“Who the fuck do you think you are? We don’t take orders from auxil—”
The Freedom Brigade chief drew a Glock with his free hand. He shot the officer through his nose, while crinkling his own. He brought the bullhorn back up.
“The same goes for any leader who refuses to cooperate or gets in the way.” He shouted that rallying cry which only seemed to make militia folk hard. “Freedom or death!”
Through gritted teeth, the rebel first sergeant grabbed his radio. He didn’t have to say a word. The whole unit jumped into action.
One of his soldiers fired a three round burst into the militia boss’s crotch. Others squeezed off the last of their anti-armor rockets into the up-armored Humvees.
The first sergeant sprang out and joined a hundred other troops descending on the shocked survivors. The militia leader, squirming about on the ground trying to find his missing balls, raised his hands.
“Don’t kill us! The Feds have a million dollar bounty on each of our heads. It could be all yours!”
The first sergeant slung his rifle and checked his LT for a pulse.
“Yeah, I read the leaflets too. One million…”
He hung his head briefly, then ripped his commander’s dog tags off and knelt over the Freedom fighter.
“Dead or alive.”
He flicked his Applegate-Fairbairn combat knife out. “Just need proof.”
It took the first sergeant a solid minute to behead the militiaman. Goes a little slow when they’re still alive.
Finished, he dropped his rifle and began climbing the barricades blocking Main Street.
“Where you going, First Sergeant?”
He glanced back at his company sorting through the Freedom Brigade bodies. The first sergeant waved his own dripping trophy east, towards federal lines.
“How much is eight million divided 120 ways? I don’t know about ya’ll, but I’m going to get paid.”
“Check it out, Mikey!”
Mike Kampbell peered into the dark corner of his sprawling office. Someone hovered over a mini Coleman camp stove.
“Like I can see you over there. Light a candle or something.”
His coworker came out of the shadows and flashed a brick of shrink-wrapped aluminum. A heavenly scent wafted over from the corner desk.
“Oh! Wait a minute. Please tell me you bought that coffee and didn’t requisition it from somewhere?” Ever since the Feds tightened the embargo screws, the price for beans had jumped higher per gram than cocaine.
His buddy grinned. “Perks of the quartermaster’s office. Better it finds its way into my cup than gets captured by the Feds.”
Mike flared his nostrils.
“Sorry. You know what I mean. Have you heard from your daughter?”
“Not a thing in weeks. God, I hope Sophie’s still guarding the border and not in that mess down south.” He changed the subject. “What about your son? Did you land the college deferment?”
“Ha! There aren’t any deferments. Sacramento has gone bat shit crazy with this draft. My boy shipped off yesterday. At least he’s heading up to Fort Lewis for training first. With a little luck, the war could be over by the time he’s done. Or perhaps we can make our own luck, hmm?”
Mike didn’t like where this was going. He ignored the hints and droned on, like he always did. “So, when’s our next power allotment hour? It’s a windy day. Maybe the turbines can extend it a little longer.”
“Mike. Don’t play dumb. You know as well as I that there’s not much left to procure for the Army. The URA’s finished. Everyone knows it. We’re sitting here on the Titanic, balancing the books while the water’s pooling at our feet.”
Mike clucked his tongue. “Defeatism? In your position? You know how many saboteurs and deserters they’ve already caught? I hear Sacramento is starting to form penal battalions to throw in human waves at the Feds. Cheaper than an execution.”
“Ah, that’s East Coast propaganda. I don’t care much for the president in DC, but at least they know what they’re doing. Salazar’s make believe regime couldn’t find their own ass with both hands and a hunting dog. They can’t keep an eye on everything.”
His coworker grinned, waiting.
“Spit it out. What do you want from me?”
“Just for you to do nothing. Simply look the other way while I make a few things disappear. I’d be happy to cut you in.”
Mike glared at his balding pal. “Since when did you become the gangster type? I just can’t imagine you as a black market arms trader. Is this some midlife crisis thing?”
The comptroller nudged his glasses up and relaxed his tie. He leaned in close.
“Look. A guy from the East approached me with a deal. I’ve been routing weapons and ordinance into Texas and he’s paying me for every truckload that gets, um, ‘lost.’ If I don’t play along, well, he was pretty graphic about what would happen if I didn’t cooperate.”
“So that’s why Sacramento wanted me to audit your department. Son of a bitch. Who’s this guy? Why didn’t you report him to the FBI?”
He waved his hand. “Are you serious? You think the URA could protect me? Especially from these people. The dude’s C.I. fucking A, man. This is the real deal.”
Mike leaned out the open window. He took in the magnificent golf course behind their office park and the sprawling greens. Once beautiful, at least.
His coworker came up and offered him a steaming mug. “Are they ever going to clean that mess up? It’s been a week now.”
Mike sipped the liquid crack with care, but was unable to summon the ecstasy a cup of Joe usually gave. He couldn’t take his eyes off the charred remains of a US B-2 bomber on the ninth hole.
“We’re sitting ducks to every seed we’ve ever sown.”
“Um, so is that a yes?”
Mike sipped his coffee cup and nodded out the window. His coworker screamed at the rocket plume racing straight for them. He dived under a desk, assuming that would shield him from the 1,000-pound warhead.
Mr. Kampbell had just enough time to pull out a photo of his daughter and press it to his lips.
“You better not already be up there waiting on me, honey!”
On board a Ticonderoga class US Navy cruiser three hundred miles west, a teenage weapons operator yawned. He stretched and tallied off the latest kill in his long shift.
“Target 16, touchdown. Looks like a clean hit.”
A minute later, the battle damage assessment officer called out. “No joy on number 16.” He zoomed in on the target via a next generation Global Hawk surveillance drone. The solar-powered, quasi-satellite had coasted for a week 130,000 feet above southern California. “Looks like you had a malfunction. The warehouse is unscathed.”
“What warehouse? Negative, sir. Number 16. The office park.”
The officer tore off his headset and stormed over. “What grid do you have for that target, sailor?”
“Let’s see, 931…”
“Shit! That’s supposed to be 937, dumbass!” The officer punched the top of the weapon console.
“I’m sorry, sir. I just shoot at the coordinates the new targeting team sends. You know, the president’s special ‘Freedom Fighter’ hunter detachment.”
The officer cracked his neck and counted to ten. “I know, I know. This shit happens, not your fault. At least it wasn’t a school or something. Carry on.”
He sat back down and waved over the senior watch officer. Fucking collateral damage. He snatched up the appropriate paperwork and a pen. These forms could take hours to fill out.
Why did he have all the bad luck?