The Coward's Way of War (57 page)

The President studied her fingers, wondering how her predecessors would have handled it.  Lincoln hadn't blinked at all the blood he’d shed to hold the Union together, but Clinton had lost a mere handful of men and backed off, creating an impression of American weakness that had haunted his successors.  Roosevelt had fought Hitler and refused to abandon the war; Truman had accepted a draw in Korea, creating another rogue state to plague America over the years.  To be President was to be Head of State as well as Head of Government; the President always took the blame, even if he or she was personally blameless.  Harry Truman, she knew, had been right; the buck did stop with her.

She gathered herself.  “How badly could it hurt us?”

Spencer didn't hide anything from her.  “The Saudis have been preparing the city for war,” he said.  “They will have turned it into a fortress comparable to Fallujah, at the very worst; the best case we can hope for is something like Baghdad.  Fallujah cost us nearly a hundred killed and over five hundred wounded.  Riyadh may well be worse.  We could be looking at over three hundred fatal casualties, perhaps more. 

“And there are upwards of four million civilians within the city,” he added.  “Some of them will have been armed and pointed towards the sound of the guns; others will be cowering, unable to escape as the fighting sweeps over them, knowing that they will be targeted by both sides in the battle.  We could see most of them die in the fighting, or as food and water supplies start to run out.   Or perhaps Henderson’s Disease will get them.  It seems unlikely that it won’t have reached Riyadh by now.”

“Four million civilians,” the President repeated.  “Four million...”

The number was almost beyond imagination.  A single death was a tragedy, a million deaths was a statistic...and far too many Americans had become statistics in the last two months.  She didn't know how many Americans were dead because of Henderson’s Disease, but estimates kept soaring upwards, counting the dead and dying.  They would be pulling bodies out of the wreckage for a very long time.

She looked up at the General.  “What are our options?”

Spencer counted off points on his fingers.  “We hit the city and try to storm it,” he said.  “We surround the city and wait for them to surrender.  We destroy the city.”

His words seemed to hang in the air, each one truly portentous.  “If we hit the city, much of the population will be caught in the crossfire,” he said.  “We will turn the city into a meat-grinder, with thousands dead every day.

“If we surround the city, most of those four million will die,” he continued.  “The men with the guns will eat and drink first.  They may try to expel the civilians to avoid having to feed so many mouths, or they may kill them themselves.  As the civilian population weakens, diseases – not just Henderson’s Disease, but others – will sweep through the population, killing many of them.  The defenders will find themselves caught in a charnel house, but by then it will be too late. The entire city will come apart.”

“If they did expel the civilians, we could take care of them,” the President said.

“At the cost of prolonging the siege,” Spencer pointed out.  “It’s basic logistics, Madam President; they hammered it into us at Staff College.  A supply of food that will keep a hundred men going for ten weeks will only keep a thousand men going for a single week.  If they send out those four million civilians, the defenders can last longer before they die – and we will have to feed the civilians.  We don’t have the logistics chain to provide sufficient food for them all.  We’re operating on something of a shoestring as it is.”

He hesitated.  “And we might have to hit the city anyway, once the civilians are out of the way,” he concluded. “We’d be sending our men into a meat-grinder.”

The President nodded slowly.  “And the final option?”

“We nuke the city,” Spencer said, unflinchingly.  “We destroy the city completely, exterminating the defenders and those who unleashed Henderson’s Disease on our country.  “

The President looked back out of the window, knowing what many of her countrymen would say.  They’d demand that Saudi be nuked, at once; indeed, the one threat of impeachment she’d faced had been because she hadn't taken the gloves off and nuked Saudi Arabia back into the Stone Age.  They wouldn't care about the Saudi civilians, but then, they’d grown up in a nation where the will of the people decided who ruled the country.  The concept of an ultra-repressive state was alien to them; they couldn't accept that the Saudi civilians had no say in their government.  And then, they’d all seen the television broadcasts of Arabs screaming their delight in the streets, mocking how something as tiny, as invisible, as a disease had brought the most powerful nation in the world to its knees.

She had to take a longer view.  Opening the nuclear lockbox would – inevitably – change the world.  And yet, the world had been changed; Henderson’s Disease was everywhere now.  No other country would lift a finger to protect Saudi Arabia from America’s rage.  The terrorists had united the world against them. 

And she had to discourage someone from trying it again, perhaps with something more dangerous than Henderson’s Disease.

“Once our forces take up positions around the city, we will send a final demand for surrender,” she said, flatly.  She couldn't quite believe her own words.  Nuclear weapons had been a taboo for so long that using them was almost unthinkable.  “If they accept, well and good; if not, we will destroy the city and everyone within it.”

It may be sweet and fitting to die for one
’s country, but dying at the hands of one’s own countrymen is just annoying...

-Sergeant Al Hattlestad

New York, USA

Day 54

“Line up over by the buses,” Al barked, through the megaphone.  “Get your vaccination certificates ready and prepare to be inspected.”

He watched as hundreds of New Yorkers lined up unwillingly in front of the buses.  Even getting the prison vans into New York had required a major logistic effort, for the gangs were out in force.  The police and National Guard had been taking heavy fire from various gangs and had been responding with deadly force.  All of the normal rules and regulations were completely out of the window now, for New York was effectively a lawless state.  Al hated to see his beloved city collapsing like that, but there was no other choice.  The military manpower to clear the streets simply didn’t exist.

“I need to see your certificate,” he said, as a thirteen-year-old girl appeared, towing two younger girls behind her.  She looked as if she’d grown up overnight, carrying a pistol he recognised as a Desert Eagle – it looked too large for her frame – under her shirt.  Her blonde pigtails contrasted oddly with her worn appearance.  “Are they your sisters?”

“They’re my charges,” the girl said, with an odd air of defiance.  “I promised their father that I would take care of them and take care of them I have.”

Al checked her vaccination certificate and confirmed that Stephanie Ash had been vaccinated, nine days ago.  It was a surprise to discover that she was still in the city, but perhaps it had been yet another bureaucratic snafu.  No matter what the civil liberties groups believed, it was hard for anyone, even the government, to keep track of everyone in the city.  He looked up at the crowds forming into impatient lines and shivered.  They had never run a full evacuation drill for a major city, let alone New York.  They were just making it up as they went along.  The exercises on paper simply didn’t match up to reality.

“I'm sure he will be pleased to hear that,” Al said, with a grin.  He passed her the certificate and checked the ones issued to the two young girls, both of whom had been vaccinated at the same time.  Their father, he saw, was a soldier, someone probably deployed to the Middle East or one of the blockade forces.  His kids should have been transported out weeks ago.  “I think you’ve done a great job.”

He paused, just for a moment, and then tapped the pistol.  “Do you have ammunition for that, young lady?”

“Yes, sir,” Stephanie said.  She shook the bag she carried over her shoulder.  “I have enough to get by.”

“Hang on to it,” Al advised.  “You will probably have to place it in storage at the refugee camp, but it should be fine for the moment.”

He watched as she followed the policewoman to their seats in the bus and then turned to the next person, an elderly gentleman who seemed determined to grumble about how it had never been like this in his day.  Al nodded politely at all the right moments, silently grateful that the man had a certificate and showed no signs of objection when Al checked it and then ran it through the scanner.  The photo on the card was poor – it looked as if the old man was already dead, something common to most ID Cards – but it definitely matched the man in front of him.  Al allowed himself a moment of relief and then pointed the man towards his own seat.  A pair of teenage boys – perhaps gang members, although he hoped not – tried to stare him down, only to discover that Al had no patience for such games.  A quick punch to the belly brought one of them to his knees and the other promptly lost all enthusiasm for picking a fight.  Al was tempted to leave them, but he settled instead for handcuffing them to the metal bench and making a mental note to ensure that the refugee camp took care of them.

“But I do have a certificate,” a middle-aged woman protested.  Her eyes were wide with pleading, her two screaming kids distracting everyone from listening to her.  “I took your damned injection.”

Al silently counted to ten under his breath.  “Madam, you took the injection two days ago,” he explained.  The line of code under her photograph warned that she'd been injected against her will, along with her children.  There was no longer any time to allow someone to refuse an injection.  “You have to wait for three more days before you can be evacuated out of the city.”

The woman looked as if she was going to explode.  “But I was promised that I would be transported out of the city,” she said, shaking with fury and – hidden under the rage – fear.  “I was
promised
!”

“And you will be,” Al assured her, “as soon as you have spent three more days without symptoms.”

He scowled to himself as the crowd pressed against the buses, despite the best efforts of the policemen on guard duty.  The chance to leave the city was not one that many people wanted to miss.  He couldn’t blame them, but it was a major headache; they had orders to keep families together, yet everyone kept pushing and prodding, scattering families all over the square.  He could see strong men yelling angrily at the policemen, and younger women pleading for their babies to be lifted out of the city even if they couldn’t go with them.  There was, at least in theory, enough transport for the entire city, but in practice there would never be enough.  The bus drivers were all volunteers and none of them were very happy with the situation.

The woman stormed off, muttering about how she was going to sue the government and the NYPD for everything they had between them.  Al watched her go for a minute, wondering if she would try something stupid, before he turned his attention back to the next person.  A stone bounced off the bus as someone threw it, diving back into the crowd before the policemen could respond with lethal force.  Law and order were breaking down rapidly and yet people were still coming, despite the fear of being in a crowd.  Others were throwing stones too now, aiming at the vehicles and the policemen guarding them.  It wouldn’t be long before there was an accident.

“That’s the van full, Sergeant,” Jane reported.  The young policewoman shouldn’t have been on duty at all – she was a dispatcher, rather than someone used to patrolling the city – but she’d volunteered and the NYPD was very shorthanded.  “We even have a few children sitting on the floor.”

Al nodded and keyed his radio.  “This is Bus Four,” he said.  “We are ready to move out.”

Another hail of stones bounced off the bus.  “Understood, Bus Four,” the dispatcher said.  “You are cleared to depart.”

Jane went forward and took the wheel, ignoring the snide comments from the handcuffed youths.  The engine rumbled to life and she pulled out of the parking space, heading out onto the road leading away from the centre of town.  A couple of months ago, during rush hour, driving out of the city could take hours, but now the police and the military were the only people driving on the road.  The supply of gas had dried up long before the war had broken out in the Middle East.

Al checked on his two prisoners and then walked to the rear of the vehicle, wishing that they had a more powerful escort than a single Humvee with armed National Guardsmen.  If it had been up to him, the streets would have been thoroughly swept for nasty surprises and then guarded by armed Marines, but they simply didn’t have the manpower to spare.  Parts of New York were almost normal, due to the massive police presence on the streets; parts were effectively free-fire zones.  Henderson’s Disease might not even carry off most of the gangs, not now that a comprehensive vaccination program had been instituted.  There was a good chance that the gangs had managed to get themselves vaccinated as well.

He scowled as he saw an explosion billow up in the distance, followed by the sound of gunfire.  The entire city was a war zone now – he remembered watching
Escape From New York
as a younger man – and it was every man for himself.  A bullet pinged off the windows of the prison van – they’d chosen them because they were armoured, if nothing like sufficiently enough to allow them to serve in an army – seconds before something slammed into the Humvee.  The vehicle exploded, blowing the four soldiers riding in it across the street.  They would be dead before they hit the ground.

“Way cool,” one of the prisoners shouted.  “They got them!”

Al swung around, somehow restraining himself from murdering the two silly punks right in front of everyone else.  “Shut up,” he barked.  The sound of bullets drumming off the side of the prison van was growing louder.  “Drive faster!”

“This fucking thing won’t go much faster,” Jane shouted back, revving the engine.  Al turned and saw a dark figure standing by the roadside, pointing a gun at him.  The bullet pinged off the van as Jane yanked them forward as fast as she could.  “And they’re trying to block the road.”

Al felt his mind shift into high gear.  Someone had planned an ambush; they’d used an antitank weapon – part of his mind wondered where that had come from – on the military vehicle, isolating the bus and leaving it almost undefended.  He unslung his rifle and moved over to the door as Jane jerked the vehicle from side to side, knocking down a gang member who was dumb enough to get in her way.  The vehicle barely lurched as he was run over and squashed flat.  The two boys cheered his death with the same enthusiasm they’d shown for murdering policemen.

He keyed his radio and called in the contact, but there was almost nothing in a position to help them, not now.  In time, something could be spared to assist, yet he was sure that they would be completely overrun by then.  He saw another gang member, opened the hatch and shot him through the head, pulling back his rifle before another wave of bullets pinged off the armour.  A helicopter made a pass overhead, but didn’t fire, much to Al’s puzzlement.  Surely they had orders to engage the enemy wherever possible.

It had still bought them some time.  “Keep us moving,” he growled, wondering if they could simply outrun the enemy.  The bus lurched again as Jane pulled the wheel sharply to the left, avoiding a damaged car someone had placed in the centre of the road.  Al followed her gaze as she swore and realised that the gang had been moving wrecked cars and using them to make firing positions.  If they forced the bus to come to a halt, they were doomed.  Something smashed against the side of the bus and flames roared into life, racing over the glass as if they were animated by a living will.  “Don’t stop, keep moving.”

The bus ground to a halt.  “There’s a fucking blockade in the way,” Jane said.  Al cursed aloud and scrambled for the hatch in the roof.  “We need to reverse.”

Al opened the hatch, silently praying that the enemy hadn’t thought of occupying the high ground and placing snipers in the buildings surrounding him, and pulled himself onto the roof.  The air stank of burning paint and oil, along with some smells he couldn’t identify, even after a long career in the Marine Corps.  He yanked his rifle off his shoulder and looked around, spying the gang members moving towards the bus.  Their expressions told their own story; they wanted to raid the bus, take the women and kill all the men.  Perhaps they wanted to rescue their former comrades too.  Al grinned to himself, recalling desperate last stands down the ages, and opened fire.  A dozen gangsters died in the first few seconds, before they even thought of returning fire.

He stayed low, unhooking a grenade from his belt and hurling it into the mass of gangsters as they tried to approach.  They didn’t seem to have much tactical sense, even though they had set up a workable trap, but some of them were definitely learning.  The bus lurched back into life as Jane reversed course, trying to get out of the trap, while Al laid down what covering fire he could.  A burning bottle flew over the bus and came down among the cars the gang had used to block their escape, setting fire to the disabled vehicles.  Al winced at the stench, but found himself hoping that it would help to cover their retreat.  He emptied his rifle, exchanged the empty clip for another and continued firing, trying to force the gang to keep their distance.  Jane pulled them back and turned, starting to head down a different road and reinforcements, when the entire bus rocked.  Al lost his grip and slid down the side of the vehicle, coming down hard on his right leg.  He felt it break under the impact, knowing that it was sheer luck he hadn’t fallen under the vehicle.  He’d kept hold of his rifle, but without his leg escape was impossible.  Jane wouldn’t stop for him.  Her duty was to get the bus’s passengers out of the city and into the refugee camp.

Al heard the sound of running footsteps and reached for a grenade, using one hand to pull out the pin and hold the grenade close to his chest.  He knew what happened to policemen who fell in the hands of the gangs, now all of the normal rules were out of the window, and he had no intention of going out that way.  It crossed his mind - as a foot kicked him over so he could stare up at his captors - that it was a strange place for a Marine to die.  He had never, not even in his worst nightmares, dreamed of fighting a war on the streets of New York.

“We got you, fucker,” one of the gangsters said.  He produced a switchblade and leaned in closer, clearly intended to make it a slow and painful death.  “We’re going to fuck you up real bad.”

“
Semper fi
,” Al said, and let go of the grenade.