President Hamilton swallowed the remainder of scotch in his glass and stared gloomily at the half-melted ice. Leaning forward he picked up the crystal decanter on his desk and poured himself another glass. His hand felt shaky as he brought the glass to his lips. He rolled the amber liquid around in his mouth, enjoying its rich, woody flavor before swallowing. “How could this happen? What is happening? We’re supposed to be the most powerful nation in the World! Now we’re barely a nation at all! Who’d be stupid enough to attack us? Who could possibly even have the force to attack us?”
“We know for sure that some of the missiles originated from China and others from Russia,” Moore cleared his throat. “But it also appears that many of the missiles came from the Middle East and possibly North Korea. We’re still trying to verify that.”
“Possibly?” retorted President Hamilton. “I don’t want to hear about possibilities! I want to know the facts!”
“Yes Mr. President.” Moore looked down at the glass of scotch in the President’s hand, longing for a drink.
The President sighed, “I apologize for being short with you but I have a historic decision to make and I need credible intelligence. “Is it possible that Iran is retaliating against us for not helping them during their war with Israel?” asked the President, recalling the short campaign to remove Iran’s nuclear capabilities.
After several successful air strikes, on multiple nuclear power plants and missile silos, the Iranian government surrendered. The entire conflict had lasted less than a month and in its wake Israel reclaimed territory that the Jewish people had previously owned; including Jordan, Lebanon, and parts of Egypt, Syria Saudi Arabia and Iraq. Israel’s borders have swelled to the extent that a defensive wall surrounding the nation was no longer feasible.
“I don’t see why they’d attack us,” replied Moore. “After all, we didn’t help Israel either.”
“No, but we didn’t stop them from reclaiming lost territory,” pointed out Hamilton.
“It’s likely that Iran is involved,” agreed Moore, “but our data suggests that we’ve been attacked by more than just one enemy. And why would they come after us when they can’t even handle a tiny nation like Israel?”
“They might, if they had powerful allies leading the charge. What happened to mutually assured destruction?” The President slammed his glass down on his mahogany desk, spilling some of the scotch. “Are we prepared to launch a counter assault?” A part of Hamilton wished the answer would be no, but regardless, he knew he couldn’t shirk his responsibility to strike back.
“Yes Mr. President,” said Secretary of Defense Benjamin Benson. “We are awaiting your order sir.” Benson stared down at his black Italian loafers, wishing he was anywhere but here. Well…maybe not anywhere, considering what was happening down below.
“I need to know exactly who hit us so we can pay them back in-kind. I don’t want to make this worse by striking the wrong countries. Get me verifiable intelligence now!” ordered the President.
“Yes Mr. President, we’re trying,” replied Benson. “Before the nuclear strike, several EMP devices were detonated in the atmosphere above us. Our power grid is operating at only a quarter of its capacity. Most of our resources have been diverted to reestablishing the power grid.”
“I thought we had teams of electricians out repairing the damage and getting the power grids back on line?” asked Hamilton, his brow furrowed in frustration. “Why would the intelligence department be tied up with that?”
“You said that you wanted all resources diverted to getting the power back online,” said Benson, wishing that one of his colleagues would speak up and remove the President’s attention from him. “The harm inflicted by The Vanishing was minute in comparison to the damage caused by the electro-magnetic pulses. The various intelligence agencies have been assisting in determining where the damage is most pressing and where our electricians need armed assistance.”
“There have been several terrorist attacks on power plants around the country,” added Moore.
“How many terrorist cells are we dealing with?” asked Hamilton.
“We’re not exactly sure Mr. President,” admitted Moore, “but we do know that the Metcalf transmission substation in San Jose California was attacked and destroyed by a small group of highly trained insurgents. We have reason to believe that this was only one of several coordinated attacks on our power grid.”
“How long until the grid is up and running?” Hamilton asked.
“There’s no way of knowing for sure Mr. President,” replied Benson. “If that was all that we had to contend with then I’d say anywhere from one month to two years.”
“That’s absurd!” exclaimed President Hamilton. “This damned war could be over by then!”
“I understand that Mr. President,” said Benson. “The reality is that we simply don’t have the manpower to replace all the blown transformers across the nation, especially when our repair teams are being shot at by terrorists and our soldiers are needed to fight a war.”
“Not to mention the transformers are primarily produced in Korea and weigh hundreds of tons, requiring special rail cars to transport,” said Moore.
“What are our options?” asked Hamilton. “Is our ability to launch a counter-strike threatened by these attacks?”
“Our analysts tell me no Mr. President,” answered Moore, “but I still recommend we act quickly. If we don’t launch a counter-strike immediately, I can’t guarantee that we’ll have the ability later.”
“Divert a good portion of our intelligence departments to finding the correct targets. Now!” urged the President.
“Yes sir! We have another problem Mr. President. We lost a lot of highly trained personnel during The Vanishing,” explained Moore, trying to keep his balance as the plane flew through a patch of strong turbulence.
“Along with over half our troops,” added Benson. “This is the worst possible time for our enemies to attack.”
The President’s eyes glazed over at the mention of The Vanishing. His heart sank in his chest remembering the day that he’d received the news about his dear wife Emily. Just a few short weeks ago, she along with millions of others, had suddenly disappeared in the blink of an eye. When one of the Secret Service agents assigned to Emily’s detail informed Hamilton of her disappearance, he became enraged. He immediately responded by firing the entire detail.
His daughter, Evelyn, had accepted the loss of her mother much more gracefully. Hamilton was proud of how well Evelyn handled losing her mother. He couldn’t tell if she was in shock but she was handling the loss with all the poise and maturity one would expect of the President’s daughter.
It had only been a few weeks since Emily’s disappearance, but Hamilton had barely spoken to his daughter. Every time he got her on the phone, she gave him an excuse and had to get off. The last he’d spoken to her she was on her way to go skiing in Vail, Colorado. At least he knew where to start looking.
“Any word on my daughter?” asked the President.
“We still haven’t been able to make contact with her security detail,” answered Moore. He knew firsthand how fragile the relationship was between Hamilton and his daughter.
“Find her, please!”
Moore was impressed at how the President managed to retain control, all things considered. He was grateful not to be the President today. “Yes sir. I’ve dispatched men to the ski resort that she’s supposed to be staying at in Vail. We should know more within the hour.”
John Hamilton had spent most of his adult life wanting to be President of the United States, but this was not the Presidency that he’d dreamed of. His illusions of what it meant to be President had been shattered from the beginning. He had always hoped to lead the country back to its former glory, but plans had been put into action long ago, that could not be changed. Not even by the President.
“Mr. President?” The tension in Benson’s voice was enough to pull Hamilton away from his thoughts.<
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“Yes, what is it?” asked Hamilton, refocusing on the current dilemma, hoping it couldn’t get any worse.
“I asked you what you’re orders are sir?”
“Where’s Vice President Whitfield?” asked Hamilton, reaching into the humidor on his desk and withdrawing a Cuban cigar. He cut off the end and bit down firmly. Removing a book of matches from within his desk he lit the cigar and slowly puffed on it while trying to figure out what the best course of action would be. The sweet aroma filled the room as he exhaled the smoke and leaned back in his chair.
“He’s onboard Air Force Two, in-route to Colorado Springs,” replied Moore. “They should arrive at Peterson Air Force Base within the hour.”
“Let’s just hope NORAD hasn’t been hit,” grumbled Hamilton, glancing at the enlarged map of the United States on the wall of his office.
“The Command Center is far enough beneath the ground that it should still be intact regardless,” stated five star General Michael Williams, sitting on the plush sofa facing the President’s desk.
The President noticed the calm expression on the General’s face. Unlike the rest of Hamilton’s staff, he didn’t appear worried, he seemed pleased. In fact he almost seemed excited by what was happening.
Does he think this is a game? Is he really having fun?
“I want to know the second the V.P. is safe inside the bunker,” demanded Hamilton.
Vice President George Whitfield was a true patriot and lifelong friend of Hamilton. They’d fought together in the deserts of Iraq and stood by one another as best men at each other’s wedding ceremonies. George had even named Hamilton as godfather to his eldest son David, who was now serving onboard the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln out of Norfolk, Virginia.
Hamilton wished that Whitfield was here with him now. The older man had always exuded a sense of confidence that made Hamilton feel calm, even in times of crisis. But the Secret Service had rules to follow and allowing both the President and Vice President onboard the same aircraft would have been a huge violation of protocol.
“Mr. President?” Secretary of State Reese Lewis entered the office, with a worried look on his face.
“What is it Lewis?”
“There’s an urgent call from Air Force Two.”
Hamilton glanced down at the phone on his desk. It was lit up with several blinking red lights. He picked up the receiver. “Which line?”
“Line two Mr. President.”
“This is Hamilton,” he said into the receiver, with the cigar clenched between his teeth.
“Hello John,” said the broken voice of Vice President Whitfield. “I’m glad to hear your voice. Where are you?”
“Somewhere over Virginia,” answered Hamilton. “We should be in Colorado in a few hours.”
“Be careful on your way here,” warned Whitfield. “We’ve been fired upon twice by surface-to-air-missiles. The last one nearly got us.”
“What? Who’s firing at you?”
“I wish I knew.” The static on the line made it hard to hear Whitfield, as Air Force One entered into another patch of turbulence. “It’s almost as if they knew our flight plan.”
“Mr. Vice President?”
Hamilton heard the faint sound of a woman’s voice on the other end of the phone. He immediately recognized the tone as Pandora Gulan, Whitfield’s Chief of Staff. Pandora had been with the Vice President for just over a year. His previous Chief of Staff had mysteriously taken ill while traveling with Whitfield to Syria on a diplomatic mission. On the return trip he’d died suddenly from a heart attack.
“Excuse me Mr. President,” said Whitfield. “Yes Pandora, what is it?”
Pandora ripped open her suit jacket revealing an explosive device strapped to her chest. “Allah Akbar!” she said, with an eerily calm smile.
“Oh my God!” shouted Whitfield, dropping the receiver. “Stop her!”
“What’s happening George?” asked Hamilton. His cigar dropped from his mouth and fell to his lap. He hastily slapped at the red embers burning through his Armani navy blue pants. “Whitfield, are you there?”
There was a loud blast on the other end of the phone before the line went dead and static filled the air.
Cabin Fever
World War III – Day One
The Evan’s Ranch, Nevada
Mason rode into the hidden valley, of Shiloh’s ranch, at a neck breaking speed. He raced to the center of the small village, pulled the mustang to a stop, and almost fell off in the process. Although a highly trained ex-CIA operative, Mason was not accustomed to riding horseback. Jumping out of planes was one thing, but horses were quite another.
“Quickly, everyone gather round!” shouted Mason, as he climbed down from the saddle.
Kassie, Lex’s German shepherd, came running from one of the cottages, followed by Mayor Sam Sullivan, Alfonso and Rupert.
“Hey there lad, what’s this here all about?” asked Sam, in his thick Irish brogue.
Mason paused for a moment waiting to explain until the majority of the people, mostly women and elderly, had gathered around him. “We’re under attack!” he shouted, so that everyone could hear him. “A nuclear bomb has just been detonated to the south of us and several more to the west. My guess is they took out the army depot located in Hawthorn.”
“Is it joking that ya are?” asked Sam, incredulously.
“We didn’t see any explosions,” said Daisy, looking around terrified.
“Do you smell that?” asked Mason, pointing toward the western sky.
“Smell what?”
“The moisture in the air,” he explained.
Everyone turned and looked west. Ominous clouds were beginning to creep over the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Leaves flew passed headed east, carried by the same strong wind which brought the storm closer and closer. Every now and then a bright flash of lightening illuminated the dark clouds, followed by a deep, rumbling thunder. Cold drops of rain began to land on their face and exposed skin. It was only a matter of time before the full might of the storm would be upon them. Everyone began to panic.
“Listen to me!” shouted Mason, losing his patience. “We don’t have much time! The heat and airborne debris created by the nuclear explosion in Hiroshima caused black, radioactive raindrops the size of marbles. The coming storm will most likely carry the fallout in this direction and anyone caught outside will be as good as dead! I need everyone too quickly, but calmly, gather what food and water you can and take shelter in either the event hall or one of the cottages. Tape plastic over all the windows, air vents and doors. Any cracks or openings should be completely sealed. Make sure you have everything you need because once the storm arrives, we can’t come out till it’s over.”
“Aye lad!” agreed Mayor Sullivan, turning to look at the crowd. “We need to do as Mason suggests! Walter, take Gary with you and move the food into the event hall! Jeff, you and Clyde get as much water from the well as you can and then cover the opening with wooden planks and plastic! The rest of ya should cover all of the event hall openings as quickly as you can.” Sam’s instructions and Mason’s confidence was enough to inspire everyone to snap out of the shock they were in and immediately take action.
Mason reached into the saddlebags on his horse and withdrew several rolls of duct tape, which he’d taken from his Hummer before leaving Clearview. “Here,” he said, as he handed them out to the crowd, “use this.”
Mason handed the reins of his horse to Sam and turned abruptly, leaving the Mayor and the rest of the townsfolk to carry out his instructions. He quickly patrolled the hidden village, offering assistance and advice wherever it was needed, as the people prepared for the black rain headed their way. When he was satisfied that everything was well under way and going according to plan, Mason ascended a nearby hill which offered a wide open view of the valley below.
From up on the hill he could see the townsfolk as they scurried back and forth, hurrying to complete the fallout preparations in time. He was w
atching Jeff and Clyde nail boards into place on top of the stone well, when he noticed a flock of seagulls fly by. They were headed northeast on a course that would take them away from the nuclear explosions.
Mason scanned the skies in every direction and immediately noticed a large cluster of dark, ominous clouds approaching from the south. He quickly turned and descended the hill in a stumbling run, shouting and waving his hands in warning. When he reached the bottom of the hill he sprinted towards the event hall where he’d seen Sam lead his horse, along with a majority of the townsfolk.
Mason burst into the event hall, designed to look like a Swiss Alps Mountain Resort and quickly closed the door behind him. He immediately scanned the room, ensuring that all of the windows and doors were safely secured. The event hall had been designed in an octagon shape and had windows on all eight sides. A lot of duct tape was going to be needed to cover all of the cracks.
With beads of sweat glistening on his forehead, Mason walked to the nearest window and peered up at the sky. Storm clouds caused by the nuclear explosions had already begun to form. The question was, how fast would they get here? “Hurry,” shouted Mason, “we don’t have much time!”
It took a while but they were finally able to get all of the vents, door cracks and the edges around the windows covered with tape and just in the nick of time. Mason was finishing taping the last window when large, black rain drops began to fall from the dark clouds above. He stood there looking out the window as the storm rolled in and was about to turn away when he felt his heart skip a beat. Across the grass courtyard was a small, Irish looking cottage with smoke coming up out of the chimney.
Mason immediately ripped the tape from the front door and swung it open. “Close the door behind me!” he shouted, before running out into the radioactive storm. Once outside, he quickly darted across the courtyard towards the Irish cottage and hammered on the door. He could hear the sound of someone removing tape from the other side of the door, as he waited impatiently. The door swung open and standing in the doorway was a young girl about sixteen years old.
World War III Page 4