The Remaining: Trust: A Novella

by D. J. Molles

  Abe took off his rifle and set it on the table, then took a seat. “Go ahead.”

  Lucas reclined a bit in his chair and consulted a manila folder lying in front of him on the table. Inside were a few loose pieces of paper that he perused. “Tyler’s convoy is expected today. Probably around midday. Once Fargo Group gets back, North Dakota is pretty much tapped out. We still have two more bunkers in South Dakota to empty out.”

  Abe listened distractedly. He inspected his thumb, the cuticles rough and chewed. Finally, when he realized he had completely lost what Lucas was telling him, he made eye contact with the other man. “Lucas.” Abe leaned forward. “Skip the bullshit.”

  Lucas clenched his jaw. Then he closed the manila folder. A long sigh, while staring at his coffee. Then finally, “Sergeant Ramirez made contact with us late last night. He claims to have eyes on but that he’s not in yet.”

  Abe frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “He says Lee has a compound. A couple compounds, actually. Kind of like our Green Zone but not as well protected. Ramirez is just trying to find a way in. But he says it shouldn’t be long. Apparently they’re not picky about who they let in.”

  Abe tapped the table. Swallowed to fill the hole in his gut. “Because Lee’s doing his fucking job—rescue and rebuild. Doing Project Hometown how it was supposed to be.” He shook his head and glared at Lucas. “And here we sit. Suckling the tit.”

  Lucas shifted in his chair, looking uncomfortable.

  “What about the others?” Abe said.

  “No word from the sniper team. And none from Tomlin.”

  “But they’re close.”

  “Yeah.” Lucas nodded. “Close.”

  A rap at the door turned their heads.

  “Come in,” Abe called.

  A younger kid of some Latino descent stuck his head in. He wore ACUs with corporal’s stripes. Name of Nunez. “Sir, Colonel Lineberger and the president would like to see you.”

  Abe glanced at his watch, his expression sour. “It’s five thirty in the morning. Isn’t it a little early for their brief?”

  The corporal hesitated. “Sorry, sir.”

  Abe growled, “I’m coming.”

  The corporal left, closing the door behind him.

  In the silence, Abe and Lucas stared at each other. Without realizing it, Abe had begun to bite at the cuticles of his thumb. Didn’t even register it until he felt a sting of pain and looked down to see a tiny spot of blood welling where he’d been a little too vigorous. He blotted his thumb on his pants and held it under the table like he was embarrassed by it.

  Lucas spoke quietly. “We doin’ the right thing here, boss?”

  Abe stood up, took another scalding gulp of coffee. “Fuck if I know what that is anymore.”

  * * *

  The president of the United States of America stayed in the “penthouse” suite at the top of the Hampton Inn and Suites of Greeley, Colorado. Less than lavish, but better than most. They didn’t waste any of their power on trivialities like elevators, so it was a hike up four flights of stairs to the door guarded by the two men in black fatigues and tactical vests.

  Abe nodded to them.

  “Morning, sir,” one of them said.

  Abe just mumbled back, “Yeah. Morning.”

  They opened the door for him, and Abe stepped through. Inside, there were a few plush chairs surrounding a table. At the head of the table was President Briggs, facing Abe as he walked in. To his right was Colonel Lineberger. To his left was a man Abe thought he recognized but wasn’t quite sure.

  Briggs stood from his chair and smiled. He was not particularly stately. Not what you would picture for a senator. He was tall, but his form was lanky. He had a curly head of salt-and-pepper hair that was plentiful for his age, but it seemed just a little too wild for the grooming standards associated with politics. His facial structure was severe, particularly in his nose and cheekbones, where the skin seemed thinly stretched over sharp rock. But for all of those atypical features, Briggs was pleasantly soft-spoken, and he addressed everyone with a familiar tone that made strangers feel like old friends.

  “Major Darabie,” he said. “I apologize for the early call, but I wanted to make sure you had a chance to meet Mr. Daniels before we implemented a small change moving forward.”

  Abe stepped forward and, as he reached the table, the unknown man stood up and extended his hand. Abe assumed this was the Mr. Daniels that Briggs had spoken of. He hesitated for a brief moment, almost unnoticeable, and then took Daniels’s hand.

  “Small changes?” Abe questioned, looking to Briggs.

  It was Colonel Lineberger who spoke up to answer, and the president nodded along with what he said. “Mr. Daniels is actually the CEO of Cornerstone, if you are aware of them. The president and Mr. Daniels know each other from previous contracts, and we have unanimously decided to allow Mr. Daniels’s group to begin taking over some of the jobs our soldiers are holding inside the Green Zone.” Lineberger smiled confidently. “Which will help free up our men for other operations.”

  Abe stood there at the end of the table for a moment, somewhat stiffly, his two index fingers tapping lightly on the tabletop as he considered what he’d just been told. He was well aware of Cornerstone, though the current name of the military contracting company was only its most recent iteration. It seemed they changed names each time they became tied to something unpopular, and this was the third one they’d been through in the last decade. Abe wasn’t going to stand there and try to take moral high ground on Daniels. But there were other, myriad concerns that came along with jumping into bed with someone like Daniels and something like Cornerstone.

  Abe looked to Daniels. “Mercenaries don’t work for free,” he stated in an open-ended manner, not able to hide the distrust in his voice.

  Daniels nodded without offense. “I’ve got eighty-five personnel with me, and almost all of them have families. And, as you’re well aware, food is scarce.” Daniels motioned to Lineberger and Briggs. “They’ve agreed to replace my personnel and their families’ civilian ration cards with military ration cards. So we’re literally working for our food. And the security of my company’s families.”

  Abe raised one eyebrow. “Really?”

  Daniels shifted in his seat. “Major Darabie, my men are all highly trained operators from top-tier organizations from around the globe…”

  Abe smiled without humor. “Mr. Daniels, you don’t have to sell me on anything. It sounds like you’ve already got the job.” Abe turned to Briggs, deliberately ignoring Lineberger. “And can I ask what duties Mr. Daniels and his group will be taking over?”

  “They’ll be taking over interior patrols within the Greeley Green Zone.” Slight hesitation. “And some primary guarding functions here on The Strip.”

  “Primary guarding functions,” Abe echoed quietly. He became very still. He searched out eye contact from Briggs and spoke directly. “Mr. President, can I speak with you briefly in private?”

  Briggs’s congenial smile faltered for just a split second. Colonel Lineberger took a breath to speak, and Abe had no doubt it was going to be swift, and heated, and directed at him, but Briggs held up a hand and quickly spoke over him. “Of course. Major Darabie and I have things that we need to discuss.” He looked at the other men, each in turn. “Colonel Lineberger. Mr. Daniels. No need for either of you to leave. The major and I will get some fresh air and be back in a minute.”

  They both nodded respectfully to Briggs.

  Lineberger shot Abe a venomous look that Abe mostly ignored.

  Daniels just smiled at him. Proof that he wasn’t perturbed at all.

  Like Abe’s opinion was just a fart in a windstorm to him.

  The president stood and gestured toward the balcony doors behind them. Beyond them, the sky was just beginning to color, and it looked gray and overcast, perhaps promising the first snow of the year. When they stepped out, cold air locked around them and it smelled
of wetness and pines.

  Briggs spoke first. “What’s on your mind, Major?”

  Other words were left unspoken but were clear in tone and expression. Abe liked Briggs as much as he despised Lineberger, but he would never fool himself into believing they were friends. He knew that his status in the relationship was that of “the guy with the supplies.” Briggs and Lineberger would never come out and say as much, but everything they did seemed calculated to take advantage of Abe as much as possible without truly pissing him off to the point that he would disobey their direct orders and not allow them access to the bunkers. Lineberger did it ham-fistedly, but Briggs usually accomplished it with grace.

  Or as Lucas so eloquently put it, They’re both fucking us in the ass. But at least Briggs lubes it up and eases it in slowly.

  They knew that Abe’s sense of duty was his primary motivation. But Abe also sensed that they were both uncomfortable not having complete control over him. They were both treading uncharted waters here. They came from massive bureaucracies where leadership came from a title or a rank, and not from the character of the man who was leading. If someone in that system didn’t fall in line, the system would deal with him, and there would be hundreds of others waiting in line to take his place. And so the cog work continued on.

  But here and now, all of that had been stripped away. Now they led without any real idea of what they were going to do if someone like Major Darabie simply told them “no.”

  Abe planted his hands in his pants pockets. He clenched them to warm them. Or perhaps because he was irritated. “Primary guarding functions, sir?” He looked away. “You mean they’re gonna be guarding the food supply.”

  “You have concerns about Mr. Daniels’s capabilities?”

  What Abe wanted to say was, I have concerns about your motivations, but he decided to err on the side of diplomacy. “I have a lot of concerns, sir. I’m concerned about having people guard something that we’re using to pay them with. I’m concerned that we barely have enough to keep civilians from starving and we’re shelling out military ration cards to complete strangers. And if I’m being completely frank, sir, I’m concerned that this is a political move, rather than a practical one.”

  Briggs’s face clouded somewhat. He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Major, I wish there were some way to make you trust me. But all I can do is assure you that there is nothing political in my motivations. It’s purely practical.” He looked at Abe. “You’re right. We’re stretched thin. But we’re only restrained by our access to supplies. If I could get you and your Coordinators a stronger military presence, we could reach out into the coastal areas—the most populous areas with the largest amounts of supplies—and access those bunkers that we’ve pretty much had to write off. But I can’t get you the man power to take on that dangerous of a mission when they’re all tied up doing police work and guard duty inside the Green Zone!”

  Abe spoke calmly. “There’s a reason the bunkers were spread out over the states. Because each was supposed to go to that state, not be all bunched into one area in the Midwest. They were put there as a holdover until rebuilding could occur. Not as a permanent source of supplies.” Abe looked out at the concrete sprawl around them. “The Yellow Zones are almost nothing but cropland. Why aren’t we using them? Planning for agriculture? Why aren’t we looking at the long haul? If you would just let Project Hometown do what it was supposed to do—”

  “Major.” Briggs’s voice was a little sharper. “Project Hometown is doing what we need it to do. Sometimes the mission changes. Sometimes the initial plan is not practical, as it is not practical in the situation that we now find ourselves. We have reestablished our central, federal government here in Greeley. And from here we can branch out and reestablish order in the outlying areas. And you know how I know that it’s going to work? Because that’s how we did it before.”

  Briggs shook his head. “Project Hometown has all the states divided into their own little microcosms. But you can’t un-slice a damn pie. You think all the little mini-governments that Project Hometown would have fostered would all just suddenly come together in the spirit of American patriotism? No! We’d stay fractured and divided because there would be no reason to come together. If you truly want to rebuild America how it was, then you have to see things my way, Major. You have to see that we need to establish control here and then expand. Not establish forty-eight mini-governments and hope and pray they come together.”

  Abe breathed slowly out of his nose and planted his hands on the rail of the balcony. The metal was frigid against his palms. The underside was covered in grime that flaked away onto his fingers. He wanted to argue with Briggs, but the man was making a valid point. There was a certain logic to it.

  Briggs eyed his major. “Do I need to worry about you, Major?”

  Abe returned the look, letting the affront show on his face. “No, sir. You don’t need to worry about me. But you need to understand that you’re asking me to do things I was never meant to do. I wasn’t trained to sit in a goddamned command center and arrange convoys for supplies. I was trained to be working with people, to be in the field, rebuilding something. Now I’m fucking”—he waved his hand with exasperation—“glorified logistics.”

  Briggs smiled. “And I was supposed to be living a senator’s life. Not some hodgepodge president, trying to piece together the scraps of a broken country. Did I ever think about the presidency? Of course I did. But I thought about it in terms of Air Force One and big State of the Union addresses.” He looked around them. “Not the Hampton Inn and Suites in Greeley, Colorado, trying to figure out how we’re going to keep everyone from starving to death come winter.”

  Abe chuffed at the dismal irony of the situation.

  Briggs put a hand on his shoulder. “I know I’ve asked a lot of you. But I’ve asked a lot of everyone. We’ve all done things we’d rather we didn’t have to do. But these are unforgiving times, and decisions have to be made using logic and practicality unlike any this country has considered in a long, long time.”

  Abe nodded.

  “How is the North Carolina issue?” Briggs asked softly.

  Abe felt just the mention of it stiffen him. He considered his words and spoke them carefully. “We have boots on the ground. We’ve heard from one operative and he says he’s getting close to making contact. We’re still waiting on the other two operatives we sent.”

  Briggs just regarded him, and he seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but then decided against it. Knuckles rapping on glass drew their attention to the sliding balcony doors where Lucas was standing, eyebrows raised, looking right at Abe and pointing his thumb behind him rapidly.

  Abe felt his stomach clench as he pulled open the door. “Captain Wright,” he said formally. “What’s the problem?”

  The words tumbled out of Lucas. “Fargo Group is being hit hard just outside of Cheyenne. Tyler needs backup yesterday…”

  Abe didn’t wait to be dismissed and neither did Lucas. They were already heading for the door.

  TWO

  They took the stairs two at a time, breathing hard by the time they emerged out of the lobby. It was still not quite dawn and everything hung in frosty blues and grays, with just a bare blush to the east. A gray Chevrolet Tahoe idled at the curb—Abe considered it his vehicle, because it was mostly his gear stowed in the back, though all the Coordinators used it from time to time.

  Lucas ran to the driver’s side and Abe threw himself into the backseat and immediately began reaching over into the cargo area and heaving his gear into the seat with him. The SUV rocketed forward out of the hotel roundabout, slamming Abe back into his seat. He worked through it, undeterred. Pulled his flak over his head. Started checking magazines and weapons.

  The center console of the Tahoe had been ripped out and replaced with a haphazard mount that held a SINCGARS radio on it. Lucas grabbed the handset as he steered them into a tight turn with one hand. He yammered into the handset,
hailing their air wing as they accelerated down W. 29th Street toward the mall.

  After a brief pause, they acknowledged. “You’ve got Copperhead-Six; go ahead.”

  “Copperhead, I’m about two minutes out. What do you have spooled up for us?” Lucas had apparently already called ahead to prep some QRF.

  “Yankee-Six, I got you two Blackhawks and a Little Bird. Sorry, but that’s all I can get in the air this quickly.”

  “Fuck me,” Abe griped as he slapped his helmet down onto his head.

  Lucas shook his head, keyed up again. “Copperhead-Six, I appreciate it. We’re gonna need two open seats on one of those Blackhawks for myself and Rocky-Six.”

  “Yeah. Roger. We got you.”

  Lucas signed off, tossed the handset on the radio as he pulled into the parking lot of the mall, and gassed it toward two Blackhawks with the rotors already spinning.

  Abe glanced at him as he slung his rifle over his vest and worked his shoulders around to settle it down onto his frame. “You’re not goin’ out without your flak, Lucas.”

  “I got it.” Lucas threw a thumb behind him. “It’s in the back under all your shit.”

  “And I’d rather grab a seat on the Little Bird.”

  Lucas threw the vehicle in park several yards out of the rotor-wash of a Blackhawk and yanked the keys out. As they tumbled out of the SUV, the thunderous noise of the machines engulfed them, the wind batting at their clothes, filling their mouths with dust and cold air.

  Lucas leaned in close as he moved to the rear of the vehicle and threw open the tailgate. “You’re the boss, boss. You can grab a seat wherever the hell you want.”

  “Fine. I’m in the Little Bird.”

  “Rog.” Lucas hefted his plate carrier out from under a black duffel containing some of Abe’s heavier equipment. He threw the carrier over his head and grabbed his M4 from the back, slapping pouches to make sure they contained magazines.

  Abe poked him with a finger. “You take one of the Blackhawks.”