by Joe Nobody
From Lafayette Park to the Ellipse and all points between, the firefight raged. Casualties on both sides began to mount. Two SWAT armored trucks were shredded after being intercepted by rebel Humvees and their roof-mounted .50 caliber machine guns. One of the Abrams threw a track while trying to roll over a concrete barrier on the north lawn, its crew quickly falling victim to Secret Service sharpshooters as the tank’s crew attempted to exit their crippled machine.
For a moment, Armstrong considered advancing his timeline, worried that his tactical advantage was slowly being bled away as more and more loyalists joined against him.
The admiral had issued strict orders forbidding heavy weapons being used against the White House proper. Until ordered, his tank cannon and missiles were only to be used against perimeter defenses and responding armored vehicles. He could end this fight quickly by unleashing that firepower, but it wasn’t time just yet.
“Stay with it,” he whispered, watching the battle rage just a block away. “Steady at the helm.”
A radio broadcast from the Group C commander quickly restored Armstrong’s confidence in his original plan. “Our ETA is four minutes. We have two camera crews in tow. They’re eager to see what all the commotion is about.”
Armstrong acknowledged the report by giving his men directions on where to meet.
A few minutes later, against a background of small arms fire and burning vehicles, the admiral met the national news crews at the edge of Lafayette Park, the wide-eyed reporters escorted into a protective ring of the rebel’s armor.
“We intercepted a coup attempt,” Armstrong lied. “We heard radio traffic reporting several explosions at the White House, along with a general emergency alert from the Secret Service. We believe active duty military units have joined Durham Weathers and are attempting to overthrow the government.”
The reporters shouted a dozen questions, but the admiral waved them off. “I want you guys to help me get the word out. I need all police and military units alike to stand down and stay away from this area. We’re dealing with total confusion on all fronts. Having additional forces entering this area, no matter how well intended, is just going to add to the chaos. Both sides are wearing the same uniforms and are using the same weapons. I’ve got enough forces under my command to handle the attackers, but that’s going to take some time. Until then, please let the world out there know what’s going on.”
Eager to help the valiant officer and his command save the Union, the reporters all nodded their understanding. Armstrong watched as they were led away to their satellite vans where hastily prepared broadcasts would flood the airwaves.
“Utter pandemonium,” the admiral whispered, watching as the civilian newshounds hustled to file their segments. “Keep the enemy disoriented and off his game.”
Given the early hour, most Americans had no idea what was happening in the capital. It was mainly residents in Washington, awoken by the thunderous rumble of the battle, and a few night owls on the West Coast, who were paying any attention when the first “breaking news” reports of the coup attempt surged across the airwaves.
All of this was lost on Dusty as he made his way north, intent on dropping the Washington Monument before daybreak. Visions of the president having breakfast while staring out at the smoldering mounds of rubble put a smile on the Texan’s face. I’m doing this for you, Andy, he thought.
Dusty hadn’t progressed more than two blocks from the encounter with the security guard when his single-minded objective of securing his son’s freedom was tossed aside by the bedlam of the Marines’ counterattack.
Meandering his way along side streets and back alleys to avoid detection, he was confused by the echoing sounds of the battle that raged less than a mile away. Not knowing the streets, the Texan soon found he’d wandered into a dead end. After backtracking and trying an alternative route, he finally determined that there was little choice but to cross a main intersection and chance being spotted.
With his head pivoting both directions while scurrying across the wide boulevard, Dusty ducked into a recessed storefront to catch his wind. Peering out to scan up and down the street, he nearly suffered a coronary when he detected a flickering blue and white light reflecting off of the surrounding glass. Oh shit, it’s the cops, raced through his mind as he lifted the charged and ready rail gun to his shoulder.
But there weren’t any squad cars with flashing strobes bearing down on his hiding spot. It took a few tense moments before the fugitive realized he was hiding in front of an appliance store, the outlet’s display of televisions left on for the night, reflecting off the storefront’s glass in order to attract the customers’ eye.
He was only mildly surprised to see his picture on the closest screen. That soon changed, however, when the Texan began to read the banner scrolling across the bottom of the screen.
“White House under attack? Coup attempt?” he whispered just as the picture changed to show some sort of military vehicle burning on the south lawn. “Military units have joined Durham Weathers? Rebellion in process?”
While he couldn’t hear the words, it was easy to grasp the gist of the newscast. Then the picture changed again, this time showing a military officer with numerous microphones shoved into his face. Something about the man being interviewed struck a chord with Dusty.
He looked so familiar; how did Dusty know him? The dossier on the Blue Ribbon Panel! “That’s one of the men that never showed at the conference in St. Louis,” he whispered through squinting eyes. “He’s one of the guys Mitch thinks might have launched the cruise missiles.”
A name appeared under the officer’s picture. “Admiral Armstrong?” Dusty read. “An admiral? Mitch said those missiles came from the south… from the Gulf of Mexico? Were they fired from a ship?”
The television no longer held Dusty’s interest, the Texan leaning back against the glass storefront, his mind running wild with potentials. More explosions snapped him out of his analytical daze, some of the shock waves strong enough to rattle the windows behind his back.
It was all so complex. Dusty was suddenly unsure of his quest for vengeance, doubting all that he’d held sacred. Who was the real enemy? Had the president been telling the truth? Had these non-government traitors actually been the troublemakers all along?
It was all too much for the Texan’s stressed, overworked mind to contemplate. His back slid down the glass, his legs no longer willing to support weight. With eyes glazed over in apparent analysis paralysis, Dusty squatted in the entrance, rumpled and dirty, his mind apparently in another place.
The squeak of an overfilled shopping cart rolling down the sidewalk drew Dusty back to reality. A homeless gent, wheeling the sum of his worldly possessions, paused in front of the apparently destitute man perched in the doorway. “Hey, man, it’s tuna fish salad night down by the mission. Better hurry or you’ll miss out.”
If the goal had been to fit in with Washington’s homeless crowd, it had been achieved.
The admiral stared at his watch, estimating that he’d given enough time for any reinforcements to join the White House defenders. It was time to close the hangman’s noose. Nodding to his driver and bodyguard, the lead traitor reached for the radio’s microphone, transmitting three words, “Initiate phase three.”
The admiral’s forces had intentionally left the eastern side of the White House grounds open, inviting not only the responding Marine companies, but also any other units answering the desperate calls for help. Now it was time to completely encircle the president’s home and crush those inside.
From the back of Lafayette Park, two turbine engines added their song to the battle’s din. Rolling up to Armstrong’s position, the admiral’s reserves formed an impressive line of offensive firepower. Additional Strykers, accompanied by a host of Humvees, sped off to join their comrades, most of the units heading to close the circle on the east side.
The two Abrams tanks remained with Armstrong. After a few moments, the admiral gav
e the order. “Let ’em have it.”
From all around the White House, tank cannon and Stryker missiles flew at the doomed structure. Explosions ripped columns, collapsed walls, and shattered practically every window belonging to the executive branch.
Flames leapt from the Oval Office windows, most of the western colonnade nothing more than a heap of smoldering rubble. Armstrong actually shuddered at the vision before him, his mind thinking of the art treasures and priceless historical heirlooms that were being destroyed.
And then the barrage stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
Reaching for the radio dial, Armstrong changed frequencies to the one he knew was being used by the Secret Service. “This is Admiral Armstrong,” he announced. “Will the president surrender, or do I have to level the whole building?”
“Why are you doing this?” a raspy voice retorted. “Why are you killing your own countrymen?”
The admiral shook his head, assuming it was one of the surviving agents handling the radio inside the beleaguered compound.
“That doesn’t matter,” he responded. “Either the president surrenders unconditionally, or I’ll level the entire structure, and then send in my teams with explosives to collapse the underground levels.”
“Fuck you,” came the response.
Shaking his head, Armstrong thought to order the second salvo, but then reconsidered. “While I appreciate your loyalty and bravery, aren’t you making a decision that is well above your pay grade? I will grant you three minutes to locate a senior member of the executive branch, preferably the president himself, and respond to our demands. Otherwise, we’ll wipe that disgraced building off the face of the earth and start all over again.”
“You’ve got to give us more time,” implored a more reasonable-sounding tone. “Everything’s off-line, the president and what’s left of his staff are unreachable.”
“No. Three minutes, and then the gates of hell will open at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.”
Dusty moved closer, the broken shards of glass crunching under the soles of his hobo shoes. He’d managed the northeast corner of the Treasury Building without being detected, shuffling along, trying to act the role of the curious but crazy vagabond. No one on either side had paid him any notice, all eyes focused on the battle taking place just on the other end of the massive limestone structure.
He’d arrived at Pennsylvania Avenue just as Armstrong’s forces had launched their devastating salvo at the White House. Still stunned by the noise and violence of the assault, Dusty watched as a group of men in Secret Service uniforms attempted to scurry across East Executive Avenue to join their comrades in defending the East Wing. Heavy machine fire erupted from the park across the street, cutting them down in seconds.
It occurred to Dusty that the Secret Service’s primary job was to protect the president and his family. The forces tearing them to pieces must be the traitors.
Hiding behind a burned-out relic still smoldering at the curb, Dusty used the rail gun’s scope to study the forces arrayed in Lafayette Park. Despite being equipped with a daytime hunting optic, the Texan was pleasantly surprised at how much detail he could discern. Fires were burning throughout the area, illuminating the mass of armor and troops pointing their weapons at the White House.
It was also obvious that he was looking at the command and control of whoever was attacking the president. The array of antennas protruding from a central Humvee was one indicator; a ring of men facing outward as if to protect a VIP was another.
A face appeared in his optic, and Dusty instantly knew he was looking at Admiral Armstrong. While the Texan couldn’t hear the words, the senior military man in his crosshairs was shouting orders and pointing with aggressive gestures. No sooner than he’d appeared, the officer reentered the radio-heavy Humvee and was out of sight.
Lowering the rail gun from his shoulder, Dusty knew he was at a crossroads. Again, his mind began to reel from the possibilities. Was Armstrong really a white hat? Had the media really gotten it all wrong?
A new sound drew Dusty away from his thoughts, the men surrounding Armstrong staring into the clouds and pointing upward. The Texan watched as two attack helicopters roared overhead, their evil, wasp-like silhouettes only visible for a brief glimpse.
More shouted commands sounded from the park, Dusty again raising the rail gun to spy through the scope. Men were scrambling everywhere, most gawking toward the sky as if death was about to descend upon them from the heavens. If even half of what Dusty had read about military gunships was correct, the scared-looking troops in his optic had good reason to be concerned.
He then focused on two particular individuals who weren’t running or taking cover. They were standing on the lowered door of some armored personnel carrier, holding long tubes and scanning skyward. “Oh, shit,” the Texan whispered. “They’ve got anti-aircraft missiles.”
On cue, the thumping noise of the gunships returned, followed by the loud whoosh of two streaking missiles racing skyward.
Dusty watched in horror, following the white-hot trail of the two rockets. A second later, he cringed when dual balls of yellow and red flames appeared over the Washington sky. Pieces of burning aircraft began falling toward the earth, thoughts of the pilots and crews making the Texan’s stomach churn.
“So now I know for sure who the bad guys are,” he whispered. “It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure this mystery out. It really is a coup attempt. So what do I do about it?”
Dusty was torn. Should he help the government that had hunted him for weeks, persecuted his friends and family, and had violated every protection and covenant he expected as a freeborn American? Memories of the federal government arresting Hank and Grace, trumping up charges and violating their constitutional rights came welling up.
He stared at the burning White House, an icon of freedom and democracy the world over. The image didn’t sit well with Dusty. “That’s not how we do things,” he mumbled. “We don’t take matters into our own hands.”
His thoughts then went to Fort Knox. “Didn’t I do the exact same thing? Am I any different… Am I better than the men who are with that admiral? Didn’t I declare war on my own government?”
For a moment, the Texan considered just walking away and letting the two sides fight it out. Both had tried to exterminate him; one using the FBI snipers in Houston, the other launching missiles in St. Louis. All parties were guilty. All had overstepped the boundaries.
But then he reconsidered. “No. There is a right and a wrong here. Yes, I’ve sinned, but I never wanted power for myself.”
Dusty dialed the rail gun to 20%, checking the green LED and finding its glow reassuring. He selected a target and fired.
The shot was aimed at two armored units rolling toward the West Wing, their belt-fed weapons rattling a steady stream of heavy lead into a cluster of defenders. A tank took the blunt of the rail gun’s wrath, the inter-dimensional portal opening just forward of the engine compartment.
For just a blink of the eye, the weighty, thick Chobham reactive armor seemed to wrinkle, like an old man’s frown. Next came a white, pulsing fireball, so bright anyone looking in the general direction had to turn away. The tank’s turret shot skyward as if propelled by a rocket, the multi-ton hunk of hardware spinning and whirling above the surrounding skyline.
So intense was the shock wave of the rail gun’s effect, the accompanying Stryker was literally flattened like a beer can, rolling end over end for over a city block.
Before the arching, airborne turret landed, the ground began to shake, and the air was filled with a deep rumbling groan. Dusty glanced back just as the old Executive Office building shuddered to collapse, a 40-foot wide swath of its midsection now missing, a victim of the universal tunnel created by his shot.
Without giving the destruction a second glance, Dusty reloaded, waiting for the ultra-capacitors to recharge so he could fire again.
Chapter 11
Dusty’s joining of the battle d
idn’t go unnoticed by the admiral or his forces. “What the fuck was that?” shouted a nearby shooter as the sun-like glare of the detonation faded.
For a brief moment, the admiral thought his forces were been attacked by air power, but quickly realized the damage had been inflicted by something else altogether.
“Gentlemen, I believe we’ve just seen the Olympus Device in action,” he calmly stated, trying to determine where the shot had originated.
Armstrong rushed for a nearby Stryker, screaming a quick “cease fire,” into his portable radio. Scrambling up the side of the armored personnel carrier, he made for the control hatch and shouted, “Give me the microphone for your loudspeaker… right now.”
