by Adam Yoshida
“Meanwhile, the central thrust of Vera Cruz will actually take place to the north. Our hope is that the advance of VII Corps will cause the enemy to relocate forces from Northern to Southern California. While we are interested in acquiring any port on the West Coast with which to ship supplies to North America from Asia, our primary objective is to secure the port of San Francisco. Our planners prefer San Francisco to other alternatives because of its location and capacity. In particular, it will be easier to defend against air attacks, should the Washington regime enlist the aid of Mexico, than Long Beach would be.”
Town House, W 91st St, Manhattan
“Look,” said Roman reasonably as he carefully put the wrapper from his Sausage McMuffin with Egg back into a bag that he would be sure to remove from the town house when his work for the day was done, “this doesn’t have to be tough. If you like your fingers then you can keep your fingers.”
Laughing slightly at his heavily-dated joke, Roman licked his fingers and wiped them off on his pants.
“Man, that was good,” he said distractedly as he reoriented himself towards the zip-tied man lying on the ground in front of him.
“Let’s make this simple,” said Roman, “we just need to know who else is in your cell. And we need to know who you report to.”
“I…” said the dazed man, “am just a student. I’m not who you think that I am.”
Roman drove his boot into the man’s stomach. He hit it with such violence that it made a squishing sound that sickened Mack. Roman knelt on the floor and grabbed the man’s face.
“Andre,” he said, “who exactly do you think that you are dealing with? We know who you are and we know what you’re doing. We didn’t just start watching you today.”
“I don’t know anything,” repeated Andre.
“Andre, Andre, Andre,” said Roman, “we just know that isn’t true. Why are you lying to me?”
Roman walked across the room to a duffel bag that he had dragged in and pulled out a pair of thick wire cutters.
“You know what? That’s ok. I lied too,” said Roman as he walked back towards the ground, where Andre was thrashing and squirming about. Andre screamed as Roman carefully placed the wire cutters around his finger and then squeezed the plastic handles.
Roman bent over and picked up the severed finger from the ground and walked over with it several feet forward, to the place where Andre’s tears were pooling on the floor.
“What?” he said, “you believed me when I said what I said? Well, I guess you believed the other guy too. And that’s why you’re here today. Or at least a part of it.”
“Torture,” said Andre, breathing heavily, “doesn’t work.”
“Oh, pish-posh,” said Roman, “it works quite well.”
“Even if I give you names,” replied Andre, “how will you know that they’re real?”
Roman nodded thoughtfully in response to that.
“Yes, that is a concern,” he said as he walked across the room and opened a large walk-in closet, “your two compatriots both gave us different sets of names.”
Using his foot, Roman moved one of the mangled bodies sitting in the closet, rolling it over on its back. He walked over to the top of the body and raised its almost-severed head to display it to Andre.
“This guy told us one set of names and then this fucker,” he said, kicking the other corpse to provide emphasis, “gave us another. You’re a tie-breaker of sorts. But I don’t think that they’re both inventive enough to give us fake names. That’s what I’m betting on, anyways.”
“We know that you fuckers were building bombs here and planning to use them against other Americans. We have whole fucking closets full of evidence. We don’t give a shit about that anymore. We’re going to clean that up. We’re going to neutralize that particular threat. We need to know about the structure of your organization.”
“Mack,” said Roman, “bring me that tablet.”
Mack walked across the room and handed a live tablet to Roman, who turned it to display the screen.
“We know that your brother is involved in this as well,” said Roman, “not as deeply as you and therefore he doesn’t know as much. But he does know plenty. Enough that he could provide us the confirmation that we need before we can act.”
“So,” said Roman, reaching back into his duffel bag, “what’s it going to be?”
The Situation Room, The White House
“Mr. President, these signs are not possible to misinterpret,” explained General Hall, “especially not with the civil situation in both the Rebel states and the rest of the country being as severe as it is. It would be one thing for them to move one or two brigades here and there as a feint, but we’re seeing them also move large quantities of fuel and ammunition, both of which are in such terribly short supply. Movements of this sort are consistent with preparing for the execution of a large-scale military operation and, quite frankly, not very much else.”
“It’s one thing to make a flashy move - a demonstration. But we’re talking about millions and millions of gallons of fuel, tens of thousands of tires, and hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammunition - among many other things. They’re trying to hide this, but it’s impossible to really disguise movements like this.”
The President looked steadily at Hall for a lingering moment, seeking to carefully calibrate his response before he finally spoke.
“And if they are moving, where are they moving?”
“That’s not certain yet, Mr. President,” explained Secretary Ransom, “our intel networks have been shot to hell ever since the Great Mutiny and we don’t know who we can really trust even amongst the assets that are supposedly ours. East, maybe. West, I suppose.”
“Flip a coin,” chimed in General Hall.
“Well,” said Bryan, tapping the long table, “what would you have me do about it?”
“We need air power, Mr. President,” explained General Hall.
“But haven’t you advised me all along to observe the de facto moratorium on the use of air power that developed after Pueblo because the Rebel air forces are stronger than our own?”
“They are, Mr. President,” explained General Hall, “but now we are faced with a question of effective rather than relative power.”
“Could you elaborate, General?” asked Jamal Anderson.
“Certainly,” said Hall, “while it is true that the Rebels have more aircraft than us - and that they have the majority of our strategic bombers under their control - they have thus far refrained from using them to strike strategic targets within the territory that we hold. This appears to be for political rather than military reasons and, therefore, is likely to continue regardless of our own actions, unless we force them into acts of retaliation by brazen attacks on civil targets - a course that I would not recommend and that I expect you would not endorse. However, a force on the strategic offensive is much more vulnerable to the use of airpower than one - as we are and I recommend that we stay - on the defensive. They have to move all of this stuff around and we are in a position to cause significant disruption within their operations by attacking targets such as railheads, highway junctions, and the like. It is the unanimous recommendation of the Joint Chiefs of Staff that we do exactly that.”
“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” said the President spreading his hands wide across the table, “what do you think?”
“It would represent a major escalation of the conflict, Mr. President,” noted the Secretary of State, “prior to this point we have only seen aircraft used in bursts. In the opening stages of the war, in the Rebel invasion of Hawaii, and in the western offensive. I imagine that this would be an ongoing campaign measuring days or, perhaps, weeks.”
“It would,” conceded General Hall with a nod.
“And would it not almost certainly result in Rebel attacks against our own air bases?”
“It would,” agreed Hall, “but we certainly would be able to take counter-measures against that with some de
gree of effectiveness.”
“Would it not also,” added in Jamal Anderson, “mean considerable attrition among the limited number of combat aircraft that we have to bar the approach of the Third Army along the East Coast?”
“Our best estimate is that, all other things being equal, both of us have enough stores, supplies, and spare parts for around a month of combat operations. So, yes,” said Hall.
“Was it not a week ago, General,” said the President, “that we sat here and you argued that stopping the Third Army was the highest of all possible priorities? A higher priority, in fact, than worrying about the Rebel forces in Colorado and the South?”
“It was, Mr. President,” replied Hall, “but when the facts on the ground change, so do my opinions. If the Rebel forces can march to the sea and open up trans-Pacific shipping lanes, my military opinion is that any hope for a political solution goes out the window. A political solution requires that the Federal Government remain a going entity, and if we have supplies and fuel flowing to the military forces of the Rebellion and then we have the Third Army sailing across the Atlantic… Well, Mr. President, I just don’t see any way that they don’t win this thing walking away.”
“Furthermore, Mr. President, your recent proclamation has changed the facts on the ground. As of this morning there have been a further 1.4 million volunteers for the Army of the United States. It’s going to take time for us to train and equip those men and send them into battle. But, when we do, they’ll fight with ferocity. Perhaps enough to overcome the Rebels.”
“And, Mr. President…” added Secretary Ransom.
“Alright, do it,” ordered the President, cutting off the Defense Secretary.
“Mr. President…” said Anderson quietly.
“No, Jamal,” said Bryan, “you heard the man. And you can read the charts as well as anyone. If they can take the Pacific Coast then this war is as good as over for us.”
Former Town House, W 91st St, Manhattan
Detective Juan Mancini stepped carefully as he walked through the smoking field of debris that had been scattered when the Upper West Side town house had exploded at a little after 3PM on an otherwise-quiet Thursday.
“Well,” said Mancini, waving smoke away from his eyes, “anyone who says that this was an innocent accident is a liar.”
Tom Brody squinted and surveyed the scene.
“Homemade bomb. No doubt. I saw more than my share of those fucking things when I was a kid in Kandahar.”
“So, from what we’ve seen so far,” said Mancini, “we’ve got part of three or maybe four people scattered all around here. An attack?”
“Well,” said Brody, “maybe. Word is that this place is owned by some fourth-generation rich guy and they think that his kid was one of the people who got themselves blown apart. A guy with a lot of friends. There’s going to be some pressure on this one.”
“It doesn’t feel like an insurgent attack. They’re usually pretty focused on practical targets, or at least ones that will make an ideological point. Why take out four college kids, even if they were fucking commies?” asked Mancini.
“Also,” added Brody, “whoever built this thing used a hell of a lot of nails and other shit. Enough to kill an awful fucking lot of people. Enough to shred anyone caught within range of the blast.”
“Maybe they were building the bomb and it went off by accident,” said Mancini.
“They were terrorists? Like those Weather Underground guys in the 1970s?”
“Something like that.”
“Possible,” agreed Brody, “but I think that’s going to be a hard sell to some people. No one likes to hear that their kid was a fucking terrorist who got themselves killed by their own stupidity. The powers that be won’t like it either, terrorism is supposed to be a one-way affair here.”
Mancini snorted.
Heliopolis Palace, Cairo, Egypt
Foreign Secretary Sir Gavin Ellison could feel that sweat was seeping through his undershirt, even though he was wearing his lightest-weight suit.
Can’t they do anything right in this fucking country? He thought to himself as he checked his watch. The Egyptian President was now fully seventeen minutes late for their scheduled meeting. He wasn’t able to decide if that was a power move or simply another example of the thousand different ways that government in this benighted land simply did not work. He pulled his phone from his pocket and began to play a game, a trivia competition. It amazed him that countries that could barely produce adequate supplies of toilet paper usually had acceptable cellular phone service, often better than that which could be had in Britain. After five minutes the door flew open and a uniformed aide strode through first.
“His Excellency, the President of Egypt,” the aide announced in barely-accented English. Within seconds the Egyptian President, a fat and bald man in his early 60s, strode through accompanied by half a dozen aides.
“I apologize, Mr. Foreign Secretary,” the President said halting, “I was held up by other urgent matters.”
“It is not a problem and it is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President,” said Ellison, extending his hand.
“Take a seat,” said the President, gesturing to a circle of chairs arrayed in the centre of the room. Ellison, the President, and several of his aides proceeded there and sat down.
“Now,” said the President grandly, spreading his hands out, “please tell me what it is that the Foreign Secretary himself - and not an Ambassador - must deliver to us.”
“Mr. President,” said Ellison, “the ongoing situation in the United States continues to be the most serious foreign policy challenge facing the whole world, including your own country.”
“Don’t I know it,” said the President, “food prices are going up almost every day. We had seventeen people killed in rioting just yesterday, did you know that?”
“I did, Mr. President,” said Ellison, “it is most regrettable.”
“Well, most of them were my enemies anyways,” admitted the President ruefully.
“Yes,” agreed Ellison, “but certainly regrettable nonetheless.”
“Of course,” said the President.
“The reason why I am here is that we require your assistance - most urgently require it, in fact - in bringing the American civil war to an end and in ensuring that peace is returned to the world.”
“We are, of course, as eager as any other nation to see an end to the ongoing bloodshed and a return of stability… But I don’t see how Egypt can contribute to that in any substantial way,” said the President.
“But you would like to help?” insisted Ellison.
“Of course,” said the President.
“I am very glad to hear that,” said the Foreign Secretary, “because there is an opportunity for you to do exactly that, in a very substantive way.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” explained the Foreign Secretary, “for the hopes of the Rebels in the American war, of course, rest upon their ability to bring home the forces that they have in this region of the world and to do it as soon as possible. To this day a substantial portion of their fleet and their army remains in this region of the world. Much of their Navy, if it was to pass this way, would have to move through the Suez Canal. You could block them.”
“Block them with what, Sir Gavin,” shot back the Egyptian President, “the fucking Jews destroyed most of our army and air force last year, and what we have left is needed to keep the country from falling into anarchy.”
“We could - quite covertly - make some provisions for you,” explained Ellison patiently.
“I’m afraid that it would be quite impossible.” said the President flatly.
“Could we…” began Ellison before trailing off, “could we speak privately, Mr. President?”
“Why?” said the President warily.
“Because the information that I have, I have been authorized to disclose only to you directly. Those are my orders.”
“I trust all of these
men implicitly,” said the President defiantly.
“That may be,” said Ellison, “but I have been authorized to disclose this information to you. If you choose to share it with them, that is certainly you prerogative. But I cannot.”
The President nodded to his aides and they quickly shuffled out the door as the Foreign Secretary opened his briefcase.
“Now, Mr. President, you were at the LSE in the 1980s, isn’t that correct?”
“I was,” said the President cautiously.
“I was at the LSE too. Wonderful place,” said Ellison, “so many students from so many places.”
The Foreign Secretary grabbed a shelf of paper from his briefcase and handed them to the President.
“Of course, the security services would be remiss if they did not keep track of the activities of foreigners, especially those from sensitive parts of the world. Do you not agree? I’m sure that your own security services do the same here as well.”
The President’s face began to turn pale as he went through the papers.
“And I did a little bit of research on you, Mr. President. It seems that you were not only an excellent student at the LSE, but that you also had a very active social life - if a little unorthodox. Most of the men from overseas who come to study in London want to chase women, or - perhaps - to indulge in other passions that are quite accepted in Britain these days but which are quite frowned upon at home. But not you - from the records that I found, it seems that you devoted much of your spare time in Britain to volunteering for charities that catered to underprivileged youth. Quite commendable. In theory.”
“Of course,” continued the Foreign Secretary continued as the ashen-faced President viewed the pictures he had been handed, “I think it to be quite certain that at least some of the things that you sought to teach those underaged boys - as young as eight, according to the records I have, though your memory would probably be more accurate than the records of MI5 - would be considered to be extraordinarily objectionable by some. Even illegal. Certainly the Crown Prosecution Service thought so at the time, even if they were blocked from proceeding by some of my predecessors, who thought that an arrest and prosecution of a foreign national with such prominent ties would be politically problematic. Thatcherite bastards, the lot of them.”
