More images played through his mind and he recalled his enjoyment at outwitting people as he clawed his way up the greasy pole to secure the empty promise of capitalist success – crushing all those in his path in the process. He’d known it was wrong to experience such pleasure at another’s defeat, but it seemed to be a part of him he was unable to shake. He’d learnt over the years that the only way to defend yourself was to strike first, and to strike hard. But sometimes, after the sense of power had waned, a deep sense of guilt settled upon him. He experienced horror at seeing his father within him, a coward still. And that was when he turned to drink, or to women, or anything else that might block out the pain. Most people thought he was charismatic, a leader with a big heart, but he knew, deep down, he was a charlatan, a man without a soul. He was dead inside, and nothing he did seemed to fill the void within, a bottomless pit of despair that filled him with dread and haunted his dreams. ‘Who are you?’ people had asked, when he’d been new to politics. If it was taken literally, his simple answer would have been, ‘I don’t know.’ And that, above all else, was what scared him the most. Of not being, of not existing, of not feeling.
‘Mr President,’ someone said.
John focused on the man who’d spoken: General Andrews, a stand-in during the absence of the Joint Chiefs, who were busy elsewhere securing the country’s defences. John had been reassured the Chinese posed no immediate threat, but he still questioned the reasoning behind the military leaders distancing themselves from his office. Paul had told him it was unusual, but not unexpected, during such troubled times. There was no precedent for current events, so no one knew what to expect, and what used to be right or wrong no longer applied. It seemed the rulebook for managing the country had gone out of the window and it was up to John to deal with it as best he could. If he hadn’t known any better, he would have suspected the establishment and civil servants were against him, but as it was, he knew the GMRC were, as ever, pulling the strings in their favour.
‘Mr President,’ General Andrews said again, ‘I urge you to reconsider our previous proposal. Activating martial law—’
‘I will not sanction PDD 51,’ John said angrily. He looked at Paul. ‘Did you put them up to this?’
His Chief of Staff looked suitably guilty.
John stood up and looked around the table at his advisors, and then his eyes drifted to the wallscreen and the latest news and his brow creased in concern. ‘Computer, turn on the sound.’
Hidden speakers produced the audio from the broadcast and everyone in the room turned to watch.
‘—mass rioting has broken out yet again in New Orleans as water shortages sparked violent protests which the police and National Guard have failed to control ...’
The camera switched from the newsreader to a scene of mayhem, as riot police bombarded a seething mob, hell-bent on destruction. Tear gas filled the streets. Cars and buildings burned, and gunshots rang out, as the authorities sought a foothold.
John walked up to the screen and switched the sound off. He turned back to face his team. ‘I wanted to make a difference, to not be like other politicians,’ – he pointed at the screen – ‘to deliver what I set out to do. This needs to stop, and it needs to stop now.’
Blank and disconsolate expressions greeted him. It seemed his administration had run out of ideas. The silence stretched on, leaving it blatantly obvious he was the one who had to act.
‘Perhaps you should take the GMRC’s offer,’ Paul said. ‘It could make all the difference.’
John glared at his friend.
His Chief of Staff held up his hands. ‘I’m just saying, it’s an option,’ – he looked at the others – ‘isn’t it?’
Some nodded their heads, while others looked aghast at the prospect of giving in to their number one adversary.
John would rather chop his own hand off than give an inch to the Response Council, especially after his confrontation with its intelligence director and their suspected subversion of his wife. What else can I do? he asked himself.
As John thought about a possible way out, his advisors started offering all kinds of solutions, from the ridiculous to the useless. Arguments broke out and raised voices grew louder and Paul stood up and guided John outside into the hall.
‘Jesus, what is happening?’ John said. ‘The meteorite impact has come and gone, the dust cloud is all but a memory, and yet things are getting worse by the day.’ He listened to the angry exchanges coming from the meeting room and shook his head. ‘I don’t understand it.’
‘It’s as you feared,’ Paul said. ‘The GMRC are trying to hold onto power. They want a world government and there’s no better time than when every nation on Earth is on its knees. They’re trying to force your hand; whatever they’ve done with the drinking water, it’s a ploy to get you to submit to their will.’
‘And you think we should give in to them?’
Paul shrugged. ‘All I know is, we’ve run out of options.’
‘Mr President.’
They both looked round to see the White House communications officer, Diane Lane.
She gave him an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir. They’re ready for you.’
‘Ready?’ John said, confused.
‘Your public address,’ Paul told him, he gave Diane a nervous glance, as if embarrassed by John’s poor memory. ‘The one you asked me to arrange?’
‘Yes, of course. The speech ...’
‘It’s ready to go,’ said Diane, as she led them towards the colonnade, and the West Wing located beyond it.
It was time for John to fulfil his duty, to make that difference; he just wished to God someone would tell him how.
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Four
John found himself walking in a daze as Paul and Diane prepped him on the content of his address, and before he knew it he was entering the Oval Office. A blaze of lighting lit up the familiar room and John straightened his tie as Paul helped him into his suit jacket. A moment later he was sitting down at his iconic desk with the flags of his country arrayed behind him in their star-spangled splendour.
A make-up artist moved forward and attended to John’s weary exterior. The smell of her strawberry perfume wafted over his senses like a cloud, then she was gone and he was back in the present, staring at a blank autocue and the camera just below it.
Paul slid the speech onto the desk to help him with the salient points and then whispered, ‘Are you sure you’re ready for this? We can postpone.’
John sat up straighter. ‘No, I’m good to go.’
‘We’re live in sixty seconds, Mr President,’ Diane said.
He nodded in acknowledgement and looked down at the speech, but his brain didn’t want to register the words. Instead, his mind transported him back to the abduction, the gunfire and the dying Secret Service agents. He closed his eyes, but his visions continued. The drone crashing into the GMRC’s office, the explosion of sound, the smell of burning metal and the potentially fatal drop as he slipped from the edge. Ashley’s beautiful face appeared, contorted with rage. ‘What are you going to do?’ she said. ‘Rape me?’ She slapped his face and he jerked awake, his eyes wide as Diane said, ‘Twenty seconds, Mr President.’
John rubbed his eyes, cleared his throat and thought, I can’t afford to crash and burn now.
‘Ten seconds.’
He assumed what he thought was a presidential expression, and waited.
‘Five seconds.’ Diane held up her hand showing three, two and then one finger. She pointed to him and the autocue activated.
John paused, as instructed by the text, and then started to speak. ‘My fellow Americans,’ he said, his voice grave, ‘this country has been through so much in the past few years. We have survived the greatest event ever witnessed by mankind, an event that would have wiped out countless civilisations in the past, but our species is strong and our nation stronger. We were not made to roll over and die, and it’s this spirit that imbues each and ev
ery one of us that I call upon now. Hold firm to your faith, to your loved ones. Trust in this government to lead you, trust in your president. You voted for me to rid this country of the GMRC, and while that has yet to happen, I and my administration are working tirelessly—’ He hesitated, then continued. ‘—Are working tirelessly to bring an end to their rationing.’ He paused for a breath and frowned at the words that continued to scroll up the autocue.
Nearby, his Chief of Staff grimaced at his friend’s poor delivery.
‘The water shortage will soon be ...’ John’s voice tailed off and he sat staring at the camera, his mouth partly open, his expression blank.
Paul stepped forward, making sure he remained out of shot, and whispered, ‘John, what’s wrong?’
John didn’t hear him; his gaze was unfocused, his mind frozen in time. None of this is true, he thought, as millions of people around the country waited for him to continue. The water shortage won’t be over soon. I can’t read this, it’s a lie.
John looked around the room; some people stared at him in concern, while others remained focused on their work, their grim expressions only turning to frowns as the silence stretched on.
Paul grabbed Diane’s arm. ‘Cut to commercials, damn it!’
She nodded. ‘Go to an intermission.’
The screen they’d been watching switched from the Oval Office to a service message and then adverts.
‘We’re out,’ Diane said.
John got up from his seat.
‘Jesus,’ Paul said, moving to his side. ‘What was that?’
‘I couldn’t read it.’
‘What?’
‘It was a lie. The water shortage isn’t going to end.’
Paul glanced around in fear and moved him away from inquisitive ears. ‘John, we can’t afford this now. You know what’s at stake. We need to calm people’s nerves, not make them worse.’
John wasn’t listening; he pushed past his friend and pointed to Diane. ‘Show me that.’
She held out the device she was holding and John snatched it from her hand.
He turned up the volume.
‘—as you can see, the carnage is unrelenting and many are blaming the president’s ill-advised instructions on water management for the chaos that’s now sweeping the nation. We’re now going live to Texas and our reporter, Peter O’Hara,’ said the news anchor, Suzie Maddox. ‘Peter, can you hear me?’
A man appeared in shot, hiding behind a parked car. ‘I can, Suzie.’ A loud explosion made him duck.
‘What’s happening, Peter?’ the newsreader said in concern. ‘Are you okay?’
He nodded. ‘A gun battle has broken out between local militia, the police and the National Guard.
‘That didn’t sound like gunfire.’
‘No,’ he shouted, as automatic weapons could be heard in the background, ‘it was a stun grenade!’
‘The militia are attacking the police?’ the newsreader said, shocked.
‘No,’ he said, giving a shake of his head, ‘they’re fighting with the local police department against the National Guard. The locals want access to water and they’re willing to go to any lengths to get it,’ – a hail of bullets whizzed past his head – ‘it’s turning into a war zone down here!’
The footage switched back to the studio and the stunned newsreader. She put a finger to the device in her ear. ‘We’re getting more reports coming in from Los Angeles.’ A view from a helicopter replaced her image. ‘Dan, are you there?’
‘What you are seeing, Suzie, are the fires and rioting’ – the camera panned over the city as plumes of acrid black smoke rose up into blue skies – ‘that are raging unchecked across LA.’ The camera zoomed in on people looting a local shopping mall.
‘Why aren’t the authorities stopping them?’ said Suzie.
The helicopter banked right and headed towards a large compound on the horizon. Dan pointed down below to where a fleet of police cars blocked off a swathe of the road network. ‘The LAPD have surrounded the GMRC’s Californian headquarters. Sporadic exchanges of gunfire between the two factions breaks out every now and then, but the GMRC soldiers are refusing to be drawn out.’
‘What are the LAPD doing?’
‘They’re trying to force access to the main pumping station, which lies within the compound. Things are getting desperate and if something doesn’t change soon I dread to think what could happen ...’
John muted the device, but his eyes continued to watch the scene unfold. It was as if he was looking at another time, or a movie, but he knew this was not fiction, it was real life and it was happening now.
‘You need to do something,’ Paul said, also looking at the screen. ‘And you need to do it now, or this country is finished.’
‘Yes,’ John said, in a daze. He wandered back to his chair, placed the screen on his desk in front of him and sat down to face the camera.
‘We’ll restart the speech from the top,’ Diane told him.
John nodded, distracted, as General Andrews entered the Oval Office. The army officer made a beeline for Paul and took him to one side, where they conversed in low agitated tones. John knew it must be to do with the escalating crisis he’d just witnessed on the news.
‘Going live in twenty seconds, Mr President.’
He stared at the camera as Diane once again counted him in.
‘Five seconds.’ She held up three fingers – two – one ... he was back on air.
The autocue’s text remained static as its operator waited for him to begin.
John opened his mouth and began to read. ‘My fellow Americans, this country has been through so much in the past few years. We have survived the greatest event witnessed by mankind.’ The sounds of the gun battle in Texas resounded in his mind. ‘An event that would have wiped out countless civilisations in the past, but our nation is strong and our species stronger.’ He looked down at the device on his desk and saw he was looking at himself as the news channel broadcast the live address. He swallowed and gazed around the room as all eyes met his.
‘Democracy is dying, John,’ a voice said in his mind, ‘it’s dying on your watch.’
He gave a small shake of the head. Democracy hasn’t existed for decades, he told himself, if it ever did at all. He looked back at the autocue and its static words. ‘We were not made to roll over and die,’ he continued, ‘and it’s this spirit that imbues each and every one of us that I call upon now.’
‘You need to fight back,’ said the voice, ‘or this country is finished.’
I don’t know what to do.
‘Yes, you do.’
I can’t, I’ll be no better than the GMRC. I still believe in democracy!
‘He’s got no backbone.’ The voice of his mother echoed through his mind. ‘Like father, like son.’
‘Hold firm to your faith,’ John said, ‘to your loved ones. Trust in this government to lead you, trust in your president ...’
John looked at Paul, whose face was ashen and lost. The general next to him looked at John, his expression as grave as death itself.
The voice of John’s father joined the cacophony of voices in his head, chattering, accusing, blaming. ‘My God, boy,’ John’s father said, as he stood towering over him, ‘you didn’t fight back?’
John’s stomach clenched and he slammed the desk, making everyone in the room jump. He looked down at his desk in silence.
Someone spoke to him, but he didn’t hear them.
‘Going to commercials,’ Diane said.
‘No!’ John’s head came up and he pointed at her. ‘Keep it running.’
She glanced nervously at Paul, who looked at John and then gave her a nod of agreement.
John looked back at the camera, stood up and walked around the desk. ‘My fellow Americans,’ – he looked down at the floor and then back at the camera – ‘you are my brothers, my sisters ... my family. I took this job because I care. I care for you as I would my own. I have no children to speak o
f, but that gives me the space in my heart for you. You are my children and I will do anything to ensure your survival and if that means swallowing my pride and asking for the GMRC’s help, then so be it.’ He held up a hand as if to calm an angry retort. ‘We all know my administration has been locked in a bitter dispute with the Council ever since I entered office. But, as we know, things have got worse, not better.’
He paused as he gathered his thoughts. ‘I now ask one last favour of you all. You have put your faith in me; I now ask you to trust me this one last time.
‘And so, it is with the heaviest of hearts, that I now invoke—’ He looked at Paul’s expectant expression, but everything screamed at John not to say what he was about to. His gut, his heart, his soul, all except his mind, which told him to react, to strike! An image of the GMRC intelligence director’s smug expression welled up from John’s recent memory and his brows furrowed in anger. ‘It is with a heavy heart,’ he said again, the last vestiges of his resistance crumbling, ‘that I now invoke executive order PDD 51.’
Paul punched the air in delight and General Andrews nodded in relieved satisfaction.
‘And as my first command,’ John said, gaining confidence, ‘I recall all service personnel. The Air Force, Army and Navy. No longer shall the GMRC rule this land. Many have said they will make this nation great again – all have failed to deliver and their self-serving lies continue to cripple this nation in debt, making the land of the free nothing more than a Nazi utopia poisoned by the empty promise of celebrity and greed. NO LONGER!’ His eyes burned with fury as he stared into the camera. ‘I will fight fire with fire. I will fight subjugation with subjugation. The GMRC will kneel before me, before us, or we will crush them into oblivion. As of now, the armed forces are fully deployed and all GMRC forces declared enemies of the state. Martial law,’ – John raised a clenched fist – ‘is now in full effect!’
Ancient Origins: Books 4 - 6 (Ancient Origins Boxset Book 2) Page 67
