The invaders, however, had nowhere to go once they’d been surrounded and their supply lines cut.
It was exactly 1247 hours the next day when Texas received its first surrender. McAllister made a note of the time because he thought it would have significance in the years to come. Within hours, most of the fighting had tapered off, and more than ten thousand American troops had been taken as prisoners of war.
The Texas armed forces headquarters became a madhouse of joy as the word spread. Around 1700 hours, McAllister received a call from President of Texas Bret Tucker.
“Congratulations, General,” he said. “You and your people have done Texas a great service.”
“Thank you, sir,” answered McAllister. “But this is only one necessary victory. I’m afraid this might not be the end of the fighting as some expect.”
“It’s likely to at least be the beginning of the end. The U.S. State Department has unofficially floated a request for a ceasefire. I replied officially with a proposal of my own, to save them face. It won’t matter how it’s spun. Everyone will know Texas was victorious.”
“Only because they rushed the attack. They won’t do that next time.”
“Maybe there won’t be a next time. Mexico has also made overtures about withdrawing from its unofficial alliance with the U.S. and dismantling the blockade. They want trade reopened. I told them we were in favor of that.”
McAllister asked, “How long until a ceasefire becomes official?”
“No idea, so stay on your toes. It could be a ploy just to get us to lower our guard, but I don’t think so.”
McAllister looked up at the television screen, showing celebrations in front of the Capitol building in Austin. “Someone said you have a press conference scheduled.”
“I do,” said Tucker. “Lots to prepare for, but I had to congratulate you personally. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”
“I can’t take the credit, sir. It was the people in the fight that did it.”
“You can and you will –”
The line went dead.
McAllister looked at his communications officer, who was directing his technicians to try all their equipment. “There’s no service at all, sir. Austin just went black.”
As had the television screen.
Chapter 31
Layfield strode into the White House. The Unionist Party had been forced to exert all its power to get what she wanted, but in the end they were successful.
What use was power if not to wield it in times like these?
She was followed by a very unhappy military aide, carrying a thick heavy briefcase. Four Secret Service agents walked with them.
The door to the Oval Office already stood open. The President was there along with his chief of staff, the Secretary of State, and Secretary of Defense.
Layfield could just catch the last part of what was being said. “...can still find a way to salvage the situation.”
“No, we cannot,” said Layfield, walking in.
“I hardly think we need your help,” said Milligan angrily. “Not after all the mess you caused.”
Layfield turned to the Secret Service agents. “I need to speak to the President alone, please.”
“That’s not going to happen...” said Milligan his voice trailing off as one agent moved forward to gesture for him to leave. He looked at the President for help, but the tired man just sat behind his antique desk and rubbed his face.
“I won’t be long, gentlemen,” Layfield told them as they walked out. “I promise.”
The man with the briefcase turned to follow the departing staff. “Not you, dear,” said Layfield. “We’ll need you very close for the next few minutes.”
The President’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the military aide, who had only one job. The thick briefcase in his hand confirmed the reason for his presence.
The so-called leader of the free world began shaking his head back and forth slowly.
“Just set it up here,” said Layfield, indicating the desk in front of the President.
“I’m not going to do it. I did it once already – twice, really – pushed into it by my advisers who thought the virus could be contained early. It’s too late for that.”
“It’s too late not to do it. Don’t you realize that with what has happened in the last twenty-four hours, the situation is slipping out of control? India, Brazil, and Saudi Arabia have all recognized Texas as a nation in its own right. I insist you do something you’ve lost the strength of will to do on your own. You like to quote Lincoln. This is your chance to live up to his legacy, and save the union before it’s lost forever.”
“We’re in this situation because I listened to you and we attacked too hastily. Now you want more hasty action. Besides, we don’t have any tactical weapons ready – not ones that can penetrate their air defense anyway. We’d have to use an ICBM. So you want to start an all-out nuclear war with Russia or China?”
“As soon as we authorize the launch, our ambassadors will inform all relevant parties of what will happen, assuring them that this is an internal matter, and that they are in no danger.”
The military aide, whom Layfield had been assured was a fanatical Unionist, opened the case and presented it to her. She’d ensured that she was a valid control authority when the President authenticated the launch. Now it only required the two of them to do what needed to be done.
“Has the specific mission been entered?” she asked.
The aide nodded, a rapturous expression on his face.
“Good,” she said and then typed in her own eight-digit code. She turned the case toward the President.
“I told you, I’m not doing this again. Killing half a million people to save the rest was one thing. Killing millions more just to terrorize Texas back into the fold? Forget it.”
Layfield stepped around the side of the Presidential desk and reached under its lip to turn off the recorder she knew was there. “Upstairs, right now, your family is as confused and frightened as the rest of the country. They need someone to take control, to reestablish authority. I know this seems harsh, but it will be a blessing in the long run.”
The President stood, his face turning red. “What does my family have to do with this?”
“You know, they’re being guarded right now by people loyal to the Unionist cause. People who will do anything I say.”
He sat back down again. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Her eyebrows rose. “I wouldn’t dare have them infected with the Eden virus? I wouldn’t dare have them thrown into a camp? Do you really think I wouldn’t dare do those things?”
Gazing at it in horror, the President reached out to touch the briefcase with one finger, as if he were afraid of the contact.
Layfield sighed heavily. “If you can’t do it for your country, then think about your wife and children right upstairs there. Would you really let them suffer for your lack of resolve?”
“You will pay for this, I swear it.” Eyes brimming with anger, he typed in his code, looked at her once more, and pressed the enter key.
***
Lieutenant James Lutton sat deep underground beneath the North Dakota prairie. He was startled out of his paperback novel by an alarm from the fire control console. He looked over at Captain Francis Ness sitting next to him. “God, not again.
She rolled her neck, and then her eyes, as she read the incoming message on her screen. “Third one today. This is getting old. Begin the sequence. Packet eleven.”
Lutton went to the small safe behind him, entered the combination and popped open the heavy door. He pulled out a thick plastic container, packet eleven, and broke it open. Captain Ness had done the same, and was also holding a sheet of just-printed hardcopy.
In a bored voice, he said, “I authenticate Alpha One November Zulu Five India.”
“Authentication confirmed.” She punched the code into her side of the console, and then handed him the piece of paper while breaking open her ow
n plastic packet. “I authenticate Sierra Niner Tango Sierra Four Juliet.”
Lutton looked past the first confirmation code he’d just read to the one below it. “Authentication confirmed,” he said, entering her code in his console.
Both pulled out the keys they wore on chains around their necks. “Insert keys,” said Ness, staring at Lutton to make sure he was ready. “To the right: three, two, one, turn.”
They both turned them to the right.
“To the left for launch,” she continued. “Three, two, one, turn.”
Both rotated their keys to the left.
A deep rumbling shook the silo.
Lutton turned to Ness in utter shock. “What the hell?” He’d never actually heard a missile launch, and thought he never would.
“It’s real,” his partner said. “It’s a real launch! Holy shit!”
The rumbling shook the entire structure before abruptly subsiding.
Like a zombie, Ness spoke, following the training that had been drilled into her by repeated, mind-numbingly routine exercises. “Launch successful. One bird away, confirm.”
“Confirmed,” Lutton answered, staring at the computer display in front of him. “One bird away.”
To where? he wondered. By design, the crews never knew their targets, the better to depersonalize the process. Will they fall on Russia? China? Iran? Maybe North Korea? That was it. It must be North Korea. They were always threatening war. Maybe they’d finally gone too far.
“Must be at North Korea,” he said aloud.
“Yeah. Sure.” Ness put her face in her hands. “I want to throw up.”
“It’s okay,” he said, still in a daze. “They deserve it.”
Chapter 32
Hank Burrell looked out from the projection room of the Cross Town Theater in Manhattan. A large crowd seethed below him: men, women, boys, and girls of all ages. Some had come in costume, some in casual clothes, some in suits. They must all be serious Tolkien fans, for they’d jumped at the opportunity to watch all three Lord of the Rings movies back to back...extended versions, of course.
The place had once brought in first run movies, but it turned out the profit margin was higher if they played classics or special promotions, like tonight.
The first movie was just at what Hank considered the climax, when Frodo was trying to go off alone and steadfast and loyal Sam wouldn’t let him. Most considered Frodo the hero, but Hank had always thought Sam had more courage, because he could have quit or gone home without shame a dozen times throughout the trip to Mount Doom.
Hank cursed under his breath when his phone beeped. He wanted to see the end of this movie, and besides, he had to get the next one ready. He didn’t have the newfangled digital setup of the big theaters. He had to change reels himself. There would also be a ten-minute intermission where the Tolkienites would mob the concession stand, and he would be expected to assist.
His breath caught as he saw the message. Sorry to tell you that Uncle Bob has died. Please come home.
He didn’t have an Uncle Bob. His heart beat heavily as he fumbled the phone back into his pocket, forgetting about the next movie or selling overpriced popcorn and soda to middle-aged dwarves.
As a rule, Hank didn’t pay much attention to the news. He found it overwhelming and depressing. If there was something he needed to know, someone would tell him. Fantasy was much more pleasant.
Today, though, reality was forcing itself upon him.
Hearing a series of gasps and cries, he looked below and saw that most of the Middle Earth fans were no longer watching the movie. They all had their smart phones out and were talking loudly to each other, a serious no-no in a movie theater, especially among these introverts.
Something very bad has happened, he thought. I wonder what? Maybe I don’t want to know. It doesn’t matter. Just do what you’re supposed to do. That’s all you have to think about. Just do the mission.
All alone, without even a trusty Sam. Off to Mount Doom to destroy the Ring of Power.
Hank made his way down the stairs into the lobby, where he had to dodge past a giant shaven-headed orc, two goblins, three child hobbits followed by a frazzled looking mom, a pack of aggressively drunk dwarves, loads of semi-beautiful women dressed as elves, an aging Gandalf, and what appeared to be a bridal party.
None of them appeared to be having a good time anymore.
Edging his way into the now almost-empty theater itself, Hank climbed up on the old stage, casting his shadow on the screen, which was showing the final scenes of the movie. Opening a door to the space behind, he stepped past old props and sets used to facilitate the occasional stage play or Rocky Horror midnight showing. At the very rear, behind heavy curtains, were the electrical panels. Nearly a whole wall of them. Sucking electricity at an alarming rate.
On the floor, in an old wooden crate, was the Device. The thing the drunk Texan had built a few days ago while being escorted by the man Hank called the Nazgul. The thin man with the killer’s eyes had made Hank sweat just being in the same room with him.
It had been a fine day when he’d departed.
But now Hank would have to do it. Something that might cause lots of damage. At the very least it would piss off every user of smart phones he knew. They would want someone to blame. Who would they blame except him?
“Why couldn’t my parents have retired to Florida like everyone else, instead of Texas?” he said.
Picking up the flathead screwdriver he’d left under the crate, Hank pried off the lid. He then hefted the headlamp flashlight the nice old Texan had left for him.
“You’re going to need this if the time comes,” Herschel had said. “Don’t want to be fumbling around in the dark or you’re likely to get yourself electrocuted.”
Hank put the lamp on his head, turned it on and adjusted it. He then opened all the electrical panels and walked down the line, throwing the heavy master control levers one at a time, in order, as he’d been briefed. Loud snaps and hums greeted each lever as it went from pointing at the sky to the ground. On the next-to last-lever, the cinema went dark throughout. He threw the last one by the light of the headlamp.
Returning to the wooden crate, Hank pulled out seven specially modified cables. The old Texan had helpfully labeled them so he would know where each went. The other end of each cable attached to a small thick box that looked like a giant power strip.
He plugged them in.
A green light on the device indicated it detected the necessary power. All he had to do now was flip that little switch. With a fraction of a pound of pressure it would engage this device. Hank had some idea what it was for, but he wasn’t sure anyone knew the true consequences.
“I sure wish it would fall to someone else,” he said and then froze. This was what Frodo had said, and of course there was no one else. Like Gandalf had told Frodo, the burden had fallen to him, and with it the destiny of the world.
He dithered for long minutes. In the end, though, he couldn’t go through with it. He was no freedom fighter. He was just a movie geek, a fanboy. He’d been caught up in the dream of an independent Texas, and he’d wanted to protect his Eden parents, so he’d gone along with this crazy scheme. But now, at the end of the line, he couldn’t do it. What would be the point of sending New York City back to the stone age?
A loud buzz startled him out of his fugue. “What? Oh, crap.” He pulled out his smart phone and froze as he saw the title of an email from his parents. Reading it twice, he staggered, putting his hand against the wall to keep himself from collapsing. “They nuked Austin,” he breathed.
Thank God Dad and Mom are on Padre Island, far away.
Suddenly his whole world shifted. What two minutes ago had seemed an insane act of terrorism now made perfect sense, as punishment for the crime of wiping out so many Texans. Texans who ate and drank, loved and made love, played music and football, who loved Lord of the Rings and Star Wars and Marvel superheroes with just as much passion as he did.
People who deserved to be avenged.
Hank put his thumb on the edge of the switch, closed his eyes, and pushed.
From the Cross Town Theater an electromagnetic pulse spread in all directions at the speed of light, much faster than safety cutouts could compensate. The airborne wave generated a surge of electricity in the power and telephone wires, which now acted like a giant antenna, sucking up every volt and amp.
All electrical systems hooked to the grid within a fifty-mile radius were instantly fried. Generators at the five main power plants that serviced New York City overloaded from the backflow. Parts melted and spinning turbines ruptured, wrecking the facilities and killing several, injuring dozens.
At the same time, the pulse caused everything with a microchip in it – all phones, laptops, modern automobiles, most trains and buses and more – to instantaneously cease to function.
At the New York City Hospital, Doctor Christopher Nurton was performing brain surgery on a nine-year-old boy. He’d just successfully removed the tumor that had resided the frontal lobe and was cauterizing a ruptured artery with a medical laser when everything went black.
Helplessly, without the life support machines, without even light, Nurton felt the child die beneath his hands.
Chief Air Traffic Controller Matthew Ulm had nine jumbo jets lined up on approach to JFK International Airport. Flight 386, transatlantic from Brussels, was about to land on runway two when the interior of the control tower went completely and suddenly dark.
Outside, all the runway lights winked out, and the airport became a vast sea of blackness as he blinked, trying to adjust his eyes. Against the moonlit sky Matthew could see the giant jumbo jet touching down without lights, making a perfect landing, but it continued to race down the runway at horrific speed. Without reverse thrusters or hydraulic brakes, it reached the end of the runway and entered the grassy verge. Its front landing gear snapped off and its nose slammed into the ground, plowing up soil for two hundred yards before coming to rest with its tail in the air.
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