Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) (73 page)

Rob could
almost hear his friend's thoughts.  "See what I mean?" he said
quietly.  "I was skeptical of the ragheads when they told us about the
Chinese.  A Chinese army? 
Really?
  In
Mexico?
"  Rob
chuckled.  "Then we heard about that news conference...ChiComs sending
humanitarian
relief to Mexico...oh, and by the way it's already on its way."

"Bet
that caused some Navy guys to crap their pants.  How the hell did they let all
that slip through?" asked Lance in a sullen voice.  His dad had been a
Boatswain’s Mate in Korea.  He could see his father's frown in his mind's eye. 

"Then,
when word got out on the HAM nets that foreign troops were dropping into east
coast cities..."

"The
bombers over New England..." added Lance.

"Yeah,"
said Rob quietly as they navigated a rough patch in the "road". 
"Everything suddenly got very real, very quick.  It's either the biggest
coincidence in the world, or the world just Rope-a-Doped the United
States."

Lance
sighed and leaned his head against the window as the truck rolled and rumbled
forward.  "What the hell is happening..."  His dad would be rolling
in his grave.  "We've got to..."

Rob
resolved himself.  "No.  There's no way
we
can stay here any
longer. 
We
got to pull out and head north.  It's what?" he glanced
at the truck's clock.  "Eight thirty?  Okay, we get back, load up every
vehicle we got left with as much gas, food and ammo as we can carry...we can be
on the road by noon. "

"What
about the scouts already on the lines?"

"We'll
get their wives to pack everything up for them, leave them out till the last
minute.  They can meet us on the road north.  I don't want us all back there
packing and loading and have no eyes or ears out there.  If that thing came
towards us we'd be sitting ducks.  All of us.  If they spot the army..."

Lance
looked at his friend.  "We'll, I guess you're right..." he shook his
head.  "This is just unreal."

"I
know.  I like it even less than you. 
Believe me
."  Rob focused on
driving for a few moments. "I want to send someone on ahead of the main
body.  Someone to scout things out .  Makes no sense to get us all out of here
just to head north into an ambush, y'know?"

The two men
froze as the radio on the dashboard crackle to life.  "
One, you read
me?"

Rob glanced
at Lance before he picked up the mic.  "Go ahead, Two."

"
Uh...that
thing is still sittin' there...looks like five tangos walking around now. 
Three are in full gear, rifles, packs, the works.  Serious dudes, you know? 
Other two look like officers, I guess.  They're glassin’ the hills
."

"Well,
stay the hell out of sight, for cryin' out loud," Rob replied with a
little more emphasis in his voice than he would have liked.

"
I
am, man.  You think I want to be spotted by that thing?  Oh, hey, there's
another one, just came over the horizon.  Must be moving pretty fast too
because there’s a BIG dust cloud following it
."

"Shit,"
said Lance in resignation. 

"Three,
you got a visual on the incoming?" asked Rob.

There was a
slight pause then the radio broke squelch.  "
Hang on...no. I see the
dust, but...wait, there it is! Uh...it's got friends. I got a visual on three
more of them things comin’ towards us.  I repeat, there are three more coming! 
I don't like this.
.."

"
Three,
you got a tango heading your direction.  One of the soldiers is making his way
towards the ridge.  One, he has crossed the border!
"

Both men
looked at each other.  The invasion had just begun.  Rob got back on the radio.
"Alright, you two, stay calm.  No movements.  Now listen…they couldn't
have seen you from your positions, right?  Don’t panic.  That guy's probably
just going to climb the ridge for a better view.  Do
not
engage unless
fired upon.  Do you read me?  Sit tight.  I know that's asking a lot of you. 
We're working on something but we need a little more time.  Just hang tight,
boys."

"
Roger
that, One
."

"
Okaaaaay
."

They rode
in silence for another moment, then Lance said, "So, now what do we do?  I
mean, I get the whole load up the wagons and head out idea, now.  But, what do
we
do
, y'now?"

Rob
smiled.  He hadn't been sure what they were going to do either.  Until that
moment.  He had figured they would pack up their families and get into the
mountains in a couple of days, get the old hunting camp fired up and stocked
for the winter, then lay low and see what happened.  The men they had were all
ranchers and crack shots with rifles.  They all hunted, to a man, and some of
the women—back when the lights were on and the only real threat was the border
runners.  They could bring seeds from their family gardens and live off the
land in the protective mountains.  There were turkey, deer, pronghorn, all
kinds of animals up in the Apache...But...what would they do?  Now Rob knew.

"
Every
rock, every blade of grass."

Lance
arched an eyebrow.  "Huh?"

"We're
going to do something that will make those Chinese bastards feel like the
Redcoats after Lexington and Concord."

"Okay,
you lost me.  What?" asked Lance.  "What does that have to do with
the Chinese?"

"We
can't just stand out there and slug it out with them, not without some tanks
and serious manpower.  We're not the Army."

"No
shit, Sherlock," grinned Lance.

"But
we
are
the Regulators.  We're ranchers, we're hunters, we know how to
survive.  We have the gear, we have the tools, and for now, we have the ammo. 
This is
our
land.  We know these hills and rivers and forests like our
own backyards,
because they are
.  We get up in the mountains and let
them come to us.  On
our
ground,
our
homeland.  We put a rifle
behind every rock and tree and blade of grass and we start hunting.  Might not
seem like much...."

Lance
remembered the story well.  The British had just forced the first two Battles
in the American Revolution by taking an overwhelming force of Army Regulars and
attacking two bands of ragged, scared farmers who made up the militias of
Lexington and Concord.  The Redcoats accomplished their mission, bloodied the
nose of the upstart militiamen, ransacked their armories, and headed back to
Boston.  On the way, Minutemen from all around began to pour into the woods
along the route.  Soon the Redcoats were outnumbered and
still
the
Minutemen came to the call.  The Americans picked off Redcoats every step of
every bloody mile back to Boston. 

The result
had been a horrifying loss of life for the British and an uplifting moral
victory for the Colonials.  What started as ineffectual and irritating for the
English had turned into a real threat to the survival of the entire force that
marched to Lexington and Concord that April day.  When a few thousand armed men
was considered an army, loosing hundreds was damn near a complete disaster.

"Maybe
we can kill a dragon through a thousand pin-pricks," Lance said with a
grin.  "Never hunted me a dragon before..."

"Or at
least we can keep it occupied until a tank runs it over," replied Rob.  He
picked up the radio and said, "One to base, One to base, over."

"
Go
ahead, One
," came the almost instant reply.  It was George Franks'
turn to man the radio this morning.

"You
remember what we talked about this morning?"  Rob winked at Lance. 
"I thought something might be up when you asked me to come 'see
something'.  Me and George had a quick conversation.  He's on board.  By the
time we get back, he'll have everyone packing."

"
Roger
that
," was the reply.

"Do
it." 

THE PRESIDENT RUBBED
his temples and stared at the monitors on the wall.  Each one depicted a
different crisis.  There was New York, skyline obscured by smoke, streets lit
by fire.  A destroyer sat in the harbor, watching.  Several helicopters flitted
in an out of the wall of smoke.  It looked for all the world like September
12th, 2001.

Just below
was Atlanta, or rather, a map of Atlanta.  The red colored sections were
considered "Total Loss".  The whole city was red.  So were most of
the suburbs. 

Next was
Los Angeles.  This screen had a picture in picture view.  The main view showed
a skyline shot, much like New York.  Fire and smoke everywhere.  No lights on
in the city of Angels, just fire.  In the background, the hills around the city
were aflame as well.  The wall of fire was eating its way downtown and the thin
line of defenders was running out of time.  The small picture was a rotating
flash view of street cameras, patched in from the department of transportation. 

Each image
depicted scenes out of some nightmare.  Burned cars, bodies in the street. 
Smashed windows, buildings on fire.  Some shots showed people running across
streets, ducking fire and avoiding gangs.  Others depicted gangs fighting each
other openly, weapons flashing like toys in the tiny black and white image.

Above that
was Chicago.  This image was broadcast from the Army, courtsey of General
Stapleton.  The old Sears Tower was half gone.  It looked like some giant had
come through with a sword and sliced the building in half diagonally.  The
massive broken pillar glowed with a thousand fires and the rubble and
destruction below was shocking in its enormity.  Chicago had been gutted.

Screen
after screen, America's largest and greatest cities were dying.  Citizens were
dying by the score, every hour.  The country was hemorrhaging. 

And it was
his fault.

The main
screen showed a map of the continental United States.  Glaring red dots
indicated where foreign soldiers had landed on U.S. soil.  Red dots surrounded
by a ring of orange were where they had started to harden their positions. 
Every major city on the east coast had a red dot.  Some, like Washington, D.C.
and Baltimore, had several red dots.  New York was a big red square.  Many had orange
rings around them.

It was all
his fault.

The main
screen was a video feed from the outskirts of Boston, where National Guardsmen
were in a firefight with foreign paratroopers.  The screen shook every time the
soldier who carried the camera on his helmet fired his weapon.  Tracers shot
across the image like something out of a science-fiction movie.  The soldier
ducked down behind an overturned car.  As he turned away from the fight to
reload, the scene depicted utter chaos.  Office buildings on fire, tracers
lanced back and forth from the roof of one building to the ground where
Americans were attempting to storm the ground floor. 

The soldier
turned quickly, so the image reeled about in a gut-wrenching spiral, then
stabilized when he found a suitable firing position.  It lasted for only a
second.  The screen jerked violently up, then everything went white.  When the
camera readjusted itself, the only thing visible was rubble strewn pavement. 
At the corner of the screen, a dark smudge was spreading. 

Two men
wearing camouflage of a pattern the President could not recognize appeared to
be moving towards the camera, returning fire and advancing.  A boot moved
across the screen and the feed was killed as effectively as the young man who
had worn the camera.  The President sighed.  He had just seen another young
American's life snuffed out, live, without sound.  It wasn't fair.

And it was
his fault.

"They
actually
let
them land in New York...our own citizens...cheering,"
the President said, utterly disgusted.

Hank
frowned.  He had heard.  He'd had to ratchet up the pressure on his foreign
contacts over that.  It was too fast, too risky.  He hadn't been consulted. 
Somebody else had ordered go-ahead and he was damned sure going to find out
who, and how.  Now he was going to be forced to tip his hand before everything
was in place.  It was not going to be a good day.  Not the way he wanted it to
go.  Too messy.

"Sir,
after everything they've done, I hardly think calling the members of the
Brotherhood our 'citizens' is..."

"All
my fault," sighed the President.

"It's
not your fault," the head of Homeland Security said quietly
.  It's mine
,
his mind whispered with an inner, secret smile. 

The
President looked over at him with haunted eyes.  He hadn't slept in days. 
"The buck stops here," he said weakly, tapping a finger to his
chest.  "I'm in charge.  It's
my
fault."

Hank Suthby
shook his head.  "Sir, there are elements out there beyond our control—"
he gestured at the different views of dying American cities.

"I'm
the
President of the United States!
" he barked with surprising
strength.  "I hold the most powerful office on the
planet!
" 
He put his face in his hands.  "I'm the single most powerful man in the
history of man kind...and I'm powerless to watch the destruction of my
country."

Staffers in
the room paused, unsure what to do or say.  Most said nothing and turned back
to their work or quietly left the room.  The Homeland Security chief was
embarrassed for his boss, but ecstatic for himself.  He waited, like a cat
watching a bird, for the last staffer to exit the room.  It was just the two of
them now.

"No
element is outside my control," muttered the President like a sullen
child.  He looked up, eyes on the verge of tears.  "In theory."

"Sir? 
When was the last time you got some sleep?"

The
President stared down at the polished conference table.  He had trouble
counting the hours.  "Uh...four days I think.  Can't sleep.  They gave me
something, but it doesn't work."  He looked up at the monitor bank on the
wall.  "Nightmares...all of it.  Just like my nightmares."

"You
can't do this to yourself," said Hank sympathetically.  He glanced up at
all the monitors.  "Watching this all day will eat you alive."

"What
the hell else am I
supposed
to do?  Answer me that, Hank.  The Joint
Chiefs are having puppies trying to figure out who dropped the ball and let the
Russians get
tactical bombers over our cities.
  How the hell do I
explain that to the American people?"

He suddenly
laughed, an oddly uncomfortable sound.  It was filled with self-scorn. 
"As if I
could!
  There's probably only a handful of people out
there who could hear my voice anyway..."   Another thought occurred to his
troubled mind.  He turned slowly to Suthby and grew deadly serious. 

"My
God, if they had been ready to nuke us, it'd all be over by now.  Do you
understand? 
They walked right in.
  We held the damn door open for
them."

Hank
winced. 
They're moving too damn fast.  I need to have another talk about
this.  I had no choice on the paratroopers, but we never discussed bombers. 
Damn Russians.
 

"Sir,"
he began.

The
President waved him off.  "Hank, just stop.  Okay? 
Stop
.  Go gloat
to someone else."  He sighed, a deep, shoulder quiver of exhaustion. 
"I signed those papers not because I thought you'd do a good job...or even
a
better
job than me.  I signed those papers to get things going faster,
get around the bureaucracy of Washington.  To save this country."

Hank
flushed with anger. 
 I will truly enjoy this.
  He looked at his watch. 
9:30am, MST.  He still wasn't quite used to the hour time change here at
NORAD.   A side door to the room opened and one of Hank's staffers came in with
a tray that held two cups of coffee. 
Right on time.
 
I picked this
kid for the right reasons after all.

"Excuse
me sir, you wanted me to bring this in before your meeting," said the
young man.  He had the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

"Thank
you, Charles," purred the Secretary of Homeland Security.  He raised an
eyebrow. 

"Here you
are, sir," said Charles, a knowing look on his face as he took one china
cup and handed it to the President who started to slurp it down immediately. 
"Freshest coffee under the mountain."

"Hope
it's strong," muttered the President.  He ignored the feeble attempt at
humor.  "I need to be alert for this.”  He glanced at Hank over the rim of
the fine china cup.  “The Joint Chiefs
better
have an answer for
me."  He put the cup down and closed his eyes. 

Hank
witnessed the coffee’s warmth spread throughout the President’s stomach and for
a split second, when he inhaled the rich aroma,  he appeared normal again. 
Opening his dry eyes, the President sighed, composed himself and began to
toggle the commands to start the conference.

Hank sipped
his own coffee and leaned back in the chair, eyes on the President. 
Any
second now...
  He looked down at the coffee in surprise. 
Man, this
stuff
is
pretty good.

The
President's hand hovered over the transmit button.  His fingers all felt thick
and his vision was slightly blurred.  That was new. 
Maybe Hank's right.  I
really do need some sleep.  Can hardly...think...
He shook his head and
blinked to clear the exhaustion out of his system but it didn't work. 
Everything was
really
blurry, now.  He could feel his heart begin to
race.  A look of panic flashed across his face.  He tried to say something to
Hank but nothing came out of his slowly opening mouth.  His hand slowly dropped
to the tabletop of its own accord.

"Wha...?"
his speech was heavily slurred.

Hank
leisurely finished his coffee and placed his cup back on the saucer with a
delicate
tink
sound.  He adjusted his tie and smiled at the President. 
"Sir, you look
exhausted
.  You really should get some sleep."

The
President tried to focus on the sound of Hank's voice and turn his head. 
Instead he leaned forward and his head dropped to the surface of the table with
a painful
thud
.

Hank smiled
and patted the President's check.  His eyes were closed.  He checked the
President's pulse.  Strong and slow. 
So, that Chechen was right.  It
is
fast acting.  Now, hopefully he'll sleep it off in about two days.  That
should give me plenty of time to move the National Guard troops into position
outside the major cities.
 
I've got to give those paratroopers some time
to entrench before we move in
...

Hank smiled
again at the line of drool that formed a puddle on the table already out of the
President's open mouth.  "You know, I can almost tolerate you like this. 
You're like a sleeping baby."

He punched
the intercom to the duty station, just outside the doors.  In a commanding
voice, touched with just the right amount of concern, he said, "Son, I need
you to get a couple orderlies in here."

The door
burst open before he released the transmit button and two Air Force security
guards, lieutenants by the looks of them, walked into the room right on cue. 
Two Secret Service agents were right on their heels, eyes locked on the
comatose form of their President.

"I
think the President needs to be getting more sleep.  I'll have a word with his
physician.  If you could help him get to his room?" said Hank. 

The two
lieutenants looked at Hank and stopped smiles that started to form.  Hank
narrowed his eyes just enough to make sure they understood his message:
Just
shut up and get him out of here.  You need to handle the Secret Service, so get
busy!
 

The Secret
Service agents didn't bother with even so much as a glance towards Hank.  They
had eyes only for the President.  The large men gently took their charge under
each arm and  carried him out the door, snoring.  The two security guards
followed them out.  One put a hand on his duty pistol, the other began to
mumble into his shoulder mounted radio.  They closed the door softly.

Hank
punched in a few more codes on the computer and within minutes, the Joint
Chiefs of Staff were staring at him from the wall bank of monitors.  He wiped
the President's drool off the table with a handkerchief and sat imperiously in
"The Chair".  The Secretary of Defense raised an eyebrow.

"Where's
the President?" asked the Secretary of State.

"He's
sleeping.  I'll take good notes," replied Hank with a disarming grin. 
"Now, let's get this briefing going.  I've got a lot on my plate today. 
Where to do we stand on the foreign personnel in our cities?"

"You
mean the enemy soldiers invading our country?" asked the Secretary of
Defense with a frown.  "They're still there."  His image looked down
as he read from a fresh report.  "I see you ordered the National Guard to
assist DHS quarantine forces around most of the big cities.  I agree."