The Line of Departure: A Postapocalyptic Novel (The New World Series Book 4)

by G. Michael Hopf

  “But Chief—”

  “I’m not finished talking, but when I am you can have the floor in a respectable manner. Let me conclude by saying this: I’m all for spirited debate, but it needs to be organized, otherwise we have a mob and many of us here know from firsthand experience what that can lead to. We have a wonderful community and we live in a beautiful place. I want to see it stay that way. This is why we need to have this work.”

  Rainey’s face was a bit flushed from his speech. He hadn’t felt such a passion since his wife was alive. He truly loved McCall and wanted to see the town flourish. Like many, he had been resistant to the idea of Cascadia, but after the weeks went by and no one from the federal government or state came to help, he understood their perspective. He increasingly felt that government or countries that grew too big couldn’t effectively take care of their citizenry or understand their unique needs.

  With the crowd subdued, Michael spoke. “Chief Rainey, thank you. I know many of you have questions and I want to answer them but I think we should postpone this meeting—”

  A few groans and shouts interrupted him.

  “We will adjourn for a few days. Once everyone has cooled off and is willing to talk in a respectful manner, we can continue these discussions.”

  Michael ignored the jeers and walked back to his table.

  “Charles, I’m sorry about all of this, but as you can see we have a lively group.”

  “I’m fine, but we have a lot to discuss if we’re going to move forward in a unified manner.”

  “How about we go back to my place for a couple of drinks?” Michael asked Charles.

  “Sure. What did you all think of my little talk?” Charles asked, half joking.

  “Do you really want my answer?” Nelson said.

  “Maybe I don’t.”

  “I dislike politics to the point of nausea. Please take no offense but I see Cascadia as becoming nothing more than a dictatorship closer to home than the one you say is farther away.”

  “I don’t take offense. The world is full of people who take no interest in how their lives will be governed,” Charles said.

  “I don’t think you can characterize us that way,” Seneca said.

  “Then what is it?” Charles asked.

  “Maybe we just don’t agree with you,” Seneca replied.

  “Charles, let’s head back to my house,” Michael prodded.

  “You know, we’re going too,” Nelson said, turning to Seneca.

  As Nelson drove home he reviewed the events of the evening. The more Charles’s words marinated in his mind, the more he disliked the policies. If his strain of Cascadia came to power, it would make for a system that he’d strongly oppose. Maybe he would have to stop being so ambivalent about politics and get more involved. Charles was right when he said that some people don’t take interest in how their lives are governed. When he looked deep inside, he was lazy that way. He’d complain but was never active in making changes to things that were imposed on him by politicians. Hell, he never voted and that was a simple action. But now, he could have a tangible effect on the trajectory of his future. Maybe he needed to get involved; maybe he needed to do something.

  Cheyenne, Wyoming

  Ever since Conner designated Schmidt to lead the division that would deal with the separatist movements, Baxter hadn’t had a chance to sit down with him as secretary of defense to discuss it. He was curious as to what Schmidt had planned and didn’t like being left in the dark. Knowing it was hard to peg him down at work, he drove out to his encampment on the outskirts of the city.

  If he was being honest with himself, the truth was that Schmidt made him feel uneasy. Even though he was his senior and older he always felt intimidated by him, perhaps due to his ruthless reputation. As he stood outside his tent, he puffed up his chest and commanded himself to take control of the situation. He tapped on a wood sign that hung next to the front flap of the major’s tent.

  “Major Schmidt, it’s General Baxter. You in there?”

  “Yes, come on in.”

  Baxter walked into the tattered and old GP tent. A strong musty odor was the first thing he took in. He glanced around to see Schmidt sitting at his desk writing in his journal by the light of a candle.

  “Major, sorry to disturb you unannounced.”

  “Quite all right, give me a minute,” Schmidt replied, not lifting his head from what he was doing.

  Feeling like an intruder, Baxter stood near the entrance.

  Schmidt could feel this uneasiness so he blurted out, “Come on in, General, sit down.”

  Baxter entered the tent and took a seat on the far side of the tent. While he waited, he took in everything that was there. A large table covered in maps and papers sat in the center of the tent. Curious, he stood back up and walked over to it.

  Schmidt looked over and cleared his throat.

  Baxter took the hint but decided that he had every right to see what was on his table.

  Schmidt closed his journal, stood, and asked, “General, what can I do for you?”

  “You like a drink?” Baxter said, holding up a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  “Not a fan of whiskey?” Baxter asked with a frown.

  “I don’t feel like drinking, sir,” Schmidt answered, his posture stiff, as if he were at attention.

  Baxter looked at the bottle and said, “This wasn’t easy to find, I’ll tell you. Maybe another day?” He put the bottle back in his bag.

  “Sir, how can I help you?” Schmidt asked with a stoic face.

  “This isn’t really an official visit, more of a personal one. I just wanted to talk,” Baxter said. The man’s demeanor made him feel nervous. Behind his dark brown eyes was an intensity, a darkness.

  Schmidt walked over to the table and began to roll up the maps and collect the papers.

  “What is all of this?”

  “Nothing, just maps and plans.”

  “For what?”

  “I thought this wasn’t an official visit, but a personal one.”

  “Major, you haven’t reported to me or given me any indication of what you’re planning as it pertains to these separatist groups.”

  “Right now it’s not necessary. I’ll brief you on anything that is pertinent to you.”

  Baxter took a bit of offense from his last comment so he shot back, “It’s all pertinent, Major. I’m the secretary of defense.”

  “Actually, sir, according to the president, I have full control of this and don’t answer to anyone but him. If I have anything that includes you or will affect you, I will bring you in.”

  “I can’t believe the president would give you such blanket authorization.”

  “Sir, I don’t want to get into a pissing match with you, but those are his orders. Many of the missions we’ll conduct will be covert and secrecy is critical to their success.”

  “You’ll need assets sometimes and that will have to go through me.”

  “General, I have my own people and if I need anything I’ve been instructed to go directly to President Conner.”

  Baxter was floored by this revelation.

  “Is there anything else?” Schmidt asked.

  Angry and confused, Baxter replied, “Nothing. I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing.” He grabbed his bag and exited the tent. Once outside, he took a deep breath. He wasn’t a man who liked to buck the system, but this he felt the need to challenge. For Conner to leave him and other senior staff out of critical decision making was foolish and counterproductive. Once inside his vehicle, he picked up the phone and dialed a number.

  “This is General Baxter. We need to talk.”

  JUNE 28, 2015

  “All men can see these tactics whereby I conquer, but what none can see is the strategy out of which
victory is evolved.”

  —Sun Tzu

  Coos Bay, Oregon, Pacific States of America

  Barone forced himself to watch as his men waterboarded Major Ashley. Before the lights went out, his opinion on the use of enhanced interrogation techniques was similar to many in the military—ambivalent. He saw the value from a theoretical standpoint, but never had witnessed it before. Now he could see why this was one of the top techniques. After only a few attempts, Ashley was divulging all he knew on the resistance. His information was being verified immediately, as timing was everything in this sensitive situation. Barone watched as Ashley was removed from the chair and escorted away to his cell. He shook his head at him. There couldn’t be a greater disappointment than to have one of his most trusted officers turn against him.

  Previously, the torturing of prisoners had usually been limited to male captives, but Barone was in support of implementing these techniques on women now. He needed to stop the resistance and if it required waterboarding a few women, so be it. The woman who would be the first unfortunate victim of this torture would be Brittany McCallister. During normal interrogations she refused to speak up; even the most vicious threats didn’t cause her to budge. Barone was confident that this method would move her to speak.

  Brittany was ushered into the large, dark room a few minutes after Ashley was taken out. Two Marines escorted her to the wet, wooden high-back chair and sat her in it. Her fear was evident as she began to tremble in anticipation of what was coming. Each man strapped her arms down and stepped back.

  Another man, wearing a balaclava, walked in and approached her.

  The sight of him sent chills through her body; her body began to shake uncontrollably.

  “Brittany, do you know what’s about to happen?” the man asked as he towered over her.

  She looked into his dark brown eyes and answered, “Yes.”

  “We can avoid all of this. Do you understand? None of this needs to happen if you just tell us where the rest of the rebels are.”

  The temptation to tell them became enticing as the fear of what was about to happen shot through her body.

  “Nothing? You have nothing to say?” the man said.

  She closed her eyes and began to pray. Tears streamed down her face.

  “Do it!” the man barked to the two guards. They stepped up and grabbed her arms.

  “You have one more chance. Are you going to talk to us?” the man said, looking down on her.

  Brittany kept her eyes closed; she couldn’t bear to look at her torturer.

  Barone was still in the room, hiding in the shadows, watching it all. As she walked into the room, he had the same inkling that he knew her from somewhere, but he couldn’t peg it. He wondered if he’d seen her before around town, and her name and face somehow stuck. Maybe he had met her through his wife, but that didn’t seem right. It seemed to him that he’d seen her . . . on the Makin Island. That clue sharpened his memory and he saw her vividly standing in the room with . . . Gordon Van Zandt.

  The man took a thick towel and placed it firmly against her face and picked up a jug of water.

  “Stop!” Barone yelled. He emerged from the shadows and walked briskly up to the man. “Stop!”

  The man froze and sat the plastic water jug down and removed the towel.

  Brittany breathed in deeply, as she had been holding her breath the minute the man placed the towel on her face. She opened her eyes to see Barone above her.

  Barone looked into her eyes and asked, “You’re friends with Gordon Van Zandt, aren’t you?”

  For the first time she answered a question about Van Zandt. “Yes.”

  “Did you know he just arrived in town yesterday?”

  She looked at the Marines holding her chair down, then back at Barone.

  Seeing this, Barone ordered, “Sit her up straight, then leave.”

  The Marines and the man in the mask obliged and left promptly.

  When the large metal door slammed shut, Barone asked, “Did you know he was here?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Do you know why he’s here?”

  “No, I don’t know anything about it, I swear.”

  “Why won’t you just answer our questions?”

  “Because I can’t. You’ll use what I know to hurt the people I’ve grown to love,” Brittany said sternly.

  “What if I told you I was going to hurt Gordon? Would you tell me then?”

  Brittany didn’t answer, her mind racing. Why was Gordon here? Had he heard that she was in trouble? Had he come to get her and Tyler? Was he really there? Was the colonel bluffing? All of these questions passed through her mind in a flash.

  “Don’t you have a child? I seem to remember a young boy with you,” Barone said, his memory becoming clearer now that he had a greater recall of that moment in the sick bay of the Makin Island after Gordon had been wounded at Rahab’s compound.

  Brittany remained quiet. She knew Tyler was safe; she’d had him transported to a small farm on the outskirts of North Bend.

  “I will find your boy, believe me.”

  “No, you won’t, I can guarantee that,” she said defiantly.

  “Fine. I have Gordon, and you leave me no other choice but to torture him,” Barone stated, walking off into the shadows.

  The clang of the large metal door echoed off the concrete walls and floor as Barone opened it.

  “Don’t hurt him! I’ll tell you anything you want, just don’t hurt him!” she called out.

  She heard Barone stop, close the door, and walk back toward her. He emerged into the light and stood in front of her.

  “You’ll tell us everything you know about the resistance in exchange for us not harming Gordon?”

  She dropped her head in defeat and said, “Yes, I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Good, but if you set us up or lie to us in anyway, I’ll kill Gordon. Do you understand me?”

  She lifted her head and looked at Barone, his hands on his hips. He stood like a giant above her. “I understand, but I do have another term.”

  “You know you’re not in a position to dictate terms.”

  “I want to see him; I want to see him before I tell you anything, okay?”

  Barone thought about her request for a moment. “We can arrange that,” he said curtly, then walked away. “Clean her up and have her sent to a clean interrogation room,” he ordered the man in the mask.

  “Yes, sir,” the man answered.

  “And pick up Gordon Van Zandt and have him brought here as soon as you can. We’re going to have a nice little chat.”

  Cheyenne, Wyoming

  After being faced with their literature, Conner was anxious to discuss the strategy to break up the Lakotahs. He walked into the executive wing of the capitol and straight into his office. He had spent most of the night thinking over strategy, and the more he thought about the plan to eliminate the separatist groups, the more he knew he needed to bounce ideas off of someone besides Schmidt. That one person he knew he could trust would be Cruz. He grabbed the phone and dialed out to Cheyenne Mountain.

  “This is President Conner; I need to speak with Vice President Cruz.”

  “Good morning, Mr. President, please hold.”

  The phone went silent for a moment, than a loud click sounded.

  “Mr. President?” a different man asked on the other end.

  “Yes.”

  “The vice president is on another line with your team up in Cheyenne.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, sir, we patched him through this morning.”

  Conner didn’t respond, he just hung up the phone. He had just spoken to Cruz yesterday, and he had never mentioned a call to anyone here. Curious as to what was going on, he stood and exited his office. He walked up to the conf
erence room next door and grabbed the handle. Dylan was standing there looking sheepish.

  “Good morning,” Conner said.

  “Oh, um, good morning, Mr. President.”

  “What’s going on here?” Conner queried. Looking past Dylan into the room, he saw Baxter and Wilbur. On the phone he could hear Cruz speaking.

  “Mr. Vice President, the president is here,” Wilbur said, an edge apparent in her voice.

  Cruz stopped talking.

  Baxter stood and said, “Mr. President, good morning. Nice to see you.”

  “I guess no one is going to answer my question,” Conner said. The guilty looks on all of their faces told him something suspicious was going on. He pushed himself passed Dylan. An uneasy feeling coursed through his body as the memories of General Griswald came front and center. “I know the business of government doesn’t require me to be involved in everything but this doesn’t feel right.”

  “It’s nothing like you think it might be. I called them together because we are concerned about the separatist policy,” Baxter said.

  Conner kept a careful eye on everyone as he made it to his chair. He stood behind it and placed his hands on the leather and firmly grasped it.

  “Brad, no need to be concerned, we’re just worried that the policy needs to be open and more transparent,” Cruz said.

  “Dylan, close the door and sit down,” Conner said.

  Dylan closed it quickly, and meekly made his way back to his chair.

  “Mr. President, we want to deal with these separatists—” Baxter said.

  Conner shut him down. “General, be quiet,” he barked.

  “Brad, please don’t be upset. We have the country’s best interests at heart here,” Cruz said, his voice reverberating from the center speaker.

  “Andrew, give me a moment to let this sit. You know we have a history of intrigue and betrayal,” Conner said. He thought about how to approach the situation. It really wasn’t the meeting itself that disturbed him; it was the obvious nervous energy that he felt when the door opened.

  The tension was high in the room as Conner sat silently stewing. Wilbur stared down at the blank pad of paper in front of her. Baxter had his hands clasped in front of him on the table, while Dylan sat nervously tapping his fingers on his leg.