The sun was halfway below the horizon and night would be on them soon. Everyone knew America owned the night with their technological superiority. He smiled, thinking of the fear the French must be feeling at the prospect of fighting as night settled upon them like a smothering blanket of death.
“Not today, Frenchie. This is for the Marines!” Riggs bellowed squeezed the trigger on his joystick. The cannon responded and molten death shot out across the closing gap, ripping the French Mirage fighter to pieces. The canopy on the French plane started to open as the pilot realized too late what was happening. The Mirage exploded gloriously as one of its missiles self destructed, throwing a fireball across the deck and sending debris flying in all directions. Riggs banked hard to starboard and pulled away from the fleet with an awful roar of his plane’s engine, gaining altitude fast. He hoped his flyby broke a few more windows on the crippled carrier.
“Oooh rah!” a new voice called out over the radio frequency.
“Time to drop the Hammer, boys!” came the grizzled voice of Sledgehammer, Hammer Flight’s leader. The Roosevelt’s F-18F Superhornets had arrived. “Fox one!”
A chorus of missile launches filled the speakers in Riggs’ helmet as he and the rest of Hawk flight began to withdrawal from the slaughter. Their fuel tanks were nearly at the critical point. They would have enough to get home, but barely. Fighting really burned the gas.
Riggs was satisfied though, as a score of missiles streaked past his fighter group and pummeled the already scattered and half wasted Franco-Spanish fleet. As the Superhornets raced past heading into the fray, a few saluted the retreating Lightnings, surprised at the amount of damage the F-35s had sustained. Not a single fighter was returning that did not have half a dozen punctures in its wings and stabilizers. The AAA fire had shredded the American planes, yet they still were flyable.
“Nest, Hawk Lead, Hawk Flight coming home, minus one feather but talons red,” Riggs said with a sad smile, removing his oxygen mask and wiping the sweat from his face. He was happy no one else could see the tears forming in his eyes. Hawk Two would be missed sorely in the coming weeks. Some part of him hoped those Marines who were murdered by the Russians would be happy with the vengeance his squadron had just exacted.
He vowed there would be more to come.
SARASOTA
Of Pipers and Whiskey
HALF THE WORLD away, Erik lay on the pool deck at the Freehold, under the stars next to his wife, Brin, sharing a radio between them. Across the short table, Ted and his wife were lounging in the same manner, idly watching the black sky—devoid of any light pollution for the first time in a hundred years—and listening. It had become sort of a ritual for the four of them.
Each day, after all the chores were accomplished and the sweat and work of the day lay behind them, they gathered on the pool deck to cool off in the warm night breeze and relax before retiring to their apartments and the confining darkness of a home without power. Every now and then one of the other residents, or Freeholders, as they were calling themselves, would stop by and sit with them. Tonight, however, they were alone.
“…reports from our stations in the Mid-East are telling of a dramatic sea battle taking place off the southern coast of Mediterranean France this night…” droned the English accented newsman. “BBC has just learned that a combined Franco-Spanish fleet has intercepted what they believe to be the remnants of the U.S.S. Theodore Roosevelt battlegroup, which disappeared last week amid a rumored nuclear strike by Iran. The Pentagon was unable to confirm or deny these reports over telephone as our Jan Smitheson could not get the Americans to talk. We of course will have updates to you as soon as we ourselves learn anything new.”
“Go get ‘em Teddy!” whooped Ted.
“Ssssh!” said Susan, playfully smacking her husband on the arm.
“—of you in America, know that your British friends still stand by you. We are sending our own aid workers to you in order to assist your speedy recovery from this crisis.
“In other news from America, it appears that the city of Chicago has been all but destroyed by the U.S. Army in an attempt to quell a rebellion, started by Muslim Separatists. It appears, however, that the popular African-American leader of this rebellion, known only as Malcolm, has escaped by boat to Canada. To report on this aspect of the American Troubles, is our Canadian Bureau chief, Alexis Dejarde, in Ottawa.”
“Well, that’s right, Jonathan, here in the Canadian Provinces, people have been casting a wary eye south at our troubled neighbors for quite some time now, you know—“ began the female voice.
“Chicago’s gone?” asked Brin with a quiver in her voice.
“How…how can that be? They destroyed—Chicago…did he mean everyone is dead, or…if some people were allowed to leave…how can they do this?” she began to stammer and trip over her own words she was speaking so fast.
“—seeing a mass exodus from the ruined city for some time now. The people living in the outlying communities and towns, as far away as a hundred miles and more in all directions are being flooded with hungry, tired, refugees. So far, fighting has broke out in the southern directions from Chicago proper. In the western areas, most people have already fled their homes in advance of the millions of refugees heading their way. We are being told by FEMA representatives that the casualty rates will increase as people become more desperate for food and shelter. In fact, the head of the Department of Homeland Security said today that—“
“Oh my God…” Brin sobbed, clinging to her husband. “The whole world is falling apart!”
Overhead, a shooting star burned up in the atmosphere, leaving a glowing phosphorescent trail as a tribute to its blazing death. Erik held his sobbing wife and began to think she might be right.
GOOD, NOW COUNTERSTRIKE. Again. Reverse swing and advance. Again! Again!” Erik called out more routines and walked among the ranks of his little band of swordsmen. The men were progressing well.
“Excellent thrust, Josh. Ted! That sword is not a baseball bat. We’ve had this conversation before.”
“I know that, Erik,” Ted grunted, his stick held awkwardly.
“Then don’t swing it like one!”
Ted flushed and a few of the others grinned. Everyone knew Ted was a friend with Erik and second in command of the little strike force, but it was good for morale to see Ted get treated like one of the grunts every now and then.
Erik stopped in front of Ted. The Marine opened his mouth to say something but winked instead. “Erik, I don’t think—“
“That’s right, you don’t! In combat you must act, not think, and act on training, which is what you’re disrupting. Thirty pushups. Go,” Erik said, turning his back on Ted and moving to watch the next man in line.
Ted frowned and dropped to the grass. “One…two…three…four…I…love…the Marine…Corps!”
“Erik, these aren’t swords, they’re sticks,” said Alan, one of the best of the veterans of The Battle.
“One…two…three…four…I…love…the Marine…Corps!” Ted called out in the background.
“Thirty for everyone, courtesy of Mr. Jakes. Go!” said Erik. While the men grunted and cussed, Erik called out cadence over Ted, “…three…four…push Don! Five…six…”
Ted finished his thirty as Bernie hobbled up. Ted had not even broken a sweat. “Ted, lead ‘em through this, then one more round of front assaults, then calisthenics, please. I need to talk to Bernie for a minute.”
“You bet,” Ted grinned. He turned to the troops, half way through their pushups. “Move it mud-lovers! Seventeen! Eighteen! That’s it, push! The harder you work now, the less you die later!”
“What’s up, Bernie?” asked Erik, stepping aside with the older man.
Bernie mopped his brow with a rag in the late August heat. The two men began to stroll away from the recruits, towards the pond. “Erik, I just took stock of our food and with all the new mouths to feed…” Bernie’s face wore a troubled look.
; “We’re running out,” it wasn’t a question.
“It ain’t that I don’t appreciate what yer biker-men done for us, or Art and his radio gear…it’s jes’…”
“We’ve grown but our food supply hasn’t.” Erik put his hands on his hips and considered the pond for a moment in silence. He had known the addition of Hoss and his bikers meant that this discussion with Bernie was inevitable.
Bernie stomped his cane into the ground in impotent anger. “That’s the long and the short of it.” He watched Erik’s face out of the corner of his eye before he continued. “I have an idea though…”
“Let’s hear it,” Erik said, eyes back on his swordsmen. Ted was leading them through more front swings. A few wobbled, but less than last week. Erik squinted in the afternoon sun.
Bernie slapped the surface of the pond with his cane. The sound caused a bullfrog to jump in the shallows to their right. “Fishing,” the old man said with a nod.
“The marina,” Erik blurted. “If we had a boat…a couple of tuna would feed the whole complex for a long while.”
“What about gas? It’s getting harder to find cars that haven’t already been drained. My boys are using as much gas to find gas as they’re bringing back. They’re telling me cars are empty now. Someone else out there is takin’ it all.”
“I know. But maybe we don’t need all that much gas…” Erik mused, lost in thought.
“How you gonna run a fishin’ boat what don’t have no gas?” asked Bernie.
“I know how to sail. Learned back at my parents place in upstate New York on Lake Ticonderoga.” Erik paused, thinking, then said: “With a sailboat, I could do salt-water and fresh-water fishing in the inlets and swamps up and down the coast. We’d have to start soon though…it’ll take awhile to get gather enough fish to feed everyone.”
“Even if we can get a little, we can stretch what supplies we got that much further. Maybe them National Guard boys’ll bring something next time,” Bernie said, hope in his voice.
“If they don’t try to relocate us,” Erik said sourly. “And I don’t want to rely on governmental folks anyway. We can’t be sure they’ll even come back. All we hear on the radio now is how the U.N. is coming and the Guard will be expected to protect the civilian population…”
Bernie waved off Erik’s comment with derision. “Them boys’ll be home protecting their own. That’s what they’re there for. The army fights on foreign soil.”
Erik sighed. “Either way, it’s going to be a bloody mess. If the U.N. isn’t stopped before they get here…”
“Then every redneck with a huntin’ rifle an’ a six-pack will be out lookin’ for a good time,” grinned Bernie. In an instant he turned serious again. “So who do we send and when?” His wrinkled face peered skyward while Erik thought. “Rain comin’,” the old man said, more to himself than Erik.
Erik pulled his mind back from the U.N. problem and all the chaos it would cause here at home. “Huh?” Bernie nodded to the west. Thunderheads were forming in the afternoon heat. The evening promised to be wet. Erik’s mind raced back to the problem at hand.
Who to send? Ted? Maybe Hoss? He mentally shook his head. No, if there’s anyone at the Marina, we need to make friendly contact. A biker will scare them…especially Hoss. Ted’s got his hands full with the Watch. Lentz is running things now, he admitted bitterly to himself. It has to be me. He looked back at the clouds gathered on the horizon. Lentz said it himself, they’re trying to get rid of me.
Can’t go alone….so who do I take? A name popped into his mind and he hated himself for suggesting it.
Brin. Best case scenario: we’re a stranded couple of tourists or newlyweds. Worst case, she’s better at defending herself than anyone in here so far except Ted and me. I won’t have to worry about her.
Bernie saw the grim look cross Erik’s face as he worked out who to send. The old man had seen the same look on his company CO back in ’49 on the Korean Peninsula more than once. It always happened when the lieutenant had decided that he had to lead the mission himself, from the front. Bernie well knew what that look meant. Erik had decided to take the responsibility on himself. He patted Erik lightly on the shoulder. “You be careful, son. Remember,” he said, all humor gone from his eyes. “Shoot first.”
“Ask questions later?”
“Nope,” said Bernie, all smiles again. “If’n your aim is worth a damn, it’ll be mighty hard to talk to a feller what’s dead.”
THE RAIN HAD been falling for about half an hour when Hoss and Jimbo dropped off Erik and Brin a half mile south of the Sarasota Marina. The young couple had backpacks, simple tourist-looking affairs, full of food, water, and most definitely non-tourist items. It was dusk, and the storm had made it hard for Erik to see Hoss’s broad face through the rain and wind.
“Thanks for the lift. If all goes well, we’ll radio you for a pick-up in an hour or so. At the latest, call it 8 o’clock. Meet us here,” Erik said over the noise of the two motorcycles at idle and the storm at full throttle.
“We’ll park the bikes by the beach a little ways south. There’s some better cover there. You call if you need help—we’re only 5 minutes out, tops.”
Erik slapped Hoss on the back and the two burly bikers accelerated off, illuminated by lightning. When the red taillights disappeared from view around a bend in the road to the south, Erik turned to his young wife and waited for the thunder to subside.
“You ready for this?” he asked. She looked like a child with her purple raincoat and hood pulled tight around her face. Her large almond shaped eyes appeared even larger than they were. She wiped rain off her face and smiled. “Ready when you are, baby!”
Erik leaned down to kiss her and she giggled when the scratchy beard he had grown since the power went out tickled her face. They moved off the road towards the beach on a path that cut through the scrub pines, giving way to palm trees as they approached the storm-tossed Gulf. Erik paused in the rain as they came to the edge of the treeline.
“Let’s stay close by the trees. It’s darker here…if we go out to the beach, that white sand will give us away in a heartbeat,” Erik said over a sudden clap of thunder. Brin nodded in the semi-darkness and adjusted her pack to cover the sudden rush of fear she felt course through her body.
Erik checked the straps on his K-Bar, secured to his left thigh. The knife was for show, this time. He had Ted’s M-9 strapped in a shoulder holster under his windbreaker if needed. This was a recon mission, Ted had reminded him, so Erik opted not to take his katana. He felt naked without it strapped to his side.
The ancient sword had served him well since the power had gone out and he had become quite adjusted to the feeling of the lethal instrument at his hip. He doubted he’d ever get used to a handgun, but for Ted’s sake, he relented and brought it instead of the trusty sword. Otherwise, his pack contained: a bit of the Freehold’s precious food and sterilized water from “the well”, some matches, an Altoids tin mini-survival kit, a first aid kit, weatherproof binoculars, and a radio. Brin had exactly the same loadout with a spare radio.
It was dark and they didn’t want to get separated in unfamiliar territory, so they held hands tightly. The couple crept slowly along the palm trees to the far edge of the sugar-white beach for which Sarasota is world famous. When lightning flashed, they froze. In this manner they crept through the pelting wind and rain for a good fifteen minutes, heading north for the Marina. Erik walked with the trees on his right, Brin next to him so the Gulf was on her left. She watched the beach, he the treeline.
Brin gripped Erik’s rain slicked hand tight. They froze and ducked behind two palms that leaned out over the beach, making a slight barrier behind which they could hide for a moment. “Lights!” she whispered in a hiss. “I saw three, ahead to the left.”
Erik poked his head up above the trees and waited through some lightning before lowering again in the dark. “It’s the marina alright. Looks like a few boats have lights. I’m surprised any do.
I saw a path from the beach that goes around the clump of trees ahead of us. Let’s get into those palms and see what we can see.”
“Okay, sweetie, lead on. This is so exciting!” Brin almost giggled, whether from nerves or glee, Erik never learned. He just smiled at his diminutive wife and pushed on towards the patch of palm trees.
Once they were safely hidden in the small copse of palms, they shrugged out of their packs and broke out the binoculars. Brin looked out for anyone nearby and kept watch behind them while Erik scanned the Marina. In flashes of lightning, Erik saw a facility battened down for the storm or the recent troubles, or both. Then he saw the sign:
CLOSED
Due to power outage.
Sorry! Mgmt
It was a crude sign, painted on a piece of scrap wood nailed across the door to the gate house at the Marina entrance. “There’s a sign says it’s closed…no power,” he whispered. The rain made a terrible racket on the palm fronds all around them so Brin was nestled close. She never took her eyes off the surrounding terrain.
“How come they have lights on the boats then?” she whispered back over the rain and thunder.
“Those sailboats must have generators, or batteries hooked up to solar cells,” he mused quietly. He felt Brin twitch when a peal of thunder split the night, almost on top of them.
“It’s getting darker,” she murmured. “I’m soaking wet. See anyone yet?”
“No…” he replied. Then, “Wait…yeah, I see someone. Hang on…” In a flash of lightning Erik spotted the shape of a man rise from the first boat moored at the dock. He was carrying a handgun and had something on his head. A flashlight beam cut through the darkness and wobbled its way from the big white iron gate towards their clump of palm trees.
“Shit. He’s coming towards us,” said Erik. He was about to tell Brin to run when he noticed the man with the light was limping. “Hang on; he’s either wounded or old…”
Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) Page 52
