Selected: A Thriller

by J. Allen Wolfrum

  Former commandant of the U.S. Marine Corps, General Robert H. Barrow, once said, “Amateurs talk about tactics, but professionals study logistics.” As the sole contractor for the logistical needs of the United States military, Pacific International effectively became responsible for controlling the military strategy of the United States. Mr. Anderson and the Board now had more power than the President of the United States.

  Mr. Anderson pushed his chair away from the desk and looked down at the picture of his son. The picture took him back to the memory of the day when two army officers arrived at his doorstep and delivered the news that his son was killed on a combat patrol in Afghanistan. That day changed his life. Until his son’s death, Mr. Anderson was a loyal officer in the United States Army. After his son’s death, Mr. Anderson’s purpose in life changed. He never wanted another father to lose their child in a senseless war. He soon realized that even at the highest echelons of the military, control was an illusion.

  Mr. Anderson resigned his commission as an officer in the army, rose through the leadership ranks of Pacific International, and found others with a common vision for peace. Eventually he was introduced to the inner circle of the Board. Within the Board, he found a home. The other members not only shared his vision for peace — as an organization, they had the power to implement their vision. For decades, the Board worked behind the scenes to create a unified world. They envisioned a world governed by a small group of leaders focused on sustainability, health, and peace. Among themselves, they referred to their plan as the Strategy for Unified Peace.

  The Board understood sacrifices were required to achieve their vision of a peaceful, unified world. They believed the short-term sacrifices and struggles would lead to a better world for all of humanity. Mr. Anderson spent years creating the Board’s strategy for peace. The strategy coalesced around Susan Turner. She would be the last President of the United States. Susan Turner would be labeled an incompetent leader and blamed for starting a war between the Soviet Union and the United States. History would remember her name in the same phrases as Adolf Hitler and Charles Manson. The name would carry such disdain that any attempt to resurrect the concept of national identity would be immediately stamped out by the mere mention of “Susan Turner.”

  Mr. Anderson pulled his chair back up to the desk. He opened his email and typed a simple message to the Board: “Milestone One—Complete.”

  38

  Susan opened her eyes and stared at the white paint on the ceiling of her bedroom. There was no noise from the hallway; she was the first person awake in the house. She grabbed the comforter with both hands and pulled it up to her chin, without moving her head she peeked to her left at the alarm clock. It read 5:12 a.m. in bright red letters. In one quick movement, she pulled the covers completely over her head, alligator-rolled in the sheets, and closed her eyes.

  Fifteen minutes later, she woke up for the second time. After a hard-fought internal battle, she convinced herself to get out of bed. Sunday mornings were the only free time she could hope to get all week. Susan walked into the bathroom, turned on the water, and squirted a glob of blue sparkly toothpaste on her toothbrush. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Within ten seconds she found three strands of gray hair. She sighed and finished brushing her teeth. If there were any visitors in the White House this early in the morning, they would have to see the president wearing slippers, army sweatpants, and a tank top.

  Susan gingerly walked downstairs in her slippers, hoping to not wake up the boys. She smelled coffee brewing in the kitchen and poured herself a cup before walking into the map room. Flipping through the television channels, she quickly found an episode of The Real Housewives of Hollywood.

  She heard footsteps coming down the hallway and tried to ignore them. Earl walked into the room with the New York Times under his left arm and a cup of coffee in his right hand. Susan and her father locked eyes, nodded to each other, and Earl sat down in the chair with his feet up on the ottoman. Earl thrived on good conversation. He would talk to almost anyone, but not until he was able to drink at least half a cup of coffee in the morning.

  At the commercial break, Susan shifted her body on the couch toward Earl in an attempt to gauge his willingness to talk. He was reading the paper and had moved on to page two. The front page headline faced Susan.

  Susan muttered half under her breath, “I can’t believe it. Son of a bitch.”

  Earl folded the paper down and looked at Susan with raised eyebrows.

  She jumped off the couch. “Dad, can I have the front page?” Without waiting for a response, Susan grabbed the paper from Earl and turned to the front page.

  Earl broke his pre-coffee vow of silence. “What the hell is going on?”

  Susan buried her head in the paper, her eyes quickly darting across the page following her index finger as she scanned the article. It took her twenty seconds before she responded to Earl. She read the headline to Earl: “President Turner Unfit for the Presidency, Rumors of Impeachment Ramp Up.” Susan continued her explanation. “I can’t believe they leaked this to the press. What the hell is wrong with them? They leaked the details of our security briefing. Now the entire world knows our military is sidelined for thirty days. And they want me impeached for not responding with military force against the Soviets.” Susan handed the paper back to Earl.

  “Hmm.” Earl raised his left eyebrow.

  “Exactly. And there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it. What am I going to do, confiscate all their phones and try to find out who sent text messages to a reporter?”

  Earl took a sip of coffee and exhaled through his nose. “Nope.”

  Susan sat back down on the couch and stared at the television screen with her arms crossed. Her frustration vibrated through the air. Earl sensed she was about to do something rash.

  Earl folded down the paper in front of him and looked at Susan. “Princess.”

  She turned toward Earl.

  “Take the high road. Don’t let them drag you down to their level, it’s exactly what they want you to do.”

  Susan got up from the couch and kissed Earl on the forehead. “I know. Thanks, Dad. I’ll leave you alone, enjoy the rest of the paper.” She turned off the television and walked upstairs to her bedroom to take a shower and think.

  In the shower, Susan lost control. The stress from her day-to-day responsibilities as the president, the feeling she was failing at motherhood, the terror attacks, and her overall inability to control the situation—it all finally came crashing down on her and overwhelmed her nervous system. Susan crumpled to the floor of the shower in tears and hyperventilating. The sound of the shower drowned out her sobs.

  Susan found herself on the floor of the shower curled up in the fetal position. It took a moment to regain the strength in her legs. She pulled herself up off the floor, stepped out of the shower, and wrapped a towel around her waist. Sitting on the bathroom floor, she tried to understand what just happened. She got her breathing under control, stood up, and walked over to the dresser in her bedroom.

  Susan picked up the wooden music box on the dresser, cranked the gold handle, and opened the lid. The melody played and she quietly sang along.

  Susan sat back down on the bed and rubbed her hands over her face. She stared at her wedding picture. She spoke to her husband out loud.

  “Mike, what am I supposed to do? I’ve done everything I can and it isn’t enough. I’ve never broken under the pressure. I’ve set clear expectations and I’ve given clear orders. It isn’t working. I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

  Susan slowly walked over to the picture. She put her hands on the dresser top and dropped her head in exhaustion.

  “I can’t keep letting the Soviets take over Eastern Europe. I can’t let it continue.”

  She dropped her arms across the dresser and rested her forehead on the wood dresser top. After two deep breaths, she stood up straight and began pacing the floor of her room.

  “If I d
o nothing, the Joint Chiefs will start a war with the Soviets. That’s pretty much a guarantee.… If that happens, at least it’ll end the agony. We’ll all be dead and it’ll probably be quick.”

  Susan continued pacing the floor and talking to her husband. “If I don’t respond with military force, there’s a good chance I get lynched in the streets or at the very least thrown in Guantanamo Bay and branded as a traitor.”

  Susan sat back down on the bed and looked around the room. Her eyes lingered on the neatly folded American flag in her husband’s shadow box. She could barely remember the funeral ceremony. It was too traumatic; her brain blocked out most of the memory. Greg cried hysterically and Tommy stared blankly at the ground throughout the entire ceremony. No child should have to bury their dad and no child should have to grow up without a father because of the greed and pettiness of a few old men in suits.

  Susan refused to accept that imposing your will upon the enemy through force was the only means to resolve a problem. She already tried playing the good neighbor, which failed miserably and in more ways that she could comprehend.

  “Mike, what can I do? I can’t fight… I can’t play nice… and I can’t run away. What other options are there? I feel like I’m trapped in a room with a scorpion, and anytime I move, I get bit.”

  Susan leaned back across the bed, her feet on the floor and hands over her eyes. She counted backward from ten. At every number, she took a deep inhale, paused, and exhaled. On the tenth breath, she opened her eyes and stared at the white drywall on the ceiling.

  She inhaled one more time and closed her eyes. Susan stood up, walked over to the dresser, and put her hand on their wedding picture. “I love you.”

  39

  Mr. Jones held his daughter’s hand as they walked into the ballet studio. He bent down and gave her a hug.

  She put her arms around his neck. “I love you, Daddy. Can you hold my backpack?” Mr. Jones smiled, “of course honey,” and watched her run into the dance studio to join a dozen other four-year-old girls.

  The dance studio encouraged the parents to watch the classes from a waiting room. Mr. Jones walked into the waiting room and stood behind the group of parents gathered around the window watching the dance lesson. He noticed a television in the corner of the room turned to the evening news. The television volume was muted and he read the headlines scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

  PRESIDENT TURNER ORDERS HALT TO ALL MILITARY ACTIVITY

  PRESIDENT TURNER POTENTIALLY UNFIT FOR DUTY, RUMORS OF IMPEACHMENT

  SOURCE SAYS PENTAGON IS EVALUATING INTERNMENT CAMPS FOR SOVIET-AMERICANS

  Another dad standing next to Mr. Jones commented on the news headlines. “I can’t believe she’s letting the Soviets get away with attacking us. They oughta kick her out of office.”

  Mr. Jones tried to diffuse the comment. “Yeah, I don’t know. It’s a bad situation.”

  “You’re right about that. I don’t trust those Soviets. Locking up the ones that live here isn’t a bad idea.”

  Mr. Jones kept his knowledge of Mr. Anderson’s plan private and stayed neutral in his response. “We’ll see what happens.”

  Inside the Pentagon, in Corridor 9, Ring C, Conference Room 3, behind blacked-out smart glass walls, General Gillingham and Mr. Anderson held their monthly program management meeting.

  Mr. Anderson talked through the details. “If you flip to the executive summary page, you’ll see an outline of the logistical plan. It’s a lot of words but essentially those five bullet points break down the supply chain infrastructure that would be required to support and sustain U.S. troops in the Ukraine, Belarus, and Latvia.” Mr. Anderson waited for General Gillingham to quickly scan the bullet points. Mr. Anderson kept quiet until General Gillingham looked up.

  General Gillingham took off his glasses and rubbed his temples. “I hate reading these contracts. Just hit the high points.” Mr. Anderson nodded, but before he could get a word out, General Gillingham cut him off “And Jack… spare me the engineering jargon. You’re better than me with the numbers, you don’t have to rub it in my face.” General Gillingham closed the contract binder and leaned back in his chair.

  Mimicking General Gillingham’s mood, Mr. Anderson smiled and relaxed his posture. Before beginning the explanation, he put down his pen and closed his notebook. “You believe there is a very high probability of the need for U.S. troops in Eastern Europe within the next thirty to sixty days. Is that correct?”

  General Gillingham nodded and put his index finger to his temple.

  Mr. Anderson continued, “We have not expanded our military presence in Eastern Europe since World War II. The assets we have in the theater would be destroyed in a matter of weeks by a Soviet assault. We can quickly get ground troops in the area, but they have no logistical support—they would have water for maybe three days and food for a week. Setting up those logistical supply chains takes time. We need to start building them now.”

  General Gillingham frowned and seized the silence. “Tell me something I don’t know. Our military strategy think tanks have been working on plans for this scenario for decades. We already have well-researched plans for a war with the Soviet Union.”

  “I know, I led the strategy sessions. Because of the close surveillance on both sides, we assumed that neither side could gain a strategic advantage before the war started. That assumption has already been proven false by the Soviets. They have been slowly moving troops toward the western borders for months. We’ve been distracted with captured pilots, internal battles with immigration, leaked documents, and now the terrorist attacks. The Soviets have clearly gained the advantage while we weren’t paying attention. We can’t let them keep it.”

  General Gillingham briefly looked away from Mr. Anderson at the blank wall of the conference room. He folded his hands on the table and exhaled deeply. “So what’s your plan? If we start moving troops into Eastern Europe, we’re almost certain to trigger a Soviet response and start the war before our assets are in position. And it sure as hell doesn’t make sense to tiptoe into a gunfight.”

  “Agreed. That’s why we’re going to use the Ukrainian civil war and the economic hardships in Latvia and Belarus to cover our tracks. We’re going to set up the supply chain for the United Nations Peacekeepers. Or at least that’s what we’ll make them believe. The infrastructure required for U.N. Peacekeepers and your military are virtually identical. Given the UN’s track record of wasted resources in Afghanistan and Iraq, not even the KGB will ask questions about why they’re building twice the logistical infrastructure required.”

  General Gillingham leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling as he contemplated the scenario. Involving another governmental agency in a cover-up was risky. “Who would be involved from the UN?”

  Mr. Anderson relaxed his shoulders and maintained eye contact with General Gillingham. “Pacific International already provides logistical support to the U.N. peacekeeping efforts in Eastern Europe. On paper, it looks like business as usual.”

  General Gillingham paused and tapped his pen on the cover of his binder. “What do you need from me to make it happen?”

  “Two signatures. One on the contract, and another to classify the contract top secret. Our program manager will take care of the paperwork and coordination with the Pentagon’s contracting office. You’ll see the paperwork on your desk before the close of business today.”

  General Gillingham nodded. “All right, I’ll make it happen.” He looked down at his watch. “Okay, sounds like you’ve got a handle on the situation. I’ve got another meeting in five minutes. Let me walk you out.”

  Mr. Anderson closed his binder and followed General Gillingham into the hallway. “Plans for the weekend?”

  “Nothing too exciting, probably just spend some time out on the boat.” General Gillingham’s head was turned back while talking to Mr. Anderson; he wasn’t watching in front of him. At the intersection of Corridor 9 and Ring D of the Pentagon, he bum
ped into Mason Adams, almost knocking the laptop out of Mason’s hand.

  General Gillingham reached out to help Mason. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Sorry, I wasn’t looking either.” Mason fumbled to regain control of his laptop and briefing folders.

  Susan spoke up from behind Mason. “General Gillingham, I should have let you know I was coming over to the Pentagon this afternoon. How are you?”

  “Madam President, good to see you as well. Have you met Jack Anderson?”

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, nice to meet you Mr. Anderson.” Susan extended her arm and shook hands with Mr. Anderson.

  Mr. Anderson replied with a smile. “Pleasure to meet you, Madam President.”

  Susan politely returned his smile and quickly ended the conversation. “I hate to be rude but we’re late for a meeting. Good to see you, General. And nice to meet you, Mr. Anderson.”

  40

  Susan, Mason Adams, and the Secret Service agents continued walking through the dimly lit hallways of the Pentagon. Susan’s hand trembled. She concentrated on taking deep, controlled breaths to avoid dropping her daily briefing binder.

  One corridor away from their destination, Susan’s fear took control. The walls closed in and her sense of time rapidly accelerated. She stumbled and couldn’t catch her balance. The floor moved beneath her feet. She braced herself against the wall with her left hand. A Secret Service agent grabbed her arm to hold her up. She needed time to recover. “Is there a restroom close by?”

  The agents look at each other before answering, “I think the closest restroom is near the North Entrance Lobby.”