Джейсон Росс - The Last Air Force One

Very few knew that Sharon was nobody to fuck with. Her indomitable will was a weapon she kept in her psychologist’s tool box, rarely bringing it into the light of day.

“Hey babe. How are your parents?” Dutch stood and maneuvered her over to the couch so they could sit together.

“They’re not answering their phones. The communications officer said that nobody in that region is connecting via anything other than satellite phone. They’re beginning to think that the cyberattack included a hit on the older cellular networks.”

Dutch took a deep breath and lifted Sharon’s hand. “And my mom and dad. Are they good?”

“They’re not answering either. I tried the home phone and both their cells.”

“That’s strange,” Dutch worried aloud. “I can’t imagine where else they’d be.”

“Sam Greaney was up in comms when I made the calls. He offered to send troops to check on both our parents. Dutch, are you sending troops into the cities?”

“They’re going in on weapons hold. We’re launching a show of force to tamp down looting and rioting.”

“Hmm,” Sharon pursed her lips. “Weapons hold? Sounds like something Sam talked you into.”

Dutch gritted his teeth. He rankled a little when Sharon second-guessed him like that, even if no one else was listening. It made him sound like a puppet, and he was nobody’s puppet.

“It was my call and my call alone. Activists on social media are claiming that the power outages are a calculated act of oppression against the racial minorities. Rioting tonight could get out of control.”

“And the people are believing it? That the blackouts are intentional?”

“Not quite. The activists are saying that available power is being channeled to white neighborhoods and away from low income areas.”

“You should tell the nation it’s a cyberattack.”

“Good idea. Actually, it’s a great idea. We’ve been hoping the power outages would be less severe and that we could write them off as too many air conditioners running at the same time. If Americans hear that we’re under attack, they’re likely to come together and stop burning their cities.”

Sharon didn’t look entirely convinced. “We’ll see. I hope it was okay with you that I let Sam send troops to our parents’ homes. I know how you hate special treatment.”

That made Dutch think about the track suit and the extra clothes stored in the closets and drawers in the executive suite on Air Force One. He wondered what had happened to the clothing of previous presidents? Peril loomed over America and Dutch worried about wasted resources.

“We just need to get through tonight and everything should be okay.”

Again, Sharon made that face, the one where her eyes glazed over in thought, her cheeks going a little slack.

“What?” Dutch asked.

“I’m just thinking about what you said concerning the social media rumors and electricity. That can’t possibly be true, can it?”

Dutch harrumphed. “Not hardly. The only thing less likely than the power companies coordinating to screw the minorities would be the power companies coordinating to protect their own damn computer systems. Doing anything in this beast of a system takes about fifty times more effort and luck than anyone would imagine. I can’t even get FEMA to move their asses into a nuclear strike zone in a timely manner, and I’m the damn president. There’s no chance that the power companies are being cute. They have no motive, for one thing.”

Sharon held out a hand to Dutch. “Right. But how is it that people have become so jaded and quick to assign malicious intent? Life’s been pretty amazing for the past fifty years, hasn’t it? Why do people turn to believing the worst in one another so quickly?”

Dutch held Sharon’s thin hands like a lifeline. “Even thirty years ago, I think I could’ve predicted how Americans would react to a crisis like this. Something changed, and now I’m not so sure. So many times in our history, when the chips were down, Americans have come together and defeated evil. We’re facing one of those times again, Sharon, and it came on our watch. And this time, when the Lord takes the measure of our virtue, I’m no longer sure where America will stand.”

“What am I looking at?” Dutch asked Sam Greaney as he stared at the LCD screen in the conference room of Air Force One. Dutch and Sam sat at the polished mahogany conference table.

“I’ve had the tech geek overlay the map of troop deployments against our map of power outages. The troops are orange and the blackouts are black.”

“Looks like Halloween,” Dutch observed. “Why are the orange spots all just dots?”

“We’re still in the process of issuing orders and mobilizing forces, sir. Most of the troops haven’t left base yet.”

“It doesn’t look like any of them have left base. How long since they received orders?”

“Some of them, in the last hour.” The secretary of defense looked at his watch.

“Some of them?” Dutch asked.

“Orders pass through channels sir, especially with something this unconventional,” Sam explained.

“What aren’t you telling me, Sam?”

“Some of the unit commanders are questioning the orders—seeking confirmation that they’re actually supposed to march on U.S. cities.”

“We’re not asking them to shoot civilians,” Dutch emphasized, his hands clenching. “How many officers are questioning our orders?”

“It’s hard to say. Most of them at first. But we need to give this a little time, Dutch. I’m sorting through those who will and those who won’t take orders and making changes where they’re needed.”

“What does ‘making changes’ mean, Sam? Are you firing officers who object to our orders?” Dutch knew the answer already. The situation had grown hairier than anticipated, and it had only taken a couple hours.

Sam’s face flushed red. Some men never did take well to following other men, Dutch reminded himself. Sam didn’t answer Dutch’s question, which was answer enough.

Dutch stood. “Sam, I want to be clear on this: if an officer objects to my orders on constitutional or legal grounds, he is NOT to be reprimanded or his career tarnished. Not in any way. Are we in agreement?”

“Mister President,” the SecDef exhaled, gathering a head of steam. Sam Greaney began to raise his voice. “I need you to understand this, Dutch, in no uncertain terms: if we do not enforce your orders with swift action, we cannot expect to complete this mission. And I should remind you that the mission is to save the United States! ”

“Do you think I don’t know that, Sam? I’m trying to put this in the context of history—about what happens a year from now when everyone’s forgotten how damn scary—”

“History?” Sam interrupted, shouting. “Wake up, Dutch! There won’t be any fucking history if we don’t shut this rioting down right fucking now! ”

Dutch felt rather than heard thundering footsteps down the hall. The doors burst open and his secret service detail swept the room with their Glock 17s. They didn’t point their handguns at the secretary of defense, but they didn’t point them entirely away from him either.

“Stand down, gentlemen,” Dutch ordered, his hands held out in front of him. “Everything’s fine here. We’re just working through some hard choices. Please return to the security section.” Dutch herded the four men toward the hallway. “Sam’s just blowing off steam. Everything’s fine,” Dutch repeated.

As his secret servicemen backed into the hallway, they came up against the secretary of defense’s security detail in military kit with AR-15 rifles dangling across their stacks of rifle magazines. Two of the four secret servicemen rotated to confront the Delta operators as though they were a threat to the president. The other two kept their guns pointed in the direction of the conference room. The Secret Service had formed a circle around Dutch.