The Final Day

by William R. Forstchen

  “Classified info,” Bob said, smiling after first inhaling the cigar, taking it deep in without coughing. “A year back, the navy seized a shipment of these, and I was able to trade a bottle of real scotch with an admiral friend of mine for a box. First one I’ve had in half a year or more. Thank you.”

  “So that easy to get contraband stuff out there?” Ernie queried sharply.

  “Not as easy as you might think,” Bob replied without breaking his smile, showing to John that he could still keep that poker-face grin even when someone was needling him.

  Linda came in bearing a bottle of wine, and Ernie groaned. “That’s one of the last of the Malbecs.” He sighed as Linda handed it to him to uncork.

  “Might as well send our friend John off with a proper wine,” she said.

  “Who said I’m going anywhere?”

  She looked at him, and her composure let down for a moment.

  “You’re arresting him and taking him away, aren’t you, General?”

  Neither Bob nor John replied as Ernie, taking that in, uncorked the bottle and poured out four drinks into slightly dingy glasses and held his up.

  “America,” was all he said in a very formal salute.

  “America,” the other three whispered, and at that moment, John picked up a subtle nuance when Bob drained off a good portion of his glass and put it down without further comment. Old tradition was to toast the commander in chief as well in any such setting when glasses were raised. He looked over at Bob, who did not return his glance.

  “Shall we pull the wires now?” Linda asked without preamble. “Smash the motherboards and hard drives in front of you?”

  Bob shook his head and then took another sip of the wine. “That won’t be necessary at the moment, but yes, I’m afraid it will come to that. If you can promise me there’ll be no confrontation, a couple of my people will come over tomorrow to take the computers away. I just ask that you disable them in some way now.”

  “How about we fire off a mini EMP for you?” Ernie snapped, and Bob looked over at him sharply. Ernie smiled at his joke, which was definitely flat. “But then again, I suspect Bluemont has the same plans soon enough.”

  “Why do you say that?” Bob said, and again John could see the poker-face smile.

  “What you saw out in our Skunk Works isn’t there to play some damn games or set up a new Facebook or those damn Twitters. Yesterday, we noticed a real increase in traffic. We managed to capture and decrypt a few lines here and there after a lot of sleepless nights. Does Wallops Island, Virginia, sound familiar, General?”

  “Nice beaches. Camped there years ago.”

  “It was also a NASA and NOAA facility for lofting short-range rockets, not usually orbital, but they could launch from there for small payloads—say, what used to be known as a suitcase nuke. We’ve got something about a ‘package’ being moved there. Wallops Island, package, mix in my paranoia and I read it as something really dark.”

  “I’m not privy to such information,” Bob replied calmly, and then he masked his reaction by taking another sip of wine.

  Ernie smiled but did not press further, a reaction that John thought strange coming from this man. He saw Ernie glance over at Linda and read that there was something else up their sleeves, something beyond speculation regarding a “package” at Wallops Island, a place John was finding hard to place on a map.

  “General, we’ve been picking up something else,” Linda interjected.

  “Go on.”

  “You know as well as I do that all systems, no matter how secure, are porous, only as secure as their weakest link, meaning personnel link. Recall some high-level types before the Day who would sit at home late at night, using their personal servers to send out chatty e-mails and then mixed with notes to friends, family, something official and classified?”

  “I do,” Bob said, his features clouding with obvious disgust at such stupidity.

  “Easy enough to crack if they break security protocols. Do that and a door might be wide open for someone to snoop into. Well, we’ve got such a person at Bluemont.”

  “Go on.” After taking another drink of wine, Bob put the glass down on the table next to Ernie, who did not hesitate to pour in several more precious ounces while Bob took another puff on his cigar, and John gladly inhaled next to him. The entire Internet and computer security game was something he would readily admit was beyond him, so it was always fascinating to listen in on something like this.

  “General Scales, what is ‘Site R’?”

  John could see Bob stiffen at Linda’s query.

  “Could you repeat that one, Linda?”

  “Site R, and your response tells me that means something to you.”

  There was a long moment of silence from Bob. Cigars had always been an excellent means of giving a man a moment to gather his thoughts as he appeared to examine the glowing tip, knock off a bit of ash, and take another meditative puff, which is exactly what Bob did, and it spoke volumes to John, who remained silent.

  “Linda, I am not sure what you are driving at, and as far as this Site R is concerned, I have no comment.”

  “Then it’s classified?” Linda snapped, her voice like that of a prosecuting attorney closing in for the kill.

  She stood up, went over to a filing cabinet alongside Ernie’s desk, pulled it open, drew out a file folder, and tossed it on Ernie’s desk next to where Bob was sitting.

  “My Site R file, General. Sorry, but our regular printer was fried off on the Day. We did scrounge up an old dot matrix printer from the college library and a couple of boxes of paper but no extra printer cartridges. My handwritten notes—excuse them, some people say I have a miserable left-handed scrawl—but take a look, General.”

  Bob picked up the file folder, opened it, and held it up close to try to read the faded printouts and all but illegible handwriting. He finally gave up and put the folder back on the table. “What are these?”

  She smiled, the smile of the legendary Cheshire cat, luring by its cryptic words its prey coming in closer for the kill. “We started to monitor this person over a week ago. He was breaking standard encrypting. Our profile, a bureaucrat at Bluemont. E-mails bouncing all the way up to their satellite system and back down to an address at a place called Site R. Personal stuff; hope it is his wife rather than a girlfriend, because if it is a girlfriend and he’s married, the bastard should be hanged. Some of it the usual sticky stuff, some of it, well, all this proper Southern girl can say is, it got very randy at times between the two, though that girl Samantha who was tracking it day and night got more than a few laughs.”

  Linda smiled at that, and even Ernie chuckled.

  “He sure is horny.”

  “Ernie!” Linda snapped.

  “Well, he is. And in this starving world, you gotta be damn young or very well fed to have enough surplus energy to think the way those two are. It used to be called sexting, I think.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Linda shot back, and Ernie visibly wilted.

  “Hey, let’s call that TMI,” John snapped, though he was now curious to look at the files as well, even though from Bob’s expression it was obvious Linda had hit a major nerve at the mention of Site R.

  “Please continue,” Bob said softly as he picked up the file folder and began to thumb through it again.

  “Site R, as I was saying. We wondered where it was. For all we knew, it could be some island in the Indian Ocean, England, Antarctica, and the e-mails just pathetic longings. But then it cracked open wider. Our horny Romeo appears to be making his plaintive cries of undying love and longing right under Juliet’s balcony.”

  “How do you know that?” Bob asked.

  “He said he had a seat on the weekly shuttle chopper. Once things settled down when the package was delivered, he would be able to visit her again. Something about a five-day personal leave, a quick flight, and plenty of time then with his lover. She replied that she is getting sick of being stuck in Site R a
nd asked why can’t she just get a posting to Bluemont and then they could be together all the time. He then dodged off on his reply and, get this, said that no one is supposed to know that he, and I quote, ‘got you out to safety at Site R.’”

  Bob looked at her wide-eyed, obviously taken completely off guard, and she indeed did smile openly now. Whatever her game, John realized, she had just sprung it on an obviously unsuspecting general.

  He opened the file folder again, held up the pages closely, and started to scan through them one by one. Cursing softly, he reached into his breast pocket to produce a pair of reading glasses, put them on, and for long minutes scanned through the files.

  All were silent. Ernie puffed on his cigar, and after draining the precious glass of Malbec, without offering to those around him, he pulled out the nearly empty bottle of brandy, poured a stiff drink, and swiftly downed it, earning a sharp glance from Linda.

  Bob finally put the file back down with a sigh. “Damn all to hell,” he whispered, and he held his empty glass up for Ernie to reluctantly refill with what was left in the brandy bottle and took it all down in a couple of quick gulps. “Can I keep this file?” he asked.

  Linda shook her head. “If it’s as important as I think it now is, the answer is no.”

  “And if I just take it?”

  “You don’t leave here if you try.”

  He nodded, looking over at John. “You reason with her. I want this file. I need this file.”

  There was an urgency to Bob’s appeal that spoke volumes to John, who wordlessly gave an appealing look to Linda. She was silent for a moment, considering her answer.

  “I assume John is under arrest and going with you, General Scales.”

  Bob, who was leaning over toward Ernie, who was relighting his cigar, looked back at Linda. “Yes, he is, but don’t tell your family and the students here that. We don’t need a scene.”

  “John?” She looked at him sharply. He realized all he had to do was announce he had no intentions of going and all in this house would resist his leaving and if need be hold Scales as hostage.

  “Give the file to me, Linda,” John said. “You can trust me with it. Bob, can I take responsibility for the file?”

  Scales nodded in ready agreement. John reached over to pick it up without waiting for her reply and then turned his gaze back to her.

  “All right, John.” Her voice was choked with emotion.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Bob said, and setting his glass down, he swiftly stood up.

  Linda stood up and went up to John and hugged him. “When do I see you again, John Matherson?”

  “Don’t worry; just keep everyone here safe.”

  She started to stifle back tears.

  Bob reached out to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Ma’am, you just might have changed the paradigm. I hope you can trust me.”

  She looked back at him sharply. “I don’t.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “Anything you wish to smash on your way out?” she asked sarcastically.

  He did not reply, leaving their office, slowly walking out into the large room dubbed the Skunk Works and then turning to look back at the three who were following him.

  “Keep this up and running. Focus on this—how did you put it, Ernie? This ‘horny Romeo’? Focus in on him with everything you have.”

  Linda and Ernie looked at him with obvious surprise.

  “As far as your team knows, they are being shut down. Find whoever is your loudmouthed ham operator—for that matter, all your ham operators—and I want them off the air now, immediately. I want a full shutdown on any kind of uplink traffic. Silent listening only. Nothing even on the phone line. I’ll have a courier down here tomorrow to pick up anything new, but it will be made to look like he is occupying this place and shutting it down. Do you read me?” Those last four words were spoken sharply in a clear command voice that carried the type of threat a general knew how to conjure up when need be.

  Ernie and Linda stood silent, just nodding in reply, until Linda broke the silence. “And John’s fate?”

  “He is still under arrest and will face charges in Bluemont,” Bob said sharply, loudly enough that the eavesdroppers gathered in the living room below could obviously hear.

  Shouts of protest rose up as family and former students gathered at the base of the stairwell as the four came back down.

  Bob made a show of shouldering his way through, ignoring the curses and threats hurled at him, John following in his wake, shrugging off more than one plaintive attempt at a hug and appeals for him to stay.

  Though the climb up to the home had been a laborious one, Bob descended the driveway at a near run, John following in his wake.

  Whatever it was that had so hit the general, it was obviously big, and not another word was said as he approached the waiting helicopter, its turbines kicking over as he approached. John hesitated to climb in. He could not help but sense that doing so was sealing his fate for whatever was ahead.

  Bob climbed into the chopper, the rotors overhead beginning to turn, and looked back at John.

  “Matherson, you can turn and run and I won’t follow. That or get your ass in here now and face what is coming next. It’s your call.”

  Wondering if he would ever see Makala and his newborn child, he hesitated for several seconds and then climbed in after Bob, and the Black Hawk lifted off.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  He didn’t feel free or that he was actually under close arrest. After landing at the Asheville airport, Bob had disappeared into the cavernous hangar that had once housed National Guard aircraft at the north end of the airport while John was led to what had been the headquarters for a couple of private aviation firms. Bunks had been set up in the foyer and corridors to house troops, some of them fast asleep. Those relaxing off duty and still awake gazed at him with curiosity but said nothing as a sergeant major led John to what had been a private office, desk pushed to one side, a standard collapsible bunk with sleeping bag set up in its place. The sergeant told him to wait for a moment and returned with a sleeping bag and an MRE-supplied cup of instant coffee, which John took a sip of and set down; it was laced with whiskey, and for the time being, he definitely wanted to keep his head clear.

  “Anything you need, sir, I’m bunked next door; just come and get me.”

  “Mind if I wander about a bit, Sergeant…” His voice trailed off, the middle-aged man’s name tag concealed under his parka.

  “It’s Sergeant Major Charles Bentley, sir. Just call me Charles or Sarge. Okay?”

  “Fine, Sergeant. About wandering around?”

  “Sorry, sir, but you are under arrest until I hear differently. I’m responsible for your well-being. Play along and we keep it as it is now. You try to walk off, sir, and sorry to say it, I will have to put you under restraint. Those are the general’s orders.”

  “I won’t be a cause for concern, Sergeant,” John said as he turned to look out through the half-open venetian blinds. A couple of dozen private planes were still out there—Bonanzas, Mooneys, the usual Cherokee 140s and 180s, Cessna 172s that must have belonged to the flight school, and even some high-end turbo props and a couple of corporate jets. All of them abandoned. Long ago, he had sent a crew down here to drain off their avgas and Jet A, but even before his people had arrived, looters had already been at the planes, taking all the gas and most likely just for the hell of it smashing them up. The planes, once worth millions, had all been pushed to one side to make room for the eight Black Hawks, six Apaches, and a C-130, and as he watched, a second C-130 was taxiing in from landing.

  “Is that everything you have, Sergeant?” John asked.

  “You know I can’t answer that, sir.”

  “John is okay with me.”

  “Sir, orders from the general are to consider you as a colonel reactivated to service. So it remains sir or Colonel.”

  “All right, Sergeant. Mind if I ask a few questions?”


  “Those I can answer, fine by me, sir.”

  “Been with General Scales long?”

  “I’m his top enlisted aide. After Major Quentin left, I’ve been his sole adjutant.”

  “Can you tell me anything about Major Quentin?”

  The sergeant politely shook his head in reply.

  “He left us with a hell of a mystery, Sergeant. This talk about an EMP. You know anything about that?”

  “Sir, you know as well as I do what I can and cannot answer.”

  John smiled, pulled out one of the chairs stacked up in the corner of the room, and sat down, taking off his parka, stretching his legs out to relax, and making a show of just sipping the whiskey-laced coffee but not gulping it down. “Sergeant, how about sitting down for a few minutes? I’d appreciate the company.”

  “Sir, you are bunked in the same room as the general. When he comes back, perhaps it would be better to direct your questions at him.”

  The man was good. Firm without being disrespectful, and he would stick to his orders—perhaps one of them to get John a bit tipsy and pump him, or even to see if he could be made tipsy.

  With that thought, John made a show of going over to the window, cracking it open, and pouring out the laced coffee. He looked back at the sergeant, who actually grinned a bit.

  “Waste of a good drink, sir.”

  “I prefer to keep my head on straight. Here and then wherever it is you are eventually taking me.”

  “If there’s nothing else, sir, I’ll be next door down.” The sergeant turned to leave.

  “Charlie?”

  The sergeant looked back.

  “At least tell me about yourself. Were you in the Pentagon on the day the shit hit the fan?”

  “No, sir. I was actually part of the ceremonial team at Fort Meade for duty at Arlington. Final assignment before mustering out after twenty-five years.”

  The sergeant’s trim but muscular build, ramrod-straight posture, and demeanor was a giveaway to John. The ceremonial guard was one of the most exacting assignments in the military. It was not just the very public task of standing guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier but also for all military funerals and beyond that any ceremonial event requiring military presence in D.C. itself. Behind the scenes, it was also a highly efficient combat force, one of the top ready reaction forces inside the beltway.