Power Games: Operation Enduring Unity I (32 page)

There wasn’t much that she could do. Sending in another squad was insane, despite every instinct telling her to attack. Letting these fucks escape after losing so many of her teammates was likewise out of the equation. Her equally pissed off surviving fighters were angry when she pulled them back under cover. The hunting fever raged through them all.

Sophie could tell she didn’t have much time. Her tenuous hold on authority was at stake here. If she didn’t think of something quick, her people would either commit collective suicide through charging in there or simply give up and walk away from the whole damn thing.

One of the soldiers snarled. “Kampbell! Let’s breach the building. We still have one Humvee handy.”

Before she could say anything, the FEDEX plane’s turbofans whined to life. Without warning, the rear guard in the warehouse laid down hellish suppressive fire in every direction. One of her people 200 yards away returned fire from behind the corner of a CONEX shipping container. The enemy casually shot through the aluminum siding and silenced him permanently.

The Battle Hawks that were standing off suddenly came back with a vengeance. They hadn’t been idle. Instead, they’d taken their time and carefully acquired targets. Luckily, they focused their rockets first against the confused but massing local police forces at the gate. The militia fighters had a brief window of opportunity.

Sophie slid her helmet back and wiped some of the sweat off. This scorching pavement in the desert baked her mind. What was left of her platoon begged her for a plan without saying a word. What the hell could they do? She was seconds away from ordering a retreat when something changed the equation.

“The ramp’s down! They’re leaving!”

Sure enough, the plane crept slowly along the tarmac towards the airfield. Several SF troops from the warehouse sprinted to catch up. The helicopters overhead went wild, expending the last of their impressive ammo load in burning everything within 500 yards. Now or never.

“Jamal! Let’s go! I’ll drive the Humvee; you gun. Everyone else, cover us!”

Jamal didn’t have a clue what Sophie had planned. Not that it mattered. Her desperate confidence was all he needed. Her team stepped up and did a hell of a job keeping the enemy occupied. Some militia fighter dropped a Delta operator covering his running buddies from the back ramp with a hip shot. They even put a few holes into one of the whirly birds. Didn’t crash it, but wounded the copilot/gunner, limiting its effectiveness. The smoke clouds from all the burning vehicles and buildings hindered the target acquisition of the other two choppers.

In all this confusion, Sophie floored her Humvee to catch the fleeing plane. Less than a hundred yards away, she attracted the full attention of the rear guards. They slowly raised the ramp and picked up speed as their last guy jumped aboard. Four more soldiers kneeled on the rising slope and blazed away exclusively at Sophie’s Humvee. She thanked God and her not-cheap paymasters for splurging on the armored windshield.

Still, even that tough bulletproof glass had limits. One tight three round shot group after another smashed the clear armor a foot in front of her face. She could barely see through the kaleidoscope of cracks. Only a matter of time before something got through. The right front tire was already flat and black smoke billowed from under the hood. The engine knocked terribly. 100 yards to go…they weren’t going to make it.

“Jamal, get up there and suppressive them! Don’t worry about the nukes.”

Her gunner unhesitatingly popped his head out of the turret. Insane or not, Sophie had a plan. About 15 rounds rattled off before he stopped; likely a jam. All of the enemy’s shooters threw themselves prone. One wouldn’t get up again…the guy that had been raising the ramp.

“Great job, Jamal! Keep it up!” Out the corner of her eye, she caught him resting on the hammock-like strap serving as a gunner’s seat for long hauls. She reached over and slapped his knee hard. “Quit fucking off and get on that gun!”

Her slap dropped his body back into the cabin. His face made a squishing sound rather than a thud when it struck the radio mount. Several enemy rounds had already split it open. She didn’t cry or scream, just gritted her teeth, dropped into the lowest gear and hit the ramp ahead. When it was obvious she’d breached the plane, she didn’t hit the brakes.

Instead, she hit the gas.

Her war whoop could be heard even over the grinding and screeching as the Humvee’s 190 horsepower engine shoved her nearly 20 feet into the cargo bay before the dying truck finally gave up the ghost. Her mad driving knocked over two pallets of nuclear bombs and crushed at least one Special Forces operator. Instead of diving out the door, she did the last thing they expected. She lobbed fragmentation grenades out from inside the turret. One to the rear and one to the front.

Then she reached up, with one hand, and blindly fired the remainder of the M240’s belt in the general direction of the flight cabin and passenger seating area. She’d hoped to distract them, maybe disable the plane. She had no way to know she just killed or seriously wounded seven people up there in that packed compartment. As busy as Sophie was, she didn’t notice the taxing plane pick up speed but also gently curve to the right…away from the runway.

Somebody opened the right side passenger door. She gave him three rounds to the neck and face as a hello. Only after his body crumpled did Sophie dismount. With the armored door shielding her back, she stood on the corpse she just made to get a better view. Six more hostiles were behind her. Well, back there, but not in good shape. Fragmentation grenades, while not terribly powerful in the open, are impressive in confined spaces. Every one of those shooters squirming back to their feet had a shrapnel injury and often bleeding ears. They weren’t exactly in top form.

Sophie didn’t worry about the why or how as she calmly finished them off with aimed pairs. She ducked back into the Humvee to reload when someone opened the door from the other side. Shit. There were just too many of them for her to give full 360° security. She leapt forward and gave the stone-faced Delta guy a banshee scream as her final resistance. Instead of a muzzle flash, the whole roof of the plane came apart.

The cargo bay lights went out as an ear-splitting screech filled her head. God’s fist punched the Humvee and somehow flipped her face down and butt up into the backseat floorboard. It took a few moments for her brain to pull itself mostly together again. Something had ripped the open armored doors on both sides straight off. Nearly the first two feet of the Humvee’s roof was pealed open like a sardine can. Some massive yellow crane stuck in its place.

Sophie’s helmet was nowhere to be found. The girl popped her bare, pony-tailed head out of the hole and took a peek into hell. All the shooters that were next to or in front of her were now gone. Well, not a hundred percent true. She could see an arm or leg sticking out of the rubble here and there. Both fuel-packed wings were still intact, but the plane’s upper fuselage looked like some giant took an ice cream scoop to it. The miracle of her survival would haunt her for years.

A few SF fellows also survived, for a while. Sophie’s quick responding team took out some before she stopped them. “Keep one or two alive. I’m sure the Guard’s intelligence guys could learn a lot from them.”

Even the choppers above were running. Their fighter escort had finally been finished off. Rebel interceptors from all over Nevada now prowled the area, looking for payback. None of the Battle Hawks would make it back to base.

More friendly Guard troops arrived within minutes to police up the damaged, but non-leaking nukes. In all the excitement, Sophie had completely forgotten about them. She hugged her surviving militia fighters, then straddled one nuke and flipped a bird in the direction the helicopters flew off.

Miles away, a Global Hawk banked slightly and zoomed in with 128-power intensity. The hideously expensive machine would be shot down by Nevada’s air defenses within minutes, but for the moment, she streamed back east chilling images. The president was, by now, personally observing the operation in real time. His face held no expression as this girl, only a few years older than his own daughters, tossed all their strategic calculus on its head.

The rebels were now a nuclear power.

A superpower.

20 March: 1500

“Mr. Speaker!” The latest congressman to hold that title fielded the question from a reporter his staff already thoroughly screened. “Does this blanket amnesty also apply to the renegade Supreme Court Justices hiding in California?”

There was a good reason the veteran politician was selected for this role. His down home shrug and easy going, youthful grin belied the gravity of the situation.

“It doesn’t apply, because they haven’t done anything wrong. It is the position of the president and this Congress that they have simply resigned their posts. The Senate has already approved the president’s new appointees. We even sent out the old Justices’ final paychecks. At least the post office is still loyal out west!” No one laughed at his joke. He quickly changed the subject by answering an unasked question.

“No, of course we do not recognize the legitimacy of this ridiculous, fantasy government in certain states. Nonetheless, the Healing Act is valid nationwide, not just here in Florida. Everyone is being given a second chance.”

The same reporter surprised the politico’s handlers with a follow up question. “Does that mean, in fact, that you are willing to let people get away with murder?”

He was ready for the trap question. It was the single most divisive issue in Congress today. “Of course not. A soldier fighting for their homeland is not murder. We will evaluate every case individually, but you’re missing the key point. Anyone willing to lay down their weapons and pledge an oath of allegiance to the legitimate Federal authorities will be pardoned for any crime committed in the misguided attempt to overthrow the legally chosen government of the United States.”

The poorly vetted reporter lost her professionalism. “I thought the pledge of allegiance was to the Flag, the Constitution, and to liberty and justice for all. When the hell did the Feds get inserted?”

Some of the other reporters laughed nervously, others applauded and a few shouted at the provocative woman to shut up. The Speaker was a real pro though. Heckling didn’t throw him off stride. He kept going as if he hadn’t heard a thing.

“That includes everyone who voted for these so-called ‘freedom referendums.’ Even any member of the military, or civilian government employee, who has taken up arms against our country or otherwise acted against us. It’s time to end this senseless fighting. We are all Americans. Let our differences strengthen our land and not tear it apart.” With proper dramatic flair, he stopped grinning and stared unflinchingly at the camera cluster.

“With that said, this generous plan is also a limited time offer. Do not test the resolve or patience of the legitimate American government. You have 72 hours to come to your senses. After that deadline, any secessionist or terrorist activity will be met with overwhelming military force. Guantanamo Bay has been reactivated to house domestic terrorists; don’t make us fill it up again.”

Gathered behind him on the state’s capitol steps, a couple dozen stone-faced senators, congressmen, generals and admirals solemnly nodded. The cameras zoomed out for a panorama view of the core architects behind the Great Reconciliation Plan presenting a united front. Conspicuously absent were the most hawkish politicians and officers.

It was thought prudent that those opposed to immediate reconciliation be left out of the photo op. If people saw the grinning faces of leaders that advocated nationwide martial law and waging total war against rebellious states suddenly supporting the Act, its credibility might just be undermined. In this war, image management and news spinning were more effective than guns and bombs.

On the plus side, panning out gave the cameras an incredible view of hell on earth. From behind the Capitol, a buzzing grew incessantly louder. The reporters thought the large remote controlled plane cresting the dome and then circling ominously was part of some elaborate power demonstration. The thick cordon of soldiers ringing the perimeter didn’t recognize it as part of their inventory. Must be some special model used by all those Secret Service agents protecting the big wigs. The suit-wearing bodyguard detail assumed it must be some experimental military job, but they’d never seen anything like it before. Novelty alone was enough to spook them.

Even though the drone thing seemed to be slowly gaining altitude and not kamikazing into the crowd, the lead agent decided to get his principals inside anyway. It took a few seconds for him to decide, but before too long the old “stranger, danger” reaction won out.

Had he not hesitated… well, they all would have still died. Just as the agent took the Speaker by the arm, a weak bang echoed from above. He threw himself on the politician, drew his pistol and searched for the threat. The toy plane broke apart in a small explosion about 40 feet in the air. A silvery smoke cloud expanded outwards. Not falling, but spreading almost 60 feet in diameter. A faint wisp of propane filled the gawking onlooker’s nostrils a split second before the air itself ignited.

Fuel air explosives work differently than the more traditional type. The oxygen in the air is the real explosive. The propane and fluoridated aluminum in the bomb is merely a booster charge. The explosion is also relatively slow, Hollywood-style. You can briefly see the blast wave coming towards you. Unfortunately, that won’t help much to save your life.

The real killer wasn’t that impressive fireball, but the sledgehammer wave of overpressure ahead of it. The mini-nuke punctured the internal organs of body armor-clad soldiers a hundred yards away. They died without a single outward sign of injury. Closer into the hellfire, all the air was sucked away to feed the devil’s toy. So fast that the lungs were immediately ruptured.

The dignitaries directly underneath the blast spent their last moments alive suffocating from the sudden vacuum around them, even as the fireball incinerated them. The few survivors were so badly torched and permanently disfigured they’d wish they weren’t so “lucky.” For the first time in their careers, these statesmen and generals were getting a taste of the shit storm they so easily threw young soldiers into. The stench of overcooked, high-fat human meat and that gut wrenching scorched hair smell would hang over the square days after the bodies were removed.

*

Two miles away, a silver Prius didn’t slow down and gawk as a stream of ambulances wailed past. With the video feed to the drone no longer available, Marcus had to get his after action report over the radio like everyone else. He felt fleeting regret for the reporters caught in the slaughter, but his sympathy didn’t last long for those ghouls. Where were they when his world ended? His family’s lives apparently weren’t worth the airtime, but these asshole generals and politicians deserved wall-to-wall breaking news coverage?

He only worried about the loss of the heavy-haul drone his grad students built. What a marvelous machine they whipped up. Reliable and able to carry his 700-pound homemade thermobaric bomb almost a mile from the city park to the capitol building. He honestly felt shame for stealing and destroying it. He’d have to find those young people and make it up to them somehow.

Which would be a little more difficult now. He couldn’t imagine himself ever going back and teaching at the university. The authorities would surely put the pieces together eventually and find out who did this. A distinguished fifteen-year career as a respected chemistry professor flushed down the drain. Just like that. Marcus switched of the radio and drove in silence.

Compared to what he’d lost already, who cared about work? No, the real problem was his revenge wasn’t as fulfilling as he expected. That could only mean he hadn’t gotten enough.

On his way back from the state capitol, he cruised past his old home in Gainesville. The debris was left exactly as it had been that terrible day. Well, almost. Someone had removed the aircraft wreckage. The anger at the only monument his wife and daughter would ever have being hauled away like so much trash brought the hate back.

Marcus wasn’t even with them that dark, sunny day during the initial invasion of Florida. He was across the street, talking to a pro-Fed neighbor about keeping an eye on the house while they were gone. He’d waited way too long to evacuate his family. Who could’ve imagined that the fighting would reach so far south? Everyone knew it was supposed to be more or less symbolic resistance. Maybe a short firefight, but then one side or the other must cave in. Instead, the whole world collapsed.

He only remembered his neighbor’s open mouth, a bone-rattling roar and then the heat. When he managed to roll over after the explosion, he crawled aimlessly through the black fog so thick you needed a knife to cut through it. Eventually, he reached a clearish space and his heart stopped.

Only the tail fin of an F-22 jutted into the sky from where his garage had stood. Maybe if, by some miracle, Rachel and Jessie had stopped packing the car and were back in the house…it wouldn’t have made a difference. The whole property, as well as the neighbors on both sides, were one solid wall of flames. The only thing not burning was the tail assembly of that damn jet. A marker from God to show where his family had been taken.

He didn’t waste any more time crying down memory lane. The school’s ROTC instructor was missing. Supposedly, gone underground and joined the rumored resistance. Through a friend of a friend, he made a date for tonight to grab a beer and discuss politics. The way his seatbelt dug into his gut, maybe the middle-aged professor wasn’t in the best shape. Nor had he ever even touched a gun in his entire life. Not a promising career change.

On the other hand, the insurgents might just be able to find use for someone that could safely make bombs from a thousand everyday ingredients. He also wasn’t just a chemist…he was a damn good teacher.

Shortly before the government announced their humane amnesty plan, an alphabet soup of federal agencies swarmed over the state and hauled off thousands. Rubber-stamped warrants or not, it was an old-fashioned purge of dangerous characters. Well, they missed the most dangerous person with their
lettres de cachet
: the intelligent man with nothing left to live for except revenge.