Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3)

by Marcus Richardson

  "I've known the undersheriff—Tom Dixon—longer than you've been alive. He's the son of old Sam Dixon. Sam was an old friend of mine from the army. When Spike showed up at the front door wearin' Tommy’s uniform…I knew it meant nothing good." He sighed, rubbing his temples.

  "I was too damn old to do anything about it. His men took your parents at the same time. We didn't have a chance to send a warning. All the houses nearby got hit about the same time.” The old man shook his head.

  "Spike thinks he's some kind of king or something."

  This shit has gone medieval. He clenched his jaw. By God, two can play at that game.

  Erik sniffed and wiped his face. He raised his eyes and stared at the Colonel. "How many men does this 'Spike' have?"

  "Son, you won't find anything good thinking those thoughts." He shook his head and looked out the window again. "It ain't no good. The people from town tried a while back. I saw 'em and tried to reason with them, but they wouldn't listen. Told ‘em they were outnumbered and out-gunned. They didn’t care." He sighed.

  "I heard a lot of gunfire and when I went out to check what happened, they were gone. Just a few bodies on the ground—everyone else was gone."

  "Where?" Erik wheezed.

  The old man shrugged. "Probably back to the fort, way I figure it. He takes all his prisoners there. Got himself a little town set up outside the gates. It's crazy. They call it Shanty Town." He looked down at his hands.

  "If I had just a company of my old boys from the war…by God we'd give 'em hell." He met Erik's eyes. "That sumbitch damn sure needs to be taught a lesson," he raised liver-spotted hand. "But don't get any ideas. You'd need—"

  "How about a Force Recon marine?" Erik watched the Colonel's mouth open in surprise. "Weapons? Ammunition?"

  The old man nodded. "That's surely a start. How many you got?"

  "How many does Spike have?"

  The old man smiled. "Smart boy. Never give up your cards. You don't know that I'm not working for Spike…heh, heh. Is that it?"

  Erik held the older man's gaze. "I do know you’re not with him. You'd never work for him, sir. You took an oath—I've heard you tell my father I don't know how many times—to preserve and defend the Constitution and you take that oath seriously."

  A slow smile spread across the old man's wrinkled face. "You're right about me, Erik. I'm just too damn old to do anything about it."

  "Do you know how many men he has?"

  "Yes. My last count was 29. But he picks up new recruits wherever he raids. There's always someone out there willing to throw away their humanity for some food and a piece of ass."

  Erik crossed his arms. "See? You're already helping."

  The Colonel shook his head. "Ain't no use, son. There's too many—and they hold the fort. That would be a tough nut to crack in the best of times. There's a reason it's still here after hundreds of years."

  Erik frowned. "So what options do I have? Run away?"

  "If you want to live." The old man looked around. "If you call this living."

  Erik shook his head. "I can't do that. My friends and I—we've been running away for a thousand miles. We've seen more death and destruction than I ever want to think about. I'm tired of running. This is my home."

  "I'm not going to convince you this is a bad idea, am I?" asked the Colonel.

  "No, sir." Erik paused. "My parents…"

  "They wouldn't want you to throw your life away on revenge."

  Erik shook his head. "No they wouldn't. But I don't plan on dying here, either."

  "No one ever does." The old man regarded Erik for a long moment. Finally he put both hands on the table and stood up. "Well, if you're set on doing something foolish, the least I can do is give you what help I can."

  He shuffled through the trash on the floor and rummaged through a pile next to the fridge. Muttering to himself, he produced three long pieces of paper rolled up into tubes and brought them back to the table. He dumped the papers out and stood back smiling.

  "What's this?" Erik asked, unrolling the first tube. "Maps?"

  "Yeah. I've had these for years. Always planned on getting them framed and putting them in my office." He waved the idea away. "Doesn't matter. I've done some tactical reconnaissance in the past month.” He crossed his arms.

  “I wanted to know what I was up against. But when I found out just how strong Spike was, I gave up on the idea but couldn't bear to get rid of these. I showed them to the folks from town, but they weren’t impressed."

  “Well I am.” Erik looked at the first map, showing elevations for the area immediately around the fort. "This is some pretty detailed information."

  The Colonel grunted. "Troop movements, locations, sentry positions. You got it all."

  Erik stood. "I need to show these to my friends."

  "Take 'em. They aren't doing me any good sitting around here." He stared out the window. "Just wish there was a way I could be of more help."

  Erik smiled, an idea forming. "Leave that to me."

  Chapter 71

  Slaughter

  STROGOLEV WIPED THE DUST from his goggles and grinned like a schoolboy up to no good. His plan had worked perfectly. Malcolm's people had been caught off guard and completely annihilated—at least the lead elements. He had unfortunately underestimated the size of Malcolm's forces and only managed to ambush the first two-thirds that crossed the border.

  What was left of Malcolm's people, a few thousand of them, were now trapped. The American army would be on them by nightfall. One loose end neatly tied off.

  Strogolev decided to prepare his forces for the second phase of his strategy. He wasn't planning on waiting for the Americans to engage him; he was going to take the fight to them as soon as possible.

  He'd already issued the orders for his men to regroup along a new line just north of Hale’s Corners. His advance scouts controlled the interstate across the border. He'd moved his BM-27 Uragans into position to cover the advance and his drones provided a constant bird's-eye view of the battlefield.

  And what a battlefield! The town of Hale’s Corners had been erased from the map. When Malcolm's people strolled through, expecting a warm welcome and truckloads of supplies, they found nothing but death and destruction. His pre-positioned spetsnaz had surged forward and nearly captured Malcolm himself. It was only through happenstance and pure luck the rebel leader managed to slip away.

  Strogolev was still confused as to how that had happened. He had some conflicting reports of American soldiers running in and among the rebels. But that that didn't make any sense—he knew Stapleton was trying to wipe out the rebels just as much as he.

  It must have been members of the Bigby insurrection—civilians joining forces trying to fight his Russian troops.

  Strogolev ducked down inside his BTR and scanned the force position screens. It mattered little—his men knew exactly where to go, what to do, and what positions take. The only thing left to do was clean up the mess, make sure everyone got food and water, a bit of rest, and extra ammo. They would then settle in for the night with his advance scouts probing north for the enemy in the morning.

  He sorely wanted visual confirmation Malcolm had been killed. So far, his search teams had come up empty-handed. Some areas—closest to the interstate mostly—were still putting up stiff resistance. All told, though, only 19 Russians had given their lives for the Motherland.

  This is the most lopsided victory in modern Russian military history! He looked at the report again: 1,723 confirmed rebel deaths. The tally continued to climb as his forces picked through the rubble of Hale’s Corners, taking no prisoners.

  And it’s not even mid-morning yet.

  Overhead, Russian Air Force jets on loan from General Doskoy streaked north, pounding the rebel army stretched out over the horizon. It would all be over in another hour.

  He glanced at one of the tactical cameras mounted to a BTR on the left flank. Scores of rebels—men and women—stood around in clumps with their h
ands in the air, their weapons on the ground. As word spread that Malcolm had fled the field, the entire rebel force had crumbled.

  Strogolev grinned. Those that did not surrender would be exterminated.

  The speaker in his helmet broke squelch. "Comrade major," said Gregor breathlessly. "We have contact with American—”

  A tremendous explosion ripped the air outside the BTR and the entire vehicle shook, throwing Strogolev into the control panel. He cursed and looked up through the open commander's hatch to see smoke in the sky.

  Ignoring Gregor's screeching in his helmet, he clambered up through the hatch and watched as debris rained down around him.

  "What was that?" he called out to a soldier just getting up off the ground next to the BTR.

  "It's the Americans, comrade major! They're shooting down our planes!"

  Strogolev looked up and watched another Russian fighter scream by overhead only to be met with a small pinprick of light that lanced up from the far horizon. Another explosion boomed through the air and the fighter disappeared in a ball of orange and black smoke. Strogolev stood there for a second watching the debris fall in the distance.

  "Gregor! Status report!"

  The static-filled reply was unintelligible. Strogolev caught the words Americans, armor, and attack.

  "Gregor!"

  No response.

  Strogolev ducked down into the BTR and tried to rapidly filter out critical situation reports from incessant screams for reinforcements. His force allocation map blinked like a Yolka tree.

  Each one of the blinking lights represented a either a soldier or unit out of contact with the tracking satellites. It didn't necessarily mean they were dead, but the signal had been obstructed by either debris or mechanical failure. Some lights returned solid, others winked out after a few seconds. Known enemy positions popped up in red and began to spread out from the north—they moved fast.

  Tanks. Somehow that son-of-a-whore brought an entire tank group with him.

  Several thunderous booms clapped in the distance and echoed across the smoldering battlefield.

  Screams erupted through his headset.

  "Tanks!"

  "They are firing!"

  "All units, take cover!"

  "They—"

  Strogolev closed the hatch to the BTR as the first incoming shell impacted about 30 yards away, violently rocking his heavy vehicle.

  "Driver! Damn it—get us out of here!" he shouted as he turned his attention back to the force allocation screen. Strogolev quickly issued emergency orders for a tactical withdrawal. He had to regroup and get out of range of those tanks.

  His light-armored reconnaissance strike force was no match for American armored cavalry. The M1A2 Abrams' 120mm main gun could punch right through his BTRs like a bullet through a block of cheese. He had no no choice but to retreat under such overwhelming firepower.

  Just like the Kremlin to issue orders for me to head north, right into the teeth of a fucking tank division! Won't Doskoy be upset…

  Strogolev froze, staring at the screen. Why didn't he see it sooner? Doskoy hadn't been surprised at all when Strogolev had announced his orders countermanded and overruled Doskoy's. Comrade General seemed fine with it and wished him well, even going so far as to give him extra supplies.

  “Sukin syn,” Strogolev cursed. He punched the terminal. That son of a bitch knew this was going to happen. He knew about it—and pulled some strings to get Moscow to send me north. He knew he couldn't do it on his own authority. He sacrificed me and will take credit for stopping the Americans when he arrives tomorrow after I've softened them up.

  Struggle pounded his fist against the control panel again. He screamed obscenities at the top of his lungs and ignored the pain in his hand.

  "Comrade major! American antitank helicopters on approach!" called out the driver.

  "Just get us out of here! Damn it!" Strogolev turned and hit the command frequency. "All units, it's a trap! Retreat—save yourselves and get to the emergency rendezvous point! I repeat, it's a—”

  Strogolev's face cracked the computer screen as the BTR lifted off the ground. The roar of a nearby explosion shattered his eardrums and silenced his world as he sailed through the air with the heavy armored vehicle before crashing to the ground. Only the reinforced seatbelts attached to his command chair kept him from breaking his neck on impact.

  When the BTR had finally rolled to a stop, he peered through the smoke at the flickering lights and sparks from the panels in front of him. Hanging upside down, he used his field knife to slash through the webbing of his restraints and collapse to the floor in a painful heap.

  Coughing as he ignored the fire inside his vehicle, he hit the emergency release panel and tumbled out the rear hatch.

  Staggering to his feet, Strogolev felt the ground shake all around him as more explosions impacted. The over-pressure of each explosion shoved him back and forth, physically pushing him to the ground again. Again and again the shells threw earth into the sky. A rain of incoming shells pulverized the battlefield over and over again, mercilessly chewing up everything in sight.

  He opened his eyes, scrambling in the sandy soil to pull himself up behind the dead BTR's corpse. Thick black smoke poured out of every hatch. A radio lay on the ground near the driver's bloodied hand. Strogolev focused his attention on that and tried to crawl forward, shaking as the ground absorbed still more explosions.

  All of it was a set up. There will be no glory for me, only death.

  Movement in the sky caught his eye, and he saw a tight formation of gray warplanes streak overhead. He followed them across the clouds and saw one bank sharply and peel off, chasing down one of the few surviving Russian jets still in the air.

  One word, four dark letters painted on the side of the gray aircraft told him all he needed to know about his prospects for surviving the battle.

  NAVY.

  With an attack group of Abrams tanks and air support in the form of fighters from the Naval Air Station in Jacksonville, Strogolev knew his scout division was as good as dead. He may have ended the rebellion, but the Americans would end him.

  Strogolev clutched the radio in his hand and tried to repeat his desperate retreat order. At least he might save some of his men.

  Exhausted, he collapsed against the steaming hull of the BTR and winced in pain as the metal put pressure on a broken rib. He gathered what strength remained in his battered body and shouted the orders again. He did not know if his message had gotten through—deaf as he was, he continued yelling at the top of his lungs, hoping someone heard him, hoping someone survived.

  Someone needed to survive. Someone needed to tell the story. Someone needed to expose Doskoy's betrayal. Another BTR, perhaps a hundred yards away, exploded in a spectacular display of fire, smoke, and shredded metal.

  Someone needed to avenge Russia.

  He got to his feet and looked around. If there was a way he could escape and seek shelter that someone might be him. The ground trembled slightly as he staggered away from the BTR, heading toward one of the few intact houses in sight.

  Smoke obscured his vision briefly as the ground continued to vibrate. He turned in a circle, looking for the source of the commotion, expecting to see explosions lining the horizon. Instead, a scarred M1A2 Abrams crawled through a collapsed house only a few hundred feet away.

  Strogolev was caught standing in the middle of the ruined street with his hands akimbo, still clutching the radio. He stared as the tank came to a stop and the turret slowly turned to face him.

  Strogolev dropped the radio and raised his arms. If he could not escape, he would welcome captivity. It would give him a chance to heal and live to fight another day.

  There will be troop exchanges, he told himself. Despite what we do on the battlefield, our governments still act civil to each other. If nothing else, the Cold War taught us that.

  He waited for the hatch on the tank to open and the tank commander to climb down and accept his surren
der. As the seconds slipped by, sweat broke out on his forehead. Or was it blood? He was afraid to move his hands and check, for fear of giving the tank any excuse to fire.

  The 120mm barrel slowly lowered until it was pointed directly at him. That black hole looked as big as a house.

  No. No, you can't do this. This is not—

  The tank rocked back as a puff of white smoke ejected a shell from the long barrel at 1,575m/s in his direction. He had time to see the grass and dirt in front of the tank ripple with the shock-wave. Major Aleksei Strogolev blinked and never opened his eyes again.

  Chapter 72

  The Prodigal Son

  THE SLAP TO HIS face echoed like thunder in the small room. Erik reflexively brought a hand up to his cheek. I deserved that.

  "Don't you ever do something so stupid again. I'm serious," growled Brin. "I will kill you myself. I didn't drag you out of that Russian prison camp so some scumbag criminal can kill you before I have our baby," she hissed in his ear. Brin threw her arms around him and squeezed his neck so hard Erik thought she might break something.

  "I'm sorry," he wheezed.

  "Sorry don't cut it, bub," added Ted. Brin released her hold on Erik's neck and stood next to him, her hand interlaced in his. "You not only went off on a foolish mission that should have been planned out beforehand, but you put yourself and the whole squad at risk."

  "Since when are we a squad?" asked Erik, trying to throw a little levity into the somber room.

  Maggie shook her head from the far corner. "He's right—oh, I don't know about this squad business—but you can't do things like this, not when you've got a family to protect."

  Erik put his arm around Brin. "I knew what I was doing—besides, look at the maps I brought back. And the intel—"

  "Were you followed?" snapped Ted. He paced in front of Erik, shaking his head as he stomped. "Were you seen?" He stopped in front of Erik and Brin. "You don't know—"