Empire

Gettysburg

Cole was sure that not since July of 1863 had there been so many soldiers in and around Gettysburg. And they were in combat gear—this was an armed camp. They started running into military checkpoints at the crossroads at York Springs, and then four more times before they got into the town itself. The first time it took some argument before they were allowed to keep their weapons.

Standing outside the car, Cole tried to keep his temper with the young MP who insisted on disarming him. “This morning I fired these weapons at the enemies of the United States who were attacking us on our native soil. I killed at least one enemy soldier with it. What has your weapon done today, soldier?”

But it was Cecily Malich’s call to her former boss, Sandy Woodruff, that led to their getting passed through the other checkpoints without delay and fully armed.

The President was installed at Gettysburg College, which for the moment was the seat of the executive branch of the government of the United States. Cole and the Malichs were sent to a motel that would have been a lovely surprise in a village in the mountains of Iran, but which Cole’s family would have disdained on any of their cross-country trips.

Rooms were at such a premium that Cole finally had to get in the face of the officious young clerk making the assignments and explain, “I’m not their son,” before he gave way and assigned them separate accommodations.

“Good job of making yourself memorable,” Rube said to him before they disappeared into their room.

Cole only had a few minutes to unpack and use the bathroom before there was a knock at his door. MPs had been sent to escort them—this time definitely unarmed—to the President’s office.

It made Cole vaguely disappointed that when he actually got to meet a President of the United States, it was only the stand-in, not the real one. LaMonte Nielson was a little shorter than Cole, and seemed nice enough and intelligent enough as he came forward to greet them. But he also looked just a little surprised to see them. A little too grateful that they had answered his summons. You’re the President, man! Of course we came! But Cole kept his reaction to himself. He’d done enough exasperated talking today. Especially considering that he was only in this room out of courtesy. It was Rube and Cecily that the President wanted to talk with. Cole was there just to have his hand shaken and get the official thanks of the President for his heroic actions in the face of yadda yadda yadda.

Only there wasn’t any yadda. Nielson asked them to sit and then half-sat on the edge of the college president’s desk and said, “The city council of New York met today in emergency session and voted by an overwhelming margin to recognize the Progressive Restoration as the legitimate government of the United States of America.”

“Under duress?” asked Cecily.

“UN. witnesses say there was no threat from the Progressive Restoration.”

“Except their troops all over Manhattan,” muttered Reuben.

“That’s only the beginning. San Francisco, Santa Monica, San Rafael—I can’t remember all the Sans in California that have passed resolutions recognizing the Progressive Restoration.”

“But those have no legal force,” said Cecily.

“I’m sure the Supreme Court would agree with you. The Attorney General certainly does. But so what? Progressive state legislators in California, Oregon, Washington, Vermont, Massachusetts, Hawaii, and Rhode Island have all declared their intention to demand a quick vote in those legislatures. There are others calling for plebiscites in Minnesota, Wisconsin, New Hampshire, Connecticut, New York state, Maryland, and Delaware. Let the people decide, they say.”

“They’ll fail,” said Cecily.

“Probably,” said President Nielson. “Probably the first motion will fail. Oh, and needless to say, all over the South and Midwest and Rocky Mountains there are political leaders demanding the immediate suppression by force of any political unit that goes over to the Progressives. Rural and suburban legislators in many of the states in question have been… fervent, let’s say… in their opposition to any movement to switch allegiance. But you see my predicament.”

“Is the Army loyal?” asked Cecily.

“Think about what you’re asking,” said Nielson. “Loyal? Of course. Willing to fire on Americans who do not fire on them first? What an interesting question. Wouldn’t it be better if we could avoid fighting?”

“There’s already been bloodshed,” said Reuben. “And they killed first.”

“Fort Sumter,” said Nielson. “And if I were Lincoln, I’d issue a call for 75,000 volunteers. But we don’t have such a clear Mason-Dixon line. The red-state/blue-state thing is actually deceptive. If you look at recent elections on maps of the counties, you’ll find that it’s an urban versus suburban and rural split. Even southern states show metropolitan areas as blue more than red.”

“But that’s the black vote,” said Reuben.

“Oh good,” said President Nielson. “Let’s make it a racial war as well as a philosophical one. But here’s the point. The New York City Council has legalized this invasion after the fact and now declares the armed forces of the Progressive Restoration to be the police and defense forces of the entire city, not just Manhattan. Under those circumstances, if we attack or occupy any part of New York City, are we liberating or invading? When we fire on their armed forces, are we killing traitors or shooting down New York cops?”

“I know who the New York cops are,” said Reuben. “They killed as many of them as they could find.”

“It’s public perception. They’ve played this beautifully. I have to admire it, even as it makes me want to weep for my country. They provided arms, plans, and information to terrorists so they could behead the country. Our strongest leadership wiped out in a stroke. Then they set up a right-wing coup to establish martial law and abrogate the Constitution during this time of emergency.” Nielson sighed and looked down at his shoes.

“A phony coup,” said Cole.

“Oh, yes,” said Nielson. “General Alton came into my office and told me that he and a large number of officers were ready to implement my order to establish martial law. He didn’t call it a coup. He was handing it to me. But I was so naive and so—what’s the word I want?—yes, so stupid… that I didn’t even recognize the veiled threat—that martial law would be declared anyway, with or without me. I was new at this. I was frightened. I was not well advised.” Nielson walked around behind his desk and finally sat in the president’s chair. “If it had not been for your broadcast, Captain Coleman, I would have announced martial law at nine p.m. yesterday. The President’s writers—oh, they would be mine now, wouldn’t they—were scrambling to write an appropriate speech. I was just about to read the final draft when Sandy came in and told me to switch to O’Reilly and listen to one of the soldiers who tried to prevent the assassinations.

“You reminded the soldiers of their duty. You reminded me of mine. I finally saw what Alton was doing. As God is my witness, it was never my intent to throw out the Constitution. I thought it was hanging by a thread, and I could save it.” He chuckled bitterly. “You don’t save it by cutting that thread.”

“You didn’t make the announcement,” said Cecily. “That’s what matters.”

“It’s more than that,” said Nielson. “I remembered how Alton talked. Thinking back on it, it was crazy. A paranoid version of conservative principles. It should have been obvious. It was like a parody, the Left’s version of the Right. But you see, I was a Congressman from Idaho. The people who fund my campaigns talk like that. It’s the looniest ones who pony up the most, sometimes—ideology opens the pocketbook. I’d been hearing their lunacy for so long that it didn’t sound irrational to me anymore. I was used to madness.

“Well, so is the Left,” he continued. “The wackos on both sides have controlled the rhetoric for so long that the Left really thinks they’re right when they call simple mistakes ‘lies’ and openly-arrived-at decisions ‘conspiracies.’ That city council in New York, if you said to them, ‘Will you secede from the United States and bring the full wrath of the U.S. military down on your city?’ they’d say no. They’d say hell no.”

“Actually,” said Reuben, “this is New York you’re talking about. They’d say—”

“I know what words they’d use,” said Nielson, smiling tightly. “But I don’t use them. Look, these Progressives, they’re playing it smart. Keeping the tempo up. They undoubtedly already had people on the council, ready to drive things forward. It’s not a coincidence that there are legislators and city councilors in all the blue states, calling for their city or state to get on the bandwagon. I think they’ve already counted the votes while we were napping. I think tomorrow morning we’ll find that Washington or Oregon, maybe even California, officially ceases to recognize me as President of the United States. If I had declared martial law last night, I think it would be a dead certainty that they all would. Because I would be out in the open as a tool of the insane faction of the extreme right wing.”

“Are you saying,” said Reuben, “that you intend to do nothing?”

“I intend to proceed carefully,” said Nielson. “The New York City Council has declared that their borders are peaceful—and open. Everyone who works in the city is invited to come to work tomorrow, and apart from some reconstruction work and traffic problems because of the damage caused by… ”

He picked up a paper on his desk and read from it. “’Caused by the illegal resistance of reactionary forces’… apart from that, it should be business as usual. But any attempt to restrict access to New York City will result in sudden, harsh retaliation. ‘We will defend ourselves.’ ”

Reuben shook his head. “You can’t let this stand. If you let people go to work, if you let trucks in with food and fuel—”

“If I don’t, then I’m starving perfectly good Americans as part of my fascist conspiracy to force theocratic antienvironmental—I can’t do their rhetoric very well, but you know what I mean. Remember the propaganda that Saddam got from the embargo, even after we were supposedly letting humanitarian aid get into Iraq.”

“You’re going to let public relations determine the course of this war?” asked Reuben.

“Spoken like a soldier,” said Nielson, not unfavorably. “But as my advisers—my advisers now—point out, it’s already a public relations war. It’s about winning the hearts and minds of the people. If we leap in with guns blazing, we might win—and we might not, because those jets they knocked down yesterday have the Air Force generals wetting their pants—but what do we have? A huge portion of our population will believe that they are now an oppressed and conquered people. We will prove that the Progressives were right, and guess who wins the election this fall?”

“You think people would vote for the very people who tried to break this country apart?”

“But they aren’t breaking it apart,” said Nielson, smiling sarcastically. “They’re simply restoring government by the principles that the American people voted for in 2000, and which have been suppressed for all these years by the evil right-wing conspiracy. This is not the American Civil War. It isn’t one region against the other. There are no boundaries. What kind of war can we wage if we have no secure areas? How can we tell, looking at the local populations, who is for us and who is against us? Who is a supporter and who is a saboteur? And then consider collateral damage. And then consider the way most of the media is playing this. Oh, they cluck their tongues about those bad people who took over New York, but their stories are full of admiration for the chutzpah of it—and for the high technology, and for the ‘peaceful approach’ they’re taking now. Naturally, everybody is calling for negotiations. I’ve had so many messages from European governments begging me to negotiate I could paper these walls with them.”

“Now we know how the Israelis feel,” said Cole.

“Except we’d have to build about a hundred fences to separate the red from the blue,” said Reuben.

“Not to mention,” Cole added, “sorting out which soldiers are actually from the cities in rebellion.”

“Now you understand,” said Nielson.

“So why did you bring us here?” asked Cecily. “Surely not for more advice.”

“What I need,” said Nielson. “What the country needs. Is proof. Proof of this conspiracy. And I think you have it. Major Malich, I think you were set up. But I hear you can identify who leaked your assassination plans if you have the copy the FBI found in the terrorists’ apartment.”

“I think I can, yes sir,” said Reuben.

President Nielson lifted a file folder from his desk. “This is a copy of the one we found. The original had your fingerprints all over it.”

“Anyone else’s?”

“Your secretary’s. But no others. Which is one of the reasons the FBI is suspicious of it. Did the terrorists wear gloves when they handled the paper?”

“It should have the prints of the leaker, too, and everyone who handled it before him,” said Reuben.

“From this we conclude that it went to the leaker first,” said Nielson. “And the leaker didn’t want to risk smearing or covering your prints. So he wore gloves as he copied it, and then bagged the original so no new fingerprints would get on it.”

“I wish I could tell you just by looking at it,” said Reuben. “But it’s DeeNee who knows which version is which and where they went first.”

“I urge you to call her.”

“The last time I did, she was closely supervised by people who thought it was urgent that I be arrested.”

“Arrested? Who gave that order? I specifically told them not to arrest you.”

They all knew what that meant.

“It’s a strange time to be President,” said Nielson. “Nobody knows who’s on which team. It will sort itself out eventually, but right now I need proof of who it was in the Pentagon who conspired to kill the President and lay the groundwork for this Progressive Restoration nonsense.”

Cecily laughed harshly. “This gets worse and worse. Because if you do start laying off people just on suspicion of being Progressive sympathizers, your opponents in Congress and the press will screech that you’re imposing an ideological test on government employees.”

“It’s why we need proof. Even if you have to go to the Pentagon to get it, Major Malich.”

“Can I choose and arm a team of my own choosing?” asked Reuben. “I’ll also need a letter of authorization from you. Giving me supreme authority over all personnel whose obedience I require in pursuing my assignment. Because I have to be able to tell any general who stands in my way to get lost.”

“I’ll also detail two Secret Service agents to accompany you,” said Nielson. “The Secret Service has always prided themselves on protecting even people they despise.”

“Do you have any idea yet who it was inside the White House?”

“One of the household staff,” said Nielson. “She hasn’t shown up for work. We believe she’s in hiding. But fellow staff members say she was bitter about her son’s injury in Iraq three years ago. He lost a hand. She blamed the President. I suspect if we do find her, she’ll be dead before we arrive. Maybe she didn’t know she was triggering an assassination. But maybe she did. The people who can hurt us are the ones that we trust.”

“Why did you need me?” asked Cecily.

“You mean apart from the fact that I need somebody who can speak the language of the Left and help me translate my statements into neutral rhetoric?”

“I already turned you down for that job.”

“I was hoping you could do some clerical work for me,” said Nielson. “Immediately after his arrest, Steven Phillips, an aid to the NSA, provided us with his few scraps of notes about illegal arms trading that was being run out of the White House. Since some of this work was done by your husband, I thought you might have a vested interest in finding who was sending what to whom. Especially since Phillips was happy to tell us that he knew nothing much at all, it was completely Reuben Malich’s operation.”

“So, was Phillips part of the conspiracy?” asked Cole.

“No, he’s just a bureaucratic weasel,” said Reuben.

“Actually, the jury’s still out on that question,” said Nielson. “Not about whether he’s a weasel—his weaselhood is self-demonstrating.”

They all laughed. Only partly because he was President.

“There are better people than me to conduct this investigation,” said Cecily. “I have children to take care of.”

“I’m not asking you for a career decision, Cecily,” said Nielson. “Or a lifestyle choice. The people I can trust who are also capable don’t really make up that big a list.” He leaned across the desk. “For your country, Cecily Grmek.”

“Malich,” she corrected him.

“I’m asking the idealist who used to think she could turn me into a liberal if she found just the right piece of data to pass along to me.”

“The kids aren’t that far away,” said Reuben. “After things settle down a little, maybe we can bring them here.”

“Besides,” said President Nielson, “Major Malich will be reporting directly to me. On this and all his future assignments. If you’re here, you’ll see a lot more of him.”

Cecily nodded, but Cole could see she was still torn. We all make sacrifices in wartime, he said to himself silently. But he wasn’t married; he wasn’t a father. It was easier for him. His mother would miss him if he was gone. His father was already dead. His siblings—they got along fine. It wouldn’t disrupt their lives if he died. But for Cecily and Rube, it wasn’t like that. With both of them gone, their children would be parentless for a while. Temporary orphans. Never easy on kids.

Like it wasn’t easy on Cole when his father died. And they had plenty of warning on that. Cancer. Months of chemo. And then the news that it hadn’t done the job, it was just a matter of time. They were able to say good-bye. Able to see how the disease wasted his body and tore him apart inside until he was ready to go, and death came as a relief. That was hard enough on Cole, knowing his father loved him, hearing him say, several times, I’m proud of you, Barty, keep making me proud.

Dad couldn’t help going. Reuben is under orders. But Cecily feels like she has a choice. So… if she abandons her children for a while, does that make her worse or nobler?

Glad I have my life, thought Cole, as he did so often. Rather my life than anyone else’s that I know of.

“As for you, Captain Coleman,” said the President.

“Oh, I’m going with Reuben,” said Cole, without thinking who he was talking to.

“You are?” asked Nielson.

“I’m in his team,” said Cole. “I’m his number two. Whether he likes it or not. I was assigned.”

“I was thinking of reassigning you. We need a military spokesman with your—”

“Mr. President, you wouldn’t take a fighting machine like me and waste me in front of cameras, would you? You need to watch First Blood again and think of me as being about as articulate as Stallone.”

“Rambo couldn’t have said the sentence you just said,” Cecily said.

“You said Major Malich could choose his own squad,” said Cole. He looked to Reuben for support, half expecting him to say, Obey your commander-in-chief.

“He’s right, Mr. President. I need him more than you do.”

“Then he’s yours. This meeting is adjourned.”

As they came out of the President’s office, there were several people waiting to get in. Sitting on a wooden bench, not looking eager to enter, was a slender man of perhaps thirty-five, who looked like he played tennis a little, and swam a little, but mostly read books through those rimless glasses and wrote brilliant essays with those slender, graceful fingers. The poster child for what every professor wanted to grow up to be, and what every politician wished he could put on his posters. Cole had never seen him before, but couldn’t take his eyes off him.

The tennis-playing professor rose to his feet and held out his hand to Rube. “Soldier Boy,” said the professor.

“Professor Torrent,” said Rube. “I go by Major Malich now.”

So this was Averell Torrent, the young hotshot of the NSA’s office who had just been nominated to be NSA as his boss bumped up. The Torrent whose essays on history had been all the rage a couple of years ago. Since he was a Princeton professor then, Cole had assumed it was History For Liberals, meaning that it would be elaborate explanations of why whatever the Republican administration was doing was wrong, complete with references to global warming and the need for negotiations under all circumstances. Therefore he hadn’t read it. But Reuben knew him, and even if he was a little prickly about the “soldier boy” greeting, Rube was showing him deeper respect than he had shown to President Nielson.

“So the President has brought you aboard,” said Torrent.

“Both of us,” said Rube, including Cecily. Then he indicated Cole as well. “All three of us.”

Torrent looked at Cole somewhat quizzically. “Very powerful sermon on Fox last night,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Cole. But he thought: It sounded to you like a sermon?

“We have some interesting new armaments that are being rushed out of prototype to meet these mechs,” said Torrent. “I know you’re a dirt-and-languages kind of soldier, but you have to love some of the new weaponry, Major Malich.”

“You got something that will trip a two-legged tank?” asked Rube.

“We’ve got a foam that dries in two seconds and then won’t let go. Basically, you glue them to the ground like gum.” Torrent grinned. “Some of these geniuses in weapons development must be thrilled to have a chance to use some of this far-out stuff.”

“As long as some of them didn’t moonlight by coming up with the Progressives’ weapons in the first place,” said Rube.

“And magnets,” said Torrent. “You lay them like mines, and anything big and metallic that passes within twenty feet is pulled toward it and can’t get free. And grenades that are all shockwave, no flame. Hit one of those mechs with it, and everything comes loose inside. Lovely things.”

“I’m glad our troops will have something,” said Rube. “Have they figured out what shot down those F-16s?”

“A hyperpowerful EMP.”

“That would suck up so much power the city’d black out,” said Rube.

“They think it might be laserized, so you get a lot more clout for the kilowatt. Whatever it is, it wipes out the electronics that keep those planes aloft.”

“So we’re going to do what, go back to propeller planes?” asked Rube.

Torrent paused for a moment. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. The jets hang back for air cover, and the little biplanes come on in, machine guns blazing. Like shooting down King Kong.”

“Looks like you’re having fun, Professor,” said Rube.

“War triggers human inventiveness at its most brilliant, because if you don’t win your wars, your civilization disappears.”

“It’s bad form to quote yourself,” said Rube, smiling.

“I said that before?”

“Don’t worry,” said Rube. “Quoting Averell Torrent makes everybody look smarter.”

Torrent clapped him on the shoulder and they moved down the corridor as Torrent disappeared inside the President’s office.

“So you know Torrent,” said Cole.

“Had three seminars from him in grad school.”

“Is he too dashing to be smart and too smart to be so dashing?” asked Cecily.

“He’s got more ego than a movie star,” said Rube, “but unlike most of my former professors, he has the brains to back it up. He never served in the military but he has his own version of history that works better than most others, and he has an eye for strategy. President Nielson isn’t wrong to seek his advice.”

“But he irritates you,” said Cole.

“He works at irritating me,” said Rube. “I don’t know what I did to get under his skin, but he rode me all the way through three seminars and gave me hell during my orals.”

“How did he irritate you just now?” asked Cole. “Besides calling you ‘soldier boy.’ ”

“He’s got a severe case of Winston-Churchill-itis. Churchill was the genius of global politics, so Torrent has to be, too. Churchill went ape over every wacko bit of military tech that came up, so Torrent has to pretend he’s a tech guy.”

“He isn’t?”

“No more than Churchill was. I don’t know why I think he’s faking his enthusiasm. Maybe because a former advisor to the NSA wouldn’t usually know that much about cutting-edge weaponry.” Rube stopped and took Cecily by the shoulders. “Cessy,” he said, “the stuff on my PDA will make your job easier. As soon as I get back, I’ll give it to you.”

“Give it to me now so I can get started,” said Cecily.

“Everything’s in Farsi,” said Rube.

“The names and addresses?” asked Cecily.

“They don’t mean anything without an explanation. I’ll be back by noon tomorrow. I’ll just pop in to the Pentagon, pull DeeNee and my files out, and then we’re home.”

“Then take a minute and copy it to another computer,” Cecily insisted.

Rube hesitated. “Cessy,” he said softly. “I don’t know how the stuff on here will make me look. The minute I let a copy be made, it’s out of my hands. Somebody can steal it. Somebody can leak it.”

“Then leave the PDA with me,” said Cessy. “I’ll take better care of it than you can. There’ll be no chance of it falling out of your pocket or getting bumped when another army of mechs walks into Arlington.”

“There’s information in it that I might need while I’m in DC,” said Rube.

“You really aren’t going to part with it for any reason, are you?” said Cessy.

“How do you think I kept it secure for the last two years?” he said with a sad smile. Then he kissed her. “Cole and I are going to haul now, Cessy. When you talk to the kids, remind them they have a dad and I love them.”

“We love you too, Soldier Boy.”

Cole saw that Reuben walked away grinning. “So it’s okay if she calls you soldier boy?”

“I’m not in love with Torrent,” said Rube.