They were surrounded.
Brown, still splayed out like a dead buck in the corner of the room, surreptitiously tried to snag a fallen submachine gun. His creeping hand shook a pile of spent brass. He froze, acutely aware of the jingling. None of the attackers paid any attention though.
Instead, the three surviving insurgents burst into action. Brown stared open mouthed as one dropped his weapon and yanked two cylinder-shaped devices from his vest. A skinny young guy, acting like their leader, held him close and kissed his helmet. Without another word, the insurgent popped the pins and stormed out into the main corridor with both canisters held high.
The staccato bursts of handgun and rifle fire didn’t let up until the whole building shook. The walls to their little sanctuary caved in. Brown took a cue from the two remaining intruders and slid his head under the heavy mahogany desk nearby. That saved him from the worst of the falling debris.
Concussion grenades. “That’s fucking enough!” Brown shrugged the body off him and pounced, MP4 leading the way… but the room was empty. Just him and six silent corpses. He waded through the mountains of used shells and belt links and crouched at the main corridor doorway, listening carefully. Someone in a suit moaned down the hallway, but it was eerily quiet otherwise.
Brown gripped his weapon close and charged across the hall, plunging headfirst through a giant hole ripped in the wall of the Roosevelt Room in the middle of the West Wing. Shouts and gunshots rang out from the room ahead. He wasted no time charging around the table and stormed through the hallway leading to the main lobby.
He immediately tripped over the body of an insurgent and sprawled headfirst into a Secret Service agent propped against a cabinet and clutching his gut.
“Where’s the president? Is he already outside?”
The agent glanced up with weak eyes, taking in the stranger’s bloody dress uniform. He shook his head. “Mortars… north lawn. POTUS is cornered in the national security advisor’s office.”
Before he could move, a twelve-man tactical team braved the mortars out front and kicked in the north lobby entrance. Brown dropped his weapon and applied himself with gusto to stopping the agent’s bleeding. One of the reinforcements waved a rifle in his face and almost detained him, but a burst of fire from the northwest corridor consumed his attention.
The team bounded out of the lobby and disappeared around the corner. After fifteen seconds of rapid shooting, Brown’s stolen radio hissed.
“Clear. West Wing secure.”
Brown looked up as a dozen National Guardsmen stormed in from the east entrance where he came from. A medic ran over to him, but Brown waved him off. “Help the agent first; he needs it more.”
Brown leaned back against a table and gazed at the dead fanatic a foot away. His face was a bloody pulp, but the weapon clutched tight in his hands showed his determination. The kid had more balls than he did. Brown peeled the unit patch from his arm. He remembered fighting against such a unit once. In Florida. He thought he was driven. These bastards had kept up the fight for over a year, living only on revenge, without a chance of success.
“Fuck you! We’ll never rest until the dictator is dead.”
Brown stood up as two soldiers prodded the skinny kid from earlier into the room. He had both bloody arms zip tied behind his back, a tourniquet on a leg and wheezed between breaths, but the youngster wouldn’t shut up. Brown recognized that blinding frustration on his face.
He too once came so close to paying back the president for all he’d done. Brown and the prisoner locked eyes. Without saying a word, they briefed each other. Donaldson gave a slight smile and glanced down at the insurgent’s body.
Brown followed his gaze and noticed something hanging on the dead man’s web pouches.
“Let me the fuck in here!”
Before Brown could do anything, the president shoved past two of his guards. He was visibly shaking, but not in fear or anger. He ran up to Donaldson.
“Why the hell did you do this? The war’s over! I’m resigning soon. You could have taken the amnesty and gone home, with your head held high!”
Donaldson refused the stretcher someone offered and stood as straight as possible.
“So you get to simply retire and write your memoirs while I go home to Florida and bury all my friends? Spend the rest of my life rebuilding a place you turned into Afghanistan? Fuck you. The war will never be over as long as you’re still breathing!”
“The war will never be over as long as we keep killing each other. Wait a minute, I recognize you. You’re that famous ‘hero of Florida,’ right? The leader of the Florida National Guard.”
Donaldson spit into the president’s face. “That’s right. I’m one of those patriots you labeled a traitor, but I won’t be the last.” He didn’t look at the president, but stared over his shoulder… right at Sergeant Major Brown.
One of the agents slammed Donaldson into the stretcher and whispered into his ear. “I’m going to pull some strings and make sure I’m on your firing squad, you piece of shit!”
The president pulled him back. “No, you’re not.” He ground his teeth and crossed his arms. “Captain Donaldson, pursuant to the pardon power conferred upon me by Article II, Section 2, of the Constitution, I grant you a full and absolute pardon for all offenses committed against the United States.”
Donaldson snarled.
“The same goes for all your other insurgents. I’m sure the FBI will keep tabs on you for a while, just waiting for you to fuck up, but you’re free to go.”
One of the president’s security detail grabbed his shoulder, losing all semblance of professionalism. “Damnit, sir! You have to be out of your mind. Do you have any idea how many people he’s just killed? This is a slap in the face to the families of all those that died protecting you!”
The president hung his head. “He hasn’t killed as many as I have, yet I’m allowed to walk away scot free.”
The president raised his head and spun around quickly. “Listen up everyone, this war is fucking over! Whether you all like it or not. Get a new hobby.”
He locked eyes on the one person in the room not staring daggers at him. “Sergeant Major Brown, a word in private please?”
Brown played it cool, but didn’t take his hand out of his pocket. He followed the president into the Vice President’s empty office. A half dozen pissed off guards waited outside.
Inside, the president slumped down in a chair and buried his face in his hands. Even after everything, Brown couldn’t take his hand out of his pocket. Tempting as it was.
“Do it, Sergeant Major. Or you can hand me the grenade and I’ll finish it myself. You could walk out and act surprised. There’s what, a five second delay on those things?”
Brown pulled the dead insurgent’s frag grenade out of his pocket. He’d already dropped the pin. Only his grip on the spoon kept them both out of hell.
“You’re more observant than any of your staff, Mr. President.”
The president forced a weak smile. “They only pay attention to the people that hate me. I knew you were here to punish me the moment I met you. Your calmness gave you away. I saw neither hate nor awe in your eyes, just a man on a mission.”
Brown snickered. “Is that right? Well what’s your mission then? Who takes over after you’re gone?”
The president leaned back. “The other team that attacked the capitol building was wildly successful. The Speaker of the House and the majority of the senior congressional leadership are dead. When you figure I appointed most of the Supreme Court and have the whole country under martial law, well, I’ve become a real dictator. Haven’t I? That’s my legacy: a damn American Caesar.”