Christopher Nuttall - Axis of Evil

“True,” McLachlan agreed. “What about that major staging post in Chechnya?”

“Still, its not a priority at the moment,” Hanover said. “The main priority is mounting Redemption before the Germans take advantage of the chaos in America.” He frowned. “They weren’t keen on moving it forward more than a few days, but if we launch it on the 28 thwe might get all of the deception plan in place first.”

Washington DC, USA

24 thJune 1941

Despite the summer heat, the darkness felt cold to the citizens of Washington, many of whom stayed home and prayed. The radio broadcast endless pleas for calm, but was unable to explain what was happening, partly because of the lack of clear leadership from the White House. Everyone knew, even though it had never been reported, that the White House had been attacked, but by whom?

Another crackle of gunfire echoed outside the Future Embassy. Ambassador King shuddered; the rebels – as he was starting to think of them – had moved up and tried to take the Embassy, but the reinforced Marines had held them off. A determined attack might have succeeded – or artillery could have been brought up from the federal armoury – but the rebels seemed curiously languid. King had been expecting them to be broadcasting demands for submission over all of the airwaves, but instead…

Instead, very little seemed to be happening. His spies in the city had reported an ongoing arresting spree, mainly communists, leftists, black union leaders… but nothing else. The treacherous Speaker of the House of Representatives, William Brockman Bankhead, had arrived at the White House – but nothing had come out of the centre of government.

“Something must have gone off the rails somewhere,” he muttered. “Any change?”

Palter shook his head. “No change at all,” he said. “Just small attacks against us… and some people going into the White House.”

King nodded. The waiting was terrible. “And the Internet?”

“We’re putting our story out now,” Palter said. “It seems to have had some affect, a lot of would-be plotters got lynched. Some other people, mainly the Governors, are sitting on their butts, waiting – I suspect – for clear signs of success.”

He scowled. “For the moment, the bastards hold the centres of power, and they’re not doing anything with them. Why?”

“I don’t know,” King said. He looked up at Truman. The Vice-President looked pale and wan. “We have to move soon, Colonel; we’re not in a good position here.”

Truman looked up at him. “Yes, Ambassador,” he said. “God only knows what they’re doing to the President.”

“They should have made him put a message out,” Palter said. He’d been studying coup techniques on King’s instructions. “An… abdication, in effect. Instead… we have silence and all the time we need to launch a counter-attack. It’s… odd.”

“It’s bloody frustrating,” King snapped. “What about Robinson?”

“His people are in position,” Palter said. “He said he could move at first light.”

King scowled. It was dawn, way too early for any serious activity. “Tell him to wait until the sun has risen, unless the situation changes radically,” he said. “I wish we’d bugged the White House; we’d know what was happening then.”

William Brockman Bankhead, Speaker of the House of Representatives, stared in horror at the body of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the man who had presided over the American political scene for so long. Beside him, MacArthur stared at the body as well, laid out on his bed.

“Where the hell is Hoover?” Bankhead snapped finally. “What happened to the President?”

“A heart attack,” MacArthur said. “According to his doctor” – they’d found the future citizen hiding in his rooms in the White House – “the man had a dicky heart. He was under a lot of stress recently and…”

“And we will be blamed for his death,” Bankhead snapped. It had been the single issue they’d argued over since arriving, late last night. Even a few hours sleep hadn’t made it look any better. “Where the hell is Hoover?”

MacArthur, not a coward by any means, no matter what was muttered about him when no one thought he could hear, flinched back. “He’s back at FBI headquarters, organising the round-up of communist sympathisers,” he said. “We have to move fast”

“But what do we tell them?” Bankhead asked sharply. “Do we tell them that the President is dead? Where the hell is Truman?”

“I don’t know,” MacArthur snapped back. “The FBI team that was meant to protect him” – he coughed – “reported that he escaped!”

“And those blasted Governors, even my Governor, are sitting on their hands,” Bankhead said. “What do we tell them?”

MacArthur sighed; Bankhead glared at him. He’d agreed to the plot because of the riots spreading through his native Alabama, but now they’d come so far… he’d almost lost his nerve. Nothing was going the way they’d planned it… and there was no sign of Truman.

A cough from the bespectacled FBI agent drew his attention. Agent Eastwood had been trained on the new-fangled computers in London; he was the closest thing the FBI had to an expert. Short and fat, he hung on in the FBI by the skin of his teeth – Hoover had come close to firing him more than once.

“Sirs, there is bad news,” he said. Both men glared at him. “Sirs, someone is putting out a pretty accurate version of what’s happened on the web.”

“Shit,” Bankhead swore. “What are they telling them?”

“That the New Deal’s enemies have taken the White House and intend to crush all the labour gains,” Eastwood said grimly. “Sir, there are riots going on in the South, and some very nasty incidents in…”

“Hellfire,” Bankhead swore, seeing his entire country starting to collapse around him. His dreams shattered. “What the hell do we do now?”

MacArthur glared at him. “We continue, of course,” he snapped. “It’s time we made a statement to the public. We can explain that Roosevelt and Truman were assassinated by communists, the same ones who blew hell out of New York, ok?”

Bankwood nodded grimly. MacArthur’s eyes were starting to flicker dangerously. “Of course,” he said. “Let’s do it now.”

Marine Lieutenant Jones Robinson knew just how dangerous the next step would be, and not just because of MacArthur’s troops, most of whom were white trash from the south. He wasn’t scared of them. The real danger, however, came from the citizens of Washington, who would see a black army attacking the White House. If they reached for their weapons, there would be a bloodbath. The best and brightest of Black Power, three hundred men armed with AK-47s and equipped with some other weapons from Jim Oliver’s warehouses, pitted against an army of unknown strength and power.

“Mount up,” he snapped, as the doors opened. Jim Oliver had provided them with enough trucks to move the army, but he knew that they would have to dismount near the White House; Lieutenant Bosco had provided them with images of the site. The bastards had dug into the grounds; it looked as if they were prepared to stand off tanks.

“A shame Oliver couldn’t provide us with any of those,” he muttered. He’d had some jeeps rigged up, as the Marines had done in Iraq, with armour, but if they had the new anti-tank rockets the jeeps would be lost quickly. “Let’s go,” he shouted. “Move out!”

The men responded quickly and well; he was pleased with them, particularly his grandfather. They boarded the trucks and moved out, the jeeps in the lead, heading down towards the White House. There was no traffic on the streets; the only bit of advice from the radios had been to ask people to stay off the roads. The handful of police on the streets gaped at them, saw their weapons, and decided that discretion was the better part of valour.