Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3)

by Marcus Richardson

  "Copy that," Riggs laughed. He scanned his tactical screen. There were a lot of red blips. How the hell did they sneak so many over here?

  "There's plenty of targets—we'll both get our share."

  "Fox two!"

  "There's a SAM site—Three, take it out—I'm coming around for another run."

  "Roger, I'm on it. Guns, guns, guns!"

  Riggs smiled. His Hawks were angry and eager, just the way he liked it. He switched frequencies to contact the ground-pounders. "Lighthouse Actual, Hawk Lead," he called.

  After a moment of listening to shrill warning alarms, a gruff voice answered through the static. "Hawk Lead this is Actual, go ahead."

  "My fighters are engaging the enemy south of your position. They're lighting us up like a Christmas tree with AA radar. If anyone down there could take them out, I'd be much obliged. Otherwise, please pass on the warning of danger close. You've got a wave of F-18s hot on my ass with itchy trigger fingers."

  "Actual copies all, Hawk Lead. Thanks for the assist—we'll handle that radar. Good hunting.”

  "I say, shall we join the fun?" called Jonesy in a terrible British accent. "Talley Ho and fox two, old boy?" he added.

  "Oh yes, let's do." Riggs snorted, watching a missile streak from under his wingman's plane. His own targeting computer offered a lock on a Russian APC trying to maneuver around a building to get a better shot at the American eastern flank. He selected a GBU 12 Paveway II self-guided bomb and his F-35C shuddered with the release.

  Riggs and Jonesy angled down in a steep curve to join the fray. He smiled as the targeting computer removed his target from the tactical map.

  "Hawk Lead, Longbow."

  "Go ahead, Longbow," Riggs said, curious as to why JNAS control had hailed him.

  "Be advised, we've established contact with surviving Florida ANG units and have directed them to your location. You'll have some F-15s coming to assist in about ten. The uplinks have been sent."

  Riggs smiled. The Russians were about to have a very bad day. "Roger that, Longbow, I'll play Air Boss."

  He fired off a missile and pulled back on the stick, climbing up over two thousand feet. With so many fighters entering the battlefield airspace, someone was going to have to provide air traffic control—someone who could see what was happening.

  "Jonesy, I'll need some cover. We're about to open up a big ol' can of whoop ass on Ivan."

  Chapter 61

  What Have We Done?

  PO SIN PASSED THE tray of sweets across his desk to Shin Ho. They had been gathered in his office all this rainy afternoon, pouring over reports and attempting to come up with a viable exit strategy that hopefully would both satisfy the Supreme Leader and allow them to delay the withdrawal. If they held out long enough, the second wave might actually make a difference.

  So far they had come up with nothing except a sullen appetite.

  Po Sin’s phone chirped. He activated the key with a knuckle, trying to keep the red bean bun in his hand from smearing the phone. “What is it?”

  “Intelligence just intercepted an encrypted message, honorable minister.”

  “Well?” asked Po Sin around a mouthful of bun. “That's their job. What is it?”

  “The American President is dead. Killed in an exchange with rogue army units while he was attempting to flee Washington.”

  Po Sin stared at Shin Ho. Shin Ho looked at the plate in his hands and closed his eyes.

  He knows. He knows this is the final nail in his coffin. His treaty is out the window—no protection from the Americans means no delay and a swift withdrawal. The Expedition is doomed and so are you, old friend.

  Shin Ho swallowed and placed his tray on the desk. He stood slowly and straightened his suit, dusting crumbs off with deliberation. “I need to speak with the Supreme Leader.”

  Po Sin nodded and watched his onetime friend. “Most likely.”

  “Thank you for the repast. It was lovely.”

  Po Sin waved it off. “Think nothing of it. I wish there was something I could do.”

  Shin Ho smiled, a tired, thin smile. “Thank you.”

  After the door closed, Po Sin silently clapped. He gorged himself on buns and dumplings. Suddenly, he was ravenous. Things were looking up for the first time since Shin Ho claimed credit for the expedition. Po Sin smiled as he dabbed a napkin at his lips. Shin Ho was about to go before the Supreme Leader and fall on his sword.

  Po Sin rolled his eyes as he savored the delicate sweetness of another bun. The chef had outdone himself. He laughed and took another bite.

  Chapter 62

  Ticonderoga

  ERIK SLOWED THE SPUTTERING van to a stop. He sat there in the predawn light staring at the simple green sign illuminated in their headlights.

  Ticonderoga—population 5,042.

  He listened to the engine cough and struggle. It felt like the poor van didn't have much left to give. Erik sat there, his hands gripping the wheel. All the fatigue of the last 360 long miles quickly evaporated from his system.

  We made it.

  He let the memories roll over him. From that first moment back at the Freehold when he and Ted put their heads together and decided it was time to leave, through all the fighting against the White Hand people and Henry Grimes to meeting Archie and Maddie Sinclair on the Flying Piper. He remembered rescuing the Guardsmen at the Sarasota Marina, then becoming one of them, fighting for Captain Winters against the Russians. The battle of Orlando, the long retreat, their captivity…

  Erik did not smell the oil and grease-coated tools in the back of the van, but instead imagined the slightly burnt odor of the prison camp's dirt floor he and the others had shared while guests of Stepanovich. He pushed those memories aside and focused on their escape and his reunion with Brin. Then came the crushing sadness of Mark and Susan's deaths.

  He sighed. The long march north through Florida, avoiding towns and thousands of people begging for help as they escaped in their stolen M-ATV. Rolling through the blockade at the Georgia line, coming across that crazy town of Dunham out of supplies and gas and being pulled into a small scale civil war.

  Erik forced himself not think of the death and misery they had been a part of during the fight at the jail. He focused instead on the long walk out of town. Remembering when Lindsay got hurt brought out a wave of guilt in his chest but he couldn't ignore the facts. His relentless drive to bring them to Ticonderoga had almost cost Lindsay her life—and everyone else—after the Professor’s fanatics had attacked.

  Yet only two days ago he and Brin had patched things together. They'd been inseparable since her revelation about the pregnancy. Every time they stopped to hunt for gas or supplies, Erik and Brin walked off hand-in-hand and now were never more than a few feet away from each other.

  They talked constantly, sharing fears and worries for the future along with hopes and dreams. Would it be a boy or a girl? When should they worry about names? They stepped carefully around looming specter of childbirth without modern medical facilities—there was nothing they could do about it and worrying would only make things worse.

  They'd had enough worry over past few weeks and months—it was time to share in something joyful. For now, they decided to keep the news to themselves, excited to have something so special just between them. They decided when Brin was a little further along and they were all safely ensconced at his parents' place, then—and only then—would they break the news. Hopefully by Christmas.

  Erik fought hard not to let the emotions get the better of him. He rubbed angrily at the wetness on his cheeks as he stared at that beautiful green sign that proclaimed the end of their long journey.

  We made it.

  A gentle hand touched his shoulder. Without turning his head, he knew Brin reached out to him.

  "You did it."

  He closed his eyes and relished the whisper of her voice.

  "We did it," he replied just as quietly.

  Her hand squeezed gently. "I wish there was a w
ay to let your parents know we were here, so we didn't just show up at the crack of dawn…"

  Erik nodded and rubbed his face again under the pretense of waking up. "My parents won't care. Besides, we're not there yet. We still have to wind through town and get down to the lake. As slow as we've been going, I wouldn't be surprised if it was sunset by the time we pulled into the driveway."

  Brin smiled at him in the semi-darkness, the whites of her teeth brilliant against the pale hues of her skin. "Then let's get going."

  Erik let his foot off the brake, and the van crept forward, gurgling and coughing. His eyes swept the dash. They had less than an eighth of a tank left. More than enough to get them to his folks’ place down by the lake on a normal day.

  He frowned. Erik didn't like showing up with an empty tank. If there were some medical emergency in the near future, he wanted to make sure they had enough gas to get them out of harm’s way.

  As they came through the trees on the back way into town and the first buildings appeared, Erik spoke. "I think we should stop and see if we can find some gas before we get too close. We're coming in on fumes."

  "But we’re here…?" asked Brin. "Wouldn't you rather just get home?"

  Erik grimaced. "You have no idea—I can almost taste mom's homemade bread. But we have to remember—if something happens and we need to leave in a hurry, we won't get far without gas."

  Tools clinked in the back as Ted stirred. "Erik's right," he said, stifling a yawn. "We should at least get half a tank before we arrive. Just as a safety measure. Remember, we don't know what we'll find when we get there."

  "This is Ticonderoga, Ted, not Orlando," Erik chuckled softly. "I'm sure they haven't had any drama in these parts. This place was boring as hell when I was growing up."

  "Well, it certainly seems like it's in good shape," Brin said cheerfully as she observed the first few buildings came into view through the trees.

  Erik was relieved to see the vet's office still looked the same, with the same old purple paint. Across the street was one of the three feed stores in town. A lot of dairy farmers in the area used to come into town to get supplies. Erik remembered seeing loads of horse trailers and big dualie pickups rumble through town when he spent his summers here.

  He turned at the first stop sign and everything suddenly changed. All the interspersed buildings and shops including the houses appeared to have suffered severe damage. Erik slowed and took a long look at the buildings lining the street.

  "You know, now that I look at it, this place has seen better times."

  "Somebody had a shoot out in here…" observed Brin.

  "Don't stop," Ted urged. "Let's see if we can find a little cover before we try to get some fuel. I definitely think it's a good idea to gas up before we get to your parents place now, but we need to be real careful. Something went down around here and I don't like the looks of it."

  Erik shrugged off Ted's pessimism. "I'm sure it’ll be much better closer to the lake. It's a lot more secluded out there. Let's just keep going and see what we find."

  He turned onto another side street and continued east, trying to cut across the southern part of the little town of Ticonderoga. Winding through the trees, they found more evidence of a recent snowfall where the ground was still sheltered underneath the boughs of the pines.

  At last they came to a suitable spot on the eastern edge of town that had a decent number of cars visible but not too many buildings.

  "I don't think this thing's going to last much longer…" observed Brin.

  The van sputtered and coughed in response, then the transmission slipped. The van lurched forward, causing a cascade of noise from the tools in back.

  Erik grunted. "I think you might be right. Let's try right here.” Erik pulled the van off the road and stopped. Before he could shift into park, the engine died.

  He looked at Brin. "Well, that's that. At least we're here. If we have to walk, it's only maybe two miles."

  Ted glanced out the window down the street. "Something doesn't feel right. We need to get out, get gas, and get out of here."

  Erik agreed and stepped outside. "Brin you stay inside for this one, I'm only gonna check a couple cars—we don't need much."

  For once Brin didn't argue. Erik wasn't sure what Ted sensed, but he understood. It felt like they were being watched. He turned and looked up and down the street.

  "I don't see anything out there, do you?"

  Ted opened his door looked around, holding his rifle at the ready. "Nope—I got nothing. I'll keep the rifle and provide cover. Hurry up and go find us some gas."

  Erik nodded and took a gas can from Brin along with a screwdriver and one of the hammers from the tool bins in the back of the van. Her hand lingered for a second and she smiled. He winked.

  "I'll be right back."

  “You better.”

  Erik trotted forward, the uneasy feeling intensifying the farther he got away from the van. The air felt cold—more bracing than chilly like it had felt back in Pennsylvania. Winter was definitely just around the corner. He glanced up at the clouds hanging low in the sky.

  Snow clouds.

  Erik approached the first car and cautiously peered around. No one was in the car, nor was there anything sitting out in plain sight. The doors were locked.

  His radio crackled. "Hurry up." Ted sounded nervous.

  Erik hit the transmit button. "Okay, okay." He dropped to the pavement, put the screwdriver's tip against the gas tank, and smacked it with the hammer, the sound echoing like a gunshot. He ripped the screwdriver out and began collecting gas.

  He stood up and dusted off his knees as the fuel streamed into the gas can at a fairly decent flow. He clicked the transmit button on his radio again. "We might've gotten lucky, guys—I think this one has enough gas to give us a quarter tank."

  "Good," Ted replied. "Stay frosty."

  Erik examined the town around him. Across the street up ahead a small subdivision full of cookie-cutter nouveau-colonial houses sat in complete silence. Only one in five had a thin tendril of smoke drifting up from a chimney. The first couple houses closest to the road had burned to the ground.

  It was a new neighborhood and hadn't been here in Erik's youth. He’d known most of these roads like the back of his hand. While he hadn’t been in the area for the past few years, everything was coming back to him now, especially the smells.

  Everywhere he turned, memories washed over him: riding his bike down the road, watching the trees change colors, smelling the spices in the air from people burning firewood, roasting meat, or cooking savory harvest treats. He remembered the festivals the community reveled in around the lake each weekend leading up to Thanksgiving.

  He remembered the flocks of tourists that came up from the south to visit the picturesque fort on the lake, a relic of the Revolution. Ticonderoga sat in the middle of New England's historical heartland. Memories swirled around him and he was only snapped from his reverie when he heard the radio crackle.

  "All good?"

  Erik blinked and realized he'd been staring down the road. He tore his eyes away and glanced at the dripping gas tank. "I think so. I've got at least a two, maybe three gallons here. Hopefully that'll be enough."

  Erik picked up the gas can and froze in his tracks. Ten yards behind the van, a figure stood in the middle the road. He stared at Ted. Erik slowly tilted his head to his shoulder and nudged the radio with his chin. "Check your six—you got somebody in the road behind the van."

  Chapter 63

  Annihilation

  MALCOLM STARED AT THE smoking, ruined houses that used to populate the neighborhood. The Russians had completely surprised him and hidden far more troops than he’d imagined in the neighborhood. His people stood no chance against armored vehicles—not to mention rockets raining from the sky.

  Malcolm watched in horror as wave after wave of his fighters poured in from the north only to disintegrate amid the seemingly never-ending hail of gunfire and horrific explos
ions. His people had been slaughtered wholesale—they had no body armor to speak of and even less training, relying on sheer numbers to carry them to victory.

  "It was a trap!" screamed Samir as bits of debris fell from the surrounding sky. He dragged Malcolm out of the street between two houses as the Russians began another wave of counterattacks with groups of 15 to 20 soldiers backed up by their eight-wheeled monsters.

  The first two waves of Malcolm's dawn attack had maintained discipline as long as he could have hoped before being completely obliterated. But then his army exhibited a mind of its own: as word spread further down the line that the Russians were mounting stiff resistance, even Malcolm's grasp on the reins of power evaporated.

  Kill everything, destroy everything, burn everything—that was order of the day. His people poured through the streets and died in droves, heaped into piles alongside the roads or blown into the sky with houses and bits of asphalt as the bombs rained out of the sky.

  Malcolm had no idea the Russians had so many aircraft. He glanced up as a flight of jets streaked overhead, heading north.

  Those look different…

  "We have to get out of here!" shouted Samir, ducking as an explosion nearby shook the walls of the house they used for cover. "Malcolm! We have to retreat!"

  An explosion ripped apart several houses in the next block over, ejecting a huge billowing mushroom cloud of orange and black up in the air. The over-pressure shattered windows and knocked Malcolm to the ground next to Samir.

  Malcolm sat up, his ears ringing, while he watched a drone fly through the stubby mushroom cloud reaching into the sky. Curled tendrils of smoke trailed from the drone’s wingtips. A missile dropped off one of its long, slender wings, broke into four segments, and scattered over the rooftops.

  A group of his fighters attempting to rush across the street disappeared in a hail of fire and screams.

  "Malcolm! We have to leave!" cried Samir. He grabbed Malcolm's shoulder and shook him, attempting to pull him to his feet.