Уильям Дитц - Into the Guns

The meeting came to an end shortly after that. As the lobbyists left, Sloan knew that a lot of campaign cash was walking out of the tent with them. There were other donors, however… And he’d find them. “How did it go?” Besom inquired as he entered the room.

“Not very well,” Sloan confessed. “They’re afraid that energy prices will drop after we capture the oil reserves.”

Besom made a face. “All right, so be it. But I’m taking names… And when this is over, there will be a price to pay. Are you ready for the tour?”

“The tour” was another one of Besom’s ideas and was set to begin the following morning, with a ground-hugging flight to Virginia. From there, Sloan was scheduled to fly north, west, and back again. The plan was to spend one night in each one of the twenty-five contiguous states that constituted the Union. Sloan was looking forward to the trip and dreading it as well.

Cars came to collect Sloan, Besom, and Jenkins the next morning. In his new role as Interim Director of the Secret Service, Jenkins had assembled a team of five ex–law officers to protect Sloan. They barely knew each other and were learning on the job, but some protection was better than none.

The cars took them to Godman Army Airfield, which was part of Fort Knox. Air Force One was waiting. Except that the postimpact version was equipped with two engines—and could barely accommodate Sloan’s party. It could fly low, however, below the cloud cover, and land at small airports. And that would be necessary because of the consistently bad weather, and the fact that the North could no longer access the Global Positioning System.

Everything went well at first. Thanks to Besom’s advance people, there were welcoming crowds waiting for Sloan at airports, attentive audiences filled the halls where he spoke, and there were offers of support at the dinners he attended.

America is rising, America will come back together, and America will be greater than it was before. Those were the messages Sloan delivered at each stop. And he believed in the first two even if the last one was unlikely to materialize during his lifetime.

City followed city in what became a blur of places, faces, and memorable moments. Those included a standing O in Pittsburgh, fireworks in Detroit, and a clear blue sky in Lincoln, Nebraska. Then the presidential party put down in Cheyenne, Wyoming.

Prior to the meteor strikes, the state had been ranked with Alabama as one of the most conservative places in the country. And, according to what Besom had heard from his growing cadre of operatives, nothing had changed.

In fact, most observers agreed that the only thing that prevented Wyoming from aligning itself with the New Confederacy was the fact that all of the state’s neighbors were pro-Union. If only by small majorities. And that was why Besom had wanted to skip Cheyenne.

Sloan had a different perspective however. “We can’t win what we don’t fight for,” he said. “And we need to show the citizens of Wyoming that we care, even if only 10 percent of the population agrees with us.”

But when Air Force One landed, it was snowing, the crowd waiting at the airport was waving Confederate flags, and there was no security other than what Sloan had with him. Jenkins and his people hurried Sloan past the hostile crowd and into the second of three black SUVs. The vehicle took him to a hotel, where about a dozen pro-Union people were waiting. Their homemade signs were nearly invisible in the forest of professionally printed New Whig Party placards and at least a dozen Confederate flags.

Sloan knew that, like the original Whig Party back in 1830, the new Whig Party favored a strong Congress and a weak presidency. A political structure which, if implemented, would not only be more responsive to lobbyists—but could be used to adopt many elements of the “New Order” that controlled the South. That would require changes to the Constitution, of course… But what better time to push for such changes than when the country was on its knees? And people were frightened?

As the security team escorted Sloan into the hotel, he could hear the names they called him, and feel the animus that hung in the air. “Hang the bastard!” someone shouted. A cheer went up. Sloan regretted his decision to visit Cheyenne by that time, but he wasn’t willing to cut and run.

The inside of the hotel felt extremely warm after the cold air outside, and Sloan got only a brief glimpse of the comfortably furnished lobby before being escorted down a hall and into a meeting room. It wasn’t especially large. Besom knew better than to reserve a room that might look empty in photographs. Union loyalists were seated in the first two rows. But the rest of the room was packed with Whigs. And they were clearly hostile as Sloan took his place behind the podium.

The noise level dropped slightly as Besom gave the usual introduction, but began to increase as Sloan spoke. His eyes searched the room looking for a friendly face. “I come from a farm family,” he began, “so it’s a pleasure to visit the Cowboy State.” That produced a smattering of applause but not much.

“Our country has been through some hard times,” Sloan continued, “but I…”

“He’s an imposter!” a woman shouted. “The real president is dead!”

“I am the real president,” Sloan insisted. “But if you want someone else, then vote in the next election.”

“Bullshit,” a man said. “I want someone else now !”

Sloan saw the pistol come up, heard Jenkins shout “Man with a gun!” and was reaching for his own weapon when half a dozen shots were fired. The would-be assassin jerked spastically as the bullets struck him—and a blood mist drifted away from his head. His body went slack at that point and dropped out of sight. His wife screamed and threw herself on top of the corpse.

There was a roar of outrage as more guns were drawn, and people began to blaze away. Sloan brought the Glock up, saw a woman pointing a revolver at him, and shot her in the chest. That was when Jenkins grabbed Sloan from behind and dragged him toward an exit.

Besom was holding the door open, so that Secret Service agents could carry one of their own out of the room, and calmly firing a pocket pistol into the crowd. The press secretary didn’t seem to care who he hit—so long as it was a Whig.

Thanks to Jenkins, the SUVs were waiting out back. The presidential party hurried out of the building and piled into them. It was nearly dark as the motorcade raced back to the airport. Air Force One’s engines were running, and the plane was ready to go.

Sloan allowed himself to be hustled on board—but refused to take a seat as the plane started to taxi. A man was laid out on the floor just aft of the cockpit, and three people were bent over him. “Who got hit?” Sloan demanded. “How is he?”

Jenkins got up off his knees. “Agent Castel was killed, Mr. President.”

Sloan felt sick to his stomach. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s my fault. We shouldn’t have come here.”

The wheels left the ground, and Air Force One began to climb. “Idaho will be better,” Besom predicted bitterly. “It couldn’t be worse.” Sloan hoped it was true.

SUPERIOR, ARIZONA

There were a lot of tearful good-byes as most of Mac’s Marauders and their vehicles rolled through Superior, Arizona, on the way to Fort Knox, Kentucky. Would all of the soldiers return? It didn’t seem likely… But Mac planned to bring as many of them home as she could. Assuming she survived—which was by no means certain.

About sixteen hundred miles lay between Superior and Fort Knox. Mac hoped to complete the trip in four or five days, and for good reason, since the unit would remain on half pay until it arrived. The pickup truck designated as Roller-One cleared town first, followed by Mac’s Humvee. The column included fifteen vehicles. That left Evans with two Strykers, a Humvee, and an armed pickup truck. That was why the Apache had been left behind. If the base was attacked, the helicopter could make a crucial difference.