“It? You mean, they. Those aren’t lights, that’s sunlight reflecting off metal. I saw at least five of them before they moved into that cloud there. They were in formation.”
Erik deferred to the Marine. “Bombers?” He paused, searching the sky. “Ours?”
Ted scrambled back to the boat and grabbed the binoculars. “Damn, they passed into that cloudbank…all I could see was a tail. I’m not sure what they are, or who they are. But…they are coming from the direction of MacDill.”
“The Air Force base up near Tampa?” Erik squinted up at the clouds again. He almost thought he could hear an engine. It was weird to see planes all of a sudden after an almost total lack of anything in the air for weeks. “Ah, they’re probably ours, getting ready for the U.N.,” Erik said, feigning relaxation. He tried be nonchalant. “Well, not much we can do about it anyway. Those suckers are way up there.”
Ted paused, cocked his head listening as the first rumbles of the jet turbines caressed the darkening world around them. He didn’t mention to Erik that he was scared out of his mind. “Well, those suckers are big. Airliner big. And that means one of three things: One,” Ted raised a finger in the firelight at the side of the boat, knee deep in the warm Gulf water. “They’re airliners.”
“Not likely; who’s flying right now anyway?”
“Right,” agreed Ted. “Two:” another finger. “Transports.”
“Three,” said Erik, “Bombers.”
“Either way, the question is: Us or them?” said Ted, looking south towards the direction the planes were heading.
“And just who is ‘them’?” mumbled Erik, stowing the binoculars.
As they settled back by the fire and ate their catch of the day, Ted mulled the possibilities over in his mind again and again. He had to fight the urge to run to his family. He and Erik needed downtime. The noise of the jets continued to roll over them in waves.
Finally, as they finished the roasted fish dinner, Erik spoke. “Okay, either those guys are circling us like planes at O’Hare or there’s a shit-ton of ‘em flying over us.” Erik looked at his watch. “I mean, we’ve listened to their engines, going on what, 15 minutes now?”
Ted finished the last delicious, nourishing morsel of fish and took a swig from his canteen. “Well, I don’t see any bombs, or see mushroom clouds, so I have to assume they’re ours.” He grinned in the firelight, a wicked image. “Besides, I think the U.N. would have a hard time sneaking that many transports or bombers in across the Atlantic. They’d have fighters up there pickin’ ‘em off like fish in a barrel.”
Despite the attempt at humor, neither man slept well.
CHINA
A Dragon’s Patience
SHIN HO LEANED back in his softly padded leather chair and watched the Press conference with barely contained glee. Everything was working according to his plan: The U.N. — mostly western Europe, really — was going to invade America; Mexico had agreed to the passage of Chinese troops into southwest America in exchange for giving back the spoils of the Mexican-American war; the U.S. military was blindly stabbing in the dark at real and imagined threats without the aid of their spy satellites; the Arabs had lived up to their word and distracted America with the attack on Israel. It was beautiful.
“…we are a compassionate people. China denounces these horrible actions in the strongest sense of the word. The consequences of these attacks on America last month are far-reaching. Thousands of innocent Americans, and Mexicans are suffering needlessly. As a result, we, the Peoples Republic of China announce today a commitment to send aid, in the form of food, clothing, medical supplies, and temporary shelters to our dear friends in Mexico—“
Camera flashes from the horde of foreign reporters caused the Chinese diplomat to blink and pause. The news ticker at the bottom of the screen scrolled by: “China to Mexico: We’re coming to help.”
“—to assist the refugees fleeing the violence and unrest in America, regardless of their nationality.”
“Good, good—that will sting Washington. We don’t care if they are illegal or not. We will help them all!” Shin Ho lit another unfiltered cigarette and cursed Po Sin for getting him hooked on the damnable things. “When this war is over, I will be Emperor.” That thought always sounded better when he said it out loud.
The diplomat took a sip of water behind his podium and continued through the lightning storm of camera flashes. “Now….at this time I am prepared to answer a few questions.”
Pandemonium ensued as the reporters shouted over each other.
“—truth to the charge—“
“—how much money?”
“—China just wants the oil fields—-“
“—any advisors being sent, if so—“
“—any military presence?”
The diplomat picked out one of the questions and spoke, silencing the reporters. “China does not need Mexico’s oil fields. It is true, yes, Mexico is rich in natural resources, including oil deposits. But China is wealthy. We buy our oil. We do not invade foreign countries to take it. Such is the civilized way to do business.” He smiled. More shouting erupted. He turned his head to hear and raised a hand for silence.
“Ha ha! Good…yes, America is the one you should be worried about. They are the ones who invade places to take their oil. Ha! Ask the Iraqis!” roared Shin Ho merrily. This news conference was the highlight of his week.
“To address the question of advisors, yes we are sending several advisor and emergency response teams. A relief effort of this magnitude has never before been attempted,” he said, motioning to the flow chart on an easel next to the podium. Cameras flashed. Shin Ho could read the chart on his TV easily: Supplies for 3 million people. Housing for 6 million. The scale was staggering. It was all a show, of course, on more little needle to prick America’s pride. Now China would be seen as the world’s first responder.
“Say it…” Shin Ho muttered, exhaling smoke. He rubbed the cigarette butt out and leaned in to the TV. “Go on…saaay it….”
“At this time of crisis for America, we will be there. China will be ready to assist the American government as well. We will initiate this aid operation and do it bigger, better and faster than ever before.”
“Ha! Sheer genius!” Shin Ho cackled, laughing at his own wit. “I put that in there, you know,” he added to his assistant, cowering in the shadows of the dark room.
The young man bowed low. “Most excellent, honored minister.”
“Oh, shut up,” he waved the man off. “No…wait,” he said as the assistant turned to leave. “Get me a girl,” he grinned. His eyes twinkled. “I’m in a good mood tonight.” The press conference continued on the TV in the background, forgotten in his sudden lust. “Hey!” he called out as the assistant was halfway through the door.
“Yes Minister?” asked the silhouetted figure of the assistant, standing in the glaring light of the outer office through the open doorway.
“A young one this time. Young, do you hear? Like one of the new Thai girls I saw Po Sin with last week,” called out China’s Interior Minister. The assistant bowed low and shut the door quietly. Shin Ho was sealed in darkness again.
“—arrive?” a reporter was asking on the TV.
Shin Ho focused on the TV again. The diplomat’s figure grinned like a tiger watching a goat. “Why, the advance units should be arriving in Mexico very soon. Tomorrow, if I’m not mistaken?” he said, feigning ignorance and looking to the row of men and women behind him on the dais for confirmation. Many smiles and nods, a few looked at papers, but no one gave a definite answer. The reporters nearly got into a fistfight trying to get the next question. It almost erupted into pandemonium. After a few tense moments and shouted questions, order was restored.
The conference continued, more questions, more answers, more camera flashes. Shin Ho was lost in his own thoughts. He lit another cigarette and took a deep puff, exhaling slowly. The army was landing already, so said a report on his desk. He glanced at th
e report.
A division already on the ground and setting up the refugee center cover. The rest were due to arrive soon and begin the march towards the American border. The Chinese were being greeted as heroes by the ignorant Mexican villagers. Food and supplies, for sure, were being brought and handed out generously to the terribly poor civilians. The cover story was perfect. Any reporters that interviewed people would get nothing but glowing praise and fluff.
By then it would be too late. Shin Ho thought about the hundreds of trucks and vehicles that would be spreading out from the coast soon to roll in an iron fist towards America’s soft underbelly. Those trucks would be loaded with troops and weapons, not food and medicine.
We will wait for the Europeans to strike, then when the Americans are focused on their East coast….we will gut them.
He chuckled to himself and opened a drawer in his desk to take a little blue pill. He would have fun tonight. He almost felt sorry for the trembling, naked child his assistant dragged through the door.
“Tonight, your name is America. HA!” he roared at the wide-eyed kidnapped village girl from Thailand.
SARASOTA
Day of the Dog
I think we are drawn to dogs because they are the uninhibited creatures we might be if we weren't certain we knew better. They fight for honor at the first challenge...and they do not for all their marvelous instincts appear to know about death.
—George Bird Evans
HE LIKE AN animal, yo,” said the young thug as he watched the poor white man slurp up two whole cans of dog food.
“Appropriate then that you and your…homeboys, are feeding the wretch dog food,” said the larger man, immaculately dressed and well spoken. The younger man looked at his elder with a mix of scorn and amusement.
All these fools…so many brothers, so much wasted talent. The large black man shook his head in disgust. If nothing else, we will need their numbers. Malcolm will need every man he can get. If what happened this morning is a taste of things to come, we're going to need a lot more...
The younger man turned away from the noisy scene. “That just nasty.”
“Then why did you feed him?” asked the bigger man. And why can't you speak English properly? It is a product of the Man, but until you fools learn Swahili there is no point in using some bastardized language. Inwardly, he sighed. We shall have to remedy that as well. If only you children had any shame at how you have debased your noble selves. Allah grant them mercy and strength. Alas...I suppose for you to have shame, you would have to know pride. But no, the Man has taken that from you as well...he frowned.
“We feed him ‘cause he may be loco, but he still a man.”
“He is the man. A representation of the Oppressor.” Perhaps these fools are not completely wild after all, thought the well dressed representative from the Brotherhood. A sidelong glance at the youth next to him—he refused to label the young man what he really was: a hoodlum and nothing more—revealed a spark of humanity in the boy's face as he watched a grown man shovel dog food into his mouth like...well, like a dog.
A few others strolled into the room in the occupied two story house, tossing empty liquor bottles into a filthy corner. The clatter caused the dog-man to flinch and look up, but only momentarily. They immediately saw the filthy white man in rags slurping up dog food. Erupting into laughter, the taunts began.
The Rep sighed and turned his back on the scene, instead, he chose to look out the filth smeared window. There was precious little time to make up his mind. He had sent the order out for all the survivors to regroup here and even now, through the grime smeared window he could see small groups and broken individuals lurching their way towards the house.
Command center, he chided himself. Command of what? I have a collection of rejects at which even the street gangs would laugh.
The Rep focused on the task at hand. Remember your training. Malcolm's followers know what they are doing. The war is at hand. You are a military commander now. These are your troops. He squared his shoulders and stood a little taller. Or what's left of them, a small voice echoed in his mind. If I had only gotten here sooner, been in place longer. These fools wouldn't have wasted their lives trying to ransack, rape, and loot. They wouldn't have so blindly drawn the attention of the Man. If they had just a few more days...
The Rep ignored the taunts and laughter behind him. He felt no pity for the white man whatsoever. His men were beaten and shamed. Perhaps if they took out their inadequacies on the white man they would feel better. Fight better. Act better.
He saw a ruined neighborhood, once owned by the Man. Trash and burned cars littered what he assumed used to be well manicured lawns of the upper middle class white people who lived in this area. He allowed himself the luxury of thinking that it may have been quite pleasant and civilized once, even for a nest of the Man. Bet there wasn't a single brother living here.
Behind him the taunts grew more bold. He heard a beer bottle smash against the wall and voices raised. The Rep frowned. Through the dirty window, in the distance at the end of the street leading out of the neighborhood, he saw a tan, blocky looking vehicle pause at the entrance, then race off. Allah give me strength. They know we're here. It is time to evacuate. This place will be crawling with soldiers come sundown.
“Yo, you hear me fool?” asked one of the louder thugs. “I said you can be our mascot! You a fuckin’ dog!” the laughter continued.
"Ugga! We call you Ugga, bitch—"
"'Cause he ugly!" another laughed. The howls of mirth echoed in the small, stuffy room.
The Rep turned around. Very quickly the noise stopped when the street toughs saw the look of fury on the huge man's face. “Look at yourselves," he rumbled in a voice so deep one of the thugs thought he was Barry White.
"You are a disgrace to the Cause. You would think that the loss of all your local leadership in that…pathetic excuse for a fight last night with the Man would have taught you a lesson in humility. You people deserve to be slaves.” His voice was like thunder and stunned the younger men into complete silence.
"Slaves? What the fuck—" started one of the braver ones.
The Rep ignored him and steamrolled on. The clock was ticking and he was running out of time. “Look at yourselves. You hide in this filthy house, you drink and party and debase yourself constantly…Allah help me,” he said and raised his hands in an appeal to heaven.
“Who the fuck you think you are, Uncle Tom?” asked one of the new recruits with more bravado than brains. He tried to get a laugh with his wit, but failed miserably. The others were looking down, shamed at last. They had been with Teedell since the beginning, had figured they ruled the land now. But they had been over confident. When they attacked the soldiers, they had been slaughtered. It had been a long night. The alcohol they consumed to hide their fears and self-pity was having a very negative affect on the remnants of the White Hand People.
“I’m the one who has to care for you children, since you have so aptly proven you cannot do so yourself,” the Rep grumbled. His eyes dared anyone to say something else. He shifted his wide shoulders and watched the youths pause. He was in his forties but still proud of the fact that he could probably be a walk-on to any pro football team. That kind of presence commanded respect from those who only respect violence.
“Unless there is someone here who knows what to do now that the Man and his army has all but wiped you out?” He raised his eyebrows, pleading for someone to say something. They sniffed, looked away defiantly or down at the ground sheepishly. Pathetic.
“Aaaaw, d'at nasty!” said another one, who looked like a Latino. “He’s takin’ a shit in the corner.”
“Damn, that stink!” A chorus of hoots and hands waving broke out.
The youths appealed to the Rep for guidance. “Do not look at me.” He pointed towards the thugs responsible for the Dog. “You brought this poor creature here. He is your responsibility.”
A side door burst open and two large men enter
ed dragging a white woman. She looked half beaten to death and was barely dressed in some rags. The youths began hitting each other on their shoulders and making lewd comments. As they dragged the woman past the Latino kid, he waved a hand in front of his nose.
“Damn, she stinks like that guy’s daughter when we found him.”
Before anyone could move, Henry Grimes had leapt from his position near a corner and tackled the punk that spoke about his daughter. He flew into a rage, growling and snapping at the younger man, clawing, kicking and biting. The howls of rage and pain intermingled to a point where the shocked gathering had a hard time deciding who was screaming more. The others unconsciously made a circle around the two fighting men and began hooting and cheering.
The Rep rolled his eyes. Allah...how can I work with this? We have no time...
“ENOUGH OF THIS!” he bellowed. The windows actually shook in the tiny room. “Someone pull these two apart. We do not have time for this foolishness. The Man will scour these neighborhoods looking for us. We need to move to a safer area and regroup.”
The Latino whimpered and scrabbled his way across the filthy floor to a wall and glared at Henry through a swollen eye and blood splattered face. Half an ear was missing and his lip was torn open. He rubbed his neck where Henry had a death grip.
“Fuckin’ loco…” the youth said, then began to curse in Spanish.
The others began laughing hysterically. High fives and fist-bumps all around in celebration of the moment's entertainment.
“Leave my daughter alone! Bessie!” Henry shrieked, forgotten in the grips of the three large men it took to hold him down.
“How the hell some scrawny ass white boy this strong?” grunted one of the bigger ones. The crazed man howled and whined in pain, then began sobbing and blubbering incoherently. He reeked. His face was clawed by the Latino kid and angry welts stood out in stark contrast to the dirt, filth, and dried blood that caked the man's haggard, half-starved visage.
Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) Page 56
