Kevin Anderson - Ill Wind

Mayeaux scowled and got right to the point. “I trust you’ve been briefed about the San Diego incident?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” the CNO said, clearing his throat. “To make things worse, we’ve also just learned that the San Diego ruling council has commandeered the installation’s radio network. They are broadcasting their ‘victory’ over the entire Atlantis network, actively trying to incite other similar uprisings.”

“As if we didn’t have enough trouble already! How you intend to deal with it, gentlemen?”

Wacom drummed his fingers on the table. He spoke smoothly, using years of experience honed by testifying before congressional committees. “We’ve made the decision that it is prudent not to antagonize the public, not to take unnecessary risks. There may be some options that the military can use, but our primary mission is to defend our national security.”

Mayeaux pressed his fingers together. “So, you made that decision yourselves? Thank you very much, General. It’s nice to know I don’t need to bother running the country anymore. You thought it ‘prudent’ just to let cities overthrow their military bases, assassinate commanders, and secede from the United States at will?”

The general stiffened. “There are certain degrees of response we may consider, Mr. President. The Army still has access to point weapons—grenades, bullets, bazookas, all of which work effectively only if coordinated by the chain of command. Since our communication is sporadic, and the troops do not have the necessary logistical or transportation support, such weapons cannot be utilized effectively to suppress large mob-type disturbances. The military might prevail initially, but they would quickly be overrun, as in San Diego.”

Mayeaux tapped on the table. The general had told no lies, but he had not told the whole story, either. “I find that hard to believe, General. Are you insisting that this plague has eliminated the military’s ability to respond decisively if a target city openly defies a direct presidential order?”

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly, sir—”

Mayeaux broke in. “I’ve been informed that we still have ten Trident-class nuclear submarines on underwater quarantine and as yet unaffected by the plague. Wouldn’t you say that sub-launched missiles are a bit more substantial than a few ‘point weapons?’”

The Chiefs exchanged glances. The temperature in the Situation Room seemed to plunge.

A Secret Service man barged into the room. His arrival startled the other guards enough that one placed himself in front of the intruder.

“Mr. President!” the newcomer said. He panted, then stopped, letting his eyes fall closed as he drew several deep breaths to calm himself. Mayeaux recognized him as one of the agents who had hauled him out of bed in his Ocean City condo to tell him of President Holback’s death.

“Yes, what is it?” Mayeaux snapped.

The Secret Service man drew in another lungful. “Sir, it’s Mr. Weathersee. Your… your chief of staff has been killed, sir. We were ambushed on our food requisitioning run. A large group of civilians swarmed over our wagons. Someone threw a grenade at the convoy. I believe they simply intended to appropriate the food, but they killed everyone they captured.”

A roar of pounding blood filled Mayeaux’s head. Weathersee! “Are you certain it was him?”

“I was with him. Mr. Weathersee was assassinated, sir.” He squirmed. “Uh, there is no doubt in my mind that he is dead.”

Mayeaux gripped the table. Franklin Weathersee had been his legislative assistant since Mayeaux had taken his first political office, accompanying him for years as a silent companion as his career climbed. What was he going to do without the man’s dispassionate competence, especially in such a terrible crisis?

“How?” Mayeaux said, sounding like a croaking toad. “How was he killed.”

“Uh, he was…” The Secret Service man swallowed and stood stiffly, staring at the far wall. “He was decapitated, sir.”

Mayeaux’s vision seemed to grow warm and black, fuzzed at the edges. What was he going to do without Weathersee? He took a long, shuddering breath and forced himself to focus on the people gathered in the Situation Room.

“You have my sympathy, Mr. President,” General Wacom said.

“I don’t give a damn about your sympathy,” Mayeaux said. He tok a long slow breath and spoke each word like a heavy footfall down a long staircase. “I believe you were about to answer my question about the availability of nuclear-tipped missiles on Trident submarines.”

The Chairman’s face fell slack. “Mr. President, you can’t consider launching a nuclear missile against American targets. Even at the height of the Cold War, using these against the Soviet Union was considered only a last resort for survival—”

“Just what the living hell do you think this is?” Mayeaux shouted. He struck his palm on the table, scattering two pencils beside his coffee cup. “By your own admission, the military cannot function. The greatest nation on Earth is decaying into pockets of barbarism, even here in our capital city! Just when do you draw the line and say that things have gone far enough !”

Mayeaux breathed hard as he looked around the room. He was surprised to feel tears on the verge of spilling from his eyes. No one spoke. The Joint Chiefs returned his icy stare; two of his cabinet members looked down, shaking their heads.

Mayeaux took another deep breath, but his pulse kept pounding like a drumbeat in his head. “The United States must be willing to cauterize a wound to keep this nation from bleeding to death. We cannot tolerate this situation any longer. Look what’s happening in our own neighborhood.”

The general tried to calm him. “Mr. President, maybe you should reconsider the options, wait until you have calmed down from this shocking news. Within a few days we can prepare an extensive list ranging from a light to intermediate response against San Diego—”

Mayeaux’s Louisiana drawl got worse as his anger rose and he lost control. “ Mais —let me tell you somethin’! The people must be utterly convinced that the President is still in charge! Abraham Lincoln did it, and so can I. Lincoln suspended the writ of habeas corpus , jailed political leaders and newspaper editors in Baltimore to prevent Maryland from seceding from the union.”

Wacom sat rigid, masking his emotions. Beside him, the CNO’s eyes widened when Mayeaux turned his attention to him. “Admiral, I want you to give me a list of the surviving Trident-II submarines within range of San Diego.”

The Admiral threw a glance at the Chairman; General Wacom nodded stiffly. Mayeaux scowled. Who the hell was in charge here, anyway?

The Admiral avoided Mayeaux’s eyes by glancing at a sheet of paper. He cleared his throat. “Of the subs still in contact, two are in position to strike targets on the west coast of the United States.” He fiddled with his paper, as if it was very important for him to file it away at that moment. “However, Mr. President, I cannot assure you that the crews of either vessel will carry out war orders that require them to retarget missiles against their own country—”

“Thank you, Admiral,” said Mayeaux icily. “I’m sure the captains of those vessels remember who their Commander is, even if my Joint Chiefs do not.”

He felt giddy, detached, as if he had just been swept up by a giant invisible hand. Within days of the first strike—one decisive strike—word would spread like wildfire over the available channels of communication. The rebellios cities would be shocked, then afraid, then repentant. Time for everyone to work together, not break apart. History would hail Jeffrey Mayeaux as a savior, the architect of the future United States.