“No, Mister President. You’re live in minutes. Let them do their jobs. Just do me a favor and stick to the talking points today. Don’t go off script. Condolences first, then to teleprompter and the Iran and global peace stuff.”
“What about the Russia stuff?”
“Mister President, we’ve spoken about this. If you talk about Russia, then the mainstream media will just chalk up more wins to Russia’s unilateral disarmament and then go into our own, slow disarmament in response.”
“Yeah, but we are disarming. We’re right there on the world stage doing what’s right.”
“You know that, I know that, but the narrative is still that Russia started a global peace dividend and America is now not a leader, but a follower in global nuclear security.”
“With over ninety percent of our stockpile already neutralized, I’d say we’re at the front, damn it.” The President was so unsettled he sloshed a huge splash of coffee. Fortunately, it all went onto the makeup bib and the makeup crew quickly snatched it up before it leaked all over his shirt and tie.
“Ninety percent is not the same as the Russians’ hundred percent.”
“Yeah.” Said the President, conceding the point, “Just make sure the Veep’s team is saying the same things. Where is he today?” he sighed heavily as he contemplated whether to sip the remains of his Starbuck’s mocha latte or call for a new one.
Both the Iran situation and Russia’s latest attempts to unilaterally disarm nukes were huge setbacks to his plans. Plans that included a second term next year and maybe more important for his legacy, his dreams of a Nobel Prize. The thoughts of losing a shot at an everlasting legacy, a piece in the history books, seemed to be slipping away, so he just fixed his attention onto the tone of the broadcast.
That morning’s news was a genuinely sad affair across all broadcast networks. There was no footage of the massacre yet, but it was still like a bomb across the news and social media. Images of children killed would eclipse all other news, and all just as he needed good press for the Iran situation and a spotlight on his own nuclear disarmament achievements. Almost all of the U.S. nukes were in some stage of decommissioning.
“At least it underscores my policy to decimate all these assault rifles.” He said, hoping she might change her mind, “Can’t I mention that in the opener?”
“No, sir. It muddies down your condolences. It makes it look like you are somehow stealing credit. You don’t want to mix messages today, Mister President.”
“Hmmm . . .” he grumbled.
He flicked around the channels to see if anything else was popping up. All of the newscasters made a business of feigning sentimentality that morning, and he needed to get into the right “mood.”
He caught a popular broadcast midstream, “So, my question Joe, is just how did this madman, this—this—assassin get ahold of these weapons. Weapons that should only be used in war.”
Another anchor chimed in, “They’re still out there. Loads of them. Buried in people’s yards. The Bible Belt is clinging to them. Fringe extreme elements, you know. But here’s my question, Martha: Why is it taking so long to get them off the streets? Six months ago, the President and Congress promised action after the last attack. But we’ve exposed, right here on our program, the six months of utter incompetence his administration has faced trying to round these things up. We need the National Guard to get off their collective butts and do the job they were assigned. Clean our streets.”
Another talking head chimed in, “And, if the President can’t get the job done, we need to get rid of him.”
The President flared up and turned to his press secretary with an angry look. Having his usual favorite newscasters throw him under the bus was going to hurt with the Millennial demographic.
She put her hand up, “Mister President, calm down.”
The President roughly pushed the makeup guy aside. The man then gave an exasperated look toward the press secretary. She gave him the signal to finish up quickly. They’d just have to deal with the dreaded sheen.
The President calmed down, though only slightly as the news continued, “Ok, all that and more on this morning’s show. Next, over to Bob where we are awaiting the President’s presser. Time to get some answers.”
“Indeed. Additionally, insiders say today he may announce a troop surge to the Middle East. Maybe even a call-up of the Guard and reserves.”
The President turned back to his press secretary, “God damn it, Jane, how do they get this shit in advance?”
He needed more caffeine, and he needed to stop the leaks from his own cabinet. In a few seconds, the last bit of powdering was done, and his press secretary glanced his forehead over, then gave a thumbs-up. The bib came off, and the President headed toward the Oval Office.
* * *
Video cameras followed as the President walked confidently through the large, oak door into the Oval Office saluting the two Marines who proceeded to close and secure the door behind him ceremoniously. The bright lights from the TV cameras practically blinded him as he entered, but he remained sharp. His face unemotional, with maybe a twinge of sadness but still exhibiting determination. One of the items that had gotten him elected was his appearance of coolness under stress. At least in public, said his critics.
His press secretary had told him he looked more commanding taking his desk, rather than starting any address already sitting. If nothing else, he had a commanding presence. The President strode across the carpet and sat, pulling his chair forward and tucking his legs under the Resolute desk. He made a big show of opening his speech folder. All of this was carefully choreographed, of course.
He began, “People of our great nation. I speak to you today at a period of great triumph, but also at a time of immense tragedy.”
In the back, the press secretary smiled. His tone and pitch were perfect that morning. It really didn’t matter to her if he had any genuine concern—he rarely did—as long as it sounded like he did.
“I have read the initial reports from California and . . .” the slightest pause and the hint of a sniffle, but still sounding strong. “I am stricken with grief. Later today, I have phone calls lined up with several of the victims’ families.” He lied.
The last note was not on the teleprompter, and the press secretary blanched a bit, but she was reassured: it sounded convincing, even if it wasn’t true.
“Thanks to my assault weapons ban, we can at least count on less of these tragedies than in the previous, gun-loving administrations.”
The press secretary rolled her eyes in dismay, then gave a slashing motion across her throat to the President to carry on with the speech. He got the hint but seemed more than a little pleased he’d gotten his own point across.
“We will have more on that topic later. Much more. But this morning, I need to talk about the great week, in fact a tremendous month and even year as I’ve led the world in mitigating the dangers facing us across the globe.”
More digressions from the teleprompter, but at least he was roughly back on target.
“We’ve had an unprecedented year of peace. We’re on a path to total denuclearization. We’ve made great strides toward removing assault weapons, as I mentioned, and we have made immense steps toward preventing the recent aggression from Iran toward their neighbors.”
Behind the President and outside the Oval Office window, a column of thick, black smoke rose silently into the sky. Set against the grey winter of D.C. it was clear even though it was miles away. No one in the Oval Office seemed to notice. Since no one was allowed to have a cell phone in the room, the small gathering of press and staff remained uninformed of any happenings. Everyone remained silent and fixed on the President’s words.
“Iraq, the newest of our global community of democracies, and I’ll underscore, Iraq is now a democracy, has come a long way thanks to our and our allies’ great efforts. But now, today, they are threatened with a total reversal. The situation must be addressed. I have called up
on action from NATO and our partnered forces. I have called upon the UN Security Council. In the absence of their leadership, we must take our own actions to combat threats abroad.”
Behind the President, a second black smoke column appeared. Now, a cameraman noticed. He pulled away from the camera’s eyecup and squinted at it in bewilderment. The two Secret Service members detailed to the room turned toward each other, eyes widening. Their earpieces went into overload. None of it was clear, information was coming in too fast for them to understand.
Sensing something amiss in the room, but unsure what and unwilling to turn around on a live broadcast, the President cleared his throat and continued. It was after all, time for his big whammy.
“So, I am authorizing the immediate call-up of additional forces. Select National Guard and Reserves will go and join our most ready active-duty forces in the region. The call-up will start with the rest of the Eighteenth Airborne and the as-yet-undeployed portions of the 1st and 2nd Marine Divisions. America will not tolerate—”
A muffled explosion from inside the White House interrupted the President. But there was enough sound padding throughout the Oval Office that most in the room just looked around with curious expressions. Was it just something heavy being dropped upstairs or in an adjacent corridor or room? Then came six or seven dull thuds against the large entry door. The two Secret Service men pulled opened the doors. Immediately the shouts, wails, and screams from below assailed everyone’s ears. There was utter panic in the White House lobby and outer offices.
With the door now open, sounds of a second and third explosion entered the room like thunderclaps. Everyone, including the President, ducked down to the floor.
For a brief second, everyone; several reporters and cameramen, the two Secret Service men, the two Marines and the press secretary all stared at one another in confusion.
Then, the sound of fully automatic gunfire sent the cold chill of panic through the room. This was no mere accident; the White House was under a determined and coordinated attack. One of the reporters crawled over and behind a Secret Service agent and clutched at him. Both agents had taken up positions on either side of the door and now drew their pistols. They tapped at their earbuds, but they had gone silent. No one responded to their constant calls for a situation report.
One of the Marines pulled open a cabinet door, revealing a small armory of rifles, pistols, and grenades. He grabbed an M4 carbine and tossed a second over to his buddy, who was crossing the room to meet him.
Just then, a third Secret Service agent raced into the room at a full sprint, his black sports coat flapping, his pistol up and at the ready. He didn’t get far. A barrage of automatic weapons fire blasted into the room behind him from down the adjacent hallways. In a sickening series of smacking sounds, both the agent entering the office and the Marine crossing it were caught by several dozen rounds. The agent’s momentum kept him going, and he rolled off to the side. The Marine was not so fortunate. Unlike the agent, who wore a bulletproof vest, the Marine had no body armor and fell in a heap right across the entryway.
An agent and the remaining Marine grabbed the man by the arms and dragged him inside so they could kick the door shut. The Marine’s body left a slick and glistening red streak across the ornate POTUS-seal carpet. An agent secured the heavy-duty locks and returned to get a rifle and grenades.
A reporter shrieked as the wounded agent crawled over toward her, his immobile legs dragging across the floor, foamy blood gurgling from his lips. His vest had done nothing but slow the armor-piercing rounds and perhaps prolong his life. He was sure to die of blood loss in another few minutes.
One of the agents shoved the reporter aside and came over to try to hastily interrogate his wounded buddy, “Max, what’s happening?” but a bullet had pierced the side of his neck above the body armor, and he could only clutch at his wound and mouth unintelligible words, blood pouring through his fingers.
Both Secret Service agents nodded to each other. It was time to put into effect the security protocol to get POTUS the hell out of here.
“Dasher, Dasher!” one of them barked into the mic. No indication whether it was received, but it was protocol to broadcast it so everyone would know to provide all assistance to the POTUS in escaping the White House.
One rushed over to pull the President from behind the desk. The other opened a secret door leading into an ante chamber and a hidden escape route. But they didn’t get far.
BOOM!
A huge explosion blew the double doors off their hinges, spraying wood and metal debris like a shotgun into the room.
Sustained 7.62mm machine gun fire immediately followed, killing the dazed reporters and camera personnel who weren’t already blown flat or peppered into moaning red heaps by the shrapnel. The remaining Marine, a large splinter from the oak door sticking out of his abdomen, his face and arms covered in pockmarks of blood, put up a gallant last fight. He pumped suppressing fire toward the blown doors at dim shapes through the smoke he had to assume were attackers. But his magazine quickly went dry, and, amid the smoke and dust, his muzzle flashes were now a beacon for incoming fire. Riddled with bullets, he fell to a sitting clump against the Resolute desk still clutching his M4 carbine.
Behind the heavy and ancient wood desk, the last remaining occupants of the Oval Office alive rubbed their eyes, choking from the smoke and trying to figure out a next course of action.
One was chosen for them. In a sustained and withering hail of bullets, the beautifully carved desk, a gift from the Queen of England and built from pieces of the HMS Resolute’s heavy oak timbers, was torn to pieces. Timbers that in their day were meant to take a cannon’s blast now saw hundreds of rounds of 7.62mm which blasted chunks away until the ornately carved piece of history could no longer protect the men behind it.
Cameras from two major news networks were blasted back against the wall but remained rolling throughout the siege and continued to broadcast the Oval Office’s last stand live to the entire world.
CHAPTER 8
Impact
AAF Tank Museum, Danville, Virginia
“Have fun. Your entrance fee covers any four tanks you want, except the two in the far corner,” Lawton Custis said as he winked at the three kids who looked like they were about to burst out of their hides to jump onto one of the tank displays. “You wouldn’t want to crawl around in those two, anyhow. They’re still full of mud and dirt.”
The kids’ father paid Lawton the entry fee, and the three raced over to the Russian T-62A tank. Lawton smiled, but seeing the parents happily snapping pictures and not minding the kids, he felt the need to add, “Hey folks, please stick with the little ones. We had one fall off a tank last year and break her arm.”
“Wow,” the kids’ mother said. “Where did you learn about tanks and stuff?”
“Well . . . I’m retired from the army.”
“Yeah? My cousin is in the army, or maybe it’s Marines . . . I get them confused. What rank were you?”
“One-star general,” said Lawton.
She took a step back. “Oh,” she said, eyeing the short old greybeard up and down with some disbelief. “How come you’re working here?”
“Keeps me busy. Besides, the old lady makes me march here to work every day to keep fit.”
She was about to ask more questions when a familiar face over her shoulder caught Lawton’s attention, “Excuse me, please.” He turned to the new arrival. “Hey, Bill.”
“Hey, Yo-negg,” said Bill, using a derogatory Cherokee term for “white man.”
“We grabbin’ breakfast?” asked Lawton.
“I have to go back to the chicken coops first. Judy forgot her cell phone in the car.”
Lawton informed museum security he’d be gone for an hour or so, and both men headed out to Bill’s old Ford. As Lawton got in on the passenger side, the rusty door creaked.
“Bill, one day this thing is just going to fall apart.”
“I got wheels, don�
�t I?” said Bill.
“I swear, you’re the worst mechanic. You never fix your own car.”
“Can’t. Too busy repairing other people’s,” said Bill.
A few minutes later, they arrived at the big chicken farm where Judy worked. Lawton hated the smell, but it didn’t seem to bother Judy or Bill anymore. Lawton could never understand how they both could handle it, but between the chickens and Bill’s work as a mechanic, the two seemed to enjoy a decent living.
“Okay, wait a second. I’ll run the cell phone in,” said Bill. “Be right back.”
Lawton hopped out of the car to stretch his legs while Bill ran in.
There’s only one thing worse than the stench out here, thought Lawton, and that’s the noise.
Inside the long, low, windowless buildings, thousands of hens clucked in an endless cacophony. It sounded wretched, almost violent to Lawton’s ears. It was incessant, and even from his spot by the road, more than a hundred meters from the buildings, he could hear them clucking away.
What a noise . . . and what a stink.
Then, in a heartbeat, a deathly calm came over everything and shrouded Lawton in silence. Birds in the trees stopped moving. The usual buzz of the southern cicadas was still. Even the chickens in the coop went completely silent.
For that millisecond, Lawton thought he was having a heart attack.
Instinct told him to turn, and he had a moment to glance back toward Danville.
That’s when retired U.S. Army Brigadier General Lawton Custis, who had survived ten deployments to foreign lands and countless dangerous missions in Iraq and Afghanistan, saw a part of warfare that even he had never experienced. And he was so taken by the sight, he stared straight into the face of modern war’s deadliest demon: the white-hot core of a nuclear blast.
CHAPTER 9
Near Morgantown, West Virginia
Colonel Nepo pulled his Humvee right up beside where Tyce and SSgt. Diaz were conducting their recovery efforts at the bridge. He joined them in looking down into the jagged hole created by the missile.
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