Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3) (4 page)

"Go with Allah,"
Samir responded.

"You too, my brother."

Malcolm dropped radio on the dashboard. He'd been up for more than 24 hours now, overseeing the final escape from New York. All he wanted to do was close his eyes.

"Malcolm?" asked the driver.
 
"Where you want me to…?"

 
Malcolm sighed, his eyes closed, head already against the seat.
 
"Take us to Philadelphia."

Chapter 3

The Hunt
 

B
RIGADIER
G
ENERAL
J
OSEPH
"F
IGHTING
Joe" Stapleton stared south through his binoculars out the commander's hatch on his Stryker.
 
Malcolm was on the run. Most of his fighters had packed up in the middle of the night and disappeared. The resistance had fallen. New York had been liberated.
 

He'd received orders from Daniel Jones to cease hostilities as a truce had been negotiated between the United States and the rebels.
 
There was no doubt about it now.
 
Jones claimed to be the president—successor to Suthby.
 

Stapleton grunted.
 
He half-expected someone else to call on the secure sat phone every hour announcing
they
were the new president, too.
 
Anyone could claim they were the president. No one in Congress or from the Pentagon had confirmed this Jones character.

Claiming the title of Commander-in-Chief wasn't good enough for Stapleton. Not only did he not recognize Jones' legitimacy, but his standing orders—given to him by President Reed—were to seek out and destroy the rebellion at all costs.
Those
orders were the ones Stapleton intended to follow to the letter.

To implement Reed's orders, he dispatched his forward elements south toward Trenton. His Strykers were faster than his armored cav could hope to be on asphalt.
 
They raced south using every intact tunnel and bridge that remained connected to the mainland.

Malcolm's retreat has been so swift and silent that not all of Stapleton's forces had amassed on Manhattan yet. The bulk of his army was still stationed on the mainland taking up defensive positions west of Manhattan. Stapleton could swing his forces straight south toward Philadelphia.

Stapleton chewed his unlit cigar. If his Strykers could catch Malcolm at Trenton, he could end this thing on day one.

He lowered his binoculars and slapped the roof of his vehicle. The driver understood and the big beast lurched forward. Stapleton continued standing in the commander's hatch to get an unobstructed view as they drove south.
 
He wasn't concerned by snipers, much to the chagrin of his staff.
 

Malcolm's forces vanished almost to a man.
 
Only a single instance of insurgent action had been recorded since Stapleton had accepted the surrender of the last of Kristanoff's Russians.

Stapleton shook his head as he clenched his jaw on the cigar. The rebels fled south like some kind of giant horde of barbarians. Russians had taken control of the Florida peninsula. There were also rumors—spreading like wildfire—of the Chinese invasion of California.
 

What the hell is going on?

The radio embedded in his helmet broke squelch.
"Command Actual, Viper 3, Actual."

"Actual here, go ahead."

"The last of my vehicles has cleared Manhattan. The tunnel's clear. Proceeding south with all haste."

Stapleton grinned. "Outstanding. Go hunt those slippery bastards down. We'll be right behind you. Actual out."
 

The radio broke squelch again.
"Command Actual, Lighthouse."

Lighthouse? That was his command staff. "Actual. Send it Lighthouse."

"We just received a cat-five."

A secured-sat phone category five transmission could mean only one thing.
 
Nella's calling me.

"Actual copies all." Stapleton ducked down inside the Stryker. "Driver! Pull over. I need to set up the secure satcom."

When the eight-wheeled vehicle had parked, Stapleton swiveled his chair to face the bank of screens depicting the locations of his divisional assets.
 
He picked up the secure comms sat phone and keyed Nella’s callsign,
Roosevelt Actual.
 
The phone chirped.

"
Nella
."

"Isn't it a little soon to be hearing from you, Admiral?" asked Stapleton.
 
He pulled the cigar stub from his mouth and examined it.

Admiral Nella grunted.
 
"I got word the rebels are making a bee line for Philly—"

"I know.
 
My scouts are on the trail.
 
We'll catch them in Trenton."

"Good.
 
I've got a flight of F-35s headed south to Oceana.
 
They can provide eyes in the sky and relay intel back to both of us.
 
This will be our first look.
 
I'm sending the codes to you now."

Stapleton watched his tactical displays shift as the incoming unit transfer codes appeared on his screen and waited for his authorization.
 

"Got 'em."
 
He hit the proper keys and a small screen to his left displayed a map of New Jersey and eastern Pennsylvania with a cluster of blue triangles and heading markers.
 

"We need to stop them before they make it to Washington and link up with that imbecile in the White House.
 
I still can't believe he brokered that peace treaty."

It was Stapleton's turn to grunt.
 
He held his tongue as another Stryker rumbled past, the noise deafening as it entered through the open commander's hatch.
 
Once the vehicle had lumbered past and taken the
 
background noise with it, he spoke: "I have my armored scouts moving to intercept them at Trenton. We're going to head them off before they reach Philadelphia.
 
The trail is pretty wide—trash, burned cars, looted homes.
 
The civilian population along the 95 corridor is scared shitless."

After a slight pause on the other end of the secured line, Nella replied with a question.
 
"Are you sure it's them?"

Stapleton thought about it for a moment.
 
"Hundred percent?
 
No.
 
All this could have happened while I was busy taking care of Chicago.
 
But my money's on the rebels.
 
They destroy and bring everything down with them.
 
It's their calling card—they're like locusts."

"And the Russians?"

Stapleton clenched his jaw.
 
"There will be stragglers scattered all over New England by the time we're finished.
 
It'll take time to hunt them all down.
 
I don't have the manpower.
 
We're throwing everything south at the rebels.
 
What few Russians are left behind will either be taken care of by the locals or whatever NG units I run into."
 

"What about the naval assets?"

Nella paused.
 
"Their surface fleet is resting on the bottom of the Sound."

"Their subs?"

The answer was immediate.
 
"That's a different matter.
 
We lost contact with
Hampton
over night.
 
We knew there were at least seven Russian fast attack boats in the area and we took out three in the first engagement…"

That wasn't good news at all.
 
The Russians were down, but not out.
 
"Have you been able to contact any other carriers?"

"Negative.
 
That's why I'm relocating my command to Oceana.
 
I'll know more after I arrive."

"What's your ETA?" Stapleton asked.

"Sunset.
 
I'll be on a prop transport.
 
The fighters will get there first and provide CAP.
 
I'll have to bring some Marines to secure the facility.
 
The rest of my command will follow overnight.
 
We'll be in a good position to supplement your forces for the push into Washington."

"If I can delay the rebels outside Philly, we can hit them from the north and south at the same time," mused Stapleton.
 
"I like it.
 
Keep me informed."

"You too.
 
Good hunting.
 
Roosevelt Actual out."

Stapleton replaced the sat phone in its cradle.
 
He wedged the cigar stub back between his teeth and thought for a moment as another Stryker roared past in the endless parade of vehicles streaming out of New York.

Stapleton let his mind shift into neutral he pondered what the fates had in store for him. Would it be seen as treason or rescue when the next generation wrote the history books?
 
Taking on open rebellion against the United States—and destroying most of Chicago in the process—was one thing.
 
Toppling said government from the top down was quite another.

Stapleton clenched his jaw.
 
The hell with history.
 
The government was being run by the assistant to the late director of FEMA for Christ's sake.
 
Jones called himself president and had been recognized by the Hague but that meant squat to him.
 

Stapleton clenched a fist.
 
Screw the U.N., screw Jones, and screw the rebellion.
 
The country was in deep shit and it was left to him and Nella—until they could link up with the Pentagon and other surviving units—to do something about it.
 

"Driver!" he barked.
 
"Get us back in the column!
 
I want eyes on the rebellion's ass before they reach Trenton."

"Yes, sir!" was the immediate response.
 
The command Stryker lurched forward and joined the procession of tan and green troop transports, tanks, and Bradley fighting vehicles headed south.

Chapter 4

The Bridge

E
RIK
L
ARSSON
GRIPPED
THE
M-ATV's steering wheel and sat in silence as a cold October rain drummed on the roof of the armored vehicle.
 
They had been sitting there in the dark for over 45 minutes, waiting for Ted's return.
 
The marine wanted to scout ahead and see if there would be any problems at the border.
 
Since it was a bridge, he wanted to make sure there were no surprises.
 

He glanced at Brin as she slept in the passenger seat, her head tucked against a folded blanket.
 
They had come close to losing everything in Gainesville.
 
The college town had seen a lot of troop movement before they'd arrived and when one more M-ATV showed up, chaos ensued.
 
People swarmed them, begging for food and when supplies didn't appear, the violence started.
 
More than one divot and ding on the M-ATV's armor came from frustrated civilians taking potshots at the big truck.

They'd even gone so far as to try to erect a barricade on the way out of town to trap Erik and his group.
 
Only Ted's quick thinking and lead foot kept them from being stopped and robbed, or worse.

Erik wanted no more surprises after the disaster.
 
They'd kept a low profile since, stopping for supplies or fuel only at night.
 
Florida's cities had largely succumbed to total anarchy in the months since the collapse.
 
Erik and Ted had known this—they'd heard reports while working with the Guard—but seeing it first hand was something else.

They followed I-75 north toward Georgia rather than risk the ruins of Jacksonville.
 
From the first days of the collapse, word had spread that Jacksonville was owned by the gangs.
 

Erik looked at Brin and smiled as she slept.
 
She'd had been quiet for most of the trip, but she'd immediately spoken up when it came time to make decisions based on what was best for the children.
 
No matter what, she'd argued, if the kids starved to death, there would be no point in any of them going any further.

He sighed and focused on the rain cascading down the windshield.
 
He didn't envy Ted at all, slinking around out there in the mud.
 
It was just the kind of rain he found most irritating—not nearly cold enough for snow, but too cold to be enjoyable.
 

Erik wished they had more containers to set on the roof and capture the precious water.
 
So far they had survived on stale buckets of water they'd filled whenever they stopped to hunt for supplies.

Now they were within spitting distance of Georgia.
 
The border lay just around the bend where State Highway 31 crossed the Withlacoochee River.
 
Erik stopped drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
 
The last thing he wanted to do was wake Brin in the middle of the night for no good reason.
 

So far, she had done most of the night watches, claiming to have been unable to sleep.
 
After what she endured at the prison camp—after what Erik assumed she endured—he and Ted had agreed to keep watch during the day.

Erik stared at the rain.
 
They were nearly into Georgia.
 
One state down, seven to go.
 

He couldn't help but shake the feeling once they made it safely to his parents' place in Upstate New York, everything would be right with the world.
 
They could forget about the riots in the cities and the diseases making the rounds in urban centers.
 
They could forget about shortages of food and water—his father had been growing vegetable gardens for as long as Erik could remember and the lake was an incredible source of fresh water.
 
There were plenty of animals in the forest to hunt, not to mention all the fish in the lake…