At one point, the President stopped him. He glanced down at one of his note cards and said: “I see you’ve placed the majority of your division along the southern end of the perimeter. Is this where most of the danger lies?”
Most of my division? Collins wanted to ask. He was finding out the hard way that he wasn’t really in charge of “his” division. The 42nd had major elements in three different states and thus had three different “commanders in chiefs.” On paper, he had just over eleven-thousand men in his division. A third of them were still in Vermont because the Governor hadn’t yet called them to service. They were simply on alert.
The Governor of New Jersey had waffled for a few hours, just long enough for the traffic jams in and out of lower New York to fuse into an unbreakable mass of steel and glass. Most of the 50th Combat Brigade was sitting along the side of a dozen crammed highways waiting for the Blackhawks to come and get them. And that was a hell of a mess as well. There was currently a fight on the aviation side of things about who owned what air space in what state. His operations officer, instead of doing his normal duty, was squabbling with three state governments, as well as FEMA and the FFA, and of course, the airlines. It was enough to make a man just walk away from the whole affair.
All of this was detailed in his report, but this was the President of the United States and if he wanted answers to asinine questions, he would get them. “There is danger in allowing a single infected person out of the quarantine zone, but yes, due to the population concentration around New York, I felt that the southern zone had to be given first priority. If you will take a look at the screen you will see the disposition of units…”
“Another question, General,” the President said, interrupting. “Your units were in place in record time, were they not?”
“I don’t think Guinness keeps these sorts of records,” Collins replied, blandly. The President had expected a simple “Yes”, now he blinked in confusion.
“Answer the question,” the Chief of Staff snapped. He tried to glare at the general, but Collins was like ice and the glare faltered in the face of it. “To make it easier, compare it to the National Guard response to Hurricane Katrina. Go.”
Go? Who tells a three star general to go? Collins took a slow deliberate sip of his tea before answering the canned question. “There are some parallels between this situation and the one that occurred in New Orleans. The greatest difference, at least so far, is that New York Governor Stimpson didn’t vacillate when confronted with the issue and made a command decision. This allowed me to get a jump on things, though it may not look like it from an outsider’s point of view, we are getting up to speed relatively quickly. The logistics are a nightmare. The majority of the men in my division have to be flown, eleven men at a time in helicopters from up to four hundred miles away in order to be put in place in and around Poughkeepsie.”
“It’s a miracle of modern logistics,” the President said, suddenly.
“Yes,” Collins agreed, partially because that’s what the Chief of Staff wanted and partially because it was true. Everything he had said was true. Compared to the other governors, Stimpson had acted like a real leader and had made difficult decisions in minutes rather than hours. And the horrible logistical issues were being overcome by screaming, pleading, and the frequent display of weaponry by men with hard faces and harder hearts. Currently, Collins had a hundred and fifty nine Blackhawks either in the air or on the ground being loaded or refueled. His staff at the Command Post were working like madmen trying to leapfrog them over three states to snatch up men and equipment stranded by the traffic jams. By a rather generous reading of the Insurrection Act, the U.S. Army was “lending” another hundred helicopters to the 42nd. They were arriving in dribs and drabs, frequently with empty tanks, making his fuel situation enough to turn his silver hair, white.
The rest of his officers were performing under equally trying circumstances. So precariously was the line being held that the men were being dropped off by the choppers without regard for unit cohesion. In one half mile section just north of West Point, there were squads of a dozen companies holding the line. This made all forms of communications and resupply extremely difficult. The President didn’t seem to want to hear about this, however. He began asking questions concerning the massacres: who was to blame? Why weren’t the men trained to deal with an anxious population? What precautions were being put into place to keep more of them from occurring?
At this last question, Collins sat stony-faced. Had they not been listening to a thing he had said? He didn’t have time to hold training classes on what to do when civilians start shooting you in the face! Of course the only real answer to the President’s question was that time would fix the issue for him. A few more hours and there wouldn’t be anyone left “alive” in The Zone.
The president began to ask about casualties, making Collins squirm in his chair. He didn’t have the numbers on hand. Nobody did since nobody knew who was where. Collins gave a non-answer: “It’s hard to say at this point.”
This didn’t seem to faze the President. “That many?” he demanded, theatrically outraged. Collins blinked in a most owl-like fashion. Hadn’t the man heard his answer? Or was this going to be spliced in somehow to make sure everyone knew that the President was as angry as they were? Collins had no clue.
One of the generals, a man with four gleaming stars on his collar, broke in on Collins’ thoughts. The general’s chest was so decorated with commendations that it was somewhat absurd. He gave a shifty glance to Marty Aleman and said, quickly: “Your eastern border seems wide open.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a very true statement of fact. Collins wanted to shrug, but one didn’t shrug to a four star general when one was only a lieutenant general. And yet what could he say? “The situation north of New York City warranted an immediate response. We had to stop the flow of refugees out of The Zone before someone infected got through.” And so far, they had, miraculously.
“And now?” the general asked, speaking fast before the president could ask another useless question. “We have been monitoring the situation and from all the chatter, it seems men are being diverted to the western and northern perimeters and zero are being allocated in the east. Do I need to remind you just how close Hartford, Connecticut is? If Hartford goes then all of Connecticut goes.” He gestured at the map to add to his point.
Collins didn’t look. He didn’t need to. He knew precisely what the map showed: a few hundred cooks, medics, signalmen, forward observers, and communications specialists holding a line ten miles long; his command post had been stripped of every nonessential man. And Collins didn’t need to be reminded what would happen if the disease made it into Hartford. It wasn’t just Connecticut that would fall, with no natural barrier, Rhode Island would be overrun in days, and then the entire southern border of Massachusetts would be laid bare.
“We are aware of the situation and I have made this known to Governor Stimpson,” was the only way Collins could respond.
The President forgot the stiff white cards long enough to ask: “What was his reply?”
Uh-oh. They had just strayed into dangerous waters. Collins couldn’t lie nor could he tap dance around such a direct question. “The Governor said that Connecticut would have to look out for itself. But that was only…”
“That’s preposterous!” the President cried. “You get men on that border this instant! There are a million people in the greater Hartford area. They can’t be exposed to this…this plague.”
“I wish I could obey that order, but I can’t,” Collins answered.
Marty Aleman was just standing up, thinking that he had to get the briefing back under control when the President lost his cool. The president had never been over-fond of the army or any portion of the vast industrial military complex, something he frequently made clear when he was forced to undergo meetings of this sort. His explosive anger had come to be expected. The old man leapt to his feet and pounded the table w
ith the flat of his hand. “How dare you back talk me? You will do as you’re told or I will have you cashiered out of the military and brought up on charges of treason!”
The Secretaries of this cabinet and that were all nodding along, looking ready to kill, however the military men were sitting in various degrees of discomfort. Finally, when the silence in the room became strained, one of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, a four star general named Randal Heider, whom Collins had served under fifteen years previously when they were both with the 1st Infantry Division, spoke up. He had been a sharp, fair-minded officer and it was strange to see the slightly halting manner in which he said to the President: “Uh, sir, General Collins actually can’t obey that order. The 42nd is a guard unit.”
“So? It’s still the army, and he’s still a general, and I am still the Commander in Chief. At least the last time I checked I was.”
General Heider half-nodded in agreement but also shook his head, so that there was a diagonal movement of his chin. “You are, of course the Commander in Chief, but in this case you aren’t exactly commander of the 42nd. Remember, the National Guard is technically under the command of the individual governors of the states in which they are headquartered. If you wish to command the 42nd, you must first federalize it.”
“Right,” the President replied. He looked to Marty, and asked: “Isn’t it about time to federalize the situation? People are dying after all.” No one at the table thought it strange that he hadn’t asked his Vice President for his opinion. The V. P. owned his position solely because he had been able to carry Missouri for the ticket during the last election. He had absolutely no role beyond that. The two men loathed each other and spoke only when the cameras were rolling and when it couldn’t be avoided.
“Not yet,” Marty replied evenly. The National Guard had barely got moving. Federalizing them wouldn’t make them move any faster and it would just add layers of command on an already hectic situation. This meant that there was still too much room for blame in the situation. “We should see how things play out.”
Before General Heider had only leaned forward slightly when speaking, never letting his elbows come off the table before him, now he stood. “That may not be the best advice, sir. General Collins’ dispositions are dubious at best. The entire eastern side of his perimeter is significantly under-manned. It won’t hold up against any test. His northern line isn’t much better in spots. If quibbling governors are behind this then it’s time someone unified command. General Collins has the man-power available, he just needs the authority to use it.”
“I agree,” Collins said.
Marty glared at Collins and waved a hand at the general, suggesting that he sit down by the move. “We are handling this. The President will speak to Governor Warner of Connecticut when this meeting concludes.”
“I will kick his ass is what I’ll do!” the President declared.
Marty tried not to roll his eyes at the outburst. He crowbarred a slimy smile over the grimace on his face and turned to whisper in the President’s ear. “She’s a woman and remember party unity, Mr. President. It’s more important now than ever. It’s best not to ruffle feathers. Perhaps we can earmark some funds from the highway bill in order to cover the expense required to call up Bowman’s forces.”
Horace Collins listened to political talk with a pain in his gut. They were worried about how they were going to grease palms while people were dying! And yet what could he do besides resign? As tempting as that was, it would only hurt the situation.
“Now, if we can get back on track?” Marty asked, gesturing at the cue cards.
Collins waited on the next self-serving question, but instead he received a simple statement from the President and he didn’t know what to say or do with it. “Everything that can be done is being done,” the President intoned seriously. Collins nodded; though the statement was actually a lie, he didn’t think it would be prudent to argue just then.
The President then looked suddenly grave and announced: “This is a grave situation that we’re doing everything in our power to come to grips with.”
“Uh, yes,” Collins said, uncertainly, not knowing if he was supposed to extend his remark or if he was supposed to remark at all.
“The strength of the American people lies in their determination and courage,” the President intoned. Collins decided just to nod along like everyone else. Then the President asked: “What’s being done to help those stricken with this dread disease?”
At first Collins continued to nod, thinking the old man was still in cue card mode. It wasn’t until someone chuckled quietly that he realized an answer was required. “Oh, yes, the disease,” he said, trying to collect himself. He had to search the labyrinth of his mind and think beyond the myriad of troop movements and ammunition rate usages and of course, the thing that had him scared to no end: the dire situation of his fuel supplies, in order to recall the plan put in place ages ago by some moronic officer who hadn’t lived in the real world where zombies upset timetables and where American soldiers were being killed by panicked citizens.
He had only glanced at the plan earlier that afternoon during the three minutes he had allowed himself to suck down an MRE. He remembered the MRE more than the detailed Mass Casualty/Terrorism Induced Bioweapons Release Readiness Plan. The MRE had peanut butter and jelly and crackers, his favorite. On the other hand, the readiness plan consisted of bullshit and even if it hadn’t, there was no way Collins could have implemented it. All of his medical personnel, from his medics to his dental technicians, all the way up to his surgeons, were on the line, toting M16s, trying to keep the crowds of people back. So far, the zombie hordes had not been the main problem. Extending the perimeter had made it so that the slow moving zombies wouldn’t be a problem until later that evening.
By then Collins hoped to have enough men in place to stop them, and maybe men enough men to begin the Mass Casualty Readiness Plan.
“Our current focus, Mr. President, is curtailing the spread of the disease. This has been our number one priority. We have 330 million Americans to protect and we will do everything in our power to keep them safe and healthy. The entire compliment of our medical personnel is on scene and working just as hard as the toughest infantryman.” There was no lie in that answer, however he omitted that when he had hoofed it to his helicopter an hour before he had strode past a jumble of medical equipment, probably ten million dollars’ worth, piled taller than his head. In the scramble for men, fuel, and ammo, it hadn’t been considered a necessity and had been heaved out of the back of a truck on a word.
“We will contain this outbreak,” the President read off another cue card. “And we will bring those responsible for this catastrophe to justice.”
“Yes,” Collins replied, again uncertain if more was required.
Evidently it wasn’t. The President nodded suddenly and then smiled, relieved. He stood up and shook Marty’s hand, he then went to the next most important Secretary of this cabinet or that and shook that man’s hand, before continuing down the line. Marty clapped the old man on the back and General Collins was certain he was going to say: That’s a wrap, everyone, as if he were a director working on a movie.
Collins had stood when the President rose and was expecting some sort of acknowledgement but he was ignored as the president glad-handed down the line. Even the other military brass kept their distance. Collins was in a no-win situation. Civilians had been killed; it didn’t matter that in most cases there had been direct attacks on his men and that in some cases his men had been overrun or slaughtered. It only mattered that the word massacre was showing up more and more in the media. And, if by some miracle, he managed to contain the situation, everyone knew all the credit would be taken by the President or Governor Stimpson.
From across the table Marty raised his eyebrows as if to say: Are you still here?
“Why is he being this way?” Collins hissed.
“You mean why is he doing his job?” Marty sneered. “His
job is to appear calm and presidential in the face of a terrible event. His job is to make sure the American people feel protected. It’s your job to protect them! So, I think it would be really swell if you could go do that.” In a snap, Marty turned the sneer into a greased smile and went back to schmoozing.
Collins glanced down at his coffee and the faded hummingbirds. The coffee was cold but he swallowed it in a gulp. When he looked up again he noticed that no one would even cast their eyes in his direction. The only person more ignored than himself was the Vice-President, who got up and left alone. A minute later, Collins followed him out of the room. There was a gaggle of self-important suit types at the elevator, but Collins didn’t want to ride up with them He knew his presence would cause all conversation to cease and that he’d be treated as if he was diseased himself. He took the stairs.
An hour later, the film of the meeting in the Situation Room had been edited to make the President come across as courageous, resourceful, and a true leader. It was then disseminated to every media outlet possible. During the hour-long wait, the President forgot about his promise of ordering the states neighboring New York to call up their guardsmen. He spent the time taking selfies with visiting dignitaries and assuring campaign donors in New York City that there was absolutely nothing to worry about. The Vice-President spent the hour calling his friends in the city, telling them to leave as soon as humanly possible.
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