by D C Alden
The line hissed and crackled.
‘Goodbye, Amy.’
Coffman closed her eyes, almost choking on the words. ‘Take care of yourself please, Erik.’
The call was terminated. Coffman put the phone down, her thoughts and emotions swirling like the flurries beyond the glass. The door hissed open behind her and Coffman spun around in her chair. Four people were coming down the steps towards her. Three of them she recognised; Vernon Brown, her ineffectual Vice President, SecDef Clark and the White House doctor. The fourth man was in his forties, with short grey hair and a square jaw. He wore a thick black parka, camouflage trousers and boots. Military or Secret Service, Coffman could only guess.
She got to her feet, pulling the robe tightly around her. All four looked at her with cold, unsympathetic eyes.
This is the end.
And the beginning of a journey into the unknown.
Strangely, she wasn’t afraid. She could feel her heart beating a little faster but her hands were steady. A weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She had no cause to feel relieved but for reasons she couldn’t explain, she did.
The party stopped short. Coffman cleared her throat. Perhaps there was an opportunity for one last bluff.
‘What’s the problem? Has something happened?’
The unanswered question hung on the air. Bluffing was clearly off the table.
Her VP was the first to speak. He glared at her, his head moving slowly from side to side. ‘This gives us no pleasure — ’
Coffman waved a dismissive hand. ’Oh do be quiet, Vernon. Why don’t you practice tying your shoes while the grownups talk?’ As Brown stuttered, Coffman’s attention switched to the man in the parka. Her instincts told her he was the real power in the room.
‘What happens now?’
He pointed to the chair she’d just vacated. ‘Take a seat and roll up your sleeve.’
Her defiance evaporated in an instant. ‘My sleeve? Why?’
The man stepped towards her. His nostrils flared and his jaw was set like concrete. He looked at her like he’d just discovered a dog turd on his boot.
‘My name is Foley, and from this moment on you will do exactly as I say, when I say it. If you deviate in any way, from any instruction, you’ll be immediately transported to a military facility in North Dakota where you will be detained below ground for the rest of your natural life. There will be no trial. No one will ever visit you, and you’ll never see daylight again. Ever. This is your first and only warning. Have I made myself clear?’
Coffman had never been so frightened in all her life. She sat down and rolled up her sleeve. The White House doctor stepped forward. Patterson was almost seventy, balding, a favourite-uncle type of guy. Not this time. He put his bag on the table and went to work, assembling a fresh hypodermic and needle, filling it with a clear liquid. He squeezed the air from the needle and turned her wrist over with cold fingers.
‘Keep still.’ He wiped the skin of her forearm with an antiseptic wipe.
Coffman couldn’t help herself. ‘What is it?’
‘Quiet,’ Foley snapped.
Patterson jabbed her vein without ceremony, pushing the liquid into her bloodstream. Coffman’s heart rate skyrocketed. She had no idea what to expect next; death perhaps, or some kind of crippling poison. Her mind was filled with images of pain and death, and then her heart rate began to slow. She tried to speak and mumbled something unintelligible. Her eyes drooped and her chin dropped towards her chest. She dragged her head upright in an effort to stay conscious, but that battle, like everything else, was already lost.
The faces watching her melted like wax. The room swam, and her head felt as heavy as a cannonball.
She closed her eyes and was swallowed by the darkness.
The dark Chevy minivan cleared the last of the security checkpoints and turned north onto Highway 67. Alone in the rear seat, Ray Wilson watched the razor wire fencing and guard towers of ADX Florence fall away behind him, and felt a palpable sense of relief. There was something deeply unsettling about spending any amount of time inside America’s most secure prison. It was a facility that housed the worst of the worst in the harshest of conditions, and the walls felt impregnated with all the hopelessness humanity had to offer. It was without doubt the most depressing institution Ray had ever visited. But at least he could leave.
Erik Mulholland could not.
Ray knew that for the former White House Chief of Staff and erstwhile sophisticated urbanite, each waking moment in his spartan, subterranean cell would feel like hell on earth. No one doubted he deserved it. Even Mulholland himself had stated many times that he should rot, but Ray still found it difficult to reconcile the man and the crimes he’d committed. Mulholland had spent the past several days laying bare those crimes and those of his co-conspirators in minute detail, and yet Ray was still struggling with their motivations.
Effectively, Coffman had continued the work of her criminal predecessor, although in this instance the H-1 virus proved to be far more devastating than the Angola variant. The President had been manipulated, tempted by the prospect of ultimate power, and in turn had manipulated her cabal and others in an attempt to castrate America’s enemies, reduce the world’s population and create a single world government. It was the stuff of movies and fiction novels, and yet the President and her inner circle had considered the plan to be a viable one.
Ray wasn’t sure if he could trust another politician again, and he’d been a cynical DC journalist for decades. He remembered how dismissive he’d been of the Alt-media, how he’d sneered at conspiracy theorists, only to discover that it was his eyes that had been blinded by what could only be described as institutional programming. He wondered how the rest of the country would react if they ever found out that two of their presidents had conspired to kill American citizens. In Coffman’s case she’d actually succeeded, a crime for which Ray could never forgive her. Like everyone else who knew, he wanted justice, but some things were just not possible.
He glanced over his shoulder. The prison was far behind him now, nothing more than a bright strip of bright lights in the distance. He was glad to be leaving Colorado. For the last three days he’d been driven from his motel to the supermax prison, where he’d been escorted to an empty wing and a windowless, soundproofed interview room. Every day, at the stroke of nine a.m., Mulholland had been escorted in by four of the biggest prison guards Ray had ever seen, and he’d barely recognised the former White House Chief of Staff shuffling in their towering midst. His head had been shaved, he’d lost weight, and he appeared almost frail inside a baggy orange jump suit. His wrists and ankles were shackled in chains and he moved like an old man, taking small steps, his shoulders hunched. A man who carried a significant burden, Ray believed.
Mulholland only came alive when he sat in the chair in the middle of the room and began to tell his story. He’d been grilled by a dozen individuals from various intelligence organisations, none of whom could find any inconsistencies in his testimony, and all of whom had been sickened by it. Ray was the only member of the media allowed to attend, a request made by Mulholland himself, and granted in the spirit of transparency. Ray wasn’t sure how long that spirit would last.
As the Chevy headed north towards the airport at Colorado Springs, he reflected on his own journey and rewound to where it had all began, at Kelly Novak’s funeral. He’d made a promise to her mother Barbara, a promise he would now keep, although he would only give her a watered down version of the truth. He would tell her that Kelly’s work had resulted in several high-profile arrests for murder, one of whom was a man complicit in the death of her daughter. Novak senior would understand the need for confidentiality, and would be comforted by the fact that Kelly hadn’t died in vain. He’d also tell her about the new program at the Washington Times, to be named The Kelly Novak Journalism Scholarship. He hoped it would go some way to assuaging the pain that Barbara Novak still lived with. Only time would tell.
&nbs
p; He pulled the phone out of his jacket and made a call. ‘Tammy, it’s Ray.’
‘How’d it go?’
Ray glanced at the back of the driver’s head. ‘Let’s just say I’m glad it’s over.’
‘Any surprises?’
‘None that I can talk about, though I imagine the other attendees will be busy for a while.’
‘Maybe I can squeeze you for a snippet or two over dinner. Tomorrow evening.’
‘Sounds good,’ Ray told her. ‘I want to talk to you about a project, a book in fact. About Texas.’
’Deal. I’ll ask Moira to book a table at The Oval for nine. We can watch the President’s speech beforehand.’
Ray frowned. ‘What speech?’
‘She’s addressing the nation tomorrow evening. The White House isn’t elaborating.’
‘Interesting,’ Ray said. ‘See you then.’
He ended the call and settled back in his seat. He was tired, and not just physically. Emotionally it had been a turbulent time. He needed to get away, to take stock and make sense of everything that had happened. He’d find somewhere warm and quiet, a place by the ocean where he could take long walks along the shoreline, where he could think, or maybe not think at all. Later, when he was ready, he would sit down and revisit Lubbock in all of its harrowing detail. Then he would tell his story.
To the west, the sun had dipped behind the jagged peaks of the Rockies, dusting the bleak, frozen landscape in soft reds and pinks. He thought about Erik Mulholland, a man who might never see such a sight ever again. It was all he deserved, but Ray couldn’t help but think he was a victim in some sense. There were many more victims out there too, millions of them, in Iraq and China, in England and right here in the United States. Ray had almost become a statistic himself, and whatever twinges of sympathy he’d felt over the last three days were tempered by his memories of Lubbock, and the plain fact that Mulholland could’ve prevented it all.
But the man had given something back too.
Ray had his confession on tape, recorded in Cumberland before he’d driven Mulholland to the FBI Field Office in Pittsburg. They knew about the interview, about the copies lodged with lawyers, but nobody was compelling Ray to hand them over, just not to make them public. They would serve as insurance policies, as bulwarks against future tyranny, and they would guarantee Ray could live a life without looking over his shoulder.
‘Could we have a little music?’ he asked the driver.
‘Sure.’
As luck would have it, he tuned in to a smooth jazz station, and Ray stretched out in the back seat, hoping the world was headed towards a future that was as uplifting and chilled as the music he was listening to. Knowing humanity as he did, its dreams and desires, its greed and cruelty, he seriously doubted it.
But there was always hope.
Impeach This
She stared into the camera, resolute.
‘I wish I could tell you that the world is now a safer place. I wish I could tell you that the threat has receded and things will soon return to normal, but to do so would be disingenuous.’
Coffman paused for a moment, a thin smile twisting the corners of her mouth.
‘I wish I could tell you the doctors are wrong, but they are not. And so in this, my last goodnight as your President, I thank you for the opportunities you have given me. To have served this great nation has been the ultimate honour, and in leaving this office, I do so with a prayer; may God’s grace be with you all in the days ahead. Thank you, and goodnight.’
Coffman stared into the camera, her face expressionless, her hands resting on the antique wood. She remained frozen in place, both physically and mentally. She’d delivered the pre-prepared speech flawlessly, barely needing the autocue in front of her desk. Not your desk, she corrected herself.
‘And we’re out,’ said a voice from beyond the camera lights.
Coffman blinked as they were switched off. The TV equipment was quickly dismantled and people began to file out of the Oval Office. No one asked for permission, there were no thank yous or goodbyes, no smiles or handshakes, just suits and uniforms heading out of the room in relative silence. The only people who did watch her were four secret service agents, two on either side of the desk, all of them armed and grim-faced. One of them stared at Coffman with obvious contempt, and the former president believed that if she sneezed suddenly, the woman might well pull her service weapon and shoot her dead.
Maybe that’s your way out, Coffman mused. She could go for a gun, and then be shot down. A final gesture of defiance, her blood splashed across the carpet, lying dead at the feet of the stone-faced lesbian. It was an option. Not a favourable one, but she was fast running out of those.
Suicide was for the weak and selfish, she’d always believed that, but lately it too had become an option. And why not? Her hopes and dreams had crumbled. There would be no global collapse, no Infection Wars that would see the dawn of a New American Empire, ruled over by Amy Coffman. All that was gone now. What lay ahead was grim uncertainty.
The last of the TV crew rolled their flight cases out of the room. There were a dozen people left, all talking in a quiet huddle as they watched her. No one smiled. It was like facing a firing squad. Most of them were members of her Security Council, plus several judges from the Supreme Court, the Speaker of the House, Vice President Shit-for-Brains and President-in-Waiting Drew Clark. A good choice, Coffman had to agree. Her former SecDef was smart, tough and capable, and a more readily-acceptable transition for the American people to accept. Plus she had the brains to keep the VP in his box.
Clark was staring at her, and Coffman smiled awkwardly. Clark averted her eyes and continued her quiet counsel. Her pulse quickened as she watched Foley break away from the group. The parka and boots were gone, replaced by a dark suit with a US flag pinned to his lapel. He stood silently in front of the desk, his hands folded in front of him as the presidential entourage filed out of the room. The door closed behind them. Coffman felt her heart thumping in her chest.
‘On your feet,’ Foley told her.
Coffman stood. She glanced at the agent to her left, at his gun beneath his jacket, but the glance was fleeting. There would be no suicidal drama played out here today. The plain fact was, while she had taken the lives of many, the erstwhile Commander in Chief didn’t have the stomach to end her own. She was now at the mercy of others, and she would have to steel herself for whatever that might bring.
One of the Secret Service agents stepped forward and handed her a hat and coat.
‘Put those on,’ Foley commanded.
Coffman did as she was told, tugging on the quilted winter coat and a plain blue baseball cap that was slightly too big for her. She felt like a child, standing in an older sibling’s hand-me-downs. The grown-ups inspected her. Foley nodded. Then the lights went out in the room. Coffman made an involuntary sound, a nervous yelp that she swallowed as quickly as she’d made it. She’d never been to Dakota, and she didn’t want to give Foley the excuse to take her there.
‘Let’s move.’
The Secret Service agents formed a tight box around her and escorted her out of the Oval Office. For the last time, she knew. Strong fingers pinched her arms as she was led through the darkened building to the west exit. Beneath the portico outside a dark Ford Transit van waited. The side door was open and Coffman climbed inside. There were two men in the back seat, and one of them pointed to the space in between them. She sat down and handcuffs were locked around her wrists. Coffman almost smiled; this was not the way she ever thought it would end, but it proved that one never knew what games fate decided to play. Foley and the agents climbed aboard and the door slammed closed. Then they were moving.
The van left the White House by the 17th Street exit and turned south. Coffman watched through tinted windows as people barely gave them a glance. There was no motorcade, no police outriders or flashing lights. They slowed for traffic and stopped for red lights. No one paid them any notice. She was nothing
now, inconsequential to the people and the world around her. She was worthless.
Foley spoke into his radio and the gate at Joint Base Andrews was raised. They drove straight through without checks and boarded a US Navy Boeing 737. There were no flight attendants, and Foley marched her to the back of the plane where her legs were shackled to her seat. She swallowed a quip about in-flight safety.
Her armed escort sat in nearby seats, but never too close, as if she herself were infected. The doors were set to automatic and the cabin lights were dimmed for takeoff. She heard the engines run up to speed and then they were moving, bouncing across the apron and onto the taxiways. There were no waving servicemen and women outside the windows, no fighter jet escort waiting overhead; they were just another military flight about to depart, bound for who knew where.
The plane accelerated along the runway and lifted into the night sky. Coffman craned her neck as the aeroplane banked to the south. She looked down at the carpet of lights that stretched away into the distance, but she couldn’t recognise any familiar landmarks. Washington DC was falling behind her, as was the life of power and privilege she’d so recently led.
She looked away from the window and saw Foley watching her from across the aisle. His face was expressionless but his jaw was still clenched with a simmering anger. What is your goddamn problem? she wanted to ask. Did he not realise that her reason for being no longer existed? That the fire of ambition that had burned inside her for so long had been quenched? That she’d been unequivocally defeated? Or perhaps it was his desire that fuelled the hateful stare —
And then it struck her, a sudden realisation.
There was another game afoot here, some other agenda.
Coffman’s political antenna quivered, and she thought back to those final minutes in the Oval Office, the furtive looks cast her way, the urgent whispers. It wasn’t anger she’d witnessed, it was frustration. Foley was guilty of it too, which explained his belligerence, likewise the lesbian and her Secret Service colleagues. So, there was a final hand to be played.
