Sic Semper Tyrannis (52 page)

“
Guns, guns, guns!
” ordered Hammer’s XO.  “Let’s chew ‘em up, boys!”

Riggs watched as the F-18s dive-bombed the Russian fleet.  They zipped in and out of the smoke near the surface and strafed the invading vessels with their M61 Vulcan Gatling guns.

“
Hawk Lead, Nest
,” crackled over his helmet.  “
What’s your TOT?
”

“Nest, be advised,” Riggs said as he glanced at his fuel gauge, “we are bingo fuel.”

“
Roger that Hawk Lead
. 
You are clear for landing.  Repeat, clear for landing.  Bring ‘em home to reload while you still can.
”

“Nest, Hawk Lead, copy that.  We’re on our way.”

Riggs checked his screens.  It would take an hour to get his planes back to
Roosevelt
, refuel, reload, and launch again.  There were still a few Russian ships down there aiming for the carrier.  All that stood between them and
Roosevelt
was
Anzio
.  Their last chance was for
Anzio
to block the Russian cruiser from reaching
Roosevelt
.

ADMIRAL NELLA STOOD STOCK still, his face emotionless.

Captain Davis turned from the admiral back to the fractured tactical display board.  The fiber optic cabling was still intact, so most of the lights still worked—however there was a large crack running right down the center of the board.  He didn’t want to think about the kind of force it had taken to crack that massive screen deep inside
Roosevelt
.

"Sir, I said—"

"I heard you," the Old Man said in a quiet voice.  "There's nothing we can do now but watch and wait."

Davis struggled to contain his surprise.  He’d just informed his commanding officer that
Anzio
was steaming at flank speed straight into the heart of what was left of the Russian line.  Doug Mitchem was on a suicide mission and the Admiral just stood there, hands clasped behind his back as he stared at the tactical display.

"Admiral, I think—"

"Captain, there is nothing we can do.  I see what Mitchem is attempting to accomplish."

Davis stepped closer so that his voice would not carry across the active CIC.  "I see what he's doing to—he's committing suicide."

“The men and women who sailed
Anzio
are now in the Atlantic.  We need to coordinate resources to rescue them."

"But, sir,
Anzio
—"

"Anzio
is going to shove a spear straight into the heart of the Russian line," hissed Admiral Nella.  He turned to face Davis.  The intensity of his voice put Davis back on his heels.  "Our fighters are out of ammunition.  Our ships are out of missiles,
TR’s
listing so bad we might not be able to recover our planes.  We are running on
empty
here.  This is our last chance to make it through. 
Captain
.”

Davis stiffened at the rebuke.  “Sir.”

In a normal tone, Admiral Nella called out: “Signal the fleet—what's left of it—to make all speed
for Anzio's
position.  Flank speed for everyone."  The Admiral's face softened.  "Doug Mitchem is a good sailor.  His sacrifice will not be forgotten."

THE CAPTAIN OF THE last combat effective Russian missile cruiser smiled to himself despite the chaos on his bridge.  The Americans had put up a stiff fight, there was no mistaking it—but they had not launched missiles in a few minutes—a sure sign that they were out of ammunition.  He’d suspected this might happen after naval intelligence informed him that they’d not had a chance to resupply after their Atlantic crossing.  He'd heard about the battles this American strike group had fought in the Mediterranean.  They’d been denied access to once-friendly ports in Italy.  That bit of news had meant that by the time they reached America, they would be dangerously low on everything.  Including ammunition.

Most of the Russian fleet lay at the bottom of the bay, but not
Orkesk
.  She was a proud ship, one of the few state-of-the-art missile cruisers Russia possessed.  Even though she’d sailed with a half complement of ammunition, what she had left should be more than enough to take out the Aegis cruiser bearing down on her.

As his underlings shouted orders to contain the damage that would be sustained during the brief but intense battle, the captain pulled up his binoculars and peered out the port window.  Half a kilometer out, the sleek Aegis cruiser trailed smoke into the sky as if it were a steam powered dreadnought from the previous century.  He could not imagine what his American counterpart was thinking.  It was either one of the bravest acts he'd ever seen or one of the stupidest.

"Coordinate with
Doschevsky
and
Minsk
," the Captain ordered his fire control team.  "I want everything we've got trained on the front of that ship!"

"Sir," was the response from behind him.  "
Doschevsky
reports damage to their forward deck guns, they can’t—"

"
Minsk
has only one salvo remaining!" said another voice.

The captain brought his binoculars up to his eyes again and gritted his teeth in frustration.  If only he had been given a full load of ammunition—if only the entire fleet had been given so.  But Russia was strapped for cash and this entire expedition was a last-ditch attempt to gain valuable property and resources in America.  Moscow did not deem it necessary or prudent to fully arm the fleet they had sent on such an important mission.

Never mind
, the captain told himself. 
It matters not.  The Americans appear to be as toothless as we are now.  He wants to play a game of chicken, eh?

"Hold your fire until the minimum safe distance is reached—I want maximum damage!"

He continued to watch as the mortally wounded cruiser, listing to starboard, as it bore down on his position. 
My God
, he thought,
she’s fast.  Even after taking all that damage…The naval office will be well pleased with my report when this is over for sure.  They have no idea what these Aegis cruisers can really do…

"She's coming into minimum safe distance!" his fire control officer warned.  "Course unchanged.  He’s not turning, captain!”

"Fire everything we have, straight on her bow!" roared the Captain.  The ship shook beneath his feet as the forward and aft deck guns unleashed hell.

A tremendous explosion shattered the graceful tip of the American cruiser.  Fire exploded in a perfect flower petal pattern.  The aim of his gunners had been spot on.  A wall of smoke and flame instantly obscured the American ship.

"We sunk her!" a young voice cried out.

"Look at that!" cheers erupted on the bridge.

The captain frowned. 
Young fools.  These are the men Moscow gives me to defeat America?  They’re children!
  He held his breath.  For the span of a few heartbeats, he let himself begin to believe that his men were right.  He could well imagine how it must have felt on the American ship—like they had run into a brick wall.  The amount of firepower that his vessel had just poured into the very front of the American ship had been impressive by anyone's standards.  The captain told himself that there was no way she could have survived.

To his horror, the jagged, burned prow of the American ship exploded through the smoke, spewing fire as it emerged, like some vengeful dragon.  Her course remained unchanged.  If anything, to his veteran eyes, she looked like she’d
increased
speed.  At least the demon ship appeared to be listing even farther to starboard.

In seconds, the entire length of the ship had emerged from the smoke cloud and he could see the full extent of the damage that he had just poured onto her.  She would never fight again, that much was clear.  The superstructure bore a gaping hole in the forward section, the deck was crumpled, and the entire ship looked as if it was ready for the scrap yard.  Yet still she powered forward, billowing smoke and fire behind, ready to capsize any second.  The madman at the helm of that ship must have been an expert sailor to keep her on track at such speed.

"She means to
ram
us!" a nervous voice called out behind him on the bridge.

The captain frowned. 
We have no time to maneuverer.  Of
course
she means to ram us, you twit.  We stand between her and home.  I would do the same…

"Captain!" his XO cried, panic in his voice.

The captain shook his head sadly.  He had turned
Orkesk
to face the American cruiser broadside in order for him to present his deck guns one last salvo.  Now the Americans were within the minimum range of his guns—they were only seconds away from impact and nothing could be done.  Even if he ordered full speed from his own engines, the ship would not move fast enough to avoid impact.  He had waited too long, had been too sure of his own victory.

"All hands brace for impact," he said quietly.  The flaming, twisted, mutilated hulk of the American cruiser bore down on them as the bridge erupted into panicked screams.  The closer it got, the faster it seemed to be go.  "My God, she's big…"

The last thing the captain ever thought as thousands of tons of American steel slammed into his vessel at more than 40 knots was that they had almost done it.  The Russian fleet had gone toe to toe with a supercarrier strike group—and they had almost brought them to their knees.

Almost
, he thought as he was flung to the deck during the impact.  As darkness descended upon him, over the screams of the wounded and the shrieking of bent and twisted metal, the captain told himself that they had almost done it.

CHAPTER 35

Unconditional Surrender

GENERAL STAPLETON PULLED THE binoculars away from his eyes as he rode through the deserted streets of downtown Manhattan.  He relished the cool air on his face and rested his hands on the rim of the Stryker’s upper access hatch.  He smiled.  Victory was assured.  He could see the path Vinsen’s tanks had made as their heavy treads had torn up the main roads.  Asphalt chunks lay scattered all over the road, mixed with the debris from collapsed buildings.  Between the sudden flurry of missiles that fell out of the sky and his tanks wantonly destroying everything in their path, the southern tip of Manhattan had been turned into a Grade A shit-show in the span of an afternoon.

Scores of bodies littered Wall Street—Russian and rebels alike.  A handful of those who had surrendered had already been rounded up and shipped back across the Hudson to holding areas on the mainland.  Every now and then calls went out over the net that there were snipers in the buildings, but they were fewer now that the blitz had rolled through.  The Digital Division had proved to be an unstoppable steel fist that had crushed all before it.

The 4th/ID rolled past abandoned Russian vehicles and weapons everywhere they turned.  Manhattan looked for all the world like Beirut, with bigger buildings. 

Smoke poured out of open windows on just about every major building that lined Water Street.  Stapleton did not even bother to consider the cost to replace and repair everything—that wasn't his problem.  The rebels had called down the thunder when they had enlisted the Russians to help them take New York City, and by God, he’d forced them to reap the whirlwind.

“General
,” said the voice of the Stryker commander.  Stapleton cocked his head as he listened to the little speaker inside his tanker’s helmet.  "
Sir, Dagger 2-1 is reporting signs of white flags at their 12 o'clock
."

He slapped the roof of the Stryker and dropped down inside the rumbling behemoth.  Surrounded by the latest digital wizardry that linked him to every unit under his command, he tapped the appropriate screen and pulled up the location of Dagger 2-1. 

Whatever miracle the tech boys had pulled to get his data uplink working again had paid off in spades.  As he looked at the deluge of information on his screens he thought back to Chicago.  Each and every one of the screens had been black.  The Digital Division had been forced to operate like any analog army.

Two days earlier—about the time a scout had reported seeing lights on in a parking lot—the uplinks suddenly reappeared and the Digital Division was
back
.  Stapleton assured himself he could have taken New York City without tech, but…he ran his hands over the keys and screens as if the machines could feel his caress.  It was so much more
fun
with technology. 

Dagger 2-1’s position popped up on the far side of Manhattan.  The unit had parked on the shore.  Another tap and he saw the video feed from the cameras mounted on their M-ATV.  They were flanked by lead elements from a Stryker patrol and part of the main tank column.   A good number of dismounted infantry had spread out through the area and worked their way across the island.  Everything south of Canal Street was now completely under American control.

"Dagger 2-1, Eagle’s Nest-Actual," he said.

"Eagle’s Nest-Actual, Seeker 2-1, go ahead."

"You have visual on white flags?"

"Affirmative.  I have visual on several foot mobiles waving a white flag.  I have a large number of enemy foot mobiles behind them. They’re dropping weapons and surrendering."

"Hot damn!" said General Stapleton as he slapped the console of the BTR.  He turned and casually scanned the forward-looking display that depicted what Dagger 2-1 saw.  A figure that brandished a Kalashnikov burst out of the building half a block ahead on the left.  The man froze in the middle the street as if to gauge his options before he started to run back to the building he’d just exited.

Stapleton could hear the whine of electric motors as the turret on the Dagger 2-1’s M-ATV swiveled and locked on to its target.  The vehicle rocked momentarily and when the image stabilized, he could see a small crater in the street where the rebel had stood.  There was nothing left of him, not even a scrap of clothing.  The camera zoomed in on the Kalashnikov rifle 20 feet away, a twisted piece of metal that looked like modern art in the middle the road.

Stapleton grinned.  He keyed his mic "Dagger 2-1, Eagle’s Nest-Actual.  Nice shot.  Now, keep the rest of them contained.  Actual is Oscar Mike."  He switched frequencies to address the vehicles of his command staff.  "Eagle’s Nest, Eagle’s Nest Actual.  Change of plans—we have a large number of enemy foot mobiles offering surrender at the location I'm sending you now.  New objective: set up HQ at that location.  Transitioning support troops to provide cover."

As the acknowledgments from his command staff began to filter in, Stapleton turned his attention back to their route.  The cameras mounted on the outside of the Stryker showed scenes of complete destruction all around. Cars long since looted and burned during the Troubles had now been completely obliterated or blown inside some of the buildings.  Most of the buildings had sustained heavy damage from the advance of his armored cavalry.  The side streets that had been filled with uncollected trash for months were now littered with bodies of enemy combatants.

Even though the air filter system was set to maximum, the stench nearly overpowered Stapleton the farther east he traveled.  Stapleton pulled out a fresh cigar and started to chew it thoughtfully, anything to get the smell out of his nose.  He sorely wished that he was able to light up inside the vehicle, but he consoled himself with the thought that they were only a few blocks away from their destination.

When the command convoy finally emerged from what was left of the concrete canyon and entered the open space near the Manhattan Bridge.  He found himself speechless.  The scene before him was something that altogether was unexpected. 

Over the protests of the Stryker commander that the area had not yet been swept clear of snipers, he threw the hatch open and climbed up onto the observation platform.  Through his binoculars, he scanned forward and saw what had to be close to a thousand Russian soldiers sulking under the watchful eyes of his dismounted infantry and a few tanks.  The Russians had segregated themselves from an equally large group of rebels who sat or lay down on the ground in clumps. 

The rebels looked much worse than the Russians.  At least the Russians acted like they’d had a decent meal in the last 48 hours.  For the most part the rebels looked like scarecrows, pants and clothes hung off their emaciated bodies.  Stapleton realized that the stranglehold he’d put on New York City had served its purpose well.

In the distance, he could still hear the faded echoes of his tanks as they destroyed the remaining enemy outposts.  Sporadic gunfire drifted through the complex maze of streets and buildings on the breeze from the ocean.

Stapleton dismounted the Stryker and lit up his cigar.  He walked past grinning soldiers and returned their snappy salutes with pride.  A cluster of American troops stood guard over two individuals who had been separated from the rest of the captured enemy.  Stapleton made his way over there, secretly pleased that his command staff just now caught up to him.

He knew he would catch flack for that at the next command council—Vinsen loved to remind Stapleton how valuable he was—but he didn't care.  Certain moments defined the career of an army general—they needed to be appreciated without two dozen hangers-on.  The surrender of Manhattan Island was something he wanted to savor on his own.

Stapleton’s boots crunched on the broken glass and debris that covered the street as he marched up to the two prisoners. One was a tall Russian, the other an equally tall black man who looked sick.  Stapleton placed his hands on his hips and stood there gazing at them as he puffed on his cigar.   He let the aromatic smoke waft around his head and provide temporary relief from the stench of the ravaged city.

The sight before him did not impress.  The Russian stood ramrod straight, dried blood smeared across his angular face.  It was hard to tell his age, but the insignia on his collar suggested that he was a Lieutenant Colonel.  The man had clearly been wounded and had a bloody bandage tied around his left thigh.  He had been stripped of his equipment and weapons and stood before Stapleton wearing nothing but his uniform, boots, and a belt.  The Russian looked down his aristocratic nose at Stapleton.

Stapleton grunted.  The Russian still had his pride.  He shifted the cigar to the side of his mouth and turned to regard the rebel.  This man was just as tall as the Russian—perhaps 3 inches taller than Stapleton himself—but stood hunched over on unsteady legs.  Stapleton imagined that if he sneezed hard enough, the rebel would fall flat on his back.  He looked sick and weak.  He looked hungry.  Defeat haunted his eyes and sweat rolled off his forehead.  Where the Russian stared straight ahead and stood at attention, the rebel tried to retain some of his swagger and regarded the soldiers with a sullen stare.  Finally, his eyes—unfocused as they were—alighted on Stapleton and narrowed.

"So you the honky in charge?" 

Stapleton exhaled a plume of blue-gray smoke into the man's face and turn to the Russian.  He ignored the rebel’s hacking cough and removed the cigar from his mouth.

"And whom do I have the honor of speaking with?" Stapleton asked in his most diplomatic tone.   He idly fingered the worn leather strap on his holster.

The Russian shifted on his feet and glanced at Stapleton out of the corner of his eye.  He said something in Russian and shook his head slightly.

Stapleton closed his eyes and put the cigar back in his mouth.  "Anybody here speak Russian?" he barked.

"Sir, yes sir!" an eager young voice said behind him.

Stapleton waved the soldier forward with his left hand, never taking his eyes off his prisoner.  "Get up here and talk for me, son."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, ask this man his name and rank."

"My name is Lieutenant Colonel Feydor Kushinski,” the interpreter said after the Russian spoke.

"And what exactly are his intentions?"

When the message had been relayed, the Colonel turned and snapped his heels together.  "I've come to seek terms for the surrender of my men.  I have no wish to see them slaughtered.  We do not wish to die for…" His eyes glanced sideways at the rebel next to him.  "A lost cause."

Stapleton laughed when the interpreter finished translating.  "A wise move.”  He slapped the soldier on the back.  “All right, tell him this:  Here my terms.  I will accept nothing less than unconditional surrender.  You will give up your arms and be processed into a prisoner of war camp, where my superiors will decide what your fate will be."

The interpreter spoke and the Russian’s face paled.  "I… You—"

Stapleton turned to face the rebel.  "You heard my terms?"

The black man spit at Stapleton's feet.  "Yeah, I heard ‘em.  Don't mean I understand the hell you sayin’."

General Stapleton smiled around his cigar.  "It means if your people don't agree to be taken to a prisoner of war facility, without weapons, rights, or privileges… I will order my tanks to open fire and kill every single one of you right here and now.” Do you accept my terms?"

The man's eyes went wide as he looked at the open maw of the 120mm barrel of an M1A2 Abrams.  The tank commander had heard Stapleton's words and swiveled the main gun around to point directly at the enemy leaders.  Stapleton promised himself that he would deliver that tank commander a case of beer at the earliest opportunity.  It was that kind of showmanship that made the perfect impression on vanquished enemies.  You are defeated and you will be destroyed if you do not surrender.  It is useless to resist.

“I will only ask this one time: Do you accept my terms?”

"Yeah,” said the rebel, eyes still fixed on the tank.  “Shit yeah, man, we give up.  As long as you got food and water, we give up.  Just point that thing somewhere else!"

Stapleton smiled and turned back to the Russian.  "And your response, sir?"

He waited for the interpretation and blew a smoke ring.  The Russian nodded.  Stapleton could see it was painful for the man to have to admit defeat.  He had a certain amount of respect for that.  He supposed had their roles been reversed, he would probably react the same way.  He would do anything to save the lives of his men. 
Of course, I wouldn’t have led them into a clusterfuck like this, either,
he reminded himself.

"Very good then."  Stapleton pull the cigar out of his mouth with his left hand and reached out his right.  The Russian shook it with a firm, if cautious grip.  "You and your command staff will dine with me.  We'll be setting up our headquarters here.  Have no fear, Colonel.  You and your men will be treated with the utmost respect and courtesy. I'm thinking in no time we’ll have you on your way back to the Motherland."

The Colonel's eyes lit up in wonder as the interpreter delivered the message.  He nodded enthusiastically and spoke in Russian.

Stapleton put the cigar back in his mouth and puffed while he waited for the translation.  "What the hell’s babbling about?"