Against All Enemies (15 page)

Ian chewed a lip to stifle a laugh.
Who talks like that?
He suspected that perhaps they’d been watching too many movies.

“We’re here at the old man’s request,” Biggs said.

The guards exchanged glances and separated. “You can go,” the left one said. Up this close, he looked to be maybe twenty years old.

Ian followed the others through the front door into exactly what he expected he would see. Cheap paneling covered the walls and cheap carpeting covered the floor, all of it lit with stark fluorescent light. A very young man in digital camouflage sat at a desk just inside the door. The surface was a mass of papers, and as he stood, an eight-by-ten sheet floated to the floor.

“Can I help you?”

“Tell the old man we’ve got Victor Carrington with us.”

The kid picked up the phone and dialed. Ian could hear the phone ring on the other side of the flimsy interior wall behind him that stretched the width of the building. He could also hear the “old man” as he told the kid to send them in.

“You know, it would be a lot easier if you just opened the door,” Ian said. He didn’t know what was going down, but he did know that it was time for him to start taking some measure of control.

“You should shut your mouth,” Biggs said.

Ian pointed to the door. “I’m assuming you want to lead,” he said.

Biggs took a step forward, and Little stayed put, placing Ian in the middle as the door opened to reveal more of the same, just with slightly better furniture. The man at the desk sat between two American flags, behind a desk that was too cheaply made to pull off the “carved” scrolls and filigree. Ian sensed that the desk’s occupant was going for a tribute to the Oval Office’s Resolute desk, but the tribute fell in a heap in an Ikea parking lot.

The man behind the desk might have been forty-five years old or he might have been thirty-five. He had that deliberately youthful look that made Ian think plastic surgery. Thick dark hair almost merged with his thick dark eyebrows, all of which framed a face that saw a lot of sun and a neck that saw a lot of exercise. The digital-pattern uniform he wore was closer to current Army standards, and the rank patch at his breastbone showed four stars.

Biggs and Little snapped to attention and saluted. “Sir, reporting as ordered with Victor Carrington, sir.”

Ian intentionally kept his posture neutral, though instinct was hard to fight.

The man at the desk returned the salutes with a two-fingered flick from his eyebrow. It was the indelible mark of an asshole. “Mr. Carrington, I understand that you’re used to calling yourself the Commander,” he said. His Uprising avatar.

Ian stood still and stayed quiet. It was a question to which no answer could do anything but hurt him.

“Answer the general,” Biggs said.

Ian remained silent. He had but one chance to make a first impression, and he was not going to cower.

Color rose in the general’s face as he awaited an answer. He shot his eyes toward Biggs and gave subtle nod.

Biggs drew his M9 pistol from his holster and pressed it to Ian’s right temple. “I told you—”

It was a step too far. Ian struck like a snake, pivoting his body to the right and swinging his left hand in a wide arc to grasp Biggs’s gun hand. He twisted it viciously backward against itself, entwining the two bones in the man’s forearm nearly to the point of breakage. With his right hand, Ian easily plucked the pistol away. He kicked Biggs to the floor and leveled the firearm at Little.

“I gotta tell you,” Ian said. “I am officially tired of this. The next person who points a firearm at me is either going to kill or die. Are we clear on this?”

The kid from the front desk materialized in the doorway, and Ian pivoted to cover him as well. “You’re not immune from dying either, son,” Ian said.

The kid’s eyes swelled to saucers and he froze in place.

Having made his point, Ian broke his aim, dropped the magazine out of the pistol’s grip, and racked the slide to eject the bullet from the chamber. He tossed the magazine into the corner behind Little and placed the Beretta onto the general’s desk.

“Sorry about that, General, but I’m used to being treated a certain way, and I haven’t seen any respect from your minions.” As Biggs picked himself up from the floor, and Little continued to stare, clearly unsure what to do, Ian said, “I hope we understand each other.”

The general seemed amused by the entire scene. He pointed to Little and Biggs. “Consider yourselves dismissed,” he said. “You, too, Tommy.” That sentence went to the adjutant, if that was what he was called.

Thirty seconds later, Ian and the general were alone in the cramped office. Ian helped himself to a folding metal chair in front of the general’s desk.

“You’re not the commander anymore,” said the man behind the desk. “I am the general. You are the
colonel
.” A little twitch of something behind the Desi Arnaz eyes spoke of suppressed craziness.

Ian felt a rush of unease. “Meaning no disrespect,” he said, “what are you the general of?”

The general made an expansive, sweeping motion with both arms. “This,” he said. “All of it.”

Ian cocked his head. “All of
what,
sir?” He tossed out the
sir
as a peace offering in case the guy went all Kim Jong-un on him.

“The Patriots’ Army,” he said. “The force that will return the United States to its people. It’s the force that will deliver your ideas to the citizenry.”

In the distance, the shooting range started to pop again.

“Forgive me,” Ian said. “I’m not sure what we’re talking about. No one has told me anything substantive about anything that is going on.”

The general waved at the air as if shooing a fly, a gesture of dismissal. “Don’t worry about Little and Biggs. They are loyal soldiers. They do what they are told, but they are not responsible for making decisions on their own.”

“Let’s be clear,” Ian said. “I wasn’t worried about them. I was annoyed by them. And not just because they’re knuckle-dragging mouth-breathers. They essentially kidnapped me and took me to a place I don’t know to do something that I don’t understand. What—or maybe the better question is
who
—is the Patriots’ Army? I get the take-back-America part—well, not really, but that’s for later. Literally, who are they?”

“They have no names,” the general said. “They are loyal patriots drawn to the common cause of revolution.”

“Against the United States?”

“Yes.”

“The most powerful military force on the planet.”

“Precisely.”

Ian scowled against the absurdity. “How?”

“You’re not listening,” the general said, with a slap on the desk. “Through revolution. Exactly the kind of revolution that you have been preaching through your Internet postings.”

Ian folded his arms across his chest and crossed his legs. “My Internet postings are all about the Casual Putsch—an elegant takeover via surgical assassination. With all respect, I’ve seen some of your soldiers, and they don’t impress me. They are enthusiasts who play soldier, but they are far from being a competent fighting force.”

“Which is exactly why you are here,” the general said. “Your mission is to train them.”

Ian felt as if he were falling deeper and deeper into a rabbit hole. “To do what? To revolutionize?”

“Yes.”

“I meant that as a joke, General . . . what is your last name, anyway? Sir. If I may inquire.”

“I am General Karras.”

Ian narrowed his eyes. “Your real name?”

“At least as real as yours, Mr. Carrington.”

Ian acknowledged the point with a twitch of his head. “Fair enough. And do you, in fact, have any military training yourself, sir?”

“You’re becoming insubordinate, Colonel.”

“All respect, sir, I haven’t yet signed on to be a subordinate.”

Karras’s expression changed. It was nearly imperceptible, but Ian got the sense that he’d said something that the general had been waiting to hear. Karras rolled his chair back far enough from his desk to accommodate crossed legs. “Actually, Colonel, you have indeed signed up. General Brock assures me that he knows precisely who you are and what you have done. All the evidence he needs to see you prosecuted for murder. I am confident that General Brock will see to it that there’s a military prosecution as well. Are things becoming clearer for you now, Colonel?”

Karras tented his fingers across his chest and waited for an answer.

Ian’s head raced. So did his heart. Just like that, he recognized the box he’d been put into. He chose to say nothing as he searched his options—or, more appropriately, as tried to think of an option to search.

“So, just to be clear,” Karras went on, “here is where you stand. General Brock has decided that your plan is better than his, and the Patriots’ Army is the organization you will train to execute your plan.”

“Articulate for me, please, exactly what you think my plan is.”

Karras uncrossed his legs and leaned forward until his forearms were resting on the edge of his desk. His features darkened as he grew serious, and for the first time, Ian saw that there might be some military presence within those boyish looks after all.

“President Darmond was not reelected by the nation,” he said. “He was reelected by New York City, Chicago, Boston, and California. He does not serve the interests of the average American. He serves his own interests and those of his elitist friends. Fifty-one percent of this country did not vote for him.”

Such was the quirk of the American electoral system, Ian knew. Electoral votes meant more than the popular vote, and Darmond’s team worked the highly populated border states like a political master. On television networks around the world, the election night tally boards made it look like a landslide, despite the fact that he lost the popular vote.

“Meanwhile, he and his Socialist agenda are focused on dismantling two hundred sixty years of American excellence. Internationally, we turn our backs on our friends and we embrace our enemies. We apologize to terrorists, we surrender hard-earned territory, and we give the finger to revolutionaries in other countries who are trying to convert their governments to the kind of democracy that the United States used to be.”

Ian grew impatient. He’d heard and thought this all before, but he still was not a syllable closer to knowing what was expected of him.

The general had built up a head of steam. “That son of a bitch has three and a half more years to go. His puppets in the House and Senate won’t see another election for eighteen months. The United States cannot endure for that long. They’re already listening to our phone conversations. They know who has how many guns, and where they live. The Department of Homeland Security is buying literally billions of rounds of ammunition just to keep it out of the hands of the citizens who might fight back. I believe that we are merely months away from the ultimate power grab that will end this nation as we’ve known it and loved it.”

Ian held up his hand to slow the general down. “You’re telling me things that I might have written myself. What do you expect of the Patriots’ Army?”

Karras breathed deeply. “Washington is a Hydra. It is a snake with many heads. They must all be removed.”

Ian nearly reminded him that that was precisely what he was trying to do when he was so rudely interrupted and dragged out to West Virginia.

“General Brock feels that you cannot succeed one shot at a time, one shooter at a time. Attacks need to be coordinated and they need to be simultaneous. And in the end, while killing the president would be a great triumph, he is not the primary target. His security is too tight, and his assassination would consume too many resources, even as the chances for success would remain very low. Without a cabinet, however, he would be largely powerless. Take away congressional leadership and the Supreme Court justices, all of whom have ridiculously little security, and Darmond would be powerless to get anything done.

“And this is where the Internet comes in,” Karras went on. “As the assassinations are being carried out, we will let that fifty-one percent of the nation who were betrayed on Election Day know that a new world has arrived. We will demonstrate that Americans are governed by consent, not by decree, and that the time has come for them rise up and be heard.” The general’s eyes grew glassy with emotion as he clearly saw the Great Day on the movie screen in his mind. “Once again, Americans will triumph over tyrants.”

In his heart, Ian knew that Karras was speaking the words of a madman—that there was zero chance of success in a plan that pitted so few against so many. Ever since that terrible day in 2001 when all of America grieved, and in their grieving decided to surrender liberty in return for faux-security, the government of the United States had dedicated trillions of dollars and gallons of blood and hundreds of millions of man-hours to protect the government from its people. Much of that money—from additional security personnel to concrete security barricades to elaborate spying on “suspected terrorists”—was directed specifically against the very kind of insurgency that Karras spoke about.

Against the very Uprising that Ian wrote about.

Beneath the madness of the general’s proposal, though, was a kernel of truth. With a larger assault force, the Uprising would have a greater chance for success, if only because more targets are harder to hit.

On the other hand, more conspirators are easier to detect. And once detected, the entire movement would be a single strike away from annihilation. “Tell me about your physical security here,” he said.

Karras hesitated.

“I’m on board, okay?” Ian said. He crossed his heart and raised three fingers in a Boy Scout salute. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“I’m not sure I understand the question,” Karras said. He seemed off-balance, unsure whether or not to trust his newest recruit.

“What’s to understand?” Ian said. “Physical security is physical security. I passed by the armed guys at the two perimeters—I like the two perimeters, by the way—and clearly there was a fence, but what else is there?”

“That’s all that we can afford at the moment.”