âI CAN IMAGINE THAT YOUR TEAMS ARE SPREAD PRETTY THIN,â THE PRESIDENT SAID
âLaw enforcement agencies in eight nations are running themselves ragged dealing with riots orchestrated by this group, the Fist of Heaven,â Brognola explained. âIf anything, our boys are right where they need to be.â
âAnd youâve confirmed that this is an international amalgamation of white-supremacist groups?â
âThereâs a violent Christian identity organization in the U.S. called the United Legion of Messianic America,â Brognola answered. âWe have also encountered elements of ODESSA, the Jakkhammer Legacy, the Justice Coalition of Argentina and a Japanese pseudo-Christian cult called Masa Minori.â
The President sighed. âAll those crazies would have to come out of the woodwork on my watch.â
Brognola managed a weak smile. âThey say the caliber of a man is judged by the scope of his enemies.â
âIs that a good thing or a bad thing with all these psychotic bigots?â the President asked.
Brognola looked out the window of the office, his gaze settling on the map of the world. The President waited a moment before the big Fed heaved his shoulders with a sigh, returning his attention to the conversation. âAsk me after this is over, sir.â
Brognola left the President alone in his office to contemplate the worldwide crisis.
In the jungles of the Congo, in the border region between the Republic of the CongoâROCâand the Democratic Republic of the CongoâDRCâlife was especially cheap. In the ROC, slavery was still a very real and modern threat, while the Kiva conflict in the DRC continued to claim lives the way only an ethnically charged civil war could. Right now, though, an African American man tried to move as fast as he could without aggravating the injury of his companion, also American but several shades lighter than his friend and growing more wan by the moment. The Latinoâs normally tan features were now clammy, his black hair stuck to his forehead.
John Carmichael struggled to keep David Arcado moving, one hand hooked under his armpit with Arcadoâs limb drawn across Carmichaelâs shoulders. Arcadoâs face was pale, his eyes sunken, his forehead soaked with sweat. Carmichael looked down at the bullet wound in Arcadoâs side, his hand clamped around the injury. Blood painted the hand bright red, meaning that he was losing oxygenated blood. No wonder Arcado was wheezing.
âLet me sit,â Arcado rasped. âYou can get the hell out a lot faster alone than lugging me along.â
âFuck that shit,â Carmichael replied. âWe donât leave soldiers behind.â
Carmichael glanced back at the game trail theyâd tromped along. He could see where dark, drying blood had smeared on leaves, which meant that the guards of the illegitimate launch facility wouldnât have too much trouble following them. âIf we stop now, thereâll be all manner of arrows aimed at you.â
Arcado swallowed hard, eyeing the bloody trail heâd left behind. âWhich is why you need to dump me.â
âNo,â Carmichael growled. âWe ride together, we die together.â
âNot with the information in your head,â Arcado told him, trying to wrestle his arm away from the black man. âYouâve got to get moving.â
âStop fighting me,â Carmichael complained. Suddenly he felt something hard jammed into his ribs. Carmichael looked at the snub-nosed .357 Magnum locked in Arcadoâs fist. âYou shoot me, youâre defeating your own purpose.â
Arcado gritted his teeth, then lowered the .357. âYou see that streak rising from the ground?â
Carmichael didnât want to look, but through the gap in the forest canopy roof, he could see it: the cottony column of smoke that spiraled up into the clear blue skies above. His shoulders fell as he knew what was at the top of that pillar of expended liquid oxygen fuel. He didnât know the payload atop, but it was an orbital launch missile, akin to an Atlas IV, reverse engineered from old American designs. Whatever was riding into the heavens on millions of pounds of concentrated thrust, it was nothing good, not when it was being rocketed out of Earthâs atmosphere from a forsaken, hidden corner of the world.
âI see it,â Carmichael answered. He took a deep breath.
âAnd what was that shit you kept telling me? Your country before everything else?â Arcado told him, gripping a fistful of Carmichaelâs BDU shirt, twisting it to bring Carmichaelâs ear closer to his mouth.
âIf you stay here, then we need to give you as much of a chance as you can get,â Carmichael whispered harshly. âGive me a spare bullet.â