The Slave Warrior Page 16

  “Unfortunately, virtually all of Europe was pretty well decimated during the war. Western Europe had such an open-border policy for so long, terrorists infiltrated and did horrible damage with suicide bombers and dirty bombs. Millions died. There isn’t much left of Western Europe. And it is why Canada is now independent from Great Britain.

  “Eastern Europe fared somewhat better. The extreme fanaticism of the Muslim countries created huge cultural and approach problems between them and the atheism of their allies, China, Russia and North Korea. Eventually open rebellions against their austere and fanatical policies caused their downfall. Although it was several decades, eventually key terrorist leadership were killed, and those countries began the long, long process of rebuilding.

  “India, Pakistan, Africa and many other Asian countries continue to struggle economically. Unable to stop their growths in population, millions die every year from starvation. Deaths from war, climate and economic disasters have probably cut world population in half from what it was before the war. Nobody knows for sure. In fact, communication between countries is so bad, no one knows what has happened in South America and Australia.

  “Since satellites owned by various countries were destroyed by America early in WWIII, communication between countries is almost non-existent. We are confident only America and Canada use any type of satellite communication or electronics. Based on what little news we get, just about every other country had to start all over again with everything from electronics to basic infrastructure. Power struggles between various political factions make travel between countries extremely dangerous; at least that’s our guess. And that’s all it is: a guess. Most countries reverted to basic agricultural societies just to feed their citizens. International shipping and trade stopped completely.”

  Although initially discouraged by the news, Allison and Marco continued their efforts to ask Canada for support against the empire. They rented a tiny apartment in Toronto. Allison easily got a job at a local hospital in the emergency room department, which provided them with a steady stream of income. Marco, using his communication skills, methodically developed a targeted campaign to set up meetings with key government officials. It was slow work. Getting appointments was difficult and often took weeks. And if a meeting occurred, it usually turned out the official lacked the authority to do anything.

  Marco and Allison frequently received requests to speak at various groups. Apparently, Americans were rarely seen in the country and Canadians were curious to meet them and hear about conditions in the empire. Marco became the designated speaker since Allison’s schedule at the hospital could be unpredictable.

  Toward the end of their third year in Canada and hundreds of speeches later, Allison came home after a particularly grueling day at the hospital to find Marco sitting in his favorite body-molding chair, staring at the wall. Although the apartment was small, they enjoyed decorating it. Both of their tastes leaned toward a simplistic modern look, so their furniture and art reflected it. Rooms were tuned to earth tones, since every room’s wall adjusted to whatever design or color the resident wanted. They agreed any art to hang on the walls should remind them of home, but walls stayed bare their first year in the apartment.

  Finally, after getting tired of looking at bare walls, Marco went to an art store and bought supplies. Allison came home the next morning, after a lengthy double-shift at the hospital, surprised to see he transformed one wall into a beautiful mountain mural, complete with pine trees, a brook and a snow-covered mountain. The light-adjusting walls allowed the mural to appear differently, depending on the time of day they wanted it to represent. A moon even appeared in the nighttime version.

  “I had no idea you were an artist, Marco!” Allison said in delight. The painting was so realistic she wanted to walk into the scene.

  Marco shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve always enjoyed painting, but since college there has just never been time. And, when only computer-generated art was allowed, I kind of lost interest.”

  “Honey, it is magnificent. I love what you’ve done. You could make a living doing art, if you wanted to. You are a fantastic artist.”

  As they developed friendships with neighbors in the apartment building and exchanged dinner invitations, any time they held a dinner at their apartment they came to expect much of the initial conversation would be taken up with accolades about Marco’s mural. He even received some contracts for paintings in other apartments. The painting projects helped to diminish the frustrations of his meetings with government officials, as well as add to their financial well-being.

  Since books were not banned in Canada, the couple spent hours looking for English versions of their favorite books in tiny resale book stores. Most eastern Canadian residents spoke French as their primary language, but enough English-speaking book shops kept them busy on their hunt for books. Walls in the apartment soon filled with books. Their favorite activity was to sit together on their bed and read, often reading to each other and sharing particularly enjoyable descriptions. Freedom to read without fear of arrest was a joy they had not experienced in several years, so they savored the opportunity.

  As Allison now looked at Marco after receiving the negative message from the PM, she realized there was something wrong. He normally jumped up to greet her. Today he did not. She tossed her medical bag on the credenza near the front door and sat in a chair next to him.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” She asked. It was in Marco’s nature to be morose or inactive. The expression on his face was one she’d never seen before; he looked totally defeated. He sat silently for a minute before he said, “I am fed up with trying to convince these morons America needs their help. I’d rather go back and join the rebels than keep up this charade.”

  He jumped to his feet and began to pace back and forth across the living area. “I don’t know what else to do. I’ve tried everything, and nothing I say seems to be enough to convince them they need to help.”

  “Honey come sit down. Let’s talk about it and see if there are some other options. I know you feel as though you’ve been hitting your head against a brick wall, but is there anything or anyone you think might turn the tide and convince the government to back the rebels?”

  Marco reluctantly sat, his head in his hands. Suddenly he sat up, a big smile on his face. “Allison, you are brilliant. Why didn’t I think of it?” He leaned over and gave her a big kiss.

  “What did I say?” she asked in bewilderment.

  “You said, ‘anyone,’ and it hit me; I realized what we need to do. The problem is we really haven’t seen any military action. We’re not on the front lines. We can’t give Canadians a first-hand account of what it is like to fight the emperor’s soldiers. But I know someone who can.”

  He turned and looked at Allison expectantly. For a moment, she was clueless, trying to figure out who he meant. It suddenly hit her. And they said her name at the same time: “Brogan.”

  No one else was more qualified to provide a first-hand account of life under the emperor’s thumb. Yes, Allison served some time in prison, but somewhat protected, not experiencing the terrible torture and rapes Brogan did. Brogan also had front-line experience with the rebels. That was when they decided to see if Brogan might be willing to make the trip to Montreal. They agreed her persuasion skills and experience could surely convince the Canadians to help. But how to reach her? They reached Juan on vid-phone, but he said she was hard to reach, constantly moving, motivating rebels and guiding them in sorties against the emperor’s soldiers. He promised to let Brogan know next time he saw her.

  For the first time since they arrived in Canada, Allison and Marco had hope; hope Brogan could convince Canada to support the rebels.

  The last report from the general was Brogan was on her way. Then came word she had been recruited for a more urgent assignment. At about the same time, they had the unsuccessful meeting with the PM.

  Now they had to decide: keep hitting their heads against a wall in Canada or
go home? As they discussed it, Marco was silent for a moment. Allison saw him pull back his shoulders, clenched his jaw and said firmly, “Now we go home and fight.”

  There was no need for further discussion on the topic, since they agreed. They packed up and headed to Toronto. On the short train ride, they talked about everything they needed to do to prepare for the trip home. Allison needed to turn in her resignation at the hospital. Marco notified the landlord of their need to end their lease. General Veracruz had to be told of their failure to get Canada’s help. And they would make travel arrangements with Captain Shoemaker. Fortunately, the captain gave them her vid-phone number, so now they just needed to coordinate their schedules.

  Friends held a farewell party for them, lamenting the failure of their government to support their efforts and wishing them the best.

  Marco and Allison talked after the party about how bittersweet it was to leave. They made some lifelong friends, but it was long overdue for them to join the BL’s fight in their home country. A month later they headed for the same submarine dock where they disembarked three years earlier, but now headed home.

  During their vid-phone conversation with General Veracruz, he suggested they first make a trip to see Marco’s parents in Tegucigalpa, in the former Central America country of Honduras.

  “You need to see them now,” he told them by encrypted message. “Once you get involved in the rebel fight you might not have another chance for a while.”

  With the assistance of the prime minister’s staff they had forged T-chips, plenty of money and forged first-class passes to travel by train from the Chicago area all the way to Tegucigalpa, with a few changes in trains. Their T-chips identified them as elite members of Emperor Priest’s staff. The more than 3,000-mile trip, with delays from track damage done by the rebels, took them almost a week.

  Marco sent a message to Papa Marco, telling him their approximate arrival date, so he sent one of his staff, Federico, to meet the train. They were transported by horse and buggy to a beautiful hacienda on the edge of El Picacho Hill, overlooking the city.

  The war and a strong hurricane had devastated the city, with much of the infrastructure destroyed, causing residents to revert to horse-drawn transportation within the city. Federico not only drove the buggy, but he also acted as their tour guide as they slowly made their way from the train station to the hacienda. He told them the climate of Tegucigalpa, even in August, was always mild, with the temperature right around 75 degrees due to the high altitude. The couple had noticed the rising altitude as their train labored up the mountains surrounding the city. Now they looked with interest at all the new construction going on, especially near what their guide said was the Choluteca River, winding through the city.

  “The rainy hurricane season in October and November can cause the river to severely flood, so you will notice all construction is built with 20-foot steel pilings under each building, which allows for flooding but prevents damage to anything above the 20-foot level. And it all happened because of your father, Marco. He is on the city’s planning council and he pushed hard to make sure building codes reflected flood and hurricane ready construction. A lot of wealthy citizens moved here from up north to get away from the emperor’s soldiers, so it has created a boom in construction.”

  “Do you ever see any of the emperor’s soldiers here?” Marco asked.

  “No, but your father is also spearheading training of a citizen’s army just in case.”

  As they slowly made their way up the side of a hill, winding their way through narrow streets lined with flowering bushes, they saw beautiful mansions located back from the street.

  “Are there many poor people in the area?” Allison asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Federico replied, “But they live on the west side of the city. Senior Marco has worked hard to establish health clinics and job training sites for them, so he is becoming quite revered in the city for his good works.”

  Federico called ahead to the hacienda on his vid-phone. As they pulled up to the front of the three-story home, Papa Marco. and his partner, Maria, stood on the porch. It was a tearful and joyful reunion. Marco and Allison originally said they would spend only a couple of days with his parents, but the time quickly extended to a week. At the end of the week, they had a difficult time saying goodbye again. But word had just been received a major rebel incursion into the Chicago province was scheduled before winter and Allison and Marco wanted to be there to help.

  Papa Marco candidly told the couple he regularly sent help to the rebels in the form of money and weapons. General Veracruz gave him the design for the pulse laser gun and Papa Marco built a manufacturing plant in Tegucigalpa which turned out thousands of guns every day and provided jobs for the local citizens.

  “I know you need to go,” he told his son on the last day of their visit as they stood on the porch after dinner. “But I want you to do your best to keep safe. I am proud of you. And you know your mother and I adore Allison. Nothing matters more to us than the safe return of the two of you. Okay?”

  Marco was moved by his father’s emotion. He saw the tears in his eyes just before he grabbed him in a big hug. His own throat choked up as he struggled for the right words.

  “Thanks, Papa. We’ll do our best.” It was all he could think of to say.

  “I know you will.”

  And then, all too soon, they had to leave. Papa Marco had access to the new body armor and made sure both were well equipped before they left. General Veracruz’s most recent communique suggested they meet with the rebel force in Missouri. The Texas province sat securely in the hands of the rebels. Now it was time to move east and free the Chicago province. Marco and Allison were ready to join the rebel fight.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Devastation and Healing

  General Veracruz was frustrated at the slow pace of the rebel army. No one understood better than he did how much time it took to move an army of more than 50,000, especially when their motorized transportation kept breaking down because of its age. The troop transport vehicles had repairs on top of repairs. Tires were patched so many times it was a miracle they held up as well as they did. The few old-style tank treads needed greasing frequently or they came off the tracks and it might be hours of work to get them moving again.

  The rebel army had been traveling now for two weeks from Mexico City. Their re-supply vehicles kept up, but at this pace, it could be at least two more weeks before they made it to Chicago; and the general knew it was impossible to keep movements of such a large force a secret from the emperor.

  Trying to figure out how to move things along faster, the general heard a ping from his vid-phone. He had just moved on his cycle to the mid-point of the army to see what caused the tank brigades to stop moving. Before he had a chance to read the message, he heard the roar of a jet overhead and the familiar whistle of a bomb.

  “Hit the deck!” he yelled. There was no time for anything else before the force of the explosion knocked him from his cycle. Everything seemed kind of fuzzy for a while before he could gather his wits enough to stand, just as his aide reached his side.

  “You okay, general?” the aide asked, helping him up.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Check on the troops. Let me know how many were hit. And tell everyone to find cover where they can. Order the tanks to fire at the jet.”

  After the one jet bombing, a few years ago, there were no more air actions, and no reports from their rebel spies of any build up in the emperor’s air force. What was going on? Before the rebel tanks started firing, the general was shocked to see dozens of jets roaring toward them.

  “Start firing!” he yelled into his vid-phone. “Knock those suckers out of the sky!”

  A part of his brain registered the fact the jets were not the fighters used during the last war but appeared to be modified synergy jets. Because of their small size, each carried only one bomb. As the small jets approached the rebel army, he pulled his binoculars up and saw some type of m
achine gun array on the noses. Not good. And then the strafing began. As each jet got within range, machine gun fire bursts exploded. Once the jet arrived over a cluster of the rebel army, the bomb released. There was nowhere for rebels to hide, since they were strung out across flat farm fields.

  Pulling his vid-phone up to his mouth, he began issuing orders to his troops. But it was too late. Within a short time, the jets devastated the rebel army. Dead and dying lay scattered across the Missouri farmlands. The jets’ machine guns peppered the area where the general stood shaking his fist in the air.

  And it wasn’t over yet. After the jets dropped all their bombs, they came back for a second run of machine gun fire, focusing on anything moving. The general was knocked unconscious when he hit his head on a rock as his aide pushed him to the ground, using his own body to protect him.

  As he came to, he gently moved the dead aide off him and swayed to his feet. The devastation and horror as far as his eyes could see immediately made him think of hell. Fires burned where motor vehicles and tanks exploded. The screams and moans of the dying and injured, and the sickening smell of burned flesh and coppery taste of blood in his mouth would never be erased from his memory. So many dead. Was there anyone else alive? He stumbled forward, trying to grasp the utter destruction around him; all because one man wanted control of the thoughts and minds of a country. It was hard to believe. Who does that? What kind of man is willing to kill thousands of people just to stay in power?

  He watched as the few who were unhurt began to dazedly stand up from where they fell and started looking for ways to help their comrades. He shook himself from his reverie and began thinking like a general again.

  “Hey, solider,” he called to a medical corpsman starting to bandage wounds. “What do you need? Where do you want the injured?”

  The haunted look on the corpsman’s face was one the general saw many times on many faces before the day was over.