“You fools. This is about far more than your balance sheets. As long as Washington is still there, you’ll serve the moochers the rest of your life!”
“Ayn Rand, seriously? Are we a bunch of college kids? Washington will win, so let’s go ahead and position ourselves for that eventuality.”
“Not if Washington isn’t there. Look, the URA has managed to get several nukes rebuilt…”
Even those on her side recoiled in shock. The head of a Lockheed Martin/BAE spinoff company glared at her in righteous indignation. “Jesus H. Christ! You truly have gone off the deep end.”
“You? You of all people have the gall to mock me? The weapons you’re selling to both sides have directly helped kill hundreds of thousands so far. I’m talking about sacrificing one city, yes, but saving the whole country in the process. Guns, bombs, nukes… why should the tools matter? Let’s be honest, none of you have the moral authority to chicken out at this point!”
Surprisingly, the rabble-rousing media baron calmed the yelling crowd. “Enough. We’re wasting time with this fantasy. We’ll chalk her crazy idea up to the stress. Now let’s focus on practical solutions.”
The banker leaned back as even most of her allies murmured in agreement. The head representative of a massive defense conglomerate, doing as much business on the East as the West Coast, was the first to stand.
“Look, we’ve beaten this horse to death for weeks. Here’s my proposed compromise: let’s do nothing. I mean zilch. We don’t need to take an active, expensive role in ending this war. We can just stop feeding the violence. We’ll halt all intelligence and propaganda support for the URA and cut all funding for Sacramento and Texas. Most importantly, let’s disband these out of control Freedom Brigades. Then we simply step back, keep a low profile and just wait for nature to take its course. There’s no risk there. Time to put this course of action to a vote.”
The bank woman didn’t bother raising her hand one way or the other. While the twenty plus captains of industry around her made a big show of casting votes, she played with her phone.
“So, the ayes have it in a landslide. I suppose those in favor should stay and work out the details…” The awkward silence that followed didn’t faze the banker. She just plastered on a smile, collected her papers and left gracefully. She hesitated at the door though, staring intently at her phone.
“After all we’ve been through… Well, I will respect the decision of the group.” She tucked the phone away and raised an eyebrow at her political allies. Just three of the businessmen would meet her gaze. Only two went so far as to stand and follow her out. She gave them both a genuine smile.
As she opened the thick, soundproof door, someone tumbled into the room. The media mogul shrieked at the pool of blood oozing out of his chief of security. The bank woman used the dead man’s sleeve to wipe the dark red smudges off her high heels.
“Messy, but on time. Excellent work, Akim.”
Someone from the table screamed. “Wait! Why? You can’t get any more money out of us if we’re dead! Even you aren’t rich enough to support the rebels without us.”
She turned to the side as three dark-skinned youths marched through. Their smoking AK-47’s were intimidating, sure, but those bulky black vests with wires sticking out caused the billionaires to wet themselves.
The banker grinned. “We don’t need any more money. As you said, the war’s as good as over. However, I haven’t forgotten our goals. I’ll finish what we started and save this country, even if I have to burn some of it down first!”
She put her arms around two of the expressionless Syrians. “Gentlemen, remember to give me 60 seconds to get to my car, or your families won’t receive their compensation. Good luck. Aloha Snack bar!”
The one with the thickest beard grimaced. “Not of correct. Mean you allahu akbar.”
The banker just shrugged and ran; her two remaining cohorts close on her heels. Even in the staircase, they heard the martyrs’ eerie chanting.
La illah ila Allah, Muhammad Rasul Allah!
“You know First Sergeant, the worst part of all this isn’t the hunger, but having nothing to do. I almost wish the Fedefucks would storm in here and try to finish us off. Get some action going on!”
The rebel NCO rolled his eyes at the butter bar lieutenant and scanned the ruins of their occupied town. “Believe me, sir, you’re not missing anything.”
The gung-ho officer, a mechanic leader turned impromptu infantry company leader, wouldn’t shut up. Rebel vehicles didn’t move enough to require much maintenance. You needed fuel for that. In their infinite wisdom, headquarters decided to send every excess support soldier to the perimeter. Less to intimidate the Feds than fill the holes in the line. In the contemplative silence of the Louisiana/Arkansas pocket, the president’s promises of amnesty produced far more casualties than bullets did.
“The president is just fucking with us. He refuses to attack, just keeps us pinned down, but then pounds California? Son of a bitch! Just you wait until when we finally break out of here. I’m going to tear those Feds a new asshole!”
The company first sergeant, veteran of every major URA engagement since the Battle of Denver, fought the urge to slap his green lieutenant.
“Right. Well, I wish more folks shared your, um… confidence. Here’s the morning headcount, sir.”
“Shit. How short are we?”
“Only four soldiers missing today, so that’s an improvement.”
The LT punched the sandbags in his face. He once worried that commanding a 150-man company might be over his head. At the rate they bled deserters though, he’d only be leading a squad by the end of the month.
“We have to do something about this, First Sergeant.”
The senior NCO opened his mouth, but a sentry whistled. Two Humvee’s bounced along the rubble-strewn road from the rear area.
Two black Humvees.
The first sergeant narrowed his eyes. “What the hell are those fanatics doing here?”
The Humvees stopped right behind his company’s fortifications. Eight khaki-clad, Freedom Brigade fighters dismounted, looking badass in their next-gen body armor and sporting those sci-fi battle rifles of theirs. One of them pulled off his tacti-cool Wiley X shades.
“Who’s in charge of this disgrace of a fighting outfit?”
The regular army first sergeant snarled. “Let me talk to these assholes.”
His LT paled, but held him back. “No, it’s my job. I’ll handle it.” He slung his M4 over his back and trotted out from the McDonalds serving as their command post. The LT mustered up his big boy voice.
“Yeah, what do you civilians want?”
The militia leader leered at the young rebel CO, making a big display of looking him up and down. “You’re running the show? Well, that explains things. I found something that belongs to you.” He whistled.
Two other militiamen dragged a zip-tied rebel soldier out of a Humvee. The first sergeant recognized him immediately. One of his best junior sergeants. His face wasn’t so black and blue last night when he begged the first sergeant to join his escape attempt.
The militia boss raised a bullhorn to his lips. It was unnecessary, since most of the rebel company crowded around already, but he bellowed anyway.
“The Freedom Brigades have taken over military police duties. Any deserters will suffer a traitor’s death!”
He wasn’t the long-winded type. He simply raised his rifle to the detainee’s head.
The rebel lieutenant surprised everyone, even himself, by jumping forward and swatting the militiaman’s barrel into the sky.