With Respect,
PVT Hubert Garner.”
“Well, he certainly thinks highly of you.” Kelly said. “Wish I had an admirer.”
Daniel raised his eyes over the paper. “Oh, don’t worry. Your secret admirer is closer than you think.” He reached for her again but a second page to the letter fell out. Picking it up he read it without pause. “Agent Daniel Sawyer, USSS.’ I guess he got the news.” Daniel felt bad. “Drill Sergeant Kemper and I were both surprised when we learned you had been recruited by the Secret Service, but then after graduation he said some men were meant for greater things than just the Army. I’m not sure I’m excited to be here with no chance of my friend being by my side at any point, but that’s just a naive Private’s notion of the Army from the movies.
I got my orders today too, but I think after so many boring-ass Power Point presentations on Operational Security I get the picture that we have enemies besides Vic. All I think it’s kosher to say is that I’ve been stationed in 4th ID, but I’m sure you already know that since it was Colonel Sharp that authorized my transfer here.” Daniel’s face paled, but he kept reading. “He said it would be irresponsible of him to let one of his star student’s buddies just be tossed into the field with no one to look out for him. We’re supposed to ship out somewhere north this week, so I won’t have time to write again until after we get where we’re going.
With Respect
PV2 Hubert Garner
PS You left your stupid looking sword in my room. Colonel Sharp said I could keep it. Suckah!”
“Shit.” Kelly finished Daniel’s sentence for him.
“There’s nothing we can do.” Daniel set the letters down on his coffee table. “If they’ve promoted that motherfucker to light-colonel, then he’s already untouchable. I don’t even know that threatening Sharp would make a difference now. If anything it would probably make things worse for Hugh. Maybe I should just let things be, let Sharp think he’s got a new apprentice. At least, maybe, that way Hugh won’t always draw the short straw.”
Kelly tried to be helpful. “Maybe there’s someone we can bribe to fudge the paperwork. Have your friend transferred to a rear area, or at least away from Sharp.”
“No. He’d know. Both of them would know it was me. Hugh’s determined, he doesn’t know what Sharp’s really like. If I found a way to get him out of that unit he’d never forgive me. He lost his whole family on the way to Lincoln, except his mother. And then she died of a previously curable disease a month before we got there. You know what I was doing in that month? Playing grab-ass with Sharp and that fucking retard Rambo, teaching my men how to march in stupid fucking lines…”
Laying a gentle hand on the back of Daniel’s neck, Kelly drew him in for a sympathetic kiss on the forehead. “We’re all doing what we can with what we have. The more you obsess over the variables that led you here, that led your friend to some tiny little town a thousand miles from home, the worse things will be for you. And I don’t want that for you.”
Daniel smiled, his cheeks blushing a little. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spoil the mood.” For a seemingly random girl his mother had introduced him to probably to further her own career as much as his, Daniel had to admit he cared a lot more about Kelly Hallstead than he thought he would. She wasn’t just some one night stand, two ships passing in the night or whatever the fuck metaphor you want to use. Kelly was legitimately a, or maybe even the woman he was meant for.
There was a knock at the door. “Can I come back in yet? My tie is still on my bed.” Shane’s muffled voice was heard in the hallway.
At the graduation ceremony an hour later, Daniel had a near panic attack when he saw a man in the audience that looked like he could be Jeffry Sharp’s twin. The same stupid pencil mustache, the same receding hairline being hidden by a flat-top haircut, but that man was in civilian clothes. A man so in love with himself, such as Sharp, would never be seen at a public event without his chest full of bullshit medals like a North Korean general. One speaker after another pontificated to the alarmingly small crowd gathered for the ceremony until finally a guest speaker not even the graduating recruits knew was coming took the stage.
“Good morning.” The President of the United States of America cleared his throat, letting what few cameras present snap pictures of him. Rarely seen in public now, Daniel understood why the President kept to himself. His hair was longer than it had been his entire two terms, and almost completely gray now. Someone had made him shave and put on a degree of makeup for the cameras, but his trousers were wrinkled and he smelled of menthol cigarettes, a luxury most could no longer come by. (How many boxes did this asshole have in private reserve?) How many people could have fit into the space he reserved for a vice he pretended to have given up on the campaign trail before Daniel was even old enough to follow the disgusting pageant that was politics? “My fellow Americans, I would, uh, like to take this moment to proudly welcome, uh, the latest graduating class of the United States Secret Service into my, uh, employ.” He paused, trying to remember what to say next. Daniel and the other recruits could see the small teleprompter on the podium freeze for a moment. When it continued scrolling the Most Historic President continued. “Through America’s darkest hour, these brave men and women, uh, stepped up to replace those who’d fallen in the line of duty before them. On a personal note, I, uh, must convey how grateful I am that despite the trials and tribulations of this great war, uh, the men and women of the Secret Service have dutifully, and at every turn protected not only myself, but uh, my family too. My daughters and my wife are still alive today, and I only have you, the United States Secret Service, to thank for it. So thank you. Thank you all.” With a thunderous round of applause that seemed improbable for such a small group of people, the President finally managed to stand a little taller. As if he’d spent so long tucked away in his bunker losing this war, avoiding The Witch, that he’d forgotten what adoration felt like. “And so, uh, today I’d like to announce my intention to bring before Congress a new plan.” The teleprompter froze but he went on. This was gloriously unscripted. “A plan to reclaim the continental United States with or without Texas, a plan that will see myself and my cabinet back in the real White House by the end of next year. God bless us, and God bless the United States of America.” Again, overwhelming applause.
It took several hours after the ceremony for the gravity of the President’s speech to sink in with the men and women who’d witnessed it. By that evening Daniel had not only told his mother he was going to be dating Kelly Hallstead exclusively, but the President also asked for Congress to authorize an effort to retake several ports along the Atlantic coast. Naturally the Chesapeake Bay was on that list, because what is America without Washington, DC? Other cities like Chicago, Detroit, Kansas City, Cleveland, New York, Charleston and Savannah were on the docket too. Any city north of the Mason-Dixon Line that might have some kind of resource or strategic value would be overrun with an entire army at a time, Vics and Rebs alike would simply be crushed under the massive onslaught of men and machines. And all the while the Secret Service would be standing next to POTUS in his halls of glittering gold, safe from all danger. All Daniel could think about was Hugh, and how none of that safety applied to him.
*
If Daniel had known the vast majority of his duty hours with the Secret Service would be spent sitting in front of various doors or standing for hours on end in meetings, none of which involved the almighty Potus, he might have told Agent Saint to fuck off a little more adamantly. The highest level official Daniel saw on a daily basis was the Secretary of the Interior, and he was a blithering idiot whose spray on tan made him look like a lumbering scarecrow with a pumpkin for a head. Nobody else was getting a nice tan under the mountain, how had he not noticed that it made him look like a deformed Umpa Lumpa? And then there was that. The startling revelation that these men of steel, men of power, were just like the rest of us… or something like that. They weren’t special, and
neither were any of their leadership capabilities. If there was one word to describe them all, it was adequate. The Government had in fact saved perhaps just under a quarter of the US population in only a few short months, all the while losing more than half their fighting forces in large scale confrontations with the undead. The huge battles left little more than recruits for the enemy army than their own until 1st VR.
The Government had saved, in the Cheyenne Community Complex Projects, some seventy million people, this was true, but the dark side of this victory was that they’d had to leave another 230-something-million people to their fate. How many of those people were now on Texas’ side was not a statistic Daniel had access to?
Pouring himself another cup of coffee, and realizing he would have to make another pot to get through the remainder of his shift, Daniel thought about calling for a personal relief break just for a change in scenery. A dusty shelf of books with Cheyenne Mountain Library cards in them, some dated as far back as 1970, offered an excuse for his superiors to claim there was something for him to occupy his time with. The best book in the lot was the idiotically funny fiction novel “Grunts” by Mary Gentle, last checked out the year it was published, 1992. Daniel had read it twice now, and each time he delved into the satirical Tolkien-esque universe he never failed to laugh himself into near sickness when the Orcs start trying to pick Squad names.
(Excerpt) One orc asked for permission to name his squad Black Squad, to which his superior responded, “No! We already have fifteen Black Squads, twelve Dark Squads, four Raven Squads, three Midnight Squads, one Sable Squad, one Ebony Squad, and,” she consulted a sheet of paper, “one Pink Squad. Hmm. Yes. Well…We’re all a little worried about Pink Squad…”
Another cup of coffee down and the percolator was only halfway done when Daniel heard the alarms sounding two stories below him. It took the mountain’s antiquated systems, now stretched beyond their original estimated capacity, a moment for every floor to register the general alarm. Like an old battleship the sirens spooled up and newer klaxons mixed a deep pulsing booooonk sound into an already ear-splitting air raid siren. The heavy submarine doors that kept the President safe clanked shut, the mechanisms so old rust chunks and bits of gravel were shaken loose from every crevasse and corner. After Daniel had already used bits of tissue paper to plug his ears the two competing alarms faded to just the underground echo of the air raid siren. A knock at the hatch behind his, which was the only way in through the south side of the mountain, was repeated three times in the appropriate pattern. He repeated the knock with the response, then got the final code over the radio of three keys on the mic.
Using some amount of force, Daniel opened his hatch and let two other agents inside, Shane and another man who’d been there for a while. “What’s going on?” Daniel appropriately asked.
“Riots in the underground tunnels. Levels fifty through fifty three are on complete lockdown, but it’s only a matter of time before they force the doors. They weren’t meant to keep invaders out once you’re this far inside, just radiation.” The unfamiliar agent responded. “Food rations got cut again, medicine too. Someone threw a molitov and set the Level 49 Distribution Center on fire. Sprinklers are online, but there’s repair work still underway to the main lines. Right now, there’s too many fires, not enough water, and far less than enough O2.”
“What does that mean?” Daniel had to ask, he knew what it meant though.
“That if the CNP’s can’t get the riots under control and put the fires out fast enough, everyone down there will suffocate long before water pressure builds to effectively fight it.”
“Are we evacuating POTUS?” Shane asked.
“Not yet. The Presidential floors have an emergency O2 scrubber and a completely different ventilation system. We’re safe here.”
Daniel and Shane shared a look, one pointed to the floors below. “But what about them?”
“No one but the First Family and the Cabinet are our problem.” The senior agent understood his subordinate’s feelings, but didn’t have much room in the job for sympathy. “The Civilian National Police can handle this. They’re made up of cops from every department in the US, and they’ve survived this long, they’re more than qualified to put down a riot.”
“Qualifications don’t matter for shit when you can’t breathe.” Shane felt the need to say aloud. It didn’t change the situation. After receiving word from the Special Agent In Charge, or Sage as one of the newcomers in Daniel’s graduating class had nicknamed the position, everyone was recalled to an even more interior location. Sometimes the Cold War era paranoia that drove the construction of this base seemed almost comical to Daniel, were it not for the realization that this moldy dump was how the US Government had been spending all those tax dollars for so many decades. He’d have honestly felt better knowing that it had all gone to keeping Aliens in Area 51 a secret. Alas, the US Government probably never was that competent.
The Sage was in the large meeting room where generals gathered in their masses, handing out Mp5’s to agents normally only armed with whatever pistol was available these days. “Good, we’re all here except the Special Agents at the gate…” The Gate was a polite euphemism for the twenty inch thick steel door that would be the only way in or out until the lockdown was over. “Alright, listen up. For those of you who were hoping this was just a drill, I have bad news. As we speak a full scale riot is underway just a few floors below us. Now, we know the civilians down there don’t have access to any kind of heavy weaponry, explosives or-”
FABOOOOM!
The lights flickered and more aging plaster fell from the ceiling. Everyone’s radio came alive at the same time with frantic reports from dozens of different stations. Special Agent McGowen, the Sage, keyed his mic and all the radios in the room let out an ear piercing squawk. After some cursing everyone turned their radios off except him.
“Master Control, this is Sage Lead, please report.” McGowen waited for a response almost longer than he should have. When it finally came, it was mostly garbled nonsense. “Special Agents Dennis and Vaughn,” McGowen pointed to two senior agents. “Go to MC, unfuck this radio situation. One of you report back to me as soon as you know something.”
Daniel decided not make waves and just waited for the Sage to get things organized. He really wanted to ask if anyone had thought to equip police and rescuers with oxygen tanks, or if any emergency crews were standing by to rescue people injured in the riots. Instead he settled for asking the only question that was pertinent his job. “Sir, where’s Potus right now?”
McGowen turned to face Daniel and Shane. “In the Nest Egg, which is where he and the Joint Chiefs will remain until order has been restored.” With all the ways in covered by men with automatic weapons there was little to do from the deep underground bunker. Even if there was no surrounding mountain, this part of the bunker could have sat in an open desert, taken a direct hit from any conventional ordinance in the world and shrugged it off like there had been no attack at all. Or so they were told. For the first time ever, Daniel was sickened by the notion of being too safe.
The order for all clear, that the riots in the lower caverns had been quelled, didn’t sound until almost three in the morning. Now six hours past the end of his regular duty shift, Daniel had taken to cleaning some of the extra weapons in storage just to pass the time and was knee deep in small mechanical parts when news of the event started to trickle in to the men guarding the President. None of it was good news, the earliest images of the aftermath on Level 53 were playing on repeat on a split screen in a lounge adjacent to the arms room as soon as connection with the Complex’s internal network was restored. On one side was the current view from security cameras, on the other was footage of the riots in progress. The opening shot, or in this case blow, had been from a CNP who hit a man with a riot baton when he started pushing his way to the front of a food line. The man’s friends had started throwing empty bottles at the FEMA workers and the cop, more Civi
lian National Police joined in and the rest was quickly becoming another tragic note in American history. As if it weren’t already bad enough that cannibal corpses walked the Earth, and that Texas was trying to destroy America, it was clear patriotic Americans were turning on each other too. Starved into desperation and yet well fed on hatred and stagnation, perhaps it was only a matter of time before this forced melting pot of humanity spilled over into frothy violence.
Shane turned his head away from the images of so many dead people lying in the trash strewn streets carved deep under Cheyenne Mountain. The UV floodlights cast a scene of absolute destruction, burned trailers, wrecked cars, every food distribution area and medical center looked like a bloody tornado had torn its way from one end to the other. The catastrophe, which could only be viewed in segments by cameras that weren’t destroyed and small radio controlled drones sent in by EMS. The ventilation system was working overtime to pump in fresh air and send out the carbon dioxide and smoke, cameras from orbiting helicopters showed vents belching out blackened air long after the fires were out, but the news reported that there was still so little oxygen inside the deeper sections of the level that it was impossible there would be survivors. Of a population of almost six thousand, only two hundred and seventy made it out before automatic lockdown procedures, designed in the 1980’s, completely cut off both police and rescuers. The large explosions everyone felt were the propane tanks meant to heat water and cook food. It was already theorized the concussive force, felt throughout the entire mountain and heard for miles nearby, had probably killed everyone in the immediate area outright, and damaged any internal hatches that would have allowed Cheyenne Mountain’s internal security to gain entry.
Several units of the Army and nearby elements of the Marine Corps had volunteered to use every ordinance at their disposal to blow a hole in the mountain to get the people out before it was too late. It was unclear why that order was never given approval, but probably because it wouldn’t have made a damned bit of difference.
World of Ashes II Page 29
