William Dietz - Resistance - The Gathering Storm

Ten minutes later the President used a warm washcloth to wipe the last traces of shaving cream off his face and took a moment to survey the person reflected in the mirror. His hair was black, except for a little gray at the temples, and it was parted on the right. A broad forehead suggested intelligence, he thought, two perfectly shaped eyebrows served to frame his large brown eyes, and a long straight nose conveyed a sense of strength and purpose. All anchored by a firm jaw.

There were imperfections of course, like the hairs that threatened to sprout from his nostrils and ears, but a snip here and a snip there left Grace ready to go.

Satisfied with what he’d seen, Grace returned each implement to its rightful place. Then he checked the time on his Rolex Royal Stainless Steel Oyster wristwatch. It was 6:26 A.M., which meant Grace was running a minute late as he slid his arms into a white bathrobe.

The lonely wail of an air raid siren could be heard off in the distance as Grace entered the bedroom and paused for a moment.

A Chimeran attack? No, more likely a false alarm, triggered by a nervous volunteer out in the suburbs.

There was a soft knock, and Grace opened the door to the hallway. Bright light gave Bessie a halo of white hair, framing her kindly face, and there was so much starch in her gray and white uniform that it crackled as she moved.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” she said respectfully. “Here’s your coffee.” And with that she extended a tray loaded with a coffeepot, creamer, a bowl of sugar, two cups, and two spoons. It was a ritual the two of them had shared for eleven years.

“Thank you, Bessie,” Grace said, and he turned to carry the tray over to the big bed. He heard the door close behind him.

Cora was sitting up by then, and by long-standing tradition the next half-hour belonged to her, as another day in the White House began.

Then, at precisely 7:30 A.M., President Grace made the journey downstairs.

Presidential Chief of Staff William Dentweiler awoke with a headache, a bad taste in his mouth, and the cloying scent of Eau d’Hermès perfume in his nostrils. His left arm was numb, and no wonder, since someone was lying on top of it.

But who?

Then he remembered the party at the French embassy, the desperate gaiety as two hundred guests sought to drink the war away with bottles of Taittinger champagne. The wine was increasingly hard to come by, yet many American officials seemed to have quite a bit of it. Most of Europe had fallen to the Chimera, and just about all the foreign diplomats wanted to bring someone into the United States before communications were severed.

This also explained why a stone-faced German military attaché had turned the other way when Dentweiler had left the party with his beautiful wife. A willowy blonde, who, though less than fluent where the English language was concerned, certainly knew how to please a man. She was snoring softly as Dentweiler pulled his arm out from under her bare shoulders, swung his feet onto the floor, and eyed the clock next to the bed.

It was 8:12 A.M.! Damn . And the cabinet meeting was scheduled for 9:00. Not 9:05, 9:10, or—God forbid—9:15.

Not while Noah Grace was President.

Dentweiler swore under his breath, made his way into the bathroom, and stepped into the tub. There was a rattling noise as he pulled the shower curtain closed, followed by the shock of cold water, which gradually turned warm. Once it reached body temperature Dentweiler was free to pee and shower at the same time. A rather efficient practice that continued to serve him well.

Fifteen minutes later Dentweiler was freshly shaved, dressed in one of his tailor-made gray suits, and ready to go. The German woman was still asleep—but he left her a note with a name and telephone number on it. If her husband’s parents were still alive, and if they could make it to a pick-up point near Bremen on a certain date, they would be brought to America. “A deal,” as Dentweiler liked to say, “is a deal.”

A long black town car was waiting in front of Dentweiler’s apartment building as he turned up the collar of his sleek Brooks Brothers overcoat and entered the crisp November air. There weren’t many Christmas decorations to be seen, and weren’t likely to be. Not with thousands dying every day.

Dentweiler stepped into the car, and it pulled away.

Having heard Dentweiler leave, the German woman opened her eyes. Then, softly, she began to cry.

The Cabinet Room was located in the West Wing of the White House, on the first floor. It had been completed in 1934 and was positioned to look out on to the Rose Garden through French doors topped with lunette windows. A painting titled The Signing of the Declaration of Independence hung over the fireplace at the north end of the room, while a row of portraits personally selected by President Grace lined the west wall. The floor was covered by a custom-made burgundy-colored carpet. And that’s what Secretary of War Henry Walker was looking at as he completed the last of his twenty-five push-ups. It was a ritual he performed frequently throughout the day.

Having regained his feet, the sixty-three-year-old re-tired colonel was in the process of putting his blue pinstriped jacket on as President Grace entered the room, closely followed by the other members of his cabinet.

“There you are,” Grace said cheerfully. “I should have known… Military men are always on time . Especially when the budget comes up for discussion!”

That was sufficient to elicit a chorus of chuckles from the coterie of toadies, sycophants, and ass kissers with whom Grace had chosen to surround himself. The group didn’t care for Walker any more than he cared for them. But he was—insofar as they were concerned—a necessary evil, due to the fact that he was popular with the top brass. A group upon whom Grace was very dependent.

So as everyone took their seats, Walker knew he was deep inside enemy territory, and largely on his own. His only potential ally was Vice President Harvey Mc-Cullen, who, in his own scholarly way, served to put the brakes on Grace’s worst excesses.

Walker scanned the group. Grace sat halfway down the long oval table with his back to the Rose Garden. Chief of Staff Dentweiler and Secretary of the Interior Farnsworth sat to his right, with Secretary of Commerce Lasky and Secretary of State Moody on his left. Presidential Counsel Hanson, Attorney General Clowers, Vice President McCullen, Secretary of Agriculture Seymore, and Secretary of Transportation Keyes were seated opposite the President.

That left Ridley, the Director of the Office of Special Projects (OSP), and Walker himself to man opposite ends of the table, where their flanks were open to attack. Or that was the way Walker thought about it as he took his seat.

As was his habit, Grace said a prayer once everyone was seated. But if God had been listening during the last eight-plus years, there weren’t any signs of it.

Secretary of the Interior Farnsworth was the first to give a report. Walker had a hard time taking him seriously, since he wore carefully brushed shoulder-length hair at a time when most men cut theirs short. His prow-shaped nose extended out over a handlebar mustache so prominent it was impossible to see his lips. His department was responsible for the Protection Camps that thousands of displaced Americans had been forced to enter after being driven from their homes by Chimeran forces.

Yet despite the relative safety of the camps, many people who entered them rebelled against the highly regimented lives they were forced to live within the fenced enclaves. In fact many were leaving to take up residence in the sprawling shacklands that were growing up around the larger cities. Slums really, which Farnsworth described as “breeding grounds for crime and disease.”