Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) (66 page)

“Thanks,”
Erik said, holding up the paper. “For everything.”

Archie, now
joined by Maddie on deck, took the last mooring line from Erik and began
coiling it up as Maddie expertly guided the boat out of its slip with the
diminutive diesel outboard engine. “I hope you survive what’s cooming ,
laddie,” he shook his head sadly. “Thus is a beautiful coon-try…worr-uth
fighting over," the rough Scot's burr made Erik grin.

“We will,”
Erik indicated Ted.

Archie
waved and said a little louder as the
Flying Piper
gracefully pulled
away from the dock, “Take my advice, laddie. Leave the fighting be to the
professionals!  Run while ye can!” He and Maddie waved as the sailboat coast
past the end of the long dock, Erik keeping pace.  “Ye’ll always have a place
t’stay in Scotland!” Archie continued waving for a few seconds, then turned to
his tasks.

Erik
watched the
Flying Piper
until it was perhaps half a mile out into the
peaceful Gulf of Mexico, past the sand bars visible even at high tide, and the
blazing white mainsail was unfurled.  The offshore wind was caught quickly and
the boat turned south and began the trek around the Floridian peninsula. 
Quickly, a jib was run up and the sailboat began to pick up speed.

Moments
later, Erik had their own boat, named the
Tarpon Whistler
, ready to head
into the bay.  The little 2hp engine gurgled noisily to itself as Ted cast off
the mooring lines and gingerly climbed aboard.  He almost looked surprised the
boat didn’t sink with him in it.  Erik grinned, then eased the boat out, not as
gracefully as Maddie had the
Piper
, but at least they didn’t hit
anything.

“Okay,
we’re clear of the Marina, you take the tiller, I’ll prep the sail.” Erik and
Ted switched positions carefully as every movement rocked the little sailboat. 
Erik began instructing Ted on the basics of sailing.  “It’s really pretty easy,
as long as you’re not trying to win the America’s Cup or anything.  Just let
the boat and the wind do all the work.”

Erik pulled
on the mainstay and the mainsail began to rise haltingly with each pull.  A
moment later and the sail was up.  Almost instantly the wind snapped the white
sail taut and the little boat began to heel.  “Ease her to starboard,” Erik
said, ducking under the boom as it swung to port.  “Good, you remembered to
reverse your movement for the rudder’s position!”

“Hey, Marines
are part of the Navy to some degree.”  Erik looked at Ted with an eyebrow
raised.  “
Technically
, I mean. Look, I ain’t no squid, but I can steer a
boat…it’s the sails that screw me up.  Hey…I think we’re going sideways!”
observed Ted, his grin erased by sudden worry.

“
Hey
, this
thing has a rotating keel, I should have checked…” Erik clambered around Ted
and found a lever marked “KEEL”. He remarked, “Someone customized this thing to
look like a car’s emergency brake.” He released the lever and the boat shook,
then steadied out and stopped drifting.

“Pickin’ up
speed,” commented Ted with approval.  “Holding course.”

Erik
grinned as he checked the mainstay and perched on the port side of the boat. 
He closed his eyes and savored the whistling of the wind in his ears, the
slight force on his face, the silence.  Taking a deep breath, he inhaled the
sounds and smells of the Gulf.  The surface of the water was not quite glass
smooth, but Erik knew it was infinitely more calm than the open waters of the
Atlantic, far to their east.  He turned back to Ted and began to explain how to
tack a boat.

“Angle us
back towards the shore…see how the sail’s starting to drop? We’re running
closer to the wind.  Can’t do that all that well with a little rig like this.” 
Erik ducked the boom again, surprising Ted that such a large person could move
with such agility on a moving vehicle, let alone a sailboat.  He untied the
guideline, gave the boom a tap and let it swing out in the opposite direction
until it caught the wind and filled again, from the other direction. 

Tying the
mainstay on a cleat on the starboard side this time, he said,  “Now, hold this
course a ways, then reverse the process and catch the wind going that way,” he
said pointing off-shore.

“You know,
this ain’t so bad,” mused Ted, squinting in the wind.

“Let’s head
up the coast a ways,” Erik said, pointing north along the beach.

“Siesta
Key?”

“Why not? I
don’t know the fishing grounds around here but there’s got to be something out
here.”  Erik set to pulling out the trolling lines with the gear stripped from
the other boats at the Marina.  In short order, 4 ramshackle poles were
trailing tackle from still other poles out behind the
Tarpon Whistler
. 
Erik watched the horizon.  It was a little past noon, they had some few miles
to go up the coast, the sun was shining, the breeze steady.  All they needed
were fish on the line and cold beers.

They spent
the afternoon in that manner, tacking up the coast, lines out for fish, talking
of sailing and how to escaping the looming war.  They watched the shoreline
glide past, saw knots of people in tents on the beach.  Some waved, some ran
out to the water as if on a deserted island and the rescue boat had arrived at
last.  One man went so far as to shoot at them with a pistol.

The
Tarpon
Whistler
was a good three-quarters of a mile offshore, so Erik laughed
while watching through binoculars as the man switched between waving and firing
woefully ineffective shots at the cruising sailboat.

“Look at
all that trash on the beach,” Ted commented as they slipped past just north of
Sarasota’s downtown district.

“Bet you
the White Hand People already came through here, too,” said Erik as he rested
in the shadow of the mainsail.  He scanned the beach with the binoculars. “Lot
of tents—and people, stretching up and down over the dunes…Ted a lot of them
aren’t moving…” he passed the binoculars to Ted and gripped the rail for
support.

“Guess
that’s where everyone went…My God…”

“Think the
White Hand People did that?” asked Erik, his knuckles white with anger.

“I see some
guards of some kind…damn that’s a prison.  Uh…uh oh. We’ve been spotted.”

“Take us
further out off shore, I don’t want any lucky shots,” said Erik as he took the
binoculars back from Ted.  The Marine readily agreed and pushed the tiller to
starboard and the little sailboat dutifully angled further out towards the
west, smoothly turning into and through the wind.  Erik reversed position again
and let the boom swing around and catch the wind with a nice snap.

“What if
they have a speedboat?” asked Ted, the shotgun balanced on his knees.  “I don’t
think we can outrun anyone in this…”

“Dammit, I
hadn’t thought of that. We don’t really have any options for a tactical
sailboat, do we?”

“Not unless
we mount some cannon…”

“Well, just
take us way out then.  We can come around after we cross Siesta Key,” replied
Erik, eyes still on the shore.  Finally he exhaled a sigh of relief. “Well,
they don’t seem to care too much about us.  No one’s really doing anything. 
Wait
…”

“What is
it?” asked Ted, suddenly tense.  He was trying not to think about how deep the
water must be beneath them as the
Tarpon Whistler
cruised further into
the Gulf.

“Someone’s
watching us through binoculars.  Not doing anything, just watching.” Erik
looked at Ted’s worried face and then back to the retreating shoreline.  “Oh.
He’s gone, now.”

Ted took
them out far enough that the people on the beach were tiny specks.  Then they
held course and tacked again to run parallel to the white strip of beach, close
to three miles in the distance.  “Well, I hope whoever he ran to tell about us
doesn’t have a speedboat or jet skis…”

As the sun
was nearing the horizon, they caught sight of Siesta Key and began the run
towards shore.

It was as
they got within a half mile or so of the deserted nature preserve at the
northern tip of the island that they caught their first fish, after much
excitement.  “I think it’s a barracuda or something,” said Ted.  “Look at those
teeth!”

“Whatever
it is, it’s
dinner
now.  Smack it with something to knock it out, before
it bites one of us!   That thing could take off one of our legs flopping around
like that!” replied Erik.  He lifted a leg over the thrashing fish, nearly as
long as his arm and watched as Ted silenced the flopping fish with a butt
stroke from the shotgun.

“Take us in
up to the point there and we’ll beach.  Then we can make a fire and cook this
bad boy,” suggested Erik, pointing off the starboard bow.  He could almost
taste the roasted fish.  His mouth began to water.  Erik raised the keel and
untied the mainstay when the water depth came to about four feet.  He could see
right down to the bottom and watched it slowly get shallower as the gentle
slope of the beach approached.  The sail fell and they ghosted to a smooth stop
in about a foot of water at the very tip of Sand Key, the bow of the sailboat
running up into the smooth sand.

After
spending ten minutes gathering driftwood from the edge of the mangrove swamp
that covered the island near the tip, they had a fire going.  The smell of
roasting fish was intoxicating after so many weeks of plain, survival food. 
They were going to eat meat—fresh meat.  Both men let their worries melt away
as they savored the relaxing warmth of the fire, the sound of the gentle Gulf
waves lapping the shore, the cool evening breeze off the water.

They talked
of better days while the fish cooked, what it was like before the attacks, of
camping, family and friends.  It was the most peaceful few hours either man had
experienced in well over a month.

It was as
the sun finally vanished beneath the horizon and the heat of the day began to
bleed off rather quickly that they heard the sound.

A plane.  A
big one.

“Look,
there it is!” said Erik, pointing in the fire’s glow towards the northeast. 
Three blinking lights gave away the planes location.

“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.

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 the 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.