The Last President: A Novel of an Alternative America
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Adams looked at his watch. “In fifteen minutes,” he said, “General MacGregor will address the nation, and we shall discover our fates.”
“Our fates?” Miriam looked surprised. “What do you think he’s going to say?”
“I have no idea what Tank will say, but he can’t ignore what happened today. And he certainly can’t ignore those who made it happen.”
“Us,” Kit said.
“Us. Indeed.”
The front-door chime sounded the opening bars of “Yankee Doodle,” and then they heard the solid footsteps of George on his way to open the door. Kit had a momentary frightening vision of who George might find outside, and he put his good arm around Miriam and held her close until Ian Faulkes came through the study door and waved at them.
“Greetings, my friends,” Faulkes said. “Thought I’d drop in, if you don’t mind.”
“Hello, Ian,” Adams said. “Take a chair. I thought you’d be where the action is.”
“I am where the action is when I’m with you,” Faulkes said. “Which may sound like the first line of a love ballad, but nonetheless—”
”We’re just sitting here quietly, waiting for the general to tell us what’s happening next,” Adams said. “Why aren’t you by MacGregor’s side, waiting to ask him a few selected incisive and pertinent questions after his speech?”
“I’ve already filed my story,” Faulkes said, “having taken advantage of my providential closeness to the great man earlier. I can learn nothing more than we shall all see on the telly shortly, so I’ve come to watch the proceedings with you, and perhaps catch the expression on your faces when Tank throws you to the wolves.”
“You think that’s going to happen?” Adams asked.
Faulkes shrugged. “It wouldn’t be entirely without precedent,” he said. “And what are friends for, but to provide me with good copy?”
“I’ve often asked myself that very question,” Adams said. He reached over and turned on his television set. A bearded news commentator appeared on the screen. Then the scene switched to tape, and they saw Vandermeer pilot the helicopter into the side of the Washington Monument in slow motion.
As they watched silently, a figure seemed to float out the door of the craft and fall slowly away from it. Then, with the magic of television, the figure froze in midair and the camera closed in on it until the falling body filled the screen. It was St. Yves. Kit thought he could see a look of rage on St. Yves’ face as he fell to his death.
The program cut away to the commentator for a moment, and then switched again. The scene was now the exterior of the main gate of an internment camp. Kit thought it was Camp Washington Irving, the one he had visited, but he couldn’t be sure. The camp gates were wide open, and a steady stream of internees were making their way down the asphalt road to freedom. One full bus pulled out as they watched, and an empty one swung in to fill up. But most of the prisoners didn’t wait for the buses; they were walking. Some were crying.
“That,” Adams said, “is a good sign.”
“That’s a beautiful sight,” Miriam said. “I thought that was one of the reasons we did all this.”
“Yes,” Adams agreed. “But the fact that it’s actually happening shows that they’re taking Tank seriously where it counts. The mantle of authority is a delicate thing, but Tank seems to have assumed it successfully.”
“What do you suppose he’s going to do about the President?” Kit asked.
Adams eyed Kit sourly. “That son of a bitch had better live,” he said. “Nobody’s ever going to believe that Vandermeer shot him. I’m not sure I believe it myself.”
“The doctor at Bethesda said the bullet penetrated a lung, but the operation was clean and he’s in no real danger,” Kit said. “He’ll be in the hospital a few weeks at most.”
“If I were Tank,” Adams said, “I’d keep him in the hospital until the impeachment starts. Nice and safe and out of the way. I’m glad I’m not.”
The picture on the screen switched to an overview of the blocked streets of Washington as they had been a few hours earlier. “It will take a strong hand to hold this country together until we can hold elections,” Adams said. “Tank has that. But did you ever consider that a hand strong enough to do that is also strong enough to take over the elections if he so chooses?”
“I thought you trusted MacGregor,” Kit said. “You think he could be tempted?”
“I think I could be tempted,” Adams said. “The most powerful temptation in the world: the knowledge that you know what is good for the people, that you alone can bring it all about in the way that you know is best.”
Miriam wrapped her arms around her knees. “Here he comes,” she said. “We’ll know in a minute.”
Tank MacGregor came on the screen. He was seated behind a large desk with the Great Seal of the United States on the wall behind him. Adams turned up the volume.
“My fellow Americans—” MacGregor said. He paused and looked directly into the camera. “My fellow Americans,” he repeated, “this talk will be very brief. We have just been through a grave national trauma. But one which has shown the strength of our nation and our constitution. I have three announcements to make.
“The first is that a special election will be held ninety days from today to elect a new president and a full House of Representatives, as well as to replace those senators whose terms have expired.
“The second is that the man who, until today, was occupying the White House as President, will be brought to trial in a federal court for various crimes against the United States and against many of its citizens. I have been informed by the Justice Department that impeachment proceedings are redundant, as he was illegally holding office and is now removed.
“The third is that I will not be a candidate for the presidency of the United States under any conditions whatsoever.
“Thank you.”
Adams looked at Faulkes and broke into a broad smile. Kit and Miriam looked at each other. Kit grinned and squeezed her so hard with his good arm that it hurt her shoulder, but she didn’t wince. She just took his head in both hands and kissed him harder than she had ever done before.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Michael Kurland is the recipient of two Edgar scrolls and was nominated for an American Book Award for his first Moriarty novel, The Infernal Device. His works have been translated into over a dozen difference languages, and have been selected by the History Book Club, the Book of the Month Club, and the Junior Literary Guild. He can be reached at:
www.michaelkurland.com
S. W. Barton is the pseudonym of an armchair magician and intelligence analyst.