Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3) (63 page)

My God, they look awful.
 
Half-starved, exhausted, completely spent—Stapleton smiled. The rebellion was over.
 
He couldn't believe the reports and had promptly ordered his command vehicle straight to the front of the column.
 
He had to see it with his own eyes.

A captain snapped a salute when he spotted Stapleton.
 
He tucked a clipboard under his arm and adjusted the M4 slung over his shoulder so the weapon hung from his back.

"Whats' the sit rep, captain?"
 

"General—this here's what's left of the rebel army.
 
If you can believe it."

"I almost didn't, son.
 
Do we have Malcolm?"

The captain nodded.
 
"Indeed, we do, sir.
 
Other side of my vehicle, up there," the young officer said, pointing.
 
"Third one on the left.
 
I have him under guard.
 
He willingly surrendered and asked to speak to you, sir."

"Had any trouble from anyone?"

"Negative, sir.
 
In fact, most of them have been thanking us."

Stapleton shook his head.
 
"Well, make sure we get them some food and water.
 
See to the processing and make sure anyone that needs medical attention gets it."

"Roger that, sir."

Stapleton moved on up the column to the captain's Stryker and waved off the guards.
 
A handsome, well-built man with his head in his hands sat by the open rear hatch.
 
He looked up at Stapleton's approach and slowly got to his feet.

"Hello, General Stapleton."

Stapleton stood there for a moment, staring into the coal-dark eyes that watched him warily.
 
"So. You're the infamous Malcolm."
 
He put his hands on his hips and clamped down on the unlit cigar in his mouth.
 
"I take it this is your unconditional surrender?"

Without hesitation, the young man nodded.
 
"Yes, sir."

The general looked at one of the guards and grunted.
 
"Just like that?"

"Just like that."
 
Malcolm sighed.
 
"It's over.
 
When one is betrayed and abandoned by those thought to be allies, one must look to saving lives, not taking them.
 
Everything I did was for my people.
 
I would not willingly slaughter them now.
 
I surrender."
 
He swallowed.
 

"Please, whatever you do—protect my people.
 
I will submit to whatever judgment you deem necessary, but don't let them—"

"Who?" asked Stapleton.
 
"Who betrayed you?"

"The Russians," hissed Malcolm.

"Russians?" asked Stapleton, one eyebrow almost touching his helmet.
 
"They're down in Orlando—what the hell are you talking about?"

"A large group of them confronted us on the other side of the border.
 
I was assured by President Jones I would not have a difficult time defeating them.
 
They were rumored to be running out of supplies and men.
 
But the force that destroyed my army was massive and well supplied."

Stapleton turned and looked at one of the guards.
 
"We've heard the same thing from just about all the prisoners, sir.”

"Pardon me," Stapleton said to Malcolm as he stepped inside the Stryker.
 
He grabbed the comm link and keyed the mic.
 
"Lighthouse, Command Actual.
 
We have eyes in the sky?"

The radio warbled as it broke squelch.
"Roger that, Actual.
 
Providing air cover for detachments bringing in
 
prisoners."

"What birds?" Stapleton asked, hoping to hear a helicopter.

"Drone.
 
We're critical on avi-fuel until we reach JNAS."

"Retask it," Stapleton said, chewing the cigar.
 
"I want to see as far south as you can."

"Wait one, Actual."

"Standing by."
 
Stapleton tapped his fingers on the console as he waited.
 
He cursed himself for pushing so hard, so fast.
 
He'd stretched his column out nearly 100 miles and the fuel trucks were barely keeping pace.
 

President Jones be damned—Stapleton never trusted the news that he'd given Florida to the Rebels in exchange for fighting the Russians.
 
He'd assumed from the get go the Rebels were in cahoots with those commie bastards all along.
 
Why else flee south so fast?
 
Surely Malcolm wasn't so stupid as to think he could knock off a professional army with a bunch of protesters and gangs?

"Contact!
 
Actual, I'm seeing multiple armored-up vehicles about four miles south of the border.
 
They're holding position but heat signatures are giving me at least a dozen foot mobiles ranging out north.
 
Wait…there's some interference."

"Lighthouse, what's going on?"

"We lost the feed, Actual.
 
Trying to reestablish a link to the drone."
 
A momentary pause and then the commander of Stapleton's air wing returned to the line.
 
"I'm sorry, Actual, I think they spotted the drone and shut it down with a remote jamming array.
 
It's gone.
 
It’s a good bet they know we’re here, now."

"God
damn
it!" Stapleton cursed, slamming the radio back in its receiver.
 
He took a moment to compose himself, then picked up the receiver again.
 
"All units this net, this is Command Actual.
 
Russian ground forces have been spotted just south of the Florida border.
 
I want all units to make best possible speed south.
 
Prepare for general engagement.
 
Out."
 

They came to the border after all.
 
Nella was right.
 

Stapleton stepped back out into the humid air and let his eyes adjust.
 
He found Malcolm sitting by the ramp again, hands over his face.
 
His boots clicked off the ramp as he exited and stood in the grass before the defeated rebel leader who'd caused so much death and destruction.
 

And it's only been six months since you raised the flag of rebellion.
 

Stapleton crossed his arms.
 
"Malcolm Abdul Rashid.
 
On your feet."

Malcolm stood.
 
His body looked defeated but the steel in his eyes betrayed his inner strength.

"I have one question for you.
 
Did you come south to join forces with the Russians?"

The anger that exploded across Malcolm's face answered his question before the outraged response.
 
"At first, yes!
 
Then those animals attacked us.
 
The women and children—we—"

Stapleton held his hand up to stop the tirade.
 
"That's enough.
 
I believe you."
 
He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders.
 
"You will be placed in military custody until such time as you can be safely transported to Washington, where you will face justice."

Malcolm blinked.
 
"You are not going to shoot me?"

Stapleton stared at him.
 
"No.
 
What do you think I am, some kind of barbarian? You'll face justice later,
 
at the hands of the civil authorities—whoever the hell that turns out to be.
 
I have to fight these Russian bastards now."

"What about my people?"

Stapleton turned to look at the pathetic mass of humanity clustered around his scouts.
 
"They will be given food, water, and medical attention, then transported north.
 
It's up to the politicians to decide their fates.
 
Though I wouldn't be surprised to see them pardoned in exchange for service against the Russians or Chinese—but that’s just my opinion."
 
Stapleton pulled the cigar from his mouth and pointed the stub at his most important prisoner.
 

"Frankly, I don't care what happens to them.
 
I was tasked with ending your rebellion by whatever means necessary.
 
I have, as of this moment, completed my mission.
 
Now I must proceed with my sworn duty to defend the nation from external enemies.
 
Excuse me."

“Where are you going?" Malcolm called out as Stapleton stormed back to his command Stryker.
 

He turned and lit his cigar, inhaling the bittersweet smoke.
 
Stapleton savored the taste for a few moments as his mobilization order trickled down to the nearby units.
 

They upped their pace and shouted at prisoners to keep moving north with a lot more urgency. Vehicles roared to life and took up defensive formations across the six-lanes of interstate.
 

A far off rumble, accompanied by the faintest of tremors felt through the soles of his boots announced the imminent arrival of his tanks.

He puffed the cigar and squinted through the smoke at Malcolm.
 
"We may not like each other—hell, we may hate each other, you and I—but we're both still part of the big dysfunctional family they call America."
 
He blew the gray-blue smoke out his mouth and examined his stogie.
 

"No one comes into my house uninvited and pushes my family around," he growled, watching Malcolm.
 
"No one."

"But…" Malcolm said, confusion clouding his face as much as cigar smoke.

Stapleton grinned.
 
"I'm going to go kick some Russian ass."

Chapter 67

Offense

T
ED
CLOSED
THE
BUILDING
'
S
rear door behind Erik.
 
The two of them crouched in the sun at the corner. Distant voices echoed on the breeze between structures. Erik turned to Ted.

"So how's this going to go down?" he whispered.

Ted indicated the road with his hand. "Those guys are coming toward us from the left. Maggie said she was only going a couple shops up the street. They could be on her before we reach her. I'll shift to this building next door, to keep their attention away from Brin and the kids. You see if you can run down the back alley and stay even with them."
 
He hefted the rifle.

"I'll draw their attention with this.
 
When they stop, you step out from the side with the XD and collect their weapons. Once we have them under control, we can interrogate them."

Erik shifted his grip on the pistol. He pulled back the slide, checked the round in the chamber and made sure the safety was off.
 

"That easy?"

Ted stood up and paused, listening to a distant echo of laughter.
 
"That easy. These jokers think they own this town. They're completely at ease." Ted peeked around the corner. "Coast is still clear. You ready?"

Erik stood next to the marine. "Ready as I'll ever be," he said. He took a deep breath and waited.

Ted watched the street.
 
He motioned north. "Go."
 
Without waiting, he sprinted around the corner and dashed across the narrow alley to position himself at the front corner of the adjacent building.

Erik scrambled through the gravel as quietly as he could, moving behind the next building, pausing only at the corner to make sure the road was still clear. He heard two distinct voices echoing out in the street now, one of them laughing. They were still out of sight.
 

He exhaled and sprinted across the next alley, repeating the process two more times. Hoping he was far enough, Erik found the target building had a bush planted by the front corner that should give him enough cover to surprise the men. He scrambled along the side of the building, hoping they didn't appear while he was exposed.

"… funny as shit, man. I never knew you had so many stories."

The voices were clear now. Erik shuffled the last few feet to get behind the cover of the bush. He crouched down, pistol held in both hands and pointed at the ground.
 
His heart thudded in his chest like thunder and his breath came fast and shallow. He closed his eyes and willed himself to stay calm.

"Yeah well, I was in C Block. You know what they say about C block?" said a distinctly older voice.

"What's that?" asked the other.

“Nothin’—you don’t say
shit
in C Block.”

Erik grimaced as the two men laughed, casually strolling down the street. Through the small leaves of the dense bush, Erik caught glimpses of their legs as they approached. They were no more than 15 feet away.
 

He heard their shoes on the asphalt. If either of them pointed his shotgun at Erik and pulled the trigger, he was as good as dead.
 

As the two strangers approached, Erik felt more naked than ever, despite the concealment of the shrubbery.
 
He kept his eyes on the targets and slowly raised his pistol, only moving as they took steps. They drew even with him, still talking about prison life.

Ex-cons. Great.

As they passed him, the conversation changed to grumbling about their current duty.
 
"…bullshit and you know it."

"Ain't that the truth? Ol' Spike still mad at you for gettin' that choice piece of ass, huh?" the older man chuckled.