by D. A. Hill
“What makes you say that?” Sandra Hogan asked hoping to elicit a more tangible indication of support.
“I’ve heard some grumbling amongst the troops,” he replied. “Why is food being taken from our stomachs to give to others and so on. We put a stop to it pronto, but I’m sure military commanders across the country are having similar problems.”
“I can confirm that,” General Rich said.
“As you know Governor, Fort Jackson is primarily a training command,” General Paul said. “Many of our soldiers are young and inexperienced and impressionable. I’m concerned that it wouldn’t take much to incite them.”
Governor Sandra Hogan took that as an offer rather than an expression of concern. “Let me ask you one final question gentlemen.” Last chance to pull out she told herself. After this she would have committed treason against the United States no matter what these two men decided. She pushed on. “If it’s going to be a free for all, shouldn’t South Carolina take care of its own before it’s too late?”
chapter 8
December 2045
Not a day went by that Lieutenant-Colonel John Smith did not wish his parents had been just a little more imaginative in naming him; of all the names they could have chosen was John really the best Mr. and Mrs. Smith could come up with? Perhaps they had used up all their creativity naming his older brother Emmanuel!
Today though he had much bigger problems. His orders were to secure a fifty mile stretch of South Carolina’s northern border. At his command he had nearly a thousand men and women; a mix of National Guardsman and raw recruits from Fort Jackson, fortunately led by some very experienced junior officers and NCOs.
He would need that experience if a shooting war started, and even if it did not, which was the outcome he hoped for and expected. South Carolina’s leaders had made a point of emphasizing that this was a purely defensive operation, reminding officers like him that by firing on Federal forces at Fort Sumter, not all that far from here, the old Confederacy had provoked the North into a shooting war. As long as they did not repeat that mistake, everyone expected President Carlson to quietly let South Carolina go its own way.
Since he did not expect a shooting war, Smith was not concerned that he did not have any serious firepower at his disposal. The single Bradley Fighting Vehicle in his command—the vehicle he was now using as his mobile headquarters—packed the biggest punch of anything he had—two TOW missiles and a twenty-five millimeter gun that was very effective against soft targets, but useless against real armor. Logistics and morale was what he was worried about; maintaining contact with his unit spread out over a dozen different locations, keeping them supplied with food and fuel and keeping them motivated and disciplined when the inevitable boredom with what was glorified guard duty set in.
—o—
“This is it AJ,” Corporal Tyra Martin said, indicating to the man driving that this was the place they wanted. It was hard to miss with the large log archway, so typical of ranches out here in the west, from which hung the sign they were looking for—JJJ Ranch. Her orders were to secure the ranch; prevent anyone trading or hording food and ensure the people there worked in exchange for the mandated food rations, no more, no less. Within those parameters she was authorized to do whatever was necessary to maximize food production, including the summary use of lethal force if necessary.
As they headed down the dirt track leading to the rancher’s house they saw a small car approaching. It did what any such vehicle would have done when coming face to face on a single lane road with a Humvee carrying a roof mounted fifty-caliber machine gun. It stopped.
Tyra Martin climbed out followed by her team—Privates First Class Ashley James ‘AJ’ Hobb and John ‘Hawk’ Hawkins—and immediately ordered the driver out of his vehicle at gunpoint. Hawk guarded the driver while Tyra Martin checked the cabin and AJ the trunk. “Some sort of dead animal, Ty,” he reported.
“Sheep carcass,” the man muttered, clearly disappointed at the discovery of the contraband.
“Confiscate it,” Corporal Martin ordered.
“Please! You can’t do that,” the man pleaded as AJ threw the carcass over his shoulder and carried it to the Humvee. “I traded for that fair and square.”
“Be thankful sir that all I am doing is confiscating this illegal food,” she replied. “Under Executive Order 16291 I could shoot you right here on the spot for being caught with that. No questions asked.”
“But what will my family eat?” he begged.
“You’re entitled to the same rations as everyone else.”
“But we’re slowly starving to death on those,” he whined.
“There’s nothing I can do about that sir,” she replied firmly. “Everyone is in the same boat. Everyone is hungry. Now get in your car and go before I change my mind.” She did not want to shoot a man for simply trying to feed his family, but she could not let others know that if she was to have any chance of successfully carrying out her orders. Better to use the threat of lethal force now than to have to use the real thing later.
She signaled AJ to move the Humvee aside to allow the car to pass. The man hesitated for a moment before realizing he had no option but to leave, despite his despair that the food he had obtained for his family was now gone. They watched the trail of dust as the car disappeared behind them, before continuing on to the ranch house.
There was no sign of activity as they stopped the Humvee. That was not surprising—they expected the occupants to be out working. “Hawk, you check upstairs,” she ordered. “I’ll check the downstairs. AJ, see if you can’t find somewhere more appropriate than the back seat of the Humvee to put the meat. No point letting it go to waste now. Meet back in the kitchen in five. Grab ourselves something hot to drink.” The snow was already six inches thick on the ground outside and the temperature was below freezing, even without the windchill. A hot cup of Joe would at least take the edge off that.
—o—
“Ty, you’d better come see this,” Hawk shouted from upstairs.
Tyra Martin ran up the stairs, not sure what she expected to see, but given the alarm in Hawk’s voice, preparing herself for the worst. Still she pulled up in shock when she pushed past Hawk and into what looked like the master bedroom. What she saw was more disturbing than anything she had imagined: an unkempt king-sized bed, a middle-aged man, and a frightened girl desperately trying to hide her nakedness. From her boyish figure and lack of sexual development, Martin figured she could not have been more than ten or eleven at the most. Whatever her age, she was much too young to be here, to be subjected to this. “What da hell is goin down?” she shouted angrily despite knowing exactly what it was they had stumbled in on, her old inner-city speech patterns bubbling to the surface along with her anger.
“He gave my father food for our family,” the girl whimpered. “Daddy said I had to or we would all starve. I couldn’t let that happen.” She started to cry. “We were all so hungry and my Mom is sick and can’t work,” she added as if she was somehow the person who needed to justify what was going on in this room.
Corporal Martin realized the man they had stopped on the way in must be her father, the father who had traded his prepubescent daughter to this pervert for food. She cursed silently, regretting that they had not detained him or at least asked herself at the time what he could have traded that was worth a whole sheep. Too late for that now, but she could at least make sure she did not add to her mistake by sending the girl back to him. If he was desperate enough to sell his daughter once, she was sure he was desperate enough to try again and she had no doubts there would be others willing to exploit his desperation.
Hawk stood staring, transfixed at the scene. “What the hell you looking at?” she asked Hawk, indicating with a push that he should turn his back.
“Of course. Sorry.” Hawk replied sheepishly as he turned away. He had not meant to stare. He had heard about people doing things like this to children, but to actually see it with his own eyes?
That was not something he was prepared for.
“What’s your name?” Martin asked as she crouched low, speaking to the girl at eye level, hoping to reassure her.
“Angela Faraday,” she answered nervously. “Everyone calls me Angie.”
“Angie, my name’s Tyra. You can call me Ty. That big lump is Hawk. Everything’s going to be OK. You haven’t done anything wrong. This is not your fault. You understand me?”
“Yes,” the girl replied, not sounding completely convinced.
“Good girl. Why don’t you put your clothes back on and go downstairs with Hawk. He’ll find you something to eat. How does that sound?”
The girl smiled awkwardly and nodded. Tyra Martin watched the man closely while Angela fumbled awkwardly to dress herself before following Hawk downstairs. The man did not try to explain or justify his actions, although his face betrayed shame and embarrassment and fear. He said nothing until she raised her rifle. Then he begged desperately for his life. “You should have thought of that before you started poking lil girls,” she snarled as she pulled the trigger.
Later, after her anger had subsided, Tyra realized she should not have shot him. She was well within her authority to do so, and God knows he deserved it a hundred times over, but it was stupid and rash. She had let her own demons cloud her judgment. Apart from making an awful mess, a mess they would have to clean up before they could use this room, they needed him. What did she know about running a ranch? Nothing, that was what. To be honest, less than nothing. Her ancestors may have worked the fields in Mississippi and Alabama but this was Montana and she was a Chicago girl, from the projects—she could barely keep a potted plant alive. Well she would just have to figure it out. Tyra Martin did not miss the irony. Here she was twenty-two years old and African-American to boot, and on this thousand acre ranch her word was now law, like some sort of twenty-first century plantation owner.
—o—
The mood in the Situation Room was tense as the assembled members of the National Security Council waited anxiously for the call, a call that would tell them if the situation in South Carolina could be resolved peacefully. Not surprisingly, several of them jumped when the call finally came. The Secretary of Defense answered and listened briefly before turning to the President. “Mr. President, Governor Hogan has refused your terms.”
President Paul Carlson could not believe it had come to this. The Governor of South Carolina, with the support of Generals Paul and Rich, the commanding officers at Fort Jackson and Shaw Air Force Base respectively, had declared that henceforth all military forces in South Carolina would operate under an independent South Carolina command and would not be taking orders from the President of the United States. The unstated but clear implication was that military forces in South Carolina would work to preserve resources for themselves rather than supporting the national plan.
What the hell was it with South Carolina? The first of the southern states to secede during the Civil War and now this! Was there something in the water down there? Carlson was not sure whether to call it an attempted coup or another secession or just a mutiny but it sure as hell was big trouble, trouble that he really did not need right now.
He had offered them an easy way out—the Governor and the Generals would be allowed to resign quietly before being sent into exile and the troops would swear an oath to continue to follow the orders of their lawful Commander-in-Chief. They had thrown it back in his face, not even attempting to negotiate, leaving him no choice but to make an example of them before the entire country disintegrated.
“Mr. President, what are your orders?” Secretary Branston asked.
Paul Carlson picked up a pen and signed the document laid out before him on his desk. “Secretary Branston, you are authorized to proceed with Operation Loyal Citizen against any and all military forces in a state of rebellion,” he said as he ceremonially passed the signed document to Harry Branston.
—o—
The first attacks had come at dawn. In the three hours since then, Lieutenant-Colonel Smith had lost contact with over half his forces as they dealt with the initial shock of an assault they had never really expected to come. The fighting had been far more intense than anything he had imagined possible. Nevertheless, his men and women had fought bravely and had some successes. His Bradley crew had even managed to take out an M1 Abrams tank with a TOW missile. Fortunately it was a lone tank, not a concentrated armored thrust, and his infantry were able to regroup and repel the attack after the lucky strike on the tank. His priority now was to secure the vital position guarding I-95—if that fell it literally opened a freeway into the heart of South Carolina—which was why he was struggling desperately to redeploy his remaining forces and moving forward to take personal command of that part of the operation.
—o—
It started on the social networks, the idea that the lottery was fixed, that DC insiders and elitists would somehow end up winning all the places and that ordinary folks would once again be thrown aside. Perhaps the government simply failed to understand how dangerous such an idea was, or how effectively mass action could be organized with modern technologies. Perhaps it was simply that the administration was preoccupied with suppressing the uprising in South Carolina. For whatever reason, the government failed to shut the social networks down before it was too late, before the grumbling had turned into an organized plan to invade the arks, the March on the Arks as it was being called.
—o—
Lieutenant-Colonel Smith had hardly slept in the past three days, certainly not in anything even remotely resembling a bed. They were still holding the I-95 corridor, but barely. His men and women had fought a brave rearguard action and had been pushed back less than ten miles. They were now just north of the town of Florence and the intersection with I-20. He had fewer than two hundred troops still able to fight, and that included the walking wounded. John Smith knew his forces were already spread thin—there was no way they could hold both highways—so it was imperative they not be pushed back any further.
General Paul had tried to negotiate a truce after two days of very bloody fighting, but Carlson had insisted on unconditional surrender. There was nothing left to do now but fight. Lieutenant-Colonel Smith knew it would be a fight to the death. Once it became clear that all but a handful of military units would stay loyal to the President, sheer weight of numbers made defeat inevitable no matter how bravely they fought. The parallels with the Civil War were not lost on him.
Death and defeat came from the air—as John Smith feared they would once South Carolina’s limited air forces were driven from the sky—in the form of a flight of Apache helicopter gunships. There was no time for evasive action as they came over the horizon less than one hundred feet above the ground, hidden by the trees until they were only a quarter mile away. No sooner had he heard and seen them than their laser-guided Hellfire missiles were on their way, traveling at supersonic speed, covering the distance to his vehicle in less than two seconds. As his Bradley was about to be blown to pieces, John Smith reminded himself of how proudly his rag-tag band had fought, and how much better and more honorable it was to die here and now like this, than to slowly die of starvation a month or even a year from now.
—o—
Not since the Civil War had Americans killed each other with such ruthless efficiency and so quickly. It took nearly a week for the last of the South Carolina forces to surrender, but only after losing two thirds of their strength. Total losses on both sides exceeded fifty thousand, making it one of the bloodiest weeks in American military history.
President Carlson ordered that no mercy be shown to the mutineers. He had to ensure that their example would not inspire others to rebel. The leaders of the rebellion were summarily executed, the rest sent to work camps. The executions by firing squad were even streamed live to a national audience to ensure the entire country got the message. A few courageous commentators derided the act as barbarous and unconstitutional—they soon found themselve
s in the same work camps—but the President defended his actions as absolutely necessary to prevent further dissension.
—o—
Major Regina Lopez was sure Cyrus Jones was going to be a pain in the neck to interview. If asked why, she knew she would struggle to explain it. She just knew. But she had finished the psychological profiling for everyone else on the team; she could not put his screening off any longer. Trouble was she could not find him anywhere. He was not at his desk or in the cafeteria and even James Newton did not know where he was. It was not like Cyrus Jones at all.
Eventually someone said they had seen Cyrus heading to the interview room. That was strange. She did not recall telling him in advance about their meeting. Maybe she forgot, or more likely her computer set it up automatically. Then someone else mentioned he was with two men in dark suits. She knew immediately they must be government agents, and there was only one reason they could be here.
For a moment Regina Lopez considered simply presenting Cyrus and Jenny to the FBI on a platter, cutting a deal to protect herself and her father. Only for a moment. Then she broke into a run. Not a minute to waste; Cyrus Jones would not last long being questioned by men who cut their teeth interrogating hardened criminals and terrorists.
—o—
The last time Cyrus had been this afraid was years ago when he was caught hacking a secure government system. They had offered him a job rather than throwing him in jail, but he knew there would be no way out this time. His only hope now was that he could somehow convince these rather intimidating FBI agents that he had acted alone. No matter what happened to him, he had to protect his sister. He was about to start telling them what he hoped was a convincing tale of an anonymous source giving him the documents, when Major Lopez charged into the room. He never thought he would be so relieved to see her of all people.
