Pickens snorted, but Davis lit a homemade cigar and continued before he could open his snarky mouth.
“Like the president says, our organization is the best hope to clean up this country. Rebuild it from the ground up, but we ain’t the only ones trying. Them Biblical Foundation nuts expand their influence every day. Their high-profile attacks overshadow anything we’ve done against federal buildings and soldiers. I can’t stand those Bible-thumpers myself, but you have to respect their ruthlessness and laser-focused sense of purpose. Worse than the Jews, I tell you. They’ve even siphoned off a lot of our support. Thing is, in this business of hate, people flock to whoever looks the most powerful. That’s why we need to have our most powerful tool,” he jerked a thumb at Dimone, “as visible as possible. Legitimacy is our biggest advantage.”
Pickens guffawed. “For once, I agree with you. Dimone is one hell of a tool!” Dimone stared at him confused while Lee Davis narrowed his eyes.
“Governor, this is a volunteer movement. You can leave at any time. No one is holding a gun to your head. Trust me, you wouldn’t be missed.”
Rather than offended, Pickens agreed with him. Only six months ago he was just the ambitious attorney general of Florida. The former governor started this populist stunt back when Congress and the Supreme Court were locked in a tug-of-war, after a hung electoral college vote, over which candidate was the legitimate president-elect. The old governor had the bright idea of sticking his nose in the middle of things and shutting down the Federal Government until Senator Dimone was sworn in as president. When that game of chicken got out of hand and blood accidentally shed, the governor had a heart attack and the assistant governor resigned immediately. Dumping the whole mess in Pickens’s lap.
Pickens tried to rationalize things to the point where he was the hero that stepped in and attempted to halt the mad cycle of misunderstandings and escalations, but he couldn’t lie to himself forever. Truth was, when Dimone flew down to Florida and attempted to take advantage of the chaos, Pickens reveled in the opportunity. Backing what seemed to be the winning horse at the time, he sold his soul and closed the border. Who could have predicted Washington would call their bluff and actually start a shooting war? With a million dollar bounty on his own head, Pickens fled faster than Dimone. Just minutes after the Feds invaded.
For months, Pickens thought he was out of options. It took him far too long to screw up the courage and finally do what he always should have done. Months and God knows how many lives wasted before he made a simple phone call. He refilled his glass and downed it just as quickly, fighting the urge to check his watch again. What was taking them so long?
Davis snatched the bottle away. “You wanna stay? That’s fine, but take it easy on the booze. We’ll need you to say a few words after the president.”
All of Pickens’ pent up frustration came pouring out. “I’ve got two words for you! Fu—”
Fast whomping echoing off the mountain cut him off. Lee Davis’s face went pale. “Fuck me! They’re comin’!” He snatched a shotgun from the table and bellowed out the window. “Everyone get ready! The Zionist storm troopers are coming for us. Kill ‘em all and show them who they’re fucking with! Hey, get back here! You chickenshit cowards! Stand your ground, you bastards!”
Davis punched the wall in frustration. Ten of his best men were on guard duty outside. All either turned tail and melted into the woods or chucked their weapons and held their hands high. “Fine then. Gentlemen, prepare to defend yourselves!” He tossed Pickens a pistol and, in desperation, even threw a 30-round magazine at Dimone. “Lock and load!”
After attempting unsuccessfully to insert the mag into the open breach port, Dimone finally figured out where the ammo box went and beamed with joy. “This is kind of exciting!”
“Jesus Christ!” Lee reached over and charged the weapon for him. “Ok, let’s make a break for the truck. I always keep a set of keys on me.” He popped open the door and saw the first helicopter only a few hundred yards off. “Go, go, go!”
Davis tore off running, surprisingly fast for such a fat man, with Dimone right on his tail. Pickens only strolled listlessly in their wake. Pistol at his side. Just as Davis reached the truck, one of the airborne soldiers fired a warning shot into the hood. Dimone, scared shitless at his first tiny taste of battle, threw himself to the ground; clutching the rifle’s grip tightly. Lee turned around to help him up… just as three rounds sprayed out into his face.
Dimone leapt to his feet and gawked at the weapon, his face dipped in confused horror. Pickens couldn’t help but chuckle. Dimone seemed afraid to throw the evil gun down for fear it might hurt someone else. Instead of letting it go, he held the weapon over his head in a sign of submission.
To the gunner of the Little Bird chopper a hundred yards away, that gesture sure looked like a crazy, murderous asshole wanting to go out in a blaze of glory. The soldier nudged the gun sight in place and granted his wish with a quick trigger tap. The 7.62mm minigun on the helicopter’s side burped out 20 rounds in a half-second burst. More than enough to convert the presidential hopeful into so much hamburger.
Pickens contemplated the Smith and Wesson in his hand as the next Little Bird did a touch-and-go landing. Flinching under the backwash, it took him a moment to notice the four Delta Force troopers emerging from the dust cloud. One of them shouted, “Drop the gun and you’ll live!”
Pickens complied. He was no hero. Only a little drunk.
“Can I still get the reward money if I turn myself in?”
Chapter 2
The crowded conference room boomed in unison when the door swung open. “Morning, Sergeant Major!”
“Hooah! At ease, everyone. Take a seat. Calling formation is the colonel’s game; not mine. Welcome to the newly reactivated 1st battalion of the 509th airborne regiment. Even if we are a Stryker brigade nowadays, we’ll keep the old motto. Death from above!”
Two dozen senior NCO’s fired off the traditional unit chorus. “No luck, all skill!” Sergeant Major Brown couldn’t help but let a grin slip. All the assembled platoon and first sergeants of his brand new battalion played the game well. None seemed to be faking the funk. With such a motivated cadre of leaders at his disposal, maybe he could get this freshman unit up to fighting speed soon.
He paced the room. “Some of you I’ve fought with before. Nice to see you again, brothers. For those of you that don’t know me, I’m the youngest sergeant major you’ve ever met for a reason. I get results. That’s the only thing I give a damn about and, when the shit hits the fan, all that your soldiers care about as well. If you take care of your soldiers before yourselves and give me 100 % on every mission, with no bullshit excuses, then you can be certain I’ll have your back no matter what goes down. Remember my cardinal rule and you’ll go far: Everyone fucks up sometimes, but only fuck-ups make excuses.”
Even if they laughed at the old school leadership style, every junior leader felt relief. His list of pet peeves was surprisingly short.
“Let me start by shooting down the rumors. We have no idea where or when we’ll be deployed to fight the traitors. We have exactly zero guidance from above. Rest assured, any rumors the damn E-4 mafia keeps spreading around are total bullshit. As usual.”
Brown silenced the laughing with a clucking sound. “Now, I’ll tell you what I do know. The Army ain’t creating all these new units just to occupy Florida. In fact, about a third of our personnel were pulled from troops already on garrison duty in Miami. Another third are prior service and recalled from private life. Veterans who’ve gotten soft in the civilian world. The remainder are brand-spanking new kids fresh out of basic and AIT training. The Army wouldn’t be desperate enough to throw this motley force together if they weren’t planning on using us soon.”