The Final Day

by William R. Forstchen

  “How did you meet General Scales?”

  “He and some others from the Pentagon came in the evening of the first day.” He seemed reticent to continue.

  “And then?”

  “Well, the general and I sort of fell in together, and he asked me to stick with him.”

  “Mind if you tell me more about what happened in D.C. that first day, Sergeant?”

  “No, sir. There was a lot of confusion. The whole city was down, communications down. By the middle of the first night, the city was burning.” Again there was a drawn-out silence; he was obviously reluctant to say more.

  “Nothing classified—just curious,” John prompted him.

  “After a couple of days, it was obvious to some we were doing nothing effective where we were. Some said we should try to link up with Andrews Air Force Base, but that was on the other side of the city, and we hadn’t seen any air traffic, at least not going out from there.”

  That struck John as curious. “Did you see air traffic?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. A number of choppers, looked like special-ops-type equipment, most likely proofed against EMPs. They were moving about.”

  “So something was at least flying?”

  “Yes, sir. But nothing toward us. All our comm gear was down, and we were obviously written off.”

  “What were these choppers doing? Where were they going?”

  “Don’t know, sir,” he replied a bit too hastily.

  John knew the sergeant would not speculate anything with him and dropped that line of questioning. “So you then went to Andrews?”

  “No, sir. A group did set out that way.” The sergeant smiled. “A lot of those wandering in from the Pentagon were men like General Scales. Well, I should say around the same rank. There was a lot of arguing back and forth, which I stayed clear of.”

  “Smart move, Sergeant. If two generals got into a row, I always made myself scarce.”

  “The general said we should strike out for Fort Belvoir and link up with whatever was there. Most of us went along with him.”

  “Most?”

  “Well, sir, it did get a bit ugly. Not often you see a two star telling a couple of three stars to go to hell. The general, he had a hell of a lot more ground experience, not a paper pusher—we could see that and went with him.”

  “Good analysis and smart move.”

  “I understand you served under him, sir?”

  At last, a question back, and John openly went over the times they served together, even how when he had decided to retire because of Mary’s cancer, it was Bob who had helped him find a position at Montreat College, which was Mary’s hometown.

  The sergeant took it in, most likely not much that was new there if his job was to pump John as a “good cop” interrogator.

  “Sergeant, you have family?”

  And now the man did stiffen up. “Yes, sir.”

  “And?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “I understand. The general told me about what most likely happened to his wife.”

  There was a momentary pause again.

  “They lived on the other side of the Potomac. My wife, two daughters, a son. My boy was a plebe up at West Point. My daughters still in high school. I didn’t want them in some crap hole of a school in Washington. Unless you were able to pay forty grand apiece to send your kids to one of the schools where all the elites were sending theirs, you were stuck. I had in-laws up near College Park, good schools at least up there, so that’s where we bought a small, very overpriced house to ensure the kids were safe and at a good school.”

  Again a moment of silence.

  “I wanted to try to get to them; the general talked me out of it. I guess he was right. One man alone, trying to get through all that chaos. It was something I would think about at times before the Day. You know, trying to plan what to do if everything ever hit the fan. But you know how it was, sir. It was always figuring ten, maybe twenty megatons on Washington, an equal dose on Baltimore—one minute we’re here, the next we’re together with a lot of other poor souls waiting to talk to God. You know what I mean.”

  John could see that the mere recollection was painful. All the worst nightmares possible most likely kept him up night after night. No quick, near-instant deaths. A woman with two teenage daughters. What chance did they have? And the sergeant knew it.

  John decided to tell him a bit about Jennifer, a choice to perhaps share a bit of the misery to help bond. The sergeant listened sympathetically.

  “At least you were with her at the end, sir.”

  “Yes, I’m grateful for that. Also the most painful moment of my life, but yes, at least grateful that I know what happened, unlike you and General Scales. Does he ever talk about it?”

  Again a moment of silence.

  “Some nights I can hear him praying about her; that’s all I’ll say.”

  “I understand.”

  It was obvious the sergeant was not going to offer more. He did try, a bit woodenly, to ask about what assets John had, even as to where the Black Hawk was stashed, to which John just smiled politely and replied that he’d prefer not to answer. The sergeant finally relented and stood up to leave.

  “Sergeant.” As he spoke up, John held his coffee cup back up. “Can I hit you up for another cup—this time straight, no cream, no whiskey, no Xanax. Okay?”

  The sergeant smiled. “Sure thing.” He returned a moment later with a steaming cup and a plastic MRE pouch filled with hot stew. John took both gratefully.

  “Again, sir. No wandering about or talking with other personnel. If I have your word of honor, I’ll leave the door unlocked. There’s a bathroom down the hall; we managed to get water running for the toilets, but no hot water yet. I’ll loan you a razor, soap, and a heat packet from an MRE for shaving if you want.”

  “I’d appreciate that, Sergeant. I really would.”

  Several minutes later, he was in the bathroom, looking into a mirror, as always shocked by his appearance. It seemed he had aged ten years in the past two. His hair, cut short, had gone nearly entirely gray; the rough stubble of a beard actually was looking white, his features gaunt, eyes a bit sunken, complexion sallow. It was the look of his world, again reminding him of photographs of long ago, the aged and chiseled features of boys in their early twenties after a couple of years with the Army of the Potomac, having survived Antietam and Gettysburg and all wars since.

  The sergeant came in, offering over a disposable razor that looked fresh, a small, still-wrapped packet of soap, a small toothbrush with a travel-size tube of prewar paste, and a plastic MRE bag, its chemical charge having been activated and the pint of water within hot to the touch. John thanked him with genuine gratitude. For the first time in more than two years, he was no longer struggling with an old-fashioned straight razor. He splashed some of the scalding-hot water onto his face, opened up the soap pack, rubbed it on to the stubble, dipped the razor into the hot water, and began to shave. When he turned on the faucet, a trickle of rusty-colored cold water dripped out. Several nicks and a lot of scratching later, he looked back up at his red-faced image in the mirror.

  Well, if they are going to shoot me, he thought, at least I’ll look halfway decent. The bag of water was still hot, and on impulse, even though the room was freezing cold, he stripped off his heavy flannel shirt and sweat-encrusted undershirt, leaned over the sink, poured several ounces of the water on his head, and scrubbed a bit with the small bar of soap, his short hair so oily he barely worked up a lather. Alternating between the freezing-cold water and what was left of the warm water in the bag, he rinsed most of the soap out. How he longed for a full shower, but the building was without heat, and at least he now felt semicivilized as he pulled the graying T-shirt back on and heavy flannel shirt over it. He finished up by brushing his teeth with real toothpaste, a heavenly feeling after two years of charcoal mixed with mint leaves.

  Coming out of the room, he found the sergeant loitering
in the hall, and thanking him, John handed the razor back, the sergeant motioning for him to keep the small bar of soap, toothpaste, and brush. He realized the sergeant had shown a subtle act of trust. Even though it was a modern disposable razor, a desperate man could still cut his wrists with it, an act unthinkable to a man like John, and the sergeant knew that.

  “You almost look like an officer again,” the sergeant said, offering a smile. “Don’t let your stew chill down; the coffee has nothing in it. Chances are when the general finishes up with whatever it is that bit him in the butt, he’ll want to talk to you.”

  “So you wanted me to look good and well fed before the execution, is that it, Sergeant?” John said it as a joke but saw that it had misfired.

  “The general follows the rules, sir, same as me, and I believe you as well. In his eyes, you are a standing officer in the American army. There will be no summary execution, sir; you will have a proper court-martial. Yes, we executed some in Richmond and Roanoke, and that was for the same kinds of crimes you faced with that Posse group. So, sir”—and his voice now took on a harsh warning edge—“do not insult General Scales in my presence, sir, by implying he would act in any way contrary to the Articles of War.”

  John admired this type of loyalty and extended his hand in an offer of apology, which the sergeant, going formal, did not at first return.

  “Sergeant major, I hold the general in the same respect as you do. I know I am under arrest by orders from Bluemont, not by the general’s.”

  “I suggest you get some rest, sir,” the sergeant said. He drew back and offered a salute, which John formally returned.

  “Thank you for your help.” He paused, continuing to hold the man’s gaze. “And my sympathies regarding your family, regarding all our families, including that of General Scales.”

  There seemed to be a flash of easing down on the sergeant’s part. He nodded and turned away while John went back to his assigned quarters.

  The stew was barely lukewarm. He downed it hungrily, gulped the black coffee, unrolled the sleeping bag the sergeant had provided, and, in spite of what he figured was his condemned status, he was asleep within minutes.

  * * *

  “All right, Colonel Matherson, out of that sack and on your feet.”

  Momentarily confused, John sat up. How long he had been asleep he wasn’t sure. It was dark outside, Scales standing over him holding a Coleman lantern that was hissing loudly, turned up to full illumination.

  John sat up, rubbing his chin, surprised with the realization that he was freshly shaved and his mouth did not feel sticky and taste rancid.

  Scales set the lantern down on the table pushed to the corner of the room, pulled a chair behind it, and placed another across from him, motioning for John to sit down. “I trust Sergeant Bentley saw to your needs and treated you well.”

  “A good man. You know how to pick them, sir.”

  “Fine. He told me you behaved okay—no tricks—and kept to the code, not revealing anything. Sorry about lacing that coffee with whiskey. In part, it was to get you to just relax, but yeah, we both know it’s an old trick.”

  “Figured that one, of course, though it was tempting. So, when does the court-martial start, or are you really transporting me up to Bluemont for trial?”

  Bob sighed, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his eyes. “You got a good eight hours of sleep, John, I’ve been at it nonstop since midnight, and it’s just past six here.”

  John waited for him to continue.

  “We’ve orders to pull back to Roanoke and before we leave to take down everything you have here.”

  Even as he spoke, John glanced out the window and saw that several floodlights powered by a loud generator had been set up around the perimeter where the Black Hawks and Apaches were parked, crews busily at work.

  “And that is it?” John said coldly. “Why?”

  “Those were my orders, and don’t you dare to try to throw the line at me about ‘only following orders.’”

  He knew better than to do so and raise that infamous moral argument.

  “The attack we were supposed to be staging for to move on Atlanta has been put on hold. We don’t have the assets to do it.”

  “Bob, if what I see parked outside is everything you’ve got, there is no way in hell you’re ever going to secure Atlanta.”

  “What I was trying to tell them all along. I actually did pass up what you suggested—of course you can understand I did not peg your name to it—that we need to sit back through the rest of the winter at least, let them tough it out a while longer, and perhaps be more tractable come spring. They weren’t happy up in Bluemont with that. They tried to push it. I said it was impossible. and they just got back to me to pull back to Roanoke but to take down whatever you’ve built here first.”

  “It means they’re going to do it. They’re going to pop an EMP. That’s the real reason they want you to give up what you’ve just gained.”

  Bob looked over at him and said nothing.

  “Anything else?” John asked.

  Again silence.

  “I assume I go with you.”

  “Something like that.”

  “It’s what I figured.”

  Bob went up and looked out the window as a Black Hawk’s engine started to turn over, was revved up for a minute, and then shut down. A light snow was falling, and once out of the sleeping bag, John could feel that the temperature in the room had dropped by quite a few degrees.

  “Among everything else, John, the fact that you are still alive and managed to dodge that hit squad has made life even more complex.”

  “So it was Bluemont?”

  Bob simply nodded.

  “You suspected they would pull it; that was what you were warning me about.”

  “You twisted a lot of tails up there the way you took out Fredericks and then several days later talked with the BBC about it. They had to brand you as an out-of-control terrorist.” He sighed. “And yes, I had orders to summarily execute you as a renegade. I didn’t dare to try to contact you directly with a warning. There is someone in your ranks that was infiltrated in—most likely by Fredericks, who I guess gave a GPS of your house and your routine. I was able to bullshit my way around that you had slipped by me and that trying to take you out would trigger a full-scale riot. So they decided to act on their own with, as used to be said, ‘extreme prejudice.’”

  John took all that in, and there was an inward relief at last. He believed him, at least for now.

  “And a huge subtext as well, John. They hit you, everyone will believe I did it, and it will trigger a regular civil war. It was a stab at me as well.” Again he sighed and looked down at the floor. “One of the final acts that is triggering what happens next.”

  Bob stood, went back to his bunk, opened a briefcase, and pulled out what John recognized as an aviation map. Bob spread it out on the desk, anchored one corner with the Coleman lantern, and just stared at it for a moment. “So in your service, you never heard of Site R?”

  “It’s some place out in Nevada, isn’t it?” John asked, but then he paused as Bob placed an old-style aviation slide rule on the map. The circular part was mounted in the middle of a rectangular sheet of metal, a foot long and four inches wide, one side hashed off with lines like a ruler, which John recalled could be used to measure distances on an aviation map.

  Bob was not trying to hide anything as John came around the table to look over Bob’s shoulder. John could see lines already penciled in, originating in Asheville and then tracing north by northeast. He leaned closer. To an untrained eye, the map was a nearly insane jumble of circles, numbers, and symbols for airports, some surrounded with air-controlled demarcation zones, the surface color shaded to indicate ground altitudes, inverted V-like symbols of such obstacles as antennas.

  He focused his attention on the penciled lines that crossed into an area bound by Washington, D.C., on one side and extending westward for a considerable distance, all of
it colored over in light gray.

  Bob saw where John was focusing his attention.

  “All that gray area was heavily restricted to air traffic, even more so after 9/11. It is just under 350 air miles from here.”

  John followed the line that Bob now traced out on the map and then looked up at him in surprise.

  “My birds down there have an operational radius of just under 350 miles. I’m having my people mount some extra fuel tanks to extend that. It is eating up nearly every gallon I have left. We’re lifting off in a couple of hours.” He looked over again at John. “You’re going with me.”

  “To hand over to Bluemont?”

  Bob glared at him. “I’m leaving some of my personnel behind for this. It will be a handpicked team that goes with me. I don’t think I need to tell you when it comes to really trusting everyone who is with me in this command, I know who I can count on, who might hesitate, and some just might jump the other way. My Major Minecci is one of them, so he stays behind. I can carry ninety with me in the Black Hawks.”

  He continued to stare at John. “I want you to pick half a dozen of yours to go with us.”

  “In heaven’s name, why? So they can be executed too?”

  “I want them as witnesses,” Bob replied sharply, obviously insulted by John’s accusatory response. “I want civilian witnesses who are about to learn the truth. I want you to pick six people that you trust.”

  “And that means trusting you, General.”

  “Yes, it does. Again, I leave the decision to you.” Bob turned away and looked out the window. “You can walk out of here now, and no one will stop you. I publicly arrested you to protect you, because I had orders to either give you a speedy trial and execution or take you to Bluemont for the same. I am not going to do that. I had reason to believe another unit might be sent to visit you—or, for that matter, just drop a fuel-air bomb on that beautiful valley of Montreat to finish it—and let me take the blame. Arresting you as I did bought a little extra time, but Bluemont is expecting me to deliver you alive or dead before the day is out. Knowing that, you are free to go if that is your decision, but get your people evacuated now, today.”