Twilight's Last Gleaming

by John Michael Greer

  10 October 2029: Wall Street, New York City

  “You realize what this means,” said the man behind the very big desk.

  “Yes, sir.” The trader in front of the desk was in his thirties. He wore the latest style of suit favored by young investment bankers, but his face was damp with worry.

  A finger tapped on a button, opening the intercom. “Arlene, I need Jim, Vikram and Pierre up here now. Whatever else they're doing doesn't matter. Okay? Thanks.” Another tap on the button shut it off.

  The man behind the desk drew in a ragged breath, let it out.

  Five minutes later the other chief officers of the bank were in the corner office. “You know Theo Pappas from derivatives trading, don't you?” The man behind the desk nodded at the younger man. “Theo, why don't you explain the situation.”

  “We got a heads up from contacts in Washington about the Tanzanian thing well in advance.” Pappas glanced from face to face. “No surprises there. Back in June, once we were sure of it, we took big positions on it—really big positions, in oil and half a dozen other commodities that would be affected.”

  “I was informed,” said the chief operations officer. “So?”

  “Nobody hedged the possibility the US might lose.”

  The room was silent as that sank in. “We've been doing everything we can to unwind those positions for the last three weeks,” said Pappas. “No dice. Even if the markets weren't tanking, it'd be a helluva job, and as it is, nobody's buying and we've run out of time.”

  “How deep are we in the hole?” This from the chief financial officer.

  “Just north of two trillion dollars.”

  Another silence, and then the CFO turned to the man behind the big desk. “We'll have to get Washington to cover us. That's going to hurt.”

  “More than you know. I talked to the people in Treasury and the Fed when the markets tanked—just in case. They said no. With the dollar in the toilet, they've got zero room for more QE, and that means no more bailouts.”

  “But that means—” the CFO started, and then stopped.

  “Yeah,” said the man behind the desk. “How long have we got until the markets close?”

  The COO checked his watch. “Three hours.”

  “Fair enough. We can get the press conference called, do the thing properly.” Then, abruptly, the chief executive officer of the nation's biggest investment bank bowed his head and muttered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  10 October 2029: Russell Senate Office Building, Washington DC

  “At least that's over with,” said Senator Bridgeport. The Senate had just voted, glumly but with no significant debate, to ratify the Treaty of Geneva.

  “On to the next mess?” said Joe Egmont.

  “Pretty much. What's the status on the subpoenas?”

  Bridgeport's staff had been working overtime preparing for the hearings on the East African War. A flurry of initial subpoenas aimed at administration officials got countered with the usual claims of executive privilege, forcing Weed to use his political capital to shelter his own people and making it harder for him to do anything about the people Bridgeport really wanted to get on the witness stand under oath.

  At this point it was strategy time, figuring out who among the many possibilities would be most likely to talk. Bridgeport had been on the phone with Ralph Wittkower almost daily to make sure the Pentagon's toes weren't getting stepped on; even so, it was a political gamble for everybody involved.

  “The list is coming together,” Egmont said. “One name you'll want to hear is Admiral Deckmann.”

  “The task force commander?”

  “Bingo. We've talked to him, and he's willing to testify.”

  Bridgeport let out a low whistle. “That could get explosive—pardon the pun.”

  “No kidding. The one big question we've got at this point is Stedman.”

  “Have you talked to him?”

  “Not yet. He's a big enough fish that—”

  The intercom beeped, and Bridgeport tapped the button. “Yes?”

  “Heads up, Boss.” Anne's voice was uncharacteristically tense. “Check the news.”

  “Will do.” He closed the intercom, tapped the mouse to awaken his computer screen, opened a browser. “Oh my God.”

  “What's up?”

  Bridgeport motioned him over, and Egmont came around the desk, saw the headlines, and blanched. “That's gonna hurt.”

  The country's largest investment bank had just announced that it was bankrupt and would be going out of business.

  Over the next six weeks, US stock market averages continued to plunge, shedding half their value and erasing tens of trillions of dollars in paper wealth, and eight other major financial firms that had been considered too big to fail failed anyway.

  11 October 2029: Dar es Salaam

  “To peace,” said Hafiz al-Nazrani, and raised his teacup. McGaffney repeated the words and clinked his bottle against the cup, then downed a good quarter of the beer at a gulp.

  Dar hadn't gone unscathed. During the war's first days, when the Chinese hadn't yet secured Tanzania's airspace, American bombs and missiles had pounded government buildings and other strategic targets. Still, construction crews were already clearing away the rubble, and most of the city—including the little café south of Kingamboni where the two reporters sat—was once again open for business.

  “How was Kenya?” McGaffney asked.

  “Oh, fine. Nobody seems to know where Kesembani's got to—”

  “Off the continent, if he's got the brains God gave a goose.”

  “Granted. But the Coalition bosses got somebody from Kenya's parliament to step in as temporary head of state, and they're pulling their troops out as fast as they can. It's very much ‘no quarrel with you, just with the Americans.’”

  “Smart.” McGaffney took another swallow of his beer.

  “Aside from that, and Chinese diplomats and businessmen swarming all over with pockets full of investment money—well, it's Kenya. Though I suspect it may see quite a bit of change after the first trillion renminbi.”

  “True enough.”

  “And you? Keeping busy?”

  McGaffney scowled. “Out visiting offshore oil platforms. With the Gulf gone blooey, everyone back home's bent out of shape about where's the oil going to come from, so the editors wanted a nice soothing story about East African oilfields. You can bet TPC was happy to give them one, too. So I got the five star treatment, interviews with Mkembe and a couple of ministers, chopper rides out to the platforms, you name it.”

  “Nice work if you can get it,” said Hafiz.

  McGaffney finished his beer, met the other man's gaze squarely. “But not my work.”

  Hafiz nodded. “But of course.” Then: “So where next? Spain or the Gulf?”

  “Neither one.” McGaffney put his elbows on the little table. “I don't go where the fighting is, I go where it's going to be.”

  “Sensible. The Congo, then? Now that the balance of power has changed, I can't imagine that anybody's going to be willing to put up with more trouble there—and the Chinese have got to be thinking about the minerals there.”

  “True enough—but that's not it either. I'm headed for the United States.”

  Hafiz considered him for a long moment. “You're serious?”

  “Or stupid.”

  His expression denied it. “You think this is going to hit them that hard?”

  “Maybe.” McGaffney shrugged. “It's just a hunch.”

  But it was more than that, of course. He thought of the faces of the men and women in the POW camp up in Shinyanga District, the faces of Americans interviewed on the media: dazed and sullen, still trying to make sense of being beaten, and failing. If they can't take it out on the rest of the world, he knew—

  They'll take it out on each other.

  “We'll see what comes of it,” he said aloud. “You got any plans yet?”

  TWENTY-ONE

  10 November 2029:
Johnson Air Force Base, Goldsboro, North Carolina

  For some reason known only to the Air Force, the plane that was flying Melanie home was coming into an air base in North Carolina. Senator Bridgeport got word from a friend in the Pentagon on the 8th, and left Washington the next day. Traffic was light on US 95, even for a Sunday, and he made good time; by midafternoon he was in Raleigh, where he'd booked a room at a nondescript hotel. He got dinner in the hotel restaurant, and then spent the evening hunched over a laptop, firing off instructions to his staff and trying to round up support in the Senate so he'd have cover once the White House figured out just what kind of questions his committee was going to ask.

  The next morning he was up early, pushed himself hard through his usual routine—shave, thirty minutes in the hotel exercise room, shower, clothes—so he didn't have time to worry. Breakfast was a bagel and cream cheese from the hotel's breakfast bar, and then he was out the door, into the car, onto the highway toward Johnson Air Force Base.

  Somebody had hand-lettered a sign and taped it to the sign where the road to the air base veered off: the letters POWs, a crudely drawn yellow ribbon, and an arrow beneath, pointing the way. Bridgeport's wasn't the only car following the sign, either. The one ahead of his was a ten-year-old Hyundai with New Hampshire plates and as many people on board as would fit. Another hand-lettered sign directed him to a parking lot; he let some airman in a blue jacket wave him to a spot, got out. The day was cold, with gray clouds overhead; he buttoned up his coat, followed more signs and a thin stream of civilians toward the tarmac.

  A crowd had gathered there already, waiting out in the open behind a bright yellow rope. Bridgeport walked down its length to the far end, where there was still space along the rope. He got there, stood looking out at the empty runway for a while, then turned to the woman next to him. “Excuse me—do you know how soon the plane's due?”

  “Wish I did, hon,” she said. “The website said today, is all.”

  “Gimme a moment,” said a teenage boy with her. He had a web tablet in his hand, and tapped away at the screen, then stopped and shook his head. “Nothing yet, dammit.”

  “Lenny! You watch your language.”

  He hung his head. “Sorry, Momma.”

  “Your older boy's coming back?” Bridgeport asked.

  She beamed. “Yes indeed. Jamie's a corporal in the 101st. What's your boy been doing?”

  “My daughter,” said Bridgeport. “She's a supply officer in the Air Force.”

  “Oh my lord,” the woman said. “I'd have been scared to death to have a daughter of mine over there.”

  “I was,” Bridgeport admitted.

  They talked a little, in a desultory way, as the crowd grew. Her name was Loretta Wallace, and she was a waitress from Philadelphia, single since her boys’ father stepped on a Venezuelan land mine, struggling to get by like so many Americans but managing it so far. He told her he worked for the government in DC; she nodded, didn't ask for details.

  “Here we go,” the teenager said after a while, and another flurry of tapping at the screen. “It's supposed to be here in—” A few more pokes. “Fourteen minutes.”

  “Oh, I can't wait,” said Loretta.

  A few minutes later, the faint sound of jet engines finally came whispering through the air. Conversations in the crowd faltered and faded out. The sound grew, and then the plane came down through the clouds: a big transport in Air Force colors, wheels and flaps down. A ragged cheer, and then silence as the plane came down onto the runway, rolled to a near-stop, and taxied over to fifty yards or so of the crowd. The ground crew hauled a boarding stairway over, the door came open, and the first of a long line of figures started down the stairs.

  Bridgeport never saw who pulled the rope aside—one of the airmen, or someone in the crowd? A moment later, Loretta let out a squeal of delight and ran onto the tarmac, her younger son close behind, to throw her arms around a gaunt young man in camo BDUs. Bridgeport barely noticed. He was staring at the door of the plane, waiting, until—

  There she was. He did not let himself run. He walked out, weaving around families who already had someone to welcome back, half-hearing their laughter and tears and excited words, and got within a few yards of the foot of the stairs as she reached the bottom.

  “Dad.” She looked tired and hungry, but her smile brought tears to his eyes. “God, it's good to see you.”

  He couldn't speak, simply threw his arms around her and held her. Finding words at last: “Mel. Welcome back.”

  Finally he drew back, still holding her by the shoulders. “You're okay?”

  “Yeah, all things considered.”

  “Is there anything you need to do here?”

  “Not a thing. They debriefed us in Germany and had us fill out the paperwork on the plane. I'm on leave until date not specified, and all my stuff's here.” She patted the duffel slung over her back.

  He let her go. “Good. Is there anything you want? A meal, or…”

  “Oh my God, yes.”

  They went to his car, drove into Goldsboro, followed one of the main streets past one empty strip mall after another until he found a steak house—that was what she wanted—and settled into a booth. She put away the kind of meal he'd eaten back when he was in high school and playing tennis on the school team; he got a steak and salad, and had to remind himself more than once to eat them. It was enough to have her home, and safe.

  “I'm probably going to regret that,” she said as they left the restaurant, “but thank you, Dad.” With a wavering smile: “It almost feels like I'm home again.” All at once, she started to cry. He put his arms around her, right there in the parking lot, and held her as she sobbed.

  10 November 2029: Baltimore-Washington International Airport

  “Thanks, mate,” Tommy McGaffney said, and pocketed his passport. The customs clerk didn't even bother to reply, just turned to the next person in line, and McGaffney took the hint and left the counter. He had the same shapeless leather bag on his shoulder as usual, and the same automatic awareness of the people around him that had kept him in one piece all over the grubbier corners of the Third World; the only thing that startled him was how natural it seemed here in the United States.

  If the airport was any guide, he decided, the country was in even worse shape than he'd guessed. There were missing ceiling panels, boarded-over gaps in the walls, light fixtures gone dark, the same look of slow decay he remembered from eastern Europe in the years just before the Soviet Union crashed and burned. When he got out of the secure area into baggage claim, half the baggage carousels were closed and boarded up, and the signs yelling about this or that car rental agency on the far wall were old enough that the plastic was starting to yellow.

  Somewhere not far ahead, an angry voice barked something McGaffney couldn't quite make out. The people around him looked that way and then hurried past. McGaffney paused, then went toward the voice.

  It would have made a perfect snapshot: a middle-aged man with the kind of buzz cut American vets favored, shouting at a baffled kid in jeans and a tee shirt, while his wife tried to get him to shut up and go anywhere else. As McGaffney got close enough to hear, the kid was saying, “Look, it's just a joke!”

  “It's not fucking funny!” the older man shouted at him.

  “George,” said the wife, pulling on his arm, “for God's sake, let it go.”

  George glared for a moment longer, and then let his wife drag him away. The kid stood there looking angry and scared at the same time, then turned a different direction and went wherever he was headed. Before he was gone, though, McGaffney got a good look at the shirt. The art on the front was a cartoonish beach scene, with the Ronald Reagan heeled over on its sandbar in the middle distance; in the foreground sat what looked like a big muscular American eagle, but the head had come off. The “eagle” was a heavily padded muscle suit, and from out of the neck hole rose the neck and head of a scrawny, frightened-looking turkey.

  McGaffney shook his
head, made a mental note to watch for more of the same sort of humor. That sort of thing was common enough elsewhere in the world, but among Americans? There it was new, and needed watching.

  10 November 2029: Petersburg, Virginia

  “This could be bad,” Bridgeport said, as they drove past the gas station. It was the third in a row that had handlettered “Out of Gas” signs taped on the pumps.

  “How much do you have left?” Melanie asked.

  “Not quite down to fumes, but—” He did some math in his head. “We'd probably better find a place to stay in Richmond unless somebody has gas.”

  He'd planned to drive straight home that day, and hadn't thought about whether the gas stations would be open. Even with the news stories about the Gulf war and the falling dollar, even with prices going up so fast that on a drive of any length, you could just about count on seeing some kid on a ladder swapping out digits on a gas station sign, it hadn't occurred to him, or to most Americans, that there might not be any gasoline for sale at all.

  They drove for another ten minutes before another gas station sign came in sight—open for business, from the line of cars at it, even though the price on the sign was $12.99 a gallon for regular. As Bridgeport turned to join the line, though, he saw a sandwich board out in front with CASH ONLY written on it.

  “So much for that,” he said. “I don't have more than a few bucks.”

  “Don't worry about it,” Melanie said. “I'll cover it.”

  He glanced at her. “At that price?”

  She grinned. “Just watch.”

  They crept forward, a carlength at a time, and got to a pump. The gas station had employees out to collect the money; one came over to Bridgeport's car, and Bridgeport rolled down the window.

  Melanie leaned across him with a bill in her hand, held it out the window. “Will you take this?” It took Bridgeport a moment to recognize King William's face on the twenty-pound note.

  The young man in the gas station jacket goggled at it. “Jesus,” he said. “You know what that's worth these days?”

  “A full tank of gas?” Melanie asked him.

  “Lemme check.” He trotted over to his supervisor, came right back. “Yes ma'am.”