He came up behind her, put a hand on her shoulder. She let her hip slide up and down against his stiffening flesh. “Feeling strong?”
“Strong enough,” he said, and pulled her to him.
2 October 2030: Lumberton, Mississippi
The pickup rattled to a stop on the county highway, turned into Jim Owen's driveway, and nosed up to the mobile home. Jim looked up from the stock car engine he was rebuilding as two young men piled out of the cab: the Wilcox boys, sons of a friend of his. “Afternoon,” he said. “I'd ’spect to see you two fishing on a day like this.”
“Most days, sure,” said Bobby Lee, the oldest. “Mr. Owen, can we talk? Someplace private, maybe?”
“Sure thing.” He put down the torque wrench, wondered what the boys were up to.
A few minutes later they were sitting around the kitchen table with a cold beer each. “So,” said Owen. “What's on your mind?”
“The amendment,” said Bobby Lee. “They're saying Gurney's not gonna let it go to a vote—that he's gonna send in federal troops to stop any state that tries it.”
“Who's they?”
“Everybody in town.”
“Like they know what the president's thinking.”
“You hear the speech he made Tuesday?” This from the younger brother, Nate. “That's what he said himself.”
“Yeah, I heard it.” It had been all over the news the next morning: Gurney blustering about the convention. He'd used the word “consequences” so many times there were jokes about it all over the media.
“Cal Parker told me today that the boys at the armory just got word they'll be on call starting the first of November,” said Bobby Lee.
“Cal told you that?” Owen leaned forward, propped his chin on his hand and his elbow on the table.
“Yessir. And we been talking about doing something if it comes to that.” Bobby Lee swallowed visibly. “That's why me and Nate want to talk to you. You were with the Army Rangers in Venezuela, weren't you? That's what Daddy said.”
“Yeah,” said Owen. “Yeah, I was.”
“We can get fifty or a hundred boys together easy, the kind who been shooting and hunting since their mommas taught ’em to walk,” said Nate. “Once we do that, can you teach us the rest of what we're gonna need to know if it comes to a fight?”
Owen considered that for a long moment, weighing conflicting loyalties against each other. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I can do that.”
29 September 2030: The White House, Washington DC
“The plan goes into effect,” said Ellen Harbin, “as soon as the first state ratifying convention votes for dissolution. Before that happens, we don't have legal justification.”
“Technically speaking, shouldn't that wait until the amendment is ratified?” This from Blair Murdoch, the head of Homeland Security.
Harbin shook her head. “That raises legal issues we don't want to have to deal with—and that's when we can expect organized rebellion to get under way, if there's going to be any. No, we need to stop this thing the moment it's clear that the Union's at risk.”
She'd considered scheduling the briefing in the Roosevelt Room, but the stark modern lines of the National Security Council briefing room were better suited to the hard decisions that had to be made. The audience was a select one: Murdoch and two of his top aides, three senior planners from the National Security Council staff, two people from the Executive Special Projects Staff, and one from the black-budget end of the Office of the President: the inner circle of Gurney's administration, or as much of it as would take an active role in the transfer of power to the new unitary government. Gurney himself was off giving a speech in Pittsburgh, safely out of the way.
“Here's what needs to happen,” Harbin said, and pushed the button on the control. The screen behind her lit up, showed a series of bullet points. “Homeland Security forces, backed by Army and Marine units wherever that's necessary, secure all fifty state governments—that means occupying the buildings and removing governors, department heads and members of the state legislatures to FEMA shelters, where they can be interned for as long as necessary.
“Mayors and city councils of the fifteen largest cities get the same treatment, and so do delegates to the constitutional convention and the ratifying conventions. Every figure who might provide a scrap of legitimacy to an opposition movement has to be rounded up. If we run out of room in the FEMA shelters, military bases in isolated rural areas can be pressed into service as internment camps.
“Once that phase of the operation is over, appointed administrators take charge of the state bureaucracies for the duration of the crisis, and Homeland Security and military units move to the second phase, the neutralization of any attempts at armed resistance.”
“Any idea how much of that we can expect?” Murdoch asked.
“No,” Harbin admitted. “I wish we did. If it's just a little sporadic violence, that can be taken out promptly with ground units, or even police. If it's significantly more than that, we need to be prepared to use whatever it takes—air strikes, specialforces units, the whole spectrum of military operations. It's crucial that any armed resistance be crushed as fast as possible, before it has the chance to organize into a sustained insurgency.
“Once that's taken care of and any survivors have been interned, we enter the third phase, which is stabilization. Once no one has any remaining doubt that the federal government will defend the Union with whatever force might be necessary, military units return to their bases, and Homeland Security police and militarized units deal with any further unrest as it occurs.”
“What about the internees from the first phase?” one of Murdoch's aides said. “Are they released during the third phase?”
Harbin gave him a blank look, then said, “Of course. Subject to the president's orders.”
She turned back to the screen, clicked the button to bring up the next set of bullet points. Behind her, the Homeland Security aide who'd spoken glanced at his colleague, who met his gaze briefly and then looked away.
10 October 2030: Wichita National Guard Armory, Wichita, Kansas
“Got a moment, Chip?” Major Roy Abernethy asked.
“Sure thing, boss.” The sergeant was sitting in the open back gate of an armored personnel carrier, entering data on a laptop; he scooted over, motioned to Abernethy to sit. “What's up?”
The major glanced both ways, made sure nobody else was in earshot. The APCs in the armory lot spread out to either side, angular shapes beneath the pale autumn sky. “Orders from DC,” he said. “Got ’em yesterday.”
Lansberger glanced at him. “And?”
“They want us on twenty-four hour standby as of November 1,” he said. “Reason not given—but I got told, unofficially, you understand, to make sure each squad has street maps of Topeka with the state government buildings marked.”
The sergeant watched him, said nothing at all.
After several minutes: “Chip, I can't do it. I joined the Guard to help people and do my bit for the country.” Looking away: “Not to stomp the crap out of the Constitution because that toad in Washington says hop.”
“A lot of us,” said Lansberger, “have been saying the same thing.”
Abernethy glanced back at him.
“When those orders come in, boss,” said the sergeant, “if you tell us to sit right here and ignore ’em, you won't get any argument.”
“And if it's more than that?”
Lansberger gave him a long slow look. “If it's more than that, talk to the guys. Tell ’em that anybody who can't go that next step can leave his gear and go home, no questions asked. Some'll take you up on it—but not many. If push comes to shove, not too many at all.”
11 October 2030: The White House, Washington DC
The only people in the West Wing on Sundays were essential staff, duty officers down at the situation room, and janitors, and that suited Ellen Harbin well. She needed privacy just then, time and space without interrupt
ion to finish working out the last and most secret details of the transfer of power to the new unitary government. She'd come in via the walkway from the Executive Office Building, locked herself in her office, and silenced the phone. Gurney was in Kansas City giving yet another speech against dissolution, so that was one interruption she didn't need to guard against; everyone and everything else could wait.
She pulled a thumb drive from her purse, stuck it in her computer's USB port, waited until the security screen came up and typed in username and password. A moment later, her desktop displayed more than a dozen documents: the presidential order that would launch the transfer of power, the orders that would go out to Homeland Security and the military, and the rest of it. It was nearly ready, but nearly wasn't good enough; the first state ratifying convention had been scheduled for 11 December, and everything had to be in place by then, down to the last legal formality and the last extralegal action.
One of those latter still had to be arranged. She opened a new document and typed at the head of it: Subjects for immediate executive action on enactment of Presidential Order 18827.
She paused, then, considered the options. Certain people had to be removed for the plan to work as it should, and it would be convenient to use the same opportunity to remove others; the risk was that too many disappearances too suddenly would draw attention too soon to the wider agenda. A case could be made for patience…
No, she told herself, not this time. Every plan she'd tried to carry out so far, from the beginning of Weed's administration right up to the convention, had been crippled by those who weren't willing to see things done with the ruthlessness and force that each situation demanded. Finally, she had complete control of the planning; this time, finally, she could do the thing right, and that meant striking hard and fast.
That settled, she started typing, listing the names of those who were to be killed. Before she was finished, there would be more than 100 names in the list.
12 October 2030: The Pentagon, Washington DC
Admiral Waite paced down a Pentagon hallway to “the tank,” the soundproof conference room where the Joint Chiefs met. Guards at the door saluted and let him in.
Wittkower and the heads of the service branches were already there. So was the CIA director, along with key officials from elsewhere in the executive branch. That wasn't usual for a meeting of the Joint Chiefs, but then this wasn't a usual meeting; most of the federal government's remaining power to make things happen was concentrated in the tank that morning, with one crucial decision to make.
“You've seen Gurney?” This from Alberto Mendoza, the Marine Corps commandant, once the pleasantries were past.
“Yes.” Waite settled into a chair at the long table in the room's center. “Every time I go there these days, I wonder if I'm the only adult in the building.” That got an uneasy laugh from the others. “He's still dead set on this plan of his,” Waite went on, and the laughter stopped. “Today he ordered me—his word—to get things rolling: troop movements, logistics, everything. He's got Justice busy manufacturing legal excuses.”
“They'll need ’em for martial law,” said Wittkower.
“It's not just martial law.” Waite leaned forward. “He wants the whole country under military rule. Homeland Security's working on a list of people to round up, internment camps, that sort of thing.”
“Jesus,” said Wittkower. “Dictatorship, then.”
“Basically,” said Waite.
“Do you think we can make a military takeover stick?” Mendoza asked. “That would be a tough job at the best of times.”
Greg Barnett answered. “I've had people working on that for more than a month now, running simulations with every scenario we can think of. If everything goes our way, yes, we can make it stick, but we get a major insurgency out West backed with arms and money from China—there's no way Beijing would be dumb enough to miss an opportunity like that—and any other country that wants to make trouble for us chipping in whatever their budgets can bear. If any significant number of National Guard units side with the states, though, we get civil war, again with China et al. backing the other side. Could we win? Heck of a good question.”
“That got asked a lot in 1861,” said Mendoza.
“In 1861,” said Wittkower, “one region wanted out and the rest of the country said no you don't. Now? The North wants to get rid of the South just as much as the South wants to get rid of the North, and let's not even talk about the western states.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And it's not just civilians. How many of you have had your intelligence people check out what the rank and file of your branches are saying? The Army's best units will follow orders, but there are a lot of second- and third-string units that might not, and the National Guard is a real risk. They're as likely to end up on the other side if it comes to shooting.”
“The Marines will follow orders no matter what,” Mendoza insisted.
“Bill, what about the Navy?” Waite asked.
“I've had our security people all over,” said Admiral Gullickson, the Chief of Naval Operations. “Morale's been in the crapper since the war. We've done our best, but if I ordered them to fire on American civilians I'm honestly not sure how many would do it.”
“Same for the Air Force,” said General Braddock, who headed that service. “Or worse. There's been a lot of loose talk, and a lot of—well, propaganda, basically, at some air bases and the towns around them. There are units I'd trust, but others I wouldn't—and don't even ask about the Air National Guard.”
“There seems to be a lot of money backing dissolution,” said Waite. “Chinese money?”
“Heck of a good question,” Barnett said again. “America's made a lot of enemies, and China's only one of them—the Russians, the Iranians, you name it, and you can bet the Saudis aren't feeling too charitable toward us right now, either. Of course you've got Texas oil families, old money down South, various others domestically who might be backing this. We've tried to trace the funds, but whoever it is knows how to hide their tracks.”
“What does Wall Street think?” This was from Wittkower. That mattered a great deal, and the room went quiet.
“Depends on who you ask,” said one of the civilians, a career bureaucrat from Treasury. “Some firms are scared to death of dissolution and some think they can get rich off it. Military government? That's no problem, they know they can work with us. Insurgency or civil war is another matter. Even if we win, they're saying, that'll trash what's left of the economy and hand everything we've still got in the rest of the world to Beijing. If we don't win, they're going to be hanging from lampposts and they know it.”
“Right next to you and me,” Mendoza said. No one laughed; they all knew the commandant was right.
“Here's the question that matters.” Waite looked from face to face around the table. “Do any of you think we can make it work, without tearing what's left of the country apart?”
Nobody answered. After a long moment, Waite said, “Well. Then the question is what to do about it.”
“Until Gurney acts,” Barnett said, “it's all he said, she said—you saw what happened with the stuff that hit the internet when Stedman died.”
“So we wait?” Wittkower said.
Waite nodded. “Until Gurney moves—or something else happens.”
12 October 2030: Alexandria, Virginia
Harbin sat down at her desk, fished around in her purse, pulled out a thumb drive and stuck it into the port of her computer. The finder window popped up, showing a security screen she didn't want; she scowled, ejected that thumb drive, found the one she wanted and jabbed it into the slot.
Five minutes later, she had forgotten about the mistake. By that time, though, the files that had been on the first thumb drive were already listed on a screen in a half-derelict building in Cincinnati, Ohio.
Daniel Stedman got the files stashed, then started opening and reading them. A few screens later, his eyes had gone wide as he began to
realize how big of a fish his hookware had just landed. He got the files forwarded to three offshore Undernet servers, then accessed a chatroom and typed: just upped files from clean src. code red political!!! fwd fwd fwd baby.
When that was done, he sat back, stared at the screen for a while. The Undernet would get it to the legal net in a matter of hours, but that wouldn't necessarily have the impact he wanted; the administration could simply dismiss these papers as they'd done with the papers on the East African War, and try to weather the new controversy as they had the older one. That wasn't good enough. If the documents could only get to the right people…
He considered that, then leaned forward again and started to type.
TWENTY-SEVEN
13 October 2030: One Observatory Circle, Washington DC
Bridgeport couldn't sleep that night. After three or four hours of futile effort, he pulled himself out of bed, threw on a bathrobe and slippers, and went into his sitting room. Rain drummed against the windows as he scratched Bus behind the ears and waited for the computer to finish waking up.
Once that was done, he checked the news. There wasn't much. In the Middle East, the Kurdistan front had settled into the same stalemate that had gripped the Arabian front months earlier, with Turkish and Iranian armies hammering each other repeatedly over the same narrow strip of bloodsoaked sand. The dollar had fallen to just under 12 to the euro and 6 to the yuan; an American oil company had been caught trying to smuggle crude oil out of the country in order to sell it at market prices overseas, and was facing draconian penalties; Governor McCracken of Texas had made a speech in Atlanta calling Southerners to support the 28th Amendment. An ordinary day's news, Bridgeport thought, and caught himself, remembering how little time had passed since news stories like those hadn't been normal at all.
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