Dark Alignment

by David Haskell

  “Sir?”

  There’s been an attack, son. The base is gone.”

  The guards collapsing expression revealing youthful features for the first time. As highly trained as these men were, nobody could be completely ready. But he collected himself quickly, standing tall and stating, “Understood, sir,” with a crisp nod that indicated his awareness of the new circumstances.

  Shane nodded back. “Okay, we’re going to step down, just us two for now, and have a talk with the sergeant of the guard, yeah?”

  “Of course, sir.” The Marine nodded curtly to the rest of the passengers and stepped out. Shane gave everyone a ‘sit tight’ gesture and followed him out.

  * * *

  They were gone for nearly twenty minutes, during which time the group had become somewhat more animated. There was only so much boredom people could take, after a great shock people naturally wanted to compare notes. The mood had turned almost casual by the time Shane stepped back into the train, but his expression startled them all back into silence.

  “The attack on the seabase was no isolated event,” he announced in a flat tone, “our nation is under siege. Nine confirmed hits on as many bases along the east coast. Scattered reports in from the midwest and west coast as well, but nothing confirmed. They’re staying away from population centers, for now”—he took in a ragged breath—“but that’s not the worst of it.”

  The tension palpable, nobody spoke up to interrupt or question; while he was speaking the Marine from the guard post returned to the train as well, this time flanked by two others.

  “There’s been an attempt on the president,” Shane said. His voice was cold and calm, devoid of emotion, like the consummate professional he was. But his eyes told a different story. Haunted, and lost. “We’re at DEFCON 3 pending further details.”

  Shane had nothing more to offer. He stepped back and motioned for the lance corporal to take the floor.

  “We’ve been instructed to escort several of you to the base commander, and the rest to a debriefing station. We’ll be doing med-checks at that point, but for now is there anyone in need of immediate medical attention?” The guard paused and looked around, but no one spoke. “Okay, good.”

  He looked to the two highest ranking officers. “If you’d both step out, the C.O.’s waiting to speak with you. And you two as well, sir, ma’am,” he motioned to Dean and Jo, “come with me please. The rest of you hold on a minute. You’ll be called one at a time for processing. The two corpsmen with me will take care of that as soon as possible. That’s all for now, just sit tight. Thanks for your cooperation.”

  The select five were shepherded out of the train and away from the rest, with no time for goodbyes. The lance corporal looked over at Shane and said, “We’ve got to make arrangements for the two non-com’s, before they can be allowed into command.”

  Shane nodded, looking at Dean. “This man’s going to need a civilian authorization. I assume you have credentials for this?”

  The question was directed at Jo, who nodded. The fact that she, too, was saying nothing, came as a shock to Dean—impressing upon him the gravity of their situation, even more than the actual attack had done.

  “Any idea who’s behind it?” Dean asked. He didn’t feel as though his opinion was of any consequence to these people, but he at least wanted to be a small part of the conversation.

  “Lot’s of ideas,” said the guard, “but nothing concrete yet. By the way,”—he turned back to face Dean and offered a hand—“name’s Lance Corporal Jason Shore. Under the circumstances, I’d say we’re good with first names though. So call me Jason.”

  Dean accepted the gesture, shaking hands with a measured enthusiasm. “Dean Eckert. No rank.” This made the lance corporal smile, and Dean was glad at least one person was willing to talk to him. Jo and Shane seemed too preoccupied with the situation to pay him much attention, the others hadn’t so much as given a nod of greeting, and he was feeling much like the third wheel of their little troop.

  * * *

  The third wheel feeling quickly dissipated for Dean when the debriefing began. Suddenly, he was the center of the universe—but not in a good way. More of an interrogation than an interview, he was treated like a criminal, and by the time they were done he felt like one, too.

  Roughly eighty-percent of what they asked had nothing to do with the undersea base, the attack, or even current events. He lost count of the number of times he admitted to a rash of petty thefts in high school. How many times he denied ever having spoken to a recruiter from the communist party. A list of family and friends was demanded, in order, from first encounter on through. He wracked his brain to list off every address he’d ever had, all those temporary housings in college included. His jobs and internships, how much money he made, exactly what he did and who he did it for. His embarrassing lack of intimate relationships, outside of a rather obscene number of quickies and short-term flings he was forced to admit to.

  They asked about the base, too, everything he could remember from that first dive on through the attack, in excruciating detail. When it seemed as though he could no longer keep his story straight, as ridiculously peripheral as his involvement had been, he was accused of making things up, and forced to start all over. Someone offered to bring him water, then never returned. He was told numerous times they were on the last question, only to have some earlier topic dredged up for a whole new round of accusations. He was sweating through his clothes as he felt real panic begin to rise up, as though he’d really done something illegal, caused this whole mess somehow.

  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, they were done with him. He was escorted to a conference room where he found the other five, sitting around the table and chatting casually. For a second he felt a flash of outrage. Had they been in on this too? Jo reached back to slip a paper cup out of a water cooler. She filled it, handed it to him, and asked if he was okay. When he took the cup, he saw that her hand was trembling. Just the tiniest bit, but it was enough. He knew then that they’d been through the ringer too. They were just better at hiding it.

  11.

  Acting President Randall Webster stood over the bodies and tried to breathe, something that took enormous effort at the moment. Side by side on the slabs lay the speaker of the house and the vice president. Both were friends, particularly the V.P., with whom he’d worked closely in the past. Killed in a joint public appearance, orchestrated to coincide with the recent murder of the president. Only the highest level of military officials were aware of the full extent. Webster, having recently been appointed secretary of state, was the first civilian official to be briefed, then escorted to the morgue. A fine way to start a presidency, he thought, feeling bitterness well up inside. Given the extreme nature of the circumstances, he had to wonder if his elevation to high office would even be accepted at all. There was sure to be a constitutional crisis, and he hadn’t the faintest clue how he’d deal with that. But first he had to deal with the tragedy laid out in front of his eyes. Leaks were already making the rounds about the president’s demise, containment of the rest was vital in order to prevent a worldwide meltdown.

  Though as yet undeclared, when his friends perished as the last of the top three, Webster was officially in charge, at least according to the law. Arrangements were being made for an official swearing-in, but that wouldn’t take place for several hours, and not here in the capital where the danger still loomed large.

  “Sir, we’re going to have to get you out now.”

  Webster, dazed, hardly registered the fact that someone was speaking. He looked up at the sound of the second “Sir?” and gave a curt nod, even as barely as it registered. Thus far he’d been led through the process, unsure of who was doing the planning, but appreciating the fact that no burdens had yet been placed on his shoulders. That would come soon, and he had enough presence of mind to appreciate the respite.

  He followed soldiers and aids out of the morgue and along basement corridors, to a service entranc
e where a van was idling. Webster must have looked confused for a moment, or unsure about the situation, prompting an apology of sorts. “It’s not fit for your status, sir,” said one of the agents, “but the secret service keeps nondescript vehicles for crisis situations. Don’t worry. It sure doesn’t look like the Beast, but it’s the same where it counts. Reinforced and attack proof. Safe as can be.”

  Webster hadn’t really been thinking about the vehicle at all, but he appreciated the reassurance. The fact that the president had been ripped apart by a bomb just a short while ago had everyone assuming the worst. Clearly they were up against professionals. This was no random extremist. An advanced nation was behind this, if not a number of them.

  “Thank you, agent…”

  “Harris, sir. I’m your first as of now. We’ll get the rest sorted out as soon as we can. For now, just stick with me.”

  Webster nodded, and Agent Harris indicated that he should climb into the van. He complied, and they were off. It appeared as though they were alone, but the banks of computer monitors along the sides of the vehicle indicated otherwise. Even a relative amateur such as Webster could grasp the radar indicators of several aircraft—Stealth? he wondered—and a veritable army on the ground, their movements tracked on a real-time defense map, just blocks away from them on all sides. There was no way this motorcade was getting touched.

  Within minutes, they were off the city streets and into a military compound, where the escort vehicles emerged in full force. At a brisk clip, they peeled onto an airstrip and then, executing a maneuver that must have required extensive preparations and training, up the rear ramp of a gigantic airplane, slamming to a halt inside it’s belly. Soldiers outside were scurrying this way and that, others securing the van into place within the plane. Just as the van driver cut the engines, the exponentially more powerful jets spun up to full force and they were off, up to speed and aloft before the occupants could even exit the ground vehicle.

  * * *

  “We’ll be ready to swear you in as soon as we land…with your approval,” said one of the multitude of handlers swarming around Webster. “Of course, we’ll revisit the timing if you think it needs to wait.”

  “No,” Webster ordered, “the sooner the better. Within that same half-hour I’ll address the nation, so make sure everything’s set up to make that happen.”

  “Yessir,” replied several men at once, saluting and departing with a surge of urgency.

  Webster might have preferred to get all this done on the aircraft itself, and if it’d been the true Air Force One he might have demanded just that. But the cavernous military monster he was traveling in smacked of extreme measures, and the nation had had enough of those for one day. Time for some normalcy. Even a hastily set up command center with a couple of flags was preferable to the sight of an unknown leader, under siege and airborne who-knows-where.

  Still getting used to the deference with which he was being treated, Webster nonetheless felt like a pawn; particularly the method in which he was being shunted from place to place, conference to conference, with little input on his part. He was actually pleased with the fact that his people were starting to look for more from him, and happily prepared to flex his muscles. Well, happily was too strong a word. Gratefully. With such overwhelming events unfolding, it was gratifying to feel as though his opinion meant something.

  Not that he begrudged his military and secret service protectors their due. They had protocols in place, training to fall back on, and it was obvious they were taking good care of him. Not to mention his family, the fate of whom had just been confirmed. Wife, kids, and parents located and secured, none the worse for wear. They’d been informed of the fact that he, too, was alive and well. Once he got back together with them, only then would he really breathe easy, but in the meantime any good news was appreciated. He was also receiving briefings about the situation back in Washington, around the country, and around the world. Nothing too crazy since the opening salvo, but that had been devastating enough. Now they were in a holding pattern. He realized that a large part of that had to do with the expectation that he—even if they didn’t know who he was—would soon speak. Until then, the world stood on a razor’s edge. They needed to get on with it.

  The landing was nearly as sickening as the take-off had been. They came down fast and hard, then rolled for an inordinate amount of time before the pilot finally backed off, sliding them cleanly into a hangar still at a worrisome clip. Not taking any chances, even here. With a final neck-twisting jolt, the lumbering craft ground to a halt.

  Less than two minutes after arrival, a team of military men boarded the plane, including a familiar face. It was a man he’d spoken to about arrangements via video link, quite imposing and authoritative when seen up close. But when he saluted Webster and offered a relieved smile, Webster began to feel rather imposing himself. This was the first time since it started that he felt presidential. It was an odd, yet empowering sensation.

  “Sir, we’re all gratified to see you’re okay,” said the official. Then he quickly named the officers present in a circular fashion. Each of the men snapped a salute, Webster nodding back at them rather than attempting a thoroughly unpracticed salute in return.

  “I’m sure you’ve already told me,” Webster admitted, “but it’s been a hell of a long day. Could I get your name again?”

  “Of course, sir,” said the attaché, “Lieutenant Colonel Henry Waters, sir. Good to meet you.” He hesitated, then added, “Face to face, I mean.”

  He looked uncomfortable, so Webster reached out for a handshake. He only then realized that his own arm was shaking, and he had to summon up some more mental fortitude just to still his nerves. “Glad to see you too, Henry. Very glad.”

  Glancing around the room, he noticed that one of the soldiers was carrying an object he’d seen once or twice in the White House. The nuclear football.

  Waters noted the recognition and pulled something out of his inside pocket. “You’ll need this to go with it, sir.”

  Webster took it without recognition. It was hard, plastic probably, and about the size of a credit card.

  “The Biscuit, sir. Go codes for launch are in there. We’ll go over all that as soon as we deplane, get you up to speed.”

  Webster nodded and pocketed the codes. Another hurdle overcome.

  “This way, sir,” Lt. Col. Waters indicated the way, and Webster steeled himself for the next, perhaps biggest hurdle of the day. Facing the public. But first they had to get off the damned plane.

  * * *

  Everything necessary for the swearing-in, along with his address to the nation, had been set up in the hangar. No outside exposure. Not yet, and probably not for a while. Everything looked appropriately official, including the participants who’d been quickly assembled to populate this historic event. With everything so close together, it had the makings of a movie set, but then again so did so many Washington backdrops when seen from up close. The place would do—the important thing was to get it done.

  As Webster strolled among local dignitaries and military VIP’s, he began to hear hushed comments about who they were looking at, and what this all meant. Scattered among the shocked words, he could hear low rumblings of concern; constitutional matters, whether or not this may be challenged out of the gate, that sort of thing. But at the same time he heard murmurings of support as well, and many offered respectful nods and ‘Mr. President’ greetings. He took careful note of which seemed genuine. Avoiding conversations, Webster headed straight for the platform. A judge stood waiting, bible in hand.

  “Mr. President,” he said, dipping his head slightly, “I’m honored to be a part of this.”

  As Webster shook hands, he made eye contact and tried to place the man. It was right on the edge of his recollection. He knew they’d met, he just wasn’t quite sure where or how.

  Webster must have silently prompted the judge for an explanation, because he grinned and said, “Traffic stop.”


  It all came flooding back. His first day in congress, and he’d missed the mass swearing-in by five minutes at the hands of an overly zealous D.C. cop who didn’t buy his story.