Apocalypse Austin

by David VanDyke

  McAllister nodded. “They’ll be gathering intel and conducting surveillance on us as well. Once they’ve mobilized enough that they think they can win, they’ll hit us.”

  “You don’t think they’ll exhaust all diplomatic avenues before they do, sir?”

  “No. To them, we’re a state in rebellion, not another sovereign nation. And they need to move fast, riding the wave of outrage, before the public has time to get used to the situation.

  “Even without air supremacy?” asked Clemens.

  McAllister stroked his jaw. “Yes. Time is on our side, not theirs. The Unionists are under pressure to bring us to heel, so they can get back to all their other self-inflicted problems. They just won an absolute majority in both houses of Congress, and ironically, with all of the Texas members out of the picture, there’s even less opposition than there would be otherwise. The Texas Reclamation Act they passed already mandates that the executive branch must pacify Texas. The U.S. President will either have to go along with the mandate or be impeached, and I don’t see any politician giving up the top spot just on principle.”

  “If they attack too early, they’re going to get hurt badly in the air…and no conventional war since World War Two has been won without at least aerial parity.”

  “You’re thinking like a military man, Buck. This will be a political decision, forced on the President by a bunch of upstart neo-fascists. They’ll do their best to take out our air defenses with what’s handy, but remember, it took six months for the Gulf War One air campaign to prep the battlefield. Seventy days to take apart little Serbia’s air defenses.”

  “Ah, we – they – could have gone in after four weeks, in either case,” Clemens retorted.

  “Half the U.S. Air Force took part in Iraq. This time, they won’t be able to bring more than a quarter against us, and our own combined air defense is far superior to Iraq’s. I call it a draw, and a draw is a win if we can hold out for long enough.”

  “Or they may just send in the fighters and bombers and say damn the air defense,” Weston chimed in. “Combine it with a blitzkrieg ground offensive, trying to crack us with shock and awe.”

  “That would be insane,” Clemens answered. “The American people would never stand for that number of casualties.”

  McAllister snorted. “Have you been watching the news, Buck? Or should I say, the propaganda? The American people are scared to death, not only of their nation breaking apart, but of a pack of rabid Edens on their southern flank who want nothing more than to storm across their borders and infect them, turn them into zombies. As ridiculous as that sounds to us, it’s a fear that resonates. Fear will blunt any outrage over American deaths. In fact, they’ll spin the casualty count even further, making the tragedies all our fault.”

  The room fell silent again.

  “What do we do about it?” asked Weston eventually.

  McAllister shrugged. “Good question. For now, we make sure all our forces and people are as ready as they can be. Talk to your staffs and come up with ideas. If you have any good ones, bounce them off Colonel Gervais and she’ll brief me.”

  More nervous looks flitted around the room.

  “Look, everyone,” said McAllister, “we have a lot of people depending on us to do our jobs. There’s a great deal of work ahead of us. Don’t spend time you don’t have worrying about things you can’t control. For now, do what you can, the best you can. Everyone understand?”

  There were murmurs of “Yes, sir,” and “Roger, sir.”

  “Okay, then. That’s enough for today.” McAllister stood abruptly, and the rest of the room came out of their seats and to the position of attention. “Carry on,” he said as he walked out the door and down the hall to his office.

  General McAllister sat heavily in his chair. He spun the seat to look out the window at the wide expanses of grass that characterized the old Fort Sam Houston, now part of Joint Base San Antonio. From this vantage he could see the Texas flag flying alone, where so recently the Stars and Stripes had proudly waved.

  He felt as if a dagger had lodged in his heart when the flag of his former country had come down. Just as Robert E. Lee had made the soul-searing decision to refuse Lincoln’s offer of command of the Union forces and instead declare his loyalty to Virginia, and by extension the Confederacy, McAllister had decided that as a son of Texas; he had no choice. He would defend his home against a United States that had set aside the Constitution in all but name.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said his chief of staff, knocking on his door frame. “I have that list you wanted.”

  “For Senior Enlisted Adviser?” McAllister took the folder and opened it. Inside was a long list of names, followed by brief summaries of each on subsequent pages. Such a trivial thing, it hardly seemed to matter. “Choose who you think best.”

  “If I may, sir, I think it’s critical you choose one yourself. Especially with the days we have ahead and with many fresh recruits. We’ve been getting lots of issues to deal with that should rightly be handled by an E-9, probably Army or Marine. You’ll have to trust him – or her – to handle enlisted issues, and with the expansion, we’re going to have a lot of lower enlisted.”

  “All right. I guess I should know that too.” McAllister began scanning the list. A name caught his attention. He pulled out the man’s bio. “Retired Command Sergeant Major Silas Crouch. I knew him well from when I was V Corps commander in Germany and he was the 173rd Airborne Brigade sergeant major. Very good man. I wasn’t aware he was from Texas.”

  “He’s not. He’s one of the refugees from Arkansas, with the Free Brigade. I almost left him off the list because he’s not one of ours, but his record is impressive.”

  “Indeed it is, and that’s only half of it. A steady and hard man. Reliable. Tough, yet understanding. The sort of man I think I need advising me.”

  “Very good. I’ll reach out to him and offer him the position.”

  McAllister shook his head. “He’s a soldier and this is wartime. Just call him up and tell him when to report. He’ll understand.”

  “Yes, sir.” He shut the door on the way out.

  McAllister turned back to the window and gazed again at the Texas flag. He wondered how he was going to defend his new republic against the might of the United States military. His eyes focused on a statue in the distance and he smiled.

  “Sam Houston,” McAllister said aloud, rubbing his chin. Some thought hovered just out of reach. He willed it to come forward, but it stayed away.

  He shook his head and dove into paperwork. Whatever it was, it would find its way to his consciousness eventually.

  Chapter 7

  National Security Adviser Prudence Layfield thought of her son Toby as she walked down the hallowed halls of the White House. The memories often came unbidden, and were never welcome. What had happened to him was a tragedy and she’d grieved, but that didn’t change the fact that he’d become an abomination.

  Aides and staffers eyed her nervously. Some ventured hesitant smiles, which she returned coolly and out of political habit. Even the Secret Service agents nodded to her respectfully. All could recognize ascending power.

  If only Toby could be here, she thought and then pushed the traitorous idea down. He could not be...would never be. Her sweet boy was no more, and all that was left of him was a host for some strange virus that they still didn’t understand, a genetically engineered disease that some in the intelligence community theorized must be extraterrestrial in origin.

  The host that wore her son’s face was in one of the detainment camps somewhere out there, but she’d resisted the urge to find out where. Her former husband Leonard may have located the Toby-shell by now, but it would do no good; they wouldn’t let him near any of the prisoners.

  At least, not without the influence she refused to provide.

  Leonard. So idealistic. He’d railed against Prudence when she’d reported their son to the Security Service. Toby had been close to death in the hospital, figh
ting an infection that no one could identify, before miraculously making a full recovery. Test results had revealed the horror. Someone had given him the Eden Plague against his will…it must have been against his will. Her good boy would never have agreed to such a thing.

  Layfield had tracked down the nurse that was responsible and had her arrested, thrown in a prison camp. There, the woman received special treatment for daring to harm the only son of then-Senator Prudence Layfield, but such retribution had been a hollow act. Her Toby was gone forever.

  Her husband had wanted to take the boy and go run, hide somewhere, maybe in one of those freakish Free Communities she knew about where everyone grew young again. It had been necessary for her to have Leonard detained for a time so he wouldn’t interfere with what needed to be done. He would never understand, and probably never forgive her.

  Leonard didn’t care that Prudence had done nothing needing forgiveness. He’d chosen her as the focus of his hatred. No matter. She’d forcibly divorced him.

  Layfield nursed her own hatred. She knew who was responsible for her son’s fate-worse-than-death. She meant to make those responsible pay in full.

  A thin gray woman at a desk stared at Layfield as she approached the closed door of the Oval Office. The woman’s lips tightened until her mouth disappeared.

  They fear us, Layfield thought. And they are right to do so. We’re sweeping away the old, corrupt Democrats and Republicans, bringing a clean new age free of their outdated legacy.

  The Unionists had come out of nowhere to dominate the elections. Layfield had joined the party nearly a year ago, after the infection of her son, shocking her former supporters. With her utter conviction and forceful personality, she’d become one of the leaders of the Unionists. When the old National Security Adviser was forced to resign because all his adamant guarantees that Texas would not secede were proven false, she’d made sure she was the new appointee.

  Other than the White House Chief of Staff, no other official had as much access to the President…and as much direct influence. At least, that was the norm. Her appointment hadn’t yet yielded much fruit. The stubborn White House staff seemed determined to freeze her out, and until the Unionists could elect their own President in two years, it would clearly be an uphill fight.

  Fortunately, she was an old hand at this game.

  “I’m afraid I don’t see you on the schedule,” the President’s personal secretary said, looking at her computer screen.

  Layfield was not a big woman, but people often thought of her as taller than she actually was. Her naturally arresting black eyes had become even more formidable when mixed with intense grief and resolution. Straightened, perfectly coiffed graying hair framed a face that had once been attractive, but was now a model of functional austerity.

  She stared at the secretary in front of her until the old woman glanced up at the silent intruder in front of her. “The President is in a meeting,” the secretary said finally. “I can try to get you in sometime later this week.”

  Layfield walked around to the other side of the desk and sat on the edge, stunning the woman, who moved involuntarily backward. The Unionist crossed her legs and used the toe of one pointed shoe to tap the woman on the elbow. “I want you to listen very carefully, because I intend to only have this conversation once.”

  The secretary shied away from the contact. “Would you mind getting off my desk?” She looked around for assistance, but every eye that met hers shied away, except for the nearest Secret Service agent, who watched with narrow-eyed interest. Layfield winked at him as if to say, nothing to worry about. Just politics.

  “Pay attention, now,” Layfield said, leaning forward even more into the woman’s personal space. “I’m the President’s National Security Adviser. I come and go as I please and you will not keep me from seeing the President if I decide I need to see him. Do you understand?”

  The older woman crossed her arms. “Mister Roberts always made appointments.”

  “Jack Roberts is a traitor to his country and has been banished in shame,” Layfield said of her predecessor. “Just because he fueled your delusion doesn’t mean I’m going to.”

  “Delusion?”

  “Yes. You believe because you sit close to power that you have power yourself. You believe that because you have some control over access to the President that you’re important.” Layfield poked the woman hard on the leg with the pointy heel of her shoe. “Make no mistake, you’re a low-level servant in the halls of power. You could be replaced tomorrow and no one would remember your name. They may not even learn where you disappeared to, you meddling little biddy.”

  The woman moved away from Layfield’s heel that jabbed her thigh painfully. “You can’t speak to me like that,” she snapped, finally standing to get away from the poking shoe. “I don’t work for you. I serve at the pleasure of the President, and he’s given me specific instructions that you are to make appointments.”

  Layfield slipped off the desk and into the open space the secretary had created. She leaned into the woman and smiled without the slightest trace of humor. “Then you’re going to make me an appointment for the exact moment the President’s meeting ends. That will comply with the President’s instructions, hm?”

  “I…”

  Layfield lowered her voice and kept a smile on her face for the Secret Service agent’s benefit. “I don’t have anything personal against you yet, but you’re going to see a lot of me and I’m going to see a lot of the President. If I get even the slightest hint you’re trying to stick your pathetic servant’s neck into my way, I’ll make sure you never stick it anywhere else ever again. The Party knows where you live. Where your children live. Where your grandchildren go to school. We know everything.”

  The secretary let fear leak through, and Layfield knew she’d won. “Do we understand each other?”

  The woman nodded once, sharply.

  “Good,” said Layfield, moving back around to the other side of the desk. “Now, I think it would be best for everyone if you retired soon. Make sure your request is submitted to the chief of staff by the end of the week. You deserve to enjoy those golden years.”

  The woman lowered her eyes and sat down, reaching for her keyboard. “I’ll slot you in. He should be free in fifteen minutes.”

  “No need to wait that long.” Layfield moved toward the closed door of the Oval Office. “Glad we had this talk.”

  The Oval Office fell into frigid silence as she walked into the room. Cabinet members looked at her in surprise, some even in anger, but the President only appeared embarrassed, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

  “This is a closed meeting, Ms. Layfield,” said Paul Milligan, the President’s chief of staff.

  She closed the door carefully before facing him. “I see I was not invited.”

  “You’re not a member of the Cabinet.”

  “Neither are you.”

  “But the President asked me to sit in. I don’t recall him extending you the same invitation.”

  “Yet, I’m here to stay,” Layfield answered and sat on the arm of the sofa beside the shocked Secretary of Commerce. “Let’s stop wasting time that none of us has and focus on the task at hand.”

  The chief of staff’s face grew livid. “Mister President, I object to this, this person’s presence here.”

  The President waved his objection away, his expression guarded. “Let her stay. But Ms. Layfield, in the future, go through my secretary. Crashing a meeting won’t make you any friends here, and I’m still in charge for two more years.”

  “Of course, Mister President,” Layfield replied, suddenly all grace and modesty.

  “We were just discussing the new trade agreement with Russia,” said the uncomfortable woman beside Layfield.

  Layfield looked at the chief of staff. “Trade agreement? With our home burning down around us?”

  “We still have to run the nation,” answered Milligan. “Not everything can be abou
t Texas.” He looked at her pointedly. “Or Edens, which is your personal bugaboo.”

  The National Security Adviser rose and began to pace in front of the fireplace beneath the framed picture of George Washington. Ignoring Milligan, she steered the conversation where she wanted. “Where does Mexico stand? Have they finally accepted our terms?”

  “They have,” answered Secretary of State George Hood. “I was on the phone with their president this morning. They’ll close off the Texas border and isolate them as long as we keep paying off their debts.”

  “I’m not sure we can afford that,” said the Treasury Secretary.

  “We can’t afford not to,” answered Layfield. “Borrow some more money from the Fed.”

  “But the deficit’s already at an all-time high.”

  “That won’t matter if we allow Texas and Alaska to win.”

  Milligan looked at the cabinet disapprovingly. “We need to get back to the agenda. The Russian trade deal, which I might add, will help our financial situation rather than hurt it.”

  “That can wait,” snapped Layfield before turning to the ancient Secretary of Defense, Harold Mason. “Is the blockade in place?”

  Mason turned to the President to get some signal, but the so-called leader of the free world – more ironic all the time – was gazing intently out the window. Mason turned back to Layfield. “Atlantic Fleet is moving in that direction now. They should be in place by the end of the week, They’ll seal off the sea lanes and help enforce the air blockade.”

  “We’re still allowing those who swear loyalty to the U.S. to leave Texas,” said the Secretary of the Interior. “That will drain their manpower and increase ours.”

  “Better make sure they get tested,” said Layfield. “They’ll slip in some Edens if we let them. We’re already having a hard time controlling this plague.” She turned back to Mason. “What about the other option we talked about? Is that in place?”

  The old man turned to the President again, who was at least looking in his direction, but who sat slumped in his chair as if exhausted. “Go ahead. Tell her.”