The Line of Departure: A Postapocalyptic Novel (The New World Series Book 4)

by G. Michael Hopf

  “Emperor, I’d also like to propose we discuss our next major objective,” Alejandro said.

  “Yes, let’s talk about Salt Lake City,” Pablo said, grinning.

  Cheyenne, Wyoming

  It had been a long day for Conner; he had always thought it amazing that you could get so physically tired from sitting and talking. One thing he took for granted when he worked in Washington, D.C., was how many resources each congressman or senator had—pages, aides, and staff by the dozens. Not until now did he appreciate the political leaders of the early days, the men who actually wrote the legislation themselves. In the last decades before the lights went out, you couldn’t get a politician to even read the legislation they were voting on. So much of politics had become gamesmanship. Leadership and statesmanship had died many years before.

  The work he did now was the toughest he had ever done. With his eyes burning and his body aching, he called it a night. He reached up and turned off the light, reflecting on how odd it was that he had already gone back to taking the convenience of electricity for granted. Before the EMP attack, there had been red flags about the lack of security surrounding the power grid, but many ignored it. He himself had attempted to pass the Shield Law, a piece of legislation that would have improved and protected the power grid, but too many special interests got in the way and scuttled the bill. If only they could have known then the horror of what would happen, they might have done something.

  He grabbed his jacket and was heading out when his phone rang. If someone was calling him at this hour, it must be important. He rushed to the phone and picked it up. “Conner here.”

  “Mr. President, General Baxter. I hate to disturb you but I know how you want information as soon as it happens.”

  Conner felt like someone had placed a three-hundred-pound weight on his shoulders as he sat down in his chair and braced himself for the important information.

  “Go ahead.”

  “It’s not critical, but Major Schmidt and a few of his officers just had a melee in Pat’s place.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, the place is a mess.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “A fight broke out, and let’s just say that the coffee shop took the brunt of it.”

  “Goddamn it! How’s Pat, is he okay?”

  “He’s fine, a few abrasions and a bloody nose . . .”

  “Bloody nose?”

  “He kinda got in the middle of it on the side of Major Schmidt.”

  “Are they still there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No one leaves, no one. I’ll be right there.”

  • • •

  Conner rushed to Pat’s Coffee Shop as quickly as his protective team could take him there. The sun had set and the streets within the green zone were lit under the yellowish glow of the large floodlights. As they pulled up to the store front, a large group of onlookers hovered on the other side of yellow police tape.

  His protective team was typically comprised of two to three armored Humvees, but because of the altercation, he had additional support vehicles. The mass of people deterred them from parking up front; his vehicle was escorted to the alleyway behind the shop. The support vehicles fanned out and armed men came bursting out. They took up positions about twenty feet away in an arc of protection. Conner’s vehicle pulled into the center; he exited and walked into the rear entrance of Pat’s shop.

  The damage from the brawl was evident the second he walked into the main part of the café. All the tables were overturned, chairs were scattered around, and the floors were wet with coffee, alcohol, and blood. The fight had been fierce, from the amount of destruction he saw. He looked for Pat, but only saw a sea of uniforms. Men and women from the Cheyenne police, department, Air Force, army, and EMS all stood around doing whatever their duties required of them.

  “Mr. President,” a voice shouted from across the room.

  Conner looked and saw General Baxter.

  Baxter approached him and said, “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t intend for you to come down here. We have this handled.”

  “Stop apologizing. Pat is a friend of mine and if men of mine were in a fight I want to know why.”

  “It started out as an argument,” Baxter stated.

  “As these things normally do.”

  “It appears there were some supporters from the Republic of Lakotah here tonight handing out flyers,” Baxter said as he handed Conner a few pieces of paper.

  Conner flipped through the sheets of paper. The first thing he noticed was the burgundy flag with the words Republic of Lakotah drawn below it. Under that, a short paragraph discussed how now was the time for “the Lakotah people and whoever valued liberty” to have a nation of their own. Following that were dates, places, and names of people who were giving speeches in support of this separatist movement.

  “Where’s Pat?”

  “He’s giving a statement out front,” Baxter said, pointing toward the front door.

  Conner folded the papers and put them in his pocket, making his way for the door. Just out front, he saw Pat standing and talking to a police officer, a bloody rag to his nose.

  Pat glanced over and saw Conner; he shrugged his shoulders. His typical grin graced his bruised and swollen face. He finished giving the officer his statement and went to join Conner.

  “What the hell happened here?” Conner asked.

  “A slight disagreement,” Pat said with a laugh.

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah, I’ll live. Although I can’t say I believed that when the fight was raging.”

  “I’ll get a team of people over here immediately to clean it up and bring your place back up to speed.”

  “Thanks, I’ll actually take you up on that.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Well, all was going great tonight. A few of your men, a Major Schmidt and others, were in here enjoying some drinks. They were being loud, just fun-loving stuff, then a small group, I counted five men that I’d never seen, came in. They sat down next to the major and were talking about their hatred for the United States and something called the Republic of Lakotah. I swear they were deliberately trying to egg on Major Schmidt and the others. Next thing I know, the major is yelling at one of the men and a second later, he hits him. All hell broke loose after that.”

  “Major Schmidt hit the man first?”

  “Oh, yeah, but that guy was being a complete asshole.”

  “How did you get popped in the nose?”

  “At first I was attempting to separate them, but those guys were not nice guys. I took sides and of course was on the good side.”

  “You sure you’re all right?”

  “God yes, I feel fine. I’m almost embarrassed to admit it, but it was kind of fun. Reminded me of a fight you saw from the Wild West. You know, the ones where tables are being turned over, chairs flying around, men getting hit back and forth. It was a damn good fight.”

  “Glad to hear you’re fine and that you had a good time,” Conner joked. He patted him on the shoulder and walked over to Schmidt, who was leaning against a Humvee.

  “Major Schmidt?”

  Schmidt looked up, saw Conner, and instantly snapped to attention.

  “At ease.”

  Schmidt fell into a parade rest and stood looking straight ahead.

  “Major, at ease means take it easy. I have a few questions for you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What happened?”

  “Sorry for the altercation, sir. These men were separatists and they were disrespecting you and our country. I should not have gotten so angry, but my temper got the best of me.”

  “It’s all right. I have to admit, I like your approach. Sometimes that’s what people need, a little ass kicking.”

  Schmid
t was average height, but if you were to ask anyone, they’d say he was inches taller than he really was. His muscular build combined with his bearing gave him an ominous stature. He had arrived in Cheyenne a little over five weeks before, after leading what had grown to be a small army across the country from Fort Drum, New York. His story was one of survival and adversity.

  Conner was impressed with him from the start; he was tough, strong, loyal, and fiercely obedient. Schmidt’s men and equipment, specifically his tanks, had proven to be critical during the standoff with the Montana Independence Party. What was supposed to be a show of force to help Wilbur negotiate with the MIP turned into the instrument of their destruction when the separatists attempted to kidnap her. Schmidt reacted swiftly and harshly to the MIP and when it was over, not one representative of the MIP was left standing. Back in Cheyenne it elicited comments of an overzealous field commander and a grotesque display of firepower, but Schmidt ignored it all. He was an army man who saw the need to crush what he saw as an enemy of the people who had initiated aggression. When asked about the incident, he simply said, “They started it and I finished it.”

  Conner too had reacted with shock at the complete wipeout, but understood that Schmidt did what he felt was necessary to ensure Secretary Wilbur’s safety and to prevent further attacks against the United States. Schmidt saw the big picture; he knew that if the MIP had been successful, it could have led to Conner possibly trading the state of Montana for Wilbur. Schmidt saw this as another step closer to what appeared to him as the total collapse and demise of the United States.

  Conner looked at him appraisingly. Here he saw a man who would literally die for his country, no questions asked. Schmidt was unlike other officers in his staff—he was a true-blue warrior.

  “Major, did General Baxter relay the message to you about tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll be there at oh-nine-hundred.”

  “Good. Now go get some sleep. I need you thinking clearly in the morning.”

  “I’m free to go, sir?”

  Conner looked around; about ten feet away were the Lakotah men, all of whom looked badly beaten. “Yes, of course. I’m the president, and guess what? You’re pardoned.”

  “What about my men, sir?”

  “Them as well. Gather your men and go back to your camp.”

  When Schmidt’s fifteen-thousand-strong army rolled into Cheyenne weeks before, there was no place to house them. Like other refugees, they set up a large tent city and called it home. Schmidt had been offered housing within the green zone, but he refused to leave what he called “his people.”

  “Yes, sir, and thank you,” Schmidt said, and disappeared back inside the shop.

  Conner looked at the Lakotah men again. They looked harmless for the most part. They were all older men, in their mid-fifties. But that was where the harmless consideration ended for Conner. What these men and their followers represented to Conner was a cancer on the country. He knew he faced a tough choice: he could try to see if the country could heal with them, or if he’d have to cut them out.

  JUNE 26, 2015

  “A sudden bold and unexpected question doth many times surprise a man and lay him open.”

  —Francis Bacon

  McCall, Idaho

  Sebastian held Annaliese’s hand tenderly, but anxiety was coursing through his veins. Sitting in the waiting room of the Payette Lake Medical Center was torturous for him. Being surrounded by crying babies and coughing and hacking people made him wish he had been more forceful in telling Annaliese to stay home. Her condition had only gotten worse since they had stopped by the clinic yesterday. The doctor had taken blood samples to be tested to see if that could give them any better idea of what her diagnosis was. What the doctor didn’t share just yet with Sebastian was that the laboratory was very limited in what it could do after losing most of its diagnostic equipment during the EMP.

  When her name was called, Sebastian sprang up. He looked down at Annaliese’s face. Her skin was pulled tight and ashen. Since she started showing symptoms days ago, she had lost weight quickly from a combination of a loss of appetite and the pain in her abdomen.

  “Come on, sweetie,” he nudged.

  She didn’t say a word; she just leaned forward, grimacing in pain.

  He knelt in front of her and placed his hand on her knee. “It’s hurting again?”

  Unable to speak, she simply nodded.

  “Let me go see if the doc will come out here,” he whispered.

  “No, I can do it,” she whispered, wincing again in pain. Her right hand clenched the arm of the chair tightly while her left hand held her stomach.

  Sebastian looked at the nurse, who was waiting patiently for them. He held up his index finger to signal he wanted a little extra time. The nurse smiled then approached them, seeing that Annaliese was having a hard time.

  “Ma’am, are you okay?” the nurse asked.

  Annaliese didn’t answer, but began to breathe deeply.

  “She’s been having severe abdominal pain and she appears to be having a surge of pain right now.”

  Annaliese lifted her head to look at Sebastian. Tears of pain and fear now began to stream from her sunken eyes.

  “Oh, baby, you’re going to be fine, I promise.”

  “It hurts so badly,” she whimpered.

  “Let me go get her doctor,” the nurse said urgently and left them.

  “Anna, just sit there, no need to get up. The doc is coming out to see you,” Sebastian said as he rubbed her arm.

  “Something’s wrong. I’m scared,” she responded, her voice trembling as more tears rushed down her face.

  Sebastian looked around; all eyes were on him and Annaliese. Her pain and the response to it was the worst it had been. She probably needed to go to the emergency room, but deep down, Sebastian didn’t know if it would make any difference, because the capabilities at all facilities were limited. But inaction wasn’t a trait he was known for and he didn’t want to wait for the doc. He saw a wheelchair and hurried over to it. He pushed it back, carefully placed her in it, and wheeled her out of the clinic. The hospital was just across the parking lot, not more than a hundred yards. As he reached the halfway mark, he heard the doctor calling him.

  Sebastian called back without stopping, “Doc, just meet us over at the ER!”

  The once automatic electric doors of the ER were now left wide open. He wheeled her inside and called out, “I need some help here!”

  Annaliese cried out in pain again.

  A nurse came running from the dim hallway. “Get her in here!” she said, pointing to an examination area to his right.

  He wheeled her into the space and both he and the nurse lifted her out of the wheelchair and onto a bed.

  Annaliese curled up in the fetal position in cringing pain.

  “What’s wrong with her?” the nurse asked Sebastian.

  “Look at her, she’s in pain.”

  “I need more details than that, sir.”

  “She’s been complaining about pain here,” he said, pointing to her lower abdomen. “She’s had bad diarrhea, fever, and now she’s having incredible pain unlike anything I’ve seen before.”

  “Ma’am, my name is Amy. I need to ask you some questions, okay?” the nurse asked Annaliese.

  Annaliese only answered with a nod. Perspiration now covered her face and she was still crying.

  “Where is the pain?”

  Annaliese pointed to her stomach.

  The curtains that separated them from main ER hallway flew open and her doctor from the clinic stepped in. “Sebastian, how’s she doing?”

  “Not good, Doc,” Sebastian said, his voice revealing his concern.

  “Amy, she came in yesterday and I took blood; the tests came back—”

  “Argh!” Annaliese cried out loudly.


  “Her white blood cell count was very high, but everything else looks fine,” the doctor said.

  “Is she allergic to any medications?” Amy asked Sebastian.

  “Um, I don’t know,” Sebastian answered. “Sweetheart, are you allergic to anything?”

  She shook her head no.

  “I want to give her something to ease the pain and then we can continue to monitor her,” Amy stated.

  “Monitor her? I need you to give her more tests, do something!” Sebastian exclaimed.

  “I’d recommend giving her an angiogram or CT but that equipment doesn’t work anymore,” the doctor said.

  “There has to be something you can do! Do something!” Sebastian yelled.

  “Sebastian, please calm down, we’re doing all we can with the limited resources and equipment. Many medical issues have similar symptoms. She could have appendicitis or a severe gastrointestinal problem. Short of doing exploratory surgery, we can’t do much,” the doctor said.

  Annaliese cried out, “Sebastian!”

  He took her shaking hand and leaned over to kiss her face. “Baby, you’re going to be fine.” He turned to the doctor and others gathered in the room and said, “I need to go find my brother. Please watch over her.”

  Cheyenne, Wyoming

  Conner assembled his staff an hour before the anticipated response from Gordon. Just outside the room was Major Schmidt, Conner’s guest at the meeting. His presence would be a shock to the others as he was nothing more than a field commander, but Conner wanted his unique perspective on what they should do about the militant groups, given his interaction with the MIP.

  Once his staff was seated, he ordered a guard to go get Schmidt. A brief moment passed, then the main door to the conference room opened and Schmidt stepped in, dressed head to toe in a weathered and faded green camouflage uniform. He stepped forward, saluted, and stood at attention near the head of the table.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you all know Major Thomas Schmidt,” Conner said. “Major Schmidt, please relax and take a seat.”