Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3) (40 page)

Two blocks over, just in front of the domed building he’d first spotted from the library, a two-lane street littered with trash and cars bisected the college town east-west.
 
A green sign below read ‘Main Street’ and pointed toward the road.
 

From four levels up, Erik had a nice view over the entire campus.
 
He looked south, to the northern ring of buildings that surrounded the library.
 
Across the street, another collection of colonial-style buildings stretched into the dense trees planted around the campus.

Another shout echoed up Main Street.
 
A few blocks away, the college buildings gave way to small shops abutting each other as far as he could see.

Someone darted out from the north and raced across Main St., sliding over the hood of a parked car with practiced ease.
 
The figure took a quick look around, then pitched a rock through a window.
 
The vandal disappeared from sight before the glass had finished falling.
 
More movement caught his eye—other dark-clad figures appeared from the north side of the street and raced across to join their comrade.

He heard some indistinct shouting and noticed a group of three people emerge from the cluster of buildings that lined the south side of Main Street.
 
They sprinted around some trees and disappeared into an adjoining building, chased by the people from the north.
 
More shouts echoed across the yard, and people exited the brick buildings, joining what quickly turned into a group brawl.

Erik shifted his grip on the rifle.
 
What the hell is going on?

Erik felt more uneasy as the minutes passed and the fighting continued.
 
A few bodies dropped to the ground and the dark-clad figures seemed to more than hold their own against overwhelming numbers.
 
They looked bigger and even without binoculars Erik could tell they moved with the natural grace of athletes.
 
Whoever the dark clad figures were, they clearly were superior fighters.
 
Erik shook his head and moved back to the car.
 

I need to get inside this thing and get us out of here.
 
Whatever’s going down here, I don’t want any part of it.

Hoping the noise from the ruckus would cover what he was about to do, Erik pulled his rifle up and yanked back the charging handle.
 
He aimed at the driver's window and pulled the trigger.
 
The rifle blast, much to his chagrin, sounded like a cannon in the enclosed parking structure.
 
He winced as a few car alarms on the floors below screamed to life with indignant honks.

Jesus, that was louder than I’d expected.

A neat hole perforated the window he'd aimed at.
 
Erik stepped forward and with a mighty swing drove the butt of his rifle straight through the window, sending glass bits everywhere.

He reached in and unlocked the door, then threw it open and frantically searched for a spare key.
 
First, he flipped down the driver's visor, then the passenger side.
 
Nothing.
 

He slammed them back up and threw open the central console.
 
Nothing.
 
Leaning across the passenger seat, he reached for the glove box.
 
He used to carry a spare apartment key and a valet key there in his old green Sebring convertible.
 
He looked out the windshield.
 

Sudden memories flashed across his mind of cruising through Sarasota with the top down, Brin at his side as they headed toward the beach for sunset.
 
He could almost smell the salt in the air.
 

It seemed like a lifetime ago.
 
He frowned.

His only hope was that whoever owned the Ford did something similar.
 
He didn't want to think about trying to hot-wire it.
 
He'd never done it before—had never even
seen
it done—but desperate times called for desperate measures and he was prepared to try.

He'd just closed the glove box empty-handed when he heard the first voices echoed up from the lower levels of the parking garage.

“Did you hear where it came from?” said one.

“…definitely up.”

“—set off all these alarms.”

“Are they still here?”

—don’t know, why don’t you ask?”

“Hello?” someone shouted.

“Shut up, dumbass!” the first voice said.

“Aww shit.”
 
Erik scrambled from the SUV, rifle at his shoulder.
 

Chapter 43

Setting the Stage

H
AKIM
CURSED
AS
HE
threw his burner phone into the canal.
 
He watched as the water rippled and spread out in concentric rings from the point of impact.

Fools. All of them! We've come so far come, come so close!

"Bad news?" asked Saldid from the shadow of their safe house on the east side of Tampa. They had split from the main group after the successful conclusion of their mission the night before.
 

A few well-placed improvised bombs had killed dozens of unarmed American prisoners and more than a score of Russians in the pre-dawn confusion. The panicked Russians had started shooting and killed who knows how many of their own men.
 
It had been glorious.
 
But it wasn’t enough.
 

He doubted anyone would ever find out about the attacks. In coordinated strikes all through the night, other Fistbrothers launched their own small-scale attacks scattered throughout Tampa and even in Orlando.
 

It was something, but it wasn’t enough.
 
Not for Hakim—not after what they’d done in Arizona.
 
Los Angeles had burned to the ground because of the fires he’d set.
 
What was a few pipe bombs and dead prisoners compared to the destruction he’d already wrought in Allah’s name?

The previous night’s attacks had been the brainchild of Zarin. Effective but unimaginative.
 
The Iranian had heard of the guerrilla uprising near the small town of Bigby—in some swamp south of Orlando—where Russian troops had been slaughtered in an ambush by
civilians
.
 
He wanted to provoke the Russians and stir up trouble.
 
He wanted them to think the insurgents from Bigby had attacked Tampa.

The resistance movement started when a Russian prison camp burned to the ground and a number of American captives escaped. But Zarin and his group chalked it up to special forces activity and laughed when the Russians reaped the price of failure.

The timing couldn't have been more perfect. With so many Fistbrothers concentrated in Florida, all they had to do was start launching small-scale raids against the invaders and the Russians would naturally blame these attacks on the Bigby uprising.
 

The more the Russians were attacked, the more they'd crack down on the American civilian population and the more the civilians grew ready to fight back. It was a vicious cycle Hakim had seen countless times in Iraq and Afghanistan, which would lead only to the destruction of both the Russians and the Americans. The chaos that would ensue would be beautiful.

And now this.
 

"Yes, bad news," he grunted.
 
He sat down heavily against the cool brick wall next to his partner.
 
Saldid handed him a bottle of Jack Daniels honey whiskey and a protein bar. Without even thinking of breaking his faith, Hakim took a long swig of the alcohol, relishing the burn in his throat.
 

He ate half the protein bar before answering Saldid's unspoken question. "It is Mushani—he commands us to stand down and return to cover."

"What?” Saldid gasped. “But—we're so close! Another few attacks and the Russians will be on such high alert even
looking
at them the wrong way will start a firefight!"

"I know!" hissed Hakim. He chewed another mouthful of the foul protein bar and washed it down with a slug of liquor. "It makes no sense. We have waited for decades, only to be roused and cause so much destruction and glory for Allah…and now, just on the brink of ultimate victory, they tell us to stand down and slink back to the shadows."

"This…" Saldid said, his hands shaking, "…this is
wrong
…"

Hakim nodded. "I agree. This reeks of weakness. Our esteemed leaders back home do not see the situation on the ground—they fear reprisals. Mushani said the Americans are not only surviving this catastrophe but
defeating
the Russians. Yet he made no mention of the Chinese in the southwest!
 
No mention of the destruction of Los Angeles!" Hakim threw the empty protein bar wrapper into the canal.
 

"Gah! Cowards! Fools! Allah give me strength!" He rested his head against the cool brick wall and closed his eyes, hands at his face. He'd been awake for nearly 29 hours and it was increasingly hard to think.

"So…what options do they leave us?" asked Saldid.
 
He was quiet.
 
That was good.
 
When he was quiet, he was thinking.

"They want us to disappear back into the population, abandon our weapons and supplies…and show up at one of the aid stations."
 
Hakim took another drink. He had to cleanse his mouth after speaking such foulness.

"No," Saldid said quietly. "I will not."

Hakim grinned. It was exactly the reaction he hoped for. He wiped the smile off his face and turned to look at his partner. "Are you sure? You know the price of disloyalty?"

"It is
they
who are disloyal! Allah does not tell us to strike and then just when we have our grip on the infidel's throat to let him go! Allah commands us to
destroy
the infidel!”
 
Saldid waved his hand dismissively. “Mushani and those fools are 10,000 miles away—they don't know how
close
we are to victory!"

"I agree."
 
He shrugged one shoulder.
 
"But what can we do?"

Saldid nodded, his brutish face contorted in concentration. "We…we must continue our attacks!
 
Though this may mean the death of both of us…"

Hakim wiped the sweat from his forehead and gazed out across the canal at the row of burned houses. Part of a charred American drone stuck out of the roof directly across the water.
 

"I never expected to return home from this mission.” Hakim said slowly.
 
“But I will be thrice damned if I quit."

Saldid got to his feet and extended a hand to Hakim. "Then let us both do what is right in Allah's eyes."

Hakim spat on the ground, gripping his partner's hand tight. "Agreed."

Chapter 44

The Unarmed Army

E
RIK
'
S
EYES
DARTED
AROUND
the fourth floor of the parking garage.
 
He had to get out.
 
The voices echoing up through the guts of the garage grew louder by the second.
 
There had to be at least ten people coming.

Shit.
 
I knew this was too easy!

Erik bolted for the nearest emergency exit stairwell.
 
He tried to open the door as quietly as he could.
 
The coast looked clear.
 

He had a partial view down the ramp and spotted shadows moving at the far end.
 
No one had turned the corner yet, so he slipped inside and slowly closed the door.
 
He stood there a moment in the cool, total darkness listening for the sounds of someone coming up through the stairwell.
 
Nothing.
 
He fumbled for his LED flashlight and clicked it on.
 

Concrete steps.
 
Well, maybe it's not so bad after all.
 
At least they won't echo like those metal ones in the library.

Erik took the steps two at a time to the third floor, then the second, before reaching the ground level.
 
He pressed his back against the wall next to the exit, avoiding the small window and its bright beam of sunlight.
 
He waited until his heart slowed, listening for the clank of a door opening three floors above.
 
Nothing.

Erik risked a glance out the small window, expecting to see a group of people milling about waiting to hear from those who went up, but he saw nothing.
 

The streets look exactly the same as they did when he first entered the parking structure.
 
He hated leaving all those cars behind, but he hated getting surrounded even more.
 

Erik took a deep breath and slowly pushed on the handle to open the exit.
 
Under normal circumstances, he would expect to hear a high-pitched chirping alarm, but the battery in the door had failed long ago.
 
The panic bar squeaked slightly, so he quickly slipped outside and shut it.

Not hearing any sounds of alarm nor seeing any movement, he sprinted across the street and returned to his hiding spot in the bushes around the corner.
 
The sign he passed mentioned the history department, but he didn't slow down long enough to see the actual name.

All he knew was he’d escaped a particularly hazardous situation and made it back to cover.
 
He waited another few moments, letting his breathing adjust back to normal, then started to move.
 
That’s when he heard the first shout.

"Over here!"