Storm Clouds, page 14
part #1 of The Guild Wars Series
“The submarine is rising to launch depth,” another tech said. “I have a missile launch.”
“Persistent son of a bitch,” Sansar said.
“What did you say?” Stockton demanded.
“Mute,” Sansar said. “Captain Wolfsong?”
“On it, Colonel.” Another laser flashed. “The submarine?”
“Do it,” Jim said.
In orbit, Sir Barton employed another of her weapons. A pair of missiles were ejected and rocketed away from her nose, accelerating at over 1,000 Gs. They burned like meteors as they hit the atmosphere. In less than 30 seconds they hit the water above the submarine with the force of a 20-kiloton bomb. They weren’t nuclear, but they didn’t have to be. Kinetic bombardment missiles were cheaper to make, effective, and didn’t leave any nasty radiation.
“The sub is gone,” Wolfsong said.
“Put him back on,” Sansar said. The line unmuted, and they were subjected to the nearly incoherent cursing screams of Vice President Stockton. “Mr. Vice President, are you done wasting lives?”
“You’ll regret that, you bitch,” he hissed at her.
“I expected better from an educated man,” Sansar said with slight air of amusement in her voice.
“We have inbound ground forces,” one of the Golden Horde men by the door yelled. “All four directions, and a pair of VTOLs coming in for a landing on the roof.”
“I got it,” Jim said, and activated his radio. “Colonel Spence, status?”
“Ready to go, Colonel Cartwright,” the man replied.
“Please deal with this,” Jim said. “Be aware of collateral damage.”
“Of course, sir. We’ve initiated our drop.”
“We can hold them,” Sansar assured Jim.
From all corners of the building, Golden Horde operatives began laying down suppressive fire against the APCs and troops which were rolling down the streets toward the conference center. The two VTOL transports were painted with ground-to-air radar. They responded by deploying electronic countermeasures—ECM—and diving below the level of nearby buildings.
Jim waited, feeling naked without his sidearm. When he looked around he saw the members of the Golden Horde looked almost bored. Sansar, though, looked a little annoyed. “What’s wrong?” he asked her.
“I wish we’d had time to get some troopers in place,” she said. “I hate asking for help.”
“Oh,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. Colonel Spence loves this shit.”
As if on cue, multiple sonic booms rolled across the city. The crack US soldiers who’d been tasked with a supposedly easy job—capture and neutralize the rebels in the conference center, looked up at the sounds to see dozens of meteors streaking toward them. A moment later, each meteor split apart and a figure fell free, riding jets.
“Okay, boys, take the fight to them!” Colonel Dan Spence of Gitmo’s Own called over the radio.
“Oorah!” his men yelled back, and the company of CASPers completed their HALDs and dropped into the battle.
* * *
West Potomac Convention Center, Washington DC
While the fight raged in the streets around the conference center, Jim rode the elevator down to the meeting halls. As soon as it became clear an attack would happen, he’d had all the delegates woken up and moved downstairs so they could be better protected.
As soon as he reached the conference floor and exited the elevator, he saw the first signs of force. An entire squad of Golden Horde mercs were present and in Mk 8 CASPers. How the hell did she get them into DC? Sansar was as sneaky as the Dusman, it would seem.
“Colonel Cartwright,” one of the troopers said over his external speaker. Jim could see sergeant stripes and the name “Jem Enkh” painted on the cockpit.
“Sergeant,” Jim said. “Situation?”
“The facility is secure,” the NCO reported. “I have two squads at my disposal. One is here armed for close combat, the other on the roof under cover.”
Jim examined the CASPer and saw it was armed only with a minigun and the ubiquitous arm switchblade. Of course, against Humans those were formidable weapons. No MACs or lasers, which would be much more likely to cause collateral damage. “Any problem with the delegates?”
“They’re a little freaked out,” the sergeant said. “And more than a little pissed that the government is trying to attack the building.”
“I bet,” Jim said. “Be sure to let me know as the situation evolves.”
“Will do, sir.”
The elevator next to him opened, and Sansar’s XO, Lieutenant Colonel Beth ‘Bambi’ Lobdell, came out. She was holding Jim’s gun belt and light body armor. “Sansar thought you might need these.”
“She thinks I’ll need them?” Jim asked, taking the gear.
“Okay, she fears you might need them.”
“Thanks,” Jim said, and Bambi went back into the elevator.
“Mr. Cartwright!”
Jim sighed and turned around. Who else could it be, but the conference center manager? As Jim unbuttoned the armor vest and started to shrug into it, he realized he didn’t know the man’s name. “Yes?” he asked, not looking up from clipping the armor straps in place.
“This is completely unacceptable! There are…armored hooligans in the convention center.” He pointed at the floor. “Just look at the carpet! They are tearing the carpet! We only replaced it last year. This cannot stand.”
Jim finished fastening the armor, looked up at the man, and unlocked the gun belt. When the manager saw the weapon his eyes went as wide as dinner plates. Jim drew the weapon and checked the load. He was afraid the guy’s eyes were about to physically pop out of their sockets. Splunk looked at the man, whose state of confusion and alarm was growing by the second. “Do you know what’s happening outside?” Jim asked.
“Some kind of civil unrest,” the man said in a shaky voice. “This is Washington, DC; there are incidents like this on a weekly basis.”
“You don’t have tanks advancing up Virginia Avenue every week, though.” He holstered the gun and locked eyes with the manager. “Do you?”
“Tanks?” he squeaked. “Coming this way?”
“Yes, and yes,” Jim said. He pulled out his slate and held it out, activating the computer’s Tri-V. It showed a live feed from Sansar’s amazing drones of M-9 battle tanks rumbling down the street a kilometer away, two abreast. The manager gasped.
Jim guessed that, to him, they looked like sleek, death-dealing machines. Jim had faced far worse on his first combat mission. Compared to the Zuul fusion-powered behemoths, these lumbering dozers were a joke. The US government hadn’t even upgraded them with energy weapons on their turrets.
“Look, whatever your name is…”
“Howard Rambo,” the man said.
“Rambo? No shit?” The manager’s face darkened. “Okay, Mr. Rambo, we’re going to deal with this attack, and if you’re smart you’ll head to a sub-basement and lock yourself in a meat locker, just in case we don’t succeed.”
“How can you possibly succeed? Those are tanks!”
Jim cast such a predatory grin at the manager, which caused him to take a step back. “Oh, those tanks are lucky,” Jim said.
“Lucky, how?”
“That my Raknar is still in São Paulo. Now, git!” Rambo fled.
“You enjoyed that,
“You’re God-damned right I did,” Jim said and strode toward the meeting hall.
A team of Sansar’s people were guarding the hall’s various exits. These men and women were in light combat armor and carried laser carbines. A couple had shotguns, which would have been better suited for a fight inside the convention center. You used the tools you had, not wished for ones you didn’t.
As soon as he entered, the delegates’ voices rose in a roar. Jim held up his hands and walked to the podium he’d used less than a day earlier. “We’re in no danger,” he said, having to shout to be heard.
“Then why all the guns and armored suits?” someone yelled back.
“To be sure, you are in no danger,” Jim said. Someone laughed. “If you aren’t aware, the United States military attacked the Republic of Texas less than an hour ago with nuclear-tipped missiles.” Gasps. “Thanks to the Winged Hussars’ warship in orbit, none of the weapons found their targets. As the United States command structure was unwilling to cease the attack, the same warship destroyed the military base launching the attack.
“Next, a nuclear submarine fired missiles at Texas. Again, the missiles were intercepted, and the submarine destroyed. Thus far, casualties are light and restricted to military personnel. However, I need your help to stop this.”
“What can we do?” asked Chancellor Brewster of Germany. Despite his initial misgivings, his nation had agreed to join the Federation early on.
“I need your nations to contact the United States’ leadership and stop this now. They have ground and air forces about to launch a conventional attack.”
“You cannot stop it?” Chancellor Brewster asked. All the other leaders listened intently.
“Oh, we can stop it,” Jim assured him. “We can stop it by killing every soldier, shooting down every plane, and sinking every ship.” He took a deep breath and leaned on the podium. He felt old. “Is this how we want to see the birth of the Federation? Even after the war, the Human merc forces are more than capable of dealing with conventional forces. It’s a testament to what I’ve been saying about your governments not modernizing. We would go through them like a dropship through vacuum.
“Thousands more will die. Many of them are just patriotic soldiers following orders. They’ve been told the Texans are rebels out to destroy the United States. Of course, Texas couldn’t care less about the United States, which is why they seceded instead of trying to take over.”
“Are you asking us to declare war?” It was President Ferme of Mexico. Of all the leaders who’d joined the Federation, his country was most at risk in an armed conflict with the nation on his border.
“No,” Jim said. “However, I believe you have to leave the option open if the US leadership is to listen. Please,” he said, looking around at the assembled men and women, “put a stop to this.”
“We have no communications,” someone called out.
“I can fix that with direct satellite links through the Hussars’ ship in orbit. What do you say?”
* * *
West Potomac Convention Center, Washington DC
“I want to thank you for diplomatically ending the conflict. I was not looking forward to killing US soldiers.”
“Colonel Spence, I wasn’t looking forward to it either,” Jim admitted as he stood in front of the conference center. Spence’s Mk 7 CASPer stood with its cockpit open in a line with eight other suits, their cockpits closed. Even at a simple parade rest, their line was perfectly dressed. Each sported a golden logo much like the USMC used, though if you looked closely the eagle’s talons were dripping green blood.
The streets around the conference center were littered with smoldering tanks. Spence’s men had been careful in their fire. Sansar’s drones confirmed extremely light casualties on the American side. He’d been so careful that he’d lost two men, both of whom would have been spared if he’d been able to use force freely. Reporters were as thick as flies, and much to Jim’s amazement, they’d caught onto the mercs’ careful use of force and were actually reporting it.
It was still too soon to see how the public would come down in the end. There was generally shock and denial at Texas leaving the United States. One poll showed 43% agreed with the use of force, with 31% disagreeing and 26% undecided.
Two blocks away, a barricade was set up, composed of a pair of wrecked M-9 tanks. Behind it, soldiers could be seen observing through binoculars. They looked ready to fight. Colonel Spence’s mercs looked hopeful they’d try.
“So, what now?” Spence asked.
“They’re about to vote on the formal intent paperwork,” Jim told him. “The Terran Federation is official. It all has to be ratified, of course. We got 143 out of the 150 signatories of the Articles of Republic. That’s not as many as we needed, but we added eight Middle Eastern nations who were not in the Republic, and Israel and the UK. With a total of 153 it makes it official; the Federation is now the global body of government with the authority to treat with the Galactic Union. I suspect a lot more will join once they see the Federation works differently.”
“I owe my XO fifty credits,” Spence said. Jim cocked his head curiously. “I bet him you wouldn’t succeed without another war. This little ruck-up doesn’t count.”
“I’m glad it wasn’t a war,” Jim said. Something in the back of his mind whispered—Doom. He shook his head, and it went away. It was approaching late afternoon, and a lot had happened. The press was desperate to know who’d authorized a nuclear attack against Texas. The White House said it was the President and Vice President with approval of the Joint Chiefs. Less than an hour later, a press release stated President Jill Lewis had suffered a massive stroke related to the stress from the conflict and was being transported to Walter Reed Hospital.
“I doubt she’ll live out the night,” Sansar had said. Her intel people were reasonably sure the President had been brain-dead for weeks, though they were not sure how it had happened.
What a mess my country has become. Jim caught sight of a United States flag flying from the improvised barricade, the soldiers below it watching him warily. Former country, he corrected himself. He’d already transmitted his change in citizenship from the United States of America to the Republic of Texas to the Mercenary Guild.
“Jim?” Sansar transmitted to his pinplants.
“Go,” Jim replied.
“They’re preparing for the final vote. You should be here.”
“Right,” he replied. “Colonel, see you soon.”
“You bet,” Spence said and snapped a crisp salute. Jim returned it, though with less form. He grinned at the slightly bemused look on the man’s face and hurried inside.
He passed the manager, Howard Rambo, on his way in. He looked nervous still, but not freaked out any longer. In fact, he thanked Jim for sparing his facility. Jim didn’t have the heart to tell him that the man’s precious facility was of no real concern to the operation.
Jim reached the meeting room and rushed in. A wave of applause passed through the crowd at his arrival. He felt his cheeks getting hot, and he walked with his head lowered to avoid anyone seeing it. Sansar was at the podium and had been holding things down while Jim talked with Colonel Spence.
As he approached, President Collins and Prime Ministers Stahl and Mizrah applauded. “Knock it off,” he said as he reached the podium, though he was grinning. Sansar had a strange look on her face.
“Colonel Cartwright, we had a last-minute addition,” Stahl said, speaking for the three of them.
“A problem?” he asked.
“Not as long as the condition is met,” he replied. Sansar handed the man a slate and he read. “By unanimous joint agreement of the 153 signatories of the Agreement of Federation, in order to form the Terran Federation, pending approval of its signatory governing bodies, it is hereby stated, proclaimed, and set forth the new position within the Federation of the Minister of War.”
“That’s quite the position for someone to hold,” Jim said.
“It sure is,” Sansar said, staring at him. Jim got an uneasy feeling in his stomach as Stahl concluded.
“Further held in joint unanimous resolution, the first person to hold the post of Minister of War will be James Eugene Cartwright, II, to hold said position for a term of not less than two years, and not more than ten.” He looked at Jim expectantly.
Jim looked at the grinning visage of Sansar. “You bastard.”
* * * * *
Chapter Seven
Approaching Houston, Texas, Earth
Sansar slept for half the trip back to Houston. She was so exhausted by the time she boarded the sub-orbital shuttle she had no memory of the liftoff. She awoke just as the shuttle began its reentry burn through the atmosphere.
Jim had been pretty roundly pissed off at being corralled into a position with the government. She’d had to work hard to convince him it wasn’t her idea. Of course, it wasn’t. No, the idea had been Mordechai Smith’s brainchild. He’d rather the Federation had no standing military, and when he’d heard Jim had worked hard to get one, he’d retaliated by suggesting that the kid lead it.
Jim got his payback by having the Federation agree to have each of the Four Horsemen serve as the first four Ministers of War. The term hadn’t been set yet, of course. She thought it would be four years. She had to admit she’d been hoisted on her own petard. It was likely that whoever was serving would be on-planet for a lot of those four years. In the end, they’d both agreed it was a cost worth paying to be sure Earth was no longer a soft target.
An added bonus was the gravitas that having a Horseman in charge of defense would lend to the job. Even the crazy attack by the United States against the Texas Republic ended up being a net benefit to the birth of the Federation.
As the braking rockets ceased firing and the shuttle slid into an approach path, she sipped a bottle of water and congratulated herself.
Vice President Stockton hadn’t been easy to manipulate. He was far too unpredictable in many ways. In the end, it was money which proved the key. She shrugged; it had only cost her fifty million dollars to set the events in motion. Hard cash in small denominations were hard to trace. Even if the bastard tried to implicate her down the road, it would be his word against hers. Who would they believe, a sleezy politician or a Horseman?
Her trump card was that some of the bills were indeed possible to trace—directly to the East Asian drug trade. Mr. Stockton wouldn’t like how it played out in the press. If that didn’t work and he went after her anyway, she had ample intelligence assets in DC, both official and unofficial. Mr. Stockton would have an accident—a lethal one.
