Sloan turned back to discover that McKinney was already disappearing into the ectoplasm-like fog. He hurried to catch up and position himself fifteen feet behind the ex-soldier. Intervals were important, he knew that now, and didn’t want to be on the receiving end of another cutting comment.
Even as Sloan sought to maintain the “situational awareness” that McKinney liked to harp on, he couldn’t help but think about where they were, which was just south of the imaginary boundary separating North from South. Except it wouldn’t be imaginary for long. Huxton and his cronies were building a picket fence–like barrier designed to keep what they called “the takers” from flooding the South and laying waste to it. Nothing of that sort had occurred, but a constant flow of propaganda assured Southerners that it could, unless they threw their support behind the “New Order.”
The ground began to slope up at that point, forcing Sloan to watch his footing. There was a lot of loose rock, and when one of Sloan’s boots sent a chunk bounding downhill, he found himself on the receiving end of a frown from McKinney. Fortunately, the ex-Ranger couldn’t say anything without breaking one of his own rules.
Sloan managed to complete the climb without committing any additional errors. As they approached the top, he knew it was time to get down and crawl. After elbowing his way onto the ridge, Sloan heard the sound of a helicopter engine approaching from behind. He was careful to lie perfectly still as the aircraft passed overhead.
As the Apache continued to descend, Sloan could see where it was going. He’d seen pictures of defense towers by then, but always from a long ways off and in the early stages of construction. This one was different. Though not an expert, Sloan could tell that the roughly three-hundred-foot-tall structure was nearing completion. The central column was thick enough to house a cluster of elevators, including one large enough to accommodate the Apache.
The helicopter flared and put down on one of four circular pads clustered around the central “trunk.” Once the rotors stopped turning, a tractor towed the helo into the column, where an elevator would be waiting. Then the aircraft would be lowered into an underground maintenance facility.
It stood to reason that a lot of dirt had been removed to make the underground complex possible, and Sloan could see that it had been used to create the berm that surrounded the base of the tower. As Sloan raised his binoculars, he could see that gun positions were embedded in the wall.
“Those are Vulcan Air Defense System guns,” McKinney said, as if capable of reading the other man’s mind. “They were designed to fire on aircraft but can be used against ground targets as well. They’re no longer state-of-the-art, but each one can pump out a whole lot of 20mm projectiles in a very short period of time.”
Sloan tried to imagine participating in an infantry assault on such a well-defended wall and couldn’t. “But they can’t fire on aircraft,” he observed. “Not from where they are.”
“That’s true,” McKinney agreed. “But look at the topmost platforms. Those weapons can fire on planes.”
“What’s that boxy thing?” Sloan wanted to know.
“That’s a C-RAM,” McKinney replied. “It’s designed to throw a wall of metal into the air to destroy incoming rockets and mortar rounds before they can hit the tower. The next pod over is a surface-to-surface-missile battery.”
Sloan considered that as he turned the binoculars to the right. The sun had risen by then and was peeking through broken clouds. Only a few wisps of fog still remained. Off to the east, Sloan could make out the faint outline of another tower. “What do you think?” he inquired. “Could a strike force slide in between the towers and break through?”
McKinney looked at Sloan with a look of newfound respect. “Very good! You’re thinking like a soldier . . . I don’t know. It would depend on the range of the defensive missiles, how good their targeting systems are, and whether the Confederates have been laying mines to prevent such an attack. But never say never.”
Sloan nodded. “Thank you, Major.”
“I was a captain.”
Sloan lowered the binoculars. “Not anymore. You’re a major now, and my military attaché.”
McKinney stared at him. “No offense, Mr. President . . . But I have no desire to be an REMF.”
“And what,” Sloan inquired, “is an REMF?”
“A rear echelon motherfucker, sir.”
Sloan laughed. “I get that. But consider this . . . Assuming we succeed in rebuilding the army, I’ll be surrounded by REMFs . . . Some of them will try to blow smoke up my ass. How will I sort them out without your sage advice?”
McKinney was silent for a moment. Then he produced one of his rare smiles. “That would be me, sir . . . Major McKinney, smoke detector extraordinaire.”
Both men laughed, pushed themselves away from the ridge, and began the trip down. It was the beginning of a much longer journey that took them up through Branson, Ozark, Springfield, and into the town of Marshfield, Missouri.
After spending some time in the South, Sloan was eager to see how things were going up north. The answer wasn’t good. In a marked contrast with cities like Shreveport, Louisiana, the people who lived above the Mason-Dixon line had to deal with frequent power outages. Or no electricity at all. And while there were places where local governments had stepped up to provide local citizens with a modicum of security, the coordination normally provided at the state level had all but vanished, never mind the federal government—which was MIA.
The result was a patchwork quilt of hamlets, towns, and cities, many of which had to compete with each other for scarce resources. All too often, they had fallen under the control of a strongman or -woman who was more interested in taking care of themselves than the population at large. Other communities were under the sway of a single religion. Never mind the legal strictures regarding the separation of church and state or the wishes of nonbelievers.
Each time Sloan became aware of such a situation, he felt a strong desire to wade in and set it right. But the others held him back. “It’s too early for that,” Allston insisted. “The locals won’t listen to you right now . . . But that will change soon. Keep your powder dry.”
It was good advice, and Sloan knew that. But it galled him to see so much unnecessary pain, misery, and conflict.
Their ultimate destination was Indianapolis, where, according to ham-radio operators, patriots from all over the nation were starting to gather. But after their car ran out of gas, they’d been forced to hoof it. A mode of transportation that, along with bicycles, was increasingly popular. Even so, it seemed as if there was an unusually large number of people on the highway that day, with more joining from driveways and side roads.
So when they arrived in Lebanon, Sloan expected to see something . . . An open market perhaps, or a street fair, but that wasn’t the case. Instead, what he saw was a huge banner that was suspended over Commercial Street. It said WELCOME PRESIDENT SLOAN, and as Sloan drew near, a well-dressed Doyle Besom appeared to grab his elbow. “Right this way, Mr. President,” Besom said. “Everything is ready.”
A cheer went up as a band began to play “Hail to the Chief,” and Sloan felt slightly light-headed. When Besom and Cindy Howell had gone ahead to “Get things ready,” Sloan hadn’t thought to question the ex–PR man about what that meant.
A wooden platform loomed ahead, and the crowd surged in to surround it as Besom preceded Sloan up a flight of stairs. A generator was running nearby, and the jury-rigged PA system was on. Besom jerked Sloan’s left arm up into the air. “Here he is!” Besom shouted into the mike. “This is the man who, as Secretary of Energy, was trapped in Mexico when the meteors hit, and paddled hundreds of miles to return home! This is the man who was captured, held prisoner, and refused to be a puppet president! This is the man who escaped, made his way north, and walked into this town on foot. His name is President Samuel T. Sloan . . . And he’s here to put ou
r country back together!”
At least a thousand people were gathered around the platform, with more arriving every second. As they clapped, and Sloan accepted the mike, he struggled to organize his thoughts. “My fellow Americans,” Sloan began, as the applause died away, “a swarm of meteorites struck Earth, killed millions of people, and brought our great country to its knees.
“But America has been dealt such blows before and never kneels for long. I am passing through Lebanon on my way to Indianapolis, where a new Continental Congress is going to convene. Once that occurs, we will stand, and not just stand, but stand together.
“Meanwhile, the clouds of war have begun to gather. I have been in the South, I have heard the propaganda, and I have seen the military convoys that are rolling north. More than that, I’ve seen the defense towers that are being built to keep us from crossing the New Mason-Dixon Line. Why? Oil, that’s why. Those who control the South have taken control of the oil reserves that rightfully belong to all Americans.”
That produced a chorus of boos, and Sloan nodded. “As the ex–Secretary of Energy, I can tell you that there are approximately 700 million barrels of oil stored in those reserves. That’s enough fuel to run our country for more than two months at pre–May Day levels. Or even longer, assuming we use it wisely. What would that mean? It would mean a jump start while we get shale-oil and natural-gas production back up and running . . . And that, along with wind power, can put us back on the path to prosperity in spite of the persistent bad weather. But there’s even more to fight for,” Sloan added. “The so-called New Confederacy stole part of our country . . . And we want it back!”
The resulting roar of approval echoed between the surrounding buildings. Sloan raised both hands in an effort to quiet the crowd. “I hear you . . . And thank you for your support. But know this . . . What’s coming is nothing less than a second civil war. Brother will fight brother . . . Sister will fight sister . . . And rivers of tears will flow.
“But after the last shot has been fired, and the last body has been buried, our country will rise again. And I want you to be there, standing at my side, as we bear witness to that glorious day. Thank you! And God bless America!”
There was an explosion of applause, which went on and on. Besom had to shout in order to be heard. “Where the hell did that come from?”
Sloan waved to the crowd. “Was it okay?”
“Okay? It was great! I want you to give the same speech in the next town, and the one after that. Word will spread. There is a president—and he has a plan. Now get down there, shake hands, and kiss babies.”
It took hours to get out of town, and Sloan was exhausted by then. He remembered the real president, the one who had died in Washington, D.C., and how good he’d been at pressing the flesh. “The people’s president.” That’s what sympathetic members of the press called him, and Sloan thought it was true.
Even so, the president had never been consumed by a crowd the way Sloan had been. It was exhilarating, and being the center of attention felt good. Too good, Sloan admonished himself. Be careful, or you’ll turn into an egotistical jerk.
The initial thrill was short-lived. After five minutes or so, the press of the crowd began to feel oppressive. And Sloan was extremely vulnerable. The man he thought of as the real president had staff, police officers, and the Secret Service to protect him. So there was a natural desire to wall himself off. But the voice was there to offer contradictory advice. These are early days, and the citizens of the United States need a leader they can reach out and touch. Be that person, and word will spread. You need their approval. More than that, you need their love. Because in order to do what needs to be done, thousands, no, tens of thousands of your followers will die, and that means the bond with them must be strong.
It was a sobering thought . . . And as the group marched northeast, feelings of self-doubt began to pull Sloan down. There was so much to do. So much to be. Was he up to it? Perhaps someone else would do a better job. That possibility followed him into the town of Rolla, where it haunted his dreams.
The next day began with breakfast at a local restaurant followed by another speech. There were hecklers this time. People who, judging from the Confederate flags they carried, were aligned with the South. The patriots in the crowd drove them away. It was a sobering moment, though, and a potent reminder that the North was far from homogenous.
The group had limited funds. But that didn’t present much of a problem because there were plenty of people who wanted to buy them dinner, put them up for the night, or both. That was nice but exhausting as well. Sloan said as much to Besom, who was quick to push back. “Some of these people are wealthy, Mr. President. Even after the disaster. And you’re going to need donors.”
Sloan frowned. “Donors? Why?”
Besom spoke as if to a child. “The president had served three years when he was killed and replaced by the vice president. That means you’ll have to start campaigning in a few months. By that time, at least two or three people from your party will come forward to oppose you, never mind the New Whigs, who have a pro-Confederate bent. So relationships like the ones you’re developing now will become critical later on.”
Sloan stared at him. “What makes you think that I’ll run?”
“The war will still be under way a year from now,” Besom predicted. “And you won’t want to leave office in the middle of it.”
Sloan hadn’t thought of that—and realized that he should have. He forced a grin. “Point taken. I will be nice to the wealthy donors.”
Dinner was nearly over when a man burst into the restaurant. He was disheveled, as if he’d traveled a long way, and his eyes were darting about. “I’m looking for the president,” he said loudly. “I was told that I could find him here.”
“He’s over there,” a waiter said, and pointed at Sloan.
The man nodded and made his way over. “Are you the president?” he demanded, as he stared at Sloan.
Jenkins stood before Sloan could answer and stepped in between them. “Are you armed?”
The man nodded. “Place your hands on your head,” Jenkins ordered, “and keep them there. I’m going to pat you down. Or, if you don’t like that, you can leave.”
“That’s right,” McKinney said as he held his Glock barrel up.
“I understand,” the man said, and placed his hands on his head.
Jenkins conducted a thorough search. In the process he turned up a .9mm Beretta, a wicked-looking knife, and a derringer. All of which were placed on the table. “He’s clean,” Jenkins declared as he stepped back and out of the way.
“Thank you,” Sloan said. Then, having turned his eyes to the man in front of him, “I’m President Sloan. And you are?”
“Captain Frederick Yancy, of the 213th Ordnance Company, Ohio National Guard. The Secretary of Defense sent me to find you. I have an important message.”
Sloan was mystified. “Secretary of Defense? I don’t have one.”
That was when Marsha Roston spoke up. “Would that be Secretary of Defense Garrison?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Yancy replied. “And his message is urgent.”
Sloan wasn’t sure how to react. Garrison had agreed to carry messages to patriot leaders farther east. Now it appeared that the gentleman farmer and part-time stamp collector had named himself Secretary of Defense! “Please,” Sloan said, “have a seat. Would you like something to eat or drink?”
“Yes, sir,” Yancy responded. “After I deliver the secretary’s message.”
“Understood,” Sloan replied. “Please proceed.”
“It’s about Fort Knox,” Yancy said eagerly. “Secretary Garrison tried to take control of the facility, and the CO, a general named Carol Cox, refused. She believes, or pretends to believe, that the former president is still alive. And she won’t take orders from anyone other than him.”
�
�Is there reason to believe that General Cox is pretending?” Roston inquired. “Does she want to keep the gold for herself?”
Yancy shrugged. “I can’t say for sure, ma’am . . . But Secretary Garrison believes that’s the case.”
Sloan was appalled by how much Garrison had taken upon himself. But he understood the stakes, which, to put it simply, were billions of dollars’ worth of gold. “Thank you,” he said. “Is there more?”
“Yes, sir,” Yancy said. “Based on orders from Secretary Garrison, Colonel Foster attacked the fort. But the assault didn’t go well. We lost more than a hundred soldiers.”
Sloan felt a sudden emptiness at the pit of this stomach. A hundred! Casualties taken trying to wrest control of Fort Knox away from the woman assigned to protect it. What a waste. “And?”
“And Secretary Garrison wants you to return with me,” Yancy replied. “He gave me this.” At that point, Yancy removed an envelope from a pocket and gave it over. Sloan used his dinner knife to cut it open.
Dear Mr. President,
By now Captain Yancy has told you about the situation here at Fort Knox. I would like to add some advice. As you know, our attack failed. That alone is reason enough for the commander in chief of the armed forces to come here. But I submit that there’s a second reason as well. If you are present when we win, people will trust you to take the next step, and that will be an attack on the South. We await your arrival.
Respectfully yours,
Frank Garrison
Interim Secretary of Defense
Sloan continued to stare at the document after he had finished reading it. “We await your arrival.” That sounded like an order rather than a request. And what about Garrison’s advice? Was it genuine? Or was Garrison one of the people who would oppose him during the coming election? No, the voice told him, you’re too paranoid. Besides, even if your worst suspicions turn out to be true, Garrison is right. Here’s an opportunity to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Go there, win the battle, and secure the fort. More than that—prove that you’re worthy to be president.
Into the Guns Page 19
