Hank Suthby frowned at the mention of his role in the national interest in such a negative light. He brightened when the President nodded for him to start the briefing.
“Hank.”
“Yes, Mr. President. Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s been almost three days now since we’ve instituted Martial Law, and I’m happy to say, we’re seeing the first signs of success.”
“Oh?” asked SecDef’s image. He half grinned, eyebrow arched. “That’s not what I’m hearing over short-wave broadcasts from the BBC.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Secretary, the British have their own agenda. Now, as you can see from these numbers,” the head of Homeland Security said as aides began passing around photocopies. “We’ve got New York, what’s left of L.A., Houston and Tampa under lockdown and contained.”
“What do you mean by contained?” asked the Secretary of State.
“Simply that—we’ve encircled the cities, we’re blocking all exit/entry and the looting, raping, violence and destruction is not spreading outside those cities, and in some cases, we’ve localized it to the downtown areas altogether.”
"And we're doing nothing to stop the looting, raping and violence that's now trapped in the cities?" asked the President.
"Sir, we can't solve everything in a week. I think it's good enough that we're preventing it all from spreading for the moment," replied Suthby. More than one pair of eyebrows went up around the room. The DHS chief was growing a pair and letting it show. The expected rebuke from the over-stressed President never came. That caused even more eyebrows to go up. More than a few looks were shared across the virtual conference table. Things were shifting.
“How much manpower is this using up?” asked General Stirling’s screen, looking at the confusing paper in his hands.
“We’ve got roughly one third of available National Guard units in the affected states handling ‘encirclement detail’.”
“A third for shelter—“ began SecDef.
“Eh, Safe Zone…” offered Suthby with a sly grin.
“Safe Zone, whatever…and the rest are doing what?”
“The remaining troops are being used to…persuade citizens to come to the Safe Zones. In cases where they are met with refusal, we’re handing out food and water, whatever they need. But it’s taking more time than we thought to reach the more rural areas and bring people in. I’m considering forced evacuations…”
“Just out of curiosity, why are we doing this?” asked the pug faced Marine Commandant. “These are Americans, not—“
“Frankly, General, it’s because without us people will starve and turn to violence. Remember, we’ve got large areas of the country that have been without power and running water for almost two and a half weeks now. I’ve got reports of cholera and typhoid fever popping up in the south. If we don’t get people out of those zones and fast, we’re going to have nationwide epidemics on our hands!”
“I’m getting reports from some National Guard units that there are pockets of ‘resistance’ out there. People banding together for the common good type of thing. When the scum come creeping out of the gutters in the cities, there’s bound to be problems,” said General Stirling’s image. He directed his comments directly at the President, ignoring the uppity DHS Secretary.
“With all due respect, General, I think you should focus more on bigger problems, like Chicago,” replied Suthby with an icy tone to his voice.
The General’s face flushed with wounded pride. “There is a stalemate, yes. But General Stapleton has the city under siege. This rebellion will die down soon enough.”
“Well, he’s already destroyed half of Chicago, he may as well level the rest and finish the rebellion off,” muttered Suthby defiantly.
“Leaving Chicago aside for the moment, I want to know the situation with our soldiers returning home,” cut in the President. “We lost two Marine carriers and a 747 in the last thirty-six hours. What the hell is going on out there, people?”
“Sir, it’s the U.N.,” commented SecDef’s image sourly. “We expected them to marshal their forces and launch an invasion, but we didn’t expect them to hit our boys before they got home.”
“It makes sense, that’s the weakest point,” said the National Security Advisor. “We expected marginal loses in transit. So far the numbers are in the green.”
“In the green?” asked the President, incredulous. “What the hell are you talking about Alicia? We lost over a thousand soldiers and Marines! That is unacceptable bullshit in my book. Marginal losses my ass!”
“Sir, I understand and I grieve with the rest of us over the loss. But this is a war we’re fighting—“
“And we haven’t fired a shot yet!”
“Sir, I realize that as well. We just didn’t think the U.N….well, that they—“
“Had the balls,” finished the President. “Backstabbing bastards. I never have trusted Europeans and now I know why!”
“Sir, we still haven’t regained contact with the Roosevelt,” stated Admiral Bortsen’s face on the screen labeled NAVY. He had dark circles under his eyes but his uniform was perfectly pressed and ship-shape. “We could be looking at a total loss. That’s over five thousand lives, sir. Losing that carrier battlegroup will be a significant loss to our overall strength projection in the Med. It'll make it that much harder to get our boys home from Europe without a carrier to provide escort.”
The President shook his head. “No, I'm not going to believe we lost the Roosevelt. Not until it’s confirmed. Keep trying to locate them. I know it’s difficult without our satellites but dammit, our grandfathers did just fine without satellites in World War Two, we can do it again.”
The only problem, the President told himself, is that the Japanese didn’t have satellites either, but our enemies do. And their’s work just fine. Bastards.
“We expect the attacks to worsen over the next few weeks, the closer our troops get to home. Remember, we’re pretty much fighting the whole world now,” said the NSA.
“Speaking of the world, General Nadine, what’s the report on the nuke that took out Mecca?”
“Mr. President,” said the Air Force Chief of Staff. “We were able to pinpoint exactly where it came from. Just outside Tehran, Iran. The Iranians did it.”
After the shouts of surprise and disbelief quieted down, General Nadine continued. “I don’t know the why’s—ask CIA. All I know is that we tracked it and the Iranians did it. But for some damned fool reason, the rest of the world is mad at us. Or Israel. The Israelis wouldn’t waste a nuke on Mecca. They’re going to need them to save their own asses in the next few days, I think.”
“I agree, sir,” said SecDef’s image. “From what we can gather, the Israelis are falling back fast. The whole eastern front has collapsed and Jerusalem is surrounded now. The Arabs are trying to push up from the south and cut off the south western army by reaching the Med. If that happens, Israel will be sliced neatly in two.”
“Divide and conquer,” said the President, exhaling.
“There’s reports the Russians are sending in an entire division of tanks to reinforce the Arabs,” said the head of the CIA.
“I thought you said that was just false info put out by the Arabs to trick everybody?” asked the President.
“Well…we did. This morning, however, we got word from a mole in KGB headquarters that the transfer is real enough. Vladimir is gonna help Achmed.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“That pretty much sums it up, sir, yes.”
Hank Suthby watched the conversation unfold behind hooded eyelids. He was getting the feeling that he was glad he hadn’t gotten command of the armed forces as well when the President signed the Executive Order. What a nightmare that’d be trying to coordinate everything…the domestic side is going to be tricky enough! Things are moving faster than I thought. I can't have too many soldiers arrive home. That needs to be priority number one. They've been out of the country too long and won't be willing to play b
all.
“Alright, it’s settled then,” the President said. “We’re going to pull most of our Force Protection into the Atlantic to protect the bulk of our people trying to get out of the Middle East and Europe. Everywhere else seems pretty quiet at the moment. No more warnings, people. We’re going to treat this pull-out like a hot LZ. I want beachheads, roadblocks, the works. You do what it takes to get your people home safely, I don’t care who’s toes you step on! If your people see someone get within striking distance, shoot the bastards down and send their ships to the bottom of the sea.”
The Commandant of the Marines grinned. “I know some friends of mine that will be very happy to hear that, sir.”
U.S.S. THEODORE ROOSEVELT
Haze Gray and Under Way
TOM, A LITTLE over twenty-four hours ago, the United States launched a massive air strike against Egypt, using high altitude heavy bombers. Tonight, Cairo burns, with reports that up to half of the ancient city lies in ruin. The casualties are estimated to be above a hundred thousand as no warning was given before the attack—“
The crowded mess hall on board the injured U.S.S. Theodore Roosevelt erupted in cheers. Sailors and Marines roared in approval, watching the few T.V.s in the room while eating their mid-shift meal. Clapping and cheering died down as the reporter, dour faced and duly concerned on the screen, with smoke and rubble behind him, continued.
“Our sources in America tell us that a declaration of war, put out by Congress just a few days ago encompasses any and all nations that are joining in the proposed U.N. Peacekeeping Force now on its way towards America. Egypt, as one of the supporters of this newest U.N. mission, falls under the crosshairs of the American military, it seems. But this reporter wonders why the civilians in Cairo, men, women and children with no say or desire to join this fight were slaughtered in such a bloodbath that the world hasn’t seen since Dresden, Hiroshima and Nagasaki….”
More cheers went up, fists raised high. Chants of “U…S…A…” broke out. Someone reached up after much prodding and changed the channel to another news station, picked up by the carrier’s damaged satellite antennas. The feed was static-filled and choppy, but the audio was clear.
“—news coming in to us just now that there has been several attacks—or counter attacks, I should say—made on U.S. forces over the Atlantic and off the coast of Liberia…”
The mess grew deathly quiet in a heartbeat.
“It seems that one, possibly two American Amphibious Assault Carriers were sunk off the coast of Liberia this afternoon. These ships, the U.S.S. Nassau and the larger, more modern U.S.S. Bataan were attacked by a submarine or submarines. Only hours ago, the Russian government announced that its Navy had sunk the two American ships, killing well over three thousand sailors and Marines—“
More than one man or woman in the mess hall knew someone on one of the two doomed ships and stared in abject horror at the static-filled images of the wreckage and bodies floating on the oil-slicked surface of the ocean off the coast of Liberia.
“—combined with yesterday’s downing of a commercial airliner carrying a brigade of Army soldiers, the U.S. is increasingly facing attacks from all corners on its soldiers and sailors who are trying to return home.
“The airliner, a Boeing made 757, was shot down over the North Atlantic yesterday afternoon by a German fighter squadron which attempted to divert the American plane to an airport in Europe. When the plane refused to comply, it was shot down, killing all two-hundred and seventy-eight passengers.
“Riots and fighting have broken out in most major seaports and around the airports where Americans are departing from in about a dozen countries in Europe and the Middle East.”
More shouts and angry roars from the sailors and Marines drowned out the T.V. for a few moments as the scene shifted to long distance camera picture of a battle raging near a U.S. Army base in Germany. German tanks and troops had encircled the base out of the mountains and were pouring fire in on the besieged Americans.
“As these pictures show, American forces are also under attack in their own bases, like this one in Friedberg, Germany. The Germans have, since this morning, succeeded in nearly surrounding the American Army units who are trapped inside their own facility. This next clip, filmed by our crew based in Berlin, shows the U.S. Army is not willing to lie down and give up just yet, however,” said the reporter, nodding as a cue for his cameraman to roll the tape.
The scene shifted to about the same shot as before, only there were more German tanks and infantry moving about in the foreground. Tanks were spitting up plumes of smoke and responding fire was coming from behind the tattered fences and buildings of the American base. Smoke and fire was just starting to destroy one of the larger buildings.
Suddenly, over the mountain range behind the base, a flight of Apache attack helicopters appeared, swooping down in unison and strafing the enemy positions as they flew overhead. Explosions and chaos erupted in the German ranks as men scattered and tanks tried to flee.
Cheers went up from the sailors and Marines again as they saw their comrades in arms rise up against the enemy before their eyes.
The main mission of the Apache attack helicopter was a tank killer and the film showed just how deadly effective the Army’s air wing could be. Within a minute or so, more than half the enemy tanks lay smoking and destroyed. The helicopters were eventually chased off by shoulder mounted guided missiles. One Apache was shot down over the base.
Fire from the American lines stepped up a notch and explosions began to appear in the German ranks as artillery and tank fire rained down on the besiegers. As a few white half-tracks suddenly appeared in the picture from the west, with blue painted rectangles on their sides unreadable white letters, the film ended and the screen shifted back to the reporter.
“Obviously, the Germans—once staunch allies of the Americans, have their work cut out for them if they plan on taking this base,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the much cooled off battle miles behind him in the distance.
Once more the mess hall roared with approval.
In the Admiral’s Cabin, the commander of the super-carrier rubbed his bruised chin and thought. He had been watching the same broadcast on his own private television with his remaining fleet captains. It was a council of war. He pushed a button on the remote and shut off the T.V.
“It ain’t lookin’ good for the home team, Admiral,” said the carrier’s captain, bristling with rage. “Bunch a back stabbin’ Krauts…”
“Can’t blame the Russians though. I always knew it was just a matter of time,” commented the man in command of the listing but functional destroyer off the portside of the Roosevelt. The carrier captain had called a meeting of his ship commanders, bringing together the heads of his little battered fleet. He had a bandage over most of the right side of his face: injuries sustained fighting the fires that broke out on the wounded destroyer. Heads nodded around the room as men agreed with the sentiment about the Russians.
“Never did trust ‘em; glasnost be damned.”
The captain cleared his throat. “Way I see it, the Middle East is a shithole and they can have it. We’ve lost enough good men and women fighting in this flea infested toilet bowl.”
“Sir, with all due respect, our last orders were to assist the Israelis,” said Doug Mitchem commander of Cruiser-Destroyer Group 8, in charge of all the ships protecting the Roosevelt. His ship, U.S.S. Anzio (CG-68) survived unharmed through the waves of air attacks by the Egyptians. The last crushing air strike by the Air Force B-52s, had convinced Egypt to stop sniping at the Roosevelt and her support ships once and for all.
“Doug, seriously…do you want to stay here and fight everyone, or do you want to go home and fight everyone?” asked the captain. A few moments of silence made up the commanders minds for them. Home was the one place everyone went when their tours were up, where their families waited patiently with open arms and love. Home was relaxation after the stress
of being thousands of miles out, in mostly hostile waters, treading the line between peace and war. Without Home….
“Those sumbitches in the U.N. are sending everything they got at us from all sides. There ain’t no one back home but the National Guard and a few home units. I say the Big Stick would be a welcome addition.” Many of the assembled officers agreed vocally with their admiral.
“We’ve been threatened, our ships hit…and sunk,” he said, lowering his eyes in honor of the dead. “But now they’re going after our families. Our wives and children.” He looked at each of his commanders.
“Not on my watch, gentlemen. Not on my damn watch.”
This time the officers and usually more reserved commanders of the Battlegroup did the cheering and shouting as the wounded Roosevelt fleet began the slow turn to the west, heading for the Straits of Gibraltar at the other end of the Mediterranean Sea. The fleet powered up engines and turbines, spinning props and throwing spray. In their wake, they left two support ships and a destroyer at the bottom of the sea, two thirds of their respective crews lost with them. Behind them, on Egyptian soil, they left a wake of destruction that would take twenty years to rebuild.
The Roosevelt Battlegroup was heading home.
INBOUND BOGEY SPOTTED, said the calm voice of one of the F-15 fighter pilots off the left wing of the British Airways jetliner. “Moving to intercept, 727 Heavy, continue on your flight path. Don’t worry, we’ll handle this.”
The airline pilot breathed a sigh of relief, watching the three American fighters peel out in unison and streak off to the north. He had heard about the other airliner full of American soldiers that had been shot down the day before and had seen all the posted threats on T.V. about cooperating with the Americans and flying them home.
Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) Page 45
