Twilight's Last Gleaming

by John Michael Greer

  And if the 82nd wasn't on Gurney's side…

  Murdoch paused a moment longer, then picked up the telephone. “Torrey? Get me a secure line to Bridgeport's office in the Capitol. Thanks.”

  He waited, pressing the handset to the side of his face. After a long moment, a flurry of electronic beeps, and another long moment, a ringtone sounded on the other end.

  Someone picked it up on the second ring. “Hello?”

  Necessary though it was, it took Murdoch an effort to say it. “This is Baird Murdoch at Homeland Security. I need to talk to President Bridgeport.”

  Dead silence. Then: “Just a moment, Mr. Secretary. I'll get him on the line.”

  13 October 2030: The Capitol, Washington DC

  “So help me God,” said President Bridgeport.

  Camera flashes went off around him like gunfire, recording the moment, chasing shadows around the Rotunda. It had taken more than an hour for someone to find the chief justice and get her to the Capitol, and by then the first reporters were showing up, begging for a story. Everybody in Congress who'd been able to make it to the Capitol that day was there; so was Ralph Wittkower in full Army dress uniform, and half a dozen top Pentagon brass; so was Claire Hutchison, and so were a couple of assistant secretaries of cabinet departments. Bridgeport's staff had hurried over from One Observatory Circle, and Melanie had managed to drive in from Silver Spring in time and get through the Marine cordon. All in all, it was a motley crowd: suitable witnesses to one of the least orderly inaugurations in American history.

  The chief justice closed the Bible and handed it to an aide. She looked almost as dazed as Bridgeport felt.

  Someone handed Bridgeport a microphone. “For obvious reasons,” he said, “I haven't had time to write an inaugural address. I'll have something to say to everyone as soon as we get a live TV crew here. Until then, I want to ask all Americans—wherever they stand on the issues that have divided us—to stop, take a deep breath, and join together with me to make this nation work again. Thank you.”

  That got a round of applause. “We didn't have time to plan for an inaugural banquet either,” Bridgeport said then, “but if you'd like to join me for a buffet, I'd be honored.”

  He handed the microphone to an aide and turned. Melanie was waiting; she threw her arms around him, kissed him on the cheek, and whispered, “Dad, I am so proud of you.”

  The Senate catering staff had a reputation for being able to cope with anything on next to no notice, and they lived up to it that evening. Long tables elegantly draped showed off a sumptuous spread framed by the opulent china and silver of an earlier day, and immaculately dressed servers moved noiselessly around with trays of hors d'oeuvres and champagne. Bridgeport led the way with Melanie on his arm, then motioned to the guests: help yourselves. They'd had, he guessed, as long and harrowing a day as he had.

  Once everyone was tucking into the buffet, Bridgeport got a glass of champagne and let himself drift to one side of the hall. He could see Melanie over by the door to the Rotunda, talking with her Australian reporter. Joe Egmont and a couple of members of Bridgeport's staff positioned themselves unobtrusively nearby to fend off the media if necessary. Wittkower crossed the hall, talked with Egmont briefly, then came up to Bridgeport.

  “Mr. President,” he said. “Couple of things. We got through to the Secret Service unit in the White House.”

  “And?”

  “They're standing down and waiting for your people to come over. Gurney's gone—he boarded a private jet around three this afternoon.”

  “I wish I was surprised,” said Bridgeport. “Where's he headed?”

  “South. Nobody's sure of anything beyond that. The place is almost empty—most of the staff bailed hours ago. Harbin's still there, and Julia Gurney—”

  “Good God. He didn't even take Julia with him?”

  “What the staff said is he didn't take anything but money.”

  Bridgeport stared at him for a long moment, then: “Harbin should be behind bars as soon as possible.”

  “I've got people on the way there.”

  “Good. I'll have my people follow, and make sure Julia's safe and has anything she needs. None of this is her fault.”

  “Granted.” Wittkower paused. “Technically speaking,” he said then, “is Gurney still supposed to be under government protection?”

  “Heck of a good question. If he formally requests it, Congress will probably have to vote on it. Until then—” He drank the rest of his champagne. “Probably not.”

  “That's what I thought. Thank you, sir.” Wittkower went away, got something from a waiter that wasn't champagne, and downed the whole glass at a swallow.

  Bridgeport envied him the drink, and considered flagging down a waiter, but just then the conversations stopped and faces turned expectantly toward him. Before he could wonder why, the familiar blare of trumpets and tubas sounded off to one side. Someone had tracked down a military brass band and gotten it to the White House, and it launched into the one tune everyone in Washington DC knew by heart.

  It was only then, as the opening bars of “Hail to the Chief” rang off the stone walls of the Cross Hall, that the events of the last few hours finally felt real.

  13 October 2030: The White House, Washington DC

  Ellen Harbin stood by the window of her office, cell phone at her ear. Outside, the sky was the color of iron, fading to black as evening came on; a few brown leaves whipped by on the wind; Harbin didn't notice them. All her attention was focused on the ringing sound on the other end. Two rings, three, four, click: “Hi, this is Lon. I can't take your—”

  “…appalling abuse of power.” It was Bridgeport's voice, of course, live from the Capitol. “It's one thing to try to save the Union, and quite another to use that as an excuse to violate everything the Union stands for…”

  She jabbed the screen with a finger, hit the same autodial again. One ring, two, three, four, click: “Hi, this is Lon. I can't—”

  “…thing I want every American to realize is that our system worked. Congress did what it's supposed to do, according to the Constitution; our armed forces did what they're supposed to do; the other branches of the government did their jobs, and stopped this thing in its tracks…”

  There was someone behind her, standing in the door. She could feel the presence there, looming. She refused to turn and look, jabbed at the phone again, listened. One ring, two, three, four, click: “Hi, this is—”

  “…left the country in a private jet earlier this afternoon…”

  Bridgeport, she thought. Bridgeport, you fucking liar.

  “Ms. Harbin.” A man's voice, unfamiliar, came from the door. She turned, finally, defeated. A Marine colonel was standing there, with others she couldn't see out in the hallway behind him.

  “I'm speaking with President Gurney,” she said coldly.

  The colonel wasn't impressed by the bluff. He stepped into the office, and men in the uniform of the Capitol Police came past him. “Ms Harbin,” said the colonel, “Gurney's been removed from office. These officers are here to arrest you.”

  It took a moment for that to register. When it did, she darted for the computer on her desk. One of the policemen got there first. Another caught her by the arm, got handcuffs on her.

  “I stand by everything I've done,” she said then.

  The colonel's expression said “whatever” more clearly than words could have done. He nodded to the officers, who led her out. One of them began reading her the Miranda warning in a monotone as they went out into the hallway.

  13 October 2030: Above the Amazon rain forest

  Gurney glanced out the window at the darkness. The lights of a small town flickered in the middle distance, sliding slowly past as the executive jet he'd chartered flew steadily south. Paraguay was still hours of flying time away, but at least he was clear of the United States. He'd watched satellite news broadcasts for a while, once the jet was safely out over the Atlantic, and there was no questi
on in his mind that he'd gotten out just in time.

  He tried not to think about everything that had gone wrong. At least he'd had the good sense to make sure he had a way out, and the slush fund he'd learned to keep on hand from the first days of his political career more than paid for itself this time. A couple of suitcases full of money—euros, mostly—and a stash of precious metals heavy enough that two of his aides had to haul it on board the plane would make life a lot easier once he got safely to the family property south of Villarrica.

  He was still thinking about that when he noticed the red and white lights in the middle distance. They weren't sliding back behind the plane, the way the lights of the town were doing. They were—

  The cabin door opened in front of him, and the copilot came aft, his face pale. “Mr. Gurney,” he said, “there are two planes flanking us. They've ordered us to land.”

  Gurney stared at him for a moment. “Whose are they?”

  “They won't say.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Mr. Gurney,” the copilot said, “they say they'll shoot us down unless we land.”

  No, Gurney thought. No. This can't be happening.

  Almost ten years later, a Chilean entomologist chasing exotic butterflies in the part of the northern Amazon basin where Colombia, Venezuela, and Brazil come together stumbled across an abandoned one-strip airfield in the middle of the jungle. Delighted by the stroke of luck—two of the species he was seeking were most often found in natural clearings—he searched the landing strip, and found at one end, under camouflage netting half overgrown with vines, the rust-streaked hulk of a corporate jet.

  The entomologist contacted the local authorities, who surrounded the site with a police cordon and sent for detectives. Nobody was surprised that the plane turned out to be Gurney's, but there was no sign of what had happened to the ex-president or his aircrew, except something that might once have been a bloodstain in the rotting carpet of the main passenger cabin. Of the fortune that Gurney was said to have taken with him—by then a matter of legend—no trace was ever found.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  13 October 2030: The White House, Washington DC

  “Mr. President.” It was a White House staffer, a middle-aged woman with hair the color of iron. “She's ready to see you.”

  “Thank you,” Bridgeport said.

  She led him to the top of the stairs, around a corner and down the Center Hall, then stopped at a door and knocked. “Ma'am? Mr. Bridgeport.”

  He could just barely hear the reply: “Please let him in, Molly.”

  The West Sitting Hall was the First Family's living room, and looked like it, done up in the faux-Western decor Gurney fancied. Julia Gurney was sitting on a couch with a half-full glass in her hand. Her hair and makeup were flawless; only the blurred look in her eyes told Bridgeport just how much she'd been drinking.

  Still, she got up easily enough. “Pete. Thank you for coming to see me—and I should congratulate you, too, shouldn't I? Can I get you something to drink?”

  He considered that. It wasn't yet nine in the morning, and gray light was streaming through the windows of the adjacent rooms. Still, he said, “Please, and thank you. Bourbon, if you've got some.”

  That got him a dazzling if not entirely steady smile. “Of course.” She went into the family kitchen with her glass, came out again with two glasses on a tray, both full. Bridgeport went to intercept her, got the tray safely onto the coffee table and helped her sit.

  “Julia,” he said, “I'm so sorry about all of this. I can't imagine what it's been like for you these last couple of days, with the crisis and—” He picked up his glass of bourbon, gestured with it. “All the rest of it. If there's anything my staff or I can do to make things easier for you, please let me know.”

  “Thank you. I really do appreciate that.” She sipped at her bourbon. “I spent a couple of hours last night on the phone with my brother. I'll be going back to Baton Rouge as soon as my family can arrange things. The one thing I'd like to ask, if it's not too much trouble—could I have a few days to get everything of mine packed here?”

  “As long as you need. It's going to take me a while to get everything packed at One Observatory Circle, you know.”

  “Thank you, Pete.” She took another sip. “I'll be sure to let your staff know just as soon as I get my things cleared out of here. I'm sorry to say that you'll have to have someone else get rid of the rest. Do you know when I found out that Lon had flown out of the country? When it got on the evening news.”

  Bridgeport looked away. “Oh my God.”

  Her lip trembled, but then she raised her chin and controlled it. “I'm sorry, Pete. I don't mean to burden you with my troubles. I know you have way too much on your plate as it is. But—but I want to know one thing.” Without the least change of expression or tone: “What happened to that whore of his?”

  That made him look back. “Harbin? She's in jail.”

  “Really? What for?”

  “Conspiracy to overthrow the Constitutional government,” said Bridgeport.

  That got another smile, just as dazzling, but edged like a knife. “You know, that's the first bit of really good news I've heard in days. Thank you. Thank you, Pete.”

  He finished his bourbon, got up. “If you need anything else, be sure and let me know.”

  “I certainly will. Pete, you're a real gentleman—unlike some I could name. Thank you.”

  He extricated himself from the room, found Molly waiting just outside. “If there's anything she needs,” he said, “let my staff know at once.”

  “I certainly will, Mr. President.”

  14 October 2030: The White House, Washington DC

  “You want to know how bad it is?” said Beryl Mickelson, the Secretary of the Treasury.

  “Essentially, yes,” President Bridgeport replied.

  “Bad. For all practical purposes, the federal government is bankrupt.”

  They were in the Cabinet Room, where Bridgeport had called the first official meeting of the cabinet he'd inherited from Gurney—there had been an unofficial meeting in his office in the Capitol the night before. He'd considered replacing some of them with his own nominees, decided against it for the time being. If the nation survived the dissolution crisis, there would be time to consider that.

  “Tax revenues are just over 11 percent of what they were before the war,” Mickelson went on, “and that's without correcting for inflation. Of course part of that's simply a matter of how many people are out of work, but a lot of people and a lot of businesses have simply stopped paying federal taxes. They're gambling that the federal government isn't going to be around long enough to make trouble for them.

  “And then there's the inflation. The official rate is 20 percent per year, but that's just so that cost of living raises don't kill us. The actual rate is close to 130 percent per year, and it's been accelerating for the last six months or so. Quite a few businesses have stopped accepting payment in US dollars entirely—Canadian dollars, euros, and barter arrangements are all pretty common these days. I've been told by people in the General Services Administration that they're having trouble finding suppliers for some goods and services who will still take federal checks at par.”

  Bridgeport nodded. “I don't blame them. I assume that at least some bills aren't being paid at all.”

  “Almost half,” Mickelson admitted. “But some of the departments were also ordered to keep issuing checks even though we don't have anything to cover them.”

  Bridgeport blinked. “You're saying the US government is kiting checks?”

  “Not exactly. You kite checks when you've got money coming in to cover them. This is uncomfortably close to check fraud.”

  An uncomfortable silence filled the room. “Okay,” said Bridgeport finally. “So that's where we stand. We'll be spending the next few months figuring out what to do about it, but there are some things we need to do right away.” He turned in his chair to face Barbara Bates
on, the Secretary of Defense. “Barbara, you know what's coming.”

  She nodded unhappily. “Pretty much.”

  “The carrier groups are history. I want two carriers moth-balled and the rest scrapped. We'll settle later what's going to happen to the rest of the surface fleet. If the nation is still around come spring, we can start figuring out what a navy looks like in the age of supersonic cruise missiles—but you know as well as I do that it's not going to look like the one we've got.

  “And we need to bring the troops home. We can't afford to keep military forces all over the world any more, and if dissolution goes through, I don't want any of our young people left overseas.”

  He glanced over at the others. “Domestically, I need a list of all the federal programs that aren't actually authorized by the Constitution. I'll get the attorney general's office and my staff working on that. Once I've got the list, those programs are going to get cut.”

  Another silence. “Mr. Bridgeport,” said Anthony Bellarmine, the Secretary of Health and Human Services, “that amounts to about three quarters of all federal expenditures.”

  “I know,” said Bridgeport. “If we cut federal expenditures by three quarters, that might just be enough to convince the credit markets and the American people that we're serious about change.” He leaned forward. “I know it's going to hurt, but the survival of this country is at stake, you know.”

  16 October 2030: Washington DC

  “Yes,” said Leona Price. “Yes, I'd be honored.” She listened to the phone for most of a minute, then said, “Sure. I can be there first thing tomorrow, if that'll work.” A pause. “Fair enough.” Another. “Thank you, Pete.” Then: “Goodbye.”