Christopher Nuttall: The Trojan Horse

He’d known people in Washington who did not fear death, but feared losing their access to politics. They’d known that a single failure, a single mistake that could not be smoothed over or buried under a mountain of bullshit, would wreak their careers once and for all. And they had thought they were playing for high stakes. A seat in Congress, a place on the Supreme Court, even the Presidency itself… they’d thought that failure would mean the end of everything that made their lives worth living. Toby knew of scandals — of dead girls and live boys — that had never been seen by the public eye, with criminals and worse surviving to live another day in Washington. The city had once been built on a swamp, but in many ways it was still a swamp, a place where good intentions and bright sparks slid beneath the water, never to re-emerge. He’d told himself that he’d done well by supporting the President — and he’d been a better person than many of the other possible candidates — and yet he had proved unable to cope with the crisis. How would Lincoln or Washington have reacted to the Snakes?

His alarm clock rang and he pulled himself out of bed. Sleeping in the White House had once seemed a reward for good service, sharing a building that was the official residence of the President himself. Now it seemed like a punishment, a prison sentence to a building ruled by the Red Queen. The hundreds of armed guards, glaring at each other along with anyone who dared visit the White House, would do her bidding. Every time Toby slept, he half-expected to be awoken in the middle of the night by armed men intent on executing him, or dragging him out to face McGreevy. It was not a pleasant thought.

The maid came in while Toby was still dressing, wheeling in a trolley. Toby glanced down at the tray and saw bacon and eggs, toast and jam. The ordinary citizens of Washington were on the verge of starvation — and it would get worse as winter rolled in — but the White House could still get fresh food and drink. He almost sent it back — his nerves made it difficult to eat — yet he knew that he had to eat what he could. The food tasted excellent, but it felt like ashes in his mouth. Afterwards, he went to the toilet, shaved and prepared himself for the day. He’d left a copy of his will with his father, although somehow he suspected that his meagre possessions would be confiscated by McGreevy’s government if he was caught in the act. Gillian would be safe, at least. His father would see to that.

Bracing himself, he strode out of his bedroom and down the long corridor to the connecting stairs. The guards halted him and checked his ID; unless he was very much mistaken, there were even more guards in the building than there had been a day ago. McGreevy’s paranoia was clearly reaching new and even more dangerous heights. If she insisted on being surrounded by a private security team at all times, the mission would become far more dangerous. Or perhaps it would just give the aliens more to engage when the shit hit the fan. Who knew what side mercenaries would take?

He endured a series of checks as he approached the Oval Office, until he was finally allowed into the presence. The room was dark and smelled funny; the sun had yet to rise into the sky. McGreevy could be seen on the other side of the room, sitting on the sofa. It looked as if she hadn’t left the President’s office since Toby had left visited her. The light came on as she touched a switch and Toby almost started. She looked terrible, as if she too hadn’t slept all night. Toby would have felt sorry for her, if he hadn’t known her crimes. If she was sleepy, or drugged, it would be easy to get her to Andrews without something going badly wrong.

“Madam President,” he said. McGreevy looked up at him, her red-rimmed eyes fixed on his face. She mumbled something, but Toby didn’t hear. “The convoy is nearly ready to depart for Andrews.”

McGreevy started to stagger to her feet. Toby reached out a hand to help her, but she waved him away impatiently. She seemed to have grown twenty years older in the space of a day, staggering helplessly as she put her weight on her feet. As he waited, she stumbled into the little washroom and he heard the sound of running water. She’d know that she couldn’t look like that on the outside, where the public might see her. Whatever faith remained in the McGreevy Administration would be destroyed the moment anyone set eyes on her. She’d clearly lost her grip on events.

But was it really her fault? Toby was fairly sure that McGreevy wasn’t a pod person, but the aliens had done something to the President; why couldn’t they do anything to his replacement? Had they set out to use her to destroy faith in the American Government, so it could be replaced by the bogus dream of a Galactic Federation, or had they merely decided that she’d come to the end of her usefulness? There was no way to know. It provided yet another thing to worry about. If they’d decided she was no longer necessary, would they still allow her into Andrews?

He looked up as McGreevy came out of the washroom. She looked much better, having splashed water on her face and tided her clothes. Toby wondered if he should advise her to change her outfit before deciding that it wouldn’t matter. The aliens wouldn’t care and no one else would be interested. As long as he could get her to Andrews… his cell phone bleeped and he glanced down at it. The convoy was ready to go.

“Madam President,” he said. “It’s time to go.”

McGreevy seemed to be walking with more confidence as they headed down the stairs towards the main doors, opening out onto the White House lawn. Most of the guards had dispersed at her command, leaving only a handful to guard her and watch Toby with suspicious eyes. The White House staff were no longer in evidence, having scurried back to their quarters to escape McGreevy’s dark stare. Toby knew that their families were held as hostages, otherwise they would have deserted long ago. The cold air seemed to revive McGreevy as they stepped through the doors and started to walk towards the gates. In the distance, Toby could see the first light of dawn.

The convoy was waiting at the gates. Four trucks, carrying armed soldiers, and a single heavily-armoured vehicle. Toby had studied the specs of the Presidential Armoured Transport and knew that it compared favourably to an Abrams tank. The President’s tank — as some called it — was only intended for use if the White House had been attacked by chemical, biological or nuclear weapons, a situation where air transport would be difficult or impossible. No one had seriously considered the possibility of Washington being invaded by a hostile force, although terrorism had been a valid concern. Now, Toby would have sold his soul to return to the days when terrorism had been the only major threat.

McGreevy hesitated as she came up to the massive vehicle. Few civilians really appreciated how large tanks were until they saw one, while McGreevy’s transport was actually larger than a standard tank. One of the soldiers cracked the hatch, revealing a surprisingly luxurious interior. Unlike the cramped confines of a Abrams or a Stryker, the President’s transport had room to stretch his legs, comfortable seats and even a drinks cupboard. Toby took one look at it and poured McGreevy a whiskey and soda. It didn’t surprise him when she took the glass and proceeded to drink it quickly. She was on the verge of total collapse. Why should she not turn to drink?

The vehicle shook as it started to move. Toby knew that the tank was really surprisingly quiet, but he was still astonished by how he hadn’t even heard the engine until it powered up completely. McGreevy looked equally surprised and motioned for another drink. Toby shrugged and poured her a second glass, and then a third. By the time they reached Andrews, she might be drunk. It might even be an improvement.