G Hopf - Sanctuary

There was no doubt in Baxter’s mind that Conner was suffering from depression and post-traumatic stress disorder. He had been through a terrible ordeal while being held hostage, and upon his miraculous return, he was welcomed with so much bad news, it would have been understandable if Conner hadn’t come out of his room again. Baxter had taken command and accomplished what he could. Negotiations with Australia had progressed, but they hadn’t yet committed to assisting the U.S., plus what they could offer would be scarce now, as they were providing assistance to so many other nations affected by the EMPs. There was so much to do, and Baxter was feeling overwhelmed. Now that Conner was back, Baxter hoped that they could start moving in a positive direction.

“General, I need to know! What are we doing? What can we do? How do we take care of over three hundred million people?” Conner said with an edge in his voice.

“Sir, should we take a break?” Baxter asked, with a hint of concern in his voice. “We’ve thrown a lot of information at you.”

Conner looked at all the faces around the room. He then shifted to a softer tone. “People, I understand that I’ve been gone. A lot has happened to me. Hell, a lot has happened to all of us. We want the best for our country, but I don’t know what we can do. The situation out there has taken on a life of its own. I spent weeks out there. I have seen with my own eyes what is happening. We have been put in an untenable position.” Conner leaned back in deep thought.

“Sir, we’re here to do what we can to help the U.S. get back up,” Dylan said in answer to Conner’s first question.

“Yes, but what if we can’t? What if it’s just too much?” Conner shot back.

“Mr. President, not all of our efforts have been failures. We have seen success—” Baxter started, but was cut off.

“Define success . If a man is having a heart attack and falls into thorny shrubs, pulling out thorns will not save his life. He’s still dying from a heart attack,” Conner exclaimed. “Since my disappearance, things have only gotten worse. Most of our underground facilities have been destroyed by an unknown force, we have had issues with nuclear power plants, our cities have collapsed into chaos, the camps we’ve set up have all been turned into death camps because we don’t have the resources to property supply and man them. The vice president has been taken hostage by a rogue colonel, an army has landed in Southern California and is marching north, and the only positive development? Australia is closer to making a decision in our favor to send food and equipment.” He slammed his fist on the table.

“What are you saying we do, then, give up?” Baxter asked, clearly upset.

“We don’t give up, but we’re spinning our wheels here. You were on to something when you drafted this map,” Conner said, pointing at the map showing the new borders of the United States. Conner stood and walked over to it. “What has developed here?”

“That plan was made so that Portland would become the new capital,” Baxter said.

Conner stood in front of the map and looked at it. “We have to realize that the United States as we knew it is gone. Texas is gone, Alaska is gone, Hawaii is gone, Barone is claiming these states as his,” Conner said, pointing to each location as he named it. “What we can do is create a new country, founded on the principles of the old. We need to find a place to call home ourselves. We can’t spend what little resources we have left on attempting to take back what is now gone.”

“Excuse me, sir, but that sounds like surrender,” Baxter said pointedly.

“On the contrary. We will deal with Barone, the Pan-American Army, and others out there, but let’s first secure a spot. Create green zones we can operate from.”

“How is that any different from us operating from here?” Dylan asked. Others sitting at the table were looking back and forth, exchanging nervous glances.

“We will continue with the plan you and Cruz had established, but pick a city where we can get it up and running with minimum resistance,” Conner said. He looked at everyone and could see their confusion. “Look, I’m embracing the plan, but the previous plan didn’t anticipate Barone or the Pan-American group. We know the mountain and central U.S. is still solidly in our camp. Let’s find a place to call home. Let’s plant our flag there, bring all resources to bear, let the world see what we are doing. We will fight if we have to defend ourselves. We are not surrendering but shifting.”

“Where should we go?” Baxter asked.

Conner turned back to the map and pointed. “General, put me in contact with the governor of Wyoming. We’re heading to Cheyenne!”

“Please calm down. I can’t address your concerns if you won’t allow me the chance to respond. Now, please, one at a time,” Barone barked at the group comprised of the mayors, city managers, and councilors from Coos Bay and North Bend.

“Colonel, we are hearing reports that the United States government is still operating. This runs contrary to what you told us,” stated Cynthia Brownstein, the mayor of Coos Bay.

“I’ve heard the same thing,” Roger Timms, the Coos Bay city manager, said.

The room burst back into loud chatter, harsh questions and accusations being hurled at Barone.

Upon his arrival, he told the people that the United States government had collapsed under the weight of the attacks. He told them nothing of his mutiny and the ongoing battles between his forces and what was left of the United States. He knew his story was weak and that soon he’d have to face the day he’d be challenged. The buildup toward this confrontation had started a week ago when two sailors had come forward to tell the truth to whoever would listen.

Barone suppressed his desire to stand up and tell them all to go to hell. He knew if he wanted to build a new country and have loyal citizens, he would have to win their hearts and minds.

Master Sergeant Simpson yelled, “People, enough! Be quiet so the colonel can answer your questions. He called this council meeting so he could address these false reports!”

Barone raised his hand toward Simpson. “Master Sergeant, it’s fine.”

Silence took hold only when Barone stood from his chair and walked from behind his desk to sit at the table facing the group of civilian leaders.

“Let me again thank you for coming. I want to answer every question you have but I need to have time without interruption to do so. Will you grant me that?” Barone asked calmly.

“Colonel, I’ve heard some very bad rumors. You need to come clean with us about why you’re here!” exclaimed Barry Milford, a councilor from North Bend.

Two more people in the room shot questions at Barone without giving him the chance to answer. The tempo and chatter again picked up.

“Why are you here?” a voice yelled from the back.

“Is it true, did you and your Marines mutiny?” another person yelled out.

“Yes! Yes, we did!” Barone bellowed.

His answer finally silenced the room.

“If you want the truth, then I need the chance to explain everything. I’ll tell you all I know. I hope you’re prepared, because it’s ugly.”

No one answered him; the vocal group was now shocked into silence.

“We came here seeking refuge. We came here seeking a new place to call home. We’ve been here for weeks now and we’ve done nothing but provide assistance and support. We’re not here to harm anyone.”

“Why did you lie to us?” Brownstein asked.

“If I had pulled our ships in here and said, please let us help us in exchange for you helping you, and oh, by the way, we mutinied against the old United States, I don’t think that would’ve gone over so well,” Barone answered her.