Apache Dawn by - (dark books to read .txt) 📖

clear. His Majesty the King is dreadfully concerned about this business with the North Koreans as well. We are pursuing every diplomatic avenue with Pyongyang regarding the rumors of their invasion of the American Pacific Coast.”

The President stood at the end of the conference room table, next to his big executive chair and watched the screen with a sinking heart. Even the British were onboard with the U.N. invasion. He had hoped that at least America’s most stalwart ally would see through this move by the United Nations.

“Prime Minister,” shouted a reporter off-screen. “Can you confirm, then, that there are indeed North Korean ground forces operating in America at this time?”

“What about the Russians taking over towns in the southern United States?” called out another. Brilliant flashes erupted across the screen from cameramen in the background.

“Can you hear yourselves?” asked the Prime Minister. “America is a superpower—we all know that their country is filled with gun-toting cowboys and gangsters. Do you honestly think that another country would want to invade such a place? I believe, as does His Majesty, that there are plenty of real problems to deal with. Namely, the communications issues revolving around the loss of America’s satellites. Those satellites have affected the entire world, from communications, to security, as well as global finance and trade. And I, for one, am more than amazed that it has taken until now for the rest of us to realize just how much we depend on the United States. They have been the Atlas to western civilization for how many decades? Maybe this is the wakeup call that we all need to start pulling our own weight, what?”

“What about the Russians?”

The Prime Minister shook his head. “Ludicrous, all of it. Just because Great Britain has not donated blood and treasure—at this time—to this peacekeeping force does not mean that the Crown is oblivious to the unfortunate needs of the Yanks. That is patently false; don’t believe everything you hear, old boy. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am quite sorry,” he said, holding up his hands. “But I must be off—I do have a country to run. And that job has become much more difficult of late.”

President Barron turned off the monitor in disgust as the reporters began shouting questions over each other. Thanks to the Yanks…as if it were our choice to have the damn Koreans invade and let the U.N. take up residence on Long Island…

He listened to the silence in the conference room, broken only by the gentle whisper of the air filtration system and the drumming of his fingers on the polished walnut slab of a table.

An aide approached silently and placed a cup emblazoned with the official White House seal in front of the President. “It’s time, sir,” he whispered while pouring the gourmet coffee.

“Very well. Thank you.” The President picked up the remote in front of him and clicked a big red button. On the other side of the room, the floor-to-ceiling monitor switched on and the image was split into eleven portraits. His government.

There was the Speaker of the House, the Joint Chiefs, the NSA head, his CIA spymaster, the Director of the FBI, the Secretary of Homeland Security, and the Secretary of State. A door at the other end of the room opened and the Secretary of Defense stepped in, carrying a stack of papers and sat down on the President’s right.

When he was sure he had everyone’s attention and all the cameras were working, he started the meeting. “I’m glad you all got to your secure locations without incident. I hear it’s starting to get bad out there.”

The red-faced Army General was apoplectic. “Starting to get bad? Starting? Mr. President, the Russians have taken three towns in South Carolina—that we know of—as surely as the Koreans have sacked Los Angeles, Portland, Sacramento, and Seattle! It’s a goddamn disaster, is what it is!”

All the heads displayed on the wall-screen began talking and shouting at once. The President sighed and rubbed his temples. Reginald—the puppet master, as the President was starting to think of him—had tried to prepare the fledgling president for this meeting. They were reacting with fright, anger, and impotence, exactly as Reginald had promised.

As his cabinet argued amongst themselves, the President thought back on Reginald’s words. He had said that everything was going according to plan. Everything was back on schedule, now that President Denton was confirmed dead and Harold himself was secure in the Oval Office.

The President looked up. Or at least underneath the Oval Office, he thought with a wry smile. The smile faded as a small voice in the back of his head asked, How does Reginald know if Denton is really dead?

“Mr. President, have you selected a VP yet?” asked the Director of the FBI, outshouting his colleagues. The room went quiet.

The President thought a moment before he answered. He had desperately wanted to nominate Jayne, just to see the looks on their faces. There was no Constitutional requirement that a president appoint a career politician as VP when he assumed power. It was just expected.

The sobering thought that she would be spirited away to her own bunker, likely never to see him until the crisis was over—that was really what deep-sixed the notion of Jayne as Vice President.

“I have,” he said, addressing the assembled floating heads on the wall. “I have nominated Sandra Hillsen.” He raised up his hand to forestall the deluge of opposition. He knew very well what he was doing—Sandra Hillsen was the most rabid, foaming-at-the-mouth liberal senator the good people of California had ever elected. She would be the perfect enthusiastic enforcer for his radical policies.

Senator Hillsen hailed from southern California, ground zero for the Korean invasion, and having her on his team would shore up political support from both sides, regardless of ideology. She was California and if nothing else, people would associate her nomination with his determination to secure peace for the West Coast, and roughly half of his political base. If nothing else, he figured, she had the largest Chinese-American constituency, with the most contacts in Beijing. And that fact might just be able to create a real impact in the crisis.

We might have to rely on China to rein in North Korea…God, they’re really boxing me in on this. As payment for stopping North Korea, the Chinese will demand rights for their fleet of civilians. Dammit! He could feel his fists clench in an impotent fury. Then a thought occurred to him, Maybe Hillsen can pull it off.

Even the Republican leadership had admitted that they would not oppose her too strenuously, though he could see it in their faces that they would like nothing better than to spit on her grave. To oppose a VP nomination in the middle of a national crisis over political ideology would be suicide for the conservatives in the upcoming midterms, and they knew it. No, Harold had them exactly where he wanted them.

If we have midterms, he thought darkly. Another thought struck him. If we don’t have midterms, what will that do to the conservatives? Without the distraction of the election…How can I take advantage of that? He filed that thought away for future pondering.

“I’ve already spoken with Alan,” he said, motioning toward the screen with the Senate Majority Leader’s sour face. “And he’s confident we’ll have no trouble getting her sworn in.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” muttered the Commandant of the Marine Corps.

“Is there a problem with my nomination, General?”

The old Marine’s face remained as impassive as a lump of granite, his gray eyes boring holes through the President like power drills. A hint of color crept up the old man’s neck. “You might say so, yes, Mr. President,” he said in a clipped tone.

“I’m all ears. Why do you feel the need to criticize my nomination in the middle of this crisis?” He smiled inwardly, proud of having skewered the Marine. It was the same tactic the Democratic Party would use on anyone who said anything but “yes” to Senator Hillsen’s nomination.

“Permission to speak freely, sir?” asked the Marine.

“Go ahead, general.”

“That woman,” the Marine said with a sneer, “is one helluva large part of why we’re in this mess to begin with. She’s the one who has sponsored the reduction in arms year after year, cutting our budgets and affecting our ability to defend this nation. She and her friends,” he said, fairly hissing the word, “have over the years done more to destroy the fabric of this nation and its ability to defend itself than North Korea has in a hundred years. By the way, the North Korean flag flies over City Hall in Los Angeles thanks to her. And the Chinese haven’t done shit to keep their little brothers in line, have they? ‘Course, from what I hear, Hillsen’s plenty friendly with the ChiComs, too, so she probably knows more than we do—am I right?”

The President ground his teeth, seething in anger. The general had hit a nerve. Yes, Senator Hillsen had been involved in a few scandals with Chinese dissidents, involving arms technology transfers, but she had been cleared on three separate occasions by Congress itself. But that had nothing to do with North Korea.

Of course, Congress was run by her friends…that small voice in his head whispered, almost as a giggle. She’s grossly irresponsible, always getting a free ride, and essentially accountable to no one. Will she listen to me?

He had to control his emotions and maintain an even keel. He knew the senator had some skeletons in her closet. Hell, it wasn’t the skeletons she had in her closet, it was the ones she had in the ground. Rumors flew about how dirty she played the Little Rock-Chicagoland political game.

The worst part about the old general’s words was that they were true. The President knew it; they all knew it. Senator Hillsen was as anti-military as she was pro-labor, pro-amnesty for illegal immigrants, and pro-global government. It wasn’t her stance on the military that the President wanted to manipulate, it was her ability to get votes, her ability to intimidate junior senators, and reach into the House to gather support around her like a cloak. Always making promises—or more often, threats—but always getting what she wanted. He would need