April

by Mackey Chandler

  "Sir, we have a certain doctrine to follow, which has been planned out carefully," he protested, but he spoke into a lapel mic and the told the driver to hold a moment. The three of them were still standing in a semi circle before the seated President. Brockman looked at the man that had jumped in the truck with him.

  It was the first time he had looked at the man's name tag, over his pocket. It said Friedman. He'd heard him on the radios before. There was another armed officer standing, looking back at them up front by the driver, who was seated with his back to them at the wheel. A flapped holster hung out past the seat edge, by his right leg.

  "You'll do what I say, by God, or you'll be in trouble like these two. This man," he said pointing at Brockman, "dragged me out of my office against my will and the other assaulted me too, all the while I was ordering him to desist, as we came here. I have no idea if there are any of my associates alive back there, we could have assisted escape, or if we left documents exposed to capture. I want these traitors shot there," he pointed out the window, "where I can see it happen, before we move anywhere."

  "They may have orders, but once I say different, as Commander in Chief I expect to be obeyed when we are under attack. I've sent three Generals off to prison in the last few weeks and I'll be damned if I'm going to put up with a couple snotty Lieutenants disobeying my orders."

  Brockman watched the decision play across the Captains face and knew with a chill certainty, what it was before he spoke.

  "Lieutenant give me your side arm." He was extending his hand to accept it as he said it. The officer up front was listening to the Captain and starting to walk back to them. He dropped his hand to his holster strap.

  Lt. Brockman was fully convinced, he was a dead man if he handed his pistol over. He would be summarily executed outside the window, where the President had pointed out he desired to see it done.

  Despite his deep loyalty to his country, he would not submit to being slaughtered over a foolish old man's temper. Despite all the assurances in his training, he knew the Captain had decided to sacrifice them to illegal orders, rather than stand up to a President who was acting like a peevish child. He realized with a sickening feeling the system of law he was sworn to protect had failed, when one old man's word could thrust it all aside.

  None of them had ever seen him run a range course, shooting combat pistol competitively. If the Captain had, he would have never made such a transparent request. The difference in his skill level was not a small incremental advantage. He shot at a level which seemed inhuman to a first time observer. His reflexes were so fast, that on occasion he had been photographed holding the gun on target with the trigger depressed, waiting for the gun to finish cycling, to close the action and fire again.

  Once he decided to act there was no doubt of the outcome. He moved without hesitation, drawing his pistol like he would have on cut-out targets at a competition. The training took over completely, blocking conscious thought and the man walking to them from the front, had three holes spaced in the middle of his chest, before the first ejected brass made it to the floor.

  The seated driver had a hole through the back of his seat and another just over the seat edge, through his spine high on the shoulders, before the first man had even started to fall visibly. Both died in less than a second.

  He shifted his aim and at the same time pulled the extended pistol back closer to him, as the Captain was so close he might reach out and grab the gun, or deflect it. He needn't have worried. The Captain was so startled, he was still in the act of yanking his partly extended hand back, when there was another explosion to Brockman's left and the Captain suddenly acquired a small hole in his forehead, head snapping back.

  He almost simultaneously put a single round through the already dead Captain's breastbone, before the mess from the head shot had finished splashing off the wall behind. Turning his head left to look, Lt. Friedman's arm was extended toward the Captain, pistol pointed up in a small incline from the recoil. He stayed frozen in that position while the Captain fell back against the wall behind him and slid down into a sitting position. Brockman did not immediately understand why he froze like that. Then he realized the look of terror on the man's face was directed at him.

  "Please don't kill me." Friedman begged. "They were going to execute me too. I've never seen anyone move as fast as you. You tapped out six shots before I could do one. I could never move fast enough to shoot you." The stink of gunpowder and blood was heavy.

  Hadley who stayed frozen in his seat for the scant three seconds the shootings took and the twelve long seconds Friedman needed to present his plea to Brockman, made a surprisingly swift dash for the back of the vehicle. He had a big enough adrenaline surge, that even at his age he managed three steps, before a shot from each of the Lieutenants sounded almost as one, catching him between the shoulder blades and throwing him forward on his face.

  Friedman looked at that, shaking his head no and slowly put his pistol with the hammer still back up to his temple for a third shot, with a terrible lost look on his face. Brockman cracked him across the wrist with the bottom of his pistol frame and sent his gun clattering to the floor. Surprisingly it didn't go off. Friedman looked at him, clutching his wrist like he couldn't understand why he had been stopped.

  "Don't be a fool." He snarled at him. "You didn't save yourself to turn around and die so easily. If we can stay loose for a few weeks or a month, they'll end up giving you a damn medal for this. Everything is falling apart anyway. Have the two in the other truck noticed anything yet?" he asked, peering hard over Friedman's shoulder.

  Friedman looked out the deeply tinted window at the other truck, which had escorted them out. It was about fifty meters away and both the occupants were sitting back to them, looking away for danger. The truck was all sealed up with the ventilation going, but the motor home still must be insulated really well for them not to hear the shots. They didn't know the men also had music playing against regulations. He shook his head no.

  "This motor home is meant to not look military. So I can't imagine if we just pull away, that they would have been tasked by the Captain to follow in a big camo truck. I don't think he ever had time to give them orders anyway. Can you drive this thing or do you want me to?"

  "Damn, you're a cool one." he marveled. "I think you may have busted my wrist, so you drive and I'll dig and see what they have heavier than a couple pistols in the back."

  "OK. Do you have any place safe you want to go? I'm from clear out in Montana. There's back country I know out there, but it's really too far."

  "Yeah, I have a family friend. He has a hunting cabin up in Maine, near Jackman. He's been too old to use it for a couple years, but he still hangs on to it. I always had it offered as a retreat, if things ever came apart. Well, I guess they have pretty much. I not only know where the key is and his cache buried out back in the hillside, but if we need to we can go into Quebec, with snow shoes or cross country skis later. Plenty of folks would help us up there."

  Brockman pulled the slumped driver out of the seat and decided he didn't have time to clean up the bloody cushions, forcing himself to sit on it with a grimace of distaste. As he pulled away, the radio came on and the two in the parked truck called.

  "Sir, if you are through with us, may we proceed back inside the perimeter?"

  Brockman stuck his finger deep in the side of his mouth to distort his voice and jammed the mic right against his mouth to answer. "Roger that," was all he said, to give as little a sample of his voice as possible for them to think about. He was sure the deliberate distortion would cover his voice and the standard usage and brevity gave away no hint of regional speech. Besides, he had told them what they wanted to hear.

  As he pulled out past the check in and general store for the RV camp, onto the two lane black asphalt, nobody seemed to be concerned with them or following. He called a map up on the dash and started considering how many minutes they had, before the silence from the motor home would start to
make someone worry. The bombardment had destroyed so many of the assets charged with tracking and assisting their protection detail, they might be in disarray anyway.

  Friedman came up the aisle, looking a little happier than he looked a few minutes ago and carrying two short gray submachine guns, with suppressors and cloth shoulder bags full of ammunition. They had laser sights and folding stocks. He laid them on the carpet between the big luxurious buckets seats.

  "There's enough stuff back there to start our own respectable little war," he explained. "We should try to loot some of it, to take to my friend's cabin. There's all sorts of stuff to set up a sensor perimeter, with active defenses besides weapons and explosives. If we can hide or destroy the stuff we don't take, they'll have no idea how we're equipped. I was thinking; when we do dump this, we should get two vehicles and drive separated a bit. They will be looking for two men together and we can take more of the equipment back there, if we have two vehicles."

  "That makes sense to me, maybe something like an old pickup, with a load of small trees from a nursery in the bed, hiding the stuff. With everything that's back there, how about some food?" Brockman inquired, not looking away from the narrow road as he drove the huge vehicle. "What do they have back there to eat?"

  "I'll go look, but I can't imagine they have enough for weeks or months. My buddy has a cache buried with staples and canned goods behind his cabin and we can hunt to stretch it, until we have to risk buying something in town."

  "Fine, but what I mean is right now. I'm a couple hours past lunch and my stomach is growling. Can you see if there are sandwich makings, or whatever back there?"

  Friedman looked at the bloody corpse of the driver, dragged back down the aisle and moved his estimate of Brockman's hardness up a couple pegs. He swallowed the sour taste that rose in his throat at the thought of food and decided not to give Brockman any doubts about his own value, as a survival partner.

  "Sure. I'll see what I can get us. Be right back."

  * * *

  Local control at Home, got a call which surprised them. A beautiful, lilting and feminine voice said. "This is His Majesty's Armed Merchant, Mother's Pride, lifting out of Tonga, Kaihau Laulu Master, on approach for Home, requesting clearance to automated dockage for freight transfers and passenger pick-up."

  "Tonga?" Allen asked.

  "Yes, we are contracted now with Mitsubishi for your supply run, since the USNA has a little problem lifting it. Seems da still don't want to cause a fuss by using a Japanese shuttle. So Mother's Pride was reflagged to us, along with another shuttle."

  "Oh my, do you have coffee in your cargo? You can ask anything you want if that's true. We'll carry you through the corridors on our shoulders and strew rose petals before you, when you step on our lowly deck. Does your second have a name Kaihau?"

  "She my cousin Peggy. I try to keep her from tearing up you station too bad on lay over. She don't yet got no reputation here yet, da people know to beware." She was really laying the Pidgin accent thing on a little thick, but she found the guys liked it. If she forgot she'd drop back into straight Midwestern American English.

  "Peggy." Allen repeated, expecting something a little more exotic and fascinated at the implied warning. "Mother's Pride, you are cleared for automated approach for docking collar three, on our South Hub. Please be aware we still don't have pressure outside our gate bearing from battle damage, so you have to suit up."

  Then he thought about something. "Uh ladies, if you are an armed merchant, would you please confirm your weapons safed for dock? That's such a new thing we don't have any procedures, but it seems worth reminding you. Also, if I may invite you ladies to dinner this evening, it would be my pleasure. We're very happy for your company."

  "He wants to take us both out tonight?" a laughing voice, that must be Peggy, asked in the background. "I think I'm going to like this port. He sound like my greedy-gut brother John, who got two wife, ana girlfriend at home. Don't you worry Honey. We don't got no finger on the trigger. Da hung the missiles on the side, away from the docking collar – 'case we need shoot 'em from dock 'fore we fly. So da don't bump nothin' never."

  * * *

  "Mr. Davis?" the older lady on the screen inquired.

  "Yes, that's me. What can we do for you?"

  "My name is Martha Wiggen. I am, or rather I was, Postmaster General of the United States of North America. As far as we can determine that makes me the highest surviving Federal official, outside the official succession to the office of President of the Republic and I have been so sworn. Will you speak with me about terms of surrender, to end our war with the nation of Home?"

  "No. I'm sorry Madam. It is the expectation of the electorate here, we will seek an unconditional surrender. Anything else would be cumbersome and require rounds of voting from our entire population, before it could be formulated. However I believe if you accept that and surrender, you will find we are not cruel."

  "We have refrained from deliberately bombarding your fault lines to trigger seismic activity and we have avoided damaging your power plants or power grids, with winter near, out of consideration for your civilian population. Can you seek authority to surrender without terms?"

  "I already have such authority," she said, hanging her head sadly. "It just seemed sensible to at least ask for terms first. However, I now offer an unconditional surrender, on whatever terms you may wish to impose," she said, in a small voice.

  "Thank you, Madam President. The Armed Merchant Home Boy is clearing Asia to cross the Pacific and will come over our horizon behind us in about five minutes. We will contact them before they over fly your territory again and cease bombardment. So within minutes you should expect no further hostilities. It's over. The first condition we'll require is you do not lift any vessel or weapon to orbit for now, from the Continent or your other worldwide military assets, including wet navy. We will allow you to resume unarmed supply launches soon."

  "The second condition is you declare a full amnesty to anyone held, who is accused of acting on our behalf during this conflict, or is being called a criminal over matters to do with the war, or any political questions. We expect no restrictions on anyone who wishes to travel to Home, from or through North America. We'll expand on those and I'll try to be reasonable. If you feel any of the conditions you are given are particularly onerous, or can explain why a particular policy is simply a bad idea for either of us in the long run, tell me why and I'll be willing to discuss it."

  * * *

  "Do you want to take a chance on it?" Friedman asked Brockman, with a great deal of doubt evident in his voice. He had a hard print copy of the small town weekly paper, for which they had paid cash at the grocery. It had a front page piece about the amnesty, he had read aloud. "I'd like to do a little more hunting first," he admitted. "You have the carving to finish up that's looking good and I've almost finished reading all the Hemingway and Follet your friend had in the cabin. If there is any problem with the amnesty being false, let's let somebody else find out about it for us."

  "What say we come back to town in another two weeks and see what the paper says then? No hurry at all. They may grant us amnesty, but we're both still going to be out on the sidewalk and unemployable. We may as well enjoy the vacation, because I suspect we'll have to move to Home or the European Union, to have anything like a normal life again. I'd be too afraid to stay on this Continent, because some angry patriot might shoot me dead on the street, just as a personal matter, without government sanction."

  "Sounds good to me. I've grown as suspicious as you are now. They may still be a little more upset with us, than somebody who say, told his Aunt Tilde he thought they should just leave Home alone, where a Homeland Defender could overhear. I mean we did shoot the friggin' President. And I still haven't learned everything I can about pistol from you."

  Epilogue July 12, 2084 - ISSII

  On ISSII Don Adams came off shift and stripped his suit off at his work locker. He had fueled two ships and helpe
d off load a French tanker for the fuel stocks held in shaded bladders, so he was tired. It was the end of his work week. Three days off, two more week cycles and he'd have his semi-annual leave and have to decide if he would skip it again, or make the effort to go somewhere. He had a good scratch for the first time in twelve hours and stuffed a couple NO-STINK-UM® bags in his suit, for whatever good they might do.

  He threw a paper jump suit over his suit liner and was going to walk home and shower there. He was trying to decide if he wanted to buy a bag of beer and just relax, because tomorrow wasn't a work day, or if he should ask Sheila to go to dinner with him. It was near the end of the month and he really shouldn't spend the money to do both. His crappy supervisor came through and handed him a stiff oversize envelope. He wasn't expecting anything and nobody had sent him a card for years.

  "Came for you postal mail today Adams. Is it your birthday or something?" he sneered. "Can't be legal papers, because the server hands those right to you." He trying too hard to sound snarky, but it was weak. He was just a jerk and didn't stick around waiting for a reply, that Don wasn't going to bother making anyway. The man had been peeved ever since he couldn't get Don fired, after the hostilities last October. Their relationship had not improved at all in the months since.

  It surprised him to get anything at work, instead of his cubic and there was the sticky stub still attached, where a return receipt had been ripped off. He slit under the flap corner and opened it carefully. Paper mail was so rare, he might want to keep whatever it was nice.

  Inside were three items. A glossy stiff picture on tough archival stock, with an extra stiffener to keep it undamaged. It showed the bunch who crewed the Happy Lewis, the day he had helped them. They were in pressure, in front of a much changed ship, hanging on a service rack, all of them in off duty clothing instead of P-suits. They had all signed it with a fine felt tip on the back and Eddie had written : "We looked on the hatch like you told us. Thank you. Come visit Home anytime."