by R A Peters
The stranger dropped down, shook his head at the guy in back and clapped the woman on the shoulder.
“Damn fine job! But take this next left; we want to go south.” It pissed her off how her nipples crinkled at his touch, but she couldn’t stop. When he slipped a loaded pistol belt around her waist and buckled it, steamy breath behind her ear, she was positively…well, excited. She was a modern, responsible, professional woman. There was nothing sexy about killing and nearly getting killed. Why couldn’t Mother Nature join the 21st century?
She stayed focused and kept her eyes on the road, rather than on that rugged face. “Why south? It’s only a couple of hours until the border if we go the other way.”
Brown kept himself busy getting everyone a weapon and inventorying their remaining supplies. He tried hard to avoid staring down that neckline…God Damnit! She didn’t even have perfume on. How could the scent of an unwashed woman be so intoxicating? This gal was more trouble than tear gas.
“The whole rebel army is north of us. Believe me. I’ve spent a lot of time tracking their movements. Everything they got is up there. No one is south of us. What do you say we hit the beach and wait for the real Army to get here?”
She mulled that over briefly and tried to keep things light. “Hmm, and I didn’t even bring a bathing suit.”
The mental image of her in a bikini made John drop the magazine he was loading. He laughed nervously. He felt like a teenager again. A well-armed teenager probably being hunted by both sides, but right now, he didn’t worry. Amazing how tossing a girl into any situation suddenly makes it less disastrous.
He stuck his hand over the radio mount, partly just for the excuse to touch her. “By the way, I’m John.” She held his rough hand longer than necessary.
“Jessica. A pleasure. I take it you aren’t with the Guard?” Damn girl, she thought, turn the reporter routine off for a second!
Brown changed the subject to something safer, even if more difficult. “Listen, ah, I want to say…I mean, that was some hardcore shit, um…I appreciate your help back there and all, but why?”
She shot him another grin. “You’re not particularly good at saying thank you, are you? That’s ok, no need to. I see this as more a suicide prevention incident. I’m a reporter and saw the hottest story around,” she blushed a tad at her choice of words, “um, was getting itself killed. Besides, you got us out of there safely. Karma wouldn’t be pleased if I didn’t return the favor.”
“Is Karma a boyfriend or…?” Brown tried to stay nonchalant and scanned around the vehicle, even while scanning her intently.
She had such a carefree laugh. “That’s a good one!”
He was still trying to puzzle out what she meant by that when their luggage suddenly joined the conversation. “Soldier, on behalf of a grateful nation, I want to thank you for saving me from those fanatics. Now we need to find some way to communicate with the military. I’ll see to it you are evacuated as well. Oh, and by the way, I don’t need this. Could you imagine if a photo was taken?”
“Who are you and what the hell are you talking about?” Brown turned around in time to see the congressman waving the 9mm he gave him right in his face. In typical fashion, the politician ignored the “help’s” comments.
Brown reacted instinctively. He crushed the threat’s wrist, pushed the gun up and away, and tried to draw his own. Jessica reached over, seized his arm and rolled her eyes before he finished killing the suit in the back. “Relax, John. Let me introduce you. That’s Congressman Alfred Eliot, from New York’s 29th congressional district.”
John holstered his weapon. With disgust, he shoved the other gun, grip first, back into the congressman’s hand. “That’s how you hand over a fucking weapon. Keep your finger off the trigger unless you’re ready to use it!” His command voice even worked on the millionaire in back.
“Well, then. Please do forgive my…unfamiliarity with firearms. I’m afraid I’m not qualified to use one. However, if you get me to a telephone, I’ll have a hundred professional shooters here in a hurry.”
Brown yanked the pistol away. “Maybe you have a point.” Before he could get more pissed off about the idea of deploying soldiers as casually as calling up a plumber, Jessica got him back on track.
She reached behind her head and patted the machine gun turret ring. “I think we should stop anyway. We need to find a different vehicle somehow. This thing might not be special to you, but that machine gun sticks out in polite company.” She grinned wide and tried to get a rise out of him.
“We need to find a place to hide your big gun.” It gave her goose bumps when he focused all that intent energy solely on her.
“Yeah…sure. Ok, we’ll find a phone and a car to steal in the next town ahead.”
It was Jessica’s turn to be surprised. “Steal a car? Have you ever done that before?”
“Oh, I might’ve seen it in a movie once.”
Birmingham, Alabama
9 March: 1500
Dimone fled Florida in his private schooner minutes after the Feds’ initial attack. Despite being the first to run, he still arrived last to the conference. He spent too long trying to get back in touch with financial supporters that no longer returned his phone calls.
Being labeled a terrorist and hunted by half the country didn’t faze him. Even being forced to hold a clandestine meeting in a small church in Birmingham, Alabama with his few remaining supporters didn’t devastate him. Instead, the passion of his fanatical followers buoyed his soul. Obviously, he stood for truth, justice and the American way. Why else would people follow him so devotedly?
For their part, the various religious extremists, political radicals and conspiracy wackos willing to fight in his name were also inspired. For years society mocked them, but now who had a mainstream, Washington insider begging them for help? What better proof they were right about the terrible black/Jewish/UN/alien plotting all along? Humans might not be the most rational animals, but they were incredibly rationalizing creatures.
Dimone reached out a hand to Francis Pickens, sitting in the front pew. “It does me good to see you, Picky. You’re a fine man to stand with me when so many of your compatriots are selling out.”
Pickens didn’t touch his hand. “Don’t flatter yourself. What other options do I have? That puppet state legislature the Feds installed has renounced me and I’m only one notch below you on the FBI’s most wanted list. Oh, and for the last Goddamn time, it’s not Picky.”
The wannabe president’s gaze already focused on some other guy. This one in uniform. “Ha, good man!” He slapped the runaway governor on the back and went towards his more useful follower with arms outstretched.
“Great to have you on board, General!” He pumped the uniformed man’s fist, while ignoring his beer belly and mangled facial hair brushing against the strange rank on his collar. “You’re the first of our brave soldiers I’ve seen since the invasion! How many of our heroes are still able to fight?”
The old man looked confused, yet flattered. “I don’t rightly know what’s going on with the Florida Guard. I’m Group Leader Lee Davis, commander of the Southeastern Regional Constitutional Society, at your service, sir.”
“The Constitutional…what? Which unit is that?” Dimone was no expert on military affairs but even he thought something didn’t make sense.
“Oh, we’re not with the regular army, nor do we come from Florida. We’ve waited a long time for a leader like you, sir. The mainstream, ultraliberal media called us crazy for years, but we always knew there’d come a day when a Beltway insider would get fed up with that nest of snakes! We’ve been gearing up for a long time, and now we’ve got the one missing piece. No sir, thank you!”
It took a moment for Dimone to realize this wasn’t some sick joke. He shot a “what the fuck” glance at his staff that put this meeting together. “I, ah, I think there’s been some misunderstanding. You see–”
The bearded man sensed he hadn’t made the impres
sion he’d hoped. “Now, I know what you’re thinking. This ain’t amateur hour. You need real help to throw out those Washington fat cats. Well sir, I’m just a spokesman really. I’m the current executive of the Society’s board, but we are far more powerful than this little delegation here.” He waved at a motley collection of uniforms in the back of the church. Not a single dark face among them.
“We represent a pretty solid confederation of over 80 independent militias in seven states outside of Florida. Combined, we’ve got nearly 10,000 armed members and five times as many unarmed sympathizers. Our numbers have swollen in these last few weeks and we’re training them hard! Believe you me, sir. We can offer a lot to your cause.”
“Sixty…thousand, you say?” He appraised his staff with new respect.
The Bubba grinned. Finally, some respect. “Oh, yes sir. The South shall rise again and liberate the whole country!”
Pickens guffawed nearby. No one paid him any attention.
He knew the poll numbers well. The South was solidly in the president’s camp. Fiercely pro-American, which was to be expected since they’ve borne a disproportionate burden of defending the country over the last century. All he heard was only 60,000 supporters out of seven states. My how the mighty have fallen.
On the other hand, this force was larger than the Taliban even at their strongest…and look what havoc they unleashed.
Part III
“The time has come when the strongest arm and the longest sword must decide the contest, and those members who are not prepared for action had better go home.”
– Stephen Hopkins, after signing the Declaration of Independence.
Chapter 10
Florida National Guard Armory
Clearwater, Florida
9 March: 1700
Major Gorgas personally doubled-checked the last truck’s cargo. There would be no load manifest for this trip, nor the hundreds like them around the state. He grinned and scanned the empty warehouse one last time.
With no paper trail left behind, the Feds should have some fun trying to track down all the Florida Guard’s missing weapons and munitions. He’d even selected only the most trusted drivers for this final mission. Men and women who’d proven themselves during the initial invasion. Gorgas had no idea where they were headed. Which was for the best. The less he knew, the safer they all were. Every driver and the guerilla cell they belonged to were responsible for hiding their own weapons cache.
Maybe some of them would turn around and sell the gear on the black market. Perhaps some would just park the truck, walk away and wash their hands of the whole mess. Still, he was confident that most of the arms and ammo would be squirreled away somewhere. That’ll come in handy for the future resistance.
Satisfied, he flipped off the lights and stepped outside. He supervised the detail burning any paper records having anything to do with the National Guard. Gorgas tossed a stack of computer hard drives in the burn pit as well. The central data servers were already destroyed, courtesy of the enemy’s air superiority and paranoia. The personnel records, unfortunately, were centralized at the Pentagon. There was nothing he could do to keep the identities of his soldiers a secret. The best he could accomplish was slipping them into the new “underground” or somewhere else out of the federal reach.
That was getting much harder as the Federal Government tightened their no fly zone and naval blockade noose around Florida. He was pleased to get just a few hundred guardsmen to safe havens out west. Cuba took two thousand more as refugees, and thank God for how many they were willing to take in, but that still left way too many rebels to hide easily.
Gorgas grimaced as a jet roared above his head, racing south. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much chance someone higher in the Florida command chain would be asking questions. The politicians were the first to disappear. General Cooper never recovered from his wounds and most of the rest of the senior staff hadn’t survived the relentless Air Force revenge campaign.
Revenge was the only way to describe it. After keeping such a low profile during the invasion, the White House turned the Air Force loose to do whatever they could to halt the much feared “rebel invasion.” They blasted apart anything of even remote military value. Everything from A-10 Warthogs to B-1 strategic bombers roamed the sunny skies of Florida, hunting for vengeance.
Which was the biggest overkill Gorgas had ever seen. They’d pulled off the stand in North Florida by the seat of their pants. A damn miracle the first time and it wasn’t something they could ever repeat. The regular Guard forces suffered around 70% equipment and 40% personnel losses. The irregulars were in nearly as bad a shape. There wasn’t a single flight worthy combat aircraft left in the inventory.
To make things even worse, most of what they still had left was tied down maintaining law and order. Armed, self-organized militias and gangs roamed out of control from the Keys to St. Augustine, and not all of them were friendly. Not all of them seemed to have a goal either, outside of simple looting and pillaging. Many of them were preexisting self-styled militias that weren’t accepted into the FDF due to one crazy ideology or another.
The pro-Fed groups were frustrating, but the supposedly loyal ones were the deadliest. They were desperate and thought ferociousness could turn the tide. One of the Florida National Guard’s last combat operations was against an independent band of pro-rebel “white supremacists.”
These assholes didn’t have the balls to battle against the Feds directly, but when the fight was over, they had the guts to take over some small town. They went door to door one night shooting supposed “Federal collaborators,” i.e., anyone they felt like. Oh, the Guard shut them down before the sun rose. Not a single one of those bastards survived, but vengeance is a poor substitute for prevention.
The ranks of the state’s law enforcement agencies and security forces were seriously depleted. Whether from fear of federal retaliation, hopelessness of the cause or simply a desire to protect their families, more and more personnel disappeared every hour. Between the desertions and casualties, they could just barely keep chaos at bay. At least during daylight hours. The night belonged to the bandits. The once haughty Florida Defense Forces couldn’t even hold their own land. The idea of an offensive was a twisted joke.
The whole conflict was never personal for Gorgas until the unrestricted air campaign kicked off. Sure, he was angry in the early days; just like everyone else. The president was crazy, the governor was so passionate and everyone around him itched for a fight. War seemed natural. That terrible fever the only solution. They didn’t so much decide to start a fight as just stumbled into one.
The simple truth is he had been too busy being a professional doing his duty to examine why he was fighting. To wonder how far he was willing to go. That was just too complicated a thought to deal with. It was too easy to push down and ignore, what with all the other things he had to do. Only when he witnessed his homeland treated like some Third World shithole, just so that some asshole a 1,000 miles away could stay in power… well, it got personal.
Despite the partial social breakdown, he had to salvage what he could of his forces. Besides, that gargantuan federal force massing on the border, twice as large as the previous invasion, would be moving soon. They could clean up the mess. He had bigger battles for his enraged and now bloodied veterans.
He was officially deactivating the last Guard units and unofficially breaking them into small, hidden bands while the TV ran live footage of the second and final federal onslaught. He knew that this would not be the last fight. Not by a long shot. While the politicians in Washington, whether in suits or in uniform, jubilantly watched their soldiers storm through the state, Major Gorgas and millions like him decided that the real war had just begun.
Freedom Brigade Barracks
Southern California District
10 March: 1900
Sophie Kampbell shunned her graduation ceremony in favor of watching TV. Just like a billion other people around the world. T
he second invasion of Florida was the most viewed program in television history. It was also probably the most disappointing for action junkies. The whole “battle” fit easily inside the three-hour primetime slot, including commercials. In typical government fashion, this time they were ready for anything…just as the enemy gave up. Almost no resistance was offered against the enormous and carefully advancing federal force. The rare exceptions were met by such overwhelming firepower, employed with such flexible ROE, that the Taliban would think they had it light.
While domestic news outlets reached new heights of biasness and speculation disconnected from any remote sense of reality, the foreign news channels were bewildered. The First Battle of North Florida was dreadful enough. Why would there be another one? From London to Tokyo, the deaths of 7,000 Americans in a single day–a Pearl Harbor, September 11 and a couple dozen mass shootings combined–blew their minds. Everyone outside the US just knew that after such dreadful violence no one could possibly be interested in any more fighting.
Surely such horrific losses would catapult moderates to center stage. Cooler heads must prevail and this dive into collective insanity would be short lived. The naïve Europeans only knew war through the lens of pointless futility that the history books gave it. Most Asians were more practical minded and lamented how bad for business the fighting was. Much of the Muslim world was excited, either to see the price of oil skyrocket or to see the Great Satan tearing itself apart. They only prayed that the US wouldn’t blame them somehow. It seemed only Africa and some parts of South America could understand and sympathize with the American outrage.
They were the only ones personally familiar with the fact that people haven’t improved much from the Stone Age. Only the conditions we live in have changed. All our enlightened ideals are just the products of idle time and not of a new environment. The peace and security of civilization allows people the chance to indulge in such luxuries as liberalism, humanism, tolerance and compassion.
