Devolution (30 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

WHAT’S SO CIVIL
ABOUT WAR?

“O
utstanding work, son.” Warren Wickham playfully rubbed the red hair of a young boy who was helping his father repaint a fence.

“Thank you, Mr. Wickham,” the boy’s father replied, carefully pouring more paint into the tray. “We appreciate all you’re doing for us.” The man’s eyes displayed far more gratitude than his words ever could.

“Thank yourself.” Wickham smiled with humility. “People like you will rebuild our country, not me.”

As the leader of FreeGB continued his walk down the street, one of his assistants approached.

Ashleigh Blair’s wrinkled eyes beamed with excitement. A few weeks back, she had left the British News Network’s mail room to join the movement. “Sir?”

“Yes, Ashleigh?”

“All the homeless are back at headquarters cleaning up.”

“Wonderful.”

The two casually walked down the busy street. All around them roads were being repaired, buildings restored, and hope rejuvenated. Oddly enough, the smell of fresh paint mixed wonderfully with the steaming asphalt.

“We have plenty of work for them,” added Blair.

“What about the others?”

“Well....” She rifled through her reports. “A few have addiction or health issues. We’re getting them help.”

“Make sure we get video. Anything is a possible promo.”

“Yes, sir.” She jotted down his words.

“What about the roads?” asked Wickham, his proud eyes scanning the bustling scene.

“We should have 20 blocks finished by week’s end. We have also contacted many of the previous tenants, and most said they’d consider moving back.”

Wickham signed off on the clipboard. “Any word from the government?”

“Not yet.” Ashleigh smiled and walked away.

Wickham watched Ashleigh disappear amongst the workers. Despite his immense joy, a sickening skepticism managed to dampen Wickham’s mood. He knew the government wouldn’t simply allow their power to be usurped.

What he didn’t realize was how close they really were.

*

Directly under the street where Wickham pondered, with assault rifle in hand, Colonel Levanetz crept along the concrete walls of London’s sewer system. A few dozen of his men followed closely behind, each with his helmet light illuminating the way. They were dressed in black, only the whites of their eyes exposed.

“A little farther.” His words, along with the slightest of sounds, continuously echoed through the winding maze of concrete passageways.

The old shaft was absolutely dark. The vertically curved walls were moist, and the air possessed a musty, damp quality. The soldiers shuffled to their destination, a few inches of water swirling beneath their feet.

Abruptly, the commander stopped, throwing his fist in the air. On his other arm, a watch indicated their position.

“This is it.” The light on his helmet followed the rungs of a rusty ladder up the wall. A few stories above their heads, a storm drain marked their exit. Levanetz threw his rifle around his back. “Get to your position and wait for the command.” He looked into the stoic eyes of his men. “Limited contact; we are in and out. Remember, gentlemen, you don’t exist.”

He turned to the man who would be first out of the hole. “You’re our lookout.”

The commander checked his watch. “We have thirty seconds. The other squads should be in position soon.”

The most difficult part of any military operation is the time one has to ponder the implications. For the next 25 seconds, the men stood by with only their thoughts to keep them company. When these men signed up for the military, they swore allegiance to the Crown and its citizens. Was this a treasonous act which violated the oath that bound them in brotherhood? Or was this their purest act of patriotism? Thankfully for them, twenty-five seconds was not enough time to reach an answer.

“Go!”

The first soldier grabbed the rusted steel rung and scurried up the ladder. His comrades followed, leaving no space between one man’s boots and another’s protective gloves. The commander anchored the line.

The lead commando stopped just short of the heavy metal cover that lay flush with the street above. Warm gusts of fresh air and streams of light poured in through the drainage holes. A clip anchored his body to the ladder. The permeating sun no longer required the use of his flashlight.

From one of his many coat pockets he removed a small square device. Connected to its base hung a black wire. Bending the length of the wire into the shape of an
L
, he eased it through one of the holes, rotating it with one hand. The other held the base device which displayed a clear picture of the desolate world above.

The specialist swiftly disconnected the cord from the phone and stowed the device back in his pocket. Seconds later, the manhole cover began to rotate. In secret, the soldiers rushed out of the sewer and disappeared into what they assumed were empty buildings.

*

“Where have you been?” Tony Manning asked his nephew when they ran into each other on the street.

“Helping a small business owner.”

An unknown, middle-aged, woman appeared holding a copy of
Constitutional Correctness
. “Mr. Nolan,” she said, brandishing a pen, “would you mind? I really love your ideas. It’s an honor to meet you.”

John smiled, signed his name, and added a short message:
“Let’s keep them honest.”

“Have you signed many today?” she asked, in awe of his presence.

John chuckled. “Only a few dozen.” He handed her the book. She carefully shut it as she turned away.

“Great! Follow me.” Tony led John towards one of the many control centers set up throughout the city. The white party tents could be assembled in a matter of minutes. Party leaders expected quick turnover, and agility was essential.

Tony draped his arm around his nephew. “We have a lot of people to place.”

John looked confused.

“Throughout the day we’ve been filming our work and posting it online. Thousands have watched our videos and want to sign up.”

“Really?” John was truly impressed with not only the scope of the plan, but with the overwhelming support of his countrymen.

Tony pulled out a chair in front of a monitor. John sat next to him. The rest of the tent was empty except for a couple of tables, chairs, and some leftover fruit from breakfast.

“John, I’m really sorry for what happened to April,” Tony said gently.

The young man nodded, having already accepted his uncle’s sympathies numerous times.

“I never intended for this to happen,” Tony said. “She looks so peaceful.”

John’s stare locked tight onto his uncle’s words. John had never seen anyone outside his immediate family at the hospital. Before he had a chance to challenge his uncle’s comments, the topic changed.

“We have a few more warm days ahead. We need to use them well.” Tony pulled up a file displaying every FreeGB worker and where they were stationed. Another file illustrated population density, economic hardship, and productivity. Tony pointed to the map. “We need to branch out in this direction.” The area north of the city was outlined in blue. “These neighborhoods are in better shape. If we can connect with them, we can branch out to the suburbs faster.”

Tony reached across John’s chest, grabbing a small bundle of papers off the printer. “This is a list of the recruits that signed up today, along with their trade or profession.”

John peered at just the top page, which must have contained a hundred names.

“We have to get these people organized so they can be deployed, here.” He motioned towards the highlighted area on the monitor.

The MP looked at his nephew whom he’d sworn to his sister he would protect. “What do you think?”

The young professor barely had the words. “It’s hard to believe.”

“It’s working, John,” Tony explained with a hint of his own disbelief. “It’s working better than we imagined.”

*

It look less than 30 seconds from the time the manhole cover was slid open to the moment it was slid back into place and locked. The surrounding buildings were now occupied by some of the Crown’s most apt commandos. As planned, FreeGB surveyors had not yet arrived
;
they would come later in the day.

With striking agility, the commandos rushed up the stairs. Skipping steps and turning the corner, they sprinted upward. A few headed to the roof, which would serve as a lookout. Others would stay a few floors from the top, perched by a window waiting for their orders.

When the men reached their designated posts, they hurled themselves onto the floor, backs supported by the walls. With their rifles clenched tightly in their hands, one near the trigger and the other close to where the barrel met the stock, they’d scan the streets and the surrounding edifices, never realizing the
real
target would be one of their own.

One particular soldier did everything his comrades did. He sprinted up the stairs skipping every other step. He swiftly spun on the landing, propelling himself to the next level. After reaching his designated position a few floors short of the roof, his hasty advance turned covert. Stealthily, the special agent crept down the partially constructed hallway, carefully checking for unlocked doors.

His search led him to an inconspicuous wooden door situated in the middle of the building. Reaching forward, he placed his hand on the knob and applied a delicate clockwise pressure. When the bolt silently cleared the shaft, a gentle push eased it open. The bright room appeared vacant. Unlike the other offices that contained the remnants of past residents, this one was under construction when deserted. A few slabs of drywall leaned up against partially painted support beams, and a couple of five-gallon buckets collected dust in the far corner. Electrical wires and duct work adorned the ceiling. The tracking panels themselves sat in sealed boxes near the fall wall.

Large windows lining the outside wall provided unobstructed views of the street below. A few were even cracked open, allowing the warm breezes of the day to caress what little skin he had exposed.

Comfortable in his appraisal of the location, the soldier stood flat-footed in the doorway, his rifle foolishly aimed at the floor.
As the door swung open, the commando’s widened eyes fell upon that of a mercenary’s. The black figure sat on the ground, knees bent, with his back against the wall in the far corner. Unlike the commando, this man’s rifle was not pointing at the floor; it was aimed directly at his unexpected guest.

Neither man was prepared or willing to deal with the situation. The commando knew if he reacted or made any sudden moves, he’d be dead. The mercenary knew if he unloaded a round their clandestine mission would be in jeopardy. As the seconds painfully ticked by, the two highly trained warriors studied each other with panicked eyes. At that moment, with tensions running high, a gust of balmy air blew into the room, kissing the beads of nervous sweat that had developed on the men’s skin. Though it was winter, the tepid breeze smelled of spring.

In a desperate attempt at fortune, the commando suddenly jerked his weapon up, depressing the trigger. Reacting instantly, the mercenary fired three successive rounds. Each armor-piercing bullet sliced through the commando’s vest, lodging near his heart. His gamble had failed.

A few government-issued bullets ricocheted off the linoleum floor, shattering the windowpanes. As the glass fell towards the streets below, the shots raced around the city. Despite the heavy construction of the surrounding blocks, the roar of gunfire was unmistakable.

The sounds of productivity and hope were replaced with frantic cries of fear and confusion. The blasts were an all too familiar sound, and frightening reminder of London’s recent past. Everything good came to an abrupt standstill. In desperation, people rushed for cover. Some ran into buildings, others jumped into cars. A few stood their ground, bravely scanning the surrounding buildings. One of the fearless onlookers was Warren Wickham.

He reached into his pocket for his radio. “What the hell was that?” he hollered into the receiver. People hysterically raced past him in search of shelter.

The leader of the mercenaries immediately replied. “We are looking into it, sir.”

For Wickham, the next few minutes would be hell.

*

With blood saturating his uniform, the commando stumbled into the hallway, desperately grabbing at the wall in a vain attempt to remain on his feet. With each pump of his weakening heart, more blood gushed out of the holes in his chest. The bright light that shone through the door and into the hallway began to fade. He collapsed to the floor.

The pain racing throughout his body subsided, replaced with an overwhelming feeling of euphoria. In the last moments of his life, his training and sense of duty took over.

With shaking hands, he pawed at his radio. “Man down in the Weston.” His words gurgled as his breath mixed with the blood that filled his throat. He swallowed hard. “They were waiting for us, Colonel.” The radio dropped from his hand. His head fell to the floor.

“Man down! Man down!!” his commanding officer, Colonel Levanetz, hollered. His voice cracked in a panic unbecoming of a professional killer. “All hands to the Weston Building! Now!”

Another voice from the radio cried out.

“Ryan!” he pleaded. “Speak to me, man!”

The heart-wrenching calls went unanswered. There would be no goodbyes.

“Sergeant!” The radio inside the room where the gunshot originated sprang to life. The petrified mercenary had not budged since pulling the trigger. His rifle was still pointed at the door. Blankly looking off into space, he lowered his weapon to the floor and reached for the transponder.

“Yes, sir?” His voice was quiet and reserved.

“Soldier, what happened?” The captain of the mercenaries was far more urgent in his delivery.