Blood, Sweat & Tears: A Postapocalyptic Novel (The New World Series Book 5)

by G. Michael Hopf

  Conner was burning with a desire to use what limited air power he had against Gordon, but he didn’t want to waste it if he could just take care of Gordon and his army with traditional ground forces. General Baxter along with the men and woman at Warren Air Force Base had managed to get jets, helicopters and drones functioning again, but this force was severely limited and required raping other aircraft to get one working. What support he had from other nations was diminished and reduced to mainly humanitarian aid. The two Marine battalions that had sailed from the East Coast were now engaged in an occupation of Olympia, and with the other large standing army, he was left with a force that was similar in size to Gordon’s along with an equal number of militia he had activated. The temptation to use his air force was strong, but he had to also play politician, and his harsh responses to the other secessionist movements had backfired, causing an uproar in Cheyenne. It was mainly the unintended injuries or civilian fatalities that caused the opposition to his military campaigns. So in an attempt to provide balance, he had reduced his use of aerial attacks.

  “Sir, in defense of my actions before, you gave me carte blanche to do what I needed to do.”

  “Not murder people and burn everything down,” Conner fired back.

  “But, sir, you did,” Schmidt insisted.

  With Baxter sitting there, Conner didn’t want to admit he had all but given Schmidt the orders to do what he needed to do to crush the secessionists. “Major, you’re lucky I didn’t have you up on court-martial. Now just sit there and shut up.”

  Schmidt shuffled in his seat, clearly disturbed by the ass chewing he had just received.

  Baxter too shifted, feeling uncomfortable because he knew Conner was lying and some of the harsh tactics were still being used, just not as often and done so he could have plausible deniability.

  “It took those Marines forever to finally make a difference,” Conner said, referring to the Marine battalions that had sailed from the East Coast. Their original mission had been to deal with Colonel Barone, but with that situation taken care of, they marched north and took Olympia with hardly a fight.”

  “And can I say how proud I am of them,” Baxter glowed.

  “Any news on when I Corps can mobilize from Fort Lewis and support the Marines in Olympia?” Conner asked, referring to the US Army’s corps of soldiers stationed at Fort Lewis outside of Yakima, Washington.

  “That has been a tough situation for us. They have lost over eighty-five percent of their men and with those deserters went valuable equipment. We will have a small unit that will be able to effectively deploy in two weeks,” Baxter answered.

  “And how are we doing with the conscription of locals for the militia?” Conner asked, referring to a law he’d passed requiring all able-bodied men between eighteen and thirty-five to register for the militia and get physicals.

  “Slow, we’re not getting everyone’s support,” Baxter replied.

  “We have to be able to enforce the law, sir,” Schmidt said. His forehead was gleaming with sweat.

  “You don’t look good, Major,” Conner said.

  Sitting up in his chair, Schmidt said, “I’m fine, sir.”

  “If you need to take some R&R, please do. You’ve been working around the clock.”

  A tap on the office door drew their attention towards it.

  The door opened and Wilbur appeared. She was out of breath as she rushed into the office and grabbed a seat next to Schmidt. “So sorry I’m late.”

  “Late? Hell, you almost missed the entire meeting,” Conner said.

  “I’m sorry, couldn’t be helped,” she said. Wilbur’s role of secretary of state had grown to include handling all the refugees. What once was only a side issue for Cheyenne and Conner’s government had grown into a full-blown humanitarian issue as more poured in by the thousands each day.

  “Baxter will brief you on what we’ve covered so far after the meeting. I understand you have something you’d like to present to me,” Conner said.

  “Um, yes, sir, I do,” she answered, removing a small stack of papers and a binder from her leather messenger bag.

  Conner sat on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms. “I’m all ears.”

  “You had us put together a team to conduct testing on what might be ailing the refugees. Well, we’ve narrowed it down.”

  Conner nodded and asked, “Is it NARS?”

  “No, no, it’s not.”

  “Then what is it?” Baxter asked.

  Schmidt coughed loudly and the sweat on his brow grew.

  Wilbur was sitting next to him and recoiled when he began to cough more heavily.

  Conner looked at his watch and was growing impatient. “Please continue.”

  With one eye on Schmidt and the other on Conner, she answered somberly, “They’re dying from severe radiation poisoning.”

  “Radiation? From where?” Conner asked, but he already suspected its origin.

  “The refugees who are getting sick originated back east. They must have come into contact with contaminated areas around the nuke plants that melted down.”

  “Just as we feared early on,” Conner said.

  “It was only a matter of time,” Baxter said.

  “Here are my suggestions,” Wilbur said, taking out a notepad and handing it to Conner.

  Conner flipped through the pages of notes quickly. “Too much to read, what’s your recommendation?”

  “Quarantine in a separate camp,” Wilbur offered.

  “Can’t be that simple. What about their families?” Baxter asked.

  “They go with them if they choose, but the sick mixed in with the healthy is causing problems and disrupting the healthier population,” Wilbur stated.

  Conner rocked in his chair, thinking about a solution. “Do it. Set up a quarantine camp and get it done ASAP. We don’t need the animals in the zoo any more riled up than they are.”

  Wilbur leered at Conner briefly then said, “I’ll get right on it.”

  “Ah, sir, the conscription issue,” Baxter said, reminding Conner of an issue they skimmed over.

  “Yes, how’s that going?”

  “Like I mentioned, slow. Your old friend from the coffee shop has organized against it, and his group is growing,” Baxter said.

  The old friend was Pat, the owner of Pat’s Coffee Shop in downtown Cheyenne. Conner and he had forged a relationship in Conner’s early days in Cheyenne, but tension grew as Conner began to implement is harsh policies against secessionists and those he deemed enemies of the state. Martial law had been implemented on and off in Cheyenne to disrupt raucous protests that had sprung up against Conner and his government. The crescendo of descent for many in Cheyenne and the camps surrounding followed Conner’s decree that ended Project Congress. This also was the last straw for Pat.

  “First Dylan now Pat.” Conner lamented his loss of trusted friends.

  “Want me to arrest him?” Schmidt asked.

  “No, God no, that would only play into the narrative that I’ve become a dictator. In fact, I’ve been thinking I want to rescind my executive order concerning protests. Let’s have the people take to the streets. Let’s give them space to speak their minds.”

  “But what happens if they get violent?” Schmidt asked.

  “Of course we’re not going to tolerate violence. If anyone acts out, we’ll take them down. Just make sure it doesn’t get too out of hand,” Conner warned.

  Schmidt shifted in his seat, growing a bit taller with the news he might have a chance to engage the rowdy protestors.

  Baxter scrunched his face and asked, “Sorry, Major, but do you think you’re the best one to handle this?”

  Schmidt cocked his head and replied, “What does that mean?”

  “Only that you don’t look well. I really hate to call you out, but, Major, you are sick and I don’t think it’s the flu.”

  “You really do look bad,” Conner said.

  “I’m fine and I’m quite capable of over
seeing security for any protest,” Schmidt countered, his anger flaring.

  “No one is challenging your ability to handle a situation, Major, we’re just worried about you. I want you to go see my doc at the air base later today.”

  “But, sir,” Schmidt protested.

  “No buts, go. It’s an order,” Conner demanded.

  “Yes, sir,” Schmidt replied sheepishly.

  “If that’s it, let’s close this meeting. We all have important issues to tackle,” Conner said.

  “Sir, I have one more item I’d like to discuss,” Wilbur said.

  “Go ahead.”

  She nervously looked at Schmidt and Baxter before putting her eyes back on Conner, who sat patiently waiting. “It has something to do with the protestors. In fact, it has something to do with the various secessionist movements around the country.”

  “There aren’t that many left. We put down the leaders of the Dixie Federation, Mr. Faye in Arizona lost, so did the Lakotas and Colonel Barone, and we wiped the Pan American Empire off the map. All we have left is Mr. Van Zandt and his Cascadians.”

  Interrupting, Baxter asked, “So you’ve completely written off Texas and Oklahoma?” His question referred to the deal Conner struck with them to allow access to the port in Houston: autonomy for unfettered access.

  “Yes and no. I will deal with those traitors once we’re stronger. And before you ask, Hawaii and Alaska—they’re too far to deal with for the foreseeable future and might be gone from us forever, unfortunately.”

  “Hmm,” Baxter mumbled as his only response.

  “Sir, the thing is, and Major Schmidt will agree if he dared tell you the facts, but we might have squashed the leaders of the movement, but we haven’t changed any of the hearts and minds in those states. The rebellious spirit still thrives, and soon a new leader will rise up and take the mantle and push their agenda forward. I fear we’re in for a long fight.”

  “What are you saying, Wilbur? Just get to your point,” Conner said.

  “I think we need to seriously consider giving these people what they want, independence.”

  Conner sat up and barked, “Not while I’m alive.”

  “But, sir, the only way to truly win is to hold these places, and that takes boots on the ground. We’ve done our best to incorporate those civilians still loyal, but it’s not enough, and the no-holds-barred tactics deployed has only made matters worse.”

  “So surrender, that’s your answer to these rebels, these goddamn traitors?” Schmidt barked.

  “It’s not surrender. We have to understand what’s really happening, Major. We don’t have the people, resources and equipment to hold these states, and the state governments are struggling to maintain order. Some have all but collapsed; mobs and gangs are having their way in many major cities. It’s like we’re playing whack-a-mole.”

  “Fucking coward!” Schmidt yelled.

  “I’m not a coward. I don’t want to let them go, but it’s inevitable, I fear. Let’s make the situation work for us by allowing them to go but remaining allies.”

  “You are a coward, ready to surrender what is left of the United States,” Schmidt continued.

  “Stop!” Conner ordered. “Listen, we’re not going to surrender, nor are we going to negotiate a truce with these rebels that cedes one inch of the United States. We aren’t in the best shape, but we’re not desperate,” Conner declared. He took a deep breath and continued, “We have our troubles in other parts of the country, which we’ll fix. Here in Cheyenne and the surrounding area we have relative peace. We will stabilize any discontent here while simultaneously dealing with the secessionists. These things take time, but in the end we will prevail.”

  “Sir, when my people were conducting the health inspections of the camps, they reported back a high level of frustration and anger, mostly directed at us,” Wilbur said.

  “I know the people are frustrated and impatient, but we have to make this work. Giving up is not the solution. These are tough times, but we can make it, I know we can,” Conner said, trying his best to motivate his staff. He looked at them but could see it hadn’t worked. The long months and slow progress towards reestablishing something that resembled the past had tapped their positive outlooks. Even he found it hard to believe his own bullshit. “Now, I need you to go out there and work. Get with your people and tell them that we will make it, we will persevere.”

  “Sir, I have an idea,” Schmidt said.

  “And what’s that?” Conner asked.

  “I think you should give a speech to the city. Show them you care. You make the announcement that the protest restriction and martial law is being suspended and—” Schmidt said but was interrupted.

  “And announce that you’re restoring Project Congress,” Wilbur blurted.

  Baxter’s eyes widened when Wilbur mentioned the now defunct and controversial project.

  Schmidt glared at her for talking over him.

  Conner rubbed his chin and thought. He stepped over to a side table. Scattered on it was a map of the United States; the red and green lines he had drawn from a meeting months ago showed the reality of what they were dealing with. He lifted it up and studied the lines. As he went to put it back on the table, he saw a stack of papers attached to a clipboard. It was Dylan’s clipboard. He didn’t realize it was there after all these months, sitting underneath the map. It showed him how long it had been since he’d focused on such things. A realization suddenly came to him. He was waging a war against multiple secessionist movements, but he was also waging a war with those who still showed loyalty to the United States. He needed to show them he wasn’t the monster he was being painted as by the likes of Pat, but a benevolent leader who cared and was willing to make the tough decisions to keep them safe. He spun around and said, “You’re both right. I need to give a major speech. I’ll announce an end to martial law, and the icing on the cake will be that Project Congress is back on. I’ll set an election six months from then. This will give the people hope and something to focus on.”

  Wilbur and Schmidt both nodded.

  Baxter exhaled, heavily relieved that Conner wasn’t overreacting to Wilbur’s request.

  “When should we make these announcements?” Wilbur asked.

  “I don’t want to wait, set the date for two days from now,” Conner said.

  “What about the vice president, do you want him present?” Wilbur asked.

  “Not a good idea, sir,” Schmidt said.

  “I agree, not a good idea,” Baxter added.

  “Agreed, keep him bunkered down in Cheyenne Mountain. It’s not necessary to have him there,” Conner replied.

  Cruz and Conner hadn’t seen each other for months now. Wanting to ensure continuity of government, Conner kept Cruz secure in the massive underground facility.

  Conner looked at his three top advisors and waited for any other response. Upon seeing they had none, he dismissed them except Wilbur. “Secretary Wilbur, please stay for a moment.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied.

  When the door closed, Conner squinted, cocked his head slightly and sternly said, “I know you’ve had a soft heart for the secessionists from the start. I can forgive that to a point. I’ve kept you around because you’re capable and because it’s always a good idea for a leader to get opposing or contradictory views. But never mention surrender again.”

  “But, sir—”

  He held his index finger up in her face and barked, “Never!”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, her eyes focused on the floor.

  “Now get the hell out of here,” Conner ordered.

  She sheepishly exited the office.

  Conner made his way back to the desk and picked up the phone receiver. A female voice suddenly spoke. “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Send my doctor to Major Schmidt’s quarters immediately, and tell him I need a full physical done on him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And when he’s done, have him touch base
with me personally. He has my number and can call me at anytime.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Conner hung up the phone and walked back to the table. He looked at the map again but tossed it aside. He picked up Dylan’s old papers and notes on Project Congress and began to read through them. A smile began to crease his face as he looked at Dylan’s doodles and handwritten notes. He missed his old aide and wished things could have turned out differently. Having someone he could trust completely was the most difficult thing to find. He walked back towards his desk, papers still in his hand. He sat down, opened a desk drawer and fumbled through the contents until he found what he was looking for, a lighter. He flicked it until an orange flame appeared.

  “Sorry, old buddy,” he said out loud as he waved the flame underneath the papers. Quickly they caught fire. He watched as the flame ran up the page, destroying the doodles, notes and detailed plan for Project Congress. He grabbed his trash can, emptied it and tossed in the papers. He watched with a wider grin as the fire devoured the remaining pages and destroyed Dylan’s last effort to recreate the country he had lost.

  Sandy, Utah

  Shortly after returning to Sandy, Annaliese received word via a ham radio operator that a war had erupted between the United States and a group of secessionists in Idaho. She knew exactly who they were talking about. The war became the topic of discussion at many dinners, and Annaliese couldn’t stop wondering what was happening and if Sebastian was safe, much less alive.

  Determined to find him, she convinced Samuel to let her and her savior, Eli Bennett, return to Cheyenne and search for Sebastian. He agreed and set them up with plenty of fuel, food, water and weapons to go looking, but her hopes were dashed the morning they were set to leave.

  A ham operator in Idaho reported to Samuel that the war between Cascadia and the United States was being fought hard and that Cascadia was winning. The name Van Zandt was mentioned in the conversation, with Sebastian named as being dead, executed by an American army officer.