The Dragons of Men (The Sons of Liberty Book 2)

by Jordan Ervin

Chapter Six

  A Method of Control

  Sigmund Dietrich stood quietly in the center of the luxurious living room; a radiant beam dominated his face as he listened to Sūn Vetrov ramble on about the status of wars and news elsewhere in the world. Six small drones hovered overhead, protecting him in ways his enemies didn’t yet comprehend. He shifted his gaze to survey the room around him, studying the gilded picture frames that hung on the ivory-colored walls inside the historic Italianate mansion. Sigmund thought about those who had occupied the mansion over the past couple hundred years. He wondered if any one of them had ever dreamed that the house they had lived in, slept in, and dined in would one day serve as a temporary dwelling for the most dangerous people alive. It was a grand structure at the heart of New Orleans—a worthy home away from home.

  He glanced to the woman at his left and smiled. Silvia Rios, the young Patriarch agent who gazed forward blankly, served as Sigmund’s quiet and fierce aficionada. She didn’t smile when he looked at her. That ability—along with her tongue—had been cut out of her years ago by Sigmund himself. She had been the first Patriarch agent to attempt defection and thus, had also become the first to experience the Brazilian’s Lake of Fire. She now submitted to Sigmund’s requests swiftly and silently—a testament to the power he wielded with the business end of a needle.

  Sigmund tried to concentrate on Sūn’s words, but his mind drifted to a familiar daydream as it so often had in recent days. He romanticized the slow and joyful killing of the one man who had ever bested him. He wasn’t sure if he was going to outright murder Lukas Chambers when he found him or reapply his digital drug of torture, though neither seemed adequate. Lukas now threatened to dismantle a lengthy effort to change humanity that had been centuries in the making. Lukas might not have known the full extent of what he had done, but Sigmund wouldn’t dare forgive ignorance when the fate of mankind rested on his shoulders.

  His anger for Jacob was surprisingly less than his loathing for Lukas, though he knew he would need to see them both dead before the end. Jacob had always been one to maneuver in the shadows—a cunning fox trying to decide which pack of wolves to best ally himself with. Jacob was one of the select few who had known far too much about what was really going on behind the scenes and Sigmund had a hard time believing he would have dared stab the Patriarchs in the back without just cause. That thought alone forced Sigmund to wonder if Jacob’s treason might have actually been some grand scheme orchestrated by those above them. So much death and destruction now swirled around a precarious world. It was the commencement of a storm for ages—a hurricane of deceit and war concealing the truth that had fortunately remained hidden from all.

  Sigmund smiled as he blinked that thought away, deciding to rejoin the others in the room.

  “…and if things don’t change, we will see a dangerous resurgence of the Iron Curtain in East Europe,” Sūn Vetrov said. “The Eurasian Union has already unified the existing members with China, Mongolia, and North Korea. Intel suggests that Russian officials are furious with the knowledge that so much of their ex-Soviet weaponry was stolen.”

  “Do they pose a threat?” Sigmund asked.

  “Not here,” Sūn replied. “Not yet. They are too caught up fighting Japan, South Korea, India, and the rest of South East Asia to worry about us. Despite all their progress on the war front, there are reports that the one place they can’t seem to get a foothold in is the tiny country of Nepal. Apparently, the Nepalese guerilla fighters have a history of non-compliance with outsiders and they are living up to that reputation. Regardless, Russia does not suspect us for the theft of their equipment at this point.”

  “And who do they suspect?”

  “Lukas Chambers,” Sūn said with a smile. “The most reliable intelligence circling around the Kremlin is that Washington DC and this new Imperium were defended by an army of ex-Soviet weaponry.”

  “Well, that is a fire that we simply must stoke,” Sigmund said with a grin. “Is it true about Europe?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sūn replied. “Far as we can tell, the entire royal family in England was assassinated in the span of a single day. The rulers, prime ministers, and nobility elsewhere are also being hunted down by the Imperium’s secret agents. Most of England has already accepted the lies that the Patriarchs were behind the murders. Meanwhile, Jacob Brekor is in London, opening the door for the Imperium to expand into Europe.”

  “And the people just…accepted Jacob?” Sigmund asked.

  “He swooped in like a good chap once the royals were removed,” Sūn replied in a mocking English accent. “Europe might not have been in the state of decay that America was when Lukas made his move, but they were far from stable. They had a rather large shortage of food—though it was hampered by the abundance of local gardens and generational farms—and their drug supply was low, just like everyone else.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sigmund said, waving his hand like he were swatting a fly. “I care little for what Lukas does in Europe at this point. Let him relive the failures of Hitler and Bonaparte as he divides himself. Moreover, I’m sure the Eurasian Union will be glad to keep him occupied once the Imperium begins to stretch itself across Europe, if they are truly as furious with him as you state. Now Mr. Onyango, my old friend, what of things on this side of the ocean? Are we still hidden from the eyes of our enemies?”

  A tall black man wearing a snow-white uniform and three golden pins attached to his chest—symbolizing him as the General of the Patriarch’s Three Armies—leaned forward in his chair. Mahiri Onyango had been an African warlord before the Purge. He had been hated and hunted openly by the world for years due to his brutal exploits and horrific genocide in Central Africa. As everyday Americans and Europeans cried out for his capture and execution, the United Nations had secretly supported him as their attempt to combat the AIDS epidemic. They had hoped to thin out the population of Africa so that they may one day manage its limitless resources with more capable hands. Still, even the few UN members who helped his regime didn’t know the man’s true ally had been Sigmund all along. Mahiri was a monster—a tactician whose true genius rested in the art of torturous, inhumane warfare. He was just the type of man Sigmund had wanted to win the allegiance of those who resisted.

  “Good day, Sigmund,” Mahiri replied with a cavernous voice. “It is good to see you again. The Graystone devices continue to conceal us and the Gulf States.”

  “How many do we currently have running?”

  “There were fifty-seven of the devices arranged before the invasion,” Sūn replied. “The bulk of them—twenty-four to be exact—were destined for the East Coast upon your request. Of those not lost to the Imperium’s seizure of our equipment, we have sixteen running nonstop at power plants. We should have had four more arrive in Mobile, Alabama, but we lost them when one of our large freighters disappeared.”

  “The Nautilus,” Sigmund said, clicking his tongue in disgust. “That ship was more important than any of you realize.”

  “Forgive me for my ignorance,” Mahiri began, “but what was on that ship?”

  “Insurance,” Sigmund replied casually. “We came here with three armies, a method to control those we conquer, which the Brazilian here will demonstrate shortly, and one large bargaining chip should things not go our way. Now, the final piece to that puzzle—a Soviet Hydrogen bomb designed to avoid all forms of tracking—has been lost somewhere at sea and no one can seem to find it.”

  “Forgive me again,” Mahiri said. “But what had been the intended purpose of this bomb?”

  “As I said…insurance,” Sigmund replied. “You need to know no more than that.”

  “And why would something so important not be better tracked?”

  “Again, it was designed so that none could track it,” Sigmund replied. “The Nautilus went dark days before it was scheduled to arrive in America. My best men are attempting to hack into the satellite history over the east coast, but they are always booted before they can
discover anything.”

  “You think Lukas stole it?” Sūn asked.

  “No. He and Jacob knew nothing of it.”

  “Then who else did?”

  “Only the agents on board and they wouldn’t have dared turn against me.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Mahiri inquired.

  “They had each bathed in the Lake of Fire and knew the reward for treason. Regardless, we will locate it as far as I’m concerned. Please…back to the Graystone devices. How long until we can move them with the military?”

  Mahiri’s eyes narrowed in confusion and he glanced briefly to the others in the room. “As much as we’d like to move them with our army when we begin to deploy, that is not a realistic option. They will need to remain behind.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Sigmund replied, confusion in his eyes.

  “Mahiri is right,” Sūn said. “We brought the Graystone devices in to be a stationary canopy. Moving them will require shutting them down first as they depend on a vast amount of power. If we turn them off for transportation, we risk granting our enemies a window to look into what we’re doing here.”

  “So we either come out of hiding to attack or we remain stationary and let them come to us.”

  “Yes sir,” Sūn said. “I am confident our engineers will discover a way to move them with large trucks, but that could be months away.”

  Sigmund sighed and walked over to the window, the six drones overhead and Silvia following his shadow as always. He looked out the glass on those who scurried about the streets outside. The Patriarchs had experienced little resistance when they first arrived, but fighting did arise in the form of disorganized struggles to flee the city. New Orleans was now completely under Sigmund’s control as the last of his armor came aground. Still, while he had countless tanks, armor, and non-Chambers firearms, soldiers were in short supply. His numbers were pathetically small compared to those who fled for the Imperium, and he knew that despite the Patriarch’s technological might, the time had come to swell their ranks with a horde of obedient warriors.

  “We were to come here as conquerors, you know,” Sigmund said, glancing down at his hands and flexing his fingers as he imagined wrapping them around Lukas’ neck. “We came here with a plan that was thwarted at the last minute by those we called friends. That plan—that entire campaign—no longer exists. If anything, all our preparation for that goal could now serve as our demise.”

  “What do you mean?” Mahiri asked.

  “We were never meant to spearhead the United States invasion from the Gulf. This army was meant to be an impenetrable shield for Texas to break against. Once they had shattered their bones against our defenses, our drone armies on the East Coast, supported by the hundreds of thousands of men, were supposed to hit them hard, washing over them like an unstoppable tsunami of fire and death. Last I heard, we had only managed to seize Corpus Christi, Shreveport, and Jackson before the Republic of Texas began mobilizing against us.”

  “Yes,” Mahiri replied. “We had plans to seize Houston, but our scouts indicated that they deployed a large detachment from Fort Hood to defend the city.”

  “Rendell,” Sigmund said, turning to the quiet man in the black leather jacket by the door. “When will you be ready to begin your campaign in the west?”

  “Soon,” Rendell said, his voice a deep and to-the-point growl. “Very soon.”

  Rendell Boss was a man of few words and even less morals. He had begun Sigmund’s quest for chaos a few months ago by initiating the attacks on truck drivers. After that, he had organized a group of angry men to roam the roads and instill terror where they went. His Agents now numbered in the hundreds, if not thousands, and were raiding the towns bordering the Mississippi River. Sigmund had reestablished contact with Rendell upon arriving in New Orleans, and he had been so impressed with the man’s uncanny ability to wreak havoc that he had charged him with preparing his men to push west on a terror campaign with Texas.

  “Ready your Agents to take Little Rock,” Sigmund instructed Rendell. “You will establish it as one of our main footholds against Texas. As for you, General Onyango, Houston is priority. We need that port. If we take it, we will be able to maintain a constant influx of equipment to battle Texas on our western flank. We will use our military here to bolster our men in Jackson and Shreveport. From there, my men in Jackson will seize Memphis before heading west to take Little Rock. If we can do that, it will provide us with our own Iron Curtain and gain us the ability to wage war against the Imperium to the east.”

  “Sir, I appreciate your ambition, but what you ask cannot be done.”

  “Why is that?” Sigmund inquired.

  “We lack the ability,” Mahiri replied. “Yes, we have nearly three thousand Yellow Jackets, but they are exceptional at defense and exceptionally poor at assaulting the enemy due to their slow speed. We have a massive supply of tanks and AVs that were not upgraded to function remotely, but we have very few soldiers to man them. So yes, we can set up a western front to defend ourselves against Texas and yes, we could possibly strike back against the Imperium, but we cannot do both without an immense influx of trained men. As such, either option leaves our rear flank exposed to the enemy. If you want me to win this war for you, I will need pliable men capable of training to fuel the furnace.”

  Sigmund stepped away from the window and approached the center of the room again—grinning at the other man as he did so. Mahiri Onyango had been called Africa’s Shetani, or evil spirit. Even with the UN’s help, he had been forced to rely on his own prowess to defend his jungle camps from internal and external enemies. Though Sigmund knew him to be a devote atheist, Mahiri had utilized the animalistic beliefs of his ancestors to cultivate a wicked hate in the hearts of those who fought for him.

  For years Mahiri had defended himself from the dangers that sought him out by subjugating the primal fears of his men. Despite the world’s belief that Mahiri was a simple bloodthirsty warlord, Sigmund knew he was one of the best tacticians alive. There was no reserve or political correctness with the Shetani; he was willing to shake hands with the devil himself if it meant escorting his foes to hell. Mahiri Onyango could analyze the facts of a military campaign and quickly decide who was likely to win and how. If he said they couldn’t succeed on two fronts, it wasn’t speculation.

  It was fact.

  Of course, Mahiri didn’t have all the facts to analyze and Sigmund was eager to reveal now that the Brazilian had finally finished his work.

  “And what could you do with a nearly limitless supply of men to wage your battles?” Sigmund asked.

  Mahiri laughed, his scratchy voice full with his thick accent. “I don’t like to indulge in hypothetical fantasies when reality can kill you on the battlefield.”

  “What if it is not a fantasy?” Sigmund replied. “What if I possessed a method of control that could give you a few hundred thousand loyal warriors willing to do whatever I asked of them? What if I could grow their numbers every time we took a city? What could you do with such a force?”

  Mahiri paused before chuckling again. “I could bring you Lukas’ head within a matter of months.”

  “Well then,” Sigmund began as he nodded to Silvia, grinning like a child with a new bike, “let us take a walk.”

  Another wave of fire caressed Victor Castle’s face, filling his nostrils and mouth with a slow and suffocating torrent of heat. He opened his mouth wide, partially to make room for the jagged branch of fire and partially to scream as he fought a fresh wave of despair that had filled him for what had to have been the better part of a decade.

  He tried to convince himself that the blaze did not actually exist, just as he knew the cloud of acidic vapor and rush of teeth cracking ice struck him. He had spent the first few weeks of his living hell attempting to force his mind to realize it was all an illusion—some nightmarish dream born from whatever it was the drone had shot him with all those years ago. As the weeks of torture became months, he realized his m
ind would never win out. For him, the fabricated nightmare was breathing and real. Still, he hung on desperately to the hope that maybe, just maybe, his younger brother Manny had been able to flee New Orleans.

  His focus shifted and he began to howl with pain. Even the act of thinking conjured agony. Thoughts formed all too sluggishly, like a drunken man with vertigo who moves his hand and only sees it obey minutes later. It was hell, a pure and undeniable hell, and Victor Castle wondered daily when it would end.

  A slight ripple passed through him, though he tried to avoid thinking about it due to the torture that followed thought. However, the ripple grew into something completely unfamiliar—something from an age long past. His mind naturally went to the best-case scenario. That is, he hoped his living body was finally giving up. He had wished a thousand times before for his sanity to give out, leaving him a shell that only existed in the fire, and he wondered if that time had finally come. However, the ripple that passed through him became a wave of nausea expanding from his stomach almost as though he had been flung forward. The roar of the fire and the glow of the heat quickly dissipated and he found himself gasping for air—real air in a real room—as the world lurched back to its normal pace.

  The first thing Victor did was vomit and scream at the same time. He had spent years in that fire and as bad as it was, it had become familiar. The sudden change back to reality had been more of a shock than the shift into the burning ever after had been in the beginning. His thoughts raced. Not just the slow, painful drawl of fingernails across the chalkboard that they had become, but congruent thoughts that formed at the rate they should have all along. As soon as the final wave of bile hit the floor, he paused his screaming to catch his breath. It was only then that he realized he hadn’t been the only one shrieking.

  He looked to his left and watched as his younger brother screamed—his head lolling around as though he were in a trance. He dangled from two chains, his arms outstretched at a forty-five degree angle toward the ceiling. A few seconds passed before his younger brother suddenly threw his head forward and began to heave and scream at once.