by Jeff Kirkham
“Who is they, Sam?” Dutch forced himself to breathe. “I notice that there aren’t any troops cordoning off Salt Lake City, Denver, Phoenix, or Jacksonville.”
“Those cities aren’t as violent. Plus, we don’t have the troops to cover them all, so I sent men where they would make the most difference.”
“Sam, look who you’re talking to.” Dutch motioned to the others in the room. “We all know what it is we’re seeing on this map. We were on the campaign trail together. These are all blue cities and blue states that you’re quarantining. Who are you letting pass through your checkpoints? What kind of people?”
“My exact orders were for the commanders to let anyone through who looked like they might be an asset to the heartland of America, not a liability.”
“So, the troops are profiling?” Dutch hated to say it. He had been on the opposite end of the profiling argument many times as a Republican senator and then as a Republican president. He hated being the guy who sniped at another leader for racial or economic profiling, but he couldn’t find a better word to describe it.
Sam Greaney’s face went red. “Mister President, do we want this country back or not? The time to quibble over equality ended a week ago. Now we’re playing hardball and you and I both know that we can tell a bad guy from a good guy just by looking at him.”
Dutch was struck by a cascade of doubt. Considering his secretary of defense, was he looking at a good guy or a bad guy?
“So, let me make sure I understand this.” Dutch needed to get his arms around what he was hearing. The moral implications felt slippery, evasive. “Our soldiers are turning back any refugee they think is a risk of causing civil disorder and sending them into the big cities; back into the looting and rioting?”
Sam tapped his pen on the back of his hand for a long second. “We’re also disarming them, so we’re probably lowering the level of violence in the process.”
“You’re seizing firearms? From everyone?”
“Not everyone. Just the people we identify as representing a high risk of violence.”
“So, you decided on your own that we would shit-can the Second Amendment. Am I following you, Sam?”
Sam fired back—a gleam in his eye—brandishing more confidence than he should considering that it was the president challenging him. “I don’t think you’re seeing the big picture, Dutch. This collapse isn’t going to turn around tomorrow, or next week, or even next month. For this country to recover, we’ll need to come back as a different people. The liberal Democrats wanted social justice and a class of pampered poor, now they get to live with their social engineering—and die with it.” Sam Greaney’s voice went husky. “People are going to die—in the millions. We can’t stop that now. It’s already begun. What we can do is decide what kind of people die and what kind of people live. It’s the best we can do for America now. When it’s done burning,” the SecDef pointed again at the map of Chicago, “what remains of America will all be heartland, and we will return to something akin to 1776—a nation of good people who know how to get things done.”
“It’s like a political eugenics program,” Robbie Leforth whispered loud enough for everyone to hear. “We’re using troops to funnel liberal voters into tearing each other to pieces.”
Sam Greaney thundered back. “We did not cause this collapse, Robbie! We’re playing the hand we’ve been dealt by fifty years of liberal, social engineering. Let the Lefties eat their own goddamn dog food. Why should our farmers pay the price for their idiocy?”
Dutch’s head swam. If it weren’t for the death and violence attached to Sam's words, he might even have agreed.
Sharon knocked at the conference room door. Dutch recognized the knock and he recognized that he needed his wife’s counsel to return him to true north.
“Gentlemen,” Dutch said with a calm that belied the horror and magnitude of the decisions they were making. “I suggest a ten minute break. Let’s reconvene at 6 p.m.”
26
“Dutch. Your parents are alive,” Sharon whispered as soon as she pulled her husband into their executive suite. She glanced down the hallway to make sure no one had overheard her and closed the door.
Dutch reached for the dresser and steadied himself. “I don’t understand.”
“Sam lied to you. I cornered one of the communications officers and convinced him that his oath was to the president and not the secretary of defense. Your parents were holed up in their ranch with their staff and neighbors when the troops checked on them. They refused to evacuate. They’re probably still there, toughing it out.”
“How did you know, Sharon?”
“I suspected. I didn’t know.”
“Why would Sam lie to me about my parents?” Dutch drilled the carpet with his eyes.
“He needed you to side-step Posse Comitatus, and he knew that you would need to be knocked off your emotional game before you would consent to something like that.”
“Am I that easy to manipulate?” Dutch steadied his breathing, relief and self-doubt washing over him in alternating waves.
“Darling, we’re all that easy to manipulate. It’s just that most people don’t use it as a weapon.”
“They’re alive…” Dutch spoke the new truth aloud. “Sharon. My folks are still alive.”
Sharon pulled the President of the United States to her chest while he found balance once again.
27
President Dutch McAdams returned to the conference room with his four secret service agents in tow. He turned to Sam Greaney and in a calm voice said, “Sam, I’m putting you under arrest.”
The SecDef launched to his feet. “Explain,” he demanded.
“No. I won’t explain. It ends here. Gentlemen, please pat him down and take him to the press section of the plane and handcuff him to a seat. We’ll leave him with the MPs at our next stop.”
“What are the charges?” Sam Greaney pressed while the secret service agents frisked him.
“Does it really matter at this point?” the president answered. “Treason. Lying to me about my parents. Instructing troops to violate the Constitution. I’m the one America elected. The guys with the guns are with me, not you. So, like I said, it ends right here.”
“You never did figure it out,” Greaney smiled as the secret servicemen handcuffed his hands behind his back. “Everyone in your administration knew it but you. You’re a clown, Dutch. A political bobblehead who sounds great on camera. But you aren’t capable of making the hard choices or doing the tough math. My way is best for America, but you’re too soft to see it through.” Greaney nodded at the darkened map.
The secret servicemen began to haul Sam Greaney out of the conference room and Dutch held up a hand.
“Tell me, Sam. Why did you have your security detail bring frangible ammo aboard my airplane? Were you planning on seizing control of the United States right from the start?”
Sam Greaney chuckled and shook his head. “You’re the only person in this whole game, Dutch, who isn’t thinking three moves ahead. You’ve been behind the curve since before you were elected. My advice Dutch, for the sake of you and your family: just let it play out. You’re too late to catch up. Release me and let me do my job. It’ll be better for everyone.”
Dutch felt a stone in the pit of his stomach—the realization dawning that there might be much more he didn’t know about Sam Greaney.
“Are you saying you planned the collapse? That you and your compatriots did this to America?”
The former secretary of defense chuckled. “Not at all, Dutch. Nobody can orchestrate something this big. The Deep State has burned to the ground along with everything else. No, Dutch; like the Russians and the Chinese and whoever else jumped on the bandwagon when this collapse kicked off, I’m just an investor staying ahead of the market. I’m watching history in the making, and I’m setting America up for long-term gain even though we’re taking a beating at the moment. We’ll come out of this okay, if we stick to my plan. I br
ought the frangible ammo on board in case you got stupid—maybe started listening to your wife’s psychobabble. The frange was just a backup plan to the backup plan. Don’t take it personally, Dutch. You can still come back from this mistake. Have your trained gorillas release me and let’s get back to work. The moment we walk out of this office, it will be too late.”
“Lock him up,” Dutch ordered.
The meeting broke up as three secret servicemen pulled Sam Greaney out of the office and headed down the hallway toward the security section. Robbie turned left behind them, following the men and their prisoner toward the back of the plane. The President headed toward his stateroom, stewing on Greaney’s disdain.
28
Before Dutch had taken six steps toward his stateroom, the plane exploded in gunfire.
A ricochet buzzed down the hallway, and Dutch’s secret serviceman shoved him to the floor, covering him with his body, searching for targets with his Glock. The firefight farther aft of the airplane continued. A whining howl wailed underneath the staccato bursts of handgun fire.
Dutch caught sight of Sharon, peeking through the doorway to the presidential suite.
“Get back inside. Take cover behind the dresser. Do it now!” Dutch shouted, thinking of his son and daughter, probably seated at the back of the plane.
A man thundered down the stairway from the upper level and opened fire when he saw Dutch’s secret service agent. The agent returned fire, forcing the comms officer to take cover around the corner of the stairs. The handgun rounds disappeared into the walls of the airplane, doing untold damage.
Dutch’s secret service agent and the assailant from the communications room screamed at one another to drop their weapons—nobody willing to back down.
A dull thud came from above. A comms officer—confederate of Sam Greaney—tumbled down the stairs, ass-over-teakettle. He sprawled limp, when he hit the floor in front of Dutch. The secret service agent shot the man in the face, then twisted to meet any new threats coming down the stairs.
“Don’t shoot!” another man from the comms room stepped slowly down the stairs holding a Haliburton Zero hard-sided suitcase over his head.
“I knocked him out for you. Don’t shoot. I’m one of the good guys!” The Air Force aide de camp slowly descended the steps holding the “nuclear football” high.
“Get back up there and keep control of the comms center. Take that gun,” the secret service agent yelled, nodding to the dead man, apparently convinced of the aide de camp’s loyalty to the president.
Dutch scrambled forward, picking up the dead man’s Beretta. “We all fight. My children are back there.” Dutch pointed toward the back of the airplane with the Beretta. He turned to the aide de camp, Captain Spilinek. “Grab a gun from the weapons locker upstairs and get your ass back down here to help.”
Dutch searched the dead man and found another magazine in one of his pockets. Hugging tightly to the wall, he gained his feet and stalked down the hallway toward the now-sporadic shooting. The secret service agent pushed past him, apparently accepting Dutch’s decision to fight, but unwilling to let the president take the first rounds.
The hallway narrowed and turned when they hit the conference room door. Dutch could see the lower half of a body on the ground, and nausea rose as he recognized Robbie Leforth’s slacks.
The secret service agent crouched low and took a snap peak around the corner. No gunfire followed. The fight had apparently devolved into a Mexican standoff between the office section and the security section of the plane.
“Sir, our secret service team must’ve ducked into the office section when they started taking fire. Don’t lean into the corridor. It’s a fatal funnel. Someone has it covered from the rear of the plane.”
“Agent Brooks,” Dutch yelled around the corner. “What’s your status? Do you have my children with you?”
The head of security replied. “Sir, we have Greaney and we’re all three good-to-go in here. Nobody else was in this compartment. Mister Leforth is down.”
“We have your kids,” an unknown voice shouted from the security section at the back of the plane. “Cut Sam Greaney loose and we’ll send your kids up. Straight trade. We’ll give you a two-for-one, even.”
Captain Spilinek, the aide de camp, armed with a handgun joined Dutch and his agent in the passageway.
The aircraft intercom blared before Dutch could reply to the gunman’s demands.
29
“I don’t know what’s going on back there,” the pilot spoke calmly over the intercom, “but my aircraft is leaking air. Whatever it is you’re doing, please stop or we’ll all die. I’ve got another hour or so of oxygen before y’all pass out.”
“Just let me go, Dutch,” Sam Greaney shouted from the office section. “You’re not going to win this. Even if you do, I’m the only one who has a chance of pulling this mess back together. The generals on the ground are all mine—I made sure of it.”
Sharon appeared behind Dutch, pressed against the wall of the hallway. Dutch considered ordering her back to the executive suite but realized she wouldn’t go back while their children were in danger.
“How do you see this playing out, Sam?” Dutch yelled, buying time for his children. “Do you think you and I are going to head back to work now that your private assassins have killed Robbie? Is that what you’re imagining?”
“You’re not offering any solutions for the country, Dutch. I am. Let me do my job. Let’s put the plane down, you get off with your people and the trinkets you picked up at SAC, we patch that hole, you give me the nuclear football and written authorization to continue operating military command. I’ll fly away to do my job for the country. You stay on the ground to do your job for your family.”
“There’s no way in hell…” Dutch shouted but Sharon clamped her hand on his arm, interrupting him.
“Do it,” she hissed into Dutch’s ear. “Trust me. Give him what he wants.”
Dutch swiveled on his heels and stared intently at his wife, trying to gauge her intention. Slowly, he pivoted toward the ugly negotiation, holding his country in one hand and his family in the other.
What kind of man sacrifices his family for his country?
What kind of man sacrifices his country for his family?
Dutch already knew his answers, but he paused to weigh his honor and the lives of hundreds of millions that hung in the balance.
“Trust me,” Sharon repeated.
“Okay,” Dutch swallowed hard before he said his next words. “I need a show of good faith, then we’ll do it your way. Have your men send Abigail forward and I’ll route the plane toward a contingency landing site. You’ll get everything you want.” And everything you deserve, Dutch fumed secretly, biding his time.
Sam Greaney instructed his men to let the president’s daughter go.
A few minutes later Abigail dashed into the hallway and ran into the arms of her mother. The two women hurried to safer quarters at the nose of the aircraft.
Dutch nodded at the secret service agent and his aide de camp, lifted slowly out of his crouch and moved toward his office.
As he walked past Robbie Leforth’s lifeless body, conviction overtook Dutch. He would dishonor Robbie’s death if he handed command to Sam Greaney. So many had made the ultimate sacrifice to defend the United States of America, and now Dutch McAdams would trade it away for the life of his son. The thought caused his knees to go weak, and Dutch stepped into his office to gather his thoughts before turning Air Force One toward a landing place for his family.
Like everything else in life, this crossroads wasn’t simple. The nation Dutch had been elected to lead had made its choice—it had decided to abandon the Rule of Law. Dutch knew he was placing blame on hungry, desperate people, but in the end, they were voters, not blundering cattle. They chose to end their government, and many would die with that choice on their breath.
Dutch hadn’t been elected to force people into doing the right thing or even th
e smart thing. By rioting and rejecting the leadership of the United States government, the people had effectively impeached him and every other elected official. Of course, not everyone had made the choice to loot and riot, but enough had chosen lawlessness that the military hadn’t been able to put the genie back in the bottle. The inner-city populations had voted with their feet, plain and simple.
This train of thought brought Dutch back to Sam Greaney’s brutal plan. Was locking inner city rioters into their self-made hell really such a bad idea? Preserving the heartland for capable survivors made a lot of sense, at least on paper.
And that was the rub. Dutch had seen it more times than he could count: policies that looked good on paper that resulted in incalculable evil. Dutch had long ago learned that a decision not only had to look good on paper, but it had to pass the smell test.
Greaney’s plan smelled foul to the president. Dutch could describe his disagreement in twenty ways, but it all boiled down to the reality that his soul could not abide it.
But Dutch wasn’t going to sacrifice his son to hold that line. He would find another way.
30
Alone in his office, Dutch settled on Mountain Home, Idaho as their landing place. More than forty miles from Boise and almost three hundred miles from Salt Lake City, the spartan, Cold War strategic bomber base would give the first family a remote location to put down, far from inquisitive eyes and angry mobs. More importantly, the plane could reach Mountain Home before they all died of hypoxia.
The satellite feed on Dutch’s laptop showed southern Idaho to be an area between farms and sprawling, gray swaths of desert. It looked like a place he could hide his face and rebuild the government. Southern Idaho would be their last stand, both as a family and as a presidency. Dutch picked up his phone and played the last chip in his stack.
