Уильям Дитц - Seek and Destroy

WASHINGTON, D.C.

A thick layer of dark clouds hung low over Washington, D.C., as the Black Hawk helicopter circled the severed stub of what had been the Washington Monument—and passed over the remains of what had been the Museum of Natural History, the National Gallery of Art, and the Capitol Building. President Samuel T. Sloan had seen pictures of the destruction—but still wasn’t prepared for the terrible reality of it.

Sixty meteors had entered Earth’s atmosphere on May Day 2018. Some splashed down in the Pacific Ocean, where they exploded and sent tidal waves racing east and west. Others swept in over North America at 1:11 P.M. PST. One of them exploded over the San Juan Islands in Washington State. The blast was twenty to thirty times more powerful than the atomic bomb that fell on Hiroshima, and the secondary effects included a powerful shock wave, earthquakes, and enough particulate matter to block the sun. Millions died.

But the horror wasn’t over. More meteorites rained down. Denver and Washington, D.C., were destroyed. Sloan had been the Secretary of Energy on that horrible day—and in Mexico on official business.

It wasn’t until after the arduous trip home that Sloan learned the truth: All those senior to him had been killed and, by virtue of being alive, he was president. But the country was so broken by then that most of the Southern states had seceded from the Union, triggering the Second Civil War.

And that was why Sloan had returned to the capital… To not only announce his intention to rebuild Washington, D.C., but to reconstruct the country itself, no matter the cost.

Army One circled the Capitol Building’s shattered dome and flew west. Moments later, it passed over the courthouse, the theater where Lincoln had been shot, and the ruins of the White House. That’s where the former president and the first family had been when the incoming meteor killed them and half a million other people.

The Black Hawk began to lose altitude as it swung around the State Department and swooped in for a landing adjacent to the Lincoln Memorial. Thanks to Sloan’s press secretary, an ex–PR man named Doyle Besom, a large crowd was present to greet Sloan. Many of them had been hired to rebuild the capital. So Sloan heard enthusiastic applause as he exited the helicopter and paused to wave.

Like the rest of the federal government, the ranks of the Secret Service had been decimated during the disaster. But recently confirmed director Raul Jenkins was doing the best he could to reconstitute the organization—and his agents were there to protect the president from any would-be assassins in the crowd.

Cameras whirred and clicked as Sloan ran up a short flight of stairs to the top of the temporary platform. “Always run up stairs… It makes you look young and energetic.” That was just one of the many pieces of advice Sloan had received from Besom. And most of them were correct.

Attorney General Reggie Allston was on the platform waiting for Sloan. He had closely cropped hair, dark skin, and was dressed in a beautifully tailored suit. The handshake was followed by a man hug. “You look good, Mr. President.”

“But not as good as you do, Reggie… Where do you get those suits?”

“That’s a secret, Mr. President… I want to look better than you do.”

Sloan laughed as Allston turned to the bulletproof podium and microphone. “Good morning… My name is Reginald Allston, and I’m here to introduce the man many people call the Fighting President. When a renegade general seized control of Fort Knox, President Sloan fought side by side with our troops to take it back. And when our Rangers attempted to capture the oil reserve in Richton, Mississippi, President Sloan fought with them. That’s how we know we’ve got the right man for the job.”

Besom’s people were salted throughout the crowd. And when they began to clap, the people around them followed suit. Allston smiled, nodded, and let the applause continue for a moment. Then he raised his hands. “But we’re here to fight a different kind of battle today… a battle to restore the nation’s capital. The task will take years. Some say ten, others say twenty, but it makes little difference. We will get the job done!”

The applause was entirely spontaneous this time, and quite loud. Allston waited for it to die down before making his introduction. “Ladies and gentlemen… On this, the first day of this city’s reconstruction, it is my honor to introduce President Samuel T. Sloan!”

Sloan stepped up to the mike as Allston moved to one side, and the crowd applauded. There were what? At least three thousand of them… filling the space between the platform and the long, narrow Reflecting Pool. A government-authorized camera drone swooped in to capture a tight shot of Sloan’s face. Electronic communications continued to be somewhat iffy north of the New Mason-Dixon Line, but improved with each passing day. “Good morning,” Sloan said. “It is a distinct pleasure to meet some of the many people who are going to—”

There were three suicide bombers. Each killed at least a dozen people when their vests exploded. And that included 60 percent of Sloan’s Secret Service detail. The blasts were too far away to harm him. But they were close enough to open a bloody gap through which more attackers could charge.

The crowd had been screened. But the weapons were there all along, concealed by a thin layer of soil and marked by dots of orange spray paint. All the second wave of assassins had to do was scoop up a weapon and charge the platform. The podium saved Sloan’s life during the first few seconds of the attack. Then he ducked, stuck his hand inside his jacket, and pulled out the Glock he had started to carry.

As far as Sloan knew, he was the only president who routinely carried a gun… And a good thing, too, since he’d been forced to use it once before. The surviving Secret Service agents had opened fire by then, and some of the attackers were down. But as Sloan leaned out to look, he saw that five assassins were still vertical and coming his way!

Sloan fired. But it seemed as though the wild-eyed man in the lead was wearing body armor, because he took two bullets in the chest and kept coming. Fortunately, the third round punched a hole in his forehead and knocked him over.

As that attacker fell, the woman coming up behind him tripped on the body, giving Sloan the opportunity to kill her, too. Then Secret Service agents flooded the stage and hauled him away. The camera drones captured the whole thing—and the footage of Sloan defending himself cycled over and over on TV. Press Secretary Besom was a happy man.

MURFREESBORO, TENNESSEE

The old warehouse complex consisted of three one-story concrete buildings, one of which was dedicated to housing a makeshift cafeteria and an exercise area—all powered by an army generator. After donning three layers of clothing, Captain Robin “Mac” Macintyre made her way down a grubby corridor to a steel fire door. Then, pulling a knit hat down over a mop of dark brown hair, Mac stepped out into the driving sleet. The temperature should have been around eighty, but because of the globe-spanning layer of airborne particulates that blocked the sun, it was thirty-seven instead.