He could not have been more proud of his men. They had swept all before them, civilians and military forces alike. He turned around, glancing at the wreckage of the warehouse buildings, fast food restaurants, and strip malls that surrounded the heart of Orlando.
Ash had begun to fall from the smoke-filled sky like a fine mist back home in Russia. He idly wondered whether or not it would be prudent to issue warnings to his troops to begin wearing their face protection. The last thing he needed was for some of his men to fall ill from breathing in ash and God knows what else in the smoke from Orlando.
A formation of Russian jets streaked overhead, doing one last sweep of the area. The pilots had informed him that they had enough fuel remaining to take out a few more targets, but they could not stay over the area indefinitely until their supply base was moved further north. They were based out of what was left of Homestead Air Force Base, just north of Miami—the beachhead of Russia's invasion of America.
Strogolev grinned. It was hard not to, now that everything had come to fruition. He had been ordered up the coast on a reconnaissance mission. He had taken a detachment of his troops and successfully captured Kennedy Space Center. From there he followed the retreating American scouts west toward their home base of Orlando. When Colonel Doskoy had ordered him to keep the Americans occupied, Strogolev had decided to show some initiative and launched a full attack with his meager forces.
He had guessed that the Americans were attempting to bring their assets from Tampa to bolster the Orlando line. Unfortunately for them, he got there first. As a result, by the time the Colonel arrived with the bulk of the Russian forces from Miami, Orlando would already be well on its way to ruin.
By now, he figured any remaining American forces were well north of Orlando—at least those that had survived—after hightailing it for the Georgia border.
Tampa would be next.
"New message coming in, Comrade Major," said the commander of the BTR.
Strogolev looked down at his feet through the commander's hatch and could see the excitement on the man's face as he peered up through the hole.
Strogolev ducked down into the BTR. "Good news?"
"Our advanced scouts, have reached the northern edge of the city. They report little resistance, except waves of civilians fleeing north. All is chaos!"
Strogolev laughed out loud. He could not believe his luck. Colonel Doskoy would be furious, but Aleksei Strogolev—a mere major—had swooped in and snatched the glory for himself. He would deal with that pompous old fool later. For now, it was time to let the troops solidify their positions and celebrate their great victory.
"Very good. Contact Captain Stepanovich and have him order our scouts to set up a defensive perimeter on the north side of town. I want a detachment on top of the three tallest buildings still intact. We will set up secure communications with Moscow and Miami from there."
"Da! At once, major!"
Strogolev stood and returned to scanning the destruction that his forces had wrought on this great American city. For the longest time, Orlando had been known the world-over as a tourist destination. The place to take young spoiled American children to dream about fantastical cartoons come to life. It had been a place to see captive sea animals put on display like circus freaks. A place to waste money. Strogolev smiled to himself. Well, he thought, there will be none of that nonsense around here anymore.
He turned his attention back to Orlando’s skyline. Smoke poured out of several of the larger buildings. Only a few had completely collapsed, but those that did had created massive smoke plumes that blotted out most of the northern sky. Debris—charred papers, burning cardboard, and anything that was light enough to float on columns of hot air—rained down on what Strogolev figured had to be at least four square miles.
"Major Strogolev," said the sad voice of his lieutenant from beside the BTR.
Strogolev closed his eyes before removing the field binoculars from his face. He suppressed a sigh and looked down at his dour-faced subordinate. The man was the perfect soldier. He never got excited about anything. "Yes, Gregor?"
"What are your orders regarding the prisoners, sir?"
"How many have we got?" asked Strogolev. He began to climb down from the top of the BTR.
"At last count," Stepanovich said while he referred to a clipboard in his hands, holding several sheets of paper. "It appears we have something on the order of about 300 prisoners. Along with at least that many civilians who were captured with the soldiers. We have not begun formal processing, but it appears the soldiers were traveling with wives, children, and extended families. A most curious affair."
Strogolev frowned and crossed his arms. Another jet roared overhead. His chest vibrated with the sound. The jet disappeared into the ubiquitous smoke.
“Why would they be traveling with their families?"
Stepanovich shrugged. "Perhaps they did not want to leave them behind? These Americans are known to be overly sentimental…"
Familial sentiment is something you would never know, Strogolev thought darkly. If I gave you the order to shoot your own mother, you would do it without hesitation. You are a soldier, loyal to Mother Russia and no other.
"Well, we should start setting up some sort of holding facility. We'll need two, one for the soldiers and one for the families. Unless you can find something to accommodate both groups.”
"Location, Comrade Major?"
"I want it on the south side—no make it the east side.” Strogolev scratched the week-old growth of beard on his chin. "We need some place large enough to hold that number of people and also easily accessible and protected by our forces. We still have to deal with the Americans in Tampa—they may wish to mount a rescue."
"Yes, Comrade Major. We have enough men in our reserves to begin processing now. I believe I saw a campsite or some sort of amusement park that may suit our purposes. It is a little further east of town, however the area around it is less well-settled."
“The fewer civilians around, the better.” Strogolev slapped his too-serious lieutenant on the shoulder. "Excellent idea! When you have finished setting up and begun processing, let me know. I want to view this place before the Colonel does. Also," Strogolev said, leaning in close to his XO. He dropped his voice so that the passing soldiers would not hear. "I want you to look for any type of unusual soldiers. Anyone who may give us valuable information on American tactics, strategies, and troop locations. Keep them separate. If you can, we will interrogate them first. Anything to give me an edge over Colonel Doskoy, yes?"
"I was not aware we are in competition with the Colonel, Comrade Major."
Jesus Gregor, Strogolev thought. You are so naive.
"Look," he said. "Colonel Doskoy is going to be full of rage when he finally gets his slow-ass into town. Yes, yes—I know some of his forces are already here and I know that they helped seal the fate of Orlando. However, the Colonel himself is still taking his sweet time, enjoying the sights and pleasures of Florida as he works his way north. When he arrives, he will call me before him like a schoolboy in trouble for putting a tack on the teacher's chair. To take Orlando ahead of schedule like we did…Gregor, we have already raised eyebrows in Moscow. Our names are on the ascendancy. Think of the possibilities! You could be in command of your own division soon and I in command of an Army! Think of the glory we can reap, conquering this wasted country."
"Sir, I am happy to remain as your lieutenant."
Strogolev rolled his eyes and didn't care if Stepanovich saw him or not. "Gregor, you've got to look at the big picture! You want to be a captain for the rest of your life? This is our chance! If we find someone with valuable information, we can either use the intel to launch a surprise raid on the Americans or we can use it as leverage, to protect ourselves from the fury of the Colonel. Think about how grateful he will be if we hand him some juicy intelligence. He gets to swoop in and take the glory, but Moscow still has its eye on us. They know we were here first and I will make sure
they know that we were the ones who gathered the information that led to the Colonel's victory."
"Ambition can be a dangerous game, especially when played at the Kremlin."
"Don't worry so much, or we shall start calling you Captain Babushka,” laughed Strogolev. He happily saluted another batch of soldiers heading off toward the front lines. They cheered him and raised rifles in salute. Strogolev looked around and everywhere he saw Russian flags flying as they advanced.
"Gregor, get some trucks with loudspeakers—I believe they are called ice cream trucks—we need to start blaring announcements to the civilians, warning them to keep moving north and west."
"Yes, Comrade Major," Stepanovich said dutifully. He scratched out a note on his clipboard. "I will report back to you immediately when I settle on a location for the prisoner camp."
"Excellent! That's the spirit, Gregor."
ERIK LARSON WAS ADRIFT on a sea of blackness. All was calm and peaceful around him. He was floating on his back, drifting along with a warm ocean current, propelled toward some unknown horizon. Everything was black. He told himself that he was dreaming—that any minute he would wake up and the realities of the world would come crashing down around him once more.
To confirm this thought, his last memories flashed before his mind's eye. Escaping from the back of the Hallmark store in the strip mall on the north side of Orlando. Struggling to raise the cargo door with Sgt. Pinner. Getting the women and children out into the sunlight, hearing Ted create a diversion down the alley. The gunfire, the shouts. Russian paratroopers surrounding them.
Then he remembered how his sword had flashed in the sunlight as it sliced its way through the Russian's neck. He remembered the sound of the paratrooper’s AK-47 as it clattered on the pavement of the cargo loading ramp. He remembered seeing Pinner in a pool of his own spreading blood reaching out a hand and mouthing words that would never be spoken. He remembered looking up and seeing a handful of angry Russians appear out of nowhere. And then he remembered blackness and pain.
Erik blinked as tears threatened to fill his eyes. He had failed Ted—had failed to keep his family safe. He had failed Brin. That hurt most of all. Because he hadn't acted fast enough, or maybe decisively enough, he was dead. He peered around in the inky blackness. Yup. This is what death looks like. No Heaven, no Pearly Gates, no Elysian Fields for Erik Larsson. He had killed—broken God’s Commandment…
Who knew what had happened to Brin. Who knew what had happened to Ted for that matter? Maybe this was Purgatory?
"You are awake, da?" A strange voice said, booming all around him in the darkness.
Erik’s body tensed in surprise. He was suddenly aware that he could feel wet tears on his cheeks. If he could feel his own tears and hear someone's voice—a Russian voice—how could he be dead? He tried turning his head to identify the location of the speaker and realized that there was something over his head. A bag. He wasn't dead! He’d merely been unconscious and someone had placed a damn bag over his head.
He tried to move his hands to remove the bag, but found them tied securely to his back. Likewise, his feet were tied with tight knots to the legs of the chair he where he had been deposited. He tensed his body and felt a chair complain underneath him. It was light and strong, but warm to the touch of his skin. A wooden chair.
"Please, do not struggle, yes?" said the voice again. It was off to his left. He turned his head on instinct, and still saw only the blackness of the bag, but there was a faint lightening of the darkness.
"Who are you?" he croaked. His voice felt like someone was rubbing sandpaper in his throat. He coughed. "Where am I? Why do I have a bag on my head?" He struggled a little more with his restraints. "Where the hell is my wife?"
The voice that spoke to him was accented, but it was clear that the man was trying to soothe Erik. "Please! You have been secured for questioning—it is useless to struggle and you may only end up hurting yourself."
Erik shook his head, feeling anger rise up in his chest. "Would you at least be kind enough to remove this damned bag from my head?" he growled. "Or are you too chickenshit to face me?"
The Russian laughed. Seconds later, the bag lifted from Erik's head and his world was consumed by blinding light.
Erik's eyes gradually adjusted to the light. He blinked back the pain and was able to see a figure across a small table from him. The man was dressed in a Russian officer's uniform—at least, that's what Erik assumed, since he had no idea what a Russian officer's uniform should look like. The man certainly sounded Russian.
"Ah, there we are—better, da?" the man said in a thick accent.
Erik stared at the Russian, not quite sure what to say. He looked down and saw that he was tied to a wooden chair as he’d thought. His hands had been securely strapped to the back and his feet to the legs. "Why am I tied to this chair?" he asked. He wiggled again in his restraints to no effect.
A voice chuckled in the darkness behind his…captor? Interrogator? Adversary?
"You seem confused," the man said with an eyebrow raised. "Surely you would expect no less if you were to take me captive as prisoner of war?"
Erik stared at the man in disbelief. "Prisoner of war?"
The Russian laughed. He slapped the table so hard the papers that were on it shuffled a bit. "For you are funny! Yes, very funny!" A snorted laugh echoed from the darkness behind him. He glanced over his shoulder "Yuri, you see? These Special Forces types are all alike. Always making light of the situation. Just like spetsnaz."
"Special forces? Spetsnaz?" Erik gasped. "Wait—wait a second! You think I'm in the Special Forces?" Erik could feel the nervousness begin to grow inside his stomach like a balloon. This was not good. "Trust me, I'm not even really a soldier! I'm just a grad student!"
The laughter died in the Russian’s throat. His face grew stern. He stared at Erik for what seemed like an eternity before speaking again. "You killed one of my best men. With this…" he said lifting one hand from under the table. In that hand was Erik's katana. The Russian gently placed it on the table, almost reverently. "It is beautiful, no? The sword. Such elegance, such simplicity, such lethality. A finer weapon man has not created in thousands of years, would you not agree?"
"Okay yeah, it's a nice sword. I like swords. That doesn't make me special forces!" said Eric. His voice was rising in time with his heart rate and the sweat prickling the back of his neck. The ropes seemed like they were even tighter around his arms and legs, now. His throat was trying to close up. Another thought hit him. "Where is my wife—where's my friend's family?"
"The…how do you Americans say it? Exotic. Da. The exotic woman whom you claim as your wife. Yes. She is quite attractive, for one of your CIA operatives, nyet?” The Russian stared at Erik.
"What the hell are you talking about? Brin is my wife, nothing more! She's a sales rep for—she’s not working for the CIA…"
The Russian slapped the table with such force that it actually caused Erik to jerk his head back in surprise. "Enough lies! We know you were sent here to help raise the local population against us! We know you are Special Forces, we know your tactics—we've studied your country and your military for generations! You cannot fool me!" The Russian adjusted the collar and the trim of his coat primly before continuing in a calmer voice. "I apologize for that outburst. My emotions will be getting the better of me—it will not happen again."
"Look," Erik said. He tried to put as much innocence in his voice as he could. "I'm telling you, Mister—whoever you are—my wife is not a secret agent for the CIA. She's a traveling sales rep for one of the largest companies on the planet. I am not a Special Forces officer. I'm not a soldier. I am a teacher, who got caught up in all of this mess and was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
The Russian cocked his head and stared at Erik like a cat. A smile played halfway across his lips. One corner of his mouth curled up. "The teacher you say?"
“Yes!" Erik sighed in relief. "When everything hit the fan, I was tr
ying to write a thesis so I could get a graduate degree in history!"
"So," the Russian said, looking down at the paperwork before him. Erik tried to take a glance, but it was all in Cyrillic. It could have been a recipe for borscht, for all Erik knew. "A simple teacher, da?"
"That's what I'm trying to tell you," Erik replied. He could feel sweat start to trickle down his forehead. I don't know what the hell I'm doing, he thought. I don't know why I decided to join up with Captain Winters! Why did I do this? Joining up has caused nothing but trouble for me and Brin…and now Ted's family is… Who knows where. Oh God, please get me out of this!
"When you were captured, there was another man. Sergeant Pinner."
Erik tried to lean forward but was backed by the restraints on his arms. "Pinner? Is he alive? Is he okay?"
"I am sorry, nyet." The Russian looked up from his paperwork, and Erik thought he detected an actual note of sadness—the man looked very sincere. "Your man did not survive. However, he was not completely useless to us. On his body we found certain devices that are not available to regular soldiers. When we scanned our databases—and they are very thorough—we found that your Sergeant Pinner has been an active member in the special forces community of the United States Army for the last five years."
"What?” Erik blurted. Pinner was special ops? “I…I don't know what you're talking about! When I signed on with Captain Winters," Erik began, "I had no idea who he was—"
"So you admit then, that you are a soldier?" said the Russian, leaning forward stare at Erik, pen poised to strike on a sheet of paper.
Erik shook his head. "Look, I told you, I'm not a real soldier. Captain Winters—"
"Da. Captain Winters. Tell me about him. Your commanding officer, is he not? He is the leader of your Special Forces unit? Where can I find him?"
Erik looked down at the plane table. "He's dead for all I know." He glanced up. "He was at our forward command center, or headquarters, or whatever the hell they call it in the Army."
Sic Semper Tyrannis Page 18
