by Riley Flynn
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Perfect Storm – Exclusive Sneak Peek!
FALL BACK
Book two in the Collapse Series: New Republic
Mike Wolfe and Riley Flynn
Syndicate Press
Prologue
Air Force One, somewhere over Nevada
September 2027
The red light on the camera across from his desk stared at him like an accusing eye. This is your fault, it said. The buck stops here. It says so right on your desk.
He shook his head and cleared his throat just as another riot of turbulence rocked the 747. Even the air was against him now, it seemed—the flight had been rocky ever since they took off from Edwards Air Force Base less than an hour earlier, destination Colorado.
A screen above the red light showed him his own face in real time: the relief map of lines and crevices that had burrowed their way across his features over the past eight years, the slicked-back hair that had changed inexorably from chestnut to silver. He’d read once that all presidents who weren’t gray when they took office had gone gray over the course of their terms. Except Reagan, of course, but he routinely lied about dying his hair.
Terrence Fletcher had never lied to the American public about his hair. All he’d lied about was the impending doom of the nation whose citizens had put him in the Oval Office not once but twice, and really, it was more a lie of omission.
Keep telling yourself that, he thought bleakly as he stared into his own haunted eyes. It’ll make it easier to tell the biggest lie in the history of this great nation: that everything’s going to be okay.
He watched the eyes on the screen widen as a sharp rap on the door sent a shock of adrenaline through him. He was more on edge than he would have believed possible even just a few hours ago.
“Come,” he called, straightening his tie. Outside the window beside his desk, he saw the comforting lights of the F-35 Eagle escort in the night sky. Its twin was on the other side of the plane.
The door opened a crack to reveal the face of a White House intern, the mousy girl with huge glasses. AF1 had taken off with a skeleton staff, including this girl, whose name Fletcher could never remember.
“Mr. President?” she squeaked. “Can I—I mean, are you—”
“You’re not interrupting me,” he said gently. “What can I do for you?”
She gripped her clipboard to her chest like a shield. “Mr. Fredericks says the satellite link with the networks is finally up. They’re ready to broadcast your message.”
Fletcher nodded and sighed deeply.
“All right, send him in. Let’s get this over with.”
A portly middle-aged man squeezed past the intern and entered the office. He nodded to dismiss the girl, who gave Fletcher a pleading glance before the door closed on her. It was only a fraction of a second, but that look was enough to make the president’s guts go cold.
Jerry Fredericks dropped a sheaf of papers on the desk. His cheeks glowed red, as they always did when he was under stress.
“It’s that bad, huh, Jer?” Fletcher asked quietly.
Fredericks had the worst poker face of anyone Terrence Fletcher had ever known. It had made him easy to fleece in games back in their UCLA days, but it had been an asset in his role as press secretary. Until shit had started to go sideways. These days reporters looked at him with a mix of distrust and pity.
He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “The cascade effect has increased exponentially over the last twenty-four hours,” he said shakily. “That’s why we’re hitting so much turbulence; the pilots are only getting sketchy signals from the ground.”
“I figured that was it.” Fletcher nodded. “And there’s no end in sight?”
“That’s just it, sir: the end is in sight.”
The bleak look on the man’s face told Fletcher all he needed to know.
“Then this is it,” he sighed. “How long?”
“Intel from the NSA’s special task force says the Eastern Seaboard will likely be completely dark in less than a week. It’ll move westward from there. The continental U.S. has ten days at the most.”
Fletcher stuck a hand in his pants pocket and gave his scrotum a hard flick. The sharp pain confirmed that he wasn’t asleep, and this wasn’t a nightmare. This was happening. As if sensing what he’d just done, Fredericks put a hand on the president’s shoulder.
“It gets worse, sir,” he said quietly. “Are you ready?”
Fletcher nodded, eyes on the stack of papers on the desk.
“Eko’s initial mortality rate is confirmed at 98.9 percent. CDC estimates less than four percent of the population has been inoculated at this point, and we’re about to lose the means of production for the vaccine. The last truckloads of X-57 have already arrived at strategic points.”
“Strategic points!” Fletcher barked a harsh laugh. “Let’s shitcan the euphemisms, okay, Jer? I think we’re long past being able to sugarcoat this. The last of the vaccine is going to military personnel. American citizens are out in the cold. Literally. And they barely know anything about the cyber attack yet.”
Fredericks shrugged. The blotches on his plump cheeks had spread down to his throat.
“I’m sorry,” said Fletcher. “I don’t mean to shoot the messenger. Especially not you.”
“Comes with the job,” Fredericks said, managing a weak smile.
The two men looked at each other for a long moment. Fletcher thought those nights playing poker in their dorm room seemed as far away as a star in the night sky right now.
The red light still glared at him from across the room, reminding him that the clock was ticking; they had no idea how long they would be able to broadcast. It was time to lie to the American public. Assuming they were even able to receive the signal at all—There was no guarantee the message would even get through.
“All right,” Fletcher said, taking his seat. “Just let me give your speech a once-over and we’ll get started.”
Fredericks picked up a remote control from the top of a box next to the video screen.
“Ready when you are, sir,” he said.
“I think we can shitcan the ‘sir’ at this point, too,” said Fletcher. “Terry and Jerry, still together after all these years. Who would’ve believed this is how it would all end?”
***
My fellow Americans, it is with the heaviest of hearts that I address you this evening.
As you no doubt are aware, our nation is currently facing a crisis of historic proportions. Many of you have already been forced to watch loved ones suffer through the effects of the Eko virus; perhaps you’re even suffering from it yourself. Our experts believe this to be the worst global viral outbreak since the flu pandemic that followed the end of the First World War, and we must steel ourselves for similar results.
Our hospitals are overwhelmed with new cases, and our front-line people are doing eve
rything they can to treat the sick and ensure the virus is contained as well as it possibly can be.
This outbreak would challenge the resources of even the strongest of nations on its own. But at the same time, America’s electronic infrastructure has been attacked by an enemy state. You have likely already seen the results of this in the form of rolling electrical blackouts and spotty reception with your communications devices. Simply put, things just don’t work as well as they used to.
Worse, we have seen evidence that the effects of this attack have begun to spread globally. This means our communications with our allies have become less than reliable, and relationships with a number of foreign powers that wish us harm have been seriously destabilized.
Under our current circumstances, America is, unfortunately, unable to continue functioning as a civilian-led society. Therefore, this administration is ordering a military intervention on the advice of the FAA, FEMA, and other government departments. We have thought long and hard about this course of action and—ahem, excuse me, I have a frog in my throat—we can see no alternative. We must plan for the future, a future in which America the bold, the brave, and the free continues in the strongest possible fashion.
Oh, for Christ’s sake. Let’s speak the truth here: America is now officially under martial law. I wish to God we had another alternative, but we don’t. What? I know I’m off script, Jerry. I don’t care.
My fellow Americans, even if you’ve never listened to me in the past eight years, even if you didn’t vote for me and you think I’m a complete idiot, or an asshole or a traitor, or everything else they call me on social media, I beg you to listen to me now: The National Guard is now under federal control and will soon be deployed en masse throughout the streets of America. They will be armed.
You can stop with the hand gestures, Jerry. I’m not going to sugarcoat this.
As of this moment, all American civilians are under a strict curfew. This applies to all citizens outside of those directly involved in military, police, health care and first responder business. All leave for these essential personnel is hereby cancelled indefinitely by executive order.
What does this mean for you citizens listening to me right now? Simple: stay home. Lock your door and stay inside. Please don’t call the police—They’re incredibly busy. Alongside their compatriots in the National Guard, they are the front line in keeping order during these trying times, and they need your respect and cooperation. Once order is restored and the crisis has passed, I give you my word that life will return to normal.
I implore you, my friends, to stay safe. This is only temporary. We will not be defeated. This is a disease and, it seems to me, something against which we can fight.
But we will not win this battle at the end of a sword, or down the barrel of a rifle. We will triumph through our social graces, our common sense, and our innate greatness. We must work together to stop the spread of this dreadful plague. We must deliver ourselves from the danger. We must entrust unto ourselves the power to conquer this terrible threat. Good night, and God bless.
***
Fredericks’s legs wobbled under him as another shock of turbulence hit the jet. Thank God it hadn’t interrupted the recording of the message, Fletcher thought. Even as it was, no one on board could be sure how much of the transmission had actually made it to the other end to be broadcast.
“I apologize for that, Jerry,” he said as he rose and tugged the tie loose from his collar. “I didn’t want my final message to the American people to be a total lie. They deserved to know what was going to start happening around them.”
Fredericks nodded. “I wasn’t sure how far you wanted to go.”
“Even with them knowing that the National Guard is coming, there’s going to be armed resistance. But I had to do what I could to try to lessen it. I mean, everything from this point on is a Hail Mary, right?” He snorted a chuckle. “Terry and Jerry and their Hail Marys.”
“You gave them hope,” said Hendricks. “That’s all any president could possibly do under the circumstances.”
Fletcher shook his head. Much of his seven years in office had been spent repairing relationships with what seemed like half the goddamn globe, and earning the trust of the American people at a time when the nation’s economy was struggling while China’s was surging.
And then in the last month, fate chose him as the one president out of forty-six who got to oversee the collapse of the republic. He was responsible for giving people hope in a hopeless situation.
“They’re too smart for that,” he said. “The time for self-delusion is over.”
Another rap at the door. The intern poked her head in, eyes wide behind her glasses. Behind her, Fletcher could hear the rest of the staff talking frantically.
“B-beg your pardon, sir,” she stammered. “Secretary Chase is, um, waiting to speak to you. He said it’s urgent.”
Fletcher pinched the bridge of his nose. What wasn’t urgent right now?
“Put him through.” He turned to Fredericks. “Take notes. He probably has an update on the deployment of the Guard.”
At that moment, a lanky black man with a weathered face and a fringe of white hair around his skull appeared on the screen. He wore a grey suit that looked a size too big for him. Behind him, the walls of the room were also gray, stark and unadorned. He was at Cheyenne Mountain Complex, where Air Force One was currently headed.
“Mr. President,” the man said with a nod.
“Marcus. What’s happening?”
Chase’s gaze flitted to Fredericks. “Can we have the room, Jerry?”
Fredericks glanced at Fletcher, who nodded. “See if you can get those people out there to calm down, will you?”
The press secretary returned the nod. Another wave of frantic noise wafted into the office as the door opened and closed behind him.
Fletcher folded his arms over his chest and propped his butt against the corner of his desk. “All right, Marcus, what’s so hush-hush that Jerry can’t hear it?”
Chase had a good fifteen years on Fletcher, and all of them showed on his haggard face right now. As if their current situation wasn’t bleak enough, the man had been battling brain cancer for the last three months. He’d assured his commander-in-chief when he was diagnosed that he was still able to do his job, and Fletcher hadn’t argued. Then, as the events of the last couple of weeks unfolded, it had become imperative to keep Chase in his job.
“I saw the broadcast, Terry,” the older man said quietly. “You shouldn’t have worded it the way you did. That part about the point of the sword and the barrel of the rifle.”
Fletcher bristled. He’d given his cabinet free rein to criticize him when he appointed them—it was a tactic he’d borrowed from Lincoln—but he didn’t like Chase’s tone or familiarity, even if he was one of the most decorated military men in U.S. history. Fletcher himself had never served.
“Duly noted,” he said evenly. “Is that all? I’ve got a lot to do and miles to go before I sleep.”
Chase sighed deeply; Fletcher thought he’d never seen the man look so exhausted.
“Fewer miles than you might think,” said Chase.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Look out the window.”
Fletcher turned his head to the left toward the bank of windows that lined the left wall of his office. His guts clenched as he watched the lights of the Eagle rapidly disappearing into the inky night sky.
“What the hell is going on, Marcus?” he barked. “Did you order my escort away?”
“Yes,” said Chase. “I owe you the truth, Terry. And, to be honest, I still held out a glimmer of hope for you up until that speech. But now I realize you’re just not a team player. I should have admitted it to myself sooner—you’re never going to be on board with this.”
“On board with what?” Fletcher’s alarm was slowly creeping its way toward panic. “This is your commander-in-chief speaking. Send those fighters back now.”
<
br /> On the screen, he watched Chase stand and shamble his way to the door behind him. He flipped the deadbolt, locking the room, then returned to his seat in front of the camera.
“We don’t have a lot of time,” Chase said. “I imagine the Secret Service people outside your office are already trying to reach the joint chiefs about the escort. They’ll put two and two together soon enough—it happened within minutes of me calling you, after all, how could they not—which means they’ll be coming for me soon.”
The world tilted under Fletcher as if the jet had hit another pocket of turbulence. His felt his face twist, but whether it was in fear or fury, he’d never know.
“What the fuck is going on here?” he snapped. “You better answer me right now, Chase, or I swear to God you’ll be in a cell in Leavenworth by morning.”
Chase tented his fingers under his chin and tilted his head to the side.
“I’ll be in a cell soon enough,” he sighed. “But it’ll be here in Cheyenne Mountain. This is where I’ll die. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry it had to turn out this way.”
Before Fletcher could answer, he caught the flicker of lights outside the office window again. They grew larger as a pair of aircraft approached the jet from the northeast, and he felt a wave of relief at the sight of them. The situation was under control again.
He turned his attention back to the man on the screen and saw just how much of a shell Chase had become over the past few months. The toll of his illness seemed to suddenly crush the man.
“Look, Marcus,” said Fletcher. “I understand that you’re tired, and you’re probably not thinking right. Why don’t you get yourself down to the infirmary? At the very least they should be able to make you more comfortable. I’ll get Benton to take over—”
Chase gave him a weak smile. “You think this is the tumor,” he said. “Afraid not. I’m thinking more clearly than I have in my entire life. I just wish you were, too. But it’s too late for either of us to turn back now.”
Fletcher frowned. That cold sensation in his guts was back, stronger this time.
