He stood. Locked eyes with Khan. "Colonel. We have direct orders from the President. We are to take full countermeasures against the group of individuals who attacked and destroyed the food convoy and killed our troops. It has been decided such activities are domestic terrorism. This will be treated as any other terrorist threat or activity abroad. We have been ordered to level that block of buildings. Do you have any personal or command reasons not carry out this order?" Beck waited for the response but again, marveled at how the world had changed. When he was given an order, it was obey or get his ass kicked to the brig. Now he had to give officers a choice. Situation normal. Fubar, he thought.
"Thank you, Sir, neither I nor my men have problems with carrying out a legal order from the President, Sir."
"Carry on, Colonel. You launch at dawn tomorrow morning. Strike as soon as the cleanup is finished."
Beck watched as the Colonel saluted, his hand at parade-formal crispness and angle, turned and walked out the door with a spring in his step.
And with that, Beck knew his career was over. He'd given orders like this one time too many times, had killed too often, and innocent Americans would die today because of his orders. This was no longer his Marine Corps, no longer the reason the Corps existed, and it was time to call his wife and tell her to pack up the apartment. They'd go visit their kids and then head north, up to the cabin in Northern Ontario to enjoy the entire summer. Just as he promised when he dragged her back to Washington. That was as far away as he could get and they'd have peace and quiet for as long as they both needed.
29/05/2047 05:20
"Momma, did you know the girls went right over there to see all that blown-up stuff even though I told them not to?"
Her momma shook her head, but didn't look surprised. "You woulda done the same thing when you were younger."
Aleysha took a second to think about that, "Well, maybe. But I did the telling this time. I had to paddle their bottoms. That's why they're still sniffing and whimpering in there. I shouldn't do that, shouldn't have to do that, but what am I supposed to do. I can't watch those girls every second of the day. And neither can you. I don't want them seeing all that blood and stuff. They're too young yet to understand."
"Well, maybe they are and maybe they aren't," said momma.
"Did you hear them talking about what they saw? Blood still fresh-pooled in the gutter. Smashed up cars. Bullet holes in the walls and not one pane of glass left anywhere. They had a contest to find one window that wasn't smashed. Couldn't find one. Said it looked like a scary war movie. When have they been watching scary war movies?"
Her momma shrugged. "There's little point talking about it with you. You're carrying a full load of righteous disappointment, anger and fear in your belly," she said. She waited for Aleysha to reply but there was silence. "Why don't you go look yourself. That way you can talk about it with them when you've all forgiven each other."
Later that morning, Aleysha took a detour away from her daily walk to pick dandelion leaves, to see for herself what the damage looked like. The girls were right, it did look like a video set. But the blood was real, the cars wrecks, smashed trucks, and smashed windows littered the street, and the wailing of the families cut deep into her heart. The bodies and body parts had been removed, but the smells, the blood, the stomach-churning stench of the wounded and dying remained stuck to the pavement and walls.
Soldiers ringed the helicopter crash with huge armored vehicles. Guns and antennae pointed everywhere. Similar machines sat -engines rumbling - at every corner for several blocks.
She felt the eyes of the crew follow her as she walked, and this brought memories of her arrest and rape. She staggered for a few steps, quickly turned and looked back at the soldiers to ensure they weren't following her.
When she turned, she saw they watched her no differently from anybody else on the street. They examined everybody with their guns pointed and ready for firing. She watched as the stork-like crane picked up the helicopter carcass and put it on a huge flatbed transport. Soldiers using smaller machines collected all the bits scattered down the block but left the metal embedded in nearby buildings. She heard helicopters circling overhead. When she squinted her eyes against the sun to look, she thought they looked like the vultures that hung over the park when Sanitation was slow to remove a dead dog left there by a grieving family.
The street was exactly as the videos showed except for the awful smell, and the powerful fear she sensed in the air. This was not a place she wanted to be and her well-honed ghetto feel for danger grew stronger the further down the block she walked. Deciding, she turned and quickly retraced her steps to her own apartment.
Instead of going in the front door, she slipped down the narrow alley between the buildings; she knew her girls were likely playing back here out of sight of adults. She'd hug them tight and forgive them. It would be fine.
Behind her she heard the roaring of big diesel engines as the transports finished loading the debris and began their long trip to wherever they took dead helicopters. Aleysha figured there was a junk yard for those too just as there was for cars and other useless stuff.
She turned to watch the parade of transports and those big armored attack vehicles, soldiers hanging on the outside like flies on a sleeping dog, as they quickly flickered by the end of the alley. The only sound left was that of the circling helicopters and Aleysha suddenly knew this wasn't good. Every alarm she ever learned about survival in the city screamed at her to move. Somewhere deep within herself, she recognized the whumping of the blades as the most dangerous noise she'd ever heard in her twenty-four years. She turned, running and screaming, for her girls.
Aleysha didn't hear the radio command, "Alpha Flight, Radio Central, you are cleared for attack." Nor the response, "Radio Central, Alpha Flight commencing attack."
She did hear the increased roar as the helicopters came lower and encircled the block. Those pointed at the far side of the next street were directly overhead and she felt their powerful downdraft funneled down the narrow space between the buildings. It was difficult to move or even stand in one place. She stared straight up at the bellies of these beasts and screamed as the first set of rockets left the short stubby wings on either side of the cockpit.
Her only thought was to find her girls, she had to make sure they were safe, and she turned to fight the downdraft and stagger along the lane towards their normal play area where they had constructed a house out of cardboard. The prop-wash had destroyed the cardboard playhouse but her girls were there, huddling together and screaming in fear. Aleysha watched as the youngest saw her, let go of her bigger sister and tried to run to her. All three screamed as the prop wash knocked the child down and rolled her across the alley.
Aleysha panicked. This was her worst fear, her daughters being hurt, and she was powerless to help. She was afraid, so afraid there was worse to come. She heard herself screaming as she reached her youngest daughter and took her into her arms.
They were both bowled over by the sudden arrival of her eldest girl who charged across to the safety of her mother's arms.
Aleysha was more frightened than she'd ever been in her entire life but her sense of relief of finding her girls was palpable and while this problem wasn't solved, she knew they'd be safe if they got inside the building. She'd take them to the basement where the walls were thick, underground and wouldn't be hit by any bullets. The memory of the next street with its blood and smells flooded in and with that thought she pushed herself to her feet, took their arms and pulled them, one in each hand, to the back door.
The three of them staggered through the unlocked door. She screamed, "Go down," and let go of their arms.
She turned to pull the door shut again, and it surprised her by closing easily. The buffeting winds from outside disappeared to be replaced with the roar of big engines. Her fear lessened now they were inside, but the memory of the smells of the dead returned again and she turned to see her girls standing on the landing
below. They had to get to the basement and laundry room with its concrete walls.
Taking the stairs to the landing two at a time, she took her girls by the hands once again to descend one more level to the basement area and its safety. As they went further down, the roar dissolved step by step. When the three of them entered the safety of the laundry area, the helicopter roar became a dull background noise almost overwhelmed by the dryer spinning and blowing hot air into the room.
"Goddamm Mr. Cuzco, you were supposed to stop that machine and fix that vent," said Aleysha.
She sat down in the corner and her girls piled onto her lap. She hugged them as tightly as she could and hummed the song her momma always sung to her when she was scared.
"Oh God, Momma! Where's momma?" she thought. She stopped, forgot to breath trying to decide what to do, she couldn't leave her babies, but her momma was upstairs alone.
Aleysha didn't have to make this decision. She didn't know a few seconds earlier, Jason sent a rocket out of his apartment window at the closest helicopter. The pilot, warned by his anti-missile systems, jerked the aircraft straight up and the rocket passed underneath. It was close, but the rocket didn't adjust to the evasion fast enough and flew by harmlessly.
What she did know was the ground shook and the roar of yet another explosion came right through to the basement. Her girls were screaming again, and she surprised to recognized her own voice as well. The small voice in her head, the voice that warned of danger, was out of control and she couldn't stop herself.
She heard herself crying for her momma to echo those of her girls. "Please God, Please momma, don't let my babies die. Please God." Over and over.
Aleysha's God was not listening this day as the helicopters targeted the basement of the Jason's building, the one behind hers, in revenge. The explosion Aleysha felt blew the foundation away in classic textbook urban warfare fashion. With the foundation gone, the building toppled in what appeared to be slow motion at the beginning but rapidly increased as it leaned further and further. This was no controlled demolition where everything came straight down, this was a battlefield plan to inflict massive damage.
Aleysha, her momma and her children knew nothing of this tactic, nor did they know of Jason's fight but they did know when the building crashed down onto theirs. Her momma died instantly as the nearby walls came right though her bathroom wall and window but Aleysha and her girls got a few extra moments as the building slowly collapsed on top of them.
Aleysha was fully aware as the last few seconds of her life passed so very slowly. She saw and felt the concussion as concrete chunks blow out from the wall above her, saw them land on her babies and her own lap, recognized blood as it appeared, felt her panic rise and subside. She felt a moment of pain when this happened but it disappeared as quickly as it came. Her last thought was one of sadness, infinite sadness.
29/05/2047 10:20
Ed Gordon sat as stunned as the other reporters in the press conference as the President explained what had happened in New York City. He couldn't understand why the President would treat American citizens in the same way as they would an attack overseas in some small time dictatorship. He, like many others, ignored or felt comforted by the militant approach to dissent and believed the government when it said killing the odd American overseas was treating him as if he was an enemy combatant. The Supreme Court approved this rationale thirty years ago after a long and bitter court fight. It saddened him to understand this government, led by two former Rangers, had stretched this ruling to include domestic as well as foreign terrorism.
When the President asked for questions, Ed's voice was the first and loudest.
"Ed," said Barrett.
"Mr President, Ed Gordon from ZeeVid news. Sir, it's not new to identify criminal behavior as domestic terrorism. It's been done for thirty years now, but legal processes were always followed for in-country problems. American citizens are legally entitled to the power of the law with the protection of the Constitution. What is new, Sir, is that you've killed American citizens on American soil without a trial, without a judge, jury or decision. You've assassinated American citizens in their own homes, Sir, contrary to the Constitution and our legal system. Sir, who made this decision and what are the justifications for breaking the Constitution without judicial oversight? How do you justify breaking the law?"
"Ed, fair questions," sail Barrett. "The quick answer is I have a ruling, have made an Executive Order, and until it goes to the Supreme Court, as I'm sure it will, that's the law. We define domestic terrorism as armed resistance against the government of the United States. As such it will be treated as any other armed resistance. We will not put our brave police and troops in harms' way without support. We do not want criminals who prey on our citizens to go free. I reserve the right to force terrorists overseas or here in the United States to obey the law by any means possible and protect our citizens who do obey the law."
Ed shook his head and sat. He saw the President's tightening lips and eyes yet he remained silent and didn't get or fight for a followup question as the President turned to others in the room. Ed heard the questions and the answers but understood, as did they all, this was a done-deal. The decision made, the first example had been taken. There was no death count of either innocents or gang members but the shit was all the way through the fan now.
Ed knew his job wasn't to stop Presidents from acting. His task was to expose what they did to public view and present the information in an informative and entertaining way. He decided to push his new status as the correspondent for the largest vid-network.
He stood again. This was a breach of press protocol in the President's press room and Richard Hutchins, the Press Secretary standing off to the President left, grimaced and gave him a killing look. Ed saw it and thought, screw you and the horse you rode in on. After Gwinnett finished his current answer, Ed interrupted the next questioner.
"Mr. President. Please give us the death toll of domestic terrorists and the number of innocent citizens killed in this attack. In other words, Mr. President, how many innocent civilians did you massacre to kill a few criminals you identified as terrorists?"
"Those numbers will be released as soon as we have them but understand if people shelter domestic terrorists, they are as guilty of terrorist behavior as if they pulled the trigger themselves," said Barrett.
Ed smiled inwardly in spite of himself. Barrett was good with words and his answer would play well in the heartland. Ed decided the only way to bring his point home was to find the stories of those who died and paint them as regular folks, just like the voters the President framed his answer for.
Crap! He's good, and I set him up but I suspect we won't be able to laugh and joke with each other at any local legion in the near future. Not that we ever did or would, he thought.
As soon as the press conference was over, Ed hustled for the exit before the damn Press Secretary cornered him and chewed him out. Ed knew there were great stories out there, he could feel them in his bones, and if he did this right, he'd get good airtime to tell folks about how this would affect them.
First though, he had to get out of the city without the Feds tracking him.
10/06/2047 21:20
George sat in one of the comfortable wing chairs they'd brought north with them from Savannah, his thinking pad was on his lap. Charlotte occupied the other chair, but she wasn't focusing on her notepad. She watched George.
"Sweetie, you reached for your third cup of coffee. We've had this discussion before. One cup is good for your brain. Two cups improve your mood and - God-almighty - you need that right now. But anything more and you don't sleep worth a tinker's damn. Now, are you going to drink that third cup or am I going to get upset?"
"Baby, sorry, it's automatic. Things have been so hectic and crazy I wasn't thinking."
"Don't you 'Sorry Baby' me. I know you've been cheating with the coffee. I talked to the head steward. I warned him if you so much as reached for another cup in
your office, I'd have to talk to his wife about him. The look on his face almost made me pee my pants."
George laughed, a full belly laugh, and for the first time since he'd been sworn in, he relaxed. "I love you Baby, you know that don't you."
Charlotte smiled at him. Raised an eyebrow.
George winced.
"Your Southern honey doesn't work with me George Gwinnett. You are so full of bullshit it oozes our your pores some days." Her fake hostess smile dialed up to full force, only caused George to laugh harder.
"Well, Mrs. Gwinnett. What if we did some joint-exercises tonight? That would help me sleep."
Words weren't necessary with the smile she threw across the table. "Enjoy your third cup Mr. Gwinnett." It had been a long two weeks since the inauguration celebrations.
George grinned. Then he glanced back to his notepad, snapped back to his daily reality.
"Baby, I need to bounce a few ideas off that brain of yours. Here's my problem. I can either relax for the next two years and do absolutely nothing. We travel around, shake hands, eat a lot of awful dinners, say whatever Bill and Hagin tell me to say and do the time. Or, I can do something. Bill keeps asking me for my opinion on things and the more I examine the hard data, the more I think this country has lost its way. Do I relax or do I try to accomplish something?"
"Relax? What's that? You ever relaxed in your entire life? Sweetie, 'relax' and 'George' don't fit in the same sentence," said Charlotte.
"OK, let me map it for you." He turned his notepad towards her. The screen showed a page of words enclosed within squares and circles. Arrows pointing to other notes or lines joining them. George wasn't an artist, he was a jotter, and he used words and poorly drawn graphics to organize and compartmentalize his thinking. It worked for him even though it resembled nothing more than a kindergarten kids' drawings.
2047: Hell In A Handbasket Page 14
