Richard Stephenson - Resistance

“Do we have the manpower to pull it off?” Howard was starting to like this idea.

“I’m confident that we do. Eight months ago I thought about instituting a draft of all eighteen- to twenty-four- year-olds, but it wasn’t necessary. Once I announced the call to military service, men and women of all ages stepped up to the plate. We actually had to turn away people who didn’t qualify medically. Most of them insisted on doing something to help, so we put them to work behind a desk.”

“How many made it through basic training? What’s our total fighting force?” asked Max.

“When you factor in the guardsmen and current active duty from the old army, just shy of four hundred thousand, but that’s not all when you take into account the sympathizers in the UAE.”

Howard was really starting to like this plan. “What’s the estimate on that?”

“It’s hard to gauge, really. Before the UAE locked down our borders, we had waves of people fleeing into our territory. Max and his people managed to interview the majority of them. I’ll let Max fill you in.”

“I wish I could give accurate numbers, but Richard’s right. The vast majority of people who fled into our territory spoke longingly of their family and friends and about their hatred for the UAE. They begged their loved ones to make the journey to the PSA, but they all had too much to lose. Some feared death or didn’t want to risk the lives of their families. Others were too complacent, not willing to leave the security of their homes. The idea of becoming a refugee in our territory didn’t appeal to some, so they stayed put.”

Howard stared at the wall, his brilliant mind was racing. “I wouldn’t factor sympathizers into any plan you’re making, Richard, at least not until we invade California and can make an assessment of how large the resistance will be.”

“That was my plan as well. If half of what we’re hearing is true, all the sympathizers need is a fighting force to rally around. I plan to give them one.”

“How long before the invasion?” asked Max.

“We’ve secured two cruise ships, and they’ll be loaded up with troops and supplies within a week. The third one is turning out to be a problem.”

“Why? Is she not seaworthy?” asked Howard.

“She’s seaworthy. The problem we’re having is the five hundred people who have taken up residence onboard. They’re refusing to leave until we can find them a place to live.”

“You’re shitting me,” said Howard.

“I wish I were. They’re living in luxury compared to most. We’ve tried relocating them, but they disapprove of the new accommodations.”

“What about Senator Wilson? Is he able to do anything?” asked Max.

Richard rolled his eyes and chuckled. “The good senator is on their side. He firmly believes the military has no right to forcibly relocate citizens.”

“I don’t give two shits what Senator Wilson thinks. These aren’t fucking Native Americans being moved to a reservation! Much more is at stake than some spoiled crybabies living on a luxury liner. If you can relocate them to adequate shelter, do it. Do it by force if necessary.”

Richard and Max exchanged surprised glances as Richard turned to Howard. “I must admit, Howard, I’m shocked to hear you say that. The political fallout is going to be enormous.”

“I know. Let me be the bad guy. It’ll give me and Senator Wilson something to talk about next week.”

“Careful, Howard. You start using the military to strong-arm the population, and people might think you’re the next Simon Sterling,” said Max.

Howard snapped. When he got angry, there was no gradual ascent into rage; it was as if an internal switch was flipped in Howard’s mind. “How dare you! After all I’ve done and all the suffering I’ve endured at the hands of that madman! He killed my best friend and stole my house! You have the nerve to compare me to a dictator, a mass murderer!” Howard’s face reddened, the veins in his forehead pulsating to the rhythm of his pounding heart.

Max was completely shocked; he had never seen Howard so angry. His first instinct was to become defensive and blame Howard for overreacting. Once he saw how deeply he had wounded the man, he changed his mind. “Howard, very poor choice of words. I’m deeply sorry. I was only trying to advise caution. I understand your line of thinking, but the people do have rights; this could potentially escalate into a major problem. If even one soldier harms a single person on that boat, you could have a riot on your hands.”

“What would you have me do? Renovate a Hilton for these people and give them room service? You have a better option, I’d love to hear it.”

“Howard, you should only use force once you’ve exhausted every conceivable option. If you told them the reason, explained what’s at stake, I think they’d go willingly. You’re going to Seattle anyway. It’s worth shot.”

Howard and Richard exchanged knowing glances. Howard looked back at Max with a wicked grin. “Looks like you just volunteered to go with me. Feel free to bring your lovely wife.”

Max massaged his aching knee. He wanted to get some fresh air and see the sun, but this wasn’t what he had in mind. “Son of a bitch.”

Regional Governor Roberto Jimenez was furious. In his time governing the former states of California, Nevada, New Mexico, and Arizona, he had never been the victim of a major attack from The Silent Warriors. Keeping his region secure was his primary focus. While other regional governors concentrated on rebuilding the infrastructure or maintaining law and order, he thought only of security. The Pulse had not affected his region, so there was no real need to focus on a broken infrastructure. He honestly didn’t care if the people in his region robbed each other blind or murdered each other. As long as The Silent Warriors didn’t give him a black eye in front of the other regional governors and, more importantly, the president, he was happy.

The destruction of the Golden Gate Bridge left him with a gaping wound, visible to the entire country. He was certain to be the object of scorn, ridiculed by all the regional governors as well as President Sterling. Roberto was not looking forward to speaking with the president and had been putting it off for as long as possible. His first two attempts at keeping the president at bay were successful; he simply instructed his assistant to tell the president he was hard at work getting to the bottom of the disaster and would contact him soon. The time for stalling was over; he had no choice but to report to President Sterling.

Roberto was not a young man nor was he in good health. The seventy-four-year-old had been confined to a wheelchair for many years as a result of his battle with multiple sclerosis. He had little doubt as to why President Sterling had assigned him to this region. It was the most stable and provided little daily stress. It was the right call because hearing the news of the attack nearly sent him into cardiac arrest. Once he calmed down, Roberto summoned the commanding officer of the San Francisco militia and shot the man right there in his office. The corpse was hauled out, and terrified maids spent the morning cleaning the pool of blood from the threadbare carpet in front of his desk. The grouchy bastard grunted and waved the maids from the room. They were more than happy to oblige. With a few quick keystrokes, the holographic display before him sprang to life. Seconds later, the President of the Unified American Empire was glaring at him.

“Explain yourself, Mr. Jimenez.”

“Mr. President, our investigation is still ongoing.”

“Do not stall me any further, Roberto. In the future, when I attempt to contact you, do not use your assistant to dismiss me. You forget your place, my good man. I am in charge of this empire and you serve at my pleasure. If you ever disrespect me in such a manner again, the outcome will not be pleasant, I assure you.”