There was nothing else she could do.
***
Richard indicated, turned the wheel slightly and eased to a stop outside his home. As he killed the ignition, he looked out of the window and stared with pride at his house – a fashionable and perfectly restored colonial in the heart of Georgetown. After another second of indulgence he grabbed his briefcase from the passenger seat and climbed out of the car. He locked the vehicle and crossed the sidewalk.
“Evening, Administrator.” The Metropolitan Police Department officer standing at the bottom of the stairs greeted him the same way as always.
Richard stopped at the base of the stairs. “Good evening, Frank. How are the wife and kids?”
The officer smiled beneath his cap. “They’re great, Administrator.”
Richard fumbled with his keys. “Good. I’ll be staying in for the night.”
“Okay, sir.”
Richard nodded. He climbed the stairs, unlocked his door, entered the house and closed the door behind him. He knew that the police guard was probably unnecessary, but since the attacks had started all department heads in Washington had been given similar protection. From tomorrow, he’d also have an armed driver picking him up every day. He’d miss driving to the office himself.
He keyed in the code to the alarm and then pressed another button on the same console. On cue, the curtains started to close, the climate control fired up, some of the lighting came on and soft classical music started to play. He locked the door and hung his keys on a hook beside it, then walked through to the open-plan kitchen and living area.
He paused at the entry to the living area and smiled as he took in the scene before him: a large corkboard that covered two whole walls in his living room, which he otherwise kept sparse. He’d started the corkboard years ago. He couldn’t remember when exactly, except to say that it was at the point when he’d started to feel like America was off the rails and careening out of control. It had been an outlet for frustrations he could share with nobody.
But it had become more than that. Since that moment, he’d watched the leadership of the country flounder and fail, being all too easily led by the nose or bought off or sidetracked. Instead of being a diligent servant of pragmatic governments, Republican or Democrat, he’d instead watched with dismay as good public administration made way for partisan bickering, a deadlocked Congress and federal debt and deficit nearing catastrophe.
One full wall of the board was covered in a color-coded history of the past few years – news clippings, FEMA briefings and a map. It told a story of American dysfunction. Many of the more recent clippings were the fault of Michelle Dominique and the Foundation for a New America. He’d hoped that the near miss America had experienced with that lunatic would recalibrate the system, but many of the same problems remained.
As the years passed and as Richard entered the twilight of his career, he’d come to realize that his hopes for a leader to emerge in the mould of Washington, Lincoln, Roosevelt or the other greats were false. No great politician was coming to wash away the filth that was clogging the gears of effective governance. The country just lurched on, served by mediocre government, as it ever gradually approached the precipice.
Once he’d decided he needed to act against – rather than just catalogue – the dysfunction, Richard had tried to make himself available to President Kurzon and, later, President Morris. He’d offered innovative solutions to some of the deadlocks facing the country and his experience in managing disasters should have made him an invaluable support to a president. But he’d been ignored and pigeon-holed as the guy who cleaned up after cyclones.
This had forced him to take matters into his own hands. It had become clear to Richard that if no leader stepped forward, and if the incompetents already in power wouldn’t take his help to learn and improve, then something had to give. He’d decided that he could get the country moving on the right track again – if he got the chance. He couldn’t do it through election and campaigning, but there were other ways.
No, the answer was seizing control and solving difficult problems, even if those solutions required some extreme measures – restricted freedom, mass surveillance, a compliant media. Only then would the attacks stop. If he achieved that, then history would look upon him kinder than the parade of squatters and incompetents who’d occupied positions of power in recent years. His legacy as a man of supreme integrity and enormous public service would be secure.
He shifted his gaze. The other wall of board featured columns filled with the steps he was taking in clear stages. It had started with months of research into the power he had at his disposal as the Administrator of FEMA, along with the power the position potentially held in the right circumstances. All he’d needed was a catalyst, in the form of the deadly attacks sweeping across the country. He sat on the sofa and stared at the board.
Now events were moving him toward the middle of the board, which featured the steps he’d take to bring order and stability to the governance of America. He’d tried serving incompetents, waiting for the right leader. When that had failed, he’d proactively made himself available to those same incompetents, to steer and guide, but they’d not listened. Now the opportunity had arrived. He’d take more control. He’d solve problems. He’d reshape America. He’d secure his legacy.
He woke with a start and realized that he must have dozed off. He reached up and massaged his temples with his index fingers. He was tired and pushing himself too hard, but saw no choice but to continue on the current path. He’d told nobody else about his plan, trusting others with only enough information to play the role he’d assigned them. With a shake of his head to remove the cobwebs, he rose and made his way into the kitchen.
A glance at the clock made him wince at how late it was. He opened his fridge and took the assigned meal – planned and prepared a week in advance – and heated it up in the microwave, then sat at the table to eat. The food wasn’t spectacular, but it was nutritious. He didn’t take pleasure from much other than his work, so had no qualms with the bland pumpkin soup. There was nothing wrong with it that some fresh pepper couldn’t fix. He ate slowly, taking pleasure in the music playing.
After another glance at the clock, he placed his dishes in the dishwasher and then opened his briefcase. He removed a single news clipping, walked to his board and pinned it to the wall. Satisfied, he started up the stairs to bed. He undressed, hung his suit and placed his dirty laundry in the basket. As he climbed into bed, he reached over to press the button that would turn off all of the lights in the house. He smiled as he closed his eyes.
ACT II
CHAPTER 5
In the three months since the executive orders were enacted, the diligence of my staff and the cooperation of the American people have allowed these new powers to be introduced with a minimum of fuss. It is my hope that, for however long they’re necessary to ensure security, the restrictions have the minimum possible impact on everyday people going about their lives and make the maximum contribution to our security and wellbeing.
Richard Hall, FEMA Administrator
Media statement
Jack’s phone buzzed on the table. Unknown caller. He answered as he rushed to finish his bagel and wash it down with the dregs of his coffee. “Jack Emery.”
“My name is Omega.” The voice on the other end was being scrambled into an electronic mess. Jack swallowed hard and checked nobody was in earshot.
Captain Dan “Omega” Ortiz had been the commander of the squad of Marines that Jack had been embedded with in Afghanistan. Ortiz had saved Jack’s life after Jack’s exposure of isolated Marine Corps cooperation with a CIA torture operation. Though the full details had remained top secret, Ortiz had earned himself a chest of medals and a promotion and Jack had earned a Pulitzer for the story. If Omega was calling, something was wrong.
“I don’t know anyone by that name.” Jack was completely deadpan, not wanting to give away that he knew Ortiz to anyone tapping the call. �
�What can I do for you?”
“A lot. And soon. In the place my kids love.” The line went dead.
Jack felt a bit of a buzz. For the three months since the commencement of the executive orders, he’d mostly kept his head down. Jo had flown home to New York and Jack had kept filing stories on his site, which were then purchased by national media. Despite temptation to do otherwise, he’d done the right thing and had everything vetted by the authorities before publishing. Though it grated on him, he had no desire to rock the boat.
Now he wondered what Ortiz had for him. He knew straight away where the meeting point was – Millennium Park. Ortiz had told Jack about the place on a long ride through the desert in Afghanistan. His kids loved the Millennium Dome, he’d said. Luckily Jack was close. He stood, exited the Starbucks and started to walk the few blocks to Millennium Park. He’d be there in a few minutes.
His heart was beating faster and he was uneasy about meeting his friend. Jack knew it was likely that he was being monitored – just as closely as Ortiz, probably, given the effort the other man was going to to avoid scrutiny. But despite the risk, Jack didn’t hesitate. He owed Ortiz more than any other man alive and if he said jump, Jack asked how high.
He looked toward the park as he crossed North Michigan Avenue. He could see no sign of danger except for the armed State Guardsman scattered around, which was par for the course these days. He still found the sight of armed men on every second block off-putting. By the time he reached the Millennium Dome it felt like everyone was watching him as he paced back and forth next to it.
“Where is he?” Jack whispered, after he’d waited for about ten minutes. He was feeling as conspicuous as a pink battleship, until he spotted Ortiz approaching.
“Hi Jack.” Ortiz held out his hand and sported a wide grin. “You’ve been busy since I saw you last.”
“Yeah, tough gig, saving the world.” Jack smiled as he shook the proffered hand and then pulled Ortiz into a hug. Jack was taller, but Ortiz was as solid as a tree trunk.
“I bet.” They broke apart. “Good thing this humble one saved your not-so-humble ass.”
Jack laughed. “Good to see you, Dan.”
“I’m wearing a Cubs hat, in case you haven’t noticed. I feel filthy.”
“At least you’ve still got your quarterback good looks. How are you?”
“Just peachy.” Ortiz nearly spat the words. “Get my ass shot at fighting for freedom only to find uniforms on the streets over here. I can’t even buy a bottle of booze!”
“At least you can still work.” Jack snorted. “I have to submit to Uncle Sam before I’m allowed to publish.”
Ortiz laughed. “Pussy. What happens if you don’t?”
“I’ll get locked up. A journo I know tried that one on. Turns out FEMA isn’t joking.” Jack kept his voice low. “So what’s going on in the world of the US Marine Corps?”
Ortiz shrugged. “Oh, about the same. The grunts are confined to base full time and the NCOs and officers can’t scratch their ass without approval.”
Jack was slightly surprised by this. Though he knew the troops on the streets weren’t regular military – or even National Guard – it shocked him that the military was apparently on lockdown along with the rest of society. The situation stank, and Jack wasn’t sure if there was any hope of a resolution any time soon. Though the attacks had slowed, they hadn’t stopped entirely.
“So what can I do for you, Dan?” Jack looked around, paranoid they were being watched. “You’ve taken an almighty risk.”
Ortiz shrugged. “Look, these pricks are clamping down on the country that I fought for. I want you to get the word out. There’s regular citizens resisting all over the country, and even a couple of smaller military units, but they’re isolated and being picked off by the State Guard.”
Jack wasn’t surprised. You couldn’t just turn America into an armed camp and not have problems, but the government had kept news of the trouble quiet. “Where?”
“I need your promise that you’ll report it.”
Jack hesitated. “I can’t promise anything, Dan. You know what I’m risking.”
Ortiz smiled, a clear twinkle in his eyes. “You think I’d bust my way off base wearing this shit to meet with your sorry ass if I didn’t have something decent for you?”
“Maybe?” Jack let it hang.
“Take this.” Ortiz rummaged through the tote bag that he carried and held out a manila folder. “It’s all the detail you’ll need to cause at least a little bit of heartburn.”
“How’d you get it?” Jack didn’t take the folder right away.
Ortiz shrugged. “You don’t need to know how. But it shows there’s a bit happening across the country.”
Jack looked at the folder for a few long seconds then let out a long sigh as he grabbed it. He owed Ortiz his life. “I’ll do it. But I’m not sure it’ll work.”
“Just do your best.” Ortiz gave a toothy smile. “It’s no fun being a passive son of a bitch anyway, is it?”
Jack laughed at that thought for a long while as Ortiz turned and walked away. As his friend disappeared into the crowd, Jack mused that if he had any sense in the world, he’d keep within the boundaries – as he had for the last few months – and toss the folder in the nearest bin. But Jack Emery wasn’t known for his sense. It’s why he kept getting dragged into warzones and conspiracies.
***
One watched through her binoculars like a patient hunter stalking prey. At this late hour, the FEMA distribution center was quiet. They’d watched it all day and it had been a hive of activity, with trucks coming and going. At night, however, there was little except silence and shadows. Just the way she liked it. She smiled as she swept her gaze across the entire facility one last time. A chain-link fence topped with razor wire surrounded the facility, which was lit up by floodlights. The only way in – or out – was through one of three gates, each guarded by a pair of armed State Guard troopers. Inside the facility, another handful of security personnel strolled around with no particular routine.
She lowered the binoculars with a smile. The security looked tough, but she knew better. For such a critical facility, it had some of the slackest security she’d ever seen. This would be easier than taking on the student police at MIT – the easiest job she’d had in months. She looked to her left. Three other members of her team were prone in the dirt, alert for any threat and ready for action. Positioned further away, on either side of the base and out of sight, Five and Six would provide sniper support. She smiled. Though it was a pleasure to command them, dealing with such talented people made her feel a little bit redundant sometimes.
“Everyone, confirm ready.”
It took only a second for confirmations to come in over her earpiece.
“Okay, cut it.”
The floodlights cut out instantly. Though from this distance she couldn’t hear the inevitable alarmed shouts from the security, she could imagine the carnage. Within moments a few tiny pinpricks of light started to illuminate the darkness as the security turned on their flashlights – a poor substitute for the floodlights’ angry yellow illumination.
One lowered the goggles that had been resting on her head, taking a second to adjust to the night vision before giving the order to proceed. One and her team moved low and fast across the flat grassland that led to the distribution facility, making a beeline straight for the closest gate. She knew they’d be close to invisible in the darkness.
When they were a hundred yards out, One held up a clenched fist. Looking through his large scope, Five would see her signal and radio Six, and together they’d begin the count.
Three Mississippi.
One raised her carbine as she approached the guardhouse. Thanks to the night-vision goggles, her target was as clear as the sun.
Two Mississippi.
Another target was on the periphery of her gun sights, but she couldn’t think about him. She had to trust that her unit mates would do their job while
she did hers.
One Mississippi.
She slowed and took smaller steps. The target filled her sights. Despite the blackout, things seemed calm. If they’d been spotted, the base would be a hell of a lot busier.
One squeezed the trigger as the count hit zero in her head. At the same time, she heard the dull thud of suppressed weaponry from nearby and the booming reports of the rifles used by Five and Six – the sound traveling slower than the death it signified. Both of the State Guard troops in One’s assigned gatehouse fell. Five and Six were taking care of the other gates. On cue, she heard another pair of thunderclaps.
“Gate A clear.” She spoke as she moved inside the gatehouse, kicking away the rifle lying next to one of the corpses. Neither guard was moving.
“B clear.” Five’s voice was soft.
“C…” Six sounded unsure, then she heard another boom. “C clear.”
“Commence phase two.” With the gates assaulted simultaneously, she didn’t envy the four State Guardsman still alive inside the distribution center: they would be confused, scared shitless and know they were outgunned. One moved outside the gatehouse to where Three and Four had already cut through the chain-link gate. With the power out there was no other way to open it. She waved her hand and the three others followed her through the hole.
They moved quickly through the distribution center, weapons raised and covering each other. She’d hoped that Five and Six would be able to reach out and touch the four remaining State Guard troops, but the maze of shipping containers would likely block their line of sight beyond the gates. Unless the snipers received a bit of luck, her ground team would have to deal with the final defenders up close and personal. It didn’t bother her, it just made the situation a bit messier.
State of Emergency: Jack Emery 2 Page 6
