The pilot banked his fighter into another left-handed turn and Stapleton saw most of the roads leading out of the city swarmed with vehicles of all shapes and sizes. It was to be expected—this wasn't an actual army, more a ragtag group of gang-bangers and idealists, probably chock full of communists, anarchists, and any other dregs of American society they could be convinced to tag along.
He tapped another command into the control panel and his view switched to the squadron leader. The top right corner of the screen listed the pilot as Lt. Cmdr. Riggs.
Stapleton watched the grainy image and scanned the ground. The fighter was streaking ahead, attempting to find the vanguard of Malcolm's army. Something interesting caught his eye. It must've piqued the pilot's interest as well because the plane descended and turned in a slow banking maneuver to get a better look.
Stapleton spotted a mass of rebel fighters, streaming forward, many running for cover and jumping off overpasses into the bushes and trees that lined the interstate. Those not on the interstate scattered like roaches as the jet swooped overhead.
He grinned around his cigar stub. You guys think you own the world, don't you? Couple of jets come screaming in overhead and you lose your shit.
Stapleton tapped the corner of the touchscreen to zoom in and shifted the image farther south. Ahead of the army lay a significant empty stretch of road. In front of that gap was a solid wall of cars, trucks and pedestrians.
What the hell is this? Two divisions?
He wished there was a way to ask the pilot to get closer. His view was read-only—he had no ability to communicate with individual pilots.
The pilot must have been thinking the same thing, because he straightened out following the road south, dropping even lower to get a better look at the strange convoy of vehicles and pedestrians in front of Malcolm's people.
Stapleton realized what it was: exodus. Panicked civilians from all walks of life—from those that drove Yugos to those that drove BMWs—had all banded together to flee the advance of Malcolm's army. He was looking at the tail end of a massive civilian evacuation of Philadelphia.
He quickly backed out of the feed from the squadron leader and switched to one of the planes still over Philadelphia. Those who had remained, and those who had been drawn back to America's onetime capital by the prospect of electricity were now streaming away again in all directions. The advance of Malcolm's horde had stirred up a humanitarian tidal wave.
Stapleton killed the feed and leaned back in his chair. This changes everything. He's moving faster than we thought. There'll be an uncontrollable surge in every major city if we don't stop him.
He reached for the secure sat phone to contact Nella when the radio in his helmet chirped.
"Command Actual, Ghost 2-1."
"Actual copies—send it." Now what?
"I have a group of 12 unidentified foot mobiles approaching from the south. They're pushing an abandoned vehicle in front of them. Please advise."
Before Stapleton could repeat the rules of engagement regarding civilians, two more Strykers at the head of the column reported similar encounters.
"Ghost 2-1, Actual. Can you determine if the foot mobiles are hostile?"
The response was immediate. "Negative, Actual. No weapons in sight, but they're coming at us and not slowing down. Everybody else we saw ran for the hills. Please advise—range to target, 50 meters."
Stapleton frowned. "Actual to all units: hold your fire, do not engage. Repeat: do not engage unless fired upon. Hold your positions."
"Actual, Chaos 2-1, the foot mobiles in front of me are getting something out of the back of a car."
Stapleton chewed his cigar. Dammit, now what?
"Molotovs! Foot mobiles are hostile, repeat foot mobiles are hostile!"
Stapleton slammed his fist down. The descriptions from the other Strykers came in, painting a picture of kids and old folks in wheelchairs trying to block the interstate and the side roads. It was a desperate last-ditch attempt to delay the inevitable. Malcolm had sacrificed his weakest units in a rearguard action.
"They're targeting civilians!" warned Ghost 2-1.
Stapleton keyed his mic. "All Stryker units, this is Actual. Change in ROE. Engage the enemy. I repeat: engage, engage, engage! Clear that road!"
The confirmations came in, and the blue squares on his screen moved forward from where they'd stopped. The eight-wheeled vehicles rolled through Malcolm's blockade. As he listened to the grim accounts from the Strykers as they plowed through the ineffective rearguard, another transmission came to his attention.
"Actual, Lighthouse."
"Go ahead, Lighthouse."
"Receiving incoming transmission on an unsecured line designated for official DHS use only."
Stapleton clenched his jaw, squeezing the tobacco juice from the cigar in his lips in his teeth. Daniel the pretend President. I don't need this. He keyed his mic. "Ignore it, Lighthouse."
"Apologies Actual, caller identified himself as Malcolm."
Stapleton paused. Malcolm? This is interesting. "Very well."
He changed frequencies to the secure code last used by Daniel. None of this made sense. How did Malcolm get this channel and code authorization? The only way would be if that little twerp Jones gave it to him…
"I see you are not following the orders put forth by your president."
"I do not take orders from him," Stapleton grunted.
"In that case we have other things to discuss."
He laughed. "Enlighten me."
"I have in my possession one Lieutenant Colonel Caroline Edwards, of the New Jersey Air National Guard. Say hello, Colonel Edwards."
Stapleton held his breath. Not possible.
"Whom I speaking with?" asked a shaky female voice.
Shit. "This is General Joseph Stapleton, U.S. Army, 4th Infantry Division." He moved his hands across the keyboard. "Authentication please?"
"Edwards, Caroline. Lieutenant Colonel, 75th New Jersey Air National Guard. 278-35-9625. I'm being held in—" The line crackled as the phone transferred hands. She yelled something in the background about 'rowhouse'.
"Colonel Edwards!"
Malcolm's voice returned, cool as ice. "That's enough. I assume you can confirm the authenticity of my guest?"
Stapleton's eyes scanned the screen as the computer related the truth of Edwards' identity. A picture appeared next to the her file, and he skimmed down the screen looking at her service record. She was the pilot he'd watched shot down over New York City. Everything matched—it had to be her.
He swallowed. "I confirm her identity."
"Good, then you know what comes next."
"What?"
"You must call off your attack dogs. Get the jets away from my people and…"
Stapleton stared at the screen, looking into Col. Edwards' eyes. I'm sorry. "And what?" he asked, watching the screen that depicted his Strykers moving across the rebel lines.
"I've just been informed that you have slaughtered most of my rearguard. That was unfortunate, general. The blood of children and the elderly are now on your hands. May Allah forgive you."
"I'm going to give you one chance to turn her over—"
"You are not in a position to dictate to me, general. You may have destroyed Chicago and New York, but you will not stop me now. This is your last warning. Turn back or your Col. Edwards will be executed."
The transmission ended. Stapleton cursed and stared at the screen, his jaw tight. You better pray for mercy to whatever God you believe in, Malcolm, because you'll get none from me.
His radio chirped. "Actual, Lighthouse—the Strykers have pushed through the hostile foot mobiles. Awaiting your orders."
"What's the time-frame on the armored cav?" asked Stapleton, switching computer screens to bring up the force asset map.
"On scene in 30."
Stapleton pulled the cigar out of his mouth and tossed it out the hatch, then reached for a fresh one from his coat pocket. "Alert Ghost and
Chaos to hold position and wait until Vinsen arrives. In 30 minutes, we'll begin the assault on Philadelphia. Whatever units are there will attack—remaining units will engage as they approach. Confirm receipt of order."
"Lighthouse copies all."
"Actual out."
Stapleton leaned back in the command chair. The Stryker rumbled through another pothole. Malcolm was right. First Chicago, then New York. How many cities would he have to destroy to put a stop to that snake in the grass?
Chapter 17
Jailbreak
THE RADIO ON THE center console crackled. "This is it, boys! We got the drop on them—everybody get ready!"
Erik looked at Ted. "This doesn't feel right."
Ted grabbed his rifle. "Too late for that, let's go. Just stay by me." He glanced over his shoulder at Brin. "I don't expect you to get up there and shoot anybody, just make a lot of noise and I promise they’ll keep their heads down. Keep everybody back—don't let anybody in."
Brin nodded in silent assent, but didn't say a word. Her eyes met Erik's. "Be careful," she whispered.
Erik felt a warmth in his chest that hadn't been there since the prison camp. He opened his mouth to say something when Ted grabbed his shoulder.
"Look—somebody's coming out! We gotta move."
Erik turned back to Brin but she was already clambering up inside the turret. Growling at fate, Erik threw the suicide door open, grabbed his rifle, and dropped down into a crouch. He slammed the door and scrambled through the gravel, boots crunching as he moved behind the M-ATV.
"Okay, this is how it's going to go down," Ted said, peering around the corner. "You stay with me, watch my six. When the shooting starts, aim for the knees. Got it? We don't know who the hell these people are or why they're fighting each other, but there's no need for us to be killing anyone. Sound good?"
Erik nodded. He gripped his rifle and held it close to his chest. "I got a bad feeling about this."
"He's coming down!" somebody shouted from the other side of the parking lot.
Ted quickly leaned around the corner. "It's just some old man. Get to the other side," he said waving Erik away without taking his eyes off the action at the front of the jail.
Erik scrambled around the rear of the M-ATV and brought his rifle up to aim at the front doors to the jail. An old man in a disheveled suit shambled from the front door, looked around, his dark eyes blinking rapidly. He had both hands up.
"Now, boys, hear me out…" the elderly black man said in a deep stentorian voice. His eyes found the M-ATV, and he stared at the vehicle for a long moment. He spotted Erik leaning around the rear of the vehicle. The old man nodded.
"I don't know who you are, but I see you're soldiers. That changes everything—I don't know what Jonston told you, but it ain't the truth. My name is—"
"We ain't here to talk! Release the hostages or we're comin' in!" called out the sheriff on his loudspeaker.
This doesn't make any sense, Erik thought. This old guy doesn't look much like somebody who'd want to execute 27 women and children. "Ted…"
"I know, wait one," replied the marine.
The old man kept his eyes locked on Erik's. "Please! Son, you've got to listen to me, things aren't what they appear—"
"I said we're not here to talk! I'm gonna give you 15 seconds to open those doors and let out those hostages or were coming in."
The man on the front steps looked around with wide eyes. Erik followed his gaze. The parking lot was packed with trucks and men sporting rifles.
"I have proof! Sheriff Jonston is not what he appears…" The man pulled back the left flap of his suit and reached for the inner pocket.
A shot rang out to Erik's right and a red splash of blood painted the door behind him. The old man grunted with the impact then sank to his knees and collapsed face down on the ground.
"He was going for a gun!" called out a voice to Erik's right.
"Let's get on 'em, boys!" the sheriff yelled through his loudspeaker.
Before Erik had time to think, silhouettes appeared on the roof. Someone shouted about snipers, and the world exploded into battle. Erik ducked back around the corner of the M-ATV as a bullet ricocheted off its thick hide. The sheriff's men poured fire in toward the jail. Shouts and curses flew, men screamed, glass shattered. Behind him, Erik heard the bark of Ted's M4 on three-round burst mode.
"Erik! Shoot back!" the marine shouted. Pop-pop-pop.
Erik pulled the charging handle on his own rifle and braced himself to slip around the corner of the M-ATV. Something held him back—even fighting the Russians, knowing that they were out to kill him, he never felt so nervous. He clenched his jaw in frustration.
Come on, do it! You've done this before!
"We're pinned down! We gotta get rid of those men off the roof!" A voice shouted.
"Open up with that big gun y'all got," the sheriff's voice crackled over Erik's radio. "We gotta get inside!"
"Brin!" Ted shouted. Pop-pop-pop. "Do it!"
The M240 lit up the jail with a sound like thunder. He watched in amazement as the attackers paused, taking in the spectacle. Chunks of rock, broken bricks and mortar flew from the facade. The roof line crumbled under the attack and the front windows exploded as Brin continued to lay into the building. She swept the gun back and forth, peppering the entire length of the building.
It was exactly the break the attackers needed. Sheriff Jonston ordered an advance. Under the covering fire of Brin's machine gun, first one, then two, then handfuls of attackers jumped up from behind their cars and trucks and raced for the front door.
"Let's go Army boys!" said the sheriff as he slapped the M-ATV. His sudden appearance caused Erik to stumbled backward and fall.
"On your feet!” The sheriff sprinted for the building. “Now the fun really begins!" he called over his shoulder.
"That guy's sick," said Erik as he got up off the ground.
Fresh gunfire erupted from inside the building. Ted pulled Erik aside. "You stay by me, got it?"
Erik adjusted his helmet. "Just like old times."
Ted and Erik rushed forward and stepped over fallen attackers. They made it into the lobby of the jail and took cover behind the receiving desk. Gunfire erupted deeper inside the building.
Brin's attack had completely shredded the front offices and ruptured the bullet proof glass surrounding the receiving desk. Glass, bits of wood, and chunks of desks lay strewn all across the floor. Splatters of blood and more than a few bodies lay crumpled at random locations around the room. One of the men Erik remembered seeing in the pickup trucks popped up behind an overturned desk to his right.
"We got ‘em on the run now! Won’t be much longer!" The big gap-toothed grin on the man's face disappeared in a spray of pink as he took a round to the forehead and disappeared behind the desk.
“Moving! Cover me," barked Ted. "Get down!"
Ted had just enough time to scramble across the room and slide behind the next desk. Ineffectual shots from the other side of the room peppered the wall behind Erik. Ted peeked around the corner and then looked back at Erik.
"Go, go, go!" he shouted before firing.
Erik dropped into a crouch and scrambled to the adjoining desk while Ted fired off a string of lead downrange. He slid through the debris on the floor and came to a stop against the far wall. Bullets splintered the upturned desks around him and sent papers and office supplies flying like shrapnel.
Erik's radio broke squelch: "Johnny, pull your men to the left! We got ‘em pinned down by the holding cells!" called out the sheriff.
The gunfire coming from the interior of the building slackened, but someone was determined to shoot through Erik's desk. He felt it shudder with each impact.
"I'm pinned down!" he called out to Ted.
Ted fired down the hallway. He flipped back around his own desk and stared at Erik as more bullets were sent back their way.
"Just stay down…I can't get a good bead on the shooter."
&
nbsp; Screams replaced the gunfire down the hallway. "That's gotta be the hostages," Erik said.
"No! Stop them, they're going after the hostages!" called out the sheriff.
Something sounded off about the last transmission. It was stiff—almost like the sheriff had read something off a script. Erik gripped his rifle It didn’t matter—innocent people, women and children were trapped in the crosshairs.
"We've got to get past this guy, he's keeping us from helping!" he yelled.
The look on Ted's face caused him to pause. The marine simply shook his head. "We need to get out of here."
Erik adjusted his helmet. "What?" He looked out the ruined windows of the front lobby, to the M-ATV waiting in the parking lot. The turret swiveled back and forth as Brin searched for targets on the roof.
Bullets peppered the top of the desk again. Erik ducked back down.
"God dammit…" muttered the sheriff. "Cease-fire! Cease fire!"
Silence settled onto the ruined jail. Ted risked a glance around the side of the desk. "Shooter's gone," he reported, "let's move."
"But—the hostages…?"
"If I'm right, this was all a setup. Come on." Ted turned and walked from the room as if nothing had happened. "Follow me, stay close, and watch our six. We need to get back to the matvee." He squeezed the radio on his vest.
“Brin.”
“Yeah?”
“We’re coming out and heading straight for the matvee. I need you to cover us. Don’t hesitate to shoot—we may need some serious backup.”
“What’s going on? Are you okay?”
Ted paused at the corner, peering along the corridor. “Fill you in when we get back. Just watch for us.”
“You may want to hurry up. It’s getting…weird…out here.”
When they emerged into the sunlight on the front steps of the jail, Erik and Ted were brought up short at the scene before them. The sheriff had his arms in the air trying to calm a large crowd of citizens who had gathered in the parking lot.
"How did he get out here so fast?" asked Erik.
Ted glared at him. "I was right," he muttered. "Come on."
The crowd chanted. They screamed and shouted—so many at once, Erik couldn't tell what they said, but it was obvious they were mad—really mad.
Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3) Page 10