by John Brown
“Looks like they had the right street address,” Franklin said, staring coldly at Benson, “but they didn’t know about a certain underground command post built to survive a nuclear blast, did they?”
Benson did not remove his gaze from the monitors.
“It would seem that they did not.”
The soldiers swarmed directly overhead. They would find nothing but typical offices and a basement level reduced to smoking rubble, and the incinerated, gruesome remains of whatever unfortunates had occupied the building.
“We have survived a couple of close calls recently, have we not?” Franklin said, airily.
“We have indeed.”
“Extraordinarily lucky, wouldn’t you say?”
Benson broke his gaze from the monitors. The silence hung in the air.
“Sometimes fortune smiles upon you,” Benson said, and abruptly left the room.
Franklin caught up with him in the command center. The underground retreat was a beehive of activity. Video walls loomed overhead to the high ceilings; scores of operatives staffed the various command stations arrayed in pods.
Benson whirled around, marveling at the colossal scale.
“Amazing. Sophisticated communications, defensive systems, a gym and restaurant. It’s a fortress. What else do you have here?”
“Gold, of course, and an extensive food supply. This bunker was designed for the Continuity of Government program in case of attack or insurrection. It has the best technology and fortifications to ensure that high State officials survive the worst. We removed it from the classified facilities database and it ‘disappeared.’ We’ll be safe here.”
Jane unlocked the front door. It had been a difficult day at the office and she was beat. She dropped her keys and purse on the hallway desk and removed her coat. She walked into the kitchen and turned the light on.
The shock floored her; she leaned against the wall for support. Benson sat calmly on a chair, silently watching her. He hadn’t forgotten the uncharitable reception he’d received from their previous meeting, but that was in the past; he had to let it go. The authorities had lied to her. He realized now that his adventure would be too fantastic to digest all at once. She would naturally have trouble accepting it.
The events she’d experienced firsthand — the checkpoints, inspections, and virtual molestation at the airport, the frightening VIPR roadblock on their way to La Grande Maison, the ransacking of their house and the seizure of their property — were only the most visible parts of something much uglier brewing. Whether traveling by bus, car, train, or plane, checkpoints and inspections were a normal part of most everyone’s day. The general public might be vaguely aware that some new security measures had been enacted, but they were surely applied only to deserving suspects, and in just a few, select cases at that.
“You’re not safe here. Jane, we have to leave. Everything will change tomorrow, there’ll be chaos everywhere. Your life will be in danger. Jane, please, honey, we have to go — right now.”
She just stared at him and picked up her phone.
“Jane, you have to trust me on this.”
“I’m calling the police.”
He made no attempt to intervene.
“Nothing. No service,” she said, dumbfounded, dropping the phone on the counter.
“It’s already happening. Let’s leave right away, we’ll go to a secure place. Please listen to me — we have no time to waste.”
“I — I have to think…”
More in sadness than frustration, he departed alone.
32
A Significant Step Forward
EVERYONE STOPPED WHAT THEY WERE DOING to watch the giant, multifaceted overhead screens in the cavernous main gallery of the Patriot’s command center. A handsome middle-aged man and an attractive young woman peered gravely into the cameras.
“We are getting unconfirmed reports,” the man’s pleasing, rich voice boomed throughout the bunker, “of potentially serious security breaches at some of our major banks.” He had a full head of dark hair with just a touch of gray at the temples. “Spokespersons have no comment. Let’s go now to our financial correspondent, Alan Greenbach. Hi, Alan, how’re you doing?”
“In terms of your specific question, Keith, I can offer a qualified ‘affirmative’ at this time.”
“Alan, we’re hearing rumors of financial security, um — issues,” said the show’s female host. She had long, shiny dark hair and beautiful, big brown eyes. “Rumors are swirling that the Chinese are concerned about holding on to U.S. debt in the present atmosphere of uncertainty.”
“Marcela, I just interfaced with our banking czar and top Federal Reserve and Treasury officials,” Greenbach said, speaking slowly. “According to some experts, who, we are given to understand, are highly placed in the administration, it seems that there is not, in fact, a viral situation at this time juncture. Nevertheless, there are certain rumors swirling in important circles in reference to the desirability of capital controls, along with new documentation and reporting requirements in order to help deal with this presumed crisis of confidence—”
“Alan, sorry to interrupt, but we are now getting unconfirmed reports that some major banks have halted all transactions. Other reports are coming in that the Chinese may be trying to dump all their dollar reserves. No word yet from the banking czar. Alan?”
Greenbach held a finger to his earbud, listening to breaking reports. He nodded his head.
“Well, Keith and Marcela, here is the approximate situation on the ground as we are currently understanding it. According to informed sources at this point in time, with the information we have available to us — excuse me.”
Greenbach sneezed a few times.
“As I was saying, it is, without an appreciable amount of doubt, probable that the dollar will be vertically challenged as the debt infrastructure will have to be monetized.”
The show’s hosts looked at each other, at a total loss.
“So what happens next?” Keith said. “What can we expect?”
“Yes,” said Marcela, “for the benefit of our viewers, can you tell us what it all means?”
They waited for Greenbach to collect his thoughts.
“Well, you know what, Keith and Marcela? When you have a cascading financial system failure on your hands — and I would hasten to add that we lack sufficient econometric models upon which to draw for clarification and insight — you have, let’s say, and I’ll make a rough calculation here, oh, I would estimate … maybe eight days to economic collapse. More or less.”
“Attention, citizens,” blared the loudspeakers. “Today’s threat level is Gold — acute risk of terrorist attack. Report suspicious activities and socially dangerous persons to the Authorities.”
Black BearCat armored personnel carriers and Bulldog X SWAT trucks cruised slowly down the capital’s streets, troops marching alongside. Brilliant red, white, and blue lights flashed, accompanied by piercing siren bursts. Continuous Threat Level Gold announcements issued from loudspeakers mounted on the vehicles. With their black helmets, black face visors, flak vests, ballistic shields, and body armor, the troops hanging off the BearCat’s sideboards and marching on foot resembled a robot army.
The troops aimed their rifles into building entrances and packed alleys as they went past. Crowds wandered in front of the patrols, parting before them and trailing in their wake. Signs on striped barricades warned people to stay off the streets. Stacked piles of tires burned here and there, the dense, black clouds of acrid smoke fouling the air.
A crowd swarmed outside a Wells Fargo Citibank branch.
“Where’s our money? What’d you do with our money?”
The terrified employees and customers trapped inside were desperate to escape, but all exits were blocked. They dared not try forcing their way through the mob.
“We’re occupying this bank until they give us back our money,” said the leader of a band of hooligans, his voice screeching through an
electronic megaphone, earning applause and whistles of appreciation from the ranks.
“Come outta there, you candy-ass cowards, we know you’re in there. Open up, show your ugly faces!”
Punks uprooted metal recycling receptacles from the sidewalk and heaved them through the bank’s windows. The great panes of glass shattered, cascading to the ground in a river of jagged splinters gleaming in the afternoon sun, mesmerizing the crowd. People inside the bank huddled against the far walls and dived under desks and counters.
Soldiers fired rounds into the air and the mob dispersed in panic. Small arms gunfire could be heard throughout D.C. Fires raged around the city, the smoke plumes soaring into the sky. Despite their sirens and horns blasting, fire trucks and ambulances could not get through the blocked traffic. Desperate families fleeing by car found themselves unable to move, angrily honking their horns in a rising crescendo of noise. Gridlock snarled the city.
Frantic hordes overran supermarkets and convenience stores that had suddenly closed when electronic payments stopped going through. Realizing that they would be hungry and thirsty within a day or two, looters snatched doughnuts, cake, frozen pizza, ice cream, potato chips, soda pop, candy, and anything else that they could get their hands on. Thieves broke into electronics stores, struggling to carry off televisions and audio equipment, fighting each other for the booty in the store’s dark interiors. Whole families ransacked undefended appliance superstores, using hand trucks to wheel away the washing machines and refrigerators. Mobs descended on car dealerships, trying to break in and drive away. Usually unable to find the keys, they left the cars’ alarms honking and their lights blinking; the more resourceful among them drove off to become ensnarled in the gridlock.
Rampaging youths torched businesses and vehicles, smashing shop windows as they advanced, while BearCats massed at the end of the street in their path. The more they destroyed, the more frenzied and emboldened the youths became. Joined by other mobs, they faced down the BearCats, daring them to attack.
“You wanna piece a’ this?” screamed one of their leaders.
“We’re occupying the streets!” yelled another through an electronic megaphone.
“Hell — no! We won’t go! Hell — no! We won’t go! Hell — no! We won’t go!” they chanted.
“We demand our elected officials do something and real quick. We’re taking back America, reclaiming the dream. Hear us roar!”
The lead BearCat commander opened the roof hatch and stared at the crowd. He went below and stuck his head out of the hatch again, looking around with binoculars. He switched on his microphone.
“Attention, citizens,” he said in a low monotone through the tank’s loudspeakers. “Unlawful behavior will not be tolerated at this time. This is a Code Purple. Noncombatant evacuees must leave the bridgehead line at once.”
He radioed their position to NORTHCOM and awaited further instructions.
Invisible to the surging throngs below, a squadron of Reaper drones flew silently at 20,000 feet through the clear skies. Their cameras converged on the historic Chase Bank of America building nearby. Hellfire missiles surged to their targets. The top floor of the bank turned into a fireball, showering the streets below with burning fragments. The drones swooped in, buzzing the mobs with tear gas and pepper spray. The shrieking crowds fled for cover.
“Wardrobe! Fix that suit and tie, will ya? He can’t wear it like that.”
The president sat in his custom-made leather chair, practicing his lines while the film crew bustled about.
“Makeup! Nose and forehead — too shiny. Could use a quick touchup shave, too. Chop chop. We don’t have all day, let’s move it!”
The glare created by the clusters of camera lights made King squint and look away.
“Okay people, cue the teleprompter. All right, Mr. President, ready? Let’s go then. Five, four, three, two, one, and — action.”
A one-note tune like that of a telephone dial tone was simultaneously broadcast to all media outlets. At 20 seconds, a recording came on.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said, in a deeply melodious voice, “we sincerely regret interrupting your regularly scheduled radio and television programming for a special message from your president.”
The director pointed at President King and silently mouthed, “Go.”
King shuffled some papers — a random collection of interoffice memos the film crew had assembled the day before — laying them down carefully so that the corners met precisely. He folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward, appearing thoughtful and earnest.
“My friends, we are pleased today to announce a significant step forward in the Global War on Terror. We have certain evidence of an alleged terrorist conspiracy to harm our financial system, posing a serious threat to our national security. It is believed that this secret conspiracy was possibly launched through sleeper cells in the Homeland, presumably foreign in terms of their nationality, who have laid dormant until this point in time.”
The monitor from which he was reading began to flicker slightly.
“The terrorist threat that led to the declaration of a national emergency on September 14, 2001, has continued to the present time in full effect. Therefore, by authority of National Security Presidential Directive 20/51, the USA PATRIOT Enabling Act, and by authority of the National Defense Authorization Act, as amended, I hereby exercise their provisions delegated to me as your commander-in-chief. As I speak, our United States Armed Forces and National Guard are attempting to restore order by any means necessary, in order to encapsulate unlawful enemy combatants who have reportedly attacked the Homeland with cold-blooded contempt.”
Franklin quietly watched the address with a serene look on his face, but Benson felt a growing unease at this latest development.
“Is this part of the plan?” Benson said, more an accusation than a question.
Franklin tore his gaze away from the monitors.
“I have my ways, too.”
“We are not happy, Colonel Benson.”
General Jerrick paced around the room. His attention was captured by the colorful, animated electronic displays of active Overseas Contingency Operations around the world. They covered an entire wall. Constantly changing, they were almost hypnotic.
“Not really happy at all.”
Benson sat still, facing the desk at which he sat as the general spoke from behind him. Benson’s uniform bore the red and blue insignia of the Distinguished Service Cross and the Army Achievement Medal in stripes of blue and green.
Jerrick returned to his desk and sat down heavily.
“You went off the reservation, under the wire and all that sort of thing.”
Leaning over, he opened a drawer and pulled out a cigar from an elaborate mahogany case with Cuban inscriptions. He offered one to Benson, who declined with a curt nod. The general clipped the end and lit it, vigorously puffing away to get it started, and sat back with a look of deep satisfaction.
“I failed to take them out, sir.”
“Well…” General Jerrick said, watching the cigar burn, “we won’t hold that against you. At least you tried, and that’s what really counts today, isn’t it?”
He sat back in his chair and slowly exhaled toward the ceiling, watching a perfectly formed smoke ring float up in the air.
“Gutsy, Benson, I’ll give you that.”
Jerrick inhaled, holding the smoke in his mouth.
“I couldn’t have pulled you out, Colonel, not even if I’d wanted to.”
“I was given to wonder about that, sir. This was to be more of an intelligence mission, if I recall correctly. I was to be promptly rescued if I got into trouble. I was not supposed to spend seven months in the Gulag; that wasn’t the plan. Sir.”
“Plans have a way of changing, Benson. We all have to be flexible. The fact is, we couldn’t really find you. Apparently the records are altered; the identities are randomly changed so no one can find anyone. You disappear without a t
race. It’s as if you ceased to exist.”
“As if,” Benson said. “I take it, sir, that you don’t really know what’s going on down there — with all due respect.”
“It’s a different branch, Benson, that Civilian National Security Force. It gets kind of complicated.”
He took a long puff.
“It’s still in the very early stages, you know. These things take some time to mature, to find their way, as it were. But they tell me everything is run by the book.”
“By the book,” Benson said.
“Your military record is no longer classified. This operation has been expunged from all records. We thank you for your service to your country. You are free to return to civilian life — or maybe to active duty.”
Jerrick sat up in his chair, tapping the cigar ashes into a tray.
“We do like your initiative, Benson, your pluck. Maybe we could offer you something in a Homeland mission post — a command appointment, say, Special Assistant to the Vice Commander of NORTHCOM, C2 Section?”
George Franklin stood and tightly crossed his arms as he observed Benson and General Jerrick through one-way glass in the adjoining room.
“Well, what say you, Colonel? How about it?”
“They believed they were true patriots, sir, launching a second American Revolution. They aimed to stop what I went through as an Unlawful Enemy Combatant.”
“Interesting. And what do you think, Colonel?”
The murmur of people talking and typing documents from outside drifted into the room.
“My wife is missing.”
Jerrick took a long drag on his cigar, holding the smoke. He exhaled and chomped lightly on the end, then held it at arm’s length. It was burning evenly all the way down, the ash holding tight to the cigar. The color of the cigars in the box was very consistent, too. He wrote a note to order more through his special contact.
“My only son — killed in action.” Benson choked up. “He was barely 18.”