She eased the door open, careful to make sure it didn’t screech, then entered the room. In the illumination provided by Juan’s nightlight, she scooped up a few toys between the door and the bed and deposited them in the corner. The sitter could worry about them tomorrow – she was here for one reason. She sat on the edge of the bed and smiled, reaching out and running her thumb down her son’s cheek.
Juan was asleep, curled up on his side and hugging his teddy. She stroked his cheek again, then his hair. Guilt hit her like a wave and she fought back tears. She felt like she’d missed the last few months of his life, spending eighty hours a week at the office and relying exclusively on a sitter. She told herself it was necessary and that her job was important, but the guilt threatened to overwhelm her.
She made sure he was tucked in, determined that she’d spend breakfast with him before going into the office. She flicked off the nightlight and crept back through the door. Walking to her own bedroom, she emptied her pockets onto the bed. Amid the usual dross of her day – crumpled-up post-its and a few pens – she found a pamphlet she’d been handed on her way to lunch. She opened it.
It was a small A5 brochure with black and white lettering. It had a small map with a circle around Indianapolis, Indiana, with the words LIBERATION STARTS HERE across the top, and GUERILLA RADIO along the bottom. She screwed it up and went to work unbuttoning her blouse. She wasn’t much interested in propaganda. From either side. Nobody had come out of the mess in Indianapolis looking good.
Given Area V took in Indiana, she’d been briefed on the incident in the city. Though Administrator Hall and the State Guard were overseeing the response, she still took an interest. She was patched into the national command network and received reports about issues and setbacks across the whole country. It was a level of information that most people had been starved of since the clampdown.
She removed her skirt. With this new information, she’d seen the whole picture for the first time. Parts of the country were ablaze in conflict. Southern militias were ambushing supply convoys. Army units across the country were agitating. The terrorist attacks had lessened, but not ceased entirely. FEMA responded more harshly every day.
She was about to collapse into bed when her cell phone started to ring. She stared at her purse, willing the whole thing to combust and give her some peace, but the phone kept ringing. One of the struggles of leadership, she’d discovered, was having to always be available. Decision makers were expected to sort problems out, even when they were dead tired and standing in their underwear.
She reached for her purse, dug around inside and answered the phone. “This is Mariposa Esposito.”
“Ms Esposito?” The man’s voice was unfamiliar to her. “This is Ray Felton calling from headquarters.”
She sat on the bed, wishing he’d just go away. “What can I do for you, Ray? I’ve had a long day.”
“I understand.” His tone suggested he probably didn’t. “Administrator Hall has asked me to brief you on developments in Indiana.”
She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. “I’ve read the reports on the incident. I don’t think I nee—”
“We’ve retaken the city. But casualties among the rebels and civilians were immense. The administrator oversaw the operation personally and wanted you to be aware. A full report is being sent to your inbox. There’ll be a teleconference with all areas at seven tomorrow morning to discuss recovery.”
Her mind screamed with fury. “Okay, thanks, Ray. I appreciate the heads up. Have a good night.”
She hung up. Not for the first time she considered calling in to resign, crawling under the covers and letting the world pass her by. The violence and the mayhem was not what she’d signed up for. She’d been with FEMA for years, yet she barely recognized the organization or believed in its purpose anymore. It was supposed to protect, to save and to build. Instead, it seemed to be doing little more than destroying and suppressing.
While she didn’t doubt the threat that the terrorist attacks represented, she didn’t think it was any more disastrous than a cyclone or wildfire. That FEMA had been given such power irked her more with each passing day, with all that she saw and heard – hell, the more she ordered. Things were getting out of hand. Apparently, FEMA could do anything. Even attack a city, bomb an army into submission and slaughter civilians in the crossfire.
She shook her head. As bad as things were – and no matter how terrible they became – she was tied to FEMA. If working too much and being responsible for some morally questionable acts was the cost she had to pay to keep a roof over her child’s head, then there was no decision to make. They paid well and working for FEMA meant extra rations for her son. If she couldn’t be here for him, she at least could make sure he had a full stomach.
If she was laid off, or quit, her situation would be desperate. She had no savings and hardly any support network in Chicago to speak of. Worse, chances were, given the executive orders, she’d be unable to get work with the companies that now loathed FEMA. Nor would she likely to get any work with other government agencies. She opened her eyes and looked at the clock: 3.00 am. She counted back in her head from the meeting in four hours. She’d have time to read over the briefing and then call the sitter at dawn.
She could shower at the office.
CHAPTER 9
Following recent tragic events, FEMA and the State Guard are pleased to announce that Sergeant Callum Watkins, the sole survivor the attack on FEMA Distribution Center Echo, has today been downgraded from critical condition to stable. Sergeant Watkins made a brief statement to the media, in which he thanked the medical professionals who saved his life and expressed huge grief at the loss of his colleagues. In closing, Sergeant Watkins called for unity across America while the threat is dealt with. He will be discharged from hospital today.
Federal Emergency Management Agency
News Release
Callum woke with a scream.
He was covered in sweat and tangled in his bed linen, but he slowly realized the nightmare had been just that. He sat up and rubbed a hand over his face before releasing a growl. Since waking up in hospital, the nights had been full of such moments. The nightmare always began with him stepping out of the Humvee at the distribution center, then flashed forward to the moment he was shot, then ended in darkness. At that point, he woke up.
He shook his head and looked at the clock. 8:30 am. He smiled slightly. He’d actually forgotten to set his alarm, so the timing of the dream was fortunate. He had a meeting in half an hour with a State Guard psychologist. Along with his physical rehabilitation, the psychologist’s report was just another step in the long path back to active duty. Or so the theory went. In reality, Callum had a very different purpose in mind for the meeting.
It was just good to be home. He climbed out of bed, showered and dressed while trying not to dwell on the nightmare. He sat at his kitchen table in silence, preparing his mind for the meeting to come. As the clock struck the hour his doorbell rang. The guy was punctual, if nothing else. Callum stood up, walked to the door and opened it. He was immediately forced to revaluate his chances of getting what he wanted when he saw the man waiting outside.
“Sergeant Watkins? I’m Major John Bainbridge.” Bainbridge stood as straight as a board. “Illinois State Guard Chief Psychologist.”
Callum had hoped he might get someone a bit softer, a bit more open to the case he was about to make, but Major Bainbridge appeared to be the consummate hardass: his uniform was sharp and his features were hard. Once he removed his sunglasses, Callum could see his eyes held little sympathy. He wouldn’t back down and would still try to make his case, but it looked more difficult than he’d expected even before he’d started.
“Good morning, Major.” Callum saluted and then waited while Bainbridge returned it. He walked inside and gestured toward the table. “Take a seat.”
“Thanks, Sergeant.” Bainbridge removed his hat and placed it on the table, appearing to size up
Callum while he did. “I appreciate you meeting with me.”
“No problem, sir.” Callum sat alert, waiting for Bainbridge to begin. “Where do you want to start, Major?”
Bainbridge’s smile was thin and without any hint of warmth. “Before you’re cleared to return to duty, I need to check there are no lasting ill-effects from the incident.”
“The incident?” Callum was immediately incensed. “The incident?”
Bainbridge's eyes were hard as diamonds. “You getting shot and—”
“And my team being killed.” Callum regretted interrupting the major, but he was that angry. “Sorry, Major, but is that the one you mean?”
Bainbridge’s blank expression didn’t change. “Yes, that one.”
Callum closed his eyes for a second and forced the anger down. It wouldn’t help. He sat forward. “My intention is to resign from the State Guard.”
This time Bainbridge raised an eyebrow and gave the slightest hint of a smirk. “Is that so, Sergeant?”
“Yes. I’d like to get back to my normal job.” Callum knew he was screwed, but he had to try. “I’ve been involved in two fatal incidents now. I think that’s enough.”
Bainbridge said nothing. Callum had been through enough therapy following his troubles in Iraq to know that the major was leaving space for him to fill. He was being assessed and analyzed. Bainbridge didn’t have a notepad, but Callum knew that he was building a file nonetheless. Callum just had to make sure that the other man was logging the right information.
Callum sighed. “I saw my friends get shot to death, sir. I think I’ve done my duty for my country overseas and now at home as well. I’ve had enough.”
“Nobody would argue that you haven’t, Sergeant.” Bainbridge paused and leaned forward slightly. “Look, Callum, I can’t sign off on a discharge. You know that.”
Callum scoffed. “I’m a volunteer. I haven’t signed any contract binding me to the guard. You can’t keep me.”
Bainbridge shrugged. “The executive orders granting FEMA authority over the guard also prohibits resignation except in cases approved by the Administrator of FEMA.”
Callum felt his dream slipping away, and the nightmare coming back. “Please. I don’t want to do this anymore.”
Bainbridge was unmoved. “Sergeant, it’s time to stop thinking about something that’s impossible—”
Callum slammed the table. “It’s not impossible.”
Bainbridge waited for a second and then continued. “And start thinking about what can be achieved.”
Callum looked up at Bainbridge, suddenly sensing that the game had changed. The major was dangling something in front of him, but he couldn’t figure out what. Either way, he wasn’t well served by his anger. He eased back in his chair, crossed his arms and took a few deep breaths. He kept his eyes locked onto Bainbridge, waiting to see what the other man had to offer.
“Now, you know I can’t give you a discharge. Our forces are spread thin and we’ve taken some losses. But that doesn’t necessarily mean you need to go back on patrol.”
“Okay, I like the sound of that.”
Bainbridge smiled and nodded. “Okay. You’re a hero for surviving the distribution center attack and you helped us to tell the world about the atrocities these thugs are committing. More importantly, you showed America that we can survive and endure with the right people in charge.”
Callum sighed. He sensed whatever was coming had been cooked up before Bainbridge had even walked in the door. He just wasn’t sure what it was. “Okay.”
“I’m ordering that you be transferred to a security detail to guard some of the individuals being detained on suspicion of aiding the terrorists.” Bainbridge smiled. “It’s a hell of a lot better than driving into firefights and getting your ass shot off, don’t you think?”
Callum wasn’t sure he agreed, but he kept his mouth shut. If he couldn’t walk out the door, then he supposed this was a decent compromise. It was hard to imagine a scenario in which guarding a camp would be a problem, but he still wasn’t thrilled by the idea. On the other hand, while he’d still have a gun, others wouldn’t be trying to shoot at him. The camp was good enough for now, but what if it didn’t last?
“You’ve got yourself a deal, Major.”
***
Richard lifted the coffee cup to his mouth and took a long sip, savoring the heat that coursed down into his stomach. This was his third coffee for the day and he was well on the way to an all nighter, an all too common occurrence since the activation of the executive orders. He’d never worked so hard in his life, but had no right to complain. He’d wanted this – the chance to lead – and with that came hard work and long hours. Hotspots and flashpoints had stolen his attention, forcing him to focus on putting out fires instead of the direction of the country, but he was intending to change that. He put the cup back on the table, sighed and then went back to work on the smallest mountain of paperwork on his desk – the items his staff considered most critical.
He was glad to be back in Washington. With the issues in Illinois and Indiana sorted, he’d flown back to the capital to get things back on course, take care of paperwork and meet with his senior staff. Though he was still committed to handling the larger spot fires personally, the worst of them were under control. His next problem was dealing with one of the root causes of those spot fires. He picked up another briefing and read the title: NSA metadata analysis of suspected Guerrilla Radio members. While crushing the rebellion in Indianapolis would give pause to any further organized armed resistance, it had only dealt with the head of the beast. Its beating heart was the amount of bootleg media that had been allowed to flourish, the so-called Guerrilla Radio.
Though his plan for the administrative takeover of America had included provision for setbacks, he’d not properly considered the strength of an underground media. He’d thought that the media could be handled like any other issue, but he was wrong. The influence and spread of such reporting was growing daily, and was a direct threat to his efforts to bring order and stability to the country. He’d mentally added the crushing of bootleg reporting to his other key priorities: the erosion of personal freedoms that made group cohesion and security difficult, the enforcement of additional control over society, a state controlled media and a strong surveillance state. Combined, these were the only way to ensure no more attacks occurred on home soil.
He flicked through the report, skimming the background information and going straight for the recommendation: that to stop the flouting of the law by Guerrilla Radio and its supporters, all confirmed or suspected members should be detained immediately and indefinitely. Richard tossed the report across the desk with disgust. Whoever was being paid for this analysis had no idea. The problem with journalists was that they were martyrs, the lot of them. Start jailing them and they’d treat it like a badge of honor, meaning the problem would just spread as more reporters became outraged enough to join the cause. More members would lead to more coverage, which would lead to more fires that needed to be put out. Enough of those could cause an inferno he couldn’t control.
He picked up his phone and waited for his receptionist to pick up. “Sandra? Get me Rick Sullivan at the NSA.”
Despite the hour, he was certain that Sullivan would be available. Finally, the hold music stopped, replaced by a quiet voice. “Hi, Richard.”
“Not too late I hope, Rick?” Richard lifted the report again. “I’m looking at the report about Guerrilla Radio that you guys sent over. It’s a piece of work.”
“Yeah, one of my best guys put it together.”
“Hire new guys. It’s garbage.” There was silence on the other end. Richard exhaled slowly. There was no point in further mocking one of his key allies in government. “Tell me what we know, Rick.”
“Given the apparent importance of Guerrilla Radio to the broader resistance, we’ve used intercepts to establish the network of Guerrilla Radio members. Our working theory is that if we can deal with the c
ommunications side of things then we can kill any further armed resistance in utero. But we needed to know who’s involved first.”
“And do we?”
There was a slight pause. “The list isn’t complete and anyone using a VPN or decent encryption will be invisible to us, but it’s a decent start. We estimate that scooping up the known suspects will reduce Guerilla Radio membership by sixty-two per cent and degrade their capacity by somewhere in the vicinity of eighty per cent.”
Richard was silent for a moment. He’d learned to be suspicious of the intelligence community whenever he had to make a decision based on their analysis. They always painted a complete picture with clear recommendations, but it was a mirage. There was always more to the picture, something untold. He treated their information as one factor in his decision-making. He trusted only his own analysis and his own decisions.
“Richard?”
He took another sip of his coffee. “I’m here. Are we able to track the most common associates of the Guerrilla Radio members? Family, close friends, that kind of thing?”
“Of course.” Sullivan sounded confused. “Easy. Our interns could do that.”
Richard was surprised. “You have interns?”
“Figure of speech.”
Richard didn’t laugh. “Okay. I want a list showing me the two most important social links for each member on your initial list. If you’re unsure, make your best guess.”
“To what end?”
“We’re going to send some people to prison.”
“It’ll be thousands of people.” Sullivan scoffed. “How will you detain them?”
“Let me worry about that. You just get me that list. You have six hours.”
Richard hung up the phone, stood and stretched his back. He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window that offered a commanding view of the Mall. When he wavered in his conviction, he just had to stare at it for long enough to know that it was all worth it. Great men had led the country from Washington, and he’d grown tired of waiting for another one to step forward. The country had decayed and chaos had become the norm. He was determined. Order would be brought to America, whatever the cost. It would be his gift to the American people.
State of Emergency: Jack Emery 2 Page 11