2047: Hell In A Handbasket

by D. Frank Green

  "You're going to be just fine, you momma is fine, your gramma is fine and you're fine. The boys had another fight, a big one it sounds like, but they aren't going to hurt my girls. Now, you stay here with gramma, I want to see what's happening. Everybody has stopped fighting, so it's safe to look now. Stay here, y'hear."

  "Momma, I'm sorry 'bout last night." She looked directly at her momma.

  Her momma's eyes lit up and she smiled broadly. "You are the saddest looking thing I've seen a long time baby girl. We're good. Don't you worry about that."

  Aleysha slowly raised to her knees, crawled to the window and only raised her head enough to see out the street below. Long experience told her she didn't want either the gangs or police, who were sure to arrive after this fight, to see her. It wasn't her fight and survival in this jungle meant either being the biggest lion on the block or the smallest mouse. She, like most of those who lived here, tried to be the smallest, most inconspicuous mouse possible.

  A quick peek showed a picture of sudden and violent death. The former attack helicopter had its nose shoved half into a brick wall on the other side of the street. The long tail was bent and creased right behind the doors so it jutted up at an angle like a mating dragonfly she had seen once at the park. The blades no longer turned but bounced up and down. There were sparks coming out of the cockpit and small fires burned in several parts of the machine. One side of the cockpit was totally destroyed and if there had been a person sitting there, he was now shredded meat. The other person looked dead and wasn't responding as the fire slowly ate away at his suit.

  Nobody else was on the street, and nobody came to help. Aleysha briefly thought about going out, but pushed the impulse away. This wasn't her fight and no matter what happened out there, no matter who came to take the fight to Jason and Ro, she and momma would keep her girls safe.

  27/05/2047 07:28

  The bread convoy used the same route on three successive days and Jason's plan was set for day four. The diesel-exhaust rumble of twenty trucks could be heard for five minutes before they appeared and eyes along both sides of the street watched them do a slow turn onto their street and speed back up on the straight stretch.

  Jason took a deep breath when the lead armored vehicle came into view. He hadn't felt like this since his army days in Africa. His pulse rose even higher, his hands were sweaty, and the adrenaline flowed. He knew from experience the first shot would create a chaotic blur of react-fire-react and hoped his gang was ready for this. Contrary to the books, battle wasn't fun. It wasn't addictive. It was scary-hell-shit that shook a man to his core and unlocked places in his mind that were never supposed to be opened. He took a moment to murmur a prayer and then focused on the lead truck.

  Thirty seconds later, the IED blew the five-ton, armored vehicle up and sideways. It climbed a full fifty feet in the air, did a 360 barrel role, wiped out a power pole in a shower of sparks and crashed through the plate glass window of the small deserted restaurant on the other side of the street.

  The trailing vehicle did the same roll a half-second later. The concussions from the explosions blew out every pane of glass on the block and the screaming from the terrified and wounded began.

  Jason felt the entire street stop for a brief instant. Jason sighed as the memories flooded back in, he'd seen this before, been in the vehicle behind the one blown apart, helped clean up the bodies afterwards. "Fuck."

  He pushed his rebellious stomach down. Took a deep breath and shot the driver of the truck trying to drive around the blast hole. Then he shot the driver of the second in line and the two trucks veered together to stop the convoy.

  "Go, go, go," he screamed into his radio and watched as his men and their families flooded out of his side of the street straight for the backs of the trucks. He looked across the street to the windows of his sworn enemies and waved a white towel to them while holding his flat hand out as if to say, "It's yours too and you're welcome."

  He smiled as he saw the surviving troopers were smart about this. They'd been shepherded against one wall, and stood apart from the action, fingers laced behind their heads, and watched the unloading. He laughed out loud as the first door on the other side of the street cracked open and two men, he knew them and hated their guts, stuck their heads, then leaned their shoulders through the door. They looked at his window, and he waved them on with a big grin. He laughed again as they ran towards the nearest truck. The laugh turned into an uncontrollable belly laugh, half of relief and half of amusement, as doors along the entire other side of the street released a wave of people running for the trucks. For the first time in as long as he could remember, the two sides agreed on the same thing.

  Jason took a long, deep breath to stop laughing. He shoved down the memories and calmed himself. He hated to kill the brothers, and he'd see those exploding heads over and over again as they joined the others he'd killed. Being an anti-guerrilla fighter was glamorous but the more successful you were, the faster you buried your soul among your kills. Nothing the army or QuellCorp told him was about the cost he'd pay for using his training and skill. He took another deep breath, held it. Then forcefully blew it all out to release the tension.

  In the stillness of his top-floor apartment, he felt rather than heard the air concussion of attack-copter blades. "Now, now now! Home, home, home!" Those of his people with radios started pulling their families away from any more boxes and out of the trucks. A few resisted but were either hit and shoved or simply grabbed and dragged back into their buildings. Jason stuck his head out the window, he could hear those big machines now, and yelled, pointing towards where the choppers would appear. If his memory of what those sounds meant were accurate, they were about ten seconds away. The others ignored him.

  Nine seconds later, Jason saw three Cobra-X machines pop up over the buildings, and then slow to hover. "Holy shit, what was I thinking?" The old tension rose in his throat, but he pushed it down like the professional he was. He sighted in on the lead machine. He saw the pilot had left his window open to cool down the cockpit. The first lesson they taught pilots in Africa was to keep the window closed no matter how hot things got. It would be a hell of a lot hotter when a sniper put a bullet through it. Poor old boy never been to Africa, he thought

  Jason knew the copter crew could see the group of marines huddled next to the building on Jason's side of the street, their location id chips were a perfect electronic signature. Their grouping together only left the far side of the street as targets.

  As the incredible din from the chopper's heavy machine guns hammered out their staccato rhythm, Jason took another deep breath to control his thoughts and quell the shaking. He sighted in on the lead pilot, exhaled, and softly pulled the trigger. Without waiting to see the pilot's head explode, he swiveled to the second helicopter. "Damn, window closed." His sights focussed on the third, and within two seconds acquired the target. Another second to settle the range and his breathing and another pilot learned, in the hardest way possible, the important lesson of closing combat windows.

  He put his rifle on the floor next to his left knee and picked up his rocket launcher with his right hand. He was now in full professional killer mode with no wasted movements or motion. When he looked back on his targets, he saw the first pilot he shot had jerked his controls as he died sending his machine directly into his wingman's aircraft. Those two choppers were heavily damaged. The crews were fighting for survival and trying to get their big machines safely, but certainly not elegantly, down. Jason saw the third, the rearmost chopper, slewed sideways but the co-pilot knew his stuff and was gaining control. He sighted down the launcher, heard the warbling target-acquired sound, squeezed the trigger and watched the rocket snake out to the cockpit door.

  The resulting crash was worthy of being filmed as the targeted Cobra spun wildly and smashed into a building on the next street over. There was no wild explosion as the entertainment videos liked to show but the plume of smoke and debris was clear evidence of Jason's succe
ss. The other two machines crashed onto the street below him.

  How long they'd survive on the ground didn't depend on their injuries but more on how quickly their buddies could get to them compared to how fast the gang could recover and react.

  There was no more fighting and he sank to the floor. His first reaction was exultation, Got the mothers! But his second was shaking as his adrenalin spiked and his body went into battle shock. He shivered as if every nerve in his body engaged, and he couldn't fully understand any given thought as it passed through his consciousness quicker than he could focus on it. Damn, but I need to piss was his first coherent thought. What's out there? was his second.

  He grabbed the windowsill and pulled himself up to take his first look at battle carnage in five years. It was as he remembered it, blood and human parts strewn along building walls, bits of machinery sticking out from people and buildings. People, almost all dead, lying in grotesque positions where they died running for safety from the cannon shells and he heard the wounded screaming for loved ones and help. The marines were all down, huddled together, each badly shot up, likely from the spinning helicopters as they windmilled with guns on auto-fire. The smell of gunpowder, heavy rocket explosives and shit, blown out of the dead by metal jacket rounds, hung in the air. His silence at the battle's end became the beginning of his survivor's grief and the tears rolled down his cheeks.

  28/05/2047 09:15

  President Barrett sat looking at the pile of papers on both sides of his desk without seeing them. Ah shit. This will define my Presidency. Why this? I need my own Gettysburg Address to be remembered by. Shit. No winning this one, thought Barrett. No chance at all. He sighed, loudly enough for the others in the Oval Office to hear.

  The room reeked of cigarette smoke and sweaty shirts and no matter how good the ventilation, the smell clinging to the fabric and furniture mirrored the fatigue and anger in the room. The office had seen war conferences many times in the past but this was only the second to deal with a serious domestic war. Extra chairs had to be brought in because Barrett wanted this decision to be made in the Oval Office and not the Cabinet or War Room.

  He stood, rolled his neck around loosening it up. The meeting was now in its third hour and everyone was tired. Walking around his desk, he leaned back to support himself half sitting, half standing on it. He felt so damned drained he wasn't sure his legs would work once he tried to stand up. He knew it was time to take control and look presidential though. Barrett stood, stretched to his full height, braced his shoulder back, and one by one, looked each of the men in the eye. Nodded.

  "We've gone over all the reports. We all agree on the facts. A faction of a gang led by a former army sergeant, Robinson or "Ro" Taylor hit a supply convoy filled with bread. They killed all marine personnel driving or protecting the convoy. When helicopters came to assist, the gang blew them out of the sky with a coordinated rocket attack. We've just lost 52 good men and women to an armed gang in one of our major cities."

  Barrett looked around the room to see if there was any disagreement. He saw they understood he was summarizing before telling them his decision. The time for discussion was over. Using his command voice as their Commander-in-Chief he began.

  "General Stillwater here has requested permission to clear the block. Mrs. Hudson, our Cabinet member for HUD has argued the civil authorities should take responsibility for this or we'll have racial and gang unrest across the nation. She also pointed out clearing the block will kill innocent civilians as well as the gang members. The two options, clearing the block and allowing civil authorities to deal with the problem, have been discussed. There are a few measures that slightly modified both options. Have I stated those correctly?"

  He looked around the room, seeing nothing but agreement in their eyes and stopped at his new Vice-President, sitting in the far back corner, who was looking at the floor, seemingly oblivious to the conversation flowing around him.

  "George. You with us?" he asked.

  Barrett watched his friend raise his head, met his eyes and heard him say, "Yes, Mr. President, I was considering the steps after this one. Where we take this problem from here and how we handle this entire crisis. But yes, Sir, I support you in this 100 percent whatever your decision may be."

  Barrett knew the look, and he considered the line "take it from here." Now his attention was turned to politics and power, George was turning into a formidable player and Barrett was glad he was on his side. He decided to bump what was left of his previous schedule off a bit further and chat with him right after this meeting. That son-of-a-bitch is the best long-range planner I know, he realized. He turned his attention back to the meeting and continued.

  "Gentlemen and lady, we have several options and we know from our experiences in Southeast Asia, the Middle East and Africa which action works and which doesn't. We understand the long term consequences for all of them. Anything short of a major response at this level, where the enemy has opened fire and caused first casualties is dangerous.

  Civil authorities can respond with measured force to capture and punish those who did this but with this invariably causes a long fight. The longer the gangs evade us, the more emboldened they become. We can react with similar guerrilla tactics but we eventually lose because they know the battlefield better than we do.

  Or we can apply maximum firepower, destroy them all, both the guilty and presumed innocent to fully and safely control the area while setting an example for others. This leads to long-term resentment but safety for our troops and, eventually, the population can be reeducated.

  Neither option is palatable in New York City. And it makes me sick to think about this decision but I, as your Commander-in-Chief, will not sit by while an armed group of citizens slaughters our troops. I do not care whether it's in Southeast Asia, the Middle East or here at home. I want this message understood. And understood clearly." The last was said in a tone of voice that would brook no opposition.

  He paused for a second to allow that to sink in and continued, "General Beck, you are listening on a secure comm-link. You are hereby authorized to use maximum force to quell and destroy any targets sheltering domestic terrorists or the terrorists themselves. You and your men should endeavor to avoid civilian casualties whenever possible but your primary objective is the elimination of these terrorists. That permission, in writing, will be sent to you immediately. Do you have any questions?"

  The President and those in the room heard these historic orders and the simple reply, "No questions, Mr. President."

  Barrett felt his stomach settle as he disconnected the call. He knew his voice remained calm, in command, and everyone in the room respected this. He could see it in their faces. But he knew some would never forgive him for the decision. He saw this, too. Even he hadn't been confident of which way to decide until he heard George's voice and understood his best friend had yet another plan forward from here.

  Turning to the group, he said, "We best have a picture of this moment." He looked around the room to see if there were any dissenters and finding none, said "Helen". He paused for a second allowing the auto-dial to connect him to his Secretary, "Send in the photographer."

  To the group, he said, "Same time tomorrow. Schedule it. We'll have city action reports by then to discuss."

  "George, please stay for a few minutes after the pictures."

  28/05/2047 09:35

  General Beck disconnected from the President's call and sat alone in his office. He leaned back in his personally moulded, support chair. The carbon-fibre shell had been specifically made to ease a back wrecked beyond repair by too many years bouncing around in heavy armored vehicles. His staff ensured the chair followed him wherever he went. He grimaced because he was surely a rear-end decision maker, the lowest of the low to those on the front lines, and he had a comfortable pillow instead of an eighty-ton tank under his ass.

  His thin trailer office walls echoed with the sound of a cardinal singing his heart out and looking for a mate.
This was much better than the flicker that woke him this morning at false dawn drumming on the metal chimney. Stupid bird thought it was a hollow log, and he used it to call a mate. Must have got some action because he stopped right after he woke me up, he grinned to himself.

  But then, sound ignored, he turned to the whirring printer spewing out his orders. "Death demands," his Executive Officer called them.

  The President gave the order, and he understood the thinking behind it. But like many who've had friends' brains and blood splattered over their uniforms, had killed others without mercy or thought because that's what trained soldiers did, he preferred to avoid a real fight whenever necessary or possible. He had lived long enough and thought about it often enough to regret every man that died beside or in front of his guns.

  "Colonel Khan, would you come in please."

  When they set up the park, Beck told the Colonel to ensure his flight crews were ready to fly at a moment's notice. He also knew the order was superfluous because the Colonel would have seen to this as his first task right after they landed. Beck smiled. The Colonel was a fanatic about "landing 'em and launching 'em." He trained his men to the highest efficiency ratings in the entire Corps for helicopter-crew readiness and his crews were more than ready. They were eager.

  When Khan came to attention in front of him, Beck smiled remembering how he must have looked to his commanding officer when he was in Khan's place. Commanding a full marine fighting force with the will to kick ass was almost as good as life got, even with the terrible responsibility to bring his men back safely and the weight of inevitable failures. Too bad this was a chopper exercise and not a tank one - but the helo teams wanted payback and this would keep both the politicians and his marines happy. Beck sighed, he was turning into a politician rather than a soldier when keeping troops happy was equally important to getting the job done.