Ill Wind

by Kevin J. Anderson

  He crumpled the handwritten communique in his hand and let it fall to the floor.

  The commander of the San Diego naval base had been assassinated while trying to stop a rally against the military crackdowns. The crowds had gone wild, killing the admiral and at least fifty Naval officers around the city. A self-appointed ruling council had seized control of the shipyards and the base facilities. According to the report, the other Navy personnel on duty had surrendered willingly.

  What the hell was he supposed to do about that?

  “I want a meeting with my Joint Chiefs in five minutes!” he said without turning. He heard one of the Secret Service men leave the room. He wished Franklin Weathersee would get back from his stupid grocery shopping expedition.

  Everybody blamed Mayeaux for their problems, and nobody listened when he issued orders to take care of anything. For God’s sake, he hadn’t caused the petroplague!

  He hadn’t heard a word from the old bitch Emma Branson at Oilstar for more than a month, and he was glad—she could fend for herself out in California. He had heard one report that mobs had burned down the Oilstar refinery, but he didn’t know if he could believe it. Probably.

  Around the country the citizens had begun to throw up their own defenses and forget the big picture. Mayeaux was in charge of what he had started to think of as the “Humpty Dumpty Squad”—no matter how many long hours he put in or nights he spent without sleep, he still could not put the pieces together again. But if the population thought their President was just going to pick his nose while the world went down the toilet, they were in for a hell of a surprise. He hated not knowing what to do, what would work, what would snap the mobs out of their pigs-fighting-over-a-corncob anarchy. People just didn’t make sense.

  Mayeaux had the chance to pull off the biggest change in history and set the tone of the country—hell, the world!—for the next century. How much room remained on Mount Rushmore, after all? Could they squeeze Mayeaux’s face in somewhere between Roosevelt and Lincoln?

  The U.S. could get back on its feet, according to the advances projected by NIST scientists—petroplague-resistant plastics, the change to a hydrogen-based energy economy… if people could resist turning into post-holocaust barbarians.

  But they wouldn’t listen to reason United we stand, divided we fall—dammit, every kid in the country had that slogan hammered into him from grade school on.

  Mayeaux followed the Secret Service men down to the Situation Room. No one stood for him when he entered, a sign of disrespect like a slap in the face. No one greeted him, no optimistic “Good morning, sir!” from the staffers. Where the hell was the rest of his Cabinet? He hadn’t even seen the Vice President in a month. The guy could at least bicycle down from the Naval Observatory once in a while.

  Only two military officers had come to the table—General Wacom, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and the CNO, the admiral Chief of Naval Operations. Both men looked grim. Mayeaux didn’t recognize any of the White House staffers wearing blue WHS pins as substitutes for laminated badges.

  “Have you forgotten how to stand when your Commander-in-Chief enters the room, gentlemen?” he said. This was worse than he had thought.

  Grudgingly, the two officers struggled to their feet. Mayeaux pulled up his chair and dispensed with niceties. “I called a meeting in five minutes! Where is everybody else?”

  “They won’t be joining us,” General Wacom said.

  “Why the hell not? This isn’t a RSVP party invitation.”

  The general did not answer the question. “How can we help you this morning, Mr. President?”

  Mayeaux scowled and got right to the point. “I trust you’ve been briefed about the San Diego incident?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” the CNO said, clearing his throat. “To make things worse, we’ve also just learned that the San Diego ruling council has commandeered the installation’s radio network. They are broadcasting their ‘victory’ over the entire Atlantis network, actively trying to incite other similar uprisings.”

  “As if we didn’t have enough trouble already! How you intend to deal with it, gentlemen?”

  Wacom drummed his fingers on the table. He spoke smoothly, using years of experience honed by testifying before congressional committees. “We’ve made the decision that it is prudent not to antagonize the public, not to take unnecessary risks. There may be some options that the military can use, but our primary mission is to defend our national security.”

  Mayeaux pressed his fingers together. “So, you made that decision yourselves? Thank you very much, General. It’s nice to know I don’t need to bother running the country anymore. You thought it ‘prudent’ just to let cities overthrow their military bases, assassinate commanders, and secede from the United States at will?”

  The general stiffened. “There are certain degrees of response we may consider, Mr. President. The Army still has access to point weapons—grenades, bullets, bazookas, all of which work effectively only if coordinated by the chain of command. Since our communication is sporadic, and the troops do not have the necessary logistical or transportation support, such weapons cannot be utilized effectively to suppress large mob-type disturbances. The military might prevail initially, but they would quickly be overrun, as in San Diego.”

  Mayeaux tapped on the table. The general had told no lies, but he had not told the whole story, either. “I find that hard to believe, General. Are you insisting that this plague has eliminated the military’s ability to respond decisively if a target city openly defies a direct presidential order?”

  “I wouldn’t say that, exactly, sir—”

  Mayeaux broke in. “I’ve been informed that we still have ten Trident-class nuclear submarines on underwater quarantine and as yet unaffected by the plague. Wouldn’t you say that sub-launched missiles are a bit more substantial than a few ‘point weapons?’”

  The Chiefs exchanged glances. The temperature in the Situation Room seemed to plunge.

  A Secret Service man barged into the room. His arrival startled the other guards enough that one placed himself in front of the intruder.

  “Mr. President!” the newcomer said. He panted, then stopped, letting his eyes fall closed as he drew several deep breaths to calm himself. Mayeaux recognized him as one of the agents who had hauled him out of bed in his Ocean City condo to tell him of President Holback’s death.

  “Yes, what is it?” Mayeaux snapped.

  The Secret Service man drew in another lungful. “Sir, it’s Mr. Weathersee. Your… your chief of staff has been killed, sir. We were ambushed on our food requisitioning run. A large group of civilians swarmed over our wagons. Someone threw a grenade at the convoy. I believe they simply intended to appropriate the food, but they killed everyone they captured.”

  A roar of pounding blood filled Mayeaux’s head. Weathersee! “Are you certain it was him?”

  “I was with him. Mr. Weathersee was assassinated, sir.” He squirmed. “Uh, there is no doubt in my mind that he is dead.”

  Mayeaux gripped the table. Franklin Weathersee had been his legislative assistant since Mayeaux had taken his first political office, accompanying him for years as a silent companion as his career climbed. What was he going to do without the man’s dispassionate competence, especially in such a terrible crisis?

  “How?” Mayeaux said, sounding like a croaking toad. “How was he killed.”

  “Uh, he was…” The Secret Service man swallowed and stood stiffly, staring at the far wall. “He was decapitated, sir.”

  Mayeaux’s vision seemed to grow warm and black, fuzzed at the edges. What was he going to do without Weathersee? He took a long, shuddering breath and forced himself to focus on the people gathered in the Situation Room.

  “You have my sympathy, Mr. President,” General Wacom said.

  “I don’t give a damn about your sympathy,” Mayeaux said. He tok a long slow breath and spoke each word like a heavy footfall down a long staircase. “I believe you were abou
t to answer my question about the availability of nuclear-tipped missiles on Trident submarines.”

  The Chairman’s face fell slack. “Mr. President, you can’t consider launching a nuclear missile against American targets. Even at the height of the Cold War, using these against the Soviet Union was considered only a last resort for survival—”

  “Just what the living hell do you think this is?” Mayeaux shouted. He struck his palm on the table, scattering two pencils beside his coffee cup. “By your own admission, the military cannot function. The greatest nation on Earth is decaying into pockets of barbarism, even here in our capital city! Just when do you draw the line and say that things have gone far enough!”

  Mayeaux breathed hard as he looked around the room. He was surprised to feel tears on the verge of spilling from his eyes. No one spoke. The Joint Chiefs returned his icy stare; two of his cabinet members looked down, shaking their heads.

  Mayeaux took another deep breath, but his pulse kept pounding like a drumbeat in his head. “The United States must be willing to cauterize a wound to keep this nation from bleeding to death. We cannot tolerate this situation any longer. Look what’s happening in our own neighborhood.”

  The general tried to calm him. “Mr. President, maybe you should reconsider the options, wait until you have calmed down from this shocking news. Within a few days we can prepare an extensive list ranging from a light to intermediate response against San Diego—”

  Mayeaux’s Louisiana drawl got worse as his anger rose and he lost control. “Mais—let me tell you somethin’! The people must be utterly convinced that the President is still in charge! Abraham Lincoln did it, and so can I. Lincoln suspended the writ of habeas corpus, jailed political leaders and newspaper editors in Baltimore to prevent Maryland from seceding from the union.”

  Wacom sat rigid, masking his emotions. Beside him, the CNO’s eyes widened when Mayeaux turned his attention to him. “Admiral, I want you to give me a list of the surviving Trident-II submarines within range of San Diego.”

  The Admiral threw a glance at the Chairman; General Wacom nodded stiffly. Mayeaux scowled. Who the hell was in charge here, anyway?

  The Admiral avoided Mayeaux’s eyes by glancing at a sheet of paper. He cleared his throat. “Of the subs still in contact, two are in position to strike targets on the west coast of the United States.” He fiddled with his paper, as if it was very important for him to file it away at that moment. “However, Mr. President, I cannot assure you that the crews of either vessel will carry out war orders that require them to retarget missiles against their own country—”

  “Thank you, Admiral,” said Mayeaux icily. “I’m sure the captains of those vessels remember who their Commander is, even if my Joint Chiefs do not.”

  He felt giddy, detached, as if he had just been swept up by a giant invisible hand. Within days of the first strike—one decisive strike—word would spread like wildfire over the available channels of communication. The rebellios cities would be shocked, then afraid, then repentant. Time for everyone to work together, not break apart. History would hail Jeffrey Mayeaux as a savior, the architect of the future United States.

  Mayeaux leaned back in his seat and tapped his fingers together. “Very well, Admiral. I’ve made my decision. I want you to transmit the order that one nuclear missile be launched at the heart of downtown San Diego.”

  The Chairman and admiral exchanged glances. General Wacom’s face looked blotchy with submerged fury.

  Mayeaux turned to the Chairman. “General Wacom, work with the NSA to broadcast in the widest possible manner that unless the nationwide rioting stops and all of the new city-states recind their claims of independence, one city after another will be obliterated in a similar fashion. The leaders advocating secession must resign their posts and surrender.”

  No one spoke. Mayeaux looked from person to person. Each member of his staff looked away, not meeting his glance.

  He drew in a breath. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

  The military officers sat erect, hands on the table.

  Mayeaux felt his face grow warm. “Admiral, I gave you a direct order. The Navy will fulfill its legal obligations under my authority as Commander-in-Chief. Do I have to repeat it? Is something not clear?”

  The CNO spoke slowly. “No, Mr. President. I understand completely.” Still, he made no move.

  Mayeaux felt his heart rate quicken. A flush of adrenaline flooded his system, now that he had finally made his decision. “General Wacom—do I have to remind you, too? I am your Commander-in-Chief.”

  The general pushed back his chair with a sudden motion. His silver hair contrasted with the dark blue of his worn Air Force uniform; his eyes looked glazed as he glared straight at Mayeaux and spoke in a level tone. “My allegiance is to the Constitution of the United States of America, sir, and to obey the legal orders of those appointed over me. I’m sorry, but I respectfully refuse to obey your illegal order. You cannot use nuclear force against our own citizens.”

  Mayeaux leaped to his feet, his eyes wide, his breath coming in short gasps. “General Wacom—you are relieved!”

  The Chairman picked up his papers and walked away. Without a word, the admiral also stood up and followed him to the door. Mayeaux’s voice sounded shrill in his own ears. “History will brand you a coward, General! Both of you!”

  Wacom was halfway out the door when he turned and pointed an angry finger at Mayeaux. “Nuremberg set the stage, Mr. President—ask any American military officer since Lieutenant Calley. We’re responsible for our actions, and we have to pay the price. And as far as I’m concerned, using nuclear missiles to make an example of American cities is bullshit.” He hesitated, then added, “Sir!” before whirling to leave. The admiral followed him.

  Two other members of the President’s staff got up and walked out the door. “Sorry, sir,” one of them muttered.

  Mayeaux shook; he felt his teeth grinding together as his jaw worked tightly. Where was Weathersee, dammit?

  “Come back here!” he shouted. “I’m still the President!”

  One by one, the President’s staff exited the Situation Room, their heads down, muttering as they left, and not meeting his glare. They didn’t have to impeach him. They had stripped him of power in a much simpler way.

  “Weathersee! Where are you!”

  In a moment, Jeffrey Mayeaux stood alone—the most powerful man in the world, in the most important room… with no one around to hear him rage.

  Chapter 74

  A white flag of surrender dangled from a broomstick as Spencer Lockwood and Heather Dixon approached the burned-out control building for the electromagnetic launcher.

  Early that morning, Bayclock’s main forces had occupied the place, taking prisoner the few scientists and technicians who had remained after the railgun explosion, including a seriously injured Gilbert Hertoya. Holding the EM launcher and the scientists hostage, Bayclock had sent a courier demanding Spencer’s immediate surrender of the entire antenna farm facility.

  Spencer felt he had no choice. If only he had succeeded in getting the increased satellite power directed at the general’s troops! He had tried everything possible, but he could not get the orbiting Seven Dwarfs to respond, and the makeshift circuit board would not be worth anything for quite some time. Instead, the smallsats would pass overhead in just a short while, unaffected, beaming their increased solar power down onto the field of microwave antennas, oblivious to the conflict below.

  Spencer idolized fictional scientists, geniuses like the professor on Gilligan’s Island who could kludge together a solution to the wildest problem with the skimpiest resources—and it would always work! But despite Spencer’s expertise and the help of his team, his desperate measures fizzled as often as not: the transformer at the water pumping station, Gilbert’s railgun defense system, and Spencer’s attempt to reprogram the smallsats.

  Bayclock held all the good cards right now. He had demanded surrender, and so Spen
cer had rigged up the white flag.

  Back at the solar-power farm, Heather Dixon had astonished him by asking to accompany him on the journey.

  “What for?” Spencer blurted.

  “Because I want to.” She fidgeted and then flashed him a smile. “Besides, the general is less likely to shoot at a man and a woman coming to meet him, than just a lone rider.”

  He stared at her, then she smiled at him. Actually, Spencer didn’t think Bayclock would kill anyone coming in under a white flag, since the general seemed so anal retentive about law and order. Bayclock lived by a clearly defined code of honor—and that might be his weakness, Spencer thought, because it lets us predict what he will and won’t do.

  Now, as they rode toward the launcher facility, dangling the surrender flag in front of them, both he and Heather stared straight ahead. The long rails extended up the side of Oscura Peak, flanked by debris, rocks, and underbrush. Plenty of good places to hide.

  Spencer seethed at seeing the troops occupying the ruined facility—how many prisoners had Bayclock taken? Given his code of honor, the general wouldn’t abuse Hertoya or the other captives, but he seemed to have no compunction against destroying irreplaceable technical apparatus. A true barbarian.

  In the rugged foothills by the base of the launcher, Bayclock’s scouts saw the two of them approaching and rode out. Spencer swallowed. “You ready for this?”

  Heather reached over and squeezed his arm. Together, they waved the white flag.

  The scouts rode up on either side of them. Spencer halted his horse as the Air Force men looked them over, guns leveled. “Are you unarmed?” one of the scouts asked.

  “Yes,” Spencer said. The two men nodded. Somehow, he had known they wouldn’t bother to check. Bayclock, with his sense of military honor, would automatically expect everyone else to play by the same rules. He would be bound to accept Spencer’s surrender and offer terms.

  But Spencer’s mind didn’t work the same way. He preferred the model of one of his other heroes, Captain James T. Kirk: promise the world, stall for time, and keep working to find a way to win. And that was exactly what he planned to do now. He just hoped this would work.