Richard Peters
The Surge
Dedication
This novel is going out to all my brothers and sisters in every branch of the military. All those that answered the call to serve without ever asking, “What’s in it for me?” Especially to the families of those that never made it back. Gone but never forgotten!
To my endlessly patient wife: I really do love you more than my computer!
Political Map
Second Chances
“Hey you! Get over here on the double!”
Prisoner of War number 8611, a.k.a John Brown, pretended not to hear. With his back turned to the voice, he calmly dumped a bag of dirt into the latrine’s cesspit below. If the rebel camp guards suspected he was hiding evidence of an escape tunnel, they wouldn’t have called out. No, his first and last warning would have been a bullet to the back.
Someone yanked on his shoulder. Brown shoved the empty bag into his pants and spun around, managing to whizz on the intruder’s boots in the process.
“What the hell!” The rebel guard jumped as if bitten.
“What do you expect? Grabbing a pissing man… What’s your game? Do you want to hold it too?” All the other federal prisoners laughed while the rebel glowed red. The embarrassment distracted the teenaged guard enough that he didn’t notice a dozen other POW’s also stashing away empty bags.
“You’ve got visitors, asshole. Come with me.”
“That’s Sergeant Major Asshole, Private.” Now it was the kid’s turn to laugh.
“You can call yourself an admiral for all I care, but you’re just another captured Fedefuck henchman in my eyes.” The rebel was a good 15 years his junior, but Brown weighed the odds of strangling his scrawny neck before any other guards could reach him. No. Not here. Causing a scene is somewhat counterproductive for sneaky escape attempts.
“Whatever, kiddo. Lead the way.”
The kid eyed the calm man suspiciously, but was secretly relived the big guy didn’t itch for a fight. Only the tower and gate guards carried real weapons. Face to face with a living legend, well… the fiberglass baton in his bony hand didn’t help the private feel ten feet tall anymore.
They walked in silence, the guard careful to keep Brown more than arm’s length in front of him, to one of the larger temporary structures on the perimeter of the camp. Nothing in this hastily assembled compound was permanent. Brown struggled to stifle his grin. With a few more days and a little luck, not even the prisoners would be a permanent fixture. By his estimate, their tunnel was already a few feet past the outer fence. Ten more yards ought to be enough to ensure they popped out on the edge of the perimeter spotlights.
The guard led Brown into an empty office. No interrogation room, but rather a simple admin closet. Brown was so lost in fantasying his post-escape escapades that he almost missed two suits follow him inside. They both dropped their paperwork and over-priced lattes on a folding table as the guard shoved Brown into an equally cheap aluminum chair.
While he was no trained interrogator, you couldn’t go wrong by seizing the initiative. Brown smiled as wide as he could. “About time you got here. I’ve been waiting forever to start this meeting. First things first: you’re all fired. Before you go, call this poor boy’s mama. Shame on you people. Using child soldiers…”
The eighteen-year-old guard beside him, growing bolder with backup around, whipped out his baton. The hothead failed to notice Brown’s slight shift from sitting to near crouch, nor how the prisoner’s eyes fixated on the key chain around his belt.
“Okay, soldier. That’s enough. Take the cuffs off the prisoner and leave us alone.” Brown blew the red-faced soldier a kiss as he lowered his club, freed him and shuffled outside with his tail between his legs.
So much for the easy route. Brown popped the joints in his suddenly weightless wrists and laced them behind his head. These newcomers were just a little too self-confident for his taste. Complicated matters.
One suit had “cop” clearly written all over his stern face and bushy moustache, but the other man’s facade was a blank slate. His piercing eagle eyes and tense body hinted he was some type of soldier. The paunchy lawman spoke first while the other quiet man sized Brown up for a fight.
“We have plenty of time for jokes, but unfortunately, Sergeant Major Brown, you don’t. So what do you say we get down to business?”
Brown settled back into his chair lazily enough, but avoided eye contact. “Well this is awkward. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.” He bought some time while he scanned the room for any items that might be useful later.
“Fair enough. I’m Special Agent Ralph Martinez with the FBI. My colleague is from another agency. His name is not relevant.”
“FBI, huh? Which one?”
Martinez smiled disarmingly. “The one that’s loyal to the only legitimate American government. Now I have a few questions for you—”
Brown tried not to stare too long at a shiny object behind the agent. Instead, he kept droning on while sliding his chair backwards just a tad. “Of course you are with the URA, sure. So what caused you to hitch your wagon to Salazar’s crazy train? Get a big promotion out of turning traitor?”
Despite his training, the professional interrogator fell for the bait. He kept a cool demeanor, but he couldn’t help let some emotion tinge his voice. “My cousin was one of those civilian auxiliaries fighting with the Florida National Guard. Got himself shot to pieces defending his hometown from Washington’s goons. I never supported Dimone and his bullshit scheme after the election, but when I saw the president treat America like fucking Afghanistan, well, I couldn’t have any part of that. Just like the other 80 million people in the United Republics of America.”
Brown nodded and double-checked the distances involved one more time. Satisfied, he appeared to relax. “Right, so you believe everything you hear on the news? I was there in Florida before, during and after the peacekeeping operation kicked off. Believe you me; it was a totally different story on the ground. Those crazy anarchists attacked us first. Why, I remember—”
The agent’s silent partner pulled a manila envelope out of his bag and calmly interrupted. “Tell me, John, how does all this jabbering on about politics help you get that pair of scissors on the table behind Martinez?”
Confusion etched the FBI agent’s face. John Brown just laughed and truly relaxed. He didn’t stand a chance here, so why not be honest and bide his time. “Oh, I was planning to start a fight and pocket them in the scuffle.” He leaned forward and wagged a finger.
“Now you ain’t a cop, are you? No, no. There are only two types of people constantly thinking about escape attempts: criminals and Special Forces operators.” Brown met the man’s steely gaze and shrugged. “Well, I suppose one can be both.”
For the first time, the ghost of a smile flickered across the unnamed man’s face. “Now that you mention it, that’s exactly what I was thinking about you.” He slid the folder across the table. Brown wasn’t impressed.
“So what? You have my personnel records. Whoopty do. Wait a sec… do I still get back pay while I’m in here? Is it tax-free? You know, since it was earned in a foreign country and all.”
Back on familiar footing, the lawman grinned. “Oh no. These aren’t your military records. These are the original FBI and Secret Service investigation notes into the assassination of Congressman Pierce back in February.”