Dark Alignment

by David Haskell

  After going around the room, hearing more details than he knew what to do with, Webster had reached one inescapable conclusion. The attacks were coordinated in such a way that pinning it on any one country or group was next to impossible. There would be no quick and ready enemy to blame.

  “Give me a list of possible culprits, at least,” Webster ordered, “I want to know who was in on it from top to bottom. Maybe we can’t go to war against the world, but I want to know who our enemies are.”

  “I’ll have it for you within the hour,” the chairman promised. “I’ll need that much time to make sure it’s thorough.”

  “Within the hour is fine. And we’re going ahead with a strike at some point, so get a brief prepared on how all that’s going to work as well, please. That’s all.”

  The quick dismissal was standard procedure; brief, intense meetings followed by immediate action. Webster, as former secretary of state, was intimately familiar with the workings. Being the one to give the orders, though, was a different thing altogether. Heady and grave all at that same time. A single misstep, and lives would be unnecessarily lost. He wasn’t sure if he liked the power or not, but it did give him a rush, there was no denying that.

  * * *

  President Webster had made one further decision designed to impact the nation and the world, one that his lawyers were not entirely comfortable with, but he didn’t care. By formally dropping the ‘acting’ part of his title, he was sending a message. There would be no snap election, no constitutional wrangling. He was the president, period, and that left no room for doubt.

  “Well, President Webster…Mister President,” the freshly minted first lady crooned, inching closer to him and relaxing into their luxurious new bed, “I like it. Has a nice ring.”

  “You think so, hmm?” He kissed her softly, then again with more urgency.

  “You haven’t had a break in ages, Randall. Push back the wake-up call and sleep in a bit. Sound good?”

  Webster nodded, picking up the phone to order the change. It was their first Saturday in the people’s house, no reason to knock themselves out at the crack of dawn. Of course, odds were high that something would happen that would result in an early wake-up call anyway, but there was always hope. His wife wrapped her arms around him as he hung up and leaned her way.

  * * *

  The president slept soundly until 6:15, when the re-set wake up call came in. While nothing had occurred overnight to prompt an earlier awakening, events had taken place that required his attention. He hurriedly showered and dressed, receiving a peck on the cheek as he adjusted his tie. The first lady, too, would be busy all day, getting the east wing staff organized; they wouldn’t see each other until late afternoon, if then.

  As for the commander in chief, his day would be filled with top-secret meetings, with very little time devoted to the public. It would have to be that way for a while, the nation still playing defense, world events locked into crisis mode. That wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

  He was able to fit some brief pleasantries into the day. Being a typical presidential weekend, the schedule was just a tiny bit lighter than the norm. Even in times of crisis this was true. A carry-over from wartime burdens so great, no man could possibly see to them seven days a week without having a breakdown.

  As then, this was one of those times, and Randall Webster needed a break, just as those other powerful figures had. With the transition being so extreme, he didn’t even enjoy the benefit of past experience from his predecessor to fall back on. And there were only two living presidents to speak with, one of whom well into his eighties and in the throes of dementia, so there were precious few pieces of advice for him to absorb. He’d already spoken with the lucid one twice, and planned a face-to-face meeting sometime in the coming weeks, but that only went so far. The situation was so far gone, only Webster himself could know the feeling.

  * * *

  By lunchtime, Webster’s nerves had deteriorated to the point where he was seriously contemplating faking an illness. Not that he needed to engage in such nonsense in order to get some alone time, but his psyche was still accustomed to such lower-rank shenanigans. Now that he was boss, others would cover no matter the true reason, but somehow that made it even more pathetic that he was feeling overwhelmed.

  Deciding to get a real handle on things, he ordered up a bloody steak and fries and set about contacting the only world leaders he felt he could trust. If others in his own country couldn’t understand his position, those few around the world who’d ‘been there’ certainly could. Though many were enemies, or provisional allies at best, there were a number of stalwarts he could rely on. He spoke to three of them as he devoured his ‘caveman-special’; the prime ministers of Canada, Japan, and his old U.K. college buddy, who just happened to be in charge over there as well.

  In between musings and complaints, Webster learned a number of facts he’d not been apprised of by his own people. This surprised and angered him, giving him the stark realization that he should’ve taken care of this international outreach first and foremost. Big mistake number one. He couldn’t afford many more.

  According to the leader of Japan, a number of Asian allied forces had conspired with the Eastern European consortium. This meant the world was essentially against them, but he already knew that. On the European front, Germany was waffling and might not hold. A bit of good news. And from the Americas, he confirmed that Canada remained their true friend. No news there.

  What was more shocking was the sort of bedfellows this bizarre situation had produced. Africa, the middle-east, third world South America—all had rallied around the aggressors as if smelling blood in the water. Given the strength of the United States even now, hobbled though the government was by the attacks, it made no sense. An act of insanity. Unless they knew something he and his colleagues didn’t. He had to wonder what the consortium, particularly the Russians, had up their sleeves. Webster couldn’t imagine what might evoke such loyalty.

  His British prime minister friend had a theory. For the first time in history, a powerful voting block of adversaries had united, consisting of corporate and private sector concerns. Both forces had come out as one, in favor of a weakened America, surely a first in modern history. An altogether bizarre turn of events—hard to believe even as much as Webster trusted his friend—but perhaps they thought they could play both sides? It was difficult to know for certain who was moving against America and her allies, not with the shadowy protections of corporate citizen-hood the supreme court was in the habit of awarding these days. It was possible this was the work of a mere handful of malcontents. It was just as possible this was a concerted effort to undermine American hegemony, now and forever. They would have to dig deeper to know for sure.

  Webster promised to keep in contact with his peers, vowing to get to the bottom of things, and share whatever information he found. Promises that weren’t expected to be kept, not at such high levels, but protocol had to be followed. He was sure his counterparts held their own secrets, sharing only what was necessary to keep their allies on the right side. Even so, he trusted these three more than most of his American colleagues, and certainly more than any other world leaders. He had yet to put together a staff he could rely on, a fact he needed to rectify, so for now this was all he had. At least he was in better shape than he’d been an hour ago.

  15.

  With empty skies and a constant military presence, the stark contrast between ordinary life and the ‘new normal’ of a nation under siege was palpable. For Dean Eckert, the situation brought on a distinct sense of unreality; flitting about in a military chopper, on a beeline for the White House, not a single commercial jet to be seen in all the horizon. It felt like a dream.

  He was aware of the reasons behind his sudden importance, but he was still surprised with the speed and efficiency in which he’d been bumped to the front. Jo and Shane had been left in his dust, his own protests to the contrary. He would’ve liked to have them
along, but instead they would follow several hours behind, on the ground. Only a handful of VIP’s were granted flying privileges at all, Dean being one of them. He kept thinking he was about to wake up from this mindjob, find himself alone at home as if none of it had ever happened.

  He dismissed the line of thought and turned his attention to the information he was to convey. He needed to be clear, concise, and brief, that’s what his handlers had repeated every step of the way. He went over his notes mentally once more, making sure his time with the president would be productive.

  The last thing he wanted to do was waste time. Though it would be a challenge to condense all he knew into a few minutes worth of briefing, he felt confident that he was up to the challenge. By now he’d explained his conclusions, and his reasoning, dozens of times. He’d spent more time in the presence of VIP officials than the rest of his peers had in their entire careers. And then there were the civilian scientists, each more illustrious than the last. They all agreed—Dean Eckert was on to something, and it needed to be shared.

  The pomp and circumstance of a White House visit was something Eckert had actually been looking forward to. He was thus disappointed in being hustled through a back door, escorted through cavernous, windowless corridors, and into a basement office. There he was made to wait for almost two hours, without so much as an offer for coffee. So much for formalities.

  Guards were posted at the opened door, and more military men roamed the halls. It seemed he was picking up armed escorts as he went, each more surly than the last. Dean was beginning to feel like a criminal all over again, far distant from that supposed savior others had convinced him he was. More like a prisoner being kept in a cell, than an honored guest in the people’s house.

  * * *

  When President Webster arrived ninety minutes later, he was flanked not by administration officials, but by more armed servicemen and what looked like personal bodyguards. The sense of being under siege intensified, and Dean found himself feeling even more like an accused man. A warm smile from the newly inaugurated leader eased his discomfort slightly, but his guard was still up.

  Dean stood. Unsure of the proper protocol, he half-extended a hand, then drew it back and waited for the other man to make the first move. “Mr. President?” It wasn’t a question, he just didn’t know what else to say. It was all so surreal.

  “Dr. Eckert,” replied President Webster, “I hope they made you comfortable while you waited?”

  Eckert looked around with a sarcastic eye, as if some nice furniture might have been missed on first glance. The president ignored it, so Eckert stowed the attitude and simply nodded.

  “Good!” the president boomed. “Well, we’ve got a lot to discuss, so let’s get to it.” He motioned for the guards to leave. After a few threatening glances in Dean’s direction, they left them alone. Dean took in a breath. The room smelled stale, like it’d been used for smoking a long time ago.

  * * *

  “I have to say it’s impressive,” the president remarked when Dean was finished with the broad strokes, “you figuring things out without even knowing what was going on on the ground. Exceptionally impressive. So, now I need you to bring me up to speed on your latest…”

  Dean found himself warming to the man, despite the shabby treatment he’d endured on arrival. He knew that had less to do with the president than with the extreme situation.

  “Well, sir,” Dean said, mentally preparing himself for the simplified version everyone seemed to want, “it wasn’t such a matter of smarts as it was thinking outside the box. What I realized was, we were looking at something outside the parameters of known science. There are tons of alternative theories out there, but none of them have been able to hold up against what’s already been established. Newtonian physics, Einstein’s relativity. It all—”

  “Hang on a second, doctor,” the president interrupted, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to jump ahead some. I’ve already read the file, and I’m familiar with your conclusions.” He pointed to his watch. “What I need to know is how you pinpoint it. What signs to look for. That sort of thing. And theories on how to combat the damned thing, too.”

  Dean was taken aback. Of course it was stupid of him to assume the president would need a full accounting of what he’d already told a dozen of his top advisors. It’d just seemed as though that was the point of the visit. Apparently not.

  “Well, how to find it and what to do with it all comes down to an unpopular assumption about dark matter and dark energy.”

  “What assumption is that?”

  “That they don’t exist, sir.”

  The president whistled, then nodded for him to continue.

  “But there is something out there that accounts for the math,” Dean explained. “There always is. The numbers never lie. And it does all add up when you factor in my hypothesis.”

  “That gravity’s gone haywire, and it’s seeping into higher dimensions?”

  “Right. Sounds crazy, I know, but it’s an established fact that gravity’s the only force that exerts itself—”

  “Across the extra dimensions.”

  “Right. We just never realized before how the exertions can work both ways.”

  The president thought for a moment. “The higher dimensions are pushing back, that’s what you’re telling me?”

  “Right.”

  “And causing all these gravimetric anomalies.”

  “Apparently so,” Dean confirmed.

  “And you believe this despite the consensus of most of your colleagues?”

  Dean nodded. “So when you toss out the old ideas and approach the math with an assumption that all the dark stuff is nothing but false positives—”

  “That’s how you find the real coordinates,” finished the president.

  “Exactly!”

  The president was about to say something else when there was a knock. It startled Dean, but the president seemed to have been expecting it. He called the aid in, leaning in so the man could report in low tones. Dean didn’t attempt to listen in, but still he felt awkward.

  “Well,” the president announced, slapping his hands on his legs in a gesture of finality, “I’m afraid we’ll have to leave it there. I’ve another important conference to get to, and I assume you’ve got a lot to get to as well?”

  Dean nodded, unsure of whether to thank the man for his time or what other protocol he was missing. The president paid him no further notice, offering only a curt nod before slipping out of the room, leaving Dean alone with the aid.

  * * *

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, Colonel Douglas,” the president said.

  “Quite all right, sir,” Shane replied crisply. He’d stood and followed protocol to the letter, but the president quickly offering him a seat and told him to relax.

  “So, I understand my predecessor had you on the case already?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you were tending to the needs of the mission at Wilkinson Seabase when the terrorists struck?”

  Shane paused. The mix of survivor’s guilt and ordinary regret, that he could have, should have done more, should have seen it coming, was painful. He knew the president wasn’t bringing it up for that reason, but it took a moment for him to remind himself of that.

  “I was, sir.”

  “That can’t have been easy, son. I can only imagine.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “We lost a lot of good Americans down there,” President Webster said, waxing poetic for a moment, “military, civilian. Good people. And vitally important people at that.”

  Shane didn’t know how to answer that.

  “You’ve got Doctor Eckert squared away then?”

  “Sir?”

  “He’s in good shape. Knows what needs to be done?”