by Colin Sims
“What?” I asked innocently. “I just wanted to know if he’d heard of Clint Eastwood or not.”
My dad looked up. “Who, Colonel Winters?”
“He looks exactly like him,” I said.
Mom smirked. “I know. But unfortunately, Colonel Winters isn’t Clint Eastwood. He’s an officer with the New American Military, and I have to deal with him. So no messing around, okay?”
I gave her a thumbs up. “You bet,” I said, though I still fully intended to do my best Dirty Harry impression when I shook his hand. After all, what was the worst the Colonel could do? Attack Boise because the President’s son was a smartass?
My mom eyed me suspiciously before raising an eyebrow. “You promise, right?”
Somehow she could always tell when I was lying. Undoubtedly the result of years and years in politics.
“Was he really that angry last time?”
“No.” She shrugged. “It actually helped break the ice.”
I raised my hands questioningly. “Then why not—”
“Things are different this time,” she interrupted. Her face twisted in a slight smile, though. “Besides,” she added, “don’t think I don’t know your true motivations.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re showing off for Sarah Miller.”
“Oh?” Dad perked up, again eyeing me over his papers. “Bruce’s daughter?”
I suddenly started looking for something to distract myself with. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Mom snorted. “Michael, it’s the worst kept secret in all of Boise.”
“Sarah Miller?” my dad said, looking flummoxed. “I’m impressed! I mean, I hate her father, but jeez, Michael. She’s hot.”
Mom looked over at my dad disgustedly.
“I mean … if I was seventeen,” Dad said, stumbling for words. “But now, no. Not hot at all.”
Mom shook her head. “Well, hoping that you don’t take any cues from your disgusting father, one of these days you’re actually going to have to talk to that girl.”
“I still have no idea what you’re talking about,” I insisted.
My dad looked at me with a father’s seriousness and said, “Listen, son. When I first saw your mother, I had no problem talking to her whatsoever. I walked right up to her, and—”
“Tripped and fell. Yes, I remember,” Mom finished for him.
“I got right back up, and—”
“There was blood coming out of your nose.”
“Regardless,” Dad said, still looking me in the eye. “I was as charming as they come, and I have no doubt, you will be too.”
“Michael, whatever you do,” Mom added. “Don’t let the first thing you say to her be: ‘Do you have a tissue?’”
“Listen,” I said sharply. “You’re both crazy. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I do not like Sarah Miller.”
***
I’d been in love with Sarah Miller for as long as I could remember. She was off the charts, smoking, ridiculously hot. There were plenty of girls who were pretty, but Sarah Miller, good God, she was like something from the clouds. And it was true, I’d never spoken to her before, but that didn’t matter at all. I knew everything I needed to know from a safe distance of a hundred yards. Unfortunately, because her dad was the commander of the BDF, I had to constantly see her at functions, state dinners, etc., and every time that I did, my head shrank into my neck like a turtle.
Today was no exception. We were lined up at the southern gate of the Security Wall, awaiting the arrival of the New American delegation’s helicopter. All air traffic was forced to land outside the city walls after a deadly incident took place when I was only two. Apparently, a group of Deadlanders managed to salvage a helicopter somewhere and painted it with the Boise colors of blue, white, and gold. It passed straight to the heart of the city and began dropping barrel bombs until it was shot down.
Since then, the small Boise Air Force, which consisted of four Blackhawk helicopters, made its home just outside the Security Wall’s southern entrance. We, however, remained inside the gates at the far end of a newly made red carpet that was laid out for the delegation. On either side of the carpet was the BDF honor guard.
I stood next to my parents who were at the front of a gathered square of senators, senior military officers, and high-ranking officials. Just behind me to the left was Sarah Miller standing with her dad. It honestly seemed like I could feel her standing there, but I knew I was just being crazy.
We waited in silence, listening for the sound of an incoming chopper. For the moment though, there was only a light wind and the steady hum of the Security Wall. It was a remarkable piece of modern tech. Standing at fifty feet high, its thick crisscrossing cables gave it the appearance of a chain link fence built by a giant. What made it truly extraordinary, however, was how little power it used. With only a tiny current running through it, it was able to generate a powerful electro-magnetic field across its surface. Its endless cables ran between heavy metal posts every fifty yards, atop of which were turrets where soldiers could man different types of mounted guns. There were far too many turrets to be manned all at once, so one of the most common drills for the BDF was deploying troops to designated points along the Wall as quickly as possible. Currently, all of the turrets nearby were manned, mostly with .50 caliber machine guns.
After a few more minutes of waiting, I heard the faint thumping of rotary blades in the distance.
Finally, I thought, checking my watch.
I was keen to get the ceremony over with as quickly as possible. I could only afford to miss the first two periods of class. I needed to make it to school in time for Boot. Operation Downfall depended on it.
“Remember,” Mom said to me through clenched teeth. “Smile, shake their hands, and no messing around.”
I glanced at her. She was short, but almost as tall as me in her heels.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said to her with a deep, gravelly voice. “Did he fire six shots or only five?”
“Michael, I am deadly serious.”
“Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement, I kind of lost track myself …”
“Great,” she sighed. “We never should have restored those movies for you.”
“Don’t look at me,” Dad said, still staring straight ahead.
The chopper was now getting closer, and I could see it approaching low on the horizon. It was coming fast, probably at full speed, which was an absolute necessity for air travel. The Deadlands were full of weapons that could easily shoot down a helicopter, and since jet engines no longer worked in the atmosphere, low-flying rotary aircraft were the only option. Their best defense, aside from a pair of very vigilant gunners, were signal jammers to block any form of missile tracking. But according to Alec, it was a constant battle of upgrading the technology to stay ahead of whatever modifications the Deadlanders were making.
I could feel the wind whipping through the gate as the helicopter made its descent. It was the same chopper as last time, a dual rotor “Chinook,” painted black with the New American flag emblazed on the side. It looked heavy and formidable, especially with its twin mini-gun turrets peeking out from the armor-plated hull.
Next to the flag was the red star of the Russian Empire. I could only imagine that the New American Military wasn’t very happy about putting it there, but there wasn’t really a choice. Since the early years of the Hopeless, the R.E. had been New America’s greatest patron and ally, supplying it with advanced weapons and tech. Now, the two governments worked together in an ironclad alliance, though in reality, New America was more of a vassal state to the much larger Russian Empire.
The doors to the helicopter slowly opened as the landing gear locked in position. It was clear that the delegation didn’t want to spend a single second longer than necessary outside the Security Wall. As soon as the doors were down, a pair of gleaming black and white Droids descended the ramp.
&n
bsp; I was always struck by how “human-like” they moved, as if they weren’t robots at all, just a person wearing a mechanical suit. They were undoubtedly the most advanced form of modern tech that survived the War, and they were also the reason that Russia controlled most of the world. They were originally designed by a large corporation in the Old World country of Japan, under a program called ASIMO. The first child-sized prototypes debuted in 1999, but by 2025, the year before the War, they were not only as tall as full-grown people, but they were stronger, faster, and more agile than any person living.
Russia acquired them through theft. For the first half of the 2020s, Russia’s spies worked tirelessly to steal all the necessary schematics to build the Droids, and by 2026, the Russian government had already begun manufacturing a militarized version of them. At the time, the operation was undoubtedly one of the best-kept secrets in the world. Now, however, it was something the Russians liked to brag about, and it was even part of the curriculum at school.
Both of the two Droids were armed with fully modified M4s, with fifty-round drum magazines. From the corner of my eye, I saw the BDF soldiers in the closest turret swivel their guns slightly toward the helicopter. There was something inherently unnerving about the Droids, even though they were New America’s biggest selling point. Russia’s state-owned Rostek Corporation supplied New America with the Droids, and in turn, New America provided Droids to whichever cities fell under its protection. A city the size of Boise would have probably gotten about fifty, which would have been more than enough to scare the daylights out of any would-be attackers. But as long as my mom was in power, the Droids would never be part of Boise’s defense forces. She seemed very, very adamant about it.
Following the Droids, a handful of military men in dress uniform disembarked from the helicopter. A few of them I didn’t recognize, but I knew Colonel Winters instantly. The Clint Eastwood resemblance was uncanny.
At a quick step, they marched through the gate and towards us along the red carpet, flanked by the two Droids. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they looked angry, but I figured their nerves were probably fried from the helicopter ride.
I straightened as Colonel Winters approached my mom. His eyes were stern as he looked her dead in the eye. He wasn’t nearly as “friendly-looking” as I remembered from last time.
“Madam President,” Colonel Winters said, giving a curt nod.
Mom put on her best smile. “Please Colonel, it’s Alicia. Welcome back to Boise.”
“I prefer Madam President,” he said flatly. “Forgive me if we skip any remaining pleasantries. We must begin our meeting at once.”
My mom paused for a moment. There was a sudden iciness to her demeanor. “As you wish, Colonel,” she said. “The cars are standing by.”
He glared at her for a moment before breaking away and heading toward the vehicles. He didn’t even acknowledge anyone else who had gathered to greet him.
I looked at my mom who was still staring ahead, as if quickly gathering her thoughts.
“Right,” she said curtly, turning to motion everyone toward their cars. “Michael, the guards will take you to school. You better get going.”
I couldn’t help but feel a little nervous. “Are you going to be alright?” I asked her. “What was his problem, anyway?”
She huffed. “That’s for me to worry about. Now, go to school.” She patted my arm and headed toward her own car, followed by her cabinet. Dad was walking beside her and whispering something in her ear as he glanced back. He gave me a subtle wink.
Suddenly, the walkie on my hip crackled to life. Crap! I jumped, unaware that I’d left it on. I had meant to turn it off until I was at school.
“Red Two to Red One, come in, over.”
It was my friend, Ryan Clemente. Whenever he called, he always insisted on sounding like people did in the movies.
I raised the walkie to my mouth. “Red Two, this is Red One,” I answered. “I have you loud and clear, over.”
I did, too.
“Checking status of Operation Downfall,” Ryan’s voice crackled. “Are we still a go, over?”
I hesitated for a second, thinking of my mom. There was definitely something weird going on. But then again, she was the President. There was always something weird going on.
“That’s affirmative,” I said, grinning. “Operation Downfall is a go.”
Chapter 3
I had dreamed up Operation Downfall from the start. It was a complex plan, and my friends and I had been making our preparations since the first day of school. The target was Fred Dolan. We had originally intended to get him last year, but our prank on Mr. Schneider took longer to carry out than we had originally planned. Now, however, we were free to focus all of our talents on Fred. And he was going down.
Simply put, Fred was the school bully. He always had been. My friends and I should have pranked him years ago, but there was always something that got in the way. Freshman year, when our pranking tradition began, we were too afraid to go after him so we went after easier targets. Sophomore year, Ryan got the crap kicked out of him by Jimmy Wheeler, so we had to go after Jimmy in retribution. That prank took months of planning, but it was worth it. It’s been two years since Jimmy ran screaming out of the library without any pants and covered in bird droppings, and he still hasn’t lived it down. We then thought about going after Fred, but just as we started to lay the groundwork, Bethany Serrano not only rejected my friend Josh DePalma—the third of our little trio—but spat on him for emphasis, so we had to get her. Junior year, for whatever reason, was the year of the teachers, first taking down Mrs. Gredis and then Mr. Schneider.
Now, however, it was Fred’s turn. Finally. I’d gotten to school during the middle of second period, so I had to suffer through about twenty-five minutes of Calculus before heading to the lockers for Boot. I was just starting to change into my PT clothes when Josh appeared behind me and clapped me on the back.
“Glad you could make it, punk ass,” he said with a grin.
“Ceremony was cut short,” I told him, as I grabbed the clothes out of my bag. “Is everything set?”
“Of course it is. It was done by yours truly.”
“So you’re saying we’re all screwed,” I said with a smirk.
Josh frowned defensively. He was a good guy, but I discovered by about the fifth grade that you constantly had to give him crap or else he’d get out of hand. So before he could call me a “punk ass” again—as was his custom—I quickly changed the subject.
“Have you seen Fred yet?” I asked.
Josh nodded. “Yeah. On the way in. Milton’s here, too.”
Milton Smits was the kid whom Fred liked to pick on the most. He looked exactly like how his named sounded, as if he were born for the sole purpose of getting beaten up by guys like Fred. He was in the History Club with me and I’d hung out with him a bunch of times. We weren’t close friends or anything, but I didn’t like how everyone made fun of him. He actually had a good sense of humor once you got to know him.
“Perfect,” I said, pulling on my gym shirt. I looked at Josh. “It’s going to be a beautiful day today, my friend.”
“Damn straight.” He grinned and gave me the “shake.”
Sure, some people might think it was lame to still use a secret handshake in high school, but the three of us invented the thing when we were kids. Traditions are hard to get rid of.
Josh pointed to the bathroom stalls, informing me that Ryan was already in position. “You better hide before they call us out,” he said.
Ryan had just finished his two hours of Boot, but I needed his help before he went to third period.
“Yeah.” I knelt down to lace my shoes. “Just make sure that idiot Hilldale doesn’t come wandering back here for some reason.”
“On it.” Josh nodded. “See you out there.”
He jogged toward the exit, outside of which he would stop at the weapons depot to pick up his empty rifle before heading to the train
ing field. I’d join the rest of the class in a couple minutes, but Ryan and I needed to make sure we were the last ones to leave the locker room.
I went into the stall next to his and stayed quiet. I got there in the nick of time. As soon as I closed the door, I heard Sergeant Hilldale’s voice boom from the exit, followed by a rush of scrambling feet. I was always shocked at how such a small man could have such a huge voice.
“Let’s go, ladies! On the field! Move! MOVE!”
No more than twenty seconds later, the locker room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Ryan and I both waited a few more seconds, not making a sound. I then stood on the toilet seat and peeked over the stall.
“All clear,” I whispered.
“Holy crap.” Ryan let out a massive breath, kicking open his door. “I’ve been sitting in here forever! It smells like ass.”
“I suppose it would,” I said, hopping down. “You got your tools?”
“Right here,” he said, taking them out of his pocket. “I’m all good. Go scope out the depot.”
I nodded before trotting over to the exit and peeking around the corner. “It’s clear,” I whispered back to him. He was already at Fred’s locker, expertly picking the lock. No one on Earth had lock-picking skills like Ryan Clemente. If I ever planned on robbing a bank, he would be my very first choice of accomplice.
I ran back to my own locker and retrieved my backpack before joining Ryan at Fred’s. When I got there, he was already grinning at me, holding up Fred’s open lock in his hand. “This is too easy,” he chuckled, standing up to go. “I’m off to third period. You got everything?”
Smiling, I gave him the shake. “I’m good. See you in a couple hours.”
With that, Ryan ran off to make it to his next class before the bell rang.
I kneeled and snatched Fred’s backpack from his locker. There were two main zippers along the top, and thanks to two weeks of surveillance, I knew that Fred always packed his clothes in the inner pocket. So, today’s party favors were going in the outer pocket. The first was a foghorn. I’d managed to rig a small, radio-controlled motor to the plunger, allowing me to toot it from a distance. The mechanism was a work of art, and I had my dad to thank for it. Being Tech Secretary, he insisted on giving me “engineering” lessons three times a week, which were usually boring, but I also learned how to build things.