Richard Stephenson - Collapse

“Yes, sir!”

Captain Butler turned to see the president’s helicopter in the distance. It approached the empty field and landed behind him, fifty yards away. Captain Butler straightened his uniform and prepared to meet the president.

Once the helicopter was secured, the doors opened and the ladder descended. Vice President Simon Sterling exited, straightening his tie and holding on to his hat to keep it from blowing away. He slowly walked the distance between himself and the officer. With a stern look on his face, he surveyed the man who had carried out his bidding. Once he felt the man was sufficiently intimidated, he returned the salute and spoke.

“Captain Butler, I presume?”

“Yes, sir. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

“Likewise. I see you had a difficult time securing my new home?”

Their conversation was interrupted by a small craft emerging from the roof of the mansion. Once it was a hundred feet above the estate, it rocketed away to the north.

“Hmph. I see Mr. Beck will not be joining us. Such a pity. My apologies; you were saying?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Beck did not give it up without a fight. His security measures were quite effective at repelling our advances. I had no choice but to secure an opening in the outer wall.”

“Excellent work, General Butler.”

“Yes, sir!” Jackson Butler couldn’t help but smile at the news of his promotion.

“General, it’s time the American people had a true leader unburdened by an ineffective, squabbling government powerless to do anything to help them. They deserve a leader who is willing to do whatever it takes to ensure our nation does not fall.”

President Malcolm Powers sat in his study at his residence in upstate New York. His five hundred acre horse ranch, “Serenity Hills,” had been in his family for generations. Once he took office, the Secret Service made many upgrades to the property so the president could vacation there at his leisure. Malcolm never once felt like he had any kind of a vacation when he was there. He did just as much work at the ranch as he did at the White House. The residence was fortified with the same steel doors and shutters as the Oval Office. The air space over the ranch was a no-fly zone. Malcolm felt the need to apologize to each of his neighbors since they all had to undergo extensive background checks. They gladly complied since they were proud to tell their friends and family that the president of the United States was their neighbor.

The First Lady had taken up permanent residence at Serenity Hills due to her failing health. The White House Press Secretary had maintained the white lie that she was recuperating from her latest battle with breast cancer. It was true; she had gone into remission three times in the past sixteen years. The cancer was not the reason she had left the White House — it was her mental state. Madeline Powers was bi-polar and not fond of taking her medication. She was a brilliant woman who had retired from practicing law when Malcolm began campaigning for the Oval Office. She had every intention of using her status as First Lady to champion her many causes; however, the press was not too kind to her. Someone had dug up her medical records and her mental health problems, starting a media circus that only got worse when she tried to defend herself. The White House press corps respected the president enough to never broach the subject, but other media outlets practiced their constitutional right to free speech and branded Madeline Powers as “crazy” and “a dangerous woman who could corrupt the leader of the free world.” At the first White House Christmas party of the new administration, she had a manic episode and caused a scene. The President and the First Lady’s sister were able to quietly whisk her away from the party. Malcolm begged her to take her medication. Madeline refused and instead went into exile at Serenity Hills. When the attacks on the White House began, Madeline was in such a state that her personal physician, along with her Secret Service detail, had to restrain and sedate her.

When the White House was evacuated, all of President Powers’ guests accompanied him to Serenity Hills via Air Force One. Everyone stayed at the ranch for the first night; however, the majority of the guests departed shortly thereafter. On the morning of the third day, the only ones that remained were Chief of Staff Reid, Director Jimenez, Fleet Admiral Mack, and Secretary of Defense Decker.

As the group wrapped up their breakfast, the president lit a cigarette and said, “Computer, give me a status report on Washington.”

“Good morning, Mr. President. I am sorry to inform you that the situation did not improve during the night. Rioting and looting actually increased from the previous twenty-four hour period. Many of the rioters have organized into armed gangs numbering from fifty to one hundred. The Unified National Guard has been unsuccessful in taking back portions of the city. The gangs simply fell back to another portion of the city and take control there.”

“They’re probably using the metro to move around,” Secretary Decker observed.

“The metro is still running?” asked Stacy Reid.

“No, the metro was shut down when this all started. I’m betting they’re still using the tunnels to move around the city.”

“That just makes it harder. Computer, continue please.” Stacy Reid continued drinking her coffee.

“The most troubling news is that during the night, one of the gangs broke into three of the Smithsonian Museums, resulting in a great deal of vandalism.”

When the president heard this, the news crushed him. He never dreamed that American citizens would damage priceless artifacts from their nation’s history.

“Which museums?”

“Natural History, Air and Space, and American History.”

The president didn’t know if he could take anymore bad news. “What about the monuments?”

“The Washington Monument has not sustained any structural damage, but the walls at the base have been spray-painted with various anti-government slogans and profanities.”

“Dear Lord, help us all. Do you have any images?” President Powers quickly lit up another cigarette.

The wall opposite the president’s desk lit up and displayed an image of the Washington Monument. The people in the room stood and walked to get a closer look. “Kill the crooked politicians!” “Fuck Powers!” “Burn the White House!” could all be discerned along with many other similar slogans. The only slogan that bore any intelligence was “Don’t Tread On Me,” dating back to the American Revolution.

“Burn the White House?” Stacy read in anguish. She looked to everyone in the room and said, “Computer, bring up an image of the White House.”

An aerial view of the White House filled the screen; the image rotated three hundred and sixty degrees around the perimeter of the presidential residence. Steel shutters still adorned the windows and doors. While the interior of the White House was secure, the outside was another matter. The walls of the White House were covered in graffiti and scorch marks from Molotov cocktails. The building’s fire resistant paint prevented the firebombs from doing any lasting damage.

“Computer, continue please,” said Stacy.

“The Jefferson Memorial has suffered a fate similar to that of the Washington Monument. The only monument to suffer structural damage is the MLK memorial.”

An image of the structure built to honor the legacy of the pioneer for Civil Rights was displayed on the screen. The Stone of Hope had been toppled. Dr. King’s statue lay in three pieces, the head smashed to bits.

“That’s horrible! I can’t believe it.” Director Jimenez scowled.