Darrell Bain - The Melanin Apocalypse

“Ouch,” Doug said to the surgeon. “You missed a spot.”

“Sorry. Do you want me to inject you again?”

“No, get it over with. I need to get back to work.”

“We still have to replace your cast, you know.”

“I know all too well,” Doug said. “June, I’m fine. If you need to get back to your office, go ahead. All I need to do is check with Teresa when I’m finished here, then consult with Colonel Christian and Qualluf.

Are they still here?

“I think they’re both being questioned by the secret service.”

“Ouch. That’s not for you, doc,” he added hurriedly. “Those guys could take forever and we need to get Qualluf and Christian out of here and back where they belong.”

“I’ll talk to them,” June said. She leaned forward and kissed him. “Call me when you’re free. I’ll be at the office.”

“Wait. If the Secret Service doesn’t cooperate, have Amelia try calling Vice—I mean President Santes. I don’t know if this number will still be good, but you can try it.” He gave the number to her and June hurried away, while the doctor gave him a peculiar, but very respectful appraisal before returning to his suturing. Doug winced again, but didn’t complain. He wanted this to be over and done with. He eyed the secret service agent standing nearby, waiting to question him as well.

Vice President Santes was hustled away from the CDC and to her plane. By this time, word had come that President Marshall was definitely dead and that she would succeed to the presidency. Her first order after shakily taking the oath of office from a hastily recruited judge was to issue an arrest warrant for Edgar Tomlin and General Newman; under the terms of martial law there was no waiting for a judge’s approval. She settled into her seat as the plane took off, feeling the mantle of ultimate responsibility descending over her, as she knew it had so many times before in the country’s history. She began making notes on the most urgent tasks facing her, even while knowing there would be many more added to her list the second she stepped into the Oval Office.

Before they landed in Washington, she got Amelia’s call, on the number she had given Doug. She listened for a moment, then told Amelia to call her back if the men were not released. She wagged her finger at the nearest secret service officer, who also happened to be the same one who had run her detail since she had assumed the vice presidency.

“Who’s in charge of the detail now?”

“Until we get to Washington, I guess I still am, Mrs. President. After that, I don’t know.”

“I’ll try to see that you stay with me, if that’s your preference. In the meantime, call your boss in Washington and tell him I want Qualluf Taylor, Colonel Christian and Doug Craddock not to be bothered until they have some time to spare. I’m sure there’s very little they could add to the picture in any event.”

“Yes ma’am. I’ll do it immediately.” He hurried toward the front of the plane.

President Santes resumed scribbling notes on the yellow legal pad. Her PDA had been lost in the scuffle, but word had come that it had been found and would be returned. Without a hint of amusement, she mused about how her first thoughts, her first priorities, would almost certainly be preserved on this pad for future historians. Then she did smile inside, knowing how far removed from her true thoughts these notes were. Some things were best left unwritten.

Captain Timothy Foley cursed fluently, but only to himself. He had just heard of the new president’s order to have both General Newman and Edgar Tomlin arrested. So much for his own orders. There was no longer any sense in trying to carry them out now, with no one to report to, especially since there had been only a slim chance of killing the Colonel anyway. He had about decided to try shooting him in plain sight of others and trying to make it look like an accident. All that would get him now was very probably a thorough going over from both the secret service and military intelligence officers. He had no illusions about being able to stand up under the type of questioning they could bring to bear. But… now he was stuck here, in a combat unit and God only knew when he would be able to get out of it. His fear of combat had been what impelled him into General Newman’s service in the first place; that and his own belief in the white supremacist movement. Now it looked as if he would eventually have to face combat anyway. He felt his body beginning to tremble. This duty was about as bad as punishment for the orders he hadn’t carried out would have been. Damn it all, life wasn’t fair! Suddenly he wondered whether or not the general would betray him after his arrest and began trembling worse than ever.

“You can’t arrest me, you damn fools! I’ll have you all thrown in prison! I’ll have you executed, by God!”

General Newman yelled at the military police officers who had entered his office without knocking or a by your leave.

“Put the cuffs on him. Don’t let him hurt himself,” ordered the lieutenant colonel in charge of the detail.

Enraged, the general lunged for the side drawer of his desk where he kept a pistol concealed. He very nearly made it, with the military police inhibited by his four stars and exalted position as head of the whole military establishment. A female captain acted first, rushing to grab his hand when she suspected what he was up to. The others followed quickly.

General Newman was hustled out of his office, hands secured behind his back, raving threats and blandishments, spittle flying from his mouth. Eventually, he had to have his mouth taped shut so that charges could be read to him.

Edgar Taylor went silently when his turn came, but tears streamed down his face as he visualized what lay ahead. In the days that followed before his execution, he realized there had never been a chance the American people would have allowed a military dictatorship, even if both assassination attempts had succeeded.

The first thing President Santes did after arriving at the White House was get Lurline Tedd on the line.

She knew that Lurline was privy to many of Marshall’s machinations and she knew Lurline had walked out on the president over the issue of Marshall not arresting Newman and Tomlin.

“I need you to come back, Lurline. We have to have some continuity here and you’re the best person for it. The country needs you.”

“In what capacity would I serve?” Lurline asked from the den of her home, surprised that the new president wanted to talk to her at all.

“It would have to be as assistant Chief of Staff for the White House. Or Presidential Advisor, if you prefer a different title. I can’t bring in someone else over the head of my own chief.”

Lurline didn’t really need time to think. She was already missing the hustle and bustle of the Oval Office, and she knew the president was perfectly correct; she was the best person available to get the new adminsitration off on the right foot. Already, there were rumblings from congress about the arrest orders and the way Santes had handled the situation in Atlanta. There was also debate over the authenticity of the Dawson recordings, which were stirring a huge amount of controversy. Some also thought Santes should have been much harsher on the rioters. Perhaps Lurline could furnish information on the former president that would still some of the unrest. At the very least, she could show the president the most efficient way to manage the office.

“I’ll be very glad to come back to work, Mrs. President. And Presidential Advisor is completely satisfactory as a title.”