The motorcade’s security detail had kept the dangerous crowds and suspicious traffic at a safe distance. Which just made their principal an even more inviting target for the Reaper drone cruising 5,000 feet overhead. It would continue to circle for another half hour and use a variety of outrageously expensive sensors to confirm that Senator Dimone did not survive the attack.
Shocked as he was, Dimone still knew a photo op when he saw one. Despite the wrenching of his stomach, he sprinted from his place in the rear of the convoy straight towards the fire. The moths and their cameras fluttered in from the convention center. Casting about for the best response, he began performing something similar to CPR on a fallen motorcycle cop. The officer’s pleas that he, “only had the wind knocked out,” were met with more vigorous pumping and awkward attempts to kiss him by Dimone.
Just as the policeman began drawing his service pistol to finish what the drone couldn’t, another cop stepped in and “relieved” the politician. Dimone fired off that world famous grin and shouted at the cameras. “He’s going to make it!”
Neither of the neutral, but beloved governors of Washington and California in the shredded limo were so lucky.
Three hundred miles northwest at Eglin Air Force base an Air Force general, provisionally promoted after his predecessor refused to carry out the mission, congratulated an unhappy pilot sitting in a souped-up Xbox video game console. A junior officer peeked in and meekly suggested he should turn on the TV and, by the way, there was a rather pissed off White House staffer on the line.
Lake Butler, Florida
Despite the supposed lockdown, Sergeant Major Brown didn’t have much of a problem moving around Florida. The stolen out of state truck didn’t draw as much attention as he worried it might. The cops appeared to have bigger worries. He grabbed another beer and studied the notes and photos he accumulated over the last few days.
While most people would have wallowed in self-pity after their revenge scheme backfired, Brown was only more resolved to do his duty. He might have failed at avenging his fallen men, but he could at least save the survivors. He owed his honor that much.
The least wounded survivors of Brown’s unit had been moved to a minimum-security prison not too far from the original fighting. A prison just a few miles down the road from his motel room.
Getting detailed inside knowledge of the detention center was incredibly easy. The guards might have been hardnosed civil servants, but the Corrections Department relied on an army of minimum wage contractors for all sorts of tasks. An entire weekend spent in local honkytonks, 500 bucks in direct bribes and probably as much in free booze, got him everything he needed to know. Brown looked over a copy of the guard duty roster, detailed maps, the week’s schedules of everything and pages of miscellaneous tips. Man, he wasted his career in the military. Should have joined the CIA.
Nah, spying didn’t interest him, but human intelligence was crucial to his mission. This secret transfer of his people to an unknown location in the morning was pretty interesting. He’d already scouted the route they would take to the interstate and cleaned his weapons. He’d even run through some drills. The prepping was finished.
Time to end his little vacation and get back to work. War was his profession, and Brown was damn good at it.
Starke, Florida
The State Trooper driving the lead car swore under his breath as they hit a traffic jam. All that careful route planning thrown out the window by some random accident.
“Damn drunks!”
He fought the temptation to flip on the siren and blow through. No good, the trooper had orders to keep a low profile. He looked over at his partner. “You found a new route yet?”
“Well, the quickest way to the interstate is to go back two lights and cut through the industrial side of town. Hmm, probably set us back only a couple minutes. I better call the Guard anyway and let ‘em know we’ll be late.”
The driver flashed the blues to clear space for a U-turn. “I still don’t get why we need a military escort to drive these guys to Georgia. We have enough manpower to stop a lynch mob, even if people found out what we’re carrying. Seems like a waste of money to send troops.”
His partner hung up the phone. “Speak of the devil. The National Guard doesn’t want to wait for us. They’ll meet our convoy on the way. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think they don’t trust us. Damn amateurs.” He radioed the change of plans to the prison bus and follow-on car.
The driver grinned conspiratorially as they turned off into much thinner traffic. “We ought to ditch the soldier boys. Just take the cargo to the border ourselves. Man, I think the president is a socialist asshole, but he isn’t a dictator. That’s all a bunch of bullshit. Getting the Guard involved in this mess just provokes people. Makes everything more intense than it needs to be.”
His partner threw up his hands. “Maybe, but…hell, I don’t know. You heard the president’s speeches…Well, you can’t argue the fact he’s still in power weeks after his term ended. That’s suspicious enough, to me. Anyways, you’re right that this Guard commitment is stupid. Just politics. I think the governor wants to give these prisoners back as a de-escalation gesture, but not so gently remind the president that we’re still ready to fight. Trying to negotiate without showing weakness. You can at least respect what he’s trying to do.”
The driver shook his head. “And we’re stuck in the middle of their pissing match. Well, at least it’s easy overtime!”
“A lot of overtime, if we keep hitting every damn red light.” His partner sighed as they came to another halt.
Behind them, a black F250 inconspicuously closed the distance. Sergeant Major Brown had fantasized about building an Improvised Explosive Device (IED). He’d fought against insurgents long enough and captured plenty enough devices to figure out how to reproduce a decent one. No, too much could go wrong. He decided to keep things simple. Except for helping guide the convoy through the warehouse district on a weekend, to reduce the risk to bystanders, he didn’t do anything to the route.
One last minute hiccup to fix. Brown gently sideswiped some random minivan in the next lane. The infuriated driver pulled over and called the cops, while trying to get the license plate of this hit-and-run asshole. After a last scan to make sure no other civilians were around, Brown hit the gas in his trusty stolen pickup and bore down on his prey. He had nothing against the police. What he had to do truly saddened him, but they were big boys. They chose which side to join. Life wasn’t pretty for John, but it sure was black and white.
Both State Police cars stopped a comfortable distance ahead of and behind the packed Florida Department of Corrections bus. The little convoy also waited in the right lane, rather than trying to block all traffic. Perfect.
Style wasn’t Brown’s strong suite. Filmmakers would find his brute force ‘tactics’ boring, but no doubt they were effective. He stayed in the left lane and slowed down casually as he approached the light. Just as he pulled abreast of the rear police car, he crushed the breaks.
Brown already had the side window rolled down and his semi-automatic shotgun rigged on a sling…pointing at a preplanned, slightly downward angle. With 20 rounds ready in the drum, all he had to do was reach over and tap the trigger one-handed.
The two bored uniforms glanced up at the truck in time to see the last muzzle flash of their lives. Brown let rip eight rounds of double-aught buckshot into the unarmored car below. Refraction from the shattered windshield and protection from their bulletproof vests stopped many of the 64 pellets, but not enough. A few still hit something vital. The driver’s head blew wide open. His partner lived a few minutes longer, but he was clearly out of the fight.