The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  * * *

  The meeting had begun at exactly ten o’clock. The two men had entered the room and sat down, one on her left, one on her right, and slid a four-page, red-bound document across the table. “Read this,” the first man had commanded, then sat back in silence as she read.

  The conference table inside the presidential office suite at Raven Rock was huge, easily accommodating twenty-five or thirty people, and the three individuals seemed small, their chairs tucked up against the edge of the thick oak table. The room was very quiet as the president read. Ten minutes later, her heart racing, she lifted her eyes, pushed the red binder away, and adjusted her leg. “You want me to what? ” she whispered at the men in disbelief.

  The first man, a former president himself, leaned forward, his voice patronizing and sickeningly friendly. A bitter old man beneath the soft tone, he’d been voted out of office almost thirty years before and his eyelids were heavy now with age, the pupils dull and empty underneath the drooping lids. The anger of his rejection had grown more acidic through all the empty years, and most everything he said or did now revealed the poison in his soul. “Bethany,” he insisted as he reached out for her hand, “this really is important. You have to listen to us now.”

  She stared into his face, spiderwebs of tiny purple veins running up and down his cheeks. “You want me to hold back,” she hissed. “You don’t want me to retaliate. You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  The former president shook his head. “It’s the best thing for us now.”

  “It’s outrageous,” she answered simply. “Outrageous and impossible! And that is not all.” She tapped the red binder. “Everything you’ve suggested here will weaken us to the point—”

  “What we’ve suggested, Madame President, will ensure the survival of our nation.”

  She openly scoffed. “No. It wouldn’t be the same nation, not after you were through.”

  The other man, the current National Security Advisor, cleared his throat. Young. Extraordinarily good-looking. Lots of family money. Supremely confident. “It’s too late for all that, Bethany,” he answered in an impatient voice. “We already are not the same nation. The old days have passed us. It’s a new world now.” He turned away to keep from glaring. He and the newly sworn-in president had a history of conflict that went back several years, and their philosophies of government relations couldn’t have been more opposed. The ugly truth was, he considered any one of his current girlfriends far more capable of being the president than the woman who sat across the table from him now, and it was all he could do to hold back his disdain.

  Her black eyes flickered and her mouth hung open. She thought for far too long. “So, while we leave our enemies untouched, you want me to . . .” She glanced down at the binder, reading from the list. “Suspend habeas corpus. No more evidentiary hearings. Arrest them and hold them as long as it takes. Months. Years. A lifetime. No evidence. No trials. Keep ’em all locked up forever.” She glanced down again. “Declare martial law—now, maybe I could go along with that but for the fact that giving military members law-enforcement authority would break the Posse Comitatus act; you both know that. We have always forbidden the military from exercising police duties within our own borders.” She paused and took a breath. “This isn’t the Third Reich, my friends. I don’t care how difficult things are right now, we can get through this without—”

  “Without what!” the former president sneered. “Without exercising a few understandable precautions?”

  She turned to face him, adjusting herself painfully in her seat. “Listen to yourself, Mr. President. Listen to what you just said. Understandable precautions!” She angrily tapped the binder. “It seems to me that shutting down the court system is a bit more than just an understandable precaution.”

  “We don’t have time for trials right now. Don’t you see that, Bethany? The nation is hanging by a thread! It’s nothing but chaos out there, worse than anything you could imagine. In very short order, you’re going to have food riots in the streets. You’re going to see murder and mayhem over a single loaf of bread. Do you think, in your naivete, that the courts can begin to handle that? You can’t have sympathetic judges releasing prisoners because the prison food isn’t warm and there aren’t enough beds! More important, half the federal judges will interfere with what you have to do right now. And what is that, Madame President? The answer is perfectly clear. You’ve got one priority, and that’s security. You’ve got to buy yourself some time to put this thing back together. Until then, you’ve got to keep a firm grip on the situation or it will spin completely out of control. You keep a tight grip, and we might—probably not, but we might— keep this nation together. But if you go soft, if you go all civil rights and sympathy and ACLU on us, then believe me, we’re through. Do that and it won’t matter—you won’t have anything left that is worth fighting over anyway!”

  The president looked down in pain, uncertain. Nervously, she flipped the pages. “Detention centers. Expanded powers. Look at this!” She slapped the binder closed. “You want

  me to nationalize industry, the media, all means of transportation . . .”

  The National Security Advisor sat back and scoffed. “You really don’t understand the situation, do you, Beth? You don’t understand it at all! You think nationalizing industry and transportation is going to matter? You think taking control of the media will make a difference? There is nothing up there, Beth. Nothing left at all, not since the EMP—no MTV, no television, no radio. A few old-fashioned printing presses have shown up, but believe me, Madame President,” he seemed to choke, “no one is concerned with editorializing right now. The only things that are working, the government owns and controls anyway. Military transportation, computers, Command and Control. The Emergency Broadcasting System. That’s about all there is. A few other things here and there, but not much, you have to know. So believe me, Madame President, taking control of industry and transportation is the very least of your worries. No one’s going to give a whit who owns what if you can’t get things going anyway.”

  He paused and leaned toward her, his eyes simmering, traces of red around the lids. “Lay the foundation for rebuilding,” he concluded forcefully, “and no one’s going to complain about the niceties of ownership. No one’s going to ask the driver of the rescue wagon if he’s a member of the government!”

  She looked up, her face growing pale. Something desperate and dark had settled over the room. She felt a cold shiver run through her and fought a sudden urge to move away from these men, to remove herself from the feeling. Still, she summoned her strength and held the binder up, shaking it at the former president. “Disband the Congress. Send them home. You can’t seriously be advising me to—”

  “Federalize power within the presidency? Absolutely we are!”

  She turned away, too stunned to react, her breathing shallow, her heart throbbing in her ears. “I don’t believe it. I simply can’t believe it. You can’t be serious.”

  “Of course we’re serious, darling. ” The National Security Advisor leaned toward her ear. She looked at him and almost recoiled from the anger in his eyes. There was no respect within their burning and certainly no fear. You are a pretender, they seemed to scream at her, an unfortunate happenstance of history, but that is all. You are not the president, at least not really! You have no power. You have no judgment. You will do what we tell you to do.

  It stunned her, the burning hatred, and she had to look away. “I don’t think you would have called the previous president darling,” she barely whispered, trying to hide her rage and fear.

  The NSA snorted, letting the insult hang like a bad smell in the air, then wiped his brow. “You’ll forgive me, I’m sure, Madame President.”

  His apology was only more demeaning, and she looked away again.

  The NSA fell silent. He was much smarter and more experienced and certainly more capable of managing this crisis than she was. It galled him to even talk to this woman who was
called Madame President just because she was next in line.

  The president glanced down at the paper, stabbing the first item on the list. “You don’t want me to retaliate for the EMP attack?”

  The former president edged toward her, leaning on his arms against the table. “Beth, who are you going to retaliate against? Do you even know who launched the missiles? How are you going to prove it?”

  “Prove it! We all know who did this. The missiles were Iranian variants of the Al Abbas Scuds! Soon we’ll know where the warhead nuclear material was refined, but even now we all can guess . . .”

  “Guess, Bethany? I don’t think we should be guessing.”

  “We won’t be guessing,” she shot back, feeling hostile now. “We’ll take our time, we’ll analyze it carefully, but when we have our answers, I swear to you, we will retaliate.”

  The former president sadly shook his head. If he didn’t believe what he was saying, it was impossible to tell, for lying was such second nature to him that he hardly knew himself. He was so comfortable in his many skins that he didn’t notice when one shed. What do I need to believe in order to convince them? Close my eyes, think a moment . . . poof! that’s what I believe now. “It won’t make any difference,” he countered sincerely. “Bethany, we have known each other now for what, twelve . . . fourteen years? I have watched you and admired you. I’m comfortable, and I mean this—no, I’m grateful that you are in this position now. The nation will be well served by your considerable judgment and intellect, but you must listen to what I tell you. Forget retaliation. It solves nothing. Certainly, you could order the deaths of a couple million Arabs. But what will that do to improve things for the United States? And the Persians you would kill are innocent! You understand me! They are innocent, every one. Sure, you might kill some of those who are responsible, you might take out a few of the mullahs, but remember, all of them are buried now in blast-proof bunkers in the desert that we can’t identify or target. Even if you get lucky and kill a handful of the leaders, what about the millions of innocent civilians who are collateral damage to your cause?”

  The president shook her head. “I know King Abdullah is responsible. So far, he’s been behind every—”

  The former president interrupted. This was the main reason he was here. “King Abdullah is innocent of this attack,” he shot back. “I have known King Abdullah for many, many years and there is no way, no way he had anything to do with these EMP attacks. To even suggest that the Saudi royal family had anything to do with this is patently absurd.”

  The former president stopped and held his breath, glancing angrily toward the NSA. “I’m begging you, Bethany,” he said again, this time more softly, “do not retaliate. It doesn’t help us. All you’ll do is cement a hundred generations of Muslim hatred against us. Do this and there won’t be peace in your lifetime, the lifetime of your children, or of your great-great-great-grandchildren after that.”

  The National Security Advisor leaned impatiently back in his chair. “Worse, you’ll be wasting time and resources—resources that we need in order to rebuild. And that’s the only thing you should be concentrating on right now: rebuilding our nation, our military, our security services, our infrastructure, all of the things we need to survive.”

  The new president lowered her eyes uncertainly. She didn’t know . . . she didn’t know. For the first time she considered that they might be right.

  But the other suggestions on their list, she was certain of them. She slid the red binder across the table, nudging it up against the NSA’s arm. “These other things you’re recommending are patently unconstitutional. Not a single thing you have presented here is within my authority. The courts will never allow it, the Supreme Court will—”

  “Will what? Roll over in their graves? There is only one

  surviving member of the entire Court! Does his one vote control our world? Does one man decide our fate! No! It cannot be. We have no courts or Constitution. We have no laws now, no organization, no state borders, no state militias; we’ve got no working infrastructure, modern equipment, machines, food, sanitation, and no, we have no courts. All we’ve got is a hundred million people out there who are a few weeks from starving to death!”

  “The nation will not allow me—”

  “You don’t have a freaking nation! Don’t you see that? You’ve got absolutely nothing now! Nothing but what little you can scrape together and somehow manage to rebuild. And that is the entire point. That’s the only reason we are here. Yes, we are going to rebuild our nation, but it won’t be like the nation we had before. It will be stronger, more defensible, more perfect and intent. It will be different, we all realize that, but it will be better.”

  The president shook her head, her cheeks growing pale. She looked down. Her hands were shaking. She slipped them under the table and bit her lip.

  She was scared now. No, she was more than scared, she was almost terrified. She had a feeling—a terrible, dark, hopeless feeling—and it was coming from these men. They reeked of desperation and despair. They reeked of lies and deception and power and lust; she knew that, she could feel it. And there was something more, something . . . evil, something loathsome. The only thing she wanted now was to get away from them.

  Taking a quick breath, she pushed back against her chair. “I thank you for your input.” She struggled to move her

  fractured leg. “You are well regarded, and I will certainly consider the advice you have provided.” She started to stand.

  The NSA pushed back and stood beside her. “Consider carefully, Madame President.” His cold eyes narrowed on her now. “There is danger all around us. None of us are safe.”

  The former president took a short step forward and placed his hand upon her arm. Lowering his voice, he whispered to her: “We must work together on this, Bethany. That is so important now. If we combine our talents and our powers, we can salvage what we need to in order to raise this nation once again. But we must work quickly and in combination. And yes, it might be necessary to work in private, at least until we have a better understanding of the situation. But working in secret, our combination,” he suddenly paused and cleared his throat as if he had said something wrong. “Our combination of talents and abilities will be enough to see us through,” he finished.

  “Think about it,” the NSA mumbled roughly. “I think you’ll see that we are right.”

  * * *

  The president pushed a button underneath the table and an aide appeared to escort the two men out. They left the large conference room and walked down the hallway in the Command Center, away from the presidential office suite, then paused and turned to face each other.

  The former president shook his head. “She’s not going to do it, is she?”

  “I told you she wouldn’t,” the younger man said.

  The two men stood in the crowded corridor, half a dozen military officers and civilians hurrying by them. They waited, letting them pass. “I do think we convinced her not to retaliate against our brother,” the former president whispered when the two men were alone again.

  The NSA considered, then slowly nodded. “Yes, I think so too. If not, I would have killed her before we left the room.”

  A moment of silence followed, the sound of the ceiling fans and air purifiers humming overhead.

  “Regarding the other items, she isn’t going to move,” the NSA hissed.

  The former president hunched his shoulders and thought. “Let’s do it, then,” he said.

  The NSA turned and started walking. “It’s already done.”

  The older man followed, his steps short and weak. “You have ordered it already?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You weren’t going to give her a chance to think about it, to come around?”

  The NSA kept on walking.

  The former president rushed to catch up. “You didn’t give us much time to convince her.” He didn’t sound disappointed.

  The NSA turned to him. “I
wasn’t as optimistic about her as you were, I guess.”

  Chapter Six

  The Paris Office of Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs

  Paris, France

  The servant slipped into the room late at night. Moving silently across the leather-covered floor, the lambskin supple and warm from the heated coils under his feet, he walked toward Edward Kelly’s side. The red moon cast dim shadows through the fifteen-foot-high arched window, and he could see that Kelly was awake, the whites of his eyes shining in the dim light. “Sir,” he whispered carefully.

  The senior partner didn’t move.

  “Sir,” the servant whispered once again.

  The man’s eyes fluttered, moving wildly left and right. Then they opened wider in panic, and his face contorted as if in pain. He breathed heavily, as if he had been running and was suddenly out of breath.

  The servant waited, scared, watching his master’s eyes as they fluttered and moved in fear. Realizing the man was dreaming, he reached out and touched his shoulder. “Sir,” he said more loudly.

  Kelly sat up quickly, instantly awake. “What . . . what . . . what is it?”

  “Sir, you have a call.”

  “A call? Call who . . . ? ” He stopped and held his tongue, fighting the lingering fear and disorientation, then moved his feet to the side of the bed and placed them on the floor, forcing himself to calm down.

  The nightmare had left him breathless and it took him a few seconds to collect himself.

  Late-night calls were the norm in his business. The truth was, he hardly ever slept. Like a father of a fussy newborn, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through an entire night. At any given moment, about half of his clients were awake, stretched across the globe as they were. And at any given time, about a third of them were dealing with some crisis or another for which they needed the firm’s help. None of them gave a second thought to jarring him awake—for the money they paid him, they would have called him at his own funeral and been furious if he was a little slow to respond from the other side of the grave. Still, as he sat at the edge of his bed, something about this phone call seemed to cause a sense of worry. It was a sixth sense he had developed. He knew when to tighten up before the punch. “Who is it?” he asked as he stared at the mobile phone.