He was pretty sure, too. Air superiority had been costly to achieve though. Roosevelt had beached itself against the Manhattan shore within sight of the Statue of Liberty. She made a hell of a mess, too—knocked down two coastal buildings. Her fighters swarmed overhead, dispatching the Russians with reckless abandon. Half of Hammer flight had taken a swim and the other squadrons fared little better. Riggs' own flight lost three more pilots. He was down to six combat effective F-35Cs.
Those six fighters now combed the ground out ahead of the army, looking for the remnants of the rebel army, fleeing south. Peace treaty be damned, he thought, those bastards started this mess and even invited the Russians to play. Everything—the chaos, the death, all the pilots we lost—it's all their fault. Home was supposed to be a haven for every service man and woman deployed overseas. It wasn't supposed to be a battlefield—it sure as hell wasn't supposed to be turned into one by Americans.
Cruising at 1200 knots, it only took another 2 minutes before he spotted the Philadelphia skyline on the horizon. "Nest, Hawk Lead, I have visual on Philly."
"Copy that Lead."
Riggs switched frequencies. "You seein' what I'm seein'?" He looked starboard toward Jonesy's plane, no bigger than a decal on a child's toy.
"That's a lot of smoke."
"Roger that," Riggs replied. A black and gray smear dirtied the horizon over Philadelphia. "I thought they had the power on again…"
"I heard it was just the outlying areas. This looks even worse than New York."
Chapter 9
New Orders
MAJOR STROGOLEV STARED AT the radio panel in his command BTR. The silence disturbed only by the ticking of his turn-of-the-century wristwatch, an heirloom passed down from his grandfather after surviving the Great Patriotic War.
"Comrade Major Strogolev, do you acknowledge your orders?"
Strogolev blinked. The implications of what he just heard, relayed from the message station on the Atlantic coast had momentarily stunned him. It made no sense. How was it possible an entire carrier battlegroup had slipped through the Russian Navy's grasp, sailed out of the Mediterranean, all the way across the Atlantic Ocean, and plowed its way into New York Harbor? How was it possible for the carrier to survive, let alone link up with the remains of the army that destroyed Chicago?
Kristanoff had failed. New York had been retaken.
"Repeat: Major Strogolev, do you acknowledge receipt of your orders?"
Strogolev shook his head. "Yes, yes. This is Strogolev. I acknowledgment and confirm receipt of orders."
"Copy. Transmitting your confirmation to headquarters. Good luck. Relay station 2, out."
Strogolev removed the headset and dropped it on the terminal. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. How the hell could it all have fallen apart like that? Our entire northern army is wiped out. What happened to the United Nations?
The rear hatch on his command BTR opened, flooding the interior with the soft light of dawn. He turned and squinted at the silhouette of his lieutenant, Gregor.
"Comrade Major, General Doskoy has just divided our strike group." He held up a piece of paper. "New orders."
Strogolev exited the BTR snatched the onion paper from Gregor. He scanned the hastily scribbled Cyrillic. "Why is he splitting the battalion?"
Gregor shrugged. "Comrade General did not deign to enlighten me."
Strogolev glanced askance at his lieutenant. "You did not ask?"
Gregor blinked and looked at Strogolev. "I am not in the habit of questioning my superior officers when handed a list of orders."
No, questioning is not something that you do. You excel at following orders.
Strogolev looked back at the paper. "Comrade General," he said acidly, "wishes my strike force to head south."
"While rest of the battalion stays behind. With him."
"So…" Strogolev mused, "Moscow just relayed news our entire northern army has been wiped off the map."
Gregor blinked. "What?"
Strogolev nodded. He handed Doskoy's orders back. "The Kremlin is rightly concerned about the overall survivability of our mission. The Americans somehow slipped an entire carrier battlegroup across the Atlantic past our blockade and into New York. There it linked up with the remaining elements from the Americans that destroyed Chicago."
"But the United Nations was supposed to have…the agreement…"
Strogolev nodded. He stormed off, hands behind his back looking for someone to yell at. "I know. The United Nations left us to hang. Moscow will not let that slight go unpunished." He sighed.
"In the meantime, we must prepare to defend our conquest. Another wave of troops and equipment are currently on its way from the Motherland. It is our job to head north and lock down the border."
"And General Doskoy? What of the insurgency in Bigby?"
Strogolev glanced around at his multi-wheeled armored scout vehicles. They were lined up outside the large bivouacked tents in neat, ordered rows. Most of the soldiers relaxed in the warm sun, awaiting new orders. Those that were smart, slept. The camp, normally a bustling hive of activity was relatively dormant at the moment. The mid-afternoon sun was just warm enough to make everyone drowsy after a full meal and a good night’s rest. It was exactly what his troops needed before a long march.
"Doskoy will have to stay behind and deal with the insurgents by himself." Strogolev snorted. "He created them. I would have preferred to leave nothing behind—he was the one pushing for prisoners and prison camps."
Gregor pulled his vanishing clipboard out of thin air and turned a few pages.
How does he do that?
"The latest reports indicate the insurgency is centered around a small town south of Orlando called Bigby."
"Where the insurgency is centered and how it got started is now Doskoy's problem. Moscow has given me direct orders."
Gregor released the paper in his hand and looked at his commanding officer with his head cocked. "Direct orders, major?"
Strogolev nodded, his shoulders squared and chest out. It wasn’t every day a mere major received a direct order from the Defense Minister himself. It must mean his bravery and swift action had finally been noticed back home.
"Yes. Before our northern army was destroyed, General Kristanoff made a deal with the rebel leader, Malcolm. The two of them were to work together to defeat the Americans then besieging New York. All that went out the window when the carrier arrived and the rebels fled in the middle of the night. Kristanoff was left severely out-manned and out-gunned."
Gregor's face tinted pink and Strogolev noticed his lieutenant's fists clenched. "What can we do? We're 1,600 kilometers away.”
Major Strogolev smiled. "What Doskoy wants is not my concern anymore. I report to a higher authority. My orders are clear: get to the border and await Malcolm. Even now, he flees before the American army, heading straight into our arms. According to sources at the KGB, the American President has entered into separate negotiations with the rebels. He means to give Florida to them after they kick us out."
"These Americans are nothing but backstabbing traitors—they betray themselves faster than we can kill them!"
Strogolev laughed and clapped his lieutenant on the back. "That's the spirit, Gregor! We will teach these Yankee bastards how we do things in Mother Russia. The rebels will expect a fight. When they arrive, I will offer them a truce. I shall welcome them with open arms. After all, were we not both betrayed by the United Nations?"
Gregor nodded. "A bold plan. And then?"
"Then we will kill Malcolm and cut the head off this rebellion once and for all." He stared at the rows of armored vehicles and neatly ordered tents. He had c
lose to three thousand men and vehicles under his command.
"Take back Florida, will he? We shall see about that."
Chapter 10
Law and Order
ERIK GRIPPED HIS RIFLE with white knuckles and tried to push himself through the side of the truck behind which he hid. This is not happening…this is not happening…
No matter how many times he tried to tell himself they weren't trapped, whenever he opened his eyes he saw the M-ATV surrounded by dusty pickup trucks, cop cars, and angry-looking men with rifles.
"I say again: Come on out, we know you're in there."
Erik closed his eyes and felt the sweat trickle down his neck. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. His radio lay in the gravel a dozen yards away. His mouth suddenly dry, Erik crept to the rear of the truck.
Damn it, I can't reach it.
The radio was in no-man's-land between the first row of cars and the second. As soon as he stepped out from behind cover of the truck, he would be an easy target for any one of the dozen men surrounding the M-ATV. He crouched behind the left rear wheel and rested his helmet against the barrel of his rifle.
Now what the hell do I do? I was never cut out for this soldier crap. He focused on slowing his breathing. Ted had drilled into his head the power of remaining calm in a crisis.
"Erik?"
He winced at the sound of Brin's voice coming from the little abandoned radio.
"What are you seeing out there? Ted's up in the turret…"
Erik strained to see if anyone heard the radio. He ducked back down and shifted his gaze between the road and the radio.
"Wherever you're at, Ted says to just stay still. He's going to see if he can get us out of this. If they haven't found you and we can get away, you know what to do."
The hatch on top of the M-ATV opened with the squeal of metal on metal. Erik craned his neck in an attempt to see what was going on. His heart beat faster as the men on the ground called out to each other and tried to take cover behind their trucks. The only man who didn't seem fazed was the one with the loudspeaker. He wore a campaign hat and a matching uniform. He stood casually next to the open door of the police cruiser and waited.
"Now just settle down boys, this ain't nothing to get worked up about. Hold your fire." The man said to his followers.
Erik swallowed, it felt like a rock going down his throat. He watched as Ted appeared in the roof hatch wearing a helmet and waved. "Hello down there!"
"Hello yourself. Where you y'all from?" called out the officer.
"Florida," replied Ted.
"What you doing in Dunham? There's some sort of convoy on the way?"
The floodgates opened and Ted was peppered with questions from the men all around the M-ATV. They asked for food, they asked for medicine, they asked for news. Ted held up his hands to try to calm everyone, but the noise didn't stop until the Sheriff flipped the siren on his car for a few seconds, silencing everyone.
"Now boys just hang on a second, let me do the talking." The man adjusted his wide-brimmed campaign hat and glanced up at Ted. "My name is Daryl Jonston. I'm Sheriff here in Hull County. I'd like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind?"
Ted nodded. "That's fine, Sheriff—I'd like to ask a few questions myself."
"You boys part of a convoy? What unit you with?"
"I'm Captain Ted Jensen, 3rd Battalion, 1st Florida Volunteers. We're with the National Guard."
Erik stifled a laugh. 1st Florida Volunteers? What kind of bullshit is that, Ted?
Sheriff Jonston hushed the mumbles from the men around him. "Florida? You boys know you're in the wrong state? Hell, you're halfway to Atlanta."
Ted shook his head. "All due respect, Sheriff Jonston, we're not going anywhere near Atlanta."
The sheriff nodded and took off his hat. He wiped his face but the big sunglasses remained perched on his nose. "I couldn't agree with you more. Atlanta…it's a no-man's-land. Only ones that survived the fires after everything fell apart are the gangs."
"We're on recon for the rest of the Battalion. Bunch of us have been sent in all directions heading north. We're looking for food, fuel, supplies, and local populations willing to help."
Erik counted to ten before the sheriff responded. "Well…don't know how much we're gonna be able to satisfy any of those you're looking for, captain. Things around here got real bad recently."
While the sheriff and Ted talked, Erik focused his attention on the men he could see. Before he'd lost his radio, Ted mentioned a few cars coming from the north. If they were anything like the pickup trucks that came from the south, he estimated there were at least 15 armed men out on the road. So far no one had spotted him, but he couldn't stay hidden behind a truck forever.
"… all went kinda crazy of a sudden."
"That meshes with what we've seen from the other communities further south. How many did you lose?"
The sheriff leaned against the hood of his cruiser. "Lost most of my force. Only got three deputies left. And the posse." He waved an arm, indicating the man in and around the pickup trucks. "Had to deputize these good old boys just to help me keep the peace. With the election coming up–"
"Election?" asked Ted. Erik risked another glance and saw Ted lean over the side of the M-ATV. "Sheriff, I don't mean to sound rude, but don't you think we got bigger things to worry about than elections?"
The lawman laughed, a bitter sound. "I reckon you might be right. Ain't up to me though—the mayor up and died an' the people need someone to lead them."
"You gonna ask them if they can help?" asked one of the men from the pickup trucks.
Erik couldn't hear what the sheriff said in reply, but he stared at the man until he looked down and away. "I'm sure the Army has more important things to worry about than a small town election." He turned back to the M-ATV. "Am I right, captain? How's the fight against them Russkies doing?"
Ted rested his elbows on the edge on the rim of the M-ATV turret. "Not good, not so good at all. The front collapsed along the Orlando-Tampa line. They've probably pushed us up to the border by now. We lost comms a few days ago."
The sheriff cursed. "A few days ago? Took you that long to get up here?"
Ted glanced south. "Lotta roadblocks—towns don't want visitors coming through. I can't tell you how many wrecked cars we had to move out of the way. It's been real slow going. In fact, that's why we're here."
"Do tell," said the sheriff. Erik couldn't help but notice the subtle tone shift in the man's voice.
Ted noticed as well. "Now, we don't mean to impose," reassured Ted, "but my mission is to find supplies and report back. So far we haven't found squat. But this pig is in need of repairs," he said slapping the roof of the M-ATV. "It's been a rough trip. We stopped here hoping to pick up a civilian vehicle. Maybe a big SUV," Ted said.
The sheriff stared at him for a moment. The only sounds Erik heard were the insects in the grass and the M-ATV’s engine at idle.
"I'm afraid I can't let you take anything, captain. Law and order's already breaking down. I let you walk off with private property, things'll just go from bad to worse." The sheriff looked up at the M-ATV with an appraising eye. "But that don't mean we can't come to some sort of understanding, you hear?"
Erik didn't like the way the men by the trucks mumbled and nudged each other as they looked at the big army vehicle. The locals had a predatory look about them. He remained silent, thinking.
It'd been almost five months since terrorists had taken out the power grid. In that time, Erik had seen enough suffering and depravity to fill up dozens of horror novels. The people, if the sheriff could be believed, should be starving, sick, or at least a little apprehensive about seeing a big military truck rumble into their hometown unannounced and alone.
Yet these men looked like hunters. They appeared well fed, well rested, and if Erik could trust his judgment, a few of them looked drunk. He checked his watch. 7:52 AM. Something was off.
"That sounds like a migh
ty fine proposition, Sheriff Jonston," Ted's voice called out. "Will you give me some time to consider my options?"
"Time is not something we have a lot of just now," began the sheriff. "I tell you what—you take as long as you want—just so you don't take more than ten minutes. After that, I'm gonna have to ask you to clear on out of town if you won't help."
Erik tried to control his breathing as he leaned against the side of the truck. He cursed his situation. He been so tired from the previous night's driving he didn't even pay attention to what deal Ted and the sheriff and just worked out.
He leaned his head forward until his helmet touched the barrel of his rifle. If only he could have a few hours of sleep to clear his head.
"Nobody do anything stupid," said the sheriff in a lower voice. "Nothing we got can punch a hole through the side of that thing. So we just wait them out, you hear?"
The men near the pickup trucks mumbled the responses, too soft for Erik to pick up. Whatever was going to happen, he'd have to stay where he was and hope no one spotted him. His only option was to wait until Ted and Brin rolled out of town with the M-ATV. After the locals dispersed, he'd slip off to the countryside and meet them at the rendezvous point. He was not looking forward to a long hike through unfamiliar terrain.
"Erik? You read me?" The little radio squawked. Erik's heart skipped a beat. He turned and glanced out into the no-man's-land and stared at the little handheld radio playing face up in the gravel.
"You catch any of that?"
Erik swung his gaze back to the locals. Damn it, Brin, stop talking!
All but one of the men kept a wary eye on M-ATV. The man closest to the road, sporting a filthy white T-shirt and baggy jeans, scratched at the stubble on his cheek and adjusted the Atlanta Braves hat on his head. He looked over his shoulder and said something, but the others waved him off. He took a few wobbly steps off the road and down into the high grass.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit…
Erik gripped the rifle in his hands and prayed he wouldn't set the damn thing off by accident. The man grew closer and his legs disappeared into the weeds. Erik watched, waiting to see what would happen and saw the man close his eyes as he unzipped his pants.
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