by R A Peters
Still, like most things in Florida, it was only for show. The “closed border” was one of the most active in the world. By conservative estimates, a quarter million people crossed every day. Mostly headed north to get out of the way of the oncoming storm, but a surprisingly large number coming south looking for trouble.
Another crumbling aspect of the facade were the local politicians that weren’t on board with the program. Especially from communities that benefited heavily from federal spending. For the most part, Tallahassee followed the time-honored political strategy of just ignoring them. This whole stunt was supposed to be for the cameras anyway. Any attempt to punish the local holdouts would give the enemies of Florida, naturally defined as Senator Dimone’s political opponents, proof that they weren’t such a united front.
In this game of high-stakes chicken, a war of explosive bluffs and rapid-fire sound bites, the slightest perception of weakness was a battle lost. In retrospect, this same facade of steely resolve scared so much of the country and guaranteed a heavy-handed response. Like so many accidents, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Just act invincible a little while longer. Keep consolidating your base support while the other guy’s split. An old strategy, but effective. Dimone and his team saw the president’s extreme blustering as desperation. The more they provoked him, the more rope he had to hang himself. Of course, the harder they pushed, the more his actions appeared justified. Welcome to the surreal world of American politics.
Acting Governor Pickens fanned himself while he waited outside the convention center for the conference to start. This Council of Governors meeting here in Tampa should have been the centerpiece of the grand theater. They weren’t off to a great start. The name itself was a misnomer. Only a handful of governors came themselves and not even every state bothered to send a representative. No matter. None of the organizers were getting bogged down in such technicalities.
Dimone’s handlers kept their eyes on the big picture. On all that mattered: how the show looked on television. The décor, the pageantry, a few celebrities, the marching band and the laser light show were all so over the top as to make Kim Jong-un look humble.
This desperate gamble was the biggest sign for Governor Pickens, head honcho after his old boss finally passed away and the lieutenant governor resigned overseas, that maybe he wasn’t backing the winning horse after all. The president’s donors definitely had deeper pockets and weren’t shy about reaching in.
The other side’s advertising blitz numbed the mind. Those Washington elites didn’t bother spending marketing money in Florida; why compete with Dimone’s money in a state that was already lost? Instead, they showered the swing states in their cash. It was working, too. While Florida grew more radical, the polls everywhere that mattered swung slowly but steadily in the president’s favor.
Pickens shot the excited reporters another million-dollar smile. No, it wasn’t that bad. If they could flip just a few sympathetic governors, the president’s hold on power would collapse. Only a mass movement, or something perceived as popular, could rattle the Administration’s power tree. One rough shake and the president and all his cohorts would come tumbling out of their clubhouse.
Conversely, Dimone stood on the ground with no real tree of his own. This get together was the best and maybe last chance to show the legitimacy the senator’s campaign so badly needed. It also couldn’t hurt Pickens own standing. The acting governor didn’t try to suppress his self-satisfied smile as he counted all the network cameras crowded around the convention center’s entrance. The senator and company liked to treat the governor as a useful fool. Well, who outmaneuvered whom tonight?
Senator Dimone was going to be the last to arrive at his own party. What a smooth move from Pickens to convince Dimone’s PR team, at the last second, to slip the governors of California and Washington into the senator’s motorcade instead of the boss. Those two were by far the most famous and prestigious guests. Their presence ensured instant and major media obsession. Riding in Dimone’s limousine, they would draw the network attention first, helping to bolster the senator’s national leader credentials. They were truly the opening act for his grand entrance.
The key detail Pickens left out was who, of all people, would be the smiling face welcoming them to the Freedom Convention? While the senator rode along behind them in an unmarked SUV, just a little too late for the big show. Pickens beamed harder and fiddled with his American flag lapel as the motorcade drew within sight.
A quick whoosh drowned out the humming crowd. Pickens did briefly see the missile’s flaming tail, though his mind wouldn’t register the fact until he dreamed about that night in agonizing detail. After the black cloud cleared, the strike’s precision was impressive. The laser-guided death ripped Dimone’s limousine into two twisted pieces and left a small crater in the road…but caused zero collateral damage. No physical collateral damage, at least. The fallout from the cameras streaming raw footage of the assassination of two popular state governors worldwide was a different story.
The motorcade’s security detail had kept the dangerous crowds and suspicious traffic at a safe distance. Which just made their principal an even more inviting target for the Reaper drone cruising 5,000 feet overhead. It would continue to circle for another half hour and use a variety of outrageously expensive sensors to confirm that Senator Dimone did not survive the attack.
Shocked as he was, Dimone still knew a photo op when he saw one. Despite the wrenching of his stomach, he sprinted from his place in the rear of the convoy straight towards the fire. The moths and their cameras fluttered in from the convention center. Casting about for the best response, he began performing something similar to CPR on a fallen motorcycle cop. The officer’s pleas that he, “only had the wind knocked out,” were met with more vigorous pumping and awkward attempts to kiss him by Dimone.
Just as the policeman began drawing his service pistol to finish what the drone couldn’t, another cop stepped in and “relieved” the politician. Dimone fired off that world famous grin and shouted at the cameras. “He’s going to make it!”
Neither of the neutral, but beloved governors of Washington and California in the shredded limo were so lucky.
Three hundred miles northwest at Eglin Air Force base an Air Force general, provisionally promoted after his predecessor refused to carry out the mission, congratulated an unhappy pilot sitting in a souped-up Xbox video game console. A junior officer peeked in and meekly suggested he should turn on the TV and, by the way, there was a rather pissed off White House staffer on the line.
Lake Butler, Florida
11 February: 2100
Despite the supposed lockdown, Sergeant Major Brown didn’t have much of a problem moving around Florida. The stolen out of state truck didn’t draw as much attention as he worried it might. The cops appeared to have bigger worries. He grabbed another beer and studied the notes and photos he accumulated over the last few days.
While most people would have wallowed in self-pity after their revenge scheme backfired, Brown was only more resolved to do his duty. He might have failed at avenging his fallen men, but he could at least save the survivors. He owed his honor that much.
The least wounded survivors of Brown’s unit had been moved to a minimum-security prison not too far from the original fighting. A prison just a few miles down the road from his motel room.
Getting detailed inside knowledge of the detention center was incredibly easy. The guards might have been hardnosed civil servants, but the Corrections Department relied on an army of minimum wage contractors for all sorts of tasks. An entire weekend spent in local honkytonks, 500 bucks in direct bribes and probably as much in free booze, got him everything he needed to know. Brown looked over a copy of the guard duty roster, detailed maps, the week’s schedules of everything and pages of miscellaneous tips. Man, he wasted his career in the military. Should have joined the CIA.
Nah, spying didn’t interest him, but human intelligen
ce was crucial to his mission. This secret transfer of his people to an unknown location in the morning was pretty interesting. He’d already scouted the route they would take to the interstate and cleaned his weapons. He’d even run through some drills. The prepping was finished.
Time to end his little vacation and get back to work. War was his profession, and Brown was damn good at it.
Starke, Florida
12 February: 0900
The State Trooper driving the lead car swore under his breath as they hit a traffic jam. All that careful route planning thrown out the window by some random accident.
“Damn drunks!”
He fought the temptation to flip on the siren and blow through. No good, the trooper had orders to keep a low profile. He looked over at his partner. “You found a new route yet?”
“Well, the quickest way to the interstate is to go back two lights and cut through the industrial side of town. Hmm, probably set us back only a couple minutes. I better call the Guard anyway and let ‘em know we’ll be late.”
The driver flashed the blues to clear space for a U-turn. “I still don’t get why we need a military escort to drive these guys to Georgia. We have enough manpower to stop a lynch mob, even if people found out what we’re carrying. Seems like a waste of money to send troops.”
His partner hung up the phone. “Speak of the devil. The National Guard doesn’t want to wait for us. They’ll meet our convoy on the way. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think they don’t trust us. Damn amateurs.” He radioed the change of plans to the prison bus and follow-on car.
The driver grinned conspiratorially as they turned off into much thinner traffic. “We ought to ditch the soldier boys. Just take the cargo to the border ourselves. Man, I think the president is a socialist asshole, but he isn’t a dictator. That’s all a bunch of bullshit. Getting the Guard involved in this mess just provokes people. Makes everything more intense than it needs to be.”
His partner threw up his hands. “Maybe, but…hell, I don’t know. You heard the president’s speeches…Well, you can’t argue the fact he’s still in power weeks after his term ended. That’s suspicious enough, to me. Anyways, you’re right that this Guard commitment is stupid. Just politics. I think the governor wants to give these prisoners back as a de-escalation gesture, but not so gently remind the president that we’re still ready to fight. Trying to negotiate without showing weakness. You can at least respect what he’s trying to do.”
The driver shook his head. “And we’re stuck in the middle of their pissing match. Well, at least it’s easy overtime!”
“A lot of overtime, if we keep hitting every damn red light.” His partner sighed as they came to another halt.
*
Behind them, a black F250 inconspicuously closed the distance. Sergeant Major Brown had fantasized about building an Improvised Explosive Device (IED). He’d fought against insurgents long enough and captured plenty enough devices to figure out how to reproduce a decent one. No, too much could go wrong. He decided to keep things simple. Except for helping guide the convoy through the warehouse district on a weekend, to reduce the risk to bystanders, he didn’t do anything to the route.
One last minute hiccup to fix. Brown gently sideswiped some random minivan in the next lane. The infuriated driver pulled over and called the cops, while trying to get the license plate of this hit-and-run asshole. After a last scan to make sure no other civilians were around, Brown hit the gas in his trusty stolen pickup and bore down on his prey. He had nothing against the police. What he had to do truly saddened him, but they were big boys. They chose which side to join. Life wasn’t pretty for John, but it sure was black and white.
Both State Police cars stopped a comfortable distance ahead of and behind the packed Florida Department of Corrections bus. The little convoy also waited in the right lane, rather than trying to block all traffic. Perfect.
Style wasn’t Brown’s strong suite. Filmmakers would find his brute force ‘tactics’ boring, but no doubt they were effective. He stayed in the left lane and slowed down casually as he approached the light. Just as he pulled abreast of the rear police car, he crushed the breaks.
Brown already had the side window rolled down and his semi-automatic shotgun rigged on a sling…pointing at a preplanned, slightly downward angle. With 20 rounds ready in the drum, all he had to do was reach over and tap the trigger one-handed.
The two bored uniforms glanced up at the truck in time to see the last muzzle flash of their lives. Brown let rip eight rounds of double-aught buckshot into the unarmored car below. Refraction from the shattered windshield and protection from their bulletproof vests stopped many of the 64 pellets, but not enough. A few still hit something vital. The driver’s head blew wide open. His partner lived a few minutes longer, but he was clearly out of the fight.
Three seconds later, Brown sped forward twenty yards and locked the sling into the next firing position. He repeated the well-practiced maneuver with the DOC’s bus driver and his backup man. 2/3rds of the enemy dead in 11 seconds. Brown wasn’t pleased. It hadn’t taken him longer than 9 seconds in the dry runs. The gun smoke assaulted his senses and watered his eyes. Strange, because that had never happened before. He ignored it and focused on the tactical problem in front of him.
There were two possibilities he’d planned for. He couldn’t expect the lead vehicle to sit complacently and wait for death. They would either jump out and fight or speed away from the immediate kill zone and dismount under cover. Brown had a strategy to deal with each eventuality. When he saw the car spurt forward, but leave behind one shooting officer, he laughed. Of course the enemy didn’t get the memo about his plans. Oh well. “Adapt and overcome,” he muttered.
He dropped his head down and surged the truck forward. The on-foot policeman easily dodged the blind pickup. The cop emptied his magazine into the vulnerable driver’s side door during that brief moment as it swept past. Only five feet away. Impossible to miss.
Once past the angry cop, Brown downshifted and aimed for the U-turning squad car ahead. Stripping out most of the cabin’s interior and mounting that cheap steel backing behind the console and doors was a damn good last minute call. At the time, he thought he was becoming a Nervous Nelly in his old age. The “armor” wouldn’t stop a rifle, but it did the trick against these 9mm handgun rounds. Sometimes paranoia comes in handy.
He passed out of effective pistol range before the other officer reloaded. The cop ahead misread the situation and assumed this stranger was trying to escape. He stopped his turn and stayed in his vehicle to block the road. The lawman should be excused for that fatal error. His previous experience with armed men revolved around trying to catch them.
Total war was something new.
Brown rammed his “deer scraper” grill into the tire on the police car’s lightest end. The squad car made a screeching, bouncing, complete 360° turn. He had cut out the airbag in his truck before the fight, so nothing got in the way of yanking the quick release strap for the shotgun and redeploying it out the driver’s window. The sergeant major emptied his last four rounds through the barely conscious officer’s windshield and airbag. The cop slipped into the next world without a clue what caused it.
Brown calmly exchanged his shotgun for an AK-47 knockoff in the cab and dismounted. He absentmindedly put two in the chest and one in the head of the other State Trooper charging towards vengeance. Mopping up done, he massaged his aching ribs with one hand while scanning for new threats. All clear. He began to flash thumbs up to his men back on the bus, but then felt fear for the first time today.
Smoke poured out of the bus’s cabin. He dashed in as fast as he could to help. Nearly there, his nose dripped. Brown finally recognized the mild sting of tear gas. One of the guards must still be alive and was gassing his troops! He brought his rifle up to the high ready and prepared to finish the job he started.
Only a couple of yards from the door, a familiar grumbling behind him changed his plans.
Without looking back to confirm, he veered left and slid to cover behind a brick sign for some manufacturing company. Just in time.
Less than two hundred yards past his wrecked truck four green Humvees raced his way. They must have seen him dive in here. Hell, he was the only moving thing around. The National Guard probably weren’t shooting because they couldn’t be a 100% sure which side he was on. Time to remove any doubt.
The sergeant major took careful aim from the prone and popped the lead gunner in the neck. Don’t look for their reaction; react first! He sprang to his feet and dashed behind a semi-truck parked nearby. By the time the other three Humvee gunners responded and lit up the whole area Brown crouched 20 yards deeper in the parking lot. The long trailer didn’t provide much proper cover, but the concealment was enough, for now. He smashed a glass door from the locked building behind him and slipped inside.
Escaping from sight and direct danger gave him a chance to flank these National Guard fellas. The idea of one man taking on twenty was insane, but what else was he supposed to do? The shouts of his trapped brothers in the smoking bus steadied him. Brown faded deeper into the sprawling network of warehouses and shipping offices.
The armored Humvees halted within 50 yards of the stranded bus and fanned out. Gunners and drivers provided over watch against the lost sniper while the dismounts swept the area. The bus wasn’t a threat; those prisoners were all about to be released anyway. The only problem lay with this crazy vigilante.
The sergeant major’s half-conceived strategy was to overwhelm one of the Humvee’s and turn the machine gun on the others. Maybe it could have worked; maybe it was suicide. Either way, he never got an opportunity to find out. His stealthy approach on the farthest away truck wasn’t sneaky enough. The dismounted driver heard gravel crunching and spun around before Brown could plant his K-Bar into the terrified kid’s liver. He beat the surprised guy to the draw, at least, and put two messy rounds through the guardsman’s head first.
