The Coming Storm

by Mark Alpert

  Grant gestured over his shoulder at the rotunda they’d just left. “Sorry about all the commotion back there, sir. I had to make a few last-minute adjustments, and things got a little hectic.”

  Vance looked at him carefully. “But is everything ready? Are we good to go?”

  The colonel nodded. “Yes, sir, we got everything done in time. There shouldn’t be any problems.”

  He sounded confident, no doubt about that, but Vance was skeptical. Was Grant blowing smoke at him, covering up something? Over the past twelve hours they’d suffered a couple of setbacks that had delayed the deployment of Phase Three. Grant claimed that the difficulties were totally unanticipated and that nothing could’ve been done to prevent them. But Vance was starting to wonder.

  “Colonel, what’s the situation with the New York police? How many of them have turned in their service guns?”

  Grant didn’t flinch. He looked straight at Vance as they marched down the hall. “We’re continuing to have trouble with that, sir.” He lowered his voice. “So far, only four thousand of the thirty-six thousand uniformed officers have surrendered their weapons. Most of the police vehicles are also unaccounted for, the NYPD’s patrol cars and helicopters and harbor boats.”

  Vance halted in the middle of the corridor. He wanted to make it clear how distressing this piece of news was. “How did this happen? Didn’t you send your teams to the precinct stations to collect the guns and vehicles?”

  Grant halted too, and so did the bodyguards. The colonel gave his men a hand signal, instructing them to step back a few paces to keep them from eavesdropping. Then he turned back to Vance. “We sent teams to all seventy-seven of the precincts this morning. All but five of the station houses were empty, cleared out. No officers manning the desks, no guns in the weapons lockers, no patrol cars in the parking lots.”

  Vance grimaced. It was worse than he’d thought. “So is this an organized mutiny? Have the leaders of the police department instructed their officers not to cooperate with us?”

  Grant nodded. “That seems to be the case. The police commissioner, Steven Hayes, is missing. So are most of the deputy commissioners and bureau chiefs. Do you remember what I told you last night, about the radio transmission that the army intelligence officers intercepted?”

  “The signal from Gracie Mansion?”

  “Yeah, that one. Apparently, it was transmitted at the same moment that the assault team broke into the mayor’s office. The audio includes the gunshots that killed DeMarco, and some of the screaming too. Our jammers couldn’t block the signal because it was a lot stronger than we expected.” Grant’s face seemed to harden. “It obviously had a big effect on the NYPD rank and file. And as you know, there was already friction between the New York cops and the FSU.”

  Vance clenched his teeth. His cheek twitched and jaw muscles quivered. He needed to calm down and think clearly. He silently chanted his mantra, reciting the words in his head: I can’t change the past, but I can change the future. I can’t change the past, but I can change the future. Then he pointed at Grant. “Well, where are the cops now? It’s hard to believe that thirty thousand officers just disappeared. You must have an idea where some of them are hiding, yes?”

  The colonel nodded again. “Some are lying low. They’re in their homes, waiting for instructions, maybe with patrol cars hidden in their garages. But it looks like most of the officers have gathered at a handful of police facilities that were chosen because they’re easy to defend. We sent drones to those sites, and the surveillance video shows that the cops are digging in. They’re fortifying the places against attack.”

  “Where are they?”

  “The biggest is Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn. That’s the base for the police department’s Aviation Unit and Emergency Service Unit, so they already have a lot of weaponry and ammunition stockpiled there. Another group of officers has gone to Rodman’s Neck, the NYPD’s training facility and firing range in the Bronx. And a bunch of them have holed up at the department’s counterterrorism headquarters on Randalls Island, just a few miles from here.”

  Vance tried to picture the tactical situation, the geography of the enemy’s forces. The New York cops knew they were up against the power of the U.S. Army, so they’d selected positions on islands and peninsulas on the outskirts of the city. They were well-trained and disciplined, and they had enough guns to put up a good fight. But the military would still defeat them. It was just a matter of properly allocating the government’s resources.

  “Colonel, I want you to request more soldiers from the Pentagon. More helicopters and armored units, and a brigade of Marines too. We need to quash this rebellion at once.”

  “I agree with you, sir. But I’m getting some, uh, resistance from the Department of Defense.”

  “Resistance?”

  “Several generals on the Joint Chiefs of Staff have objected to the use of their troops to put down the riots. They’re particularly concerned about the body counts from the helicopter assault last night in Manhattan.”

  “Which generals? I want names.”

  “Well, the loudest objector seems to be General Miller, the army chief of staff. He’s been arguing with the joint chairman and the Marine Corps commandant, trying to convince them to challenge the White House. And the situation will definitely get worse once we order them to fight the NYPD.”

  Vance shook his head. He was starting to get angry. “This is outrageous. The president is their commander in chief. Any general who refuses to carry out the president’s orders should be court-martialed.”

  Grant glanced at the FSU bodyguards, who were pretending not to hear the conversation. Then he stepped closer to Vance and bent toward his ear. “Again, sir, I agree with you, a hundred percent. But I spent twenty years in the army, most of the time working for those Pentagon bastards, so I know how stubborn they are.”

  “Stubborn? More like insubordinate!”

  “Yes, sir, exactly. But I think the best strategy right now is to hold off on the military operations and focus on Palindrome. We’ve worked so long and hard on this project, and it’s so close to success now. And if Phase Three is successful, it’ll solve a whole lot of our other problems. You see what I’m saying, sir?”

  Vance did. Despite his anger, he knew Colonel Grant was right. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath and repeated the calming words in his head: I can change the future, I can change the future. But when he opened his eyes, he was still angry. The feeling was too strong to be dissipated by mantras or deep breathing. To get his anger out of his system, he needed to focus it on somebody. And Grant was the only target in sight.

  He glared at the colonel. “I see your point. And for the sake of your own survival, Colonel, you better pray that Palindrome succeeds. Lately, your performance has been less than inspiring.”

  Grant took a step backward. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m referring to the defection of Dr. Weinberg. And the escape of one of your prisoners.” Vance raised his voice. He wanted the bodyguards to hear this. “I have my own informants in the intelligence agencies, and they told me about your urgent radio messages after the escape last night. You haven’t found them yet, have you? Neither David Weinberg nor Hamid Khan?”

  The colonel widened his eyes and opened his mouth. He looked genuinely surprised. “Sir, I wasn’t trying to hide anything from you. Yes, it was a disturbing incident, but it hasn’t really affected Palindrome in any way.”

  “It’s affected my opinion of your competence. You better not make any more mistakes, Colonel.”

  With that, Vance strode past Grant and marched down the corridor. The bodyguards followed him, but the colonel just stood there, clearly stunned and embarrassed. That’s good, Vance thought. Grant had been getting too cocky. Maybe this would remind him who was in charge.

  Half a minute later, Vance stepped through a doorway under a sign saying NEW YORK METS CLUBHOUSE. This was usually the baseball team’s locker room, but the Secret
Service had turned it into a base of operations for today’s presidential address. The agents had set up a command post next to the row of players’ lockers, which were more like fancy dressing alcoves, with baseball caps on the shelves and Mets uniforms on the hangers. At the center of the room were two tables, one loaded with communications and surveillance equipment, the other with an assortment of guns. About thirty Secret Service agents surrounded the tables and equipped themselves with radios and binoculars and sniper rifles, preparing for their assignments.

  There were soldiers in the room too: infantry grunts in body armor, Special Operations men disguised in civilian clothes, high-ranking generals in their dress uniforms. In fact, Vance spotted General Miller, the doughy, gray-haired army chief whom Grant had complained about. Miller and several other generals stood behind the secretary of defense, who was shaking hands with the president.

  POTUS looked good. He looked remarkable, actually. He wore his standard outfit—red tie, white shirt, dark blue suit—but he seemed much less bloated than usual. His face had a healthy color, neither too pale nor too pumpkin-like, and he grinned with delight at the dour defense secretary. The president looked at least ten years younger than he had the day before, but Vance knew that his father-in-law’s medical condition hadn’t really improved. His doctors had injected him with a specially crafted mix of stimulants, designed to give him an energy boost that would last for an hour or two. Over the past year, these injections had become standard procedure. The president got one before each of his public appearances.

  After shaking hands with the SecDef, POTUS made his way to the other generals and shook hands with them too, laughing and slapping each one on the back. Then he spotted Vance across the room and gave him a big, sweeping wave.

  “Look who’s here!” The president’s voice was loud and hearty. “Vance, come on over and say hello to these generals! They’re terrific!”

  Vance shook his head and held up his index finger. This was the signal he’d devised to tell the president that they needed to talk in private.

  Luckily, POTUS recognized the signal. He turned away from the generals and stepped toward Vance. The president was still grinning, flying high on his cloud of amphetamines. “Hey, did you hear the news? We got a huge crowd waiting out there, at least forty thousand people. It’s tremendous!”

  “We need to talk about your speech. And about those generals.” Vance pointed at the men in dress uniforms. “They’re not as terrific as you think.”

  * * *

  During the president’s speeches, Vance always stood on the left side of the stage, about thirty feet from his father-in-law. That way, he could watch POTUS and his audience at the same time and monitor the interactions between them. Right now the president was still waving at the crowd, pacing back and forth across the stage so he could point and smile at the people in each of the stadium’s seating sections. Predictably, the crowd was going bonkers. The president’s favorite song, “We Are the Champions,” blared from Citi Field’s loudspeakers.

  The stage had been erected on what was usually the stadium’s center field. Behind the podium was a giant video screen that displayed fifty-foot-high images of the president for the benefit of the people in the nosebleed seats. Immediately below the stage was a security buffer, a ten-foot-wide strip occupied only by Secret Service agents, and on the far side of the buffer was a Plexiglas barrier that held back the crowd. A few thousand people stood on the field, swarming over the tarp-covered baseball diamond, but the majority of the attendees sat in the stadium’s tiered levels, filling about half of Citi Field’s seats. The total attendance, according to the Secret Service, was 21,502, but the president had convinced himself that the actual number was twice as much. That was also predictable. On the subject of crowd size, he had a vivid imagination.

  He kept waving at his supporters. Many of them wore bright red T-shirts left over from the 2020 reelection campaign, and they held up signs that had been distributed at the stadium’s entrance, big red posters with the word VICTORY written in blocky white letters. Every few seconds the president would point at one of the signs and give a thumbs-up to the crowd, and the people would scream louder and hop up and down. He was in no hurry to begin his speech. He liked this part of the event the best, because his supporters were giving him pure adulation, unconnected to any political ideology. They were promising to love him forever, no matter what he said or did.

  Behind the president, underneath the jumbo video screen, were the standard decorations. Fifty American flags stood at the back of the stage, lined up from left to right, and above them stretched a red-white-and-blue banner bearing the slogan from the 2020 campaign: KEEP AMERICA GREAT! Standing in front of the flags was a long row of generals and admirals, including all seven members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and a dozen of their deputies. They’d taken a break from their jobs at the Pentagon so they could serve as a patriotic backdrop for the rally. Military men were good at standing at attention, even for hours. Unlike civilians, they wouldn’t yawn if they got bored.

  Standing beside Vance on the sidelines was Major Michael Weston, Colonel Grant’s chief deputy at the FSU, a large, humorless soldier. He wore a radio headset that allowed him to communicate with all the FSU officers and Secret Service agents posted in the various sections of the stadium. His job was to give updates to Vance and relay any warnings from his men. Major Weston was less resourceful than Colonel Grant but more deferential and efficient, and that’s what Vance needed right now. This event was more than just another political rally. It was the crux of Vance’s plan, the linchpin of all his years of effort.

  The president was still warming up the crowd. He held up both hands and gave a double thumbs-up to his supporters, who responded with the loudest cheers yet. At the same time, Major Weston nudged Vance.

  “I just got an alert, sir.” Weston leaned close and spoke in an undertone, even though the noise in the stadium was earsplitting and there was absolutely no chance of anyone overhearing them. “One of my plainclothes officers on the field level noticed something suspicious. Look to the far right, about fifty feet from the stage.”

  Vance looked in that direction but didn’t see anything unusual. The field was jammed with cheering supporters and jiggling VICTORY signs. The right side of the crowd seemed identical to the left side and the middle. “I don’t see anything.”

  “There’s a bunch of young people, college-age kids, all wearing red campaign shirts. Their leader seems to be that tall guy with the scruffy beard and the blond hair.” Weston tilted his head and tried to point with his chin. “See him?”

  Vance squinted. After a few seconds he spotted Mr. Scruffy Beard, who looked seriously unkempt and undernourished. He was surrounded by a dozen hippie-dippie types, mostly long-haired unshaven boys and short-haired unattractive girls. Although they wore the red campaign shirts and carried VICTORY signs like everyone else, they seemed less enthusiastic than all the people around them. They didn’t jump or wave their signs every time the president turned their way.

  “Yes, I see.” Vance turned back to Weston. “How close is your officer?”

  “He’s right behind them. He thinks they’re wearing T-shirts under their campaign shirts, probably with some kind of protest message written on them. And he thinks one of the girls has a banner wrapped around her midsection. Wrapped tight, like a corset, under her shirt. That’s how she smuggled it into the stadium.”

  “And we’re assuming they’ll cause a disruption at some point?”

  “Yeah, they’re probably waiting for the right moment, after the crowd quiets down. Then they’ll strip off their red shirts and unfurl their banner.” The major grimaced. “My officer is asking for instructions. He wants to know if he should call in a team to deal with the problem.”

  Vance shook his head. Arresting the protesters would spoil his plan. He preferred to do nothing now except observe them. This strategy had no downside, because the president had banned all unfriendly journali
sts from the rally. There was no chance that any protest would be televised. “Leave them alone. I want to see what happens.”

  “Yes, sir.” Weston obediently turned around and muttered the orders into his headset.

  Finally, the president stopped waving and headed for the lectern at the center of the stage. “We Are the Champions” faded to silence, but the crowd kept roaring. POTUS stepped behind the lectern, spread his arms wide, and beamed like a happy child, taking it all in. Then he leaned toward the microphone.

  “Thank you, everybody. Thank you so much.” His voice boomed across the stadium, louder than a jet engine. “It’s great to be back in my hometown, the incredible, beautiful city of New York.”

  The crowd erupted, bellowing their approval, even though most of the people in the stadium didn’t live anywhere near New York City. Also, it was a little odd that the president was praising New York just twelve hours after his armed forces strafed Park Avenue. Vance looked at Mr. Scruffy Beard and his hippie-dippie companions, expecting to see some kind of outraged reaction to this comment. But they just stood there, plainly nervous, their heads turning this way and that.

  The president waited for the cheering to die down, then leaned toward the mic again. “And what about his crowd, huh? We got more than fifty thousand people here today, which I believe is a record for this stadium. You know, when I was a kid the Beatles came to this stadium to give a concert, and everyone said that was the biggest concert in history. But we have even more people here now than the Beatles had.” He nodded vigorously, confirming his own statement. “What do you think of that? We’re bigger than the Beatles!”

  He’d just made at least three factual errors, but his supporters didn’t care. They erupted again, cheering mostly for themselves now. Vance smiled at their eagerness, their simple devotion. He’d done the right thing by choosing a baseball field for this rally. These people supported the president in the same way they cheered on their favorite sports teams. It was a matter of identifying with something big and exciting and glorious. They’d joined one of the sides in the eternal battle of us versus them, and they were going to stick with that side even if it killed them.