Each image depicted scenes out of some nightmare. Burned cars, bodies in the street. Smashed windows, buildings on fire. Some shots showed people running across streets, ducking fire and avoiding gangs. Others depicted gangs fighting each other openly, weapons flashing like toys in the tiny black and white image.
Above that was Chicago. This image was broadcast from the Army, courtsey of General Stapleton. The old Sears Tower was half gone. It looked like some giant had come through with a sword and sliced the building in half diagonally. The massive broken pillar glowed with a thousand fires and the rubble and destruction below was shocking in its enormity. Chicago had been gutted.
Screen after screen, America's largest and greatest cities were dying. Citizens were dying by the score, every hour. The country was hemorrhaging.
And it was his fault.
The main screen showed a map of the continental United States. Glaring red dots indicated where foreign soldiers had landed on U.S. soil. Red dots surrounded by a ring of orange were where they had started to harden their positions. Every major city on the east coast had a red dot. Some, like Washington, D.C. and Baltimore, had several red dots. New York was a big red square. Many had orange rings around them.
It was all his fault.
The main screen was a video feed from the outskirts of Boston, where National Guardsmen were in a firefight with foreign paratroopers. The screen shook every time the soldier who carried the camera on his helmet fired his weapon. Tracers shot across the image like something out of a science-fiction movie. The soldier ducked down behind an overturned car. As he turned away from the fight to reload, the scene depicted utter chaos. Office buildings on fire, tracers lanced back and forth from the roof of one building to the ground where Americans were attempting to storm the ground floor.
The soldier turned quickly, so the image reeled about in a gut-wrenching spiral, then stabilized when he found a suitable firing position. It lasted for only a second. The screen jerked violently up, then everything went white. When the camera readjusted itself, the only thing visible was rubble strewn pavement. At the corner of the screen, a dark smudge was spreading.
Two men wearing camouflage of a pattern the President could not recognize appeared to be moving towards the camera, returning fire and advancing. A boot moved across the screen and the feed was killed as effectively as the young man who had worn the camera. The President sighed. He had just seen another young American's life snuffed out, live, without sound. It wasn't fair.
And it was his fault.
"They actually let them land in New York...our own citizens...cheering," the President said, utterly disgusted.
Hank frowned. He had heard. He'd had to ratchet up the pressure on his foreign contacts over that. It was too fast, too risky. He hadn't been consulted. Somebody else had ordered go-ahead and he was damned sure going to find out who, and how. Now he was going to be forced to tip his hand before everything was in place. It was not going to be a good day. Not the way he wanted it to go. Too messy.
"Sir, after everything they've done, I hardly think calling the members of the Brotherhood our 'citizens' is..."
"All my fault," sighed the President.
"It's not your fault," the head of Homeland Security said quietly. It's mine, his mind whispered with an inner, secret smile.
The President looked over at him with haunted eyes. He hadn't slept in days. "The buck stops here," he said weakly, tapping a finger to his chest. "I'm in charge. It's my fault."
Hank Suthby shook his head. "Sir, there are elements out there beyond our control—" he gestured at the different views of dying American cities.
"I'm the President of the United States!" he barked with surprising strength. "I hold the most powerful office on the planet!" He put his face in his hands. "I'm the single most powerful man in the history of man kind...and I'm powerless to watch the destruction of my country."
Staffers in the room paused, unsure what to do or say. Most said nothing and turned back to their work or quietly left the room. The Homeland Security chief was embarrassed for his boss, but ecstatic for himself. He waited, like a cat watching a bird, for the last staffer to exit the room. It was just the two of them now.
"No element is outside my control," muttered the President like a sullen child. He looked up, eyes on the verge of tears. "In theory."
"Sir? When was the last time you got some sleep?"
The President stared down at the polished conference table. He had trouble counting the hours. "Uh...four days I think. Can't sleep. They gave me something, but it doesn't work." He looked up at the monitor bank on the wall. "Nightmares...all of it. Just like my nightmares."
"You can't do this to yourself," said Hank sympathetically. He glanced up at all the monitors. "Watching this all day will eat you alive."
"What the hell else am I supposed to do? Answer me that, Hank. The Joint Chiefs are having puppies trying to figure out who dropped the ball and let the Russians get tactical bombers over our cities. How the hell do I explain that to the American people?"
He suddenly laughed, an oddly uncomfortable sound. It was filled with self-scorn. "As if I could! There's probably only a handful of people out there who could hear my voice anyway..." Another thought occurred to his troubled mind. He turned slowly to Suthby and grew deadly serious.
"My God, if they had been ready to nuke us, it'd all be over by now. Do you understand? They walked right in. We held the damn door open for them."
Hank winced. They're moving too damn fast. I need to have another talk about this. I had no choice on the paratroopers, but we never discussed bombers. Damn Russians.
"Sir," he began.
The President waved him off. "Hank, just stop. Okay? Stop. Go gloat to someone else." He sighed, a deep, shoulder quiver of exhaustion. "I signed those papers not because I thought you'd do a good job...or even a better job than me. I signed those papers to get things going faster, get around the bureaucracy of Washington. To save this country."
Hank flushed with anger. I will truly enjoy this. He looked at his watch. 9:30am, MST. He still wasn't quite used to the hour time change here at NORAD. A side door to the room opened and one of Hank's staffers came in with a tray that held two cups of coffee. Right on time. I picked this kid for the right reasons after all.
"Excuse me sir, you wanted me to bring this in before your meeting," said the young man. He had the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
"Thank you, Charles," purred the Secretary of Homeland Security. He raised an eyebrow.
"Here you are, sir," said Charles, a knowing look on his face as he took one china cup and handed it to the President who started to slurp it down immediately. "Freshest coffee under the mountain."
"Hope it's strong," muttered the President. He ignored the feeble attempt at humor. "I need to be alert for this.” He glanced at Hank over the rim of the fine china cup. “The Joint Chiefs better have an answer for me." He put the cup down and closed his eyes.
Hank witnessed the coffee’s warmth spread throughout the President’s stomach and for a split second, when he inhaled the rich aroma, he appeared normal again. Opening his dry eyes, the President sighed, composed himself and began to toggle the commands to start the conference.
Hank sipped his own coffee and leaned back in the chair, eyes on the President. Any second now... He looked down at the coffee in surprise. Man, this stuff is pretty good.
The President's hand hovered over the transmit button. His fingers all felt thick and his vision was slightly blurred. That was new. Maybe Hank's right. I really do need some sleep. Can hardly...think...He shook his head and blinked to clear the exhaustion out of his system but it didn't work. Everything was really blurry, now. He could feel his heart begin to race. A look of panic flashed across his face. He tried to say something to Hank but nothing came out of his slowly opening mouth. His hand slowly dropped to the tabletop of its own accord.
"Wha...?" his speech was heavily slurred.
Hank leisurely finished his coffee and placed his cup back on the saucer with a delicate tink sound. He adjusted his tie and smiled at the President. "Sir, you look exhausted. You really should get some sleep."
The President tried to focus on the sound of Hank's voice and turn his head. Instead he leaned forward and his head dropped to the surface of the table with a painful thud.
Hank smiled and patted the President's check. His eyes were closed. He checked the President's pulse. Strong and slow. So, that Chechen was right. It is fast acting. Now, hopefully he'll sleep it off in about two days. That should give me plenty of time to move the National Guard troops into position outside the major cities. I've got to give those paratroopers some time to entrench before we move in...
Hank smiled again at the line of drool that formed a puddle on the table already out of the President's open mouth. "You know, I can almost tolerate you like this. You're like a sleeping baby."
He punched the intercom to the duty station, just outside the doors. In a commanding voice, touched with just the right amount of concern, he said, "Son, I need you to get a couple orderlies in here."
The door burst open before he released the transmit button and two Air Force security guards, lieutenants by the looks of them, walked into the room right on cue. Two Secret Service agents were right on their heels, eyes locked on the comatose form of their President.
"I think the President needs to be getting more sleep. I'll have a word with his physician. If you could help him get to his room?" said Hank.
The two lieutenants looked at Hank and stopped smiles that started to form. Hank narrowed his eyes just enough to make sure they understood his message: Just shut up and get him out of here. You need to handle the Secret Service, so get busy!
The Secret Service agents didn't bother with even so much as a glance towards Hank. They had eyes only for the President. The large men gently took their charge under each arm and carried him out the door, snoring. The two security guards followed them out. One put a hand on his duty pistol, the other began to mumble into his shoulder mounted radio. They closed the door softly.
Hank punched in a few more codes on the computer and within minutes, the Joint Chiefs of Staff were staring at him from the wall bank of monitors. He wiped the President's drool off the table with a handkerchief and sat imperiously in "The Chair". The Secretary of Defense raised an eyebrow.
"Where's the President?" asked the Secretary of State.
"He's sleeping. I'll take good notes," replied Hank with a disarming grin. "Now, let's get this briefing going. I've got a lot on my plate today. Where to do we stand on the foreign personnel in our cities?"
"You mean the enemy soldiers invading our country?" asked the Secretary of Defense with a frown. "They're still there." His image looked down as he read from a fresh report. "I see you ordered the National Guard to assist DHS quarantine forces around most of the big cities. I agree."
The Homeland Security chief decided it was time to test the waters of his new powers. "I didn't ask for your opinion or approval." He almost smiled at the instant flush of purple under the collar of the old man on the monitor. "Now, what's the status of our inbound soldiers?"
The head of the Army spoke up. "Our first units were caught in the invasion last night. I don't know how to explain it but some of our planes were shot down along with the Europeans. We lost a lot of good men. It's inexcusable." The General was furious and barely contained his contempt for the Air Force. Planeloads of combat hardened soldiers, shot down like so many clay pigeons by their own brothers in arms. It was worse than disgusting.
"Have you tracked down who is responsible for this tragedy, General?" asked Hank. He shifted his most imposing gaze towards the screen that displayed the face of a very downtrodden looking head of the Air Force.
"I assure you, my men had the correct codes for those planes. The codes checked out as hostile and all those damn airliners all looked the same. It was a glitch!"
"Horseshit!" retorted the Army chief. He took the loss personally, as if he had lost his own sons in the worst case of friend-fire casualties in the nation's history.
Hank enjoyed every second of it and struggled to keep a smile off his face. He was too busy watching the top Generals of both the Air Force and the Army yell and accuse each other to notice the Commandant of the Marines was watching him.
After a few more heated minutes, Hank reluctantly decided it was time to play peacemaker. "Alright, gentlemen, that's enough." Slowly the two men calmed down.
"There. Now, fighting each other is going to get us exactly nowhere. We don't have the luxury of time to bicker amongst ourselves. We need a unified front to repel this invasion. Now..."
"Excuse me, Secretary Suthby," the old Devil Dog said in a voice like rusted iron nails hitting a chalkboard at 60 miles per hour. SecDHS winced visibly. The emphasis the Marine Commandant put on the word secretary caused a slight reddening of Hank’s face.
"Acting Command-in-Chief," replied Hank with a finger up in instruction.
"Have we located the Vice President yet, Secretary Suthby?" The old Marine did it again just to agitate him, Hank was sure of it.
He adjusted his collar and loosened the suddenly constricting tie. "No," he said, a little shake in his voice. "We've got everyone prowling for him," he continued, gaining strength in his lie. "From DHS on down to local cops. If that plane survived the landing, we'll find him."
"Seems to me, he should be the person in that chair. Seems to me that his disappearance is mighty…convenient."
Hank flushed completely, a frown creased his face. The impudence of this man! Old fart probably just thinks I'm a paper pusher...I'll have to make an example of him. There was a quiet burst of bitter laughter in his mind. I actually had nothing to do with that. Old fool doesn't know how off base he really is.
"I think, uh, what the general is trying to say—" started the Secretary of State, ever the peacemaker.
"What the general is saying is, he doesn’t like holding briefings for his Commander-in-Chief, when said Commander is asleep," interrupted the head of the Marine Corps. He pointed a thick finger towards the camera in front of him, which caused his image on the screen in front of Hank to take on a very menacing aspect. "And he really doesn’t like holding briefings when additionally the Vice President is missing and we can't get hold of—"
Hank put his hands on his chest as a gesture of surprise and righteous indignation.
"Oh, I know your little paper says you're in charge, Mr. Suthby. But you're almost complete lack of respect or grief over the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands of our own soldiers, combined with—" the screen went black.
About damn time! Hank raged inside his head. I'm paying those A/V techs to monitor this and cut out dissent. I'll have to have a word with them about acting sooner. Typical. You want something done right, you gotta do it yourself.
"What happened? I lost my feed..." the Secretary of Defense started to say.
"No, we're still here," said the head of the Navy.
"Are you all still there?" asked Hank, a look of concern on his face. Everyone was still present, except for the troublesome Marine. He lied through his teeth. "My signals are getting very fuzzy. Can you all hear me?" He looked off-camera to someone who wasn't there. "Get that cleared up!" he barked to the empty room.
In another room on the other side of the cavernous base under Cheyenne Mountain, a DHS technician was scrambling the signal from NORAD. Everyone else at the briefing would think the signal loss of the Marine Corp Commandant was part of the larger problem NORAD was experiencing. If he did it right. He was paid a lot of money to make sure it was right.
"Gentlemen, I apologize, but we're going to have to reschedule. Continue with your coordinated efforts—I'll contact you—" Hank began, trying to appear like he was squinting through a snowstorm, to show that he was having a hard time seeing his Joint Chiefs of Staff.
The acting commander in chief never got to finish his
statement as a side door to his conference room burst open. There was a scuffle outside the door and some grunts before a breathless staffer rushed in followed by a furious security guard.
"Sorry sir, he got the drop on me—"
"Sir! The President's dead! Agent Perez said I should find you immediately."
No one in the room or on the monitors was more shocked than Hank Suthby. That's impossible! They gave me...his mind raced. Then with a clarity he hadn't experienced in a long time, his mind found the answer like a slap to the face. They gave me the wrong dosage...those idiots!! This will ruin everything! Okay...think, Hank! You've got to act fast! It's only been, what...fifteen...twenty minutes since they took him to his quarters? He flicked his eyes to a wall clock. 9:47am MST. Secret Service shift change coming up...have to do it now.
The Joint Chiefs erupted into tele-chaos. Questions were shouted, curses flew. He tried to ignore the intense focus he was now under and calm down the others.
"Just calm down—"
"Did I just hear that right? The President is dead?" asked Secretary of Defense.
"How the hell can you expect us to calm down? The President is dead!" roared the Army Chief of Staff.
"How?" asked the top Navy admiral.
"I want details!" demanded Secretary of Defense.
"What do we do now?" asked the Secretary of State. He took his glasses off and wiped his eyes. He had been fairly close to the President.
Hank stood. "Gentlemen, let me figure out what's going on here. I'll get back to you with the details. Hopefully we'll get this signal problem fixed as well. I'm not going to take anything at face value yet. In the meantime, I suggest you focus on your war efforts and above all, this information does not leave this meeting. Do I make myself clear? If this is true and word got out right now, it would have a devastating effect on our country. Just give me some time to sort things out first."
Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) Page 62