“Yes.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“No.”
“Any chance you could find out who it was? Because sooner or later, one of my congregation is going to ask what happened to their missing friend. I need you to guarantee this won’t happen again.”
“I don't work for you.”
“Really? Because the way I see it, what we have here is a partnership,” Ezekiel said. “One that continues to work in both of our favors. We help your soldiers with things that they're not able to do with their claw hands. You keep my congregation safe from outsiders. It seems pretty clear cut to me.”
“There are others like me,” Giles said. “You need to increase your recruiting.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” Giles growled. “Get more people. I’ll take everyone who doesn’t want to join your group and turn them into new warriors for me.”
“Just get more people,” Ezekiel parroted. “You make it sound easy.”
“I don’t care,” Giles continued. “With more pack members, we can cover more area and keep your flock safer.”
“I don’t like this.”
“You don’t have to,” Giles growled. “Just make it happen. Do you understand me?” He got nose to nose with the preacher and stared him in the eye.
Ezekiel gulped and looked away.
“Good. I’m glad we understand each other,” Giles said. He took two steps back and disappeared into the darkened corner of the room.
A moment later, Ezekiel heard a door open and then close. He let out the breath he’d been holding. He made a beeline for the liquor set sitting on the table behind his desk. He shakily poured two fingers in a glass and immediately slammed the drink. Giles appearing had been an absolute boost to his efforts. His congregation numbers had massively swelled in recent days. But he couldn’t help but feel like the situation was quickly spiraling out of his control. How much longer would it be until he had no choice but to kneel in submission before his former friend turned monster? He shuddered at the thought and quickly poured himself another strong drink. He had to find a way to somehow regain control of the situation.
Chapter Seventeen
For all of the perks which supposedly came with being one of the most important people in the world, the job was an absolute emotional meat grinder. President Vickers’ sleep lately had been sporadic at best. When she did fall into a deep sleep, her dreams were often filled with people she once knew being attacked and turned into Reapers. She hadn’t asked for a colossal shit sandwich to be dropped in her lap. But complaining wasn’t going to do a thing to fix the situation. Like any leader worth their name, she was going to have to take charge, find the solution to the Reaper infestation, and lead her country to victory. So she didn’t have to like it, but the future of the country she loved was counting on her to stop the Reapers for good.
She had no idea what time it was, but Special Agent n Charge Nash was currently escorting her through one of the below water corridors of the U.S.S. Eisenhower. As they approached an intersection, she heard two men talking loudly. She reached out and grabbed Nash’s elbow, signaling her to stop.
“You think she knows what she’s doing?” a male voice said a bit too loudly. “You know, our new president?”
Vickers saw Nash flinch in response. Once more, she motioned for the Special-Agent-In-Charge to continue standing down. Vickers wanted to hear what else the sailors were saying about her when they thought no one else was listening.
“How could she?” another male voice answered. “She only became president because everybody else got killed. What was she doing before, getting coffee and taking dictation?”
Both voices laughed out loud, and Vickers felt the blood rush to her face. She motioned for Nash to follow her, stepped around the corner. “Oh, shit,” one of the men said. He immediately scurried down the corridor in the opposite direction. The remaining man looked like a deer caught in headlights. Vickers estimated this stocky African American man to be in his mid-twenties. Vickers glanced at the name tag on the front of his uniform. “At ease, Seaman Dobbs,” Vickers said.
“I'm sorry, ma'am,” he stammered. “Just guys being silly, you know?”
From the sound of his voice, Vickers knew he had been the one who questioned if she knew what she was doing.
“Oh, I’ve been known to enjoy silly talk,” Vickers said coolly. “Care to tell me what you guys thought was so funny?”
“I ... I'm not sure it's a good idea, ma'am.”
“Are you refusing to answer the President of the United States?”
“Answer the question, sailor,” Nash said. From the tone of her voice, it was obvious she wasn’t making a suggestion.
“It's just, it would be rude,” Dobbs stammered. He quickly added, “Madame President.”
“I see.” Vickers smirked. “Seaman Dobbs, I'd like you to come with us.”
“Ma'am, I don't think that's a good idea,” Special-Agent-In-Charge Nash protested. “He doesn't have the proper security clearances.”
“Then I say that we temporarily give it to him,” Vickers said. “Lead the way, Nash. Dobbs, you're with me.”
“Ma'am, with all due respect, I shouldn't be going with you,” Dobbs protested as he trailed two steps behind the President.
“Seaman Dobbs, I won't hear of it. The way I see it, you have two choices.”
“Ma'am?”
“The first choice is you can come quietly with us. You’ll join us in our meeting, which I promise you will be far more enlightening than any childish gossip in the hall. The second option is Special-Agent-In-Charge Nash will escort you by any means necessary to the brig. Once you arrive there, you’ll be held for insubordination until a proper trial can be arranged. Now, Mr. Dobbs, think very, very carefully. You only get one chance to choose. Which option will you take?”
“I-I'll come with you.”
“An excellent choice,” President Vickers said. “Please follow Agent Nash and me.”
They rounded the next corner, and then in fifty yards they came to another intersection and turned right. As they approached the middle of the corridor, there was a doorway on the right. Vickers watched as Special-Agent-In-Charge Nash leaned over, tapped on the door twice, then opened it and gestured for the President to step through. President Vickers stepped through, then motioned for Dobbs to follow her. The Seaman stepped tentatively into the room, looking like he was very much out of his element.
“Seaman, I believe you’re in the wrong place,” Captain Carson Flores said. The solidly built commanding officer of the U.S.S. Eisenhower glared at the low-ranking subordinate. “This is a high-level meeting.”
“Captain, I tried telling the President that,” Special-Agent-In-Charge Nash said, “but she overruled me.”
“This is a matter of national security,” Flores said. “This man does not belong in this meeting. Dobbs, you’re dismissed.”
“No, he’s not,” Vickers disagreed. “Until further notice, I want you to consider Seaman Dobbs to be the ambassador of the crew.”
“What?” Captain demanded.
Vickers glanced at Dobbs, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but in the current room. That was exactly the response she was looking for. It was time to turn the heat up a little bit more under the immature sailor’s backside.
“Apparently, the Seaman and his peers are confused as to what we are doing in meetings like this. Some of them might suggest we’re having a tea party. Others might think I’m might be inclined to fetch coffee or take dictation while others offer up pearls of advice.” Vickers stared at Dobbs as she spoke, and the man quietly looked at the floor in embarrassment. “So, I'd like him to hear that the leaders of their country on this ship know what the fuck they're doing. I would like Mr. Dobbs, acting in the capacity of crew ambassador, to go back and report that we are indeed taking steps to not only stop the Reaper incursions, but to defeat them as quickly as possible.”
Flore
s shot up out of his seat. “Madame President, with all due respect, if any of my crew has acted inappropriately-”
“Respectfully, I see no reason why Seaman Dobbs can't sit in on this meeting, to a certain point,” Vickers interrupted. “Now, once we get into discussing things that require the highest security clearance levels, then the newly appointed ambassador can return to his normal station or whatever task you decide to give him. But until then, please consider him to be my guest for this meeting.”
“This is highly unusual,” the captain protested.
“We’re living in a highly unusual world these days,” Vickers answered. “Captain, do I need to make it an official order, or can we just play nice in the sandbox instead?”
“Fine.” Flores glowered. “Seaman Dobbs, you will stand quietly and observe this meeting until you are dismissed by President Vickers or myself. You are not permitted to speak unless prompted to do so. If you so much as fart loudly, you will spend the next six months doing every single unpleasant task Master Chief Heyward or I decides to give you. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal clear, Captain,” Dobbs said loudly. He backed into a corner of the room and stood at attention.
The phone in the conference room rang, and Vickers saw Flores activate the speakerphone. “Hello?”
“This is General Weindahl speaking. Is the president there?”
“I am, Rasheed,” Vickers said, “along with Captain Flores, Special-Agent-In-Charge Nash, and Seaman Dobbs.”
“I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the seaman,” Weindahl said coolly. “Can anyone explain why he’s attending our meeting?”
“He's the guest of the president,” the Captain said. “At her insistence, he's sitting in on this meeting, at least until we get to the top security clearance details. I’d like the record to reflect it’s the president’s decision.”
“Indeed,” Weindahl said. “It's been my experience that our president doesn't always like to follow the standard playbook of doing things.”
“General, why don't you get this meeting started?” Vickers said. “It would be good to wrap this meeting before another crisis shows up on our doorsteps.”
“Of course,” Weindahl said. “Madame President, we’re in the process of finishing the positioning of resources needed for Operation Flashpoint.”
“What are our targets?”
“We should be able to hit Philadelphia and Washington, D.C., in the first wave. We can choose to hit New York or Boston as well. Unfortunately, we don't have enough resources to hit all four cities at once.”
“Let’s go with New York City, since it's the largest infestation of Reapers at this time.”
“I concur.”
“Is that the only city we're hitting with Operation Flashpoint?”
“No, we have a second wave in the works. It would hit Chicago and Dallas. Any future waves will require resetting resources and moving assets around to set up the attacks.”
“I'm a bit afraid you have me a bit of a loss,” Vickers said. “What resources are at a premium to launch these attacks?”
“Pilots,” Weindahl said. “Each type of military plane requires specialized training. Among all of the military personnel we’ve lost, the group we've had the worst losses among is pilots.”
“Even more than infantry?” Vickers asked.
“Yes, that’s right. It takes the Air Force about one year to put a candidate through their UPT or Undergraduate Pilot Training and costs over one million dollars to do so. We don’t just let anybody climb into the cockpit.”
“Seeing that a single F-35 costs more than eighty billion dollars, I don’t blame you for being picky on who becomes a fighter pilot,” Vickers said. “Let’s go back to the limited resources. So we’re talking about needing to move pilots from one part of the country to another in order to set up additional attacks?”
“The short answer is, it depends,” Weindahl said. “In some areas, we lack pilots. In others, it’s not enough bombers or fighter planes. In many areas, we’re lacking trained personnel to properly maintain the aircraft we do have.”
“Which is why we’re shuffling pieces around to set up attacks.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Weindahl replied. “Unfortunately for us, when the Reapers attack a base, they kill or transform everyone on the base. We wind up losing some of the personnel that we can least afford to lose.”
“Couldn't we use one or two bombers?” Flores asked. “They could move from city to city, dropping bombs on each one along the way.”
“Bombers would be more efficient,” Weindahl agreed, “except our intel suggests that the Reapers may have some way to communicate with each other. The moment we begin to bomb one city, we fully expect they will begin alerting the rest. The time it would take a bomber to travel from one city to the next would allow them to spread the word among their numbers to hide underground.”
“Or leave the city,” Vickers interrupted.
“That’s right. We don’t want to give our enemy any chance to scatter their forces. Operation Flashpoint is predicated on striking the Reapers at multiple places all at once.”
“Hit them hard, and hit them fast,” Flores murmured. “I like it.”
“Indeed,” Weindahl said. “The timing of the mission is critical.”
“If that’s true, wouldn't waiting to do a second wave of attacks also give them a chance to hide?” Vickers asked.
“That's a possibility,” Weindahl admitted, “but right now, ma'am, I don't see what other choice we have.”
“What do you mean?” Vickers asked.
“We’re tracking Reaper pack movements,” Weindahl said. “In some areas, we expect the forwarding operating bases where our planes would need to launch from to be attacked in the next twelve hours.”
“So we’re racing against the clock,” Vickers said. “If we don’t launch the planes in time, then we risk not being able to launch them at all.”
“We believe the bombings will force the remaining Reapers to pull back their packs and regroup elsewhere,” Weindahl said. “Once that happens, we could gain new targets of opportunities to strike.”
“Sounds good, but what happens if Operation Flashpoint is not successful?”
“Then we can use alternate methods to attack the other Reaper-infested cities.”
“Like nukes,” Vickers said.
“Yes, Madame President.”
“You know how I feel about detonating nuclear weapons on our own soil, Rasheed.”
“I understand, Madame President. We're doing everything we can to avoid that alternative.”
“What else do you have for me, Rasheed?”
“I'm afraid that the Reapers continue to spread out in other parts of the country. I have confirmed reports that San Diego, San Francisco, and Seattle have all fallen. Current estimates put their numbers at approximately forty million nationwide. Reapers are now being reported moving over the borders of Mexico and Canada.”
Vickers glanced at Dobbs and saw the man look like he was about to faint. “Seaman, are you feeling well?”
“I...I could use some fresh air,” the man stammered.
“Fair enough.” Vickers smiled. “Mr. Dobbs, unless someone objects, you can step outside and get your needed breather.”
“You’re dismissed, Seaman,” Flores added.
Dobbs threw up a hasty salute and stumbled toward the door. Nash opened it and let the sailor step out in the hallway, closing it behind him.
“Now that the good Seaman has departed our meeting,” Vickers quipped, “how bad is it in Mexico and Canada?”
“It's still early for them, ma'am,” Weindahl said, “but our allies are requesting our help.”
“Do we actually have anything to offer right now?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Damn it,” Vickers said. “Our hands are completely tied.”
“Indeed. We lack the personnel to send troops to bolster the border or help our allies,” We
indahl said. “Assuming we see a high kill rate with Operation Flashpoint, perhaps we can suggest they can do the same in their own countries.”
“Let's hope so,” Vickers said. “In the meantime, tell them what we already know about the Reapers.”
“I'm afraid there’s not much to tell them that they don't already know.”
“Maybe,” Vickers said. “It can’t hurt to tell to them to move as many of their critical personnel offshore while they can.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“And, Rasheed?”
“Ma'am?”
“Two things. First, I want you off-shore before Operation Flashpoint begins.”
“With all due respect, we’re in the middle of a military operation. Moving to another location right now is not feasible.”
“No more excuses. Make it happen,” Vickers said. “Or do I need to order a Navy SEAL platoon to come and personally escort you out of the Pentagon?”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll leave within the hour.”
“Excellent. I know you don’t want to do it, but it’s for your own safety. Rasheed, you might be the important person in our military.”
“If you think so Madame President. And the second thing you wanted to tell me?”
“Right. Make sure you mention to our allies that I'm not talking about their politicians,” Vickers said. “Without their key military personnel, scientists, engineers, or doctors, their country's not going to have much of a chance to recover. The last time I checked, a bunch of politicians aren't much help in a firefight or building a town.”
The room immediately filled a short round of laughter.
“No, ma'am, they assuredly are not,” Weindahl said with a chuckle.
Chapter Eighteen
The conversation grew more serious as the men took positions around the kitchen table. It was time to figure out what they might need to leave Rehoboth by boat.
“There’s going to be things we might need to protect our group,” Foster said. “We might have some of them here or in our packs. If not, then we’ll need to scavenge them before we cast off.”
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