He was also concerned about the weapons from the armory. He was still waiting for the complete inventory on what was taken, but what he did know was worrisome. In addition to small arms and ammunition, they had apparently grabbed several heavier weapons – ones that could be used against the armored vehicles and atmospheric attack craft his reinforcements had brought with them. The rebels who had seized the weapons knew just what to take, at least according to his field commanders. Cooper wouldn’t have known a magnetic assault rifle from a bow and arrow.
Now he had to consider next steps. First, he wanted to know who was involved in the armory raid, especially the ringleaders. Once he had names, he could start rounding up family and friends and exert some pressure on those remaining at large. Cooper wasn’t troubled much by the prospect of collateral damage as long as it served his ends. He might even enjoy it. We will see how many people these rebels are willing to sacrifice, he thought darkly.
Tracking people down was going to be difficult, though, or at least tougher than he was used to. In New York, everyone had a spinal implant; he could pull up the current location of anyone he wanted to find in a matter of seconds. But here almost no one had a functioning implant. Even recent immigrants had theirs removed or deactivated as soon as they arrived. How did Alliance Gov allow this to go on for so long, he wondered? It is no surprise these people are as uncontrollable as they are. There were no Political Academies out here, no established government class. They just elected anyone they wanted as their officials, and if they weren’t happy they just voted them out. What kind of government could function, he wondered, so tied to the fickle wants of the masses? The whole idea was idiotic to him, and the generations of Alliance Gov that allowed it to develop were just as much to blame. But he resolved it would end here, at least on Columbia.
The two men who had been executed that morning in the Square were proxies, miscellaneous prisoners who stood in so he could make his point publicly. The men who’d actually been captured aiding the rebels - and there were four of them, not two – were still very much alive, safely held in the detention center of the Alliance Gov building. They were too useful to shoot out of hand; they had information buried in their heads, information Cooper needed. They were tough and stubborn, but they’d break sooner or later, and when they did they would give him the names he wanted. Oh yes, they would tell him all they knew.
Meanwhile, he had a pretty good idea where to start – the Weston area militia. He’d issued arrest orders, starting with the senior officers, and even now detachments of Federal Police were on their way to round up the first batch. He was pretty sure at least some of the militia units were involved in the rebellion, and he didn’t much care if a few innocents got caught in his nets. Not if he got the people he was after.
The flotilla of hovercraft was spotted long before they reached the shore. Skimming along the ocean at 150 kph, the lightly armored personnel carriers raced toward the rocky coast of Carlisle Island. They bore the insignia of the Federal Police, and they carried two full troops, 120 armed personnel in total. They had a list of suspects to find and detain. At the top of that list was Major John Marek.
Marek’s militia battalion was one of the formations supplied by the armory that had been raided, and that alone made him a prime suspect. So far, Cooper’s people were operating on unsubstantiated assumptions. The prisoners in Cooper’s dungeon were proving to be tougher to break than he’d expected. Despite severe methods, he still hadn’t gotten anything useful out of them. If he pushed the interrogators any harder he’d just end up with dead prisoners. Impatient, Cooper decided to move forward on a series of preemptive arrests, starting with Marek and a number of others on the Island. People he could reason were likely involved. Maybe some of them would break more quickly.
Lucius Anton peered out from a boulder at the edge of the rocky cliff that dominated the southern coast of Carlisle Island. He had rocket teams – they’d appropriated several launchers from the armory – ideally situated, ready to open fire at his command. The teams weren’t experienced, but the Z-9 launchers were AI-assisted and fairly easy to use. He figured they could take out half the incoming craft before they could turn and escape, maybe two-thirds. But he didn’t give the order.
At first he’d thought Marek was crazy. Why let the Feds land when they could practically wipe them out coming in? But he was starting to appreciate just what a feel his old lieutenant – and current friend, business partner, and militia commander – had for strategy. Firing on the incoming hovercraft would advertise just how heavily defended Carlisle really was. It would dare the Feds to come back with really heavy stuff sooner. Marek wanted to keep as many cards close to the vest as he could, especially until they’d had a chance to organize the militia troops and volunteers who’d been streaming in. That trickle had become a flood after the atrocities committed in Weston the week before.
But Marek also wanted those vehicles – intact and ready for his own forces to use. The rebels had weapons and ammo – not enough to last long, but a workable amount for now. But they were very low on vehicles and heavy support equipment. If the Feds were willing to offer some, he thought it would be rude not to take them.
They are being careless, Anton thought - coming in one big wave, no scouts, nothing. No precautions at all, as if they expected the mere sight of so many hovercraft would shrivel our resolve. They really think we’re going to let them land and haul off whomever they want and just do nothing? Can they really be that arrogant?
He and Marek had been working around the clock, forging their growing group of volunteers into a fighting force. They had just under 500 men and women under arms now, perhaps a third of them from Marek’s militia battalion, the rest normal citizens from Carlisle and the nearby archipelagos. Over 100 of them had been in the service, maybe half of those in combat units. Marek had turned most of the Marine vets into non-com and officer equivalents, though they hadn’t assigned formal permanent ranks yet.
Anton watched as the incoming transports swung around the west side of the island; the southside cliffs were too high for the hovercraft to navigate. He climbed slowly down from his perch. “Jack, take over the rocket positions. If anything tries to head back to the mainland, take it out.”
Jack Winton had been standing a few meters south of Anton, staring out at the approaching craft. “No problem, Lucius.” Winton was retired military, but he was navy, not Marines, and he’d been an engineer, not a tactical officer. Still, he was rock solid, and both Marek and Anton trusted him. Winton was just as glad to have something to do; his daughter was in Weston at the university, and he hadn’t heard from her since the day martial law was declared. He’d gone to the city twice since then, but he was turned back at the checkpoint both times. He tried to reach his contacts in Weston, but the city was locked down, all communications jammed. He wanted to go to Weston a third time, but Marek stopped him. He was lucky not to get arrested the first two times; Cooper’s troops had been careless, just chasing him away. Winton was almost certainly on a wanted list…just like Marek and Anton. If he got caught and interrogated he’d only put his daughter in greater jeopardy.
Anton scrambled down the rugged path inland, flipping on his headset. “John, they’re heading in from the west. Best guess, they’re going to come in over South Meadow.”
“I read you, Lucius.” Marek’s voice was calm, confident. He didn’t want to go back to war, but it held no surprises for him. If he had to fight, he would fight. It was that simple. “We’re ready.”