"It just doesn't work anymore. The country is broken and I have no damned idea how to fix it except by shooting half the people I know and putting the other half in prison. That should leave the four of us to go fishing and sailing. What a screwed up country. You're sitting there like a Cheshire Cat who just swallowed a mouse, all puffed up and thinking like you normally do. Spill it Mr. Vice-President or I'll shoot you first," said Barrett.
Gwinnett chuckled, looked over the top of his glasses, nodded once. "Let me summarize. You're saying the USA is a third world country living in the shell of a first and there's no way forward using the democratic principles of our founding fathers. Every avenue of progress is shut by the money groups or competing interests. We agree on this and yes, I do understand. I've been giving this a great deal of thought over the last few weeks."
Gwinnett lifted his hand and raised fingers as he spoke. "There are also issues you didn't mention but are significant, including cultural revolution, deterioration in race relations, and artificial intelligence getting out of control. I could go on if you like." He lowered his hand, put both hands behind his head and slumped further down.
"You are just making my bloody day," replied the President. "So now, instead of the problems, give me your solution, my tactical genius of a friend."
Gwinnett never moved. "You may not like my thinking. But here it is. Every time in history a country gets into the condition we're in, there's a General or Colonel somewhere in the ranks who takes it upon himself to sort out the situation. He takes control, imposes order and leads the country. It's never easy, people die and shit happens over the next fifty to seventy years. But that's what happens and if you think it's not being planned right now by those Sworn Defenders, you've got your head up your ass."
He watched as his best friend absorbed and considered his summary, shook his head and looked at him, "So we let the military take over?"
"Somebody, military or private, will do this and we can either be part of this and lead from the front or be behind and run over by one of their tanks."
"Fuck. You want me to be the President who leads a revolution against Congress with tanks?"
"Either lead or bleed. Their blood or yours. Your call. Unless you have another way."
Gwinnett pushed himself upright on the couch and then stood a few feet away from Barrett.
The two men studied at each other.
Barrett dropped his eyes first and turned away. "I can't make that call right away. I'm off to New York City in two weeks. Let me see what's happening there, talk to the Mayor and local politicians, get a sense of the place and we can talk on the Tuesday after I get back. In the meantime, I want you to chat with Atkinson from NSA and get his evaluation of the mental state of the Forces. He'll have up-to-date data. Make sense?" said Barrett.
"Yes, Mr. President." Gwinnett slipped into his VP role.
Dropping back into his friend role, Gwinnett pushed Barrett's shoulder with his fist, "You be careful on this one. I don't like the thought of you going near a city kill-zone so soon after we leveled chunks of it. There will be some very angry people, including Oath-Keepers, looking to settle scores."
"Get the hell out of my office before you try to make me stand in the corner. I won't die; there's a little matter of a golf bet needing to be evened out. Give Charlotte a hug for me."
"Yes, Mr. President, Sir," Gwinnett gave him a mock salute receiving a big smile and chuckle from his best friend.
30/06/2047 12:00
"There is a buzz in government circles this morning after it was revealed that QuellCorp offices in South Carolina were visited by Internal Revenue Auditors. Nobody is willing to go on record about it but apparently the IRS is investigating some "irregularities" in their accounting. This is Ed Gordon for ZeeVid news."
30/06/2047 14:10
George wasn't in the mood for pleasantries this morning. "How in hell did Gordon get those call logs?"
"No idea but I have our new hire on it. Looks like more hacking of our secure network," replied Sarah. "I told him the first thing to do was fix our voice-system security."
"Belay that. Get into ZeeVid's system. Delete those files and any backups. Set up a backdoor so we can access any time. Then fix our systems. This has got to stop. Priority one."
"Yes, Sir. Anything else?"
"No. I'm taking care of it from this end. Crazy damned system. But you get your end fixed. Gotta go," said George disconnecting.
02/07/2047 10:15
The others signed off one by one leaving the room dead.
03/07/2047 14:00
"I have le
arned from a local Anonymous cell that Sarah Gwinnett and President Gwinnett conspired to hide QuellCorp troops from local authorities and investigation into the gang slaughter in Savannah. Several months ago, QuellCorp troops wiped out the entire gang leadership in Savannah but were not charged or investigated for these murders. The troops, led by Sergeant Ian Fraser have disappeared, their location unknown. But we have conclusive proof of this that will stand up in court. We have not yet given it to authorities but are holding it in secure storage. This is Ed Gordon For ZeeVid News somewhere in Washington D.C."
04/07/2047 10:30
"I don't know what to say, Charlie. We've talked about this before and there's nothing you could do. It's happening across the entire Midwest right now and it doesn't make it any easier I know, but the marching orders came from head office yesterday. Time to ease the balance sheets and it looks like many of us who signed the loans won't have a job much longer either. Doesn't matter what the crop looks like, head office is cutting their losses," said Matt, his bank manager.
"Fucking banks. Fucking weather. God damn it, the crop looks good" replied Charlie to an understanding nod from his oldest and best friend.
"I know. But the new State VP isn't interested in farming and what "might" happen, he's a young buck with an M.B.A. All he's interested in is protecting the bottom line on the monthly reports and his own ass," said Matt. He shook his head and his face mirrored Charlie's disgust and anger.
"Let's get it done," said Charlie. He continued sitting straight up in the old wooden kitchen chair but his shoulders slumped. He shook his head a few inches back and forth and his eyes closed.
They were old friends these two. They'd sat beside each other throughout high school, played defense on the football team, their families shared a big centre pew halfway up the church and they had bought each other coffee for more years than either cared to remember.
Particularly now as they sat across from each other in the large, sun-filled farmhouse kitchen. The soft yellow kitchen walls bounced the light around and softened the glare. Open windows allowed the dry, dusty, morning breeze to pass through the surrounding trees and cool down the room. This would only last until high noon when the sun baked the house like everything else in the American midwest. The big, scarred table they used had seen five generations of children grow up and hosted more celebrations and wakes than anyone could remember. The table had even seen its share of bad news delivered by bankers and today's would add to the tally.
Charlie opened his eyes and rubbed his hands across the wood in front of him. He'd sat in this same spot his entire life and knew every whorl of every grain in the table. He didn't raise his eyes as Matt continued.
"The good news is you've paid enough on the loan and interest, the value of the discounted, used machinery covers the outstanding balance. I have a very little leeway on this so we're taking the machinery but leaving you the farm. You're one of the very lucky ones, most of the rest will lose it all."
Charlie's hands never left the table, but he raised his head to meet Matt's stare.
"So where are you going to sell the damned things. Nobody around here has any money after five failed harvests in a row. No crop insurance, no fucking government help, no bank, no water. Where?" Charlie said.
Matt sighed. Glanced at Charlie's hands gripping the table's edge. "I'm told flatbeds are on the way to pick them up and they've been sold up into Canada. They still get rain in their northern areas and enough heat units to get decent harvests so they're buying everything we have. Somebody will be around in the next day or two to haul them out of here. I hate to mention this, but I have to warn you, and you have to sign you've been warned, the machinery is in good operating condition and you won't sabotage it before we pick it up.
This has happened more than once and the bank has started charging and going after the farms themselves. So in your case, you still have the farm and small utility machinery but you'll lose even that, lose the house and everything if those machines aren't working when we pick them up. Damn I feel shitty saying it, but it's in my checklist to cover," he finished. He couldn't meet Charlie's eyes.
Charlie's shoulders slumped further. "Where do I sign?" He folded his hands on the table.
Matt flipped the briefcase in front of him open, pulled the papers out, laid them in front of Charlie. "Sign where the sticky tags are pointing." He held out a pen.
Charlie took the pen and worked through the papers, signing each one carefully and slowly. He pushed the documents back to Matt, hung his head, looked down at his big, scarred hands against the smooth maple. He raised his head and met Matt's eyes.
Both men waited for the other to speak.
Matt dropped his eyes first. "Fuck," he said, dropping his official role. "This is a god-awful stupid job in a shitty situation."
"You got that right, buddy. Damn Canadians. Never did like those socialist bastards," said Charlie.
Charlie stopped, finished, with the understanding it was done, nothing more to say, nothing more to do but figure out a way forward as his family had done for almost two hundred years on this land. There'd be a way forward, there always was, but he couldn't see it for the sudden tears filling his eyes.
"See you Sunday?" asked Matt.
A moment's hesitation, a small nod, and a quiet "Yeah," from Charlie kept their friendship alive.
17/07/2047 10:25
When his secret service detail came into his office unannounced and without knocking, Gwinnett knew something had gone very wrong. One look at the lead agent's face told him more than he wanted to hear.
"When and what happened?"
Agent Simpson stopped in front of Gwinnett's desk, took a deep breath before delivering the news. "Sir, the President's chopper took several rockets as it flared for landing in Central Park. It's crashed and we have not heard whether the President survived but under standing orders, Sir, you are to go to the White House and assume command until the status of the President is confirmed and communication reestablished. We're here to take you, Sir." Simpson started around the desk to Gwinnett.
"Of course," said Gwinnett. He remained motionless, stunned and feeling disconnected from the news. The President might be dead but that happened to other politicians, not to his best friend. This kind of thing happened on the news, not in his office. Gwinnett heard the agent speaking and wondered at how far away the voice was and remembered how he'd felt like this during his combat days. Some days he expected to die and got this unreal sense, a feeling of being separate from his body as he fought and killed men. But he didn't expect it in the middle of Washington D.C. when he and his family and friends were supposed to be protected.
The agent reached Gwinnett. "Sir, we're going now," Simpson repeated, taking Gwinnett's arm and lifting him from his chair.
The physical contact snapped something in Gwinnett and he focused his eyes and took in the office. As he did so his old Ranger training kicked in and he reconnected with this developing situation. On his feet, he looked Simpson in the eye, and noted the recognition there of his return to command fitness. The agent didn't release him, but instead kept him moving towards the open office door. Gwinnett vaguely remembered a briefing about this emergency protocol in his first day of the job. As he went through the door, a second agent took his other arm. There were more agents than normal in the hallway and he was surrounded as he half-walked and was half-carried to the waiting armored SUV.
The thought he needed protection in his own house from his own troops made him even sadder. This was not a good day.
"Get my wife from wherever she is and take her to the White House."
"Already done, Sir. She should arrive two minutes after you get there. The First Lady has been notified, and she's being taken to the White House as well," said Simpson.
Gwinnett found himself squeezed between two linebacker-sized men in the back seat of the armored SUV. A dozen other armored cars surrounded his, front back and sides, and the cavalcade screamed down the cente
r of Washington streets, sirens blaring, motorcycles clearing streets and holding traffic so the black armored cars could speed, unstopped, straight onto the White House grounds. It was the fastest time ever recorded on this route.
Black-suited agents surrounded Gwinnett as he got out of the car. Two agents took his arms and half lifted him off the ground so his toes just touched. They ran him into the building and away from open space.
Once inside, the agents released him and Agent Simpson apologized, "Sorry Sir, but we needed to get you out of the open as fast as possible. Apologies for handling you like that."
"No problem, Mr. Simpson. Thank you for the safe trip, " Gwinnett replied without thinking. As he turned to leave for the Oval Office to be interrupted.
"Sir, may I suggest the Situation Room. It's set up and functioning as per standing orders," said Simpson.
Gwinnett thought about this and almost said he wanted to go to the Oval Office instead. He knew it was better to be seen leading instead of hiding in the deeps. But then he got his first true political insight and understood he'd be attacked for assuming the Oval Office could be used if the President was still alive. Instead, he nodded, turned and followed the agent to the Situation Room.
"Status update," he commanded as he walked through the door.
"Sir, the attackers were..."
Gwinnett interrupted the Colonel giving the report holding his hand up, "The President's condition."
"Sir, on the operating table. Extensive damage, unresponsive when medics got to the chopper. Has shrapnel wounds to torso and major head trauma."
2047: Hell In A Handbasket Page 16