Perhaps the time has come? Po Sin mused, picking up the old report and thumbing through the pages. The Americans are already without power and now they will be without information, except that which comes from, and is authorized by Washington.
Po Sin knew that very tactic had worked miracles in China for the past fifty years or so, but he was still apprehensive. After all, this was America he was considering, not China. Americans are used to a much higher degree of freedom…at least that’s what they think. I must consider this further and perhaps speak to the council…
“My Arab contact repeatedly told me to keep an eye on the Middle East. Why we should waste time on them now…” the aide was clearly baffled.
“Thank you, Fai…dismissed.” Po Sin abruptly waved off his surprised aide with a flick of his wrist. He leaned back in his plush leather chair and picked up his half smoked cigarette as the office door closed softly. He puffed, considering the news Fai brought. They want us to watch the Middle East…why? America is what everyone is watching… And yet they tell us to do this after we officially tell them to seek shelter and friends outside of China? Why? They know we do not condone their silly fascination with religion. They know we cannot afford to openly support them…at least, when America had power we couldn’t…hmmmm…
What are they planning?
CHICAGO
Crossing the Rubicon
MALCOM! WE GOT trouble on the Ike!” crackled a lieutenant’s voice over the 2-way radio sitting on the desk behind him.
Malcolm Abdul Rashid stepped back from his younger brother and picked up the radio, turning his gaze out the window south towards the interstate bridge over the Chicago River.
“Continue your work, brother,” he said calmly into the microphone. Raising the stolen high-power binoculars to his eyes, he scanned across the river at the massing National Guard forces. Something had them all stirred up. Perhaps the moment had come. He had been expecting it, actually.
“The Man may be ready to attack,” he said to his brother.
“No shit?”
“I can see three tanks.”
“Snap, dog!” said Tahru, rushing to the window and peering in vain to see the tanks of which his brother had spoken. “I ain’t never seen no tank in d’hood!”
“Nor will you.” Malcolm pressed the transmit button on the radio.
“Abdul, are you ready with the charges?”
A brief pause, then, in a rushed voice, “Yeah, yeah, I got ‘em set…look…holy shit that thing big!”
“Get your men back on this side of the bridge and wait for my order,” said Malcolm. It was the first time he had raised his voice in more than a year. He was following the lead M1A1 Abrams as it worked its way slowly down I-290 towards the bridge. It was a dull olive drab color, an ugly, menacing device built for death and destruction. Behind it was a Bradley fighting vehicle, painted in the same scheme. The third tank was another Abrams. The police cars were moved from the other side of the bridge to allow the tanks to pass. Malcolm could see soldiers marching calmly behind the third tank, advancing towards his people.
“Okay, Malcolm…we’re ready…” came a whispered voice over the radio. They could hear the whine of the big turbine engine that powered the Abrams tank.
“Wait…” said Malcolm, watching the first tank move onto the bridge and continue rolling forward.
“Yo…”
“I see it, Tahru, yes.”
The tank was almost to the midway point on the bridge when the Bradley reached the bridge and rolled forward. Tahru’s eyes darted back and forth between the sheer menace of the tanks and his brother’s collected face.
“Yo, what you gonna do to stop them?”
“Patience, Tahru…”
At the precise moment when the lead two tanks were both on the bridge and both over the water, Malcolm spoke: “Now! Abdul do it now! Send them to Allah!”
At the distance they were at, Malcolm and Tahru couldn’t hear the ear-bursting boom of the explosives Abdul had rigged under the bridge, but they could see the blast—even the shockwave as it forced the air away from the explosion. In an instant, the bridge was enveloped in a smoke cloud, but Malcolm could definitely pick out the 54 ton Abrams falling backwards and down into the river with a huge splash of water erupting well up over the height of the former bridge. The second tank was likewise dropped into the river, though the Bradley landed upside down in the water.
“Holy shit!” shrieked Tahru, instinctively stepping back from the window. The muffled boom echoed slowly around the city.
“Allah’s will be done,” breathed Malcolm. “We have struck the first blow in our struggle for freedom, Tahru.” The smoke from the blast was drifting lazily up towards the frantic police helicopters that were buzzing about the scene of the attack. In the moving waters of the river below, the Bradley had disappeared along with the debris from the bridge. The Abrams was struck by falling chunks of concrete and asphalt and quietly sank.
BRIGADIER GENERAL THOMAS Collrade carefully stood back up from behind his APC command post. He looked around as he waited for his ears to readjust. The world was reduced to what he could see through the smoke around him and the dull muffled roar from his abused eardrums. Everyone in sight was just now standing up from behind whatever cover they had found when the bridge disappeared in a clap of thunder.
“What…the…fuck…just…happened?” he bellowed, walking towards the last surviving tank as it sat in the middle of the interstate. The commander’s hatch popped open and a helmeted head appeared, the face a mask of horror and surprise at what had just happened a few feet in front of his rig.
“Sir, did we lose the two forward—“
Collrade stopped and spun on his heel, surprising his underling. “I can see that son! I want to know how the hell a bunch of rioters could drop a bridge like that! Someone over there knows what the hell he’s doing.”
“What’s that noise?” asked General Collrade. Whatever the low bass sound was, it was louder than the low rumble of the Abrams at idle.
The general drew his hand across his throat, a signal to the tank commander. The tanker understood, bent down for a second and his tank shuddered, went quiet with a last gasp.
Cheering.
Through the dissipating smoke, on the other side of the destroyed bridge, people were cheering. A few gunshots crackled in the smoky gloom, pistols and rifles. A few soldiers ducked, fearing an attack. Collrade was furious. First they ambush his tanks and killed his men, then they cheer. His eyes locked with the tank commander. The young man’s steel-eyed gaze took in the fury of his commanding officer and mirrored the sentiment.
The general decided to put his command authority to the test. President Reed had authorized any and all force necessary. General Collrade pointed at the tank driver then swept his arm across the river and gave a tomahawk chop. His hand ended up pointing towards the cheering rioters on the other side of the wrecked bridge. The tank commander smiled and dropped down inside his vehicle, shutting the hatch. The tank momentarily came to life with a rumble and shudder.
“Fire in the hole!” Collrade shouted and clapped hands over his ears. The soldiers all around did the same. Some ducked.
With a clap louder than anything heard in Chicago before, the main gun on the tank went off in a cloud of smoke and fire. The barrel smoothly recoiled as the tank rocked backwards a bit on its heavy treads. Nearly instantaneously on the other side of the river, the crowd of rioters disappeared in an explosion. Bodies were disintegrated and flung every which way. Many were blasted halfway across the river, falling to a watery death. The cheering stopped and panicked screams carried across the river. The 120mm shell had left a crater on the other side of the river. The few survivors of the tank’s reply picked themselves up out of the rubble and fled, seeking the safety of buildings further away.
Now it was the soldiers’ turn to cheer.
DAAAAAAMN, HISSED TAHRU in shock. He had never seen a tank in real life before, let
alone witness one fire on American citizens only 30 yards away. The destruction caused by one round from the tank was awesome. It dampened his euphoria over the implosion of the bridge.
“And the battle is joined,” said Malcolm. He lowered his head in a quick prayer for the souls of his men killed by the remaining tank. He vowed vengeance.
“Yo, dog, how you gonna fight shit like d’at!?”
“With brains, Tahru,” Malcolm said and turned from the window. He walked out of the office, intent on meeting with his area commanders.
GENERAL COLLRADE PEERED over the edge of the destroyed bridge, into the swift waters below. There was no sign of the tanks he’d lost or their crews.
Damn.
“Get the choppers in the air. I want a constant patrol—if they spot someone that looks like he’s got a gun, take ‘em down. Seek and destroy.”
The air-wing commander saluted with a grin. “Yes sir!” he barked, then ran to find transport to his Apache attack helicopter. There were three in Chicago, brought up on orders from Collrade the night before.
“I want the rest of our armor covering the bridges. All of them. If that means we put one tank for every bridge, so be it. Nothing gets across any bridge, Richards.”
“Yes, sir,” said the Colonel in charge of the National Guard’s mechanized armor force.
Collrade glanced again into the swift waters of the river below. “Get me the names of the men in those tank crews. I’ll handle it personally.”
Colonel Richards visibly relaxed. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”
“I want to know when you’re in position. Get moving.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Vogel,” barked the general, turning from the already retreating form of the tank commander.
“Sir,” said the staff’s communication’s chief, at the elbow of her general.
“I need that link up with Washington, yesterday. I’ll be at the command post in a few minutes.”
THROUGH HIS LARGE binoculars, Malcolm watched impassively as one of the Man’s attack helicopter crews got the word to lift off. The ugly looking helicopter had been sitting peacefully on the strip of land adjacent to Navy Pier. The bit of grassy parkland had apparently become an impromptu rear echelon command post. He swept the binoculars from the sudden activity around the helicopter and noticed for the first time a bright white Coast Guard cutter docked at the end of Navy Pier.
“Uh oh…” muttered Tahru when he noticed the menacing looking aircraft lift off.
“Tell your people to get ready,” Malcolm said quietly to his brother. When Tahru didn’t respond, he repeated the order, louder.
“A’ight, dog, a’ight!” replied Tahru without taking his eyes off the helicopter. It was gaining altitude and moving closer to their position in the Sears Tower. Tahru mumbled his orders into a stolen radio and continued to watch the activity at Navy Pier.
“Yo d’at thing comin’ this way…” he said in a nervous voice.
“This I see,” replied his brother. Malcolm pointed down towards the Michigan Street Bridge. “You see the lights? There are police officers down there on our side of the bridge. The Helicopter is likely coming to assist in a rescue attempt.” He turned to his brother. “Are your people in place, as I asked?”
“Yeah, they’re ready,” replied Tahru. He half crouched as the helicopter buzzed their floor and swooped past. The noise, even inside the sealed office building, was deafening. “You see that? Fucker got missiles, man! Look at the size of the gun on that bitch,” he whispered.
Malcolm said nothing. He was watching two blocks south of their position, where a ring of rioters was closing in on the trapped police officers. There were a few killed and what looked to be a dozen wounded. Malcolm rested his binoculars on the plate glass window and imagined how these men and women could end up so far behind the lines this late in the game.
He surmised the remaining officers from the 1st District Precinct who were at headquarters when it all started had tried to make it across the Michigan Street Bridge. Probably tried to keep order for a large group of civilians. That was when they were ambushed. The civilians likely made it to safety, but the police officers were trapped.
“Watch the pilots of that helicopter. See how he moves his head and the machine gun follows? A most dangerous weapon. We must be ready to act, brother,” said Malcolm, his voice the very sound of resolve.
“Here d’ey come!” cried Tahru, pointing. The soldiers on the far side of the river breached the barricade and ran across the bridge. Overhead, the helicopter brought close air support and hovered over them like a protective mother as they made their way across the bridge.
“Now,” whispered Malcolm into his radio. In response, a handful of rioters tossed homemade napalm canisters towards the soldiers, who were largely able to avoid the fire and continue moving forward. The soldiers began shooting first and killed two of their attackers, hiding behind a burned out car.
The helicopter flew sideways and spun on a dime. Malcolm could tell that the gunner had spotted the third fighter under concealment where the soldiers couldn’t see him. As the pilot swung over the scene, the gunner sprayed 30mm rounds which punched through the cars like Swiss cheese and obliterated the enemy target in a bloody mess.
“Your death will not have been in vain, brother,” Malcolm whispered.
“Jesus!” exclaimed Tahru, a hand up to his mouth in shock. “That guy just…he…the blood!” he stammered. His street-hardened mind had never seen anything so disturbing.
The dull thump-thump-thump of the helicopter echoed off the buildings around them. Malcolm scanned around the scene with his binoculars. He saw a soldier turn and signal his men to start clearing out the barricade. On the other side of the bridge, the cop cars were pulling back, allowing two massive Army vehicles to roll through and rumble across the bridge.
“Yo, we just gonna let ‘em get those guys?”
Malcolm looked at his brother. “They are gathering their wounded. Would you prefer they shoot our wounded when they come across them? I thought not. We will allow them to do the same. For now.”
The two brothers watched in silence as the big trucks picked up the small group of soldiers waiting for them and headed down the debris cluttered Michigan Street, headlights cutting through the drifting smoke. The closer the armored trucks got to the intersection of Michigan and Lake Streets, the more intense the smoke became. The sounds of gunshots rang out over the crackling roar of the burning buildings. Above it all, the constant thump-thump-thump of the helicopter’s rotors reminded Malcolm that there was still a larger threat to handle. The helicopter wafted through the smoke above, now visible, now invisible, like a shark swimming effortlessly through murky water in search of prey.
“Warn your people to be ready. The Man approaches. They may not be able to see the helicopter in the smoke…” said Malcolm, eyes glued to the streets below.
In the smoke, the helicopter slewed to the right to get a good shot, hunting the rioters who were hiding behind cars and building corner. There was a wavering flash in the smoke and a high pitched whine. Then all of Malcolm’s men in sight were torn apart like so many rag-dolls.
He could see the beginnings of a rout. The rioters on the ground first noticed something was going wrong when their comrades started exploding. The noise from the building fires and the shootout with the cops had hidden the sound of the helicopter’s chain gun until it was too late.
Sweeping targets left and right, the helicopter cleaned the streets of rioters in seconds, leaving blood smeared sidewalks and walls riddled with gaping holes. An entire company of men wiped off the earth in seconds of fire and death.
Tahru gasped in utter shock. The nightmare continued. He had known some of the men down there for years. Now they were just stains on the street.
Malcolm watched impassively as the downdraft from the rotors on the helicopter blew smoke around in a swirling vortex. The two large trucks had caught up with the hovering beast a
nd began to vomit soldiers onto the street corner. The helicopter continued to hover over the intersection, about a hundred feet up.
Half the soldiers got to setting up a perimeter by laying down a withering stream rifle fire in the direction of the remaining rioters to the south, west and east. The rest of the soldiers came from the other truck and immediately found the cops who were wounded and began loading them on the makeshift ambulance.
The helicopter suddenly began to rise straight up through the smoke between the towering buildings, shaking like a mad bee. Malcolm smiled. Every now and then he could see muzzle flashes coming from the office building to the south. Some of his sharpshooters were in there, on what he guessed was the fifth floor. They had a perfect angle to shoot down into the nest of soldiers on the street.
Malcolm’s smile quickly disappeared as the helicopter dropped down as quickly as it rose, then began to calmly sweeping its 30mm gun over large sections of the rioter controlled battle zone. Bits of concrete and metal from abandoned cars flew through the air as the large rounds tore through everything they encountered.
The soldiers on the street saw what was happening too and shifted their fire to aim up at the building they could barely see through the smoke. They weren’t getting close enough to the rioters to stop them, though. More bullets buzzed the helicopter. More muzzle flashes appeared in a neighboring building.
“They have cornered the soldiers. Now it is our turn,” Malcolm said, fist clenched at his side.
“They’re trying to pull out!”
Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) Page 15
