Charlie's Requiem: Democide

by Walt Browning

  This is the life! He thought to himself as he settled down to do yet more paperwork for his new masters. He didn’t really mind the work because it kept him occupied. After all, if it weren’t for all the reports, evaluations and summaries that the government wanted, he would have to be out on the street, and that wouldn’t be good at all.

  John and Bru read the orders once again and confirmed the basics of what the fat man had told them. It was a little after 7:30 and they had 90 minutes to draw a vehicle out of the motor pool and get to the airport. No description of the “asset” was given and no ETA for their arrival was included in these papers. They would be told only what they needed to know, and nothing more.

  “Well,” John said. “Let’s get ourselves a new ride.”

  They left headquarters and retrieved their M-ATV, then drove to the “motor pool” which had been set up at the downtown bus station, formerly run by Orlando’s public transportation company called Lynx.

  After reporting in and leaving behind the second of their remaining two layers of orders with the director of the motor pool, they were led outside to a golf cart. A quick spin around the corner and they pulled up to one of the most beautiful limos John had ever seen. A pearl white, 1965 Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud was sitting under the archway of the bus terminal’s loading bay. A mechanic stood next to the old beast.

  “She’s got a 6.2-liter V-8 engine and a 4-speed automatic transmission,” the grease monkey beamed.

  “Where did you get…” John started to ask.

  “Do NOT ask!” The man replied, cutting John off before he could complete his question.

  “I just don’t get where this could have come from!” John stated.

  The mechanic, an older man wearing the LYNX logo on his one-piece coverall, leaned in and whispered.

  “I know one of the wedding transport groups had some older luxury sedans and limousines.” He confided. “But you didn’t hear that from me!”

  “This has to be worth a pretty penny!” John added as the two agents reverently circled the old beauty, actually afraid to even touch the classic automobile.

  “Grey Poupon?” Bru said with a smirk.

  “Ha! Ha!” The LYNX repairman snidely replied. “Just don’t bruise it, or you’ll be working double shifts for the next year.”

  The two agents finally accepted the fact that they had to get in and drive the thing to the airport.

  “You’re the senior man in our group!” Bru stated. “You drive!”

  John removed his belt and unslung his M4 battle rifle, putting both on the ancient car’s floorboard. The limo smelled like money. Its tan leather seats, lined with a black seam, were soft and supple. The dashboard was finely polished walnut, and all the original dials and buttons stared back at him.

  “At least the steering wheel is on the left!” John said as he engaged the ignition and fired up the perfectly tuned 8-cylinder engine.

  The pair turned out of the garage and were immediately met by two HUMVEEs. They stopped the Rolls and commanded John to put down his window.

  After showing him and Bruner their orders to escort them to the airport and back, they took up protective positions in front and behind the limo. John followed them to the airport, finding that the roads had been cleared of stalled cars and other debris.

  They reported to the director of security, handing over their last copy of the provided paperwork. There, they were told to wait for further instructions.

  After about an hour, the two men were called into the official’s office and handed a single page of instructions.

  “We’re escorting Micah Bedford, the Deputy Under Secretary of National Protection & Programs Directorate, and his family back downtown.” John read from the order sheet.

  “What the hell is National Protection & Programs?” Bru asked.

  “Who knows? But you know the feds; they have more bureaucracies than an onion has layers.” John replied.

  The two men returned to their limo and followed directions to an access gate. They were sent to a staging area and shut down the vehicle. Within a few minutes, a United States Coast Guard Gulfstream V set gently down on the long runway. The sleek jet taxied to the tarmac in front of John and his two escorts and shut down its engines. Ground crew personnel swarmed the concrete around the jet, and within a minute, the side door opened and an 8-step ladder unfolded from the exit to the ground below. A stainless steel railing popped up and a man appeared in the doorway.

  To say he was squirrelly, would be a disservice to squirrels. He was portly, disheveled and facially resembled a rat with twitchy nose and beady eyes framed by round wire-rimmed glasses. He stood barely over five feet; and as the old southern saying goes, if he were any taller they would call him round. As he struggled to come down the stairs, grabbing at the railing and finally at the ground crew that had appeared to assist in his arrival, a beautiful woman with a small child appeared above. She easily descended the steps, all while carrying her little girl. The youngster, not much older than two years of age, was a smaller version of her mother. Both were raven-haired, thin and almost regal in appearance.

  According to their orders, Undersecretary Bedford was a newlywed and was accompanied by his new wife and her daughter.

  John and Bru both exited the vehicle as the family approached. John removed his ball cap, tucked it into his battle belt and put out his hand.

  “Agent Drosky,” John said as he attempted to greet the Undersecretary.

  Bedford ignored him, instead moving to the back of the Rolls. He stood by the back door, waiting for someone to open it for him.

  Bru ran back and let Bedford into the back seat while Drosky stood dumbfounded at the man’s disrespect.

  John suddenly felt someone take his partially extended hand. It was the new wife, and she greeted him with a stunning smile and warm eyes.

  “Hello, Agent Drosky. I’m Tanya Bedford.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. If you could come this way, we can be on our way once the baggage is loaded.”

  A never-ending stream of gear was removed from the jet, requiring one of the two escort HUMMVEEs to double as a luggage cart.

  The three vehicles slowly pulled away and exited the tarmac. They rolled out of the airport and onto Route 436, heading north to the East/West expressway about 10 miles away.

  Their tactical channel was cluttered with agents barking orders and reporting findings. The city was alive with activity, the HUMVEE’s SINCGARS (Single Channel Ground and Air Radio System) was buzzing with talk.

  Both John and Bru had strapped their headsets on and linked into the chatter with their Personal Soldier Radio R35010. It operated in the same frequency as the more powerful vehicle mounted radios and included several security features that helped prevent unwanted ears from hearing their conversation.

  The headphone volume was loud enough that John got a disapproving glare from the Undersecretary.

  “Turn that racket down!” He commanded. “I don’t want to hear that noise.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” John replied. “I can’t do that. I need to monitor the chatter for any signs of trouble.”

  “Unacceptable!” Bedford shot back. “I’m giving you a direct order to turn it down, or shut it off.”

  John was about to protest once again, when the man’s wife chimed in.

  “Oh Micah,” she crooned. “I think it’s kind of exciting to hear all your soldiers giving commands back and forth.”

  John didn’t miss her reference to him being one of Bedford’s soldiers, so he glanced back in the rearview mirror and saw her put her hand on the man’s thigh. However, instead of doting on her new husband she was staring directly back at John as he caught sight of their interaction.

  “Very well!” The pompous man spouted. “You may keep your radi
o on.”

  A grateful John continued to glance at the woman, receiving not too subtle eye language back from her that she did indeed find it exciting. But John guessed that it was him and not the chatter that was floating her boat. John just shook his head and glanced at Bru, who was leaning against his door, hand to mouth, trying to keep from busting out laughing.

  They had driven about five miles into the first leg of their trip back downtown when their communications suddenly went from multiple conversations to pure static. John glanced at Bru to see if he had communications, but just saw confusion on his partner’s face.

  “I’m down!” Bru stated.

  “Me too,” John said back.

  Everything else in the vehicle was working properly and John had a moment of confusion before realizing that they were being jammed. But by whom and how extensive was it?

  John began flashing his lights at the HUMVEE in front of him, signaling the driver that they needed to pull over, when a tremendous explosion rocked the car. John watched in horror as the lead HUMVEE, driving about a hundred yards ahead of them, was enveloped by a wall of flame coming from a parked or stalled van on their left. A large delivery truck stood next to it partially blocking the blast from extending toward them. Nevertheless, the old limo’s front windshield blew inward, covering John and Bru with shards of broken glass. Their eye protection saved their vision, but their faces were cut by multiple pieces of fine shrapnel.

  John swerved the car to the right, and took off through a fast food parking lot. John glanced in the rearview mirror and watched their other escort stop and begin dismounting their personnel. Three of the four agents exited the Hummer and began to move toward their companions, now a burning hulk sitting in the middle of the road.

  John shot through the parking lot and exited onto a side street, going quickly east, away from the ambush.

  In the back seat, John heard a high-pitched scream. The screeching was constant, even though they were out of immediate danger. John looked back, ready to comfort Bedford’s wife, when he saw that it was the undersecretary himself screaming like a girl.

  “SIR! We’re out of immediate danger.” John stated.

  “OH MY GOD!” He cried out. “DID YOU SEE THAT? ALL THOSE MEN WERE BURNED UP!”

  “Sir, my partner and I will protect you. Please! I need you to calm down.”

  The street ended at a row of homes three blocks down and he turned right in an attempt to double back to the airport. He immediately slammed on the brakes when he saw the road blocked a few hundred yards ahead with several men manning the makeshift barrier, rifles pointed at their car.

  Without missing a beat, John accelerated and swerved up a driveway to his left and off in between two of the homes. He blasted through the stockade fence and swerved around an above-ground pool. He crashed through the fence at the back of the property line where he found an opening between another two homes on the next block, and shot the gap. He came out in another subdivision and quickly weaved his way through the stucco and block-home maze. The radio still blared static back at him when he commanded Bru to search several of the other tactical channels for a clear frequency.

  “CONTACT REAR!” Bru shouted as they took another turn in search for a way out of the trap they had driven into.

  John glanced in the rear mirror. The first thing he saw was Undersecretary Bedford cowering in the seat, scrunched down so low and taking up so much room that his wife and her young child were forced to sit up tall, putting them in the line of fire. After a brief moment of disgust, John spotted several motorbikes racing after them, each man carrying a long gun of some sort strapped over his chest.

  A crack appeared in the rear glass, as one of their pursuers was shooting off a magazine from a handgun he was carrying.

  John could see that the four men giving chase were going to overtake them soon, their old Rolls Royce not up to the task of outrunning speedy motorcycles.

  “NEXT TURN,” John shouted to his partner. “DISMOUNT AND SET UP A HASTY AMBUSH AT THE REAR OF THE CAR!”

  “COPY!” Bru replied.

  Two blocks up, John checked their pursuers and saw that they had made up almost half the distance between them. The sound of three hammer-like strikes and the appearance of three holes in the dash showed that their pursuers’ aim was improving. John glanced back and noted that the slouching Undersecretary had just missed being hit, the bullet holes appearing in the leather where the man’s head would have been had he been sitting up.

  “NOW!” John shouted as he pulled them hard to the right down yet another side street. He slammed on the brakes and the two agents jumped out of the car and set up in a kneeling position, facing the road they had just left.

  A few seconds later, the motorcycles began their turn and that’s when John and Bru opened up, shredding the road and their attackers with .556 rounds. The bullets, 62-grain, green-tipped penetrators, tore two of the lead riders off their bikes. Leather did nothing to save the men, and their crash helmets only kept their brain matter from spewing out the back of their skulls as the bullets tumbled about inside their bony cranium.

  The other two riders, seeing their comrades torn apart, shot passed the intersection and squealed to a stop just beyond John and Bru’s line of sight.

  “In the car!” John commanded. The two men scurried into the vehicle and took off, just as rifle shots pinged off and through their car’s body and windows. John quickly turned down the closest side street, stretching the distance between them and their attackers.

  The sudden appearance of Curry Ford Road as their street ended on this major thoroughfare gave John some hope. Ahead, he saw the dead traffic signals hanging over the intersection, blowing in the afternoon breeze. And just when he thought they had made it out, several older cars came rolling out from the side, over a dozen men pushing them into the intersection to create a new roadblock.

  John took his next left, a long two-lane street with woods behind the homes on the left and a line of houses on the right. The road hadn’t been cleared, and cars were left haphazardly in the street, blocking him from making a speedy get away.

  “HOLD ON!” John shouted to his back seat passengers.

  Drosky cut left and used the sidewalk to bypass the many cars that were parked or stalled in the road. The old limo was taking all kinds of abuse as they bottomed out while traversing the area on the berm. The Florida sandy soil, which formed a strip of land between the sidewalk and the road, was pockmarked with holes and swales that caught the tires or undercarriage of the Rolls.

  The Undersecretary had stopped screaming sometime back; and a quick glance in the rearview mirror showed the fat coward laying his head on his wife’s lap, hands over his eyes and mouth, whimpering with each bump hit.

  Finally, as they came to the end of the long road, an elementary school came into view. Anchoring the left side of the road, it appeared suddenly as the trees from a city park suddenly disappeared at the school’s property line.

  POOF! A bullet hit the dirt in front of them, just as John swerved left, skidding into the school’s parking lot. He zoomed around the backside of the building and was rewarded with another driveway that dumped them into another cluster of homes on the north side of the school.

  “Where are we?” Bru asked as he turned to see if their pursuers were in sight.

  “I don’t know,” John answered. “I’m going to keep going north and head into town. We’ve got to be getting close to the 408.”

  John used the driveway he had discovered and followed it, a feeder road extending into the homes beyond. A long, straight street lay in front of them, and scouting ahead, John saw that the street had some areas that would block the passage of their car.

  “How are we behind us?” John asked.

  Bru stared back, waiting for their attackers to show up, but no one appea
red.

  “I think we’re good!” Bru stated.

  “See if you can raise headquarters,” John asked his partner.

  Bru fiddled with his radio, static still evident, but some conversations were bleeding through the jamming signal. And that’s what it had been, John decided. They were being jammed.

  Taking his thoughts to the next level, he realized that someone had tipped off the people that had attacked them, and that meant there was a rat in the house, a traitor that had access to DHS and their secrets; and that wasn’t going to sit well with the powers that be.

  “I got them!” Bru announced.

  “This is Reacher one. Again, I say. This is Reacher one. There has been an attack on our convoy and we need assistance. Do you copy? Over.”

  “Reacher one, this… Hughey actual. We c… y..r last tr…..miss..n, over. We need yo……. loc…, opy? Over.”

  “Reacher one to Hughey actual. We did not receive your last transmission. I repeat, we are under attack. Our location is as follows.”

  Bru looked up at the cross street they were passing through and pinpointed their location.

  “Hughey actual, this is Reacher one. We are on South Adler Road, northbound. We just passed Kearce Avenue. Your last transmission failed. Please repeat, over.”

  Bru listened again, but got static once more.

  John had begun slowly picking his way through the cluster of stalled automobiles when he heard a scream from the back seat. John looked in his mirror and saw Bedford’s wife; a red stain was spreading above her right breast near the collarbone.