“General Baxter, you said you called this meeting,” Conner said, breaking the awkward silence.
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“Last night I drove out to talk with Major Schmidt, as I wanted to know more about his plans for the separatists. I hadn’t heard anything and I was curious as to what he had in mind.”
“Let me guess. He wouldn’t share anything with you?”
“Correct. He said he was under your orders to not release any information. Is that true?”
“Yes, it is, and here’s the reason why. The way we’re going to deal with these groups will not be conventional. I will be asking him and his people to do things that will require the utmost secrecy, and if things go badly, I did it to protect my staff, give you cover, give you . . . plausible deniability.”
“Brad, why would we need that?” Cruz asked.
“Mr. President, we weren’t trying to hide anything, hence why we held the meeting here, in the executive wing,” Baxter added.
A knock on the door drew their attention away from Conner.
Dylan jumped up and opened the door. To everyone’s surprise, Major Schmidt entered the room.
Conner looked at the clock on the wall. His scheduled meeting wasn’t for another hour. “Major, come in, please.”
“Sir, I have something urgent to discuss with you,” Schmidt said, his voice conveying concern.
“Go ahead.”
Schmidt looked around at the table and then looked back at Conner.
Conner knew what the look meant. Still committed to the mission he had given Schmidt, he stood and said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
“Brad, what is going on that we can’t be privy to the information?” Cruz asked.
Ignoring him, Conner rose and began to walk toward Schmidt.
“General Baxter, what’s going on?” Cruz asked.
“Sir, Major Schmidt just came into the room,” Baxter answered.
Conner walked over to Schmidt, then leaned in and asked quietly, “Can this wait?”
“Yes and no.”
“Which is it? Now’s not a good time for this.”
“I have been holding back something that I need to tell you. It’s not time sensitive, but it’s important.”
“Wait for me in my office. I’ll be there shortly.”
Schmidt excused himself and closed the door.
Conner turned and looked at the three and said, “I understand everyone’s concerns, but I need you to trust me. I need you to know that what I’m doing is in the best interest of the country. The more that you know, the more it jeopardizes what needs to be done.”
“Sir, let me be the first to say that we do trust you. This was a matter of leveraging different ideas to ensure the missions you’re about to conduct will be successful. There is no reason to isolate us from the planning,” Baxter said.
“Mr. President, I agree with General Baxter. We do trust you, we just want to be able to help,” Wilbur added.
Conner looked at Wilbur with a scowl. She was one of the reasons he didn’t want to include anyone on the operations against the separatists—he didn’t want it to become a debate. He deliberately chose to ignore her comment and asked, “Andrew, do you have anything to add?”
“Remember when you flew all the way to Miami months ago to ask me to become your vice president? You said you chose me because you knew you could trust me, and you can. I have always been there for you. I will never betray you. We may disagree about how things should be done, but once you make the decision, I will always back you faithfully. I think everyone here feels the same as me. Whatever you and Major Schmidt are planning, we can be a help to the overall success of these missions.”
As he listened to his friend and vice president, he slowly walked back to his chair and sat down. He placed his chin in his hand and let everything that had been said sink in.
“Dylan, do you have anything to say?”
“Nothing, sir, I agree with what everyone else has said.”
Conner took a long moment before he answered.
“You are right, all of you. I should be including you in these plans, and will be going forward, but I can’t stress enough that it goes no further than us. What we’re about to embark on is different than anything we have done before. We will deal with these groups in a way that will be unconventional and harsh. We don’t have time to debate the actions we’ll be taking; we cannot complicate it with disagreements about strategy. We will pursue these traitors and squash their plans for insurrection.”
He paused and took a moment to stare at each one.
“In a sign of trust for you, I’ll bring Major Schmidt into the room to discuss our plans. Dylan, please go get the major. He’s in my office.”
Dylan jumped up and left. Moments later he and Schmidt came back in.
“Major, please take a seat,” Conner said.
Schmidt took a seat at the opposite head of the table. He was dressed in his faded green camouflage uniform; his 10th Mountain Division patches still adorned the shoulder of his uniform.
“Major, there has been a change. From now on you can discuss our plans with these three. No one else though will be allowed to know what we are doing. Okay?”
Schmidt nodded and said, “Yes, sir.”
“Major, please detail what our plans are to date with dealing with the groups.”
Schmidt offered few specifics about what he was doing but told the group that he had teams working on infiltrating the separatist groups that Wilbur had discussed earlier. When he concluded Conner asked, “Major, you came early to inform me of something important. I don’t think you presented that information. Could you please share whatever concern you had?”
A flicker of unease was evident in Schmidt’s eyes.
Sensing his reluctance, Conner pressed. “Major, it’s okay, please share with us whatever you wanted to share with me earlier.”
“Sir, it had to do with the Lakotahs. I think they’re planning something that could pose a threat to you. I’m requesting we send in two kill teams to take them out.”
Conner got the immediate sense that this wasn’t truly the issue. For whatever reason, Schmidt was holding back, not wanting to present it in front of the others.
“Major, let’s not do that. Increase my security, keep an eye on them, but let’s wait for the rats to come into the open. We will proceed to track them for their rally soon.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So, is everyone happy now?” Conner asked.
All nodded.
“If that’s it, let’s get back to work.”
Everyone stood and exited. Conner made a point to pull Schmidt aside. He shut the door to the conference room.
“Major, you can’t bullshit a bullshitter. What did you really want to tell me?”
Schmidt paused briefly. “I have a bomb.”
“A bomb! That’s your big secret, a fucking bomb?”
“A nuclear bomb.”
Conner’s face lit up with shock.
“What do you mean you have a nuclear bomb?”
“We encountered a small group broken down on the side of the road a few months ago. They saw us coming and opened fire on us; we returned fire and destroyed them. When we searched their vehicle, lo and behold, there was a nuclear weapon.”
“Why are you just now telling me this?”
“To be honest, sir, I didn’t know what I was going to encounter when we first came to Cheyenne. There is a lot of distrust within my ranks of the government because of the perceived abandonment of the east.”
“You have a nuclear weapon in your possession and didn’t think to tell me or anyone about it?” Conner asked, anger in his voice.
“I’m sorry, sir, but that was the decision we made.”
>
Conner walked away from Schmidt, angry and disappointed.
“Sir, I apologize—”
“That’s it? You’re sorry?”
Schmidt just stood watching Conner pace the room.
“Is there anything else I need to know about you, Major?”
“That’s it, nothing else, except you need to have radiation detectors in place around the city. What if those people were coming here to use that weapon? No one would’ve known. It was by chance that we came upon them.”
Schmidt’s remarks hit home.
“You said they weren’t American. Explain.”
“After searching them we found equipment and documentation suggesting they were—”
“Let me guess. Venezuelan.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This confirms everything. They were the ones behind it all. They caused all of this,” Conner said, holding out his arms.
“What would you like me to do with the weapon?” Schmidt asked.
Conner spun around and said, “Let’s return it to its rightful owners.”
Coos Bay, Oregon, Pacific States of America
Gordon looked at his reflection in the mirror. He bent over and splashed some hot water on his face. Water dripped down from this thickening beard. His pulled at the hair on his head, which was now the longest it had been since he was a child. He ran his fingers through the prickly hairs on his face and stopped when his hand touched the scar. Instantly his mind flashed to Hunter, then to Rahab plunging the dagger into his young son’s chest. He blinked hard to erase the thought, but it was impossible to forget. Rahab was correct—the scar would forever remind him of Hunter and of the choices he was making in his life. He pressed his eyes closed hard and focused on Haley and Samantha; he focused on their smiling faces till he blotted out the grisly image of Hunter’s dead body. He longed to hear their voices. The attempt yesterday had failed; the call had connected but there was no answer. He wanted to assume that the reason he didn’t reach them was innocent and simple. Maybe she had the phone off or maybe she was taking care of something important and didn’t hear it. He wanted to avoid thoughts of the worst-case scenario.
As he toweled himself dry, the door to the bathroom swung open.
Finley stood there, his clothes on and rifle slung. “Hey, your presence is being requested.”
“Who’s asking for me?” Gordon asked as he walked past him and into the berthing area.
“Some jarhead stopped by and said you’re to report to the quarterdeck.”
Gordon dressed quickly. He stepped past Finley and said, “I’ll see you in bit.”
“Fuck that, I’m coming with you.”
“They didn’t ask for you.”
“I’m coming nonetheless.”
Both men raced through the maze of passageways and ladder wells till they reached the quarterdeck, a space set aside next to the gangway that overlooked the dock.
Gordon approached a staff sergeant and said, “Hi, I’m Sergeant Van Zandt. I was told to come here.”
“Van Zandt, you’re to report to the police station. The Marine down there will take you.”
“Roger that,” he responded and began to walk down the gangway to the dock.
“Where are you going?” the staff sergeant asked Finley.
“I’m going with him, I’m—”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“But I’m—”
“You were not requested. In fact, I was given specific instructions for you to stay.”
“This is bullshit. I’m with Van Zandt there, I need to go!” Finley yelled as his temper flared.
“Sir, I’m only going to ask once. Go back to your berthing and wait for Sergeant Van Zandt to return.”
Gordon turned and hollered, “Don’t get your panties in a knot, I’ll be back soon and hopefully we can leave after that.”
He stepped off the gangway and approached the Humvee. Inside was a young lance corporal.
“Hi, I’m—”
“I know who you are. Let’s go, I’ve been sitting here for over an hour,” the lance corporal shot back, clearly irritated.
An amused look stretched across Gordon’s face. He opened the door and climbed in. “Who am I meeting at the police station?” Gordon asked.
“A prisoner.”
“Who would that be?”
“A woman is all I know. A resistance fighter we captured a few days ago.”
Gordon stomach dropped. There was only one person it could be.
“Is her name Brittany?”
“Yeah, I think that’s right. Brittany McCallister.”
Tijuana, Mexico
The rhythmic sound from the heart monitor comforted Pablo. Even though his father wasn’t moving and his breathing was labored, the beeping reminded him that his father was still alive.
His mother sat on the opposite side of him, sobbing. Between her wails, she’d recite the rosary, ever the religious woman.
This was not the homecoming Pablo had imagined or wanted. For so long he dreamt of his father finally realizing how incredibly powerful his son was. He had always envisioned himself walking into his father’s old office, victorious from battle. His father would tell him how proud he was of him. They’d embrace and his father would want Pablo to tell him in detail how he alone destroyed the greatest superpower the world had ever seen. Instead, he was stuck here, watching his father’s labored breaths, knowing his once-powerful army was ever closer to destruction.
“Pablo,” his mother softly said, breaking her silence.
“Yes, mother,” he answered in a subdued tone.
“Thank you for coming,” she said as she reached over and grabbed his hand.
“Mother, I’m so sorry for how everything—”
“Shh, not now, this is not the time nor the place. I’m just so glad you’re here to say good-bye,” she said, tears streaming down her face.
“I’m not going to be saying good-bye. He’s not going to die,” Pablo said. His tone was not convincing, and he knew it.
“Pablo, Pablo, your father is going to heaven. I know this is hard for you because of everything that has happened in the past. But you love him, otherwise you wouldn’t be here,” she said, squeezing his hand tighter.
Seeing his father lying there and his mother in deep emotional stress brought him close to tears, but he fought the urge.
“Pablo,” a barely audible voice said.
He looked at his father and saw that his eyes were open slightly.
“Father, Father!” Pablo said jubilantly.
“Pablo, my boy,” his father said, his voice just above a whisper.
Pablo leaned in to better hear him.
“Father, I’m here. Do you have something to tell me?”
And just as quickly as he had opened his eyes, they closed.
“Father, Father, wake up,” Pablo said, his voice cracked with emotion.
Pablo kept talking to him with the hope that his father would wake again. This went on for two hours before his mother came over and put her arms around him.
“Do you want something? I’m going to step out for a moment,” she asked him.
“Let’s take him to the cabana on the beach. It was his favorite place. You know how much he loves the ocean air.” While moving him was dangerous, they both knew it wouldn’t change the outcome of the situation.
“Thank you,” he said tenderly as he touched her hand. Gone was the monster that lived inside of him. His only focus in these moments was to comfort his mother and to enjoy his father’s last moments on this Earth.
A tap on the door caused them to both look up. Major Silva stuck his head in, clearly embarrassed to interrupt the sensitive moment. He didn’t say a word, but held up the phone for Pablo to see. At first Pablo was irritated b
y the disturbance, but he couldn’t ignore his responsibilities. He was the emperor of an army on the verge of conquering the United States. He had to focus, knowing victory—or defeat—might lie ahead.
“Excuse me, Mother,” he said softly, kissing her head.
He grabbed the phone. “Yes,” he said briskly.
“Emperor, this is General Alejandro. I’m sorry to disturb you, but this matter could not wait.”
Pablo walked down the hall till he came to a large study, the same one where he had concluded the purchase for his army from the Venezuelan Minister of Defense and where his mother had declared that she would never turn her back against his father. His mother’s declaration of loyalty to his father was a major turning point for him. He then knew he couldn’t count on her, him, or most of his father’s people in the cartel. He would have to do this alone and with his new army. It had broken him, as he had dreamt of his father next to him riding into battle, but that never came to pass. Soon after that meeting with his mother, he had seized power from his father and welcomed the army he now led.
“What is it?”
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but you instructed me to call you with updates.”
“Yes, yes I did,” Pablo responded.
“It is taking us longer to get the Villistas established and our forces were again hit by the U.S. Air Force.”
“What is the damage?”
“Two tanks, three trucks, and twenty-three men were killed.”
Pablo was frustrated. He hated not being with his men, but fate wasn’t kind enough to sit back and wait. Accepting the realities of his situation, he said, “Just keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll be back soon.”
“Sir, can I speak frankly?”
“Yes.”
“We need you, sir. The men need their emperor. The sooner you can be back, the better.”
Hearing this filled Pablo with pride. Finally he was receiving the respect and love he had always wanted from his parents.
“Tell the men I’ll see them soon.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that it?”
“Yes, Emperor.”
The Line of Departure: A Postapocalyptic Novel (The New World Series Book 4) Page 17