Sic Semper Tyrannis (4 page)

“Yes,” said Malcolm, his own voice completely neutral.  “The people starve and their city burns.  It is much the same with
my
people.”

The lights in the conference room flickered and dimmed, then returned to full strength.  “That generator.  Again with the lights…” muttered the ambassador.

“At least we have power here…of a sort.  I have not heard anything from my brother in far too long.  I grow nervous for his safety as well as for the future of my people.”

“Allah will provide, my friend.  Trust in Him.”

“I wonder…”

The ambassador gasped. “Do you dare doubt—”

“No!” spat Malcolm.  “
Allah akbar
,” he said and turned back to the window.  “I just…” he sighed.  “I
wonder
, in these dark days, whether all this was the proper course of action.  Perhaps I have misjudged His will?”

“Ah…I see,” muttered the Ambassador sagely.  His hands gripped Malcolm’s shoulders gently.  “My friend, do not trouble yourself with thoughts such as this.  Allah…He works in mysterious ways that are not known to us, yes?”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“His will, it shall reveal itself to you in time. 
Trust
in Allah.  You have surely made Him smile.   You and your people have struck a major blow against the Infidel and his heresies.  Be of glad heart, my friend.”

The door to the conference room opened behind them.  Malcolm did not bother to turn and see who entered. Following his arrival in Montreal, the messages relayed to him from Tahru about the survivors and their struggle against the Man had been a constant stream of gloom.  Their people had used the stolen HAM gear to send word north on radio waves the government could not stop.  Those messages had slowed to a trickle and eventually stopped in the past few days.  Malcolm felt trapped in a cloud of melancholy.

“Yes?” asked the Ambassador.

“Your Excellency, pardon the interruption, but our friend has a message.”

Malcolm spun around, hope igniting in his heart.  “Yes?” he asked, showing far more emotion in his voice than he would have liked. 

“You see?” asked the Ambassador.  He slapped Malcolm on the back.  “Just when you fear the most, Allah sends his blessing.”

In three quick strides, Malcolm was across the room and snatched the scribbled note from the staffer’s hand.  He ignored the Ambassador’s impatient stance as he read the note.

Malcolm devoured the words on the paper like a starving man attacking a feast.  He had to read it three times, going slower each time as he took in the meaning of the words.  Each time, he felt a stab in his heart that threatened to drive him to the floor in tears.

“My friend…the news, it is not so good?” the Ambassador said softly.

“No, my friend, not at all.  It seems Allah is most displeased with me.”  Malcolm looked up at the ceiling and blinked away the unmanly, shameful tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. 

“This is surely not—”

“My brother reports the Man has succeeded in breaking our lines.  Our fight is all but over.  Chicago has fallen.”

“But—”

“Do you not
see?
” shouted Malcolm, holding the paper before him like a proclamation from the Prophet himself.  “All our work, all our sacrifices, our planning, our
blood
…has it been for
nothing?
”  In a sudden rage, he threw the message on the ground and walked over to the side table to get some water and calm his nerves.  He brought a shaking glass to his lips and felt the cool liquid quench the heat in his throat.

“I am sorry, my friend,” said the Ambassador quietly.  Malcolm could hear the man smoothing the crinkled message out in his hands.

Malcolm closed his eyes and prayed for forgiveness and peace of spirit.  In a moment, serenity washed over him like a soothing wave of warmth.  He turned to the Ambassador and said, “No, my friend. 
I
am sorry.  I should never have raised my voice with you.  I have received nothing but kindness and support from you and your people—”

“Think nothing of it,” the Ambassador said with a gracious wave of his hand.  “We are all on the same side, all in this fight together, no?”

Malcolm nodded. “Yes.  But it appears that Allah would have us fight elsewhere now.”

“Yes!” the Ambassador said as he clapped his hands.  “You see?  Allah has willed that Chicago should fall—but,” he raised a finger and took on the air of a lecturing professor, “now you have the option to take your fight where it is needed most, were it can do the most good.  You were
trapped
in Chicago, no?  Now you are free.”

Malcolm turned back to the window and watched the fires on Montreal’s outskirts.  “But where do I go?”

ALL UNITS REPORTING THE enemy is in retreat,” stated Major Stafford.

General Joseph Stapleton continued scanning the burning skyline of Chicago with his field glasses.  He worked the cigar stub in his teeth and said nothing.  A small part of his soul died when he had to give the order to attack this great city.  American forces attacking an American city.  It was the low point of his career.  Everything he had been taught, everything he had trained for…it was all to
defend
places like this from the outside world.  To be the great wall that stood in the night and kept the gentler, softer, civilian world safe.

America, her cities, and people—to Joe Stapleton’s thinking—were like the proverbial princess in a tower.  Watching America’s Second City burn and knowing that
he
had ordered the attack…it made him feel like a traitorous guard that took advantage of his position to kidnap the princess while no one looked.

He lowered his binoculars. 
I need more sleep.
  To his aide de camp, he growled, “What about prisoners?  We find that sumbitch that started this mess?  This Malcolm?”

“Negative, sir.  I’ve got conflicting reports that he took a ship from Navy Pier and headed north into Canada, that he was in the Tower when it came down, that he—”

Stapleton waved him off. 
“Fine
.  I want standing orders: that man is to be brought in
alive
.  He will stand trial for this.”

“Sir,” Maj. Stafford said.  He made some notes, clutching his reports.

Stapleton turned back to the window and looked at what was left of downtown Chicago.  
Damn shame,
he thought,
I used to actually like this place.

Where the Willis Tower had been was now a cratered wasteland.  He had poured artillery fire into the base of the magnificent building and the whole damn thing had come down like a child’s toy.  The great building had spewed smoke and fire from its abdomen before it fell like a giant’s arm and pointed toward Lake Michigan.  The image of that tower demolishing a dozen smaller building in its death throes had been seared in the general’s mind.  He could not imagine how many people had died during the crash. 

Can’t think about that
, he reminded himself. 
It had to be done.  These rebels forced my hand.

“What’s the status on the fires?” he asked, his voice harsher than he had intended.

His aide shuffled some papers and cleared his throat.  “Still burning out of control, sir.  Without power to get the city’s water pumps going, the civvies are having a hard time fighting it.  Everything north of us is going to be lost.  Depending on which way the wind blows, we could be looking at a total loss of the rest of the city as well.”

Stapleton grunted and chewed on his cigar stub.  After a moment of silence, he asked: “We find the source of the radio transmissions?”

“Uh, not yet, sir.  Whoever’s broadcasting is apparently mobile.  We assumed the location was the Tower…but…”

“They were at it again?”

“Yes, sir.  We heard it clear as day.  They’re transmitting on a known civilian band, no crypto, no nothing.”

Stapleton shook his head at the audacity of the rebels.  “Well, what’d they have to say?”

“It was a message for their leader, this Malcolm.  The speaker said that the city had fallen and that “the Man” had broken through their last lines of defense.  Some other bits about people who had been killed and the Tower coming down.  It sounds to me, sir, like they were trying to give an after action briefing to their leader.”

“So,” said Stapleton.  He could feel a smile spread across his face.  “Malcolm
did
escape.  That’s interesting.”   He could see movement on the top of a building through the smoky haze that floated over the Tower’s final resting place.  Zooming in with his field glasses, he watched a squad of soldiers raise the Stars and Stripes on the roof of the mid-sized skyscraper.  Another building taken and cleared, another city block pulled back under control.

“There’s one more thing, sir.”

“Oh?” said Stapleton, still looking through the binoculars.

“The name “Tahru” was mentioned seven times in the forty-two second message.  At least, we think it’s a name.  Possibly of Malcolm’s lieutenant.  Either that, or it’s some kind of code word.  But, we haven’t seen evidence the rebels are using codes of any kind…”

“They say this ‘Tahru’ is dead or alive?”

“From the context, it appears—if it is a person—yes, he is still alive and most likely in the city.  Near the lake, in sector 12, there’s been some stiff resistance concentrated around two apartment buildings.  It’s pretty much the last hotspot we have left to pacify.  All other sectors are reporting only light resistance. I was about to ask for your authorization to assault the-”

“You’ve got it.  Take those buildings with whatever you need, and divert resources as required.  I’m willing to bet you’ll find this Tahru hiding in one of those buildings like the rat he is.  I want this guy captured.  Alive.  Spread the word.  Order weapons-free with anyone that provides even token resistance, but our friend Tahru needs to be taken alive.  He’s at least as important as Malcolm.”

“Yes, sir.”

When the door closed behind Maj. Stafford, Stapleton put the binoculars down on a desk next to him and stretched his back.  He glanced at the map tacked to a wall that showed the known locations of major riots—now labeled as rebel strongholds.  New York stuck out as a glaring hotspot.  He had been getting snippets of reports from Washington when comms were working, that New York was about to slip into total Anarchy.

Looking south past all the angry red markers indicating rebel activity, he grimaced at the sight of the scribbled line that marked the extent of the Russian Occupation of southern Florida. 
That’s
where he longed to be.

“Taking on Ivan, face to face,” he muttered.  A muffled explosion in the next building took his attention back to the death of Chicago.  “What a waste,” he said again.

HE’S NOT GONNA LIKE this,” whispered the short man.

“Can’t be helped.  I will tell him,” answered Yossef.  Even whispering as he was, his voice carried like thunder through the hallway.

Malcolm had told his subordinates that he went to seek advice from Allah and would pray for quite a while.  He had ordered them not to disturb him.  There was much on which to meditate.  Now that Chicago had fallen and with it most of his men and support, what was he supposed to do?

Go to another city,
he told himself. 
There’s nothing else for me here.  The deal has been struck with the United Nations.  If they hold up their end of the bargain, they’ll be pouring in to New York soon.  That is where I should be.

Malcolm opened his eyes, trying to ignore the muffled conversation taking place in the hallway.  Yossef was loyal, but quiet was not in his vocabulary.  He sighed.  It was going to be a long day.

“Yossef, come in.”

The door opened immediately and the massive bulk of Yossef stepped through the opening, filling it almost completely with his massive frame.  In his giant’s hand, he held another crumpled piece of paper.

“A new message?” asked Malcolm.

“Brother Malcolm…they’re asking for you in the communications room.”

The formality of Yossef’s statement caused no small amount of concern in Malcolm.  He could feel the cold grip of fear wrap around his spine.  “What has happened?” he asked as he stood up from his prayer rug.

“Something bad.  You need to get down there.”

When they burst into the comms room at the Egyptian embassy, Malcolm was stunned by the change that had taken place since his arrival.  Then, the place had been packed with staffers yelling into phones, taking messages, running communiques back and forth, preparing attaché cases…it had been organized chaos.  And loud.

Now, as he rushed through the big double-door into the high-tech room, it was almost silent.  There were only three other people in the room.  One was talking quietly into a phone.  The other, hunched over in front of a computer, barely looked up at the intrusion.  The third person, stood in the corner, hands up to his ears as he concentrated on listening to whatever was being piped through the large headphones he wore.  There was paper and trash on the floor.  It looked like the place had been evacuated.