Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) (62 page)

A few more
missiles began climbing from the decks of smoking ships, adding their smoke
trails to the tangled knot of contrails, smoke and missile trails already
polluting the sky.

“
I’m
hit!
” someone screamed.  “
Hawk Two
—“ an explosion to starboard
caught Riggs’ eye.  He saw the remnants of Hawk Two come shooting out of the
ball of fire in three large chunks streaking down in a graceful curve towards
the ocean below.  No parachutes.

“Nest, we
just lost Hawk Two, repeat, Hawk Two is down,” he said, still looking for
parachutes and fighting the grief welling up in his throat.  Sidewinder was a
good friend.  Riggs couldn’t imagine he had time to pull the ring, but…

“
Christ,
there’s a SAM coming right up my ass!
” someone else shouted. 

“
Breaking
right,
” called another American voice.

“Alright,
Hawk Flight, we only got a couple more minutes of this…let’s make it count!”
ordered Riggs with a smile as the plane swerved to the left and rolled down
towards the deck, back into the roiling hellfire of AAA.  He couldn’t wait to
hear the bitching from the F-18 pilots.  They’d be pissed at the scraps the
Lightnings would be leaving. 

He strafed
the injured French carrier, relishing the sight of sailors diving for cover and
bits of machinery exploding.  Tracers of his own tore a path through the heavy
metal and tarmac flight deck, effectively ruining any plans of launching
fighters.  Out of the corner of his eye, as he streaked by virtually unopposed,
he saw a single French fighter taxing to the crippled catapult launch system,
seemingly ignorant of the damage to the flight deck. 

Resolving
to nip the problem in the bud, he swung the wounded Lightning around in a tight
circle, coming head on to the carrier.  From this angle it was more difficult
to see the rest of the fleet; the smoke from the carrier and her sinking
support vessels virtually turned the world black.  The slight wobble in his
planes flight path caused by the big hole in his tail fin didn’t help.  But
there was the French fighter, rolling confidently up to the catapult, firelight
glinting off the graceful canopy.

The sun was
halfway below the horizon and night would be on them soon.  Everyone knew
America owned the night with their technological superiority.  He smiled,
thinking of the fear the French must be feeling at the prospect of fighting as
night settled upon them like a smothering blanket of death. 

“Not today,
Frenchie.  This is for the Marines!” Riggs bellowed squeezed the trigger on his
joystick.  The cannon responded and molten death shot out across the closing
gap, ripping the French Mirage fighter to pieces.  The canopy on the French
plane started to open as the pilot realized too late what was happening.  The
Mirage exploded gloriously as one of its missiles self destructed, throwing a
fireball across the deck and sending debris flying in all directions.  Riggs
banked hard to starboard and pulled away from the fleet with an awful roar of
his plane’s engine, gaining altitude fast.  He hoped his flyby broke a few more
windows on the crippled carrier.

“
Oooh
rah!
” a new voice called out over the radio frequency.

“
Time to
drop the Hammer, boys!
” came the grizzled voice of Sledgehammer, Hammer
Flight’s leader.  The
Roosevelt’s
F-18F Superhornets had arrived.  “
Fox
one!
”

A chorus of
missile launches filled the speakers in Riggs’ helmet as he and the rest of
Hawk flight began to withdrawal from the slaughter.  Their fuel tanks were
nearly at the critical point.  They would have enough to get home, but barely. 
Fighting really burned the gas. 

Riggs was
satisfied though, as a score of missiles streaked past his fighter group and
pummeled the already scattered and half wasted Franco-Spanish fleet.  As the
Superhornets raced past heading into the fray, a few saluted the retreating
Lightnings, surprised at the amount of damage the F-35s had sustained.  Not a
single fighter was returning that did not have half a dozen punctures in its
wings and stabilizers.  The AAA fire had shredded the American planes, yet they
still were flyable.

“Nest, Hawk
Lead, Hawk Flight coming home, minus one feather but talons red,” Riggs said
with a sad smile, removing his oxygen mask and wiping the sweat from his face. 
He was happy no one else could see the tears forming in his eyes.  Hawk Two
would be missed sorely in the coming weeks.  Some part of him hoped those
Marines who were murdered by the Russians would be happy with the vengeance his
squadron had just exacted.

He vowed
there would be more to come.

HALF THE WORLD away, Erik
lay on the pool deck at the Freehold, under the stars next to his wife, Brin,
sharing a radio between them.  Across the short table, Ted and his wife were
lounging in the same manner, idly watching the black sky—devoid of any light
pollution for the first time in a hundred years—and listening.  It had become
sort of a ritual for the four of them. 

Each day,
after all the chores were accomplished and the sweat and work of the day lay
behind them, they gathered on the pool deck to cool off in the warm night
breeze and relax before retiring to their apartments and the confining darkness
of a home without power.  Every now and then one of the other residents, or
Freeholders, as they were calling themselves, would stop by and sit with them. 
Tonight, however, they were alone.

“…
reports
from our stations in the Mid-East are telling of a dramatic sea battle taking
place off the southern coast of Mediterranean France this night
…” droned
the English accented newsman.  “
BBC has just learned that a combined Franco-Spanish
fleet has intercepted what they believe to be the remnants of the
U.S.S.
Theodore Roosevelt
battlegroup, which disappeared last week amid a rumored
nuclear strike by Iran.  The Pentagon was unable to confirm or deny these
reports over telephone as our Jan Smitheson could not get the Americans to
talk.  We of course will have updates to you as soon as we ourselves learn
anything new
.”

“Go get ‘em
Teddy!
” whooped Ted.

“Ssssh!”
said Susan, playfully smacking her husband on the arm.

“—
of you
in America, know that your British friends still stand by you.  We are sending
our own aid workers to you in order to assist your speedy recovery from this
crisis
. 

“
In
other news from America, it appears that the city of Chicago has been all but
destroyed by the U.S. Army in an attempt to quell a rebellion, started by
Muslim Separatists.  It appears, however, that the popular African-American
leader of this rebellion, known only as Malcolm, has escaped by boat to
Canada.  To report on this aspect of the American Troubles, is our Canadian
Bureau chief, Alexis Dejarde, in Ottawa
.”

“
Well,
that’s right, Jonathan, here in the Canadian Provinces, people have been
casting a wary eye south at our troubled neighbors for quite some time now, you
know
—“ began the female voice.

“Chicago’s
gone?” asked Brin with a quiver in her voice.

“How…how
can that
be?
  They destroyed—
Chicago
…did he mean everyone is
dead, or…if some people were allowed to leave…how can they
do
this?” she
began to stammer and trip over her own words she was speaking so fast.

“—
seeing
a mass exodus from the ruined city for some time now.  The people living in the
outlying communities and towns, as far away as a hundred miles and more in all
directions are being flooded with hungry, tired, refugees.  So far, fighting
has broke out in the southern directions from Chicago proper.  In the western
areas, most people have already fled their homes in advance of the millions of
refugees heading their way.  We are being told by FEMA representatives that the
casualty rates will increase as people become more desperate for food and
shelter.  In fact, the head of the Department of Homeland Security said today
that
—“

“Oh my
God…” Brin sobbed, clinging to her husband.  “The whole world is falling
apart!”

Overhead, a
shooting star burned up in the atmosphere, leaving a glowing phosphorescent
trail as a tribute to its blazing death.  Erik held his sobbing wife and began
to think she might be right.

GOOD, NOW COUNTERSTRIKE.
Again.
Reverse swing and advance. Again!
Again!
” Erik called out more routines
and walked among the ranks of his little band of swordsmen. The men were
progressing well.

“Excellent
thrust, Josh. Ted! That sword is
not
a baseball bat. We’ve had this
conversation before.”

“I know
that, Erik,” Ted grunted, his stick held awkwardly.

“Then don’t
swing it like one!”

Ted flushed
and a few of the others grinned. Everyone knew Ted was a friend with Erik and
second in command of the little strike force, but it was good for morale to see
Ted get treated like one of the grunts every now and then.

Erik
stopped in front of Ted. The Marine opened his mouth to say something but
winked instead. “Erik, I don’t think—“

“That’s
right, you don’t! In combat you must act, not
think
, and act on
training, which is what you’re disrupting. Thirty pushups. Go,” Erik said,
turning his back on Ted and moving to watch the next man in line.

Ted frowned
and dropped to the grass. “
One…two…three…four…I…love…the Marine…Corps!”

“Erik,
these aren’t swords, they’re sticks,” said Alan, one of the best of the
veterans of The Battle.

“
One…two…three…four…I…love…the
Marine…Corps!”
Ted called out in the background.

“Thirty for
everyone, courtesy of Mr. Jakes. Go!” said Erik. While the men grunted and
cussed, Erik called out cadence over Ted, “…three…four…push Don! Five…six…”

Ted
finished his thirty as Bernie hobbled up. Ted had not even broken a sweat.
“Ted, lead ‘em through this, then one more round of front assaults, then
calisthenics, please. I need to talk to Bernie for a minute.”

“You bet,”
Ted grinned. He turned to the troops, half way through their pushups. “Move it
mud-lovers! Seventeen! Eighteen! That’s it
, push!
The harder you work
now, the less you die later!”

“What’s up,
Bernie?” asked Erik, stepping aside with the older man.

Bernie
mopped his brow with a rag in the late August heat. The two men began to stroll
away from the recruits, towards the pond. “Erik, I just took stock of our food
and with all the new mouths to feed…” Bernie’s face wore a troubled look.

“We’re
running out,” it wasn’t a question.

“It ain’t
that I don’t appreciate what yer biker-men done for us, or Art and his radio
gear…it’s jes’…”

“We’ve
grown but our food supply hasn’t.”  Erik put his hands on his hips and
considered the pond for a moment in silence. He had known the addition of Hoss
and his bikers meant that this discussion with Bernie was inevitable.

Bernie
stomped his cane into the ground in impotent anger. “That’s the long and the
short of it.” He watched Erik’s face out of the corner of his eye before he
continued. “I have an idea though…”

“Let’s hear
it,” Erik said, eyes back on his swordsmen. Ted was leading them through more
front swings. A few wobbled, but less than last week. Erik squinted in the
afternoon sun.

Bernie
slapped the surface of the pond with his cane. The sound caused a bullfrog to
jump in the shallows to their right. “Fishing,” the old man said with a nod.

“The
marina,” Erik blurted. “If we had a boat…a couple of tuna would feed the whole
complex for a long while.”

“What about
gas? It’s getting harder to find cars that haven’t already been drained. My
boys are using as much gas to find gas as they’re bringing back.  They’re
telling me cars are empty now.  Someone
else
out there is takin’ it
all.”

“I know.
But maybe we don’t need all that much gas…” Erik mused, lost in thought.

“How you
gonna run a fishin’ boat what don’t have no gas?” asked Bernie.

“I know how
to sail. Learned back at my parents place in upstate New York on Lake
Ticonderoga.” Erik paused, thinking, then said: “With a sailboat, I could do
salt-water
and
fresh-water fishing in the inlets and swamps up and down
the coast. We’d have to start soon though…it’ll take awhile to get gather
enough fish to feed everyone.”

“Even if we
can get a little, we can stretch what supplies we got that much further. Maybe
them National Guard boys’ll bring something next time,” Bernie said, hope in
his voice.

“If they
don’t try to relocate us,” Erik said sourly. “And I don’t want to rely on
governmental folks anyway. We can’t be sure they’ll even come back. All we hear
on the radio now is how the U.N. is coming and the Guard will be expected to
protect the civilian population…”

Bernie
waved off Erik’s comment with derision. “Them boys’ll be home protecting their
own. That’s what they’re there for. The army fights on
foreign
soil.”

Erik
sighed. “Either way, it’s going to be a bloody mess. If the U.N. isn’t stopped
before they get here…”

“Then every
redneck with a huntin’ rifle an’ a six-pack will be out lookin’ for a good
time,” grinned Bernie. In an instant he turned serious again. “So who do we
send and when?” His wrinkled face peered skyward while Erik thought. “Rain
comin’,” the old man said, more to himself than Erik.

Erik pulled
his mind back from the U.N. problem and all the chaos it would cause here at
home. “Huh?” Bernie nodded to the west. Thunderheads were forming in the
afternoon heat. The evening promised to be wet. Erik’s mind raced back to the
problem at hand.

Who to
send? Ted? Maybe Hoss?
He mentally shook his head.
No, if there’s
anyone at the Marina, we need to make
friendly
contact. A biker will
scare them…especially Hoss. Ted’s got his hands full with the Watch. Lentz is
running things now, he admitted bitterly to himself. It has to be me.
He
looked back at the clouds gathered on the horizon. 
Lentz said it himself,
they’re trying to get rid of me.

Can’t go
alone….so who do I take?
A name popped into his mind and he hated
himself for suggesting it.

Brin. Best
case scenario: we’re a stranded couple of tourists or newlyweds. Worst case,
she’s better at defending herself than anyone in here so far except Ted and me.
I won’t have to worry about her.

Bernie saw
the grim look cross Erik’s face as he worked out who to send. The old man had
seen the same look on his company CO back in ’49 on the Korean Peninsula more
than once. It always happened when the lieutenant had decided that he had to
lead the mission himself, from the front.  Bernie well knew what that look
meant. Erik had decided to take the responsibility on himself. He patted Erik
lightly on the shoulder. “You be careful, son. Remember,” he said, all humor
gone from his eyes. “Shoot first.”

“Ask
questions later?”

“Nope,”
said Bernie, all smiles again. “If’n your aim is worth a damn, it’ll be mighty
hard to talk to a feller what’s dead.”

THE RAIN HAD been
falling for about half an hour when Hoss and Jimbo dropped off Erik and Brin a
half mile south of the Sarasota Marina. The young couple had backpacks, simple
tourist-looking affairs, full of food, water, and most definitely non-tourist
items. It was dusk, and the storm had made it hard for Erik to see Hoss’s broad
face through the rain and wind.

“Thanks for
the lift. If all goes well, we’ll radio you for a pick-up in an hour or so. At
the latest, call it 8 o’clock. Meet us here,” Erik said over the noise of the
two motorcycles at idle and the storm at full throttle.

“We’ll park
the bikes by the beach a little ways south. There’s some better cover there.
You call if you need help—we’re only 5 minutes out, tops.”

Erik
slapped Hoss on the back and the two burly bikers accelerated off, illuminated
by lightning. When the red taillights disappeared from view around a bend in
the road to the south, Erik turned to his young wife and waited for the thunder
to subside.

“You ready
for this?” he asked. She looked like a child with her purple raincoat and hood
pulled tight around her face. Her large almond shaped eyes appeared even larger
than they were. She wiped rain off her face and smiled. “Ready when you are,
baby!”

Erik leaned
down to kiss her and she giggled when the scratchy beard he had grown since the
power went out tickled her face. They moved off the road towards the beach on a
path that cut through the scrub pines, giving way to palm trees as they
approached the storm-tossed Gulf.  Erik paused in the rain as they came to the
edge of the treeline.

“Let’s stay
close by the trees. It’s darker here…if we go out to the beach, that white sand
will give us away in a heartbeat,” Erik said over a sudden clap of thunder. Brin
nodded in the semi-darkness and adjusted her pack to cover the sudden rush of
fear she felt course through her body.

Erik
checked the straps on his K-Bar, secured to his left thigh. The knife was for
show, this time. He had Ted’s M-9 strapped in a shoulder holster under his
windbreaker if needed. This was a recon mission, Ted had reminded him, so Erik
opted not to take his katana. He felt naked without it strapped to his side.

The ancient
sword had served him well since the power had gone out and he had become quite
adjusted to the feeling of the lethal instrument at his hip. He doubted he’d
ever get used to a handgun, but for Ted’s sake, he relented and brought it
instead of the trusty sword. Otherwise, his pack contained: a bit of the
Freehold’s precious food and sterilized water from “the well”, some matches, an
Altoids tin mini-survival kit, a first aid kit, weatherproof binoculars, and a
radio. Brin had exactly the same loadout with a spare radio.