“We have to limit this to only commercial or military people or vehicles. Civilians will be left alone. Anyone who shoots an unarmed foreign civilian—will have to answer to me,” he growled, pointing at his own chest. Then his mood lightened.
“Of course, there shouldn’t be any civilians in this invasion, so I wouldn’t worry yourselves to much about it. Otherwise, if you keep it legal and only go after legitimate targets, you keep what you take…tax free.” He imagined the cheers going up across the country at that those two little words.
The President made a show by signing the document with a flourish. “There, it’s signed. It is now the law of the land. This is for all you foreigners out there thinking we’re gonna be easy money.” The cameras zoomed in on the President’s face. “Hunting season is open.”
The cameras took his cue and backed off. The President stood again, just under a large painting of George Washington. “Good night, America…and may God give us guidance and strength in the coming weeks and months. May He grant you safety and good aim and may He continue to bless this, the greatest nation on the face of the earth.”
THE RUSSIAN LAUGHED out loud at the slack-jawed faces of his fellow conspirators. “Come comrades! Drink! The battle is joined, da? Come, come—here, drink this, Pierre, it will fortify you against the American pirates! HAR!” he guffawed, handing the Frenchman a hastily made vodka martini. It spilled on the floor as the Russian nearly doubled over laughing.
Slapping the German on the back he offered another drink. “Here, comrade! To our good fortune!”
“You fool, what is possessing you to celebrate!?” asked the Iranian. “Did you not just hear the American defy us openly??”
“HA! HA! Da, I did!” He slugged another shot of vodka. “I did!” he said, eyes burning and his voice rough. Suddenly he grew quite serious and calm. The others watched him warily. He knew they thought him drunk, and he didn’t care anymore.
“We have made our bed, comrades. Now we sleep in it.” The Russian roared in laughter at his own mental quickness and reached for the vodka again.
The Secretary General leaned back in his chair and remembered the look of sheer determination behind the eyes of the President. “I fear we will not get much sleep, Gregor.” The Russian barked a laugh and stormed from the room, heading to consult with his government.
The Iranian, suddenly possessed of false courage, waved a dismissive hand at the television. "The fool is only going to cause our soldiers to fight harder. This is insulting. We are going over to help them!"
The Secretary General rolled his eyes. "Really? You really think we're going to just walk in there? Do you realize how many citizens in America are armed?"
The Iranian blinked his ignorance.
"Over 100 million. A hundred million registered gun owners in America. That's not including those who chose to keep their guns secret from their own government."
"There will be a rifle behind every building, every rock, tree and blade of grass..." muttered the French ambassador. "Guerilla warfare on a scale that is unimaginable."
"It is no worse than Chechnya…or the Balkans. They will be handled. These people are fat and lazy," pleaded the Iranian.
"That's what the Japanese said in the summer of 1941. Ask them how that war turned out for them," grunted the Frenchman in reply. The German flushed but remained silent.
The Secretary General held up his hand to stop the bickering. "It matters little enough, friends. This merely adds a level of complication to our plans, nothing more, nothing less. We will succeed gentlemen. America is strong, yes, but she cannot sustain a coordinated assault by all of us."
Out in the poorly lit hallway, the Gregor passed the senior English Ambassador down by the street entrance to the makeshift U.N. Headquarters. He had no more time to spend with those fools in the Secretary General's office. He grinned to himself. All those people with guns in America. It would be a nightmare for any invading troops. Should even one percent of the gun owners decide to take pot shots at the invading soldiers...
One million rifles and pistols, hindering our movement. Death through a million pin-pricks. If ten, twenty, thirty percent of the gun owners...that's ten, twenty, thirty million armed guerillas...no, that line of thought would not do.
“Jolly good speech, eh old boy?” the Brit said with a wry grin as the Russian brushed past muttering to himself. He raised the bottle of vodka in salute and laughed again as he rounded a corner.
"Marque and Reprisal. Bloody brilliant!" hooted the English ambassador.
THEY STILL HAVE a carrier battlegroup in the Med, the Roosevelt,” said France’s top Admiral to his country’s U.N. ambassador.
“Mon ami, they do, but not for long. I have just secured the aid of the Spanish Navy. Their government has had a change of heart in terms of dealing with the Americans.”
The French Admiral frowned. “Yes, it’s amazing what a little terrorism will do to a sitting government. We must see that it doesn’t happen in France,” the old sailor said, raising an eyebrow and looking down his nose in that uniquely Gallic manner.
The Ambassador sniffed. “That, dear Admiral is your concern. I’ll get you your allies. For now, a flotilla of Spanish warships is heading for the Straits of Gibraltar. I trust you will act accordingly and unite our ships with theirs to bottle up these troublesome brats from America?”
The Admiral stood from the conference table and gathered his papers. “This I will do. I have calls to make.” He turned and headed out of the room. Looking back over his shoulder, he paused at the door.
“It would do you well to not underestimate these Americans. They are not mere troublesome brats, as you put it, Messier Ambassador. I would hesitate to go toe to toe with the American Navy on a good day. And yet I have a few Spanish ships—“
“Flotilla.”
“As you say. A Spanish flotilla to assist us in stopping the most powerful Navy the world has ever seen.”
The Ambassador bristled at the slight to France’s honor. “Don’t say such things—you are with the Spaniards now! The Iranian and Egyptian Ambassadors assure me their attacks were crippling. You shall put this already wounded group of American ships on the bottom of the ocean with ease! Before long, the Italians will join us, I promise you. After all it is only one carrier.”
The admiral shook his head in disgust. “You have no idea the mess you political types have just gotten us into.”
“Just do your job, Admiral. Leave the rest to me.”
“Oui, we’ll do our job. Dying is always the easiest thing for warriors to do.”
DAWN IN THE Med brought the Roosevelt’s Captain to the flight deck with the assembled crew of the mighty ship—or at least as many as would fit as the super-carrier barreled through the waters toward home.
The Captain stood on a makeshift platform just aft of the Bridge. He stepped up to the microphone and cleared his throat, getting everyone’s attention. “You all have by now seen or at least heard of the President’s speech last night.” He paused, waiting for the cheering and clapping to die down. Thinking idly to himself, he marveled at how the massive ship had not yet righted itself and was tearing through the waters of the Mediterranean at a slight angle. In the distance, all around the huge carrier were the remaining support vessels and the vital defense ships. Unseen, lurking through the waters far out ahead of the Battlegroup, the American attack subs were prowling the waters, clearing a path so to speak.
“I’ll make this short and sweet. The President issued Letters of Marque to every American citizen. Well, last time I checked, you all were Americans.” More cheering. When it died down, he spoke again.
“So, in the spirit of the President’s speech, any ships we take in the process of getting home, there’ll be prize money for everyone involved.” More cheering. “And we have another surprise for anyone we bump into. Go ahead, son,” the Captain said, nodding to a shadow up on the flag mast high above the flight deck.
“Your XO work
ed hard making this, so I hope you all will appreciate it,” the Admiral said with an uncharacteristic grin into the microphone.
YO, HO HO and a bottle of rum…” muttered the Anzio’s skipper. His ship cut through the chop like a scalpel as they ran smartly alongside the massive super-carrier about a half-mile out. Captain Mitchem was viewing the impromptu ceremony from his own watch deck, using large field glasses.
Just beneath the large American flag that flew proudly from the top the twisted and burnt radar structure and flag mast, a huge red shape unfurled. On the center of the new red flag: a large white skull with two large crossed white sabers beneath the skull.
It looked all the more menacing when Captain Mitchem panned his glasses down and observed the damage on the sides of the carrier and the flight deck: great black swaths of carbon scorching from fires long since put out. The ship looked like hell, but that made her all the more scary looking with new colors flying from her mast.
“Johnny, get started on a flag like that for us,” Captain Mitchem said to his XO, never taking his eyes off the evil looking red flag. “Never thought I’d see one of those on an American ship.”
“I never thought I’d see one of those flying on a ship, period,” muttered the XO on his way out the hatch to get started on the Anzio’s new colors.
"I don't understand, sir," said a lieutenant, holding the Captain's hourly reports. "I thought pirate flags were supposed to be black?"
The Captain grinned, eyes still glued to the carrier. "Son, the black flag was a signal to the intended victim. 'Surrender and you will be spared'. Basically, the pirates were announcing their intent to rob the ship."
"And the red flag, sir?"
"That was for when the pirates were...well, pissed. It meant no quarter was asked or given. It was the announcement that 'we're going to rob you, kill you and sink your vessel'." The Captain looked over his shoulder at the lieutenant. "Although in our case, I believe it's meant to convey the message that payback's a bitch."
SARASOTA
Daggers and Decisions
WHEN THEY FOUND him, Henry Grimes was crawling through a trash pile behind a half burned house. They were surprised to see the body of a young girl laying next to him, covered in filth and slightly bloated. It was obvious from the stench as they approached the wretched man that the little girl had been dead for a while.
“Hey, you!” called out one of the group as they approached cautiously. “Hey bitch, I’m talkin’ to you—damn that stinks!” the black man said as he caught a whiff of the dead girl. One of the other scouts turned and threw up noisily.
“Suck it up you pussy,” hissed the third man, a wide shouldered Latino covered in prison-style tattoos. He swung the butt of his shotgun and caught the vomiting man in the middle of his back with just enough pressure to get his attention.
“Knock it…” the man threw up again. “Knock it off, asshole…Christ what a…” the man gave in to more heaves.
“Boss’ll be pissed when he finds out you wasted all that food, punk…” mumbled the Latino.
“Get over here!” roared the tall black leader of the scouting party. He was standing a good six feet away from the dead girl and trying hard to ignore the pitiful sight. So far, Henry Grimes had yet to notice the scouts. He continued digging in the charred trash and muttering to himself.
“Sssssh—man you gonna get us killed talkin’ that loud!” whispered the Latino as he gingerly bypassed the dead girl and crossed himself.
Henry saw the movement of the Latino near his daughter and suddenly spun, still crouching. “Get away from her!” he bellowed. The filthy man charged from his crouching position in a heartbeat and tackled the heavily muscled Latino. The thug went down with a cry of surprise as the others laughed at his plight.
“Man, get that dirty ass bum off you—“ suggested the leader while holding his nose to block out the stench of the rotting girl.
“Stay away you perverts! I’ll kill you all!” Henry roared.
“Get the fuck off me!” pleaded the panicked Latino, punching and kicking for all he was worth. His powerful blows had no effect on the stark-raving mad man who was clawing and biting at him now.
“Ow! Motherfucker bit me!”
The others bellowed laughter and doubled over, howling in glee. Henry was acting more like a dog than anything else, growling and striking his enemy with all limbs at once. The fight was a flurry of arms, limbs, curses in Spanish and English, and bits of dirty cloth and trash flying in all directions.
Finally the Latino pulled his shotgun free and shoved the barrel up under Henry’s chin. That got his attention. Somewhere deep in his tortured mind the man realized his life was in imminent danger of being extinguished. He froze, releasing his iron grip on the Latino’s long greasy hair and pulling his other hand off the man’s throat.
“Back the fuck up, bitch, or I blow your goddamn brains all over your girlfriend!”
Henry’s eyes narrowed and the fear vanished. His warped mind realized through the fog of near-starvation and exposure to the elements that his reason for living was gone. His daughter was dead.
The anger that consumed him on a daily basis welled up inside him again. A cold hard rage. Larsson. That snot nosed punk who took over the apartment complex after the terror attacks. He kicked me out. Bessie is dead because of him…
Henry’s mind snapped into focus for the first time in two weeks.
As he scrambled away from the angry man with the shotgun—whom he just noticed was there—Henry tripped and fell over the corpse of his daughter, Bessie. At the gruesome sight, the poor man collapsed into a blubbering fit of nonsense. The scouts looked at each other. Even the Latino, wiping his own blood from his neck, felt pity for the shriveled up man before them, crying over the body of his daughter.
“What do we do now, man? I didn’t sign up for this shit…”
Before their leader could answer, Henry suddenly cried out, his voice full of pain and anguish, “Why!? Why couldn’t You take me!? What the fuck did she ever do to You??” In a heartbeat, his pleading voice changed to rage, “You did this, Larsson! You sonofabitch—you killed my baby! My little girl…”
The scouts looked at each other—something deep inside them was struck. His daughter.
“I’ll kill you! All of you! You threw us out into this nightmare!” Henry began sobbing and talking to himself again, his sanity slipping away as quickly as it appeared.
The leader stepped forward gingerly and tried to console Henry, gently patting him on the back. It was a forced, awkward gesture. He was shocked to feel the vertebrae and bones underneath the filthy rags Henry wore. It was plain he hadn’t been getting enough food. Indeed, he looked like a walking skeleton. He tried his best to avoid looking at the rotting remains of what he assumed was a sweet little girl a few weeks ago.
Henry looked up at the black man, tears leaving fresh clean streaks on his filthy face. His beard was matted with dried blood and dirt. His eyes were sunken and slightly yellow. He was warm to the touch. “Why? I gave her all my food and she still got sick…it isn’t fair…I loved her…” he whispered.
“I know you did, man…” the scout leader didn’t know what else to say but Henry seemed to warm to the simple human contact of a reassuring hand on the shoulder.
“That boy did this…” Henry sniffed. “Kicked us out…”
A thought emerged through the drug induced haze of the black man’s mind. “Kick you outta where, man?”
Henry shook his head. “The apartment building…over there…” he said, not even bothering to look. He raised a hand towards the dumpster.
The black man cut his eyes to the Latino and his partner. The direction Henry indicated beyond the dumpster was just forest. “Yo, he must mean that place them bitches tried to take a while ago, you remember that shit?”
“Yeah, but that’s over there,” said the man who had thrown up, pointing weakly in the opposite direction from where Henry indicated.
�
�Cut the brutha some slack.” The black man turned back to Henry, who was trying to smooth out the hair on his daughter’s grotesquely swollen face. A clump fell out in his hand and he began examining it carefully.
The black man swallowed his own bile at the sight and regained his composure. “Hey, man…what’s your name, yo?”
Henry waited a while, caressing the clump of matted hair in his hand that had been such a pretty shade of blonde only a few weeks earlier. “Henry….” His voice said. He didn’t remember thinking it…he had lost track of who he was a long time ago. There was only pain.
“Think you could get us in that apartment place? We could get you some food, a woman—“
“Or a man, yo,” joked the Latino, elbowing his friend in the ribs. The two chuckled but were silenced by the black man’s angry glare.
Henry shook his head, still playing with the rotten hair. “No…”
“You can’t get us in?”
“No…” The black man was about to reply but Henry spoke again.
“No food. No woman….”
“Uh…I don’ understand—“
“I want Larsson.” Henry said, looking up with pure hatred in his eyes. The black man sat back on his heels in surprise at the ferocity of the look on the man’s face, but he nodded just the same.
“Man, we get you the fucker that did this, I swear it,” the black man said, thumping his own chest.
Henry looked back down at his daughter. “Larsson…” he said stroking the bloated cheek of his baby girl. As the other men helped him into their car, he was finally able to let go of his daughter. He was focused on a new task.
Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) Page 49
