by R A Peters
They knew too well from painful experience how weak that house of illusions really was. The chill of fear, fire of revenge, stink of paranoia and winds of opportunism are the real natural environment of our species. When threatened, the artificial constructs of society were easily jettisoned for the tried and murderously true ancient instincts. Men might fight and die for those postponed lofty ideals, but the causes of wars are much less complex.
Who would tell the grieving parents, the shattered spouse, the abandoned children, the devastated siblings or the shocked friends of a fallen soldier that they died in vain? That it was time to put this childish foolishness behind them and just let everything go. Hurry up and get back to normal. No one could shove that terrible genie back in the bottle. To the ancient Greeks, it wasn’t the wrath of the gods that would be released by Pandora’s Box, but the collective anger of humanity. A far deadlier curse than any supernatural being.
Once upon a time, the US waged total war against Japan. Eventually nuking two cities and leveling dozens more with traditional ordinance, all as payback for their killing of 3,000 Americans at Pearl Harbor. For almost the same causalities as on September 11th the US waged a worldwide, intensely bloody, generation-spanning war to prevent another attack. God alone knew how much death would be needed to calm America’s insecurity and assuage their bloodlust this time.
Sophie kept cleaning her new rifle, only pausing to switch the station every now and again.
Politicians gave their speeches. Businesses ran their political advertisements. Celebrities and religious leaders endorsed one plan or another, but that was just background noise. The families of the dead were center stage. It was the hysterical wailing from the mother of a slain National Guard fighter and the tear clotted face of his stoic father that provoked action. The heart wrenching pleading with God from the widowed wife of a federal soldier, with two terrified young kids in her arms, aroused just as much rage.
Once you ignore the rhetoric from supposed leaders and listen to the people, the question of why war was inevitable wasn’t so mysterious. Wars can be pursued scientifically, but their causes are rarely so rational.
Sophie’s phone rang, halting her channel surfing. “Kampbell, the vote’s in the morning. Your unit is assigned to protect polling station 12. Be there at 0600, fully armed. Any questions?”
Sophie just smiled. Her first mission.
Daytona, Florida
10 March: 1600
Brown and his little gang parked their stolen car in a strip mall inside Daytona. The “social breakdown” the radio harped on was difficult to find. Practically all of Florida’s cell phone networks were down, for example, but life was still normal on the streets. While Congressman Eliot used one of the few remaining paid phone booths in the free world to call home, Jessica and Brown went searching for something to eat.
No one in the grocery store gave his uniform a second glance as they swooped down on the deli. Brown practically salivated when he beheld the smorgasbord ahead. Not the variety found under normal circumstances, what with the embargo and all, but hardly a Third World pantry.
“All right. No more damn MRE’s tonight! What would you– holy shit! Twenty dollars for a box of fried chicken?”
The aproned clerk smiled and shrugged. “Supply and demand, sugar.”
A clucking sound brought his attention back to the store’s entrance. Some denim-clad good ol’ boy pushed two buggies full of chicken cages towards the customer service desk. A trail of shit and feathers coated the well-polished floor. “Evenin’. Heard ya’ll paying 10 bucks a chicky. Got me a whole mess ah eggs too, if yah ‘ant ‘em.”
Some guy wearing a white polo shirt with corporate logo and a Glock 17 in a shoulder holster strolled up, both thumbs in his belt. While an armed guard in a supermarket might be normal in some big cities, around these parts it was surreal. Just part of the new cost of doing business.
“Local sourcing is around back in the loading dock. Please take your wares there, sir.”
Jessica laughed and eased closer to Brown. “I guess demand was just supplied. So, what about a few Cuban sandwiches for our first date.”
He cut his eyes at her, suddenly alert. Before he put his foot in his mouth she gently squeezed his arm. “Relax, big boy. I’m just teasing. Let me pay. I’m on an expense account.”
The middle-aged lady behind the glass counter shook her head and waved at a sign. “Sorry, darling. It’s cash only. Barter’s available for large purchases. The boss is all worried about the banks and whatnot.”
Brown yanked some dead presidents out of his shoulder pouch to get the ball rolling on the subs. “Looks like it’s on me then. So much for feminine independence!” He wished he could take back that careless remark as soon as he let it slip. Why is shit always so much wittier in your head? On the other hand, it was a good sign that she laughed at his stupid joke.
Jessica smiled and nibbled the corner of her lip. He wondered if he imagined her whisper. “Oh, don’t worry. I always wind up on top in the end.”
Her eyes held as much challenge as invitation. He took a chance. Slipping an arm around her waist, he pulled her closer. For a long millisecond she hesitated on that delicious cusp, only to cave in completely and push against him. Brown decided to go all in. He tipped her chin up and charged those puckered lips.
Just before contact, their baggage came bounding towards them while screaming like a kid on Christmas. For the second time that day Brown wanted to shoot the fool, and he had just met him.
“They’re on their way! Let’s go, come on, please! Let’s get the hell out of this hick town!”
“Relax hoss. Even if the Army crossed the border right now, it’ll take the lead elements a day or two to get here.” He smiled down at the contemplative woman in his arms. “Hopefully at least a night or two.”
“Are you crazy? The military has had a drone watching us ever since I first called. They’ve got helicopters coming from whatever Air Force base is next to Cape Canaveral. Come on, we’re behind enemy lines here.” He finally toned it down and lowered his voice, trying to act more natural. “Could you imagine if these hillbillies knew who I am?” All the other shoppers politely ignored him and his rudeness. Rebellion or not, this was still the South.
Only then did Brown show nervousness. He hadn’t planned to go anywhere. There was too much unfinished business to attend to, too many of his men to avenge. Over the air conditioning and background country music he heard whumping outside. The three of them rushed to the storefront windows while everyone else ran to the back of the store. The search and rescue team was already here, with a pair of Super Cobras as escort. Brown weighed the impossible odds of taking them down with his rifle out in the stolen car while the other two cheered.
Jessica grabbed his face and pulled him close. Finishing what he started. They came up for air about 10 seconds later.
“Looks like it’s my place tonight…” she murmured.
After all this time, Brown was finally trapped.
*
Not only was Sergeant Major Brown welcomed back from the dead with open arms, he was even awarded a Distinguished Service Cross by a new command structure desperate for heroes.
His reluctance to talk about his experiences since escaping Camp Blanding was simply chalked up to PTSD. The Army intelligence types that debriefed him noticed many discrepancies in his story, but they had bigger things to worry about. Their consensus suspicion was he might have gone AWOL for a while, but after what he did for the congressman, best to let it lie. The official line was, “He’s a hero.” Why rock the boat?
Sure, the FBI team investigating the White House attack matched witnesses’ descriptions and some security camera footage to Brown long ago, but that line of investigation went cold when they learned he died at Camp Blanding before the attack. Thanks to typical bureaucratic efficiency, none of the investigators would ever learn that the rumors of his death were greatly exaggerated.
Even if they
had, they probably wouldn’t have cared. By now, all their likely suspects were on-the-run Florida ex-Guardsmen. Besides, the FBI would be swamped with thousands of other major attacks over the coming year. What was one more unsolved mystery at the bottom of the stack?
Freedom Referendum Day
Huntington Beach, California
11 March: 0900
Elections aren’t won by convincing your opposition they’re wrong. Elections are won by getting your people out to vote, by firing up your base more than the other guy’s. Of course, the corollary means keeping the other side’s supporters from the polls is just as effective a strategy.
This was the primary rationale behind founding the Freedom Brigades in the first place. The extremely tenuous legal status of these armed vigilantes rested with the fear of other armed vigilantes interfering with the democratic process. In practice, they were mainly used to keep the democratically elected Federal Government from stopping California’s statewide Freedom referendum.
The country’s most populous state had a long history of passing legislation directly at odds with federal law. Usually Washington looked the other way while the district courts sidestepped the issue and avoided making landmark decisions. Not this time. This was no minor squabble over legalizing pot. This unmistakable and dangerous challenge to central authority could not be ignored. It also would require a gentle approach and extremely delicate handling. So, with typical government finesse, they sent in the Marines.
Sophie didn’t feel at home in her new tactical vest or body armor. She no longer sported bruises when she took the heavy gear off, but the weight still felt strange. These new boots weren’t even broken in either. The strange Israeli made TAR-21 assault rifle also felt off. With magazine and bolt assembly built into the butt stock, pointy parts of this bullpup design weapon always jabbed into the side of her breast. Not for the first time she was glad they weren’t bustier. Comfortable or not, at least she looked impressive.
She assumed that’s why these FBI agents kept glaring at her. Some obviously worried, some clearly angry, but all showed respect. To her and her team protecting the polling station, at least. They were far less deferential to the local police blocking their way inside. Had the policemen been alone, yeah, they would have caved into the official pressure. Let the Feds shut the place down. With a dozen soldier look-a-likes backing them up, they were emboldened enough to tell the federal cops to “fuck off.”
California’s leadership would not tolerate a repeat of the street violence back in February. The Guard stayed on alert, but Sacramento ordered them to stay put in their bases. No sense in inflaming the situation further. Besides, might as well give these auxiliaries a chance to shine.
For his part, the president had decided on the soft approach this time to interrupt the plebiscite. He sent whatever federal law enforcement personnel they had in California, from FBI agents to Park Rangers, to try to put a stop to this nonsense. That gentle touch in the face of prepared, armed resistance only showed the weakness of the president’s dictatorial gamble. In politics, as in the jungle, weakness was an invitation for trouble.
Sophie had no way to know why these agents were backing off. Not all of these confrontations around the state were such bullshit stunts like this one. While the cops and Feds traded insults and threats here, in other parts of town they traded shots. A mile away, her sister militia group gunned down a trio of ATF agents trying to arrest them. These might be the first federal causalities of the day, but they wouldn’t be the last.
These FBI men received a call from someone. After a quick huddle, they just hopped back in their cars and sped off. Not another word spoken. Their abrupt departure even took the gusto out of the small cluster of pro-government protestors across the street.
Sophie’s group leader, they weren’t yet properly organized into hierarchical units, whistled. “That was damn easy. Look at them run! Talk about voting with your feet!”
Sophie laughed as well. Despite their success, disappointment gnawed on her imagination. Her lust for action, to put all this new training to use, rivaled any longing for a lost lover. How would she react when things got real? That sweet mix of anticipation and fear over her first time only heightened her desire.
When she finally found the chance, about an hour later, to go all the way she had no time to worry. Let alone savor it. Survival was her great orgasm. The rumble of Humvees filled the street, echoing off the apartment complexes around them as if she were in a giant concrete cave.
Those FBI cars came back leading two Humvees full of marines. No one blustered, threatened or tried to negotiate. Time for all that had long since passed.
Voters ran every which way to get out from between these groups. Some of the running civilians briefly blocked Sophie’s line of fire. She didn’t get the honor of shooting first. Who did is a little unclear. Her battle buddy up in their Humvee’s turret let rip his machine gun more or less at the same time as the marines. Didn’t matter. This was it!
Sophie took cover behind the engine block of some Mazda sedan. She leaned around the fender, keeping her head below the hood, and lined up on the last of a group of bounding camouflaged men. Noticing his body armor, she dropped her aim to his hips and led him just a bit. Sophie took as steady a breath as possible and lightly squeezed the trigger on her exhale, repeating a heartbeat later. The marine’s momentum kept him going several strides before his shattered pelvis locked up his legs.
She tried to line up on his crawling head for a finishing shot, but too many rounds ripped up the car around her. A bit distracting. Sophie waved at a couple of her buddies firing blindly over the hood of their Humvee down the street. “Action right! Three dismounts in the Walgreens!”
With a more concrete target to strive for, her teammates lit up the storefront and suppressed the hell out of the men inside. She took advantage of the opportunity and dashed to a better firing position. All the while shouting out more target ID’s.
Sophie spent the rest of the afternoon far too busy to think about anything but shooting, moving and communicating... and maybe the occasional smile when she popped one of Washington’s “henchmen.”
Chapter 11
Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada
15 March: 1400
Popular legend would have us believe “the Great Split” occurred overnight. In reality, the slow train wreck shocked no one at the time. It wasn’t surprising when the Freedom referendum passed by such a wide margin in California or that equivalent statewide votes passed in Washington and Oregon the next day. Even similar plebiscites being scheduled in the coming week in 12 more Western and Mid-Western states was hardly a startling development. After all, the opinion polls showed majority support in these states when California’s acting governor, after the federal assassination of her predecessor, first proposed the idea. That climbed close to 80% in the terrible wake of the first Battle of North Florida.
What shocked observers the most was how promptly the California legislature acted on the mandate to form a “legitimate Federal Government.” Within hours, they proposed and voted on a sheaf of new laws, requisitions and declarations over, well, everything. Just writing them all up alone should have consumed days. Of course, they did have a lot of help. Thousands of concerned lawyers, in the interest of patriotism and at the behest of the loose alliance of corporations they worked for, volunteered their time to assist with the great project.
Many of the laws were purely symbolic and unenforceable, an old problem for Californian legislatures. In this grand coalition of conservatives, liberals and silly moderates, who had no hard platform other than wanting to “see something change,” practicality and common sense were the first to be disenfranchised. With more power only came more ridiculousness.
Those laws were for the protestor’s consumption anyway. The real brokers behind the movement knew that money was the ultimate goal. Not for their own direct personal gain, but for the power cash gave. A few pessimistic visionaries were thin
king about Cicero’s old saw: “The sinews of war are infinite money.” Most were only interested in the air of legitimacy deep coffers conferred upon this new government.
At any rate, within 24 hours of California’s legislature declaring themselves the acting, but sole legitimate government of the United States, the first federal payroll deductions were redirected from the IRS to temporary state stewardship accounts. The speed with which the state confiscated federal funds and institutions was in direct proportion to their profitability.
It was also surprising how many of the bureaucrats didn’t care who they worked for. Not just loyal to the new regime, but straight-up didn’t give a damn. Protecting their fiefdoms was all that mattered. War or not.
The IRS was the first to be “re-nationalized,” while the Department of Education came in last. No one wanted to touch the Postal Service. Sacramento quickly redirected Social Security taxes, but chalked up missed payouts to the illegitimate old government playing politics with the elderly and disabled. The excuses could hold for a while and hopefully direct anger back east, but what a dangerous line the politicians were tight roping.
The elected fools tearing the country apart were simply riding the wave of public opinion. The corporations assisting them just saw an opportunity to shortcut the middleman of lobbying and directly enshrine a few key principles of free enterprise into the revitalized government. As for the regular folk in the streets, they celebrated simply because someone was finally doing something. So many were giddy with innocent excitement that after years of legislative stagnation something new was happening.
Obsessed as they were with their own private agendas, few of these movers and shakers imagined themselves as secessionists. After they struck such a decisive political blow the Administration’s support would surely crumble. The disgraced Congress that supported the president must disband and, after new elections, it would be business as usual. Better than usual, since everyone was busy carving out new fortunes and favors in this future America.
