That operation so many years ago, early in Tim’s Army career, an operation so black, so covert, that in the old days Tim wasn’t even permitted to think about it, let alone speak of it. It was supposed to have been fast, quiet, in and out, never to be mentioned by anyone. But how was he ever supposed to erase the memories that were seared into his head, into his soul?
And now, this man from the past had crept back into his thoughts at a time when he needed all his wits about him. It nagged at him, and he couldn’t make sense of it.
What did it mean? Tim didn’t know, so he withdrew that thought from his mind, knowing it was far too late for him anyway. He only hoped that Jerry would be able to finish it off. He knew that Jerry and his men were too late to save him, but maybe not too late to save everything else from a far greater catastrophe for the future: this obese man standing before him.
No words were spoken by anyone for a few moments, and everyone turned at the sound of the door opening again. A very attractive black woman entered, carrying a silver tray with a cut lead crystal tumbler filled with water.
She came right up to the president and with a smile, held out the tray to the fat man that suddenly reminded Tim of Boss Hogg from the old Dukes of Hazzard TV show of his youth.
“Aspirin for your headache, sir,” she said sweetly.
“Thank you, Alicia,” the fat man replied, taking the pills from the tray, along with the glass. As quickly as she came, the woman departed silently.
Headache, Tim thought. Him too, eh? It seemed to be going around this morning.
* * *
The man and the woman had been walking for weeks, their car finally giving up the ghost in North Carolina. The roads were increasingly bad the further south they went, most long ago overgrown with kudzu, making driving impossible anyway.
It was late in the morning, and they had stopped along the side of Georgia Highway 77 to rest in the cool, pleasant morning. They had crossed into Georgia from South Carolina earlier, and were now in what had once been Elbert County.
The man took a long drink of water from a canteen, then handed it to the woman. After taking a drink, she smiled at the man and said, “John, what’s that?”
He turned to look where she was pointing, and saw a rock structure, obviously manmade, sitting just off the road on a hill. He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s kind of odd, though, sitting out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“Maybe it’s some Civil War monument,” she said.
“I don’t think so; I don’t recall any battle fought out this way.”
“Let’s go take a look,” Barbra said, bounding off.
He had to smile at her enthusiasm. Since they’d escaped from the hell of Washington, DC a few weeks ago, the further south the pair had gotten the better they both felt.
Except for this morning, the headache that had been creeping up all morning reminded him with a vengeance. Even so, he reveled in her glee, and chased after her in the tall grass. He caught up with her near the big stone structure where she was looking at something in the ground. He came up behind her, putting his arms around her waist, nuzzling her neck.
“It says it’s the Georgia Guidestones Center cluster, erected March 22, 1980,” she read aloud.
He looked over her shoulder and saw the same, and engraved in the stone, just below that sentence, it read, ‘Let these be guidestones to an Age of Reason.’
“I remember hearing something about these when I was still in college. Some unknown group had them erected back in the 1980’s as a guide for a future culture after an apocalypse,” he told her.
They walked hand in hand over to the larger structure. It was three stones standing together, like a smaller Stonehenge. There were ten guidelines listed in several different languages. The circled the stones, and when they found the one that had the inscriptions in English, they began to read aloud.
“’Number one, maintain humanity under 500,000,000 in perpetual balance with nature.’”
Barbra read the second line: “’Guide reproduction wisely — improving fitness and diversity.’”
“‘Unite humanity with a living new language,’” John read.
Starting to choke up, Barbra read, “‘Rule passion — faith — tradition — and all things with tempered reason.’”
John felt overwhelmed. He pulled her close, continuing, “‘Protect people and nations with fair laws and just courts.’”
“‘Let all nations rule internally resolving external disputes in a world court,’” Barbra said through trembling lips.
“‘Avoid petty laws and useless officials,’” John read, then chuckled.
“‘Balance personal rights with social duties,’” Barbra read aloud.
“‘Prize truth — beauty — love — seeking harmony with the infinite,’” John said, teary-eyed himself now.
Barbra read the final line: “‘Be not a cancer on the Earth — Leave room for nature — Leave room for nature.’ John, honey?”
“Yeah?” he said, holding her tightly.
“Do you think it’ll ever happen?”
“I don’t know, baby. I do know they could have saved some money carving this thing,” he told her, running his hands through her hair.
“How?”
“All they had to do was engrave ‘don’t be dicks’ on it. That should have been enough to get their message across.”
Barbra giggled through her tears. “Well, mister CIA, let’s not dick around, and get our asses to the Keys.”
“Sure thing, honey,” John said. He took her hand and they walked off together towards the highway, never looking back.
* * *
“So,” said the president, looking at Tim. “You didn’t come all this way empty-handed. You have the codes?”
“I believe the sergeant had them, sir,” the general said. “I’ve sent someone to bring them up.”
The fat man nodded, sat back down in the high-backed leather chair, and bore holes into Tim with cold, empty eyes. Tim returned the cold stare with one of his own. The headache he’d had all morning was pounding in his skull, making it difficult to think straight.
His mind went back, to the vision of the Hercules slamming into the mountain; of Jimenez coldly picking off each of the soldiers who were sent by this man; of the vision of Robyn lying, bleeding and battered in the back of the Hum-Vee; and he wanted to lunge out at this prig, wrap his fingers around his fat neck, and squeeze until the man’s head popped.
As quickly as that thought arose, it faded. He thought again of that odd message earlier… ‘Dan Kruger from Korotonga sends his best wishes.’ Had he really survived too? What was Korotonga?
The sound of the door opening again drew his attention, and the attractive woman breezed in. She walked up silently to the president and handed over a battered and dog-eared spiral-bound notepad that was very familiar to Tim.
The president took the book from her hands and paged through the notepad. He frowned, paging paged deeper into the book, then with a disgusted sigh, tossed the book to the general.
“I can’t make anything out in this.”
The general opened the notebook and started to page through it, frowning as well. “I don’t know what this is, Mr. President, but it’s not the codes for the nukes.”
“What?” the president shouted, standing up and circling the desk, almost tripping over himself in the process. He snatched the book from the general’s hands, and looked through it again. Beads of sweat were forming on the man’s forehead and his face was turning a deep shade of purple.
It looked to Tim that he was about to have a stroke, and he smiled in grim satisfaction.
“What the fuck is this?” the fat man shouted at Tim. “Where are my codes?”
“Oh, those codes,” Tim said. “Those codes were vaporized when I nuked Volivoli.”
“You— you nuked… you nuked where?” he sputtered, inching nearer to Tim menacingly.
“Uh, sir, we uh, w-we neglected to tell you,�
� the general stuttered.
“Tell me what?” he asked in a shout, never taking his eyes off of Tim.
“The sergeant major ordered a nuclear strike on an atoll in the South Pacific, sometime last year.”
“He what?” the fat man shrieked.
“We thought it was best that you didn’t know, sir,” the general said meekly.
“We? Who the fuck is ‘we’?, Not that bastard John from the CIA, was it?”
“It was all of us. We thought it would’ve been counterproductive.”
“I’ll tell you what is ‘counterproductive, general,” the fat man responded, his voice low and dangerous. “What’s counterproductive is this man standing here in front of us, barring and blocking my absolute power!”
The president spun towards Tim, and in a flash that belied his bulk, lunged at him. He hit Tim with the full force of his weight, knocking them both to the carpeted floor.
“Where are my codes?!” he screamed, spittle flying from his mouth, fat sausage-like fingers trying to gain a grip around Tim’s neck.
Tim, slightly winded by the attack, looked up into the screaming man’s face and smiled. “They’re on the corner of buy a map and go fuck yourself.”
He then balled up his fist, and in a short rabbit punch, jabbed the president in the solar-plexus, knocking the big man off of him. The fat man let out an ‘oof’, but Tim, his reflexes faster, rolled on top of the floundering fat man and began punching him in the face.
“Help me! Shoot him, goddamn you!” the president squealed, and the general pulled out a Beretta M9 from under his tunic. He thumbed off the safety and aimed the pistol at the two figures rolling around at his feet.
Tim saw this out of the corner of his eyes, and spun away just as the general pulled the trigger. The sound of the pistol firing in the office was deafening, and the president gasped in pain, looking immediately at the neat round hole directly in the center of his chest, his pure white Brooks Brothers shirt turning crimson in an ever widening splotch of blood.
Tim looked up at the general, who was staring in shock at what he’d just done, and leapt at him, trying to wrestle the gun away in one final act of self-preservation. Tim seized the man’s wrist and twisted, but the general backed away out of reflex, and in the process pointed the muzzle right at Tim’s chest.
There was another deafening bang, and Tim felt a burning sensation in his chest, and as if someone had cut the strings controlling him, he dropped to the floor, the weight of a thousand freight trains sitting on his chest.
Gasping for breath, he lay there, bleeding, looking right into the dying eyes of the man who had up until a few minutes ago been president.
* * *
Jimenez sat on the ground near a pile of loose soil where Izzy was buried. He’d left Robyn fast asleep. Whatever fever she’d had had broken after her bizarre dream and message from Tim, and now he sat totally alone in the world. The sky was completely overcast, and the temperature was well below freezing, not unheard of in the higher elevations on Northern Arizona.
He thought about everything that had happened, and thought it ironic that the end of the world had brought him the most happiness, however fleeting. He remembered, also, what Tim had asked him to do, wishing he had the strength to actually do it. Robyn had told him that Tim had come to her in a dream and instructed him to do it, so now he’d have to man-up. He would do it, but he didn’t have to like it.
“Taco,” Tim had instructed. “In the basement, there’s a notebook and an IVIS tablet. If things turn to shit, I need you to take them and do this one last little thing for me…”
Flipping open the IVIS tablet, Jimenez turned it on, waiting for it to boot up. He looked up at the sky, tears flowing again. He’d never cried so much in his life.
He wiped his eyes, sniffled a few times, and adjusted the satellite antenna he’d set up earlier. The program he’d opened synchronized with the geosynchronous orbiting satellite somewhere in low-Earth orbit high above him.
“I’m sorry, Robyn, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, knowing full well that Tim was right now, at this very moment, in Washington, DC. Using one finger, he typed: “DESPERADO”
Tears filled his eyes completely, and he didn’t see the single snowflake fall and land on the screen, only to melt away just as rapidly.
* * *
Johnson stood on the wing bridge shouting minor corrections out to the helmsman from time to time. They were now deep inside the Chesapeake Bay, following the wake of the British Destroyer that was leading the way.
A British officer stood next to him, face placid. The sub-lieutenant had come over to the Jeremiah O’Brian on a motor launch through turbulent seas after Johnson had ordered the ship to heave-to.
“You’re telling me, that our apparent president sent out an envoy over a year ago, and instead of the envoy telling everyone how great this guy is, they told everybody he was crazy?” Johnson asked, looking sideways at the officer.
“That’s about the long and the short of it, Captain. He told us that this man had gone crazy and things were fast going to ruin here. London decided to do something about it,” the British officer said with a curt nod.
“I don’t know how you knew about us,” Johnson replied, still not a hundred percent certain he could trust this man, but he needed to, he knew. The destroyer had enough firepower to send the old Liberty Ship to the bottom of the bay in a few minutes if the lieutenant so wished.
“We didn’t. It was blind luck on our part that we met up with you out here.”
“Sergeant Williams is sure happy to see you guys,” Johnson said.
“How’s the head, Skipper?” Suplee asked, coming over and standing beside him.
“It’s getting worse, actually,” Johnson replied, rubbing his temples.
“Mine too,” Suplee said. “Nice to have a little naval support,” he added, meaning the leading warship.
“Yeah, funny, eh?” Johnson said. The two men could now see the Seven Mile Bridge directly ahead, and Annapolis to the west between the snow squalls passing from the west over the ever-narrowing Chesapeake Bay.
“I have a bad headache myself,” the sub-lieutenant agreed.
“Seems to be going around this morning, Lieutenant,” Johnson said.
“Do you think it’s too late?” Suplee asked.
“Yeah,” Johnson said, “I do.”
Everything started to grow paler and paler all of a sudden, until in one bright flash, their whole world turned a brilliant white, erasing everything.
* * *
Tim lay on the carpet. He knew he was dying. He tried to raise his arms, but they were like dead weight, and nothing moved when he told it to. He lay on the carpet in the Oval Office, staring at the face of the dead man lying on the floor a few feet away, dead eyes staring back in mute accusation.
“Oh my God, what have I done?” he heard the general say from somewhere off a thousand miles away. Tim tried to turn his head, but all his energy was completely gone. He heard a few more sobs, then he heard the click of a hammer being cocked, followed by the general saying, “I’m so, so sorry…”
Another deafening bang came next, and then the sound of a body hitting the floor.
Tim’s vision was narrowing, things paling considerably, though his hearing was still acute. He heard the door open, then a woman gasped in horror at the grisly sight before her. His sight continued to fail, washing out as if some unseen hand was brushing whitewash over his eyes. He could hear his last breaths, gurgling and strained. He coughed, and could taste the coppery taint of blood.
Everything was turning whiter and whiter until finally his vision went white; a white so brilliantly bright as if to outshine all the suns in all the galaxies in the entire universe…
His last conscious thought was of Robyn and Holly, and of little Walter. His heart ached, but soon, all too soon, those fleeting memories were pushed aside. The white light engulfed him, his pain too. Along with his memories, it was all washed away
, like a sand castle in the rising tide.
Epilogue
Jerry Williams stood under the West Wing portico, hands in the pockets of his parka and back to the icy wind blowing across what was now an overgrown meadow in front of the White House. An M3 Bradley fighting Vehicle sat on the driveway, engine idling, its 30mm chain gun in the turret facing outward a few yards behind him.
Two of Jerry’s men had several of the White House guards on their knees, hands on their heads outside of the French doors, holding their carbines at the ready for one sly move. To the right of them, three supine forms lay under a hastily laid tarp that threatened to blow off with the next good gust.
“So, is that the president and your sergeant major?” queried the British naval sub lieutenant who was standing next to Jerry in the shadow of the portico.
“Yeah. And an Army general. I don’t know his name, but his wound is definitely self-inflicted.”
“I’ll take your word for it, Sergeant.”
The sound of a Hum-Vee pulling up beside the Bradley made both men turn. A figure got out, pulled up the collar of a Navy pea coat, and hurried over to the two men.
“Jerry, I just got off the horn with Jimenez out in Arizona,” the man said. “He’s about to fall to pieces with regret.”
“I’ll bet. I’m just happy that Minuteman III he launched decided to malfunction so spectacularly. How far up in the atmosphere do you reckon it detonated?” Jerry asked.
One Man's War Page 45