by James Rosone
Everyone in the PEOC suddenly became silent. A pin drop could have been heard as everyone took the information in.
“What about Mount Weather?” inquired the Vice President.
“It’s still there. I think our F-35s in their vicinity may have found the Chinese bombers. They’re moving to engage them now. We’re vectoring some fighters over to Raven Rock to try and get us an independent visual. We’ll know in a couple of minutes if they really hit us with a nuke.”
The image of Estrada was abruptly replaced with that of General Tibbets. “Mr. Vice President—whether Raven Rock was hit by a nuke or a bunker-buster bomb, the facility is offline and unable to perform its duties. Our last report of the President’s whereabouts was from the last Secret Service agent in his detail to make it to the tunnel alive. They were on the tram, traveling to the bunker. If they took that bunker out, it means the President may be dead. We’re going to do our best to get confirmation of that over the next ten minutes, but we’re going to need you to assume his role until that happens. Do you have your biscuit card for authentication?”
What? Dead? Authentication? Biscuit card? thought Powers in a jumbled mess. This was all happening too fast.
“Mr. Vice President, we need you to authenticate with your biscuit card,” General Tibbets repeated.
“I…yes. I have my card,” he finally replied as he reached inside his suit jacket and pulled his biscuit card out. He cracked the plastic enclosure around the paper card and pulled it out. He then read off his authentication numbers, which were verified by another officer at NORAD and confirmed by Colonel Nagy, in the PEOC with the Vice President.
With the multifactor authentication complete, General Tibbets asked, “Sir, we’re proceeding with you as the Commander-in-Chief until we can verify the status of the President. How would you like us to respond to this attack?”
Still in a bit of shock at what was happening, Powers looked up at the general and took a deep breath. “First, verify that we’ve hunted down those H-20s headed to Mount Weather and get verification that Raven Rock was in fact attacked by a nuclear weapon. If it was nuked, then we’ll begin preparations for a limited counterstrike.”
Leaning forward so his face looked a bit larger on the screen, General Tibbets said, “Sir, if I may—I’d like your permission to get at least four of our B-2s armed with nuclear weapons and airborne. We can place them in a holding pattern over Alaska until we determine if we need to use them. That way, we’ll be able to rapidly move them to execute a counterstrike if ordered.”
Pausing for a moment to think about that, Luke nodded. “OK, General. But also have a couple of B-2s loaded up with bunker-busters. If this turns out not to be a nuclear detonation, then I still want to go after the guys that did this with our own bunker-buster bombs.”
Tibbets smiled and nodded. He said a few things off camera before he returned his attention to the acting President.
A million thoughts raced through Powers’s mind. Even though he was a bit more involved than the average Vice President, he would definitely be drinking from a fire hose for the next several hours.
Chapter 13
Occupation
Augusta, Maine
Maine State Legislature Office
There was still snow on the sides of the road as the armored column turned off Interstate 95 to make their way to the state capitol building in downtown Augusta. Five hours ago, Lieutenant Colonel Sigurd Bruøygard’s Norwegian Telemark Battalion had crossed into the northernmost US state with high hopes that they’d be able to capture the state in a bloodless coup.
They had been told that a large percentage of the American people wanted the UN to liberate them. The send-off speech they’d watched from President-Elect Marshall Tate led Bruøygard and the men and women of his battalion to believe that the American people would welcome them with open arms, that only a fringe element of hard-core Sachs supporters would give them problems. However, Bruøygard’s battalion hadn’t traveled ten minutes into America before they’d run into their first sign of trouble.
A group of civilians had created a blockade on I-95 around the small town of Island Falls. Not wanting to create a major incident, several of his men and some New York Civil Defense Force militiamen tried to talk with the truckers to convince them to move off the road. For ten minutes, the parties talked. Meanwhile, the battalion was getting backed up on the road.
Just when Bruøygard was about to order one of his tanks to bulldoze their way through the blockade, the truckers agreed to move. They were guided off the road and copies of their driver’s licenses were taken. They were told if they caused any further troubles or attempted to delay any future UN forces from using the highway, they’d be arrested and detained.
An hour later, they came across another similar roadblock around the city of Howland, just north of Bangor. Seeing how they had been able to deescalate the last blockade, Bruøygard figured they’d try talking to the group and see if they could do it again. Five minutes into the impromptu meeting in the center of the road, someone from the roadblock suddenly fired a shot at one of his soldiers. In that instant, one of the truckers who’d been talking to one of Bruøygard’s lieutenants pulled out his pistol and summarily shot the lieutenant in the face.
“Open fire!” ordered Bruøygard. He quickly crouched behind the door of the vehicle he was nearest to and started firing at the Americans, aiming first for the man who’d executed his lieutenant.
For the next five minutes, a running gun battle had taken place between his lead company and the two dozen or so truckers and militiamen manning the roadblock. Finally, one of the Norwegian Leopard II tanks fired a couple of rounds into the big rigs that were blocking them. The tank had then plowed forward, pushing the fiery wrecks off the road so Telemark Battalion could continue to Augusta.
After that brief but violent confrontation, Bruøygard put his head in his hands as he sat in the back of his CV90 infantry fighting vehicle. He was pretty sure at that point that they had been misled regarding the type of reception they would receive from the American people.
Our fight isn’t with them, though, he thought. The government was the real source of conflict.
At that point, he hatched a plan and sent a small scout unit ahead of them on some of the less-traveled country roads that some of the NY CDF volunteers knew about. Their goal was to locate and detain the governor until they arrived with the rest of the battalion. Bruøygard wanted to personally talk with the governor and see if he could work out some sort of agreement with him regarding the occupation—the last thing he wanted his battalion to have to do was occupy the major cities in the state. If he could negotiate some sort of arrangement with the state government, then they might be able to get things back to normal without having to use a heavy hand to govern them.
Glancing down at his watch, Bruøygard saw it was now 11:05 a.m., nearly lunchtime. He shook his head in disappointment at how long it had taken them to go this far. He had hoped he would have been rolling into Augusta around 9 a.m., and they would have, if they hadn’t had to deal with those two roadblocks.
He sighed. Realizing it wasn’t going to help anything to dwell on the negative aspects of the situation, he found himself grateful for the company of tanks traveling with his battalion. Those sixty-eight-ton tanks would make for an invaluable intimidation factor if things didn’t work out well with the governor.
Eventually, they began their drive through the downtown of the city of Augusta. Despite the chilly temperature, many people came out of their stores, offices, and homes to see his column of armored vehicles as they rolled through their city. Bruøygard made sure to have their Norwegian flag tied to a couple of the antennas of his vehicles, so they’d know they were part of the UN force.
Suddenly his vehicle lurched to a stop, and the vehicle commander announced, “We’ve arrived.”
When the rear door opened, Bruøygard got out and stretched his legs and back. He’d been cooped up in that deat
h trap long enough. While he performed a few basic stretches, he caught the eye of some of the civilians nearby. They didn’t look friendly.
They definitely view us as invaders, not liberators, he realized.
One of the young captains who had arrived with the advance party approached him. “Sir, if you’ll follow me, we have the governor and the head of the State Police and local police chiefs in a conference room waiting for you.”
As he approached the Maine State House with its two tiers of columns in the front and copper-topped dome, Bruøygard had to admit, it was a beautiful building—not as old or ornate as the government buildings in his own nation, but impressive nonetheless. Eventually, he was led to a conference room that was being guarded by a handful of his soldiers. Bruøygard nodded toward them, acknowledging their presence. He took in a deep breath, held it for a second, and then let it out as he marched in to deal with the civilian government officials.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Governor,” Bruøygard said in his best English. He held his shoulders back and stood as erect as possible, utilizing his imposing six-foot-five frame for all it was worth.
The governor, the head of the state police and the local chief of police all stood. However, none of them said a word to him or extended their hands to shake his. They didn’t appear to be pleased to see him. He couldn’t blame them, but he also didn’t care. He just hoped he could find a way to cut a deal with them so his force could get back on the road—they had more objectives to meet. He simply motioned for them to take their seats, which they did.
“Well, my name is Lieutenant Colonel Sigurd Bruøygard. I’m a battalion commander in the Norwegian Army, part of the United Nations peacekeeping force. I understand that my presence, and the presence of my soldiers, may not be wanted or appreciated in your city, state, or country—but here we are. All of us are doing our part in this great play they call ‘life.’”
Before he could say another word, the head of police cut him off. “Colonel, I don’t want any of your men to die, so I suggest you take your force and go back to Canada before more people are killed.”
Smiling at the bluntness of the man before him, Bruøygard replied, “Thank you for your concern. I do appreciate it. I, too, don’t want any of my soldiers to die—nor do I want any of your citizens to be killed. Surely you heard about the two separate roadblocks my battalion encountered on I-95 as we made our way to Augusta?” He tried to read their faces to see how much they knew about the situation.
“I heard one of your tanks killed a handful of people north of Bangor,” replied the governor angrily.
Bruøygard nodded. “You heard correctly. A small band of either militia or National Guardsmen—I don’t know which they were—decided they would try and impede my tanks from using the interstate by blocking it with several trucks. While we were trying to negotiate with them, someone fired a shot and one of my soldiers was hit. Then they opened fire on the rest of my men, and we defended ourselves.”
He paused for a moment. “I’m meeting with you because I’m seeking a way to avoid killing each other,” he explained. “Will you help with that, Governor?”
The governor looked conflicted. When he failed to speak up right away, the police chief broke in. “If you want to avoid further bloodshed, Colonel, then I suggest you turn around and go back to Canada. Just because you’ve made it down here today doesn’t mean you won’t be attacked later tonight, tomorrow morning, or any other opportune time our citizens see fit. I don’t think you Europeans appreciate exactly how many of our citizens are armed and ready to defend their homes and cities.”
Bruøygard sighed softly; this was precisely what he wanted to avoid. He’d had his suspicions that invading America wouldn’t work. Looking at the police chief, he replied, “Chief Wilkes, I don’t like the situation any more than you do, but I have my orders. Now, I’ve been given a lot of latitude in how to handle things. I can mostly let you guys run everything just as you have before our arrival, or I can replace you with those who will accommodate my forces.
“Those who don’t want to cooperate will be taken and placed in a separate holding camp until we can determine they no longer present a danger to themselves or those around them. Those individuals who are caught attacking or fighting my forces, or others of the United Nations peacekeeping force, will be summarily shot. We’ve been instructed to carry out public executions as a means of deterring future acts of aggression.”
He paused for a moment as he saw the looks of horror and then contempt wash over their faces. “I think these orders are abhorrent, but they are my orders,” he said. “I would rather not have to implement them. I’m asking for you to help me make sure I don’t have to. If we’re all lucky, this whole situation will be concluded in a few days, when President-Elect Marshall Tate is sworn in as your new President. Let’s all try to work together and make sure everyone survives this turbulent time.”
The governor looked like he was going to be sick. He mumbled to himself a few times as he shook his head. “I’ll do my best to try and keep things calm, Colonel,” he finally managed to say, “but you have to do your best to keep your soldiers out of sight and off the streets. The more military presence the people see, the more likely they are to do something stupid.”
Bruøygard smiled. “Thank you, Governor. I knew we could work something out.”
He turned his attention to the police chiefs. “I understand that your state and federal government keep a register of persons who own firearms. My captain here,” he said as he snapped his fingers, “would like access to that list. We have a special unit that will start confiscating personally owned firearms straight away. We’ll also be putting out an announcement that anyone who willingly turns in a firearm will be given a one-ounce gold coin in exchange for their weapon. If a person knows someone is illegally keeping a firearm and they turn that person in, they will get a one-ounce gold coin for each weapon confiscated.”
Before Bruøygard could go any further, the head of the state police stood up and held his hands straight out in front of him. “You might as well arrest me now. Let me be the first person you arrest, because I won’t surrender my personal firearms, nor will I willingly hand over a list of our citizens who legally own them. I can assure you of one thing, Colonel—no one in our state will willingly allow themselves to be disarmed like this. You’ll unleash a torrent of violence the likes of which you can’t even imagine against your soldiers.
“You may think you had it easy, waltzing into Augusta today, but rest assured, Colonel—today was the easiest day of this occupation you’ll ever have. The citizens of my country are going to wage an insurgency on you like nothing you’ve ever seen, and I’ll gladly be the first martyr to rally them to that very cause.” He spoke with such vitriol and hatred it nearly caused Bruøygard to recoil.
“Cuff him and take him out of the building now,” Bruøygard ordered. His men quickly complied.
This might be a bit harder than I first thought, Bruøygard realized.
*******
From Fox News Online:
Following the invasion of the northern states by the United Nations, the National Rifle Association sent out an email to their millions of subscribers, urging their members to be prepared to take up arms in defense of the country. “We are urging our members to seek out their local Army National Guard stations first and offer their services,” they write. “If the local Guard unit doesn’t need assistance, we recommend that all NRA members across the country band together to form militias to help defend the country from the coming foreign invasion.”
There has been no comment from the White House, Homeland Security, or the Department of Defense on this statement, other than to say they hope this situation can be defused and resolved shortly. In a related note, the Department of Defense has asked for all able-bodied men and women to report to their local military recruiter’s office and volunteer for service in defense of their country.
*******
Belli
ngham, Washington
Two days after the UN forces invaded the US, Jake Baine received a cryptic call on the radio he’d been given at the armory. He was supposed to meet Major Slevin at a park roughly twelve miles from his cabin.
Jake felt his hands sweating against the steering wheel; he was even more nervous than usual, knowing UN military convoys were using a lot of the roads nearby. So far, he hadn’t run into any of them, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t.
After an uneventful trip, Jake arrived at a park that was eerily empty. A fresh layer of snow had fallen the night before, and without another soul around, the stark scene seemed somewhat surreal. He parked his truck near Slevin’s and walked over to the major.
“It’s good to see you, sir,” Jake said. He glanced around anxiously. It seemed too quiet here. “So, what did you want to meet about?”
“First off, don’t call me sir anymore. Just call me Al.”
Jake nodded, and the two of them began to walk down one of the marked trails. They didn’t say much for the first ten minutes. They just moved deeper into the woods. When they reached a hill that Al seemed to be aiming for, he suddenly stopped.
“In another couple of days, half of the state will be under the control of the UN,” he explained. “I hope you got those supplies.”
Jake nodded.
“What I need to know is, how soon you can start building some IEDs for me?” Major Slevin asked.
Jake was silent for a moment as he calculated his answer. “That depends on what kind of IEDs you want. Do you want ones for blowing up some bridges or nicking a convoy? Or do you want to blow up some UN foot patrols?”
“For the moment, let’s stick to the convoys. I don’t want to risk civilian casualties if we can avoid it.”