Richard Stephenson - Collapse

“Doesn’t make strategic sense,” General Weygandt spoke up, not really asking a question, simply stating the facts. “If I were them, I would take the three devices I had and split them into six. The yield wouldn’t be enough to level a city, but it could still kill thousands of people and would instill twice the fear.

“An excellent observation that had not occurred to me, General. Well done.” Roberto smiled at General Weygandt and then quickly shot another menacing glare at the chairman. The seventy-two year old was acting like a schoolyard bully.

The president almost laughed at the chairman, who was clearly letting the old man get the best of him. Carl was not hard to rile up; anyone could push his buttons, that is, outside of the military. No one in uniform would dare mock the second-in-command of the United States military. Again playing peacemaker, the president asked, “Where do they stand on completing an ICBM?”

The director did not need to ask the computer, he knew the answer, “The estimates remain the same, at least fifteen months. Their test launches barely make it into the upper atmosphere.”

This was what the president feared the most. The thought of the Iranians delivering a nuclear device to an American city kept him up at night. The president and everyone in the room also had nightmares about the terror attacks they now faced on their own soil with alarming frequency. September 11, 2001, was a day they all remembered well. The mere thought that the most powerful nation on earth could be attacked on their home soil was something they had never dreamed of on September 10, 2001. Everyone in the room thought back to the day the Twin Towers fell as the beginning, a prophecy of things to come.

The president addressed both the Secretary of Homeland Security and the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Warren Gill. The two had grown accustomed to being addressed at the same time, like they were a couple.

“Gentlemen, how are things on the home front?”

“To put it bluntly, Mr. President, not good.” Secretary Laferriere never held his punches. The president had hired him because he wasn’t a “yes-man” who told him what he wanted to hear or sugarcoated his answers. The secretary leaned back in his chair and looked to his close friend, Warren Gill.

The FBI Director took his cue and began. “Our soil is being attacked on two fronts. Domestic terrorists are the hardest for us to capture. The Empire continues to activate sleeper cells around the country, and we almost never see them coming until it’s too late. We have seen some progress capturing the waves of Silent Warriors that make it across our 7,612 mile borders. The majority of the terrorist invaders have no identification of any kind, not so much as a fake driver’s license. They avoid the major cities and the National Guard checkpoints, and well, we don’t know what they are doing.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Stacy Reid, the president’s Chief of Staff asked.

“Well, ma’am, they aren’t like anything we’ve seen in the past. Our best estimate is that Iranian submarines bring them over and they just swim right up to deserted beaches with nothing but the clothes on their backs. We also have credible evidence that large numbers of enemy forces are simply walking into the country from Mexico. Most of those we captured welcome torture and are hard to crack. A few have told us that they’re set loose on our shores with no plan of attack whatsoever; they are told to be creative and improvise.”

“Hard to stop an attack that has no intelligence to track until the damned thing happens,” the CIA Director managed to bark in a raspy voice.

Secretary Lafferiere nodded in agreement.

The president focused his attention back on Jimenez, “Roberto, what do we know about Bunker Five? Any indication that they’re planning some sort of attack for us here at home?”

The director turned his attention back to the screen, “Computer, display image of Bunker Five, begin playback from six months ago and show the progress in high-speed, ending with the most current image. Compress playback to sixty seconds.”

The interactive image of the Iranian Theater remained on the screen and a new window opened in the bottom left corner, far too small for anyone to see. The Director had forgotten to close the first screen.

“Son of a bitch,” the Director cursed under his breath. Roberto Jimenez hated to give the appearance that he was the stereotypical senior citizen that didn’t know how to work a computer. “Enhance.”

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff finally saw his chance and laughed out loud. “You need help there, Robert-O?” Moody had placed emphasis on the last “O” to really drive it home.

Director Jimenez was becoming visibly frustrated, and his face flashed beet red as he realized that Carl Moody had just made fun of him. Roberto raised his right hand to grab the image. He succeeded in taking hold of it, but the pain in his arm was too much to endure and his hand fell back in his lap. The wall sensors tracking his hand movements misinterpreted his last gesture, and the image quickly disappeared.

Governor Lori Prince could not stay quiet any longer. Watching this old geezer display his obvious incompetence with computers sent her over the edge.

“Excuse me, Mr. President. I must know, exactly why am I here? This is all very interesting, but I just don’t understand exactly how the state of Florida is in any condition to help with the war effort.”

The president raised his hand in a calming gesture. “Governor Prince, I understand your confusion, but if you would just remain patient for a few more min…”

“Patient? PATIENT? You have the nerve to ask me to be patient? I have been patient for over a month waiting for you to make good on your promise to help the people of Florida. You have ended my political career while close to a million people have died! You haven’t done one goddamned thing to help!”

The president’s Chief of Staff, Stacy Reid, was so alarmed that she almost screamed. Her shock was not that the governor had interrupted the president and used profanity, but rather what she had said.

Did she really just say a million?

While the governor of the great state of Florida was becoming the first visitor of the Clinton Room to use profanity at a sitting president, Chester Stephens was thinking about a promotion. He just knew it was coming. Chester was already thinking about what he would do with the extra money. Good ole’ Chester was grinning; he was so proud of himself.

Chester Stephens was the General Manager at the Kissimmee Walmart Supercenter located ten minutes from the Walt Disney World Resort in Orlando, Florida. His store hadn’t fared too well in the Second Great Depression. Its proximity to the Magic Kingdom and Universal Studios theme parks had helped keep his store above water – but just barely. Chester had been a loyal Walmart employee for twelve years, working his way up to General Manager in record time. He took his job seriously and ran a very tight ship. He knew that the top executives at corporate headquarters in Bentonville, Arkansas were watching his career with great interest. They had told him that if he managed to end each year above the line drawn by the Second Great Depression or hopefully see a little increase, he would be moving to Bentonville to join them.

When Hurricane Luther made his fourth trip ashore greet the citizens of the greater Orlando area, Chester knew he was facing the defining moment in his career. The boys in Bentonville had told him that if he had two more successful years, there would be a big promotion waiting for him. Chester welcomed Luther with open arms and knew that the disaster would move up his promotion two years ahead of schedule.