Dark Alignment

by David Haskell

  “Can you give us a rough estimate of how many volunteers we’ve been seeing in town recently? It seems the city has exploded with good samaritans.”

  Masters smiled, sitting back and crossing his legs in a confident, easy air. He was becoming used to this. “Absolutely. We’ve been getting a significant influx of folks come to help us build up those walls, and they’ve been an amazing help. To answer your question, we estimate there are somewhere between three to five thousand volunteers working with the local folks. Including, I should say, an impressive showing of cameramen and reporters and other media folks who’ve been helping as their duties permit. And we do appreciate it. Every little bit helps.”

  “Indeed it does,” the lady reporter smiled, “and on that note, for those who can’t get here in person, the town has set up donation centers. The details will appear on the bottom of your screen.”

  “Thank you for mentioning that,” Masters said, air-tipping his brow in thanks.

  “Now, we need to talk about what happens next. So far the effort to contain the phenomenon has been remarkably effective, but do you expect it to hold out?”

  26.

  As far as the world was concerned, the president was still in charge. Operating from an undisclosed location for the sake of national security, but still in charge. The speaker of the house dared not break that illusion, not until he knew more. With no vice president to fall back on, the mantle of power ostensibly fell on his shoulders, but a shake up like that—on top of everything else—would undoubtedly cause a constitutional crisis. The Supreme Court would step in. And given the state of affairs, they could do anything. Call for a snap election, re-interpret the line of succession maybe. Then there were the people on the street. What might they do if they lost faith in their government? Take matters into their own hands?

  The fact of the matter, however, was that the president was not in charge. For all the speaker knew, he might even be dead. So it fell to the speaker to decide what to do. With the war. With the humanitarian crisis. All of it.

  For now, he would claim an expanded state of emergency, and offer immediate aid. But financial aid only. No persons, no materials, could be spared. A paltry outreach at best, but they had little choice. Already stretched to the breaking point, there was no way to commit forces to humanitarian efforts. The logistics alone were beyond their capabilities, and the trouble at home too grave. Plus the speaker wasn’t even sure if the military would obey such a risky order from an untested leader.

  To that end, he began to put out feelers to the Joint Chiefs, see where they stood on the succession issue. They’d been whisked away to God knows where, but that didn’t stop him. The speaker would call in every favor he’d banked in all his years in power if he needed to, but he would get some answers, before he committed himself to a path of no return.

  * * *

  “Good morning, Mr. President,”—the wrinkled visage of a gaunt woman, blurry at first and hard to make out, peered down her nose at him—“how are you feeling?”

  Pushing up through his medicated fog, Webster tried to sit up. A flood of nausea washed over him, followed by a stark weakness. He fell back into the pillow.

  “Take it easy,” she said, her voice a raspy, casual blend, “you’ve been through a trauma. Give it time.”

  He wracked his brain to recall what happened. The accident came back in a rush, but following that, there were only bits and pieces. Gunfire? A struggle. One of his secret service detail going down, at the hands of one of his own? That made no sense, but it was one of the clearer images he had of the event. Then other figures, fighting. In the end it all blended together in a haze of confusion.

  “How’d I get here?” he asked, hearing his own rasp as a dry, painful scratch hit his throat. He coughed. She placed a cup to his lips. When the cold water touched them, he sucked desperately.

  “Easy,” she said, pulling the cup away before he could make himself sick.

  “You,”—he gasped for air, feeling better for the drink but still desperately weak—“nurse?”

  She laughed. Amused, but not mean spirited.

  “I’m a federal employee, Mr. President. And a member of the White House staff.” He must have looked confused, because she added, “Your staff, sir. You’re safe, now, and you’re in good hands. Get some rest, and I’ll explain more when you’re feeling up to it.”

  He was already half-asleep, though he seemed to remember waving goodbye to her just as another entered the room, bending down and saying something he couldn’t quite make out. Through the fog, he looked over and noticed the I.V. drip for the first time, and that second person was doing something with it. He felt the pleasant effects of the fresh influx of medication, but only for a few seconds. Then unconsciousness set in.

  * * *

  He awoke to that same raspy-voiced woman hovering over the bed, though it occurred to him that she looked different. Changed clothes, maybe? Or her hair. His head was still too fuzzy to process details with any accuracy.

  “How long?” he asked, cutting his question short as he felt a cough coming on. But his voice felt stronger. A good sign.

  “You were asleep for nearly fourteen hours. The doctor came by an hour ago and gave you a clean bill. We can leave whenever you’re ready.”

  “Who are you?” he demanded, not bothering to keep the accusation out of his tone. He regretted the sharp tone, however, when the coughing spasm came, but he ignored it and stared her down.

  “My name is Zera Zellweiger, which I’m sure you could obtain from any of a number of sources. My associates often refer to me as Director Zee, incidentally, but more important than my name is the agency I direct. We’re a division of the NSA, though our branch is disassociated. Which makes us more of a faction, really. Independently controlled and funded through your office, though you’d be hard pressed to find anyone in the White House who’s aware of that fact. Most of my associates know me as Director Zee, though that seems a touch presumptuous here.”

  Disassociated. Sounds about right. “Alright, Ms. Zellweiger,”—Webster made it a point to avoid the familiarity of the ‘Director Zee’ moniker—“what can you tell me about the attack? Was it an inside job?”

  “We’re not entirely sure, but that’s the working theory,”—she shrugged, giving the comment an air of casual indifference—“your political enemies have infiltrated deeper than we’d anticipated, that much has been confirmed. When we learned of the danger, we put plans in motion to counter the threat. Very nearly too late, as it happened. Double agents aren’t as reliable as they used to be.”

  “I think my security detail must have been compromised.”

  “They were. But they’ve been dealt with. You can rest easy on that front.”

  Webster resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Ms. Zellweiger, I won’t be resting easy until I’m back in the Oval, with a squadron of handpicked soldiers outside the door. No offense, but I don’t take great comfort in being in the hands of some agency, not even one of mine. Speaking of that, aren’t you the least bit concerned about having an incommunicado president? I take it you’ve concocted a cover story for that?”

  “Of course, Mr. President. But it won’t hold up for long. Which is fine, because we don’t intend to keep you for long. But there are some things you need to know before our business is concluded.”

  “I figured as much,” he said, propping himself up and feeling surprised at how fit he felt, all things considered. “What do I need to know?”

  “First and foremost, the anomaly is intensifying far more rapidly than we anticipated, and its effects aren’t even close to the majority prediction.”

  “Yes, I know that. I had a scientific advisor who told me as much.”

  “Dean Eckert. Yes, he was entirely correct. Which means he’s in considerable danger.”

  “Jesus, they’re going after the scientists now?” What was this, a Tom Clancy novel? That didn’t seem so far off the mark at this point.

 
“Once they go after the president, the rest starts to pale in comparison. But in any case, yes, they’re after Dr. Eckert as well. I’ve got my top agent on it, but until we hear from her we have to assume he’s been eliminated.”

  “Why are they so desperate to stifle the truth? It’s not like anyone’s arguing the anomaly isn’t real.”

  Zellweiger nodded, rising and walking to the foot of the bed. She seemed suddenly lost in thought. “I’ll grant you it’s odd,” she said distantly, “we’ve been trying to work it out ourselves. The most logical answer is this, that someone stands to gain from the misinformation. That’s always the case. Someone with powerful friends and a long reach wants the people to be misinformed. And whoever that is doesn’t care about the consequences.”

  “Certainly they’d be concerned with committing treason, though. Wouldn’t they?” Hell of a consequence.

  Zellweiger shrugged. “That would depend on the reward. Some people are willing to take great risks.”

  Webster had heard enough. “Okay, fine. My enemies are out to kill me, silence the truth and take over the world. What are my options?”

  * * *

  By mid-afternoon, judging by the light filtering into the room, Webster felt well enough to get up. He used the bathroom, then walked slowly back to the bed, giving his weakened muscles a stretch. Once more he was surprised at how good he felt since he’d last awoken, and made a mental reminder to ask the doc how he’d managed to do such good work.

  Shuffling over to the window, he was surprised to find himself in the middle of a cityscape, though it wasn’t immediately familiar. Definitely not D.C., though he could see a few decent sized buildings off in the distance. At least a mid-sized city, or else they were on the outskirts of someplace bigger. He wasn’t even entirely sure it was in the United States. He was surprised not to find himself in some sort of bunker, but in the middle of normal civilization. A glance below revealed no cars nor pedestrians in the immediate area. They must have cordoned it off for his benefit.

  “False gravimetric zone,” came a familiar, raspy voice from the doorway. Webster turned to look at Director Zee, who motioned toward the window. “That’s how we kept the public out. We couldn’t have anyone snooping around, of course—your presence here had to be top secret.”

  “I suppose I should thank you for that,” the president said.

  “Feel well enough to travel?” she asked.

  Webster thought about it. He was already feeling stir-crazy, so getting out sounded like an excellent idea. He made one more inward check to gauge his stamina level, then gave her the nod and made for the closet.

  * * *

  One of his first commands, now that he was well enough to give them, was for his Joint Chiefs to disappear. This move was designed to stave off the speaker from trying to seize power, giving the administration some much needed breathing room. His next order of business was to disappear as well. His absence wouldn’t be much of a secret around beltway circles. What wouldn’t be so well known was the fact that he wasn’t even going to be in the country. For that matter, he wouldn’t be in any country at all, but instead would be plying international airspace, receiving mid-air refueling as needed, and staying as far away from the contaminated zones as possible. Crisscrossing the arctic circle, the flight crew employed creative navigation to keep them not only in the Northern Hemisphere, but also within easy reach of a state, territory, or military base capable of receiving the heavy at a moment’s notice.

  No place was truly safe, but the commander in chief had to conduct his business from somewhere. And so the business of state went forward at forth-thousand feet. There was a mock setup onboard, certain White House backdrops and such that, coupled with computer trickery and careful rendering, could deceive most casual observers. The trickiest problem was the noise from the jets. It was impossible to disguise them entirely, which wouldn’t do if he was attempting to convince the people he was speaking to them from Pennsylvania Avenue. So in true Hollywood fashion, the decision to go silent was made.

  Silent running a jumbo jet—Air Force One in particular—was unprecedented. The pilot insisted on consulting with aviation experts before signing off. While most expressed reluctance, the majority of them admitted it could be accomplished, in relative safety, so long as certain precautions were taken. A low-fuel decent from the maximum ceiling should, in theory, buy them enough time. A decent margin of error, with enough altitude to handle the restart of the massive engines even if things didn’t go perfectly, was crucial as well. Even though no one was a hundred precent on the gambit, the president gave the go-ahead.

  The difficulty of shooting a mock White House setting while in a fairly steep glide was not nearly as bad as it seemed. Once everyone became accustomed to the disconcerting sensation of being in a jumbo jet without engines, the process went smoothly enough. The president didn’t actually handle his remarks in this way, that would have taken far too long. He simply mugged for the cameras in a series of casual snippets, including off the cuff remarks to ‘the media’, followed by the actual speech. That, he handled from the office in the plane itself. Jet engines fully operational, he simply handled the new material as if he’d just departed Washington for emergency consultations with his peers abroad. He was beginning to feel like the Wizard of Oz. All the subterfuge, the smoke and mirrors, and the fact that he wasn’t feeling particularly powerful, was eating at him all the more as he jumped through increasingly ridiculous hoops.

  The next day they were able to land for a couple of hours. A welcomed relief for all, they even shot more ‘White House’ footage from a soundstage, followed by an outdoor shot of what was designed to look like the rose garden. A quick stretch of the legs, and the president was indeed on his way to confer with world leaders as claimed, just one day late. He’d had to wait out one more news cycle, but more importantly he’d needed another day to rid himself of the battered, beaten affect of an injured man. All the Hollywood magic in the world couldn’t hide everything, and amateur cameramen would be sure to capture his every move once he made his reappearance.

  “One more thing,” the president told his chief of staff as they prepared for the day to come, “I want you to get me Speaker Carver as soon as we’re in range.”

  The chief nodded, slipping over to a wall phone to confer with the communications crew. He returned to the desk after a minute. “We’re in range now sir. They’re contacting his office.”

  “Good,” said the president, turning to his computer monitor just as the presidential seal dissolved into the harried, flustered visage of the speaker of the house.

  “Wharton!” the president boomed. “Good morning! I trust I didn’t wake you?” Man looks like an unmade bed, Webster thought, cheerfully reveling in the bleary-eyed frown worn by his rival.

  The speaker, clearing his throat, made a show of looking around the room before offering a reply.

  “Oh, come on Wharton,” the president continued his cajoling, “it’s not like the secret service is going to come bursting through your door.” Webster allowed a grin to cross his face. “So relax. I just needed to check in with you is all.”

  “Oh?”

  “Nothing to worry about, Wharton. Nothing at all. Listen,”—He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, moving his face closer to the camera and staring straight into it—“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, my friend, but I think you probably know that I’m going to be needing something from you today.” He winked. He actually found himself enjoying this moment, though the wink was probably a little much.

  The speaker swallowed, clearing his throat again. “Is this about my resignation, Mr. President?”

  The president nodded, slowly, and smiled. “I’m glad we understand each other, Wharton. I really am sorry it has to come to this.” He wasn’t sorry, but he had the luxury of acting gracious about it. The speaker was a dead man walking—though his execution date would have to be postponed for a while, for appearance’s sake. Ju
st the resignation would be enough for now.

  27.