by Rob Buckman
"Germany carries such a burden right now."
"Yes, but Germany didn't nuke three major cities, and march an army through two more and reduce every major city, town, and hamlet to rubble along his route of march."
"They did worse." Someone intoned.
"Did they? What is the estimated death toll right now?" She asked, looking angrily around the table.
"We estimate twenty seven million people died when General Drake ordered the missile launch." Someone answered.
"We lost fifty million when the Ayatollah ordered those nukes detonated, plus we'll lose at lot more from radiation poisoning..."
"Is that any excuse for what he did?" She asked heatedly.
"Some would say yes." The newly promoted General of the Air Force answered.
"And some would not." She snapped back. There was no simple answer. Could nuking three cities and destroying twenty seven million people in retaliation be justified?" The President looked around the room, seeking an answer in their faces. There wasn't one.
"General Hanson, will you convene an article 32 hearing and present the necessary evidence to have General Drake stand a General Court Marshal. Also, place his senior officers under arrest the moment he arrives back on US soil."
"Yes, Madam President." He sounded neither pleased, nor willing to carry out the order. "What would be the charges, Madam President?" He asked in a hard voice.
"Treason for one, disobedience of a direct order another, crimes again humanity, and conduct unbecoming will do to start." She said in a grim voice. These were direct orders from the President, and to disobey at this point, in the light of Scott Drake's recent actions would not, and could not, be tolerated at this point. Any reluctance on the part of the military to obey the orders of the New President of the United States would render any attempt to restore the republic doomed to failure.
* * * * * *
Scott Drake walked towards the chopper, scanning the desert around him. The Gunny was right, this land had been fought over for the last thousand years or more, his action nothing more than one more chapter in its history. He wondered if it would make any difference in the end. Could, or would human kind change and take a different direction this time? He thought not, they hadn’t after the bloody wars of World War I or II, so why should they now. As far as he could see, his actions would change nothing; humanity would go right on killing each other until there was no one left. This time it hadn't ended in all out nuclear war, but what about next time or the time after that. All it would take is some fanatic, or outlaw organization with a finger on the button, and all this would be gone. Like the old song said, 'how many deaths would it take before they knew that too many people had died?' came to mind, usually for the wrong reason. Because of stupidity, greed, hatred, power, or religion, take your pick. He shook his head, resigned at last to his feat and willing to face the consequences of his actions. Any thought of taking the easy way out and blowing his brains out, if and when he got his weapon back, vanished. He strode up the loading ramp of the chopper, his back straight, head up, and looking every inch a General.
* * * * * *
In Sacramento, the President pondered the problem of what to do about Scott Drake, hating the idea of having him executed, but at the moment, she couldn't see any other way. If only she they had sworn her in as President before Drake had crossed the border, or that her idiotic predecessor hadn't broadcast to the world that he hadn't ordered the attack. Stupid blundering fool, she thought, wishing she could change Drake's personal act of vengeance into an order. She knew he'd done it in part for the whole country, as none of the other people involved would have gone along just for simply personal reasons. If only, there was another way. ‘If’ had to be the saddest word in any language. Then a thought struck her.
"What if he died on the way home, say his aircraft crashed?" She asked the room at large, thinking of possibilities.
"It might solve a lot of problems if he died." Was the Secretary of State’s first reaction. "But Madam President, you can't mean that?" He added in a shocked voice.
"I was only thinking out loud John, keep your pants on." She said, smiling. Not that there was much to smile about.
On one level, it did seem the logical answer, on another, the worst of all possibilities. If he died, they could make him a hero and erect statues in his honor, on the other hand, there would be no resolution to the question of who to punish. Alive, Scott Drake was the perfect scapegoat, a quick court Marshal, and a firing squad, though heaven knows where she would find ten men to carry it out, and it would be over. Whom to punish then? That was the question. There was no way, with the mounting storm of condemnation in the UN, to punish the people who'd dropped the nukes on three Cities, or dodge the responsibility. Moreover, what about Scott Drake and his men? Was giving them to the wolves any way to thank them for saving the Republic? She didn't think so. She was between the proverbial rock and the hard place, so what to do? Wait, was all she could do and hope a solution presented itself. In the end, she put the whole problem on hold as other pressing business took precedent and she had to solve the millions of other problems flooding into her office.
An alternate solution suggested itself two days later, and came from an unexpected source. The answer came in the request from the Secretary of the Navy concerned emergency funding to purchase four nuclear generators for an ongoing experiment. At first glance, she brushed it aside with the thought she had to tell the secretary in no uncertain terms not to send request like this to her office. At least, not right now. For some reason, the word cryogenics kept popping into her mind off and on during the day, but she couldn’t remember where she’d seen it. When she took a well-earned break at eleven that night she went back to look at the request again. That's where she'd seen the word, and out of curiosity, she reread the request. Sometime last year, the Navy started experimenting on ways for a crewmembers to survive deep space flight to Mars, the outer planets and beyond. One of them was a modified cryogenic process whereby a human body was cooled to three degrees above freezing them placed in a gaseous derivative of DMSO, a form of antifreeze and then dropped to minus one hundred degrees.
This would solve a multitude of problem on the long flight to and from Mars, such as boredom, food, water recycling to name a few. Apparently, they had already successfully tried this experiment two years before, freezing seven men and a woman for over a year and bringing them back to life with no ill effects. Three of them were now waiting to go under again, while the remaining four were still in the chambers. After the destruction of Los Angeles, the Facility at Point Magu was in danger of losing it back up power, as so much of the electrical grid infrastructure was gone. They needed the four generators to replace those worn out units, and it wasn't just a question of terminating the experiment. It took four months to bring the temperature back up to normal and start the process of reviving the subjects. The navy didn't have that long before they lost what available power they had. If they lost it, all six people would die. On the scale of the human tragedy that had just unfolded, six lives among so many millions meant nothing. She carefully read the report one more time, and without another thought signed her approval for the money and sent the request back to the Secretary of the Navy by messenger, adding a personal note for him to come and see her tomorrow. Now she had an alternative, albeit a risky one that would need careful handling to pull off. If it succeeded, she would be able to sleep with a clear conscience; and make the first payment on a debt that could never be paid in full. Because of Scott Drake's action, America still survived as a World power and his action probably averted a Thermonuclear War that no one would have survived. How do you repay a debt like that? The next morning the Secretary of the navy came to her office, thanking her for the prompt attention to his request.
“First, I must apologize for that report ever getting by me and onto your desk, Madam President.
“Think nothing of it. In a way it was a god sent opportunity, as I have an ulterio
r motive for signing that request, Michael."
"What might that be, Madam President."
"How long does it take to freeze a person, and how long can he remain that way?" The question took him by surprise.
"I believe the first part of the process takes about three days, after that, the scientists tell me a person can be kept that way indefinitely.
"Do they have any spare chambers, or whatever they call them, we can use?"
"I'm not sure, but I can check and get back with you." She could see the question on his face, but didn’t enlighten him.
"Do, and as quickly as possible please." After he departed, she made several telephone calls, setting the wheels in motion before calling the Secretary of State in her office.
"John, I want you to find me a nice friendly flight crew who we can intimidate to keep their mouths shut."
"Pardon?" He answered.
"If the world thought Scott Drake were dead, what would it do?" She asked idly, as if posing a hypothetical question.
"I suppose they'd have to go along with whatever position we'd like to take on the matter." He said.
"If we had a mock, but public funeral?"
"That would end the matter." He said, still a bit puzzled, but beginning to see where she was going with it. She then filled in the blanks for him and the look of joy on his face told her that she'd found the right solution as he nodded his agreement and cooperation with the plan.
"Right! Get on with it, but remember none of the other people involved in the action are to be punished in any way, is that understood? General Scott Drake will bear full responsibility."
"Yes, Madam President."
"Good, find me that flight crew. We have some arrangements to make."
She spun her chair around and looked out the window to see sunny Californian sky as the easterly winds off the high desert blew the dust out to sea, and smiled for the first time in weeks. It was a crazy solution, and with careful handling might just work. The question was, would General Scott Drake go along with it, or would he make the ultimate sacrifice and insist on his own execution.
* * * * * *
After a midair refueling, the C150 aircraft with Scott Drake and his men banked into its final leg for a landing in Florida, settling into the glide slope and passing over the outer marker. With a screech of rubber on tarmac and the thunder of reverse thrust on the props, they were back on US soil. The aircraft rolled out, turning onto the taxiway to follow a flashing yellow arrow on top of a ‘follow me’ car guiding the aircraft to a hanger in the Air National Guard area where it finally came to a stop. An electric pump whined as the hydraulic rear ramp unshipped, ending with a thump as it hit the ground. Scott stood, stretching as he walked to the top of the ramp, breathing in the warm summer air, smelling of damp, and seaweed, unsure of his feeling about being back in the United States. It wasn’t home any more, not after what those assholes did, neither was he looking forward to the prospect of getting shot. His wife, children, and family were gone as were most of his friends and associates in Washington. At the moment, he had no way of knowing what the American public thought about his action in the Mideast, or if they wanted to make him a hero, or see his head on a platter. As he stepped to the top of the ramp, a tough looking group of men in civilian clothes materialized out of the darkness and started up the ramp. He noted in passing, how they spread out. Not quite boxing him in, but defiantly prepared should he run or make a move towards his side arm. He looked down on them, as they hadn’t reached the top of the ramp, a sardonic smile on his faced.
“Can I help you gentlemen?”
“Are you Scott Drake?” The man in the lead asked.
“That depends on who’s asking.”
“My name is Markham, and I’m a special agent with the FBI. Now answer the question. Are you Scott Drake?” His tone anything but friendly.
“I’m not sure I like your tone of voice, but to be correct, I am General Drake!” He snapped. Everyone except Markham made a motion towards the inside of his jacket.
"Then, General Drake, by order of the President of the United States, I hereby place you under arrest on the charge of treason against the United States." He answered, moving closer. Scott had to smile, however bleakly. There was almost something comical in this, as they had no idea what they’d just walked into. He heard movement in the darkened interior behind him and crossed his arms across his chest.
"Who the hell are you, and what’s your authority." Gunny Sergeant Brock demanded, looming up out of the darkness before Scott could answer.
"My name is Markham, Special Agent of the FBI and my authority is the President of the United States," he snapped, going onto his toes to see over Scott’s shoulder. Not that he could see much, "I’m here to arrest General Drake on the charge of treason.” He looked at Scott. “Will you come quietly?"
"I don't think so,” Scott answered, “for a couple of reasons." The six men stiffen, hands making motions towards their holstered weapons.
"What?" Markham blinked, looking startled. Scott’s answer had taken him by surprise. "General..."
"Don't tell me, tell them." He said, pointing over his shoulder. They all heard the snap/clack of weapon bolts over the droning roar of a nearby aircraft. Six hands froze in their movement towards holstered weapons, recognizing the sound and heads turned to see the cause.
"I don't think so dumbfuck!" Gunny Brock gravelly voice commented as he switched on the interior lights. The six found themselves looking down the barrels of over one hundred assorted weapons. If that wasn't intimidating enough the faces behind the weapons were. No one was smiling to say this was a joke, or they weren't serious, they were. No one was going to arrest the General if they could help it.
"You realize General that this is resisting arrest."
"Don't tell me, tell them.” He said again. “In addition, you are not the military police, nor are you in uniform. Also, you are certainly not senior officers in the Army, Navy, Air Force, or Marine Corps as required by the Military Code of Justice.” He smiled tightly, seeing the uncertainty in Markham’s eye.
“You therefore don’t have any jurisdiction, neither you, or the President have that authority, so therefore I do resist your attempt to arrest me." The agents looked at one another as they withdrew their hands from inside their jackets. This was one contingency they hadn't planned for.
"General, you must know that you can't get away with this." The senior agent spluttered. "You knew you'd be arrested the moment you landed."
"I'm not trying to, and if I am to be arrested it will be done per standard Military procedure and the Universal Code of Military Justice. I bet you don't even have someone from the JAG office standing by, do you?"
"Who, sir?"
"That's what I thought." The man didn't even know the JAG stood for Judge Advocate General, or that they had to be informed when any military personnel were arrested, especially a senior officer. Before even the President could do anything, an Article 32 hearing had to be convened, and the charged specified, viewed, discussed, and voted on. "What were your orders after you took me into custody?" He asked.
"To put you on another aircraft and transport you to California." The leader answered, eyeing the grim faced men and woman inside the aircraft.
"This aircraft will do nicely, thank you, shall we go?" He said, turning and inviting them inside.
"I think I'd better go and report in..." Before Markham or any of his team could move, ten men moved down the ramp at Gunny Brock's nod, surrounding the party.
"The General said that this aircraft will do him very nicely, so I suggest you Gentlemen, come aboard." It wasn't a request, and reluctantly the six agents strode the rest of the way up the ramp. As the troops surrounded them, Brock switched the interior lights off. It didn’t take long the Marines to strip them of their weapons and radios. After that, the group was hustled to the rear and made to sit on the floor.
"What about a flight crew, sir, this one is overdue for a re
st, General." Brock pointed out. He was right, this crew had been flying for better than thirty hours.
"Where's the flight crew who is supposed to fly me to California? Scott asked the lead agent.
"In the ready room, I suppose, or out in the aircraft." He didn't try to hide his anger. This was going to look very bad in this 201 personal file.
"Gunny, take this man and a team and find the flight crew. Asked the pilot if he's checked out on this aircraft, and if he is, bring him back here." Brock snapped a salute and detailed three men and two women out of those that gathered round, all with their hands up.
"And remember Gunny, I want them in one piece and fit to fly, not looking like a dog's dinner." Brock just grinned at him and trotted down the ramp. "Reilly, front and center." Scott called, and a tall sad faced woman stepped forward.
"Yes, Gunny!" Sergeant Pam Reilly came to attention, a grin on her face for once.
"I want a perimeter around this aircraft. No one in or out without my say so, go" He snapped. Pam Reilly didn't bother saluting Scott, just indicated the man and woman she needed and took off.