by Adam Yoshida
After a long pause and a deep breath, he stepped through the door.
“Thank God you’re home,” his wife, Meghan, said as soon as she caught sight of him, “I need to run to the store and I need you to watch Cady…”
“Hold on,” he replied, “we need to talk.”
She set her bag back down on the kitchen counter.
“What’s going on?” she said.
“I joined the Army,” he replied flatly.
“Wait,” she said, “what?”
“I joined the Army,” he repeated. She paused for a moment, aghast.
“Without talking to me?” she asked.
“I’m sorry…” he said, “but I just had to do it.”
“Had to? There’s no fucking draft,” she said, picking up her bag and slamming it down against the counter.
“No,” he admitted softly, “there isn’t. There was no law requiring me to do it, but I had to - as a man and as an American.”
“And as a father and a husband?”
“And as a father and a husband,” he said, moving over towards his wife and embracing her.
“This is going to be so hard,” she said, beginning to cry.
“But I had to do it. For me. For you. And for Cady,” said Hunter with conviction. Meghan began to cry harder, shaking in his arms.
“It’s already so tough,” she said.
“I know,” replied Hunter, still holding on to her as she wept.
New York City Hall, Manhattan
It was dangerous for them to be meeting in this location, reflected the Mayor, but given the degree to which he was followed and observed when in public, it was probably the best of a lot of bad options. Even if he tried to flee to some outlying bureau after ditching his security, who was to say that he wasn’t going to be observed there. At least here he could have the place swept for bugs in advance.
“Colonel,” said the Mayor, “welcome to New York City.”
Colonel Fernando Lara of the Cuban Revolutionary Armed Forces accepted the Mayor’s hand.
“It is an honor, sir,” said the Cuban officer.
When the Mayor had first visited Cuba after the lifting of the travel embargo during the last days of the previous Administration, few had expected the regime there to survive the demise of the Castro brothers. Yet, somehow, it had managed to do just that. After more than five decades of rule by the Castro family and with many of their most liberty-loving citizens having long-ago relocated abroad, it had proven fairly simple for the successor regime to easily win the almost-democratic snap elections that they had arranged. Especially when the American Administration had proven more than willing to connive with them to ensure that exiles would not be able to either vote or to repatriate themselves.
“I think,” said the Colonel “that - if you do not mind the indiscretion - my government was surprised but also extremely gratified by your request. Certainly, I am very happy to be here.”
“We have been friends for a long time,” said the Mayor formalistically, almost as though he was speaking to the spirit of Cuba itself.
“Yes, sir,” replied the Colonel, “we certainly have. Now, what is the nature of the business that we had to transact in person?”
“Your government understands, Colonel, as I do that the fight that we’re engaged in is a fight for the survival of progressive governments all across the Americas. If fascism is to triumph here, do you really think that those people will tolerate the example of a free and progressive Cuba sitting just off of their coast?”
“I try and avoid questions of grand strategy, sir,” said Lara.
“Fair enough. But I can’t and neither, for that matter, can your government. That’s why they’ve sent you to me. And it’s why they’ve made other promises.”
“And myself?”
“You, Colonel,” said the Mayor, “will be the last line of defense for progressive forces in New York City. Well, you and about two thousand of your friends.”
Texas Governor’s Mansion, Austin
“Jesus, Mr. President,” said Ira Skelton, the Acting President’s Chief of Staff (notionally, still, the White House Chief of Staff though it had been nearly a year since anyone involved in the Colorado government had set foot in that place) as soon as the door closed behind him.
“It needed to be a fighting speech,” said Rickover simply.
“Well, sure, but that delivery and some of the improvised stuff you threw in… Really strong, stuff, Mr. President. I’m not sure if it was exactly what we were going for in advance.”
“Well,” replied the Acting President thoughtfully, “fuck it. You’ve seen the coverage we’ve been getting, and you’ve heard this jackass cry for “compromise” up in our own Goddamned Congress. It’s the last fucking thing that we need with Vera Cruz about to kick off, however delayed it has been by all of this nonsense.”
“Still,” said Skelton, “I wonder if it was so wise to threaten the rest of the world, Mr. President. The Secretary of State - among others - pretty much shit his pants when he heard you say that.”
“Hmm…” the Acting President rubbed his temples, “there’s probably something to that. Still, I was just telling the truth…”
No. 10 Downing Street, London, United Kingdom
“At the rate things are going,” said Prime Minister Henry Blunt quietly, “the government in Washington won’t survive long enough to allow us to execute the rest of our plans.”
“Well,” offered Chancellor Solf, “at least with us having gained the cooperation of the Egyptians, we’ll be able to slow down the repositioning of their forces in the Middle East.”
“Yes,” agreed the Prime Minister, “for whatever good that will do us.”
“It will buy a little time,” said the Prime Minister mildly.
“I think that we need more than a little time,” said the French President, “we need to really rock them back on their heels in order to create the space that we need in order for the changes that we want to see to stick.”
“I am open to suggestions,” said Blunt.
“The Russians,” said the Chancellor.
“Do we really want to go down that road?” asked the Prime Minister.
“Does anyone else have the forces to stop the American Navy from dominating, or at least that part of it that is under the control of the Rebels?” said the French President.
“Russia’s cooperation would not come cheaply,” said Blunt simply.
“No. Nor ought it. We would be asking much of them,” replied the French President.
“Well,” pointed out the Chancellor, “it is hardly as if we would have to be the ones paying.”
“The Russians,” the Prime Minister pointed out, “hardly accord with the rest of what we’re undertaking.”
“Perhaps,” granted the President, “but they’re interests don’t really clash with ours at this point, do they? I mean, they don’t intend to encroach on any of the areas of deep integration. And, regardless, we don’t have enough military power on our own. Even combined. Even assuming that we don’t lose some of our already-limited resources in the coming weeks.”
“We’ll have to reach out. Quietly. And deniably,” the Prime Minister finally agreed.
Chicago, Illinois
The former President had grown impatient waiting for more information from his friends in Washington. One could only make so many speeches to bored crowds at sparsely-attended war bond rallies before one began to truly hunger for action. Initially his calls to the Secretary of Defense had been warmly received, then warily, then bluntly deflected.
“Look,” said the former President, well-aware that he was forcing the issue, “I really just want to be of help in any way that I can. Would it be worth reaching out to the President directly?”
That had gotten Secretary Ransom’s attention and a visit was arranged within forty-eight hours.
Sally Hughes, the former Deputy Secretary of State, Ambassador to the United Nations, and tenur
ed professor at Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government, was an even busier woman than usual these days. After leaving the former President’s Administration she had earned millions of dollars working as a consultant in the private sector and written a best-selling book on the international security dimensions of economic inequality. Now, in addition to her private commitments, she had accepted a temporary appointment as a Counsellor to the President.
“Sal,” said the former President, warming extending his arms around her, “it’s so great to see you. You look wonderful. Those are amazing shoes.”
“Than you, Mr. President,” said Hughes.
“I’m going to be blunt, Sal,” said the former President, “why the hell aren’t you using me more? I’ve offered my help repeatedly and you damned well know that I could still do a lot of good.”
“Mr. President,” she said equally bluntly, “that’s because you’re our back-up plan.”
The former President looked at her blankly.
“Back up plan?” he asked.
“The right-wingers have more guns and more money. We’d be crazy not to consider just what might happen if they win, or look like they’re going to win,” she said.
“Well, we have to stop them,” he said.
“And if we can’t? What then? What happens to civil rights at home and to peace abroad? Democracy, even? You’ve seen the radical plans that these people have for the Constitution.”
“That’s why we’ve gotta win,” said the former President.
“We’re trying. We really are. But what if we can’t?”
“It’s simply unthinkable,” said the former President.
“That’s where you and I have always disagreed,” replied Hughes, “I get paid to think a lot about the unthinkable.”
The Office of the President of the European Commission, Brussels
Aldo Scotti, the President of the European Commission, carefully turned the pages of the documented that had been presented to him.
“I should have been informed of this much earlier,” he said neutrally to Foreign Secretary Ellison.
“Perhaps that is true, Mr. President,” replied Ellison, “but there were, you understand, rather a lot of factors involved in making these decisions.”
“So far as I can tell, the rest of the member states - including Italy - have not been consulted or even briefed about this matter,” said Scotti.
“That’s true,” said Ellison, “but the British, French, and German ambassadors will be jointly visiting every single EU head of government within the next few hours to deliver some version of this to them.”
“It’s hardly in keeping with the spirit of the Union for such momentous decisions to be made without consulting either the majority of the member states or the permanent institutions of the Union,” Scotti sniffed.
“Your objections are all quite valid, Mr. President,” said Ellison, “and I should hasten to add that I was not the one who made the decisions that we are debating now. I am simply informing you of them.”
“Informing is exactly the right word for what this is,” said Scotti.
“I understand,” responded the Foreign Secretary, “I understand that you’re upset and distressed. I truly do. But time is very short. Can what is laid out here be done?”
The former Prime Minister of Italy leaned back in his chair and set his folded hands down upon his ample stomach.
“It can be done. But that does not mean that it should be done or that it is a certainty. Certainly, I know that the Italian government would require some substantial convincing on this matter.”
“Well, Mr. President, convincing is my business. Tell me your troubles,” replied the Foreign Secretary.
The Oval Office, The White House
“If they’re going to fucking go all-in, we can do so as well,” ranted President Bryan as soon as General Hall strode into the Oval Office.
“Yes, Mr. President,” replied the General simply, as he held his face still. Every senior official in the Administration had, over the previous year, grown used to being summoned by the President for harangues at odd hours of the night.
“I’ve just spoken with my Russian counterpart,” explained the President, “and we’ve managed to make ourselves a deal.”
“The Europeans won’t like that, I imagine,” said Hall neutrally.
“Well, fuck them,” replied the President, “they didn’t do us much good in Colorado. And, anyways, what real choice do they have, at this point? Can you imagine what the policy of this country would be if the Rebels were to win and take control of the whole government? None of it would be exactly friendly towards European interests.”
“What kind of a deal do we have with the Russians, Mr. President?” asked Hall.
“They’re going to commit their naval power when CENTCOM attempts to cross on over. In coordination with the rest of the European navies as well as our own sea forces. To date I have only communicated this to you, General, because this information will need to be handled with the utmost sensitivity and, frankly, this whole fucking government leaks like the roof of a South American shack.”
“I understand that, Mr. President, and I can make the necessary arrangements. If I may ask: what did you have to promise them?”
“Oh, mostly parts of Europe. Part of Asia,” replied Bryan nonchalantly.
“General,” said Bryan, dropping down into his chair and leaning back, “I called you here because I intend to order additional offensive action.”
“From which front?” asked Hall.
“If they’re going to move for California, I want to launch a spoiling attack.”
“With what soldiers?” asked Hall, “we have barely a handful of professional soldiers in that theatre.”
“And what of the Army of the United States?”
“Those are half-trained troops, Mr. President, barely able to fire their rifles,” answered the General.
“But they can fire them,” said Bryan.
“Well, yes… But not too damned much else.”
“That’s all we need, General.”
“A lot of those boys are going to die if we do this, Mr. President.”
“A lot of them have already died standing still.”
Outside of Phoenix, Arizona
A thick cloud of dust was swirling through the air as the long convoy of military vehicles approached the now-abandoned exurban outlet mall. There was no subtlety about this particular operation. For six months Arizona National Guardsmen had, in cooperation with local law enforcement, been fighting a running battle with Loyalist guerrillas, especially in the big cities of Phoenix and Tucson. With Loyalist-held elements of California and big (and pro-Loyalist) Mexico nearby, the good residents of Arizona had long ago gotten used to almost-daily IED attacks an chronic shortages of food, fuel, and other necessities. Loyalists could hide almost anywhere and, furthermore, the handful that were caught managed to throw wrench after wrench into the legal system. The Governor - an honest Republican who had previously served as the State Attorney General - was simply not up to the task of dealing with the twin problems of war and insurrection. So, as a result, the voters of Arizona had decided to take a different tack.
Before the war, Bobby Schmidt had simply been the Sheriff of Maricopa County, Arizona. As the successor to Sheriff Joe Arpaio, the so-called “Toughest Sheriff in America”, Sheriff Schmidt had had big shoes to fill and he had done an admirable job of reminding criminals of their place in the world. When the war had begun and insurgent attacks had begun to increase, the Sheriff had put his inmates to work on building fortifications to defend vital infrastructure. An off-the-cuff remark about using them to clear mine fields and disarm IEDs had appalled certain weak-stomached individuals but had, if anything, improved his popularity among his constituents.
As soon as the first insurgent attacks had begun in the Phoenix area had begun, Sheriff Bob had become a highly-visible part of the war effort. Day after day the local (and sometimes th
e national and international news) was filled with footage of the Sheriff, always wearing his trademark Stetson, riding around on one of the armored vehicles that the Army had sold to the Sheriff’s department and supervising the arrest of one or more of the armed (and, as some sometimes charged, unarmed) supporters of the Loyalist cause. More than once the first-rate PR team at the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Department had made certain that footage of Sheriff Bob firing his personal M4 carbine at some group of Loyalist terrorists made it onto the evening news.
A month before Pueblo, there’d been a particularly nasty terrorist atrocity in Tucson. Someone had bombed a U.S. Army recruiting depot, killing thirty-four people and wounding nearly one hundred. In response to the tepid response to this by the Governor, a recall campaign had been launched and, ultimately, “Sheriff Bob” had become “Governor Bob.” Governor Bob, as it turned out, took his duties under the Arizona Constitution as the Commander-in-Chief of the military forces of the state not called into Federal service very seriously.
“Alright boys,” ordered the Governor as a platoon of Arizona National Guardsmen moved towards the mall, “open fire.”
Since most of the organized units of the Arizona National Guard had been - along with their advanced equipment - called into Federal service, the forces under the command of the Governor largely consisted of locally-raised militia with improvised equipment. The Governor was particular fond of “Technicals” - pickup trucks that had been equipped with a fixed-mounted machine gun on the back. They were useful symbols of intimidation when deployed on public streets and also were excellent tools for the freelance border patrols authorized by the Governor.
Four Technicals, all of them unsold Ford F-150 trucks that the Governor had commandeered from an Phoenix dealership that happened to belong to a known Loyalist and then hastily equipped with 3D printed bolt-on armor and an M-60 in the back, raced towards the mall, letting loose a wild stream of bullets that struck their targets almost at random.
