Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) (26 page)

“We’re still covered in the western
Pacific?  I want to keep a strong presence there for China and North Korea to
think about.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” the Secretary of
Defense’s digital image said, straightening his shoulders.  “Our pullouts with
the Army and Marines are going smoothly.  But they were pretty deep in Iraq and
Lebanon.  It’s going to be a matter of at least a week at best before we get
most of our soldiers and materiel on the way home.  I’m going to put the foot
down and give them two weeks for the equipment.  But, sir, the only way to do
that is mobilize every C-17 we’ve got and keep ‘em flying 24-7.  It’s going to
be expensive.  If we use the Navy transports, it’ll be three weeks to a month
before we get our boys home.”

“Al, that’s too long.  I don’t care how
much it costs, get them home,
now
.  In a month, it’ll be too late, the
way things are going.  You have a blank check with this one.”

“I’ll put the order in right away, sir,
and get things rolling.”

The intercom on the conference table
beeped.  “Mr. President, it’s time for your—“

“I know, Sergeant, thank you.  I’m on my
way,” the President said in a clipped voice.  He stood up and grabbed his
jacket.  The President put his suit jacket on, adjusted his tie and grabbed
some papers off the polished table.  “Things are getting out of control, Al. 
Get those orders out and give me an update--“

“We’ll have it ready for the afternoon
briefing, sir.

Hank
Suthby, Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, stormed into his new
office.  For being half a mile under a mountain deep in the bowls of NORAD, it
wasn’t bad.  But he didn’t care.  He was followed by his staffers, flocking
around him like royal retainers.

“That fool
is going to let this country fall to pieces before he lets us do our job!”  He
tossed his briefcase onto the desk and clicked on a large flatscreen display.

“Sir, he’ll
come to his senses soon,” offered one of the lackeys.  The rest hovered near
the door and bobbed heads in unison.

Suthby
found himself watching in horror as the screen warmed up and displayed a
picture of Washington, D.C. from the roof of the White House.  He looked out
over the city, once so full of light and activity.  Now everything was dark,
the street lights, normally turning on about this time in the evening were
off.  There were cars scattered everywhere, some out of gas, some burnt to a
crisp.  There was a mob of rioters, a great undulating mass of humanity filling
the streets.  Torches burned, Molotov Cocktails soared through the air and
fireballs burst at the periphery of the mob.  It was only a matter of time
before they realized that the White House had been abandoned and the U.S.
Government had fled the city.  It would be anarchy in a matter of hours.

Why won’t
he sign the damn orders?  I could clean this up in less than a week!

To the
north and the east, he could see the low hanging darkness in the sky that
represented the smoke that was blanketing the city from all the riots and
burning buildings.  He’d heard the Maryland National Guard was conducting a
military campaign up there, going block by block, fighting the rioters. 
Supposedly, the rioters were well organized, using homemade napalm of all
things to fight back.  Even the street gangs were getting in on the action,
every low-life and street thug taking their shots at the Man while they could. 
The nation’s capital city was all but falling off a cliff.  Despite himself, he
chuckled.

Looks like
fucking Bosnia or Chechnya, not Washington.

“He’s not
acting fast enough,” mused Suthby, reaching for his sat -phone to get in touch
with Daniel at the new DHS HQ in Denver.

“But sir,
there’s not much he can do.  We need the military to help the National Guard
put down the rioting…” one of the female aides said nervously.  Her boss’s
temper was legendary among those working at DHS.

“Shelly’s
right, sir, and it’s not exactly like there’s ongoing terror attacks…is there?”

“We don’t
know that for sure yet, John,” countered another staffer, playing Devil’s
advocate.

Suthby
continued to look at the display, out over the darkened city, noting the glow
coming from the east—the riot fires were beginning to light up the night as the
afternoon faded towards evening.  He listened to his staffers argue out all
that had been going through his mind. 

What is it
now, the fifth…sixth day after the power went out?

“And what
would declaring a national emergency do for us that the President hasn’t
already gotten going?  He’s already restricted the 1
^st
Amendment. 
He’s Federalized the National Guard, he’s recalled the military and he’s
deploying what we’ve got already at home…look at Chicago.  The damn Army is
going to level that city.”

“The
Emergency Order would allow everything to be streamlined.  There wouldn’t be a
delay in getting approval from Congress or—“ another staffer argued.

“It would
allow the President to institute Martial Law and block the Constitution until
the crisis is over,” concluded Shelly.  Suthby raised his eyebrows and glanced
over his shoulders.  His aides had completely forgotten he was here and were
hashing out national policy on their own.  It was exactly why he had
hand-picked them for his department.

“Yes, we
all know that—and the public would think it’s a dictatorship,” snapped John
from the other side of the room.  He was changing the batteries on his
flashlight.

“But maybe
that’s exactly what we need,” said Suthby, turning away from the window to look
at the staffers over his shoulder.  “A dictatorship until the crisis is over.” 
Silence descended on the room.  The only sound was a soft whirr of the air
conditioning system.

“Sir, this
is America…we don’t do dictatorships!” joked John in a quiet voice.

“Oh, it
wouldn’t be a
true
dictatorship; the President would still be in charge,
and he’s not exactly Joe Stalin, is he?” asked Suthby with an innocent smile.

“Well, in
theory, sir.  Technically, the President gives the orders, but
we
take
control of everything.  That’s the whole point of DHS.  We are the
only
agency set up to run everything at once, on a moment’s notice,” replied Shelly,
her voice wavering.  Suthby could see she was beginning to fear where this
conversation was leading.

“We are, aren’t we?” asked Suthby,
rubbing his chin in thought.  He opened his sat-phone and speed dialed Daniel. 
“I need a few minutes to myself, people.  Thanks,” Suthby said by way of
dismissal.  He turned his back on them as the staffers filed out of the office,
worry evident on their faces.

T
AHRU, ARE YOUR people ready?” asked
Malcolm over his radio.  The Brotherhood’s undisputed leader peered his command
center windows, halfway up the Sears Tower.  There was a large group of
city-folk that were being rounded up and forced out of town at gunpoint.  The
gangs had been very keen on killing them all, but Malcolm’s Brotherhood, with
Tahru’s influence, had stopped that before too many civilians had died.  He
followed the line of the street towards the Chicago River.  On the other side
of the barricades, the National Guard watched and waited. 

They’re not going to sit there
forever…they’re either going to wait for us to starve or they’re going to
attack again, this time in force.  As long as they know we have innocent
civilians in here, they’ll wait.  I hope.

“
D’ey’s ready, man
…” came the
reply from the Michigan Street Bridge where his younger brother was stationed. 
Tahru was hiding behind the corner of a large building, riddled with bullet
holes and gutted by a fire that was still burning in the upper floors.  Down
the street about two blocks he could see the Man’s barricade at the bridge. 
Over head, he could hear a few helicopters buzzing about, flitting in and out
of the dense riot-smoke.  Occasionally one of their powerful searchlights would
penetrate the smoke briefly and illuminate someone running for cover.   The
lesson learned from the Apache attack was not lost on anyone who had seen the
battle. 
Slaughter…
Tahru told himself.

“Good…I am sending the refugees towards
you…please remember to not shoot them in the back, Tahru…” Malcolm joked,
trying to ease the tension.  This was a very delicate operation.  Hundreds of
things could go wrong, putting the whole rebellion in jeopardy.

“
Sheeeit, man, whatchoo think I am,
some kinda foo’ from South Central?  Man, jes’ get them fuckers up here
already!
” 

Malcolm sighed.  He knew what the plan
was, he was just anxious to see the results.  In the group of a few hundred
Whiteys, they had placed some ‘Fruits of Islam’ inside backpacks, bags, and
briefcases that the erstwhile hostages knew nothing about. 

Malcolm had plans that required the
Brotherhood capture Navy Pier.  With that cut off from the Man’s use, they
couldn’t dock their large transport ships and Coast Guard vessels, forcing them
to change tactics and causing a logistics mess.  This ‘hostage transfer’ that
Tahru had helped organize by sending runners over to the National Guard to
parley was step one to taking the Pier.  All he need do was wait for the right
time.

“Yo, man,
how long I gotta stay here?  Almost dark, man…” Tahru said sullenly to
himself.  He could see his boys crouching behind the other nearby buildings at
the intersection.  They had all been there for a few hours, watching the
civilians as they were rounded up.  More than a few were drinking. 

The white
folk were all being gathered a few blocks away.  More than a few had been
killed outright, their possessions taken, some of the women raped.  That was
before Malcolm and the Brotherhood. It had taken a ruthless and determined
response by Malcolm and his followers to put an end to such barbarism.  Many of
Tahru’s thugs had been executed for rape as an example to the others that such
actions would
not
be tolerated by the Brotherhood.   The minorities
among the hostages were to be given an opportunity to join the rebellion.  The
rest were herded towards the Chicago River.

As if in
answer to his question, the radio in Tahru’s hand came to life.  “
Alright
everyone, it is time.  Go with Allah
,” his brother called out.

“’Bout
time…” grumbled Tahru.  He had spent most of the day out here and was well past
tired and hungry.  To the radio, he said, “He’ dey come, Malcolm…”  

The
captives had begun marching towards the Michigan Street bridge.  They were
almost to Tahru’s position.  Every now and then someone shuffled past with a
backpack or briefcase. The people in the crowd were too scared and hungry to
care why they had been given things to carry.  All they had known for the past
few days was fire, destruction, darkness and fear.   At this point, the
hostages cared only about making it out of Occupied Chicago and across the
river into the safety of the National Guard lines; they didn’t even notice the
rebels surrounding them in the shadows, watching.

“
Excellent…Tahru,
I want you to get inside your building now and get to a higher floor.  I want
you to see this.  Everyone else, you know the plan.  Get moving
.”       

Tahru
entered the abandoned office building he had been positioned near and began
climbing stairs to the fourth floor.  He made his way through the debris left
by vandals to the north side of the building and entered a big corner office. 
The room he stepped into was ripped open on the north side; a huge section of
the wall had been blown in by one of the tanks across the river.  Tahru could
see it through the hole, sitting quietly on the other side of the Chicago
River. 

A sobering
thought struck him:
If I can see d’em foo’s, d’ey mebbie can see me!
 

He rushed
to the partial wall facing north and crouched down, hiding himself in the
charred rubble.  A slight breeze moved through the opening, bringing with it a
mixture of smells, mostly from the smoke and fires still burning south of his
position.  In the distance, through the haze and smoke, he could just make out
Navy Pier. 

The noise
level outside suddenly increased as the hostages realized they were being
marched to freedom.  The leading rows of people could see the National Guard
soldiers patrolling the crude barricade on the north side of the battle scarred
bridge.  Soldiers waved to urge them on.  The Apache helicopter that had
attacked the rioters the day before was hovering in the distance, keeping an
eye on things from the sky.  It had been joined, Tahru saw, by another Apache
and two larger helicopters with twin rotors.  The noise these four machines
made was a constant rumble that competed with the screaming of the hostages on
the streets down below.

On the
ground across the river, Tahru could see all kinds of dark green and brown
colored trucks, jeeps and tanks.  All the tanks looked like nasty bitches to
him, but there was only one that had a big gun barrel sticking out the front. 
The others looked squatter and had little guns and lots of antennae sticking up
all over.  He quickly scanned the vehicles, then whistled as he saw how many
soldiers there were.  Tahru pulled out his binoculars to get a better view as
the first shouts of joy came up from the streets when the hostages drew close
to the bridge.  They were being prevented from running by gun toting Brothers
walking at their sides.  The time for running had not yet arrived.

“Yo,
Malcolm, look like them mo-fo’s gots all the damn Pigs in the city ovah dare!”
he called into the radio.  The display of flashing lights from the squad cars
was dazzling.  The police cars had been brought up in formations behind the
soldiers who were clustered about the bridge.          

“
How
many?”
came the reply.

“Yo, man, I
cain’t count
that
high!  D’ey’s gots a
shitload
of ‘em.”

“
Very
well, keep watching
…”

Tahru heard
a voice cut through all the background noise and turned his binoculars to the
foot of the Michigan Street bridge.

“It’s all
right folks!  Hurry up now, you’re free!  That’s it move across the bridge,
right over here, come on!” called out a soldier with a bullhorn.  He stood in
full view on a burned out car on the north side of the bridge.  The hostages,
when they reached the south side, began to run and broke free of their
captors.  People further back, still walking towards the bridge, could see the
ones in front making a mad dash for safety and began to surge forward, pushing
those in front of them forward or down to the ground where they were trampled. 
The march had turned into a stampede

“Yo,
Malcolm, d’es goin’ crazy man!” Tahru reported, one hand still holding the
binoculars to his face.

Malcolm
ordered his operatives to sneak into the herd.  Unseen by anyone in the chaos
of the stampeding hostages, Members of the Brotherhood began to slip out of
adjacent buildings and enter the teeming mass of humanity as it crashed forward
like a tidal wave towards freedom.  They were wearing everyday business attire
stolen or removed from the dead, carrying backpacks and briefcases like many of
the others. 

The
soldiers quickly pulled back the barricade as the first of the hostages
streamed past, screaming for help and crying.  The Guardsmen were quickly
overwhelmed for the hostages numbered many times more than their rescuers. 
Hostages poured across the bridge.  The soldiers was forced to fall back or be
trampled as the panicked civilians entered the command post and surged to the
north, looking for shelter and aid.

“People,
please remain calm, you’re safe now! 
Safe
!” the Guardsman with the
bullhorn on top of burned out car said.  His car was now an island, surrounded
on all sides by civilians trying to get as far away from Occupied Chicago as
possible.  “Hey!  You there, slow down!  Yes—no wait, don’t hit the car like
that, you’re all going to be
fine
!”

“
Now!
”
came Malcolm’s voice over the radio.

Tahru
pulled out his .45, aiming vaguely towards the rear of the crowd, still a block
away from the bridge, but picking up speed.  He pulled the trigger a few times,
as did the “guards” of the hostages.  A handful of civilians screamed in pain
and dropped to the pavement, bleeding.  When the rest of the stampede figured
out what was happening in the rear, all hell broke loose. 

The stream
of humanity became a raging river—it was every person for themselves.  A few
people jumped or were shoved off the bridge to drop some twenty five feet below
into the swiftly moving Chicago River.

From what
Tahru could see, the soldiers looked like ants who’s hill had been stepped on. 
They ran here and there, pushing and fighting their way through the civilians
who continued to pour into their lines.  Any organization the National Guard
had enjoyed before the ‘hostage release’ had been totally destroyed.  Through
his binoculars, Tahru could spot a few of the ‘loaded’ Whiteys running for aid
stations and medical tents, still carrying their backpacks and briefcases. 

“
Any
time now
…” came Malcolm’s voice over the radio.

A few
seconds later, Tahru spotted the first flash by the big green tent that had a
giant red cross on it.  Then another and another.  Three more flashes went off
in quick succession to the right, by the time the first explosion was heard by
Tahru.  It was a muffled pop.  Smoke mushroomed out in at least six different
spots behind the National Guard position.  The backpacks and briefcases filled
with explosives were ripping through the hostages, blowing bodies and bits of
bodies all over the streets on the north side of the bridge.  The Medical tent
was half knocked over, all of it in flames.  More than one cop car was on fire.

The
screaming actually caused Tahru to catch his breath.  He had never heard
anything so awful before.  One of the big tanks with a little gun and lots of
antennae suddenly jumped with an explosion that echoed across the river.

Tahru sat
in stunned silence, watching the chaos across the river erupt in front of his
eyes.  The smoke from the explosions was blocking his view more than a block
away, but from what was going on just across the bridge, he could tell his
brother was a genius.  Not only had Malcolm figured out how to sneak all those
bombs into the Man’s nest, he had killed a shit load of soldiers. 

They had
stirred up some excitement all right.  The four helicopters were all circling
over the scene, looking confused.  There were no targets the attack choppers
could hit that wouldn’t endanger scores of civilians.  There was no place for
the transport helicopters to land and take on wounded.  They merely buzzed
around like enraged bees.

The radio,
forgotten in Tahru’s hand, suddenly came to life.  “
Malcolm, we found ‘em! 
Jus’ like you said, Brother!
” said a new voice, full of excitement.  “
It
was in the big truck with tank treads!
”

“
Excellent…remove
that pestilence from Allah’s sky
,” was the immediate reply.

“
By
Allah’s will!
” the radio clicked off.

Movement to
the northeast caught Tahru’s eye.  A thin trail of smoke leapt out of the chaos
on the streets and shot across the sky heading straight for one of the
Apaches.  Tahru realized someone was shooting missiles at the helicopters.  For
Tahru, the battle was like watching something out of a movie or a drug induced
hallucination.  The missile sailed past the dodgy little helicopter and
disappeared to the north over Navy Pier.

“
Whoa!
yelled
Tahru as a second streak of smoke leapt up and hit the wildly bucking
helicopter.  It was consumed in a fireball in mid-air, raining chunks of
burning metal on the ground below.  The wreckage dropped straight down,
trailing smoke and fire onto the streets still crowded with terrorized people
running for their lives.  There was no way to dodge missiles for long at that
altitude.  He almost felt sorry for the poor bastards flying those things.  Almost.