“I’ve got an updated brief for you; I’ll wait until we get back to the office.”
“That’s fine by me. He asked about the fires, too. I told him I didn’t know. We’ll have to think up some bullshit story to tell him. I, for one, am not going to tell him there was another riot at the food warehouse again.”
“Yeah, that would not be good.”
“How many killed?” the general asked.
“The Army reckons about twenty-five, and a bunch more wounded. They’re mopping up now. It could’ve been worse.”
“Did they declare martial law again?”
“Yeah, and got everyone off the streets. If things don’t change soon, if we don’t get some food to feed these people, things are going to get a lot worse. We only have a few hundred ‘soldiers’, half of them not even trained, civilians mostly. They are getting scared. No electricity, no water, no heat. They’re starting to tear down buildings for the firewood.”
“I know, and our ‘leader’ is more concerned about getting those codes.”
“I’m at a loss,” the sailor, said, shaking his head as he drove through an empty, slush-covered street.
They drove silently the rest of the way to the Pentagon, and the Lt. Commander parked the Hum-Vee right in front of the door, completely disregarding the old parking lot. They exited and walked up to a guarded door, where an armed sentry stood at attention and held the door open for the two men. They walked silently down lantern-lined corridors, their footfalls echoing loudly in the empty building.
They reached a conference room in the “D” Ring, or second most outer of the five concentric rings of the building. The Lt. Commander opened the door for the general and the man entered, taking off his overcoat and tossing it on an empty chair. There was another man, dressed in casual civilian clothes, and he made a move to get up and leave when the two officers entered.
“No, John. You can stay,” the general told the man, waving absently for him to remain seated, “So, Lt. Commander, talk to me.”
The navy man remained standing, fiddling with some papers on the table, cleared his throat and began to speak. “Sir, what we’ve been able to gather from the still-running DoD network, is that the first time the system was accessed using the National Command Authority codes was approximately six years ago, about eighteen months after The Situation.”
“Six years ago?”
“Yes sir. It was accessed once, for about fifteen minutes, then whoever logged on, logged off, and it wasn’t accessed again until September, about four months ago. It was at this time they called up, and then tasked a KH11 satellite for a simple visual, radar, and infrared scan of a location somewhere in the middle of the South Pacific.”
“Can you tell from where it was accessed? A location, maybe?” the general asked, sitting up in his chair.
“No, sir. Safeguards in the system prevent us from locating the site. If it actually had been the NCA, in the time of war, it would safeguard his location.”
“So we have no idea where this person is?”
“That’s correct, sir.” the Commander said. “Okay, go on. What did he take pictures of?”
“An atoll, named Volivoli. It was a disused military pre-position stockpile location, and a Navy weather station. Other than that, it’s been forgotten since 1945.”
“No shit. Never heard of it.”
“Nor had I, sir. I had to look it up in the archives. Whoever it was accessed the system again, in the middle of November, targeted a single ICBM, and launched it at the same location,” the navy man stated, matter-of-factly, and then sat down with a plop into a chair across from the general.
The general sat for a few minutes and let out a long, low whistle. “Are you sure?” he asked, a look of astonishment.
The civilian, who had up until then been silent, spoke up. “With one hundred percent certainty. It was a Minuteman III, from the 319th Missile Command in Offutt, outside of Omaha.”
“Holy shit,” the general whispered. “So we have no idea who this joker is, or why he did it?”
He looked around the dimly lighted room and swore to himself. The lanterns gave off an eerie glow, and he wished for the cool, hard glow of florescent lights. The Pentagon’s emergency generators had long since expended their supply of fuel, and supplies of the precious diesel fuel were becoming rarer and rarer, as the supplies in the surrounding area had been used up by the ever expanding population in the city. They had just enough electricity saved up in banks of deep-cell batteries in the basement to boot up a few computers once or twice a day.
“That’s about it,” the civilian said.
“Did it have anything to do with this alleged ‘battle’ out there?”
“We think so. The comms we’ve been able to intercept are in a code I’ve never seen before, some language from the islands, and Pidgin English. It’s hard to decipher,” the Commander said.
“Tell me what you do know, Tom,” the general said.
“For a few years right after the Situation, one of our destroyers, the USS Hughes, was roaming around the Pacific Rim, and from what we gathered from the plain English transmissions, the captain wasn’t on a ‘humanitarian’ mission. We think someone from Honolulu lured this ship to Volivoli, then when it got there, they nuked it.”
“Sort of like using a sledgehammer to kill a fly,” the general said.
“That’s about it, sir. Crude, but effective,” stated the naval officer. “There’s been nothing more since the launch a few months ago. Until yesterday, that is.”
“Oh?” the general uttered. “What did they do this time?”
“Another satellite tasking.”
“Where?” the general demanded.
“Arizona of all places, a speck on the map, smaller than that atoll, the town of Tusayan. Or to be more exact, the airport there.”
“What the hell is there? Is there anything of military value there?”
“It’s a few kilometers south of the Grand Canyon, nothing there really, except for a gas station, a post office and the airport.”
“Another nuke target?”
“I doubt it,” the Commander said, wrapping up his briefing. “Are you going to tell the president about this?”
“I’m going to have to at some point. I don’t think it would be wise right now.”
“Is he that bad?” the civilian asked.
“John, you have no idea. He goes into these rages. Almost like temper tantrums from a three year old. It reminds me of the stories of Hitler, and that scares the begeebus out of me,” the general said, shaking his head.
“Cult of personality,” John remarked.
“Exactly. He was good at it in the beginning, as you’re well aware. However, now that the food is running out and we’ve stripped all of the fuel from nearby, he’s losing his grip. Two years ago, he could go out and make a speech, and everything would be okay. Now? Shit…”
“The natives are getting restless,” the Commander opined. “There was still plenty of fuel to keep the lights on two years ago and everyone had a full belly. That’s no longer the case.” “He is the president,” the general pointed out in the absent man’s defense.
“Maybe so, under the laws from before the Situation,” John conceded. “Does it all really matter anymore?”
“It’s up to the three of us to try to hold it together. If it takes listening to our president, then so be it,” the general stated with little conviction.
The three of them sat silently for some time, contemplating what they should do. All had thoughts, none of which they were comfortable sharing.
“It’s a house of cards, and it’s about to come crumbling down all around us unless we can find a solution. That’s our job, gentlemen. Like it or not, we swore an oath, and now we’ve got to deliver on that promise. The man over on Pennsylvania Avenue expects our loyalty,” the general said.
“To what end?” the Commander asked.
“Is this what we all wanted when he put the gov
ernment back together?” John asked.
“What ‘government’ is that, gentlemen? We have one man who, granted, is by law the president. Then again, we have no laws left to speak of, except a quasi-military state with him at our head,” the Commander stated flatly.
“Until we can get the power on, get food to everyone, we’ve got to do exactly as we have been doing,” the general said.
“I suggested a year ago that we should set up farms, start growing our food. You even brought that up to him, General. He shot that idea down in flames,” the Commander reminded them.
“Yes, he said that there was plenty of food lying around all over the country, there was no need to start up farms,” the general spat.
“That’s not the case! You know it, John knows it, I know it! The food, what’s left that hasn’t been spoiled or contaminated by vermin, will soon run out. Cult of Personality is correct, just like Joe Stalin. His empire collapsed, too, when they couldn’t feed their people anymore. I fear this will turn ugly, sooner rather than later,” the Navy man stated.
“I just know this; he gave me a direct order tonight. We have to find out who’s been accessing the satellites. Find him, and get the codes off of him, by whatever means are available,” the general said, crossing his arms across his chest.
“So martial law is still in effect, and we’ll continue to do summary executions to the people who only want to be fed?”
“That’s about it, Commander,” the general said with a finality that slammed down like a lead weight.
“What about food?” John asked.
“We’ll send out foraging parties again starting tomorrow. Send them west this time,” the general said, standing and picking up his coat. “I’ll leave that to you, Commander. Get it done.”
“Yes, sir,” the Commander replied, as the general quickly left the room.
John Thompson, who had been an analyst with the CIA before the Situation, stood also. “I’m going to head home myself, Tom,” he said to the Naval officer, who only nodded and dove into a mound of papers he’d spread out before him on the conference table. John grabbed his jacket and headed out through the rabbit warren of corridors, through the doors out to the parking lot, that in years passed would have been packed to all hours of the night with busy little worker bees in the vast military complex. His vehicle, a ten year old Ford, sat alone near the entrance. He’d had it converted to run on propane last year, and it was one of the few non-military vehicles to be seen in the city.
He made his way through the empty city towards Georgetown, where he shared a brownstone with a woman he’d met a few years prior. He was stopped at a roadblock, and his ID was checked by a dirty and disheveled sentry. While he was waiting, he couldn’t help but notice a group of several civilians, standing in line, carrying all their worldly possessions, were waiting to be allowed entrance into the city. He shook his head in disbelief. Even now, people were straggling in, looking to find some hope, some help to survive. Didn’t they know they stood a better chance out there on their own? He shook his head as the sentry waved him on, and he drove off, leaving the sad scene behind him.
John drove mechanically, his thoughts a jumble, and somehow managed to find his way to the formerly upscale neighborhood. He looked at the façade of his home and smiled ruefully. He’d have never have been able to afford to live in such a place before, not on his meager CIA salary.
He noticed a light in the window and smiled. He exited the car, bounded the steps, and entered the house. Still dressed in shabby scrubs from her shift at the clinic where she and a few other nurses and doctors worked, his girlfriend came up to him and hugged him tightly. Barbra looked tired, and her chestnut hair was a mop, but her eyes still twinkled at the sight of John. He hugged her back, and took in her scent with closed eyes. He felt like crying, though he’d never let it show. He had to be the rock for this lady.
“Did you ask them today?” she asked, taking his hand and leading him into the living room where a fire was burning nicely in the colonial style fireplace.
“I never got the chance, babe,” he said dejectedly, flopping into an expensive leather easy chair by the fire. The woman fixed him a drink, three fingers of vodka, neat, in a rocks glass and handed it to him.
“John, we need more medical supplies. We’re almost out of everything.”
“I know. The president has us on something else.”
“John, what could be more important than medicine? Do you we’ve had almost a hundred people die of influenza this winter?” she said, making herself a drink and sitting on the arm of the chair.
“I know, I’m doing all I can. We’re trying to find more food for everyone. The president thinks that’s the priority right now,” he said, not daring to bring up the real reason. She’d have flipped her lid if she knew the crazy fucker was looking for the codes for a few thousand thermonuclear weapons.
“John, food is going to be the last thing everyone will be worrying about if people start dropping dead of sicknesses that we can easily prevent.”
“I know. It’s like we’ve slipped into another Dark Age,” he agreed, sipping his vodka, and rubbing her back affectionately, staring into the fire.
“You’ve got that right. It’s damn near medieval the way it’s getting out there,” she said in a tired voice. “The whole infrastructure, as threadbare and raggedy as it is, is about to collapse, and he’s got you out searching for more canned corned beef and beans. If he’d just get the water back on, that would help so much with the sanitary conditions. We got word from another clinic; you know the one over on Baltimore Avenue? They now have three confirmed cases of Bubonic Plague.”
“Bubonic Plague, are they sure?” John asked, dumbfounded.
“Yes, they’re sure.”
“Oh my God, it is becoming medieval,” he sighed.
“Once it warms up, it’ll get even worse,” Barbra stated, taking his glass and refilling it with more of the clear liquid. “We can’t handle what we’ve got now.”
“I saw more refugees coming into the city tonight on the way home,” he said, suddenly feeling very tired. He pinched the bridge of his nose and then rubbed his eyes, trying to ward off a headache he felt coming on.
“That’s insane! We can’t handle the people we already have!”
“I know. There was another riot earlier at the warehouse.”
“I heard the shooting from the clinic,” she told him, returning to his chair with his fresh drink.
“I don’t know what to do, babe. Everything is telling me to run, get the fuck out of here, but part of me wants to help make it work,” John told her, taking the tumbler and putting his arm around her waist.
“Why don’t we do that, honey? We can pack up and leave tonight!” she pleaded.
“You know I can’t do that. Not right now.”
“Then when? We have to get out of here! We can go to Florida, or down to Mexico, anyplace but here!”
“Honey, when I go back to the Pentagon tomorrow, I’ll give an order to whoever is in charge of this next expedition to get more medical supplies too. Let’s give it some more time, okay?”
“Do you promise?”
“Yes, I promise. I know how important it is.”
“Good. And I mean it about getting away from here. This place is rotting away from the inside, and I want to be far, far away when it finally collapses,” she said, setting aside her drink and sliding into his lap.
Barbra wrapped her arms around him and buried her face into his neck. He held her tightly and let his thoughts bounce around inside his mind. She was dead-on with her summation that the city was rotting away from within, though hadn’t that always been the case? The players changed from time to time, but the game was always the same.
“I promise. Let me work out some things here first, and in the spring, we’ll head south,” he told her, brushing a few strands of hair away from her eyes, that in the firelight, sparkled like star shine.
She had been looking
into the fire, and when she turned her head and faced him, he saw she’d been crying. Her sad blue eyes looked at him pleadingly, and it broke his heart. They’d met shortly after the Situation at a convenience store, and he’d quickly fallen head over heels in love with her.
They’d both lost people who were close to them, and they were now closer to each other than they’d ever been to their former spouses. He took his thumb and gently wiped away her tears from her cheek, and kissed her tenderly.
“I mean it, John. I feel that something terrible is going to happen here,” she said after they broke their kiss.
“I feel it too. But I can’t leave yet.”
“We’ll wait, but not much longer,” she said. “Because if I have to stay here one more year, I’m afraid I’ll go mad.”
“I feel the same way.”
“Remember when it all first happened? How everyone, even though they were still in shock, was friendly and wanting to help?”
“Yes, I remember,” he said, nodding.
“It’s not like that anymore. People are angry. They’re angry at the government, angry at what they think is the government, and it’s not, is it, Johnny? It’s really a dictatorship now isn’t it?” Barbra said, which was what everyone was beginning to realize. “I think you’re right, babe,” he sighed, not knowing what else to say. The government, the country he’d loved for so long, the country he’d spent the better part of his adult life working for, had dissolved right in front of his eyes, gone without even a whimper, and that thought saddened him to the core.
“Johnny, we had one chance to make things right again, one giant golden opportunity to get back to the principles, and they fucked it up for good.”
“Maybe not, maybe there’s hope out there still.”
“I hope so, I really do,” she said, kissing him again. “Are you hungry?”
“Not really. I kind of lost my appetite a few hours ago.”
“I’m not hungry either. Let’s go to bed, okay?” “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day,” he said with a grin and the both walked out of the room, leaving the fire in the fireplace to burn out.
One Man's War Page 6