COG
A deranged president. A $10 trillion bunker. The nuclear football. And a salacious video... (Dark Humor, Satire)
“Take all your overgrown infants away somewhere...
And build them a home, a little place of their own.”
—Roger Waters
Chapter 1
“Will he live?”
A gloved hand reached in and pried an eyelid open. A beam of white light illuminated a pale blue cornea causing the tiny muscles of the iris to constrict the black window of the soul. The fingers released and the eyelid sprung shut.
“Mr. President, can you hear me?”
Groans.
Specialists in white lab coats, and nurses in teal scrubs converged. The throng of suited, presidential staff pushed their way into the scrum.
“President Manfred, can you hear me?”
More groans.
A nurse wrapped a blood pressure cuff on the president's upper arm. Her nametag read “Baum”. She was thin with shoulder length, toasted blond hair. Plain, with thin lips and wounded-looking eyes, she performed her tasks with stolid efficiency. She removed the cuff and injected medication into an IV line.
The president began to open his eyes. “Whu… Whu…” he mumbled.
Everyone dressed in suits drew back and sighed in relief. Many had heard the rumor that POTUS was brain dead. Some still weren’t convinced he wasn’t.
“You're safe, Mr. President,” answered the doctor.
“Whu… where am I?”
“You’re at Fletcher Memorial ICU.”
The president struggled to sit up. His coal and gray hair, long matted against the pillow, splayed outwards from his beady-eyed, puffy Irish face as he pulled himself upright. “Fletcher Memorial? I'm in the SuperBunker?”
“That’s correct.”
“I've got to get… get up… back to the White House.”
A broad-shouldered man in a navy suit jacket and unbuttoned collar stepped forward. His dark eyes probed from under his thick, hooded eyelids. His black hair was closely cropped. When he spoke, his baritone voice filled the room like the rumble of a diesel train engine. His name was Dexter Fricke. He was the secretary of state.
“I'm afraid that's not possible, Mr. President,” he rumbled.
“Wh… why??” the POTUS asked as he plowed his fingers through his hair.
“We're in COGCON 2, Mr. President,” Fricke announced.
“Di… did we win?”
“Win what, Mr. President?” Fricke asked.
A doctor motioned Fricke back. “He sounds a bit confused. We still don't know the cause or after-effects of his episode.” He turned to the POTUS. “Tell me, Mr. President, what is the last thing you remember?”
“D… Did we win?” he demanded.
“War has been averted for now, Mr. President,” Fricke answered.
“No. No… Not the war... the... the...”
The what, sir?”
“The f... The ffff...”
“He's lost his ability to speak!” someone moaned.
Everyone leaned in for a closer look to judge for themselves.
“The fff... The fff...”
A military officer pushed his way in and next to the president. He held his cap under his arm. He was sixtyish, with a pinkish complexion, and receding, cropped, ashy-blond hair. His crystal blue eyes were set narrowly under bushy, ginger eyebrows that punctuated a puffy, weathered face that invoked the image of an unmade bed. He was Fitzmaurice Buckminster, the secretary of defense. He bent down and spoke softly in the president's ear, as if he were talking to a child.
“We'll win, sir. I've no doubt.”
“No…” grumbled the POTUS.
“Sir, we've gone through this a dozen times. Stick to the plan.”
“Not… not the war!” the president bristled. “The game.”
“The game, sir?”
“I think he means the football game,” Fricke interjected.
“Oh, yes,” Buckminster affirmed. “Yes, the football game. Right. Well sir, you'll be happy to know that your Saxons beat Pittsburgh 24 to 18.”
The president grinned behind the green plastic oxygen tubes hooked into his nostrils.
“Sir, that game was Monday. Do you know what day today is?” asked the doctor.
“Not sure. Tuesday?”
“Today is Thursday.”
“Thursday? I was to meet with the Prime Minister.”
“Do you remember what day that was?”
“Wednesday... Wednesday morning.”
The doctor turned to the president's nurse. “Nurse Baum, make a note.”
She marked it in her pad.
“What's happening? Why am I here?” asked the president.
The doctor nodded at Fricke and Fricke stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder with Buckminster who refused to yield even an inch. “Mr. President, it seems as though you’ve suffered some sort of physical breakdown.”
“Breakdown? What do you mean?”
“You became very agitated when being briefed on the U.S.S. Henry Harrison situation. You collapsed and lost consciousness. They think it was a seizure or possibly a small stroke.”
“A stroke?”
“We don’t know. We’re still running tests. The amount of stress you're under has been tremendous. The burden of nuclear war would be an unimaginable weight for anyone to bear...”
“But you are bearing it well, sir,” Buckminster affirmed.
“But the war hasn't started?”
“No sir.”
“Where's my fullback?”
Fricke pointed towards the door of the room. The throng parted to reveal a thin, gray man in his seventies, also in dress uniform, clutching a large leather satchel.
“I'm right here, sir,” replied Major Kilgore in a voice that sounded like sandpaper scraping a rusty pipe.
The president breathed a relieved sigh.
Kilgore nodded, his gentle gaze set within his leathery, war-hardened face.
“We'll make sure he is always nearby,” Buckminster advised. “Perhaps we should clear the room and...”
The president started pawing at his intravenous lines and monitor cables.
“Please, Mr. President,” begged the doctor. “Try to relax. You need rest.”
“Your country needs their leader in top shape, now more than ever,” added Buckminster.
“Mr. President,” Fricke interrupted. “We still have a window of opportunity. We can work this out with Timoshenko and Hu Li.”
The president stopped his struggling and took a deep breath, then fell back into his pillow knocking strands of his black and gray hair loose over his forehead as he relaxed. Nurse Baum rushed in to reattach his wires and hoses.
“Where's Tibbles?” the president asked. “I need to speak to him.”
The executive staff all looked at each other and shrugged.”
“I said, where the fuck is Tibbles!?”
“Mr. President,” said Fricke with reluctance. “It appears that Tibbles was not issued a valid bunker access PIN.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“We believe it was a clerical error, sir. We could not get the appropriate UN validations, so his entry into SuperBunker was denied.”
“Oh, to hell with that. Get him down here.”
“We are doing everything we can, sir.”
“What about Yates?”
Buckminster answered, “the protocol is for the vice president to be relocated to an independent bunker. That location is classified.”
“What about Peters?”
“He made it in, sir.”
“We'll send for them in a couple hours,” said the doctor. “Right now, you need some rest.”
“What about Norris?” the POTUS continued, unabated.
“She is unaccounted for at the moment.”
“Haberdash?”
Buckminster’s eyes flashed with contempt. “He's just outside the door, Mr. President. I’m sure he’s listening in on everything we say.”
“You will be pleased to know that the first lady is safe in the bunker as well,” Fricke added.
“Oh, swell.”
“She's resting comfortably in the presidential quarters.”
“Okay, okay,” the doctor intervened. “I want all non-essential personnel out. The president needs rest so that he can get back to ruling the world. Let’s go. Out! Out!”
The staff all took their turns smiling and patting the president on the forearm or lower leg, gently, so as not to disturb his intravenous lines and cabling, before shuffling out of the ward. Only the doctor, Fricke, Buckminster, and Major Kilgore remained. Haberdash, a husky dude with wavy, greasy, blond hair and a graying goatee stepped into the doorway.
“Is everyone out?” the POTUS asked.
Fricke poked his head out past Haberdash, then came back in and nodded to affirm everyone was indeed out of earshot.
“Fricke...”
“Yes Mr. President.”
“Come closer.”
“Yes sir.”
“Fricke...”
“Yes?”
The president stared at him with a look that was something of a cross between furious anger and desperate anguish.
“Fricke...”
“Yes. What is it, sir?”
The doctor studied the charts on his pad.
“Fricke...” The president said again, reaching out his hand suspended by his wavering arm.
Nurse Baum typed notes into her pad.
“I'm right here, sir. What is it?”
But the POTUS lost consciousness as the sedative took hold.
Chapter 2
The president was released from the Fletcher Memorial Medical Center on the seventh day after his episode. They dressed him up in a navy-blue leisure suit, fuzzy slippers, and a U.S. flag pin. They hoisted him into a wheelchair nicknamed “Chair Force One” which was emblazoned with the presidential seal on the seatback and fashioned with bullet proof glass shields on the sides. It had an electric motor that helped move it along due to its weight— the built-in defensive counter measures and drivetrain caused it to weigh over 800 pounds.
Chair Force One was constructed by a defense contractor named Numenor Corp at the bargain price of twenty-five million dollars. Chair Force One had seven full time, year-round attendants who were paid $100 per hour. Numenor also collected an annual maintenance fee to service Chair Force One totaling forty million dollars per year. The medical staff anticipated that President Manfred would be in need of Chair Force One for a total of forty-eight hours.
The POTUS protested when they hoisted him in, but Buckminster and the president’s newly assigned personal nurse, Emma Baum, hoisted him onto his wheeled throne, nevertheless, being careful not to disturb the intravenous lines and other monitoring equipment connected to his veins and skin. The POTUS put on a brave and pleasant face as he wheeled out of the infirmary by joystick control, and into the main hall where a throng of press corps reporters and videographers were waiting and shouting: “Mr. President! Mr. President! Mr. President!”
President Manfred did not give a speech. He said only, “God bless America,” and “but for the grace of God go I,” and “your thoughts and prayers are greatly appreciated.” He gave a thumbs up as they loaded him into a black, bulletproof golf cart, also emblazoned with the presidential seal and decorated with presidential flags mounted on the front fenders.
The U.S. federal government contracted for the construction and maintenance of the bullet-proof, IED proof, executive golf carts with a defense contractor named Hegel-Strauss. Each one cost sixty-seven million dollars and required a full time maintenance staff of thirty.
A procession of eighteen black, Hegel-Strauss, bullet-proof, IED proof executive golf carts whizzed off in procession into a white-tiled tunnel, led and trailed by a motorcade of SuperBunker security personnel riding two-wheeled mopeds with red and blue flashers— known by their trademark name as “Mo-Mos.” Mo-Mos were not built by a defense contractor, per se, but by a firm coincidentally headquartered in the same district as the speaker of the house. The presidential motorcade version cost $ 1 million apiece.
The procession snaked along the gently arcing, subterranean motorway for three quarters of a mile until they reached the monorail station. From there, the POTUS and his entourage boarded a sleek, silver monorail car with tinted glass, bulletproof windows, and plush leather seats— hand-stitched by part time laborers in Arkansas, each of whom was working at their day jobs on the surface at that very moment and who were feeling greatly distressed by the possibility of being vaporized by nukes.
Secret service agents in black suits and black sunglasses and fade haircuts and constipated looks were posted on the platform of the station. They whispered secret codewords into their lapels. The presidential entourage boarded, and the monorail car doors slid shut and the train launched into the cavernous tunnel. It accelerated to maximum velocity, whisking through the tube reaching speeds of over one hundred miles per hour. Orange marker lights embedded in the walls streaked past in the windows like tracer bullets in the night. But within a minute, they were decelerating out of the darkness into a massive, open chamber filled with building facades and wide walkways lined with plastic Ficus trees beneath a canvas sky backlit in pastel blue.
The monorail stopped at the platform of Section N Depot C. The depot and the adjacent Hotel Americana were crafted in the art deco style common to Los Angeles and brightly illuminated with lighting that evoked neon. A new squad of secret service agents in black suits and black sunglasses and fade haircuts and constipated looks scrambled into position and whispered codewords into their lapels.
The doors of the train slid open and the president was wheeled out onto a long red carpet. Another throng of press corps, lying in ambush, sprung out from behind the dolphin fountains and the faux palm trees to capture the president's arrival for posterity. “Mr. President!” “Mr. President!” “Mr. President!” they shouted, but he just smiled and waved. Chair Force One paused when it reached the front doors of the hotel, beneath a red awning—which was a purely non-functional design element as they were nearly a half mile underground and no rain-simulation lines had been installed at this location. The POTUS, seated on his wheeled throne, saluted the marine posted at the door with such crispness that he nearly tore his intravenous line loose from the greenish vein in the back of his hand. The flashes of the press cameras went off like silent firecrackers on Chinese New Year. “Mr. President! Mr. President! Mr. President!” But he still did not speak. Nurse Baum guided his rolling throne through the doors via the supplemental joystick control and the presidential phalanx was swallowed up by the vertical spires and radiating patterns of the hotel facade.
They wheeled the POTUS through the lobby, past the gawking staff, around a koi lagoon and miniature tropical garden, past the doors to the entertainment and convention halls, and into an elevator. Only Buckminster, Haberdash, Nurse Baum, and two secret service agents entered the elevator with the president. Buckminster presented his cornea for security scan. After the ping of approval and clearance, he pressed the button labeled “62.” The elevator descended at about a third of freefall velocity, causing some vertigo like one feels when riding a roller coaster and it begins to accelerate downwards from a crest. After a few moments it came to a stop and the doors opened. They were greeted by two more secret service agents who escorted them past another dolphin fountain and down to the end of a corridor carpeted in minimalist Mondrian motifs. They stopped before two ornate double doors, finished in gold leaf, and waited for the agent standing guard there to open them. Chair Force One rolled in.
“Welcome to the Brown House, Mr. President,” said the secret service agent who manned the door.
“The Brown House?” asked the president.
“Yes, sir.”
“Who in the hell thought of naming it that?”
“Uh, I believe it's in lieu of it being underground, Mr. President. You know, brown... the color of earth.”
“It sounds like a place where you go to have a shit,” replied the POTUS.
The distressed agent immediately whispered into his lapel.
The POTUS looked at Haberdash who was stroking his wiry goatee beard. “Make sure you put that in my hagiography, Hab. The people love that no nonsense, command-and-control talk.”
“You got it, sir.”
The president scanned the foyer which was finished in fine marble. Corinthian columns flanked each of the three ten-foot tall doors before them.
“Where's the media room?” asked the POTUS.
“This way, sir,” Buckminster answered. They wheeled him to the left, through one of the massive mahogany doors, down a long hall, past several smaller doors, until they reached a dark room with a five-hundred-inch television screen affixed to one wall. Baum pressed a button and Chair Force One’s seat lifted the POTUS up off the chair so that he could easily maneuver himself onto an adjacent recliner. The recliner had a touch panel built into the arm so that he could adjust its positioning as well as access all the telecommunications available without having to get up.
The presidential recliner was constructed by a defense contractor named Longfort-McBurton at a cost of twelve-million dollars. It would have only cost eleven-million dollars, but the federal government bought the extended warranty.
“You can control the network feed there, sir,” Buckminster advised as he showed the president the controls. “You can also alert security with that button there and charge your cell phone wirelessly there. That button adjusts the lights, and this one sends the butler...”
“Thank you, Bucky. Where's my bat phone?”
“Right here, sir.”
“Great. That will be all.”
Buckminster left, taking Nurse Baum and the secret service personnel with him. The president was left alone with Haberdash and his five-hundred-inch television and six-foot-tall images of himself being released from the medical ward moments earlier on cable news. At the bottom of the screen, a line tracked changes in his public approval rating in real time with twelve pings per second. His popularity had never been higher at sixty two percent favorable— which was a record for presidents in the twenty first century. The looming global thermo nuclear Armageddon had bumped his numbers up twenty points and his hospitalization had knocked it up another ten.
“These god damn news reporters never say anything,” the president fumed as he ignored the television and watched the exact same video feed on his cell phone.
Haberdash, who was distracted by an itch inside his loafer, nodded in agreement. “No doubt, sir.”
“Hab...”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Off the record…”
“Certainly, sir.”
“What the hell happened? I can't remember a damn thing.”
“Oh, I don't think I am a reliable conveyor of the facts, Mr. President?”
“What do you mean? You're the executive hagiographer.”
“I think you should have Fricke fill you in on all those details... when you're up to it, sir.”
The president reclined in his chair, reached over to his touch panel, and dimmed the lights. He watched news reports of himself for several hours while Haberdash futzed around on his notepad. When he finally tired of seeing himself, the POTUS pushed the comm button on his control panel. “Anyone there?”
“I'm here, sir.”
“Who's this?”
“Faucett, sir. I’m the Brown House, er, I mean the Earth House butler, sir.”
“Can you come in here, please?”
“Right away, sir.”
Faucett appeared five seconds later dressed in a black jacket with tails and a black bow tie. He was narrow-shouldered, with straight, reddish hair and pale skin.
“Faucett...”
“Yes, sir?”
“You’re the butler?”
“Yes sir.”
“You don’t look like a butler.”
“How is a butler supposed to look, sir?”
“I don’t know. More distinguished. Older. More like Michael Cain and less like Napoleon Dynamite, I guess.”
“I see.”
“Where's the first lady?”
“She hasn't come in to see you yet, sir?”
“No. It's just been me and Hab in here.”
“I'm sorry, sir. Shall I send for her?”
“Please.”
“Right away, sir.”
Faucett turned and left.
The POTUS switched on a football game but left cable news on in the picture in picture. The Hartford Saxons were taking on Miami. An hour later, at halftime, with the game knotted at 17, first lady Veruca Weinstein Manfred appeared. She was a petite woman with dark, narrow eyes set under scrawling, thin, black eyebrows. She was dressed in all black— a short black dress, black hose, black heels, black gloves, black ribbon in her pulled up, silky black hair. Her monotone blackness was accented with a star-dusting of silver bracelets, silver earrings, and a delicate silver chain necklace.
“Where in the hell have you been?” barked the president.
“What do you mean?” she replied, unable to prevent her thin lip from curling under as she spoke.
Haberdash swept his tawny waves aside and studied the terse exchange.
“Did I stutter?” The first lady didn't answer. The POTUS sighed. “Why in the hell are you wearing all black?”
“Because I'm in mourning.”
“What are you in mourning for? I'm not dead.”
“Does he really have to be here?” she asked, pointing to Haberdash who averted his eyes.
“Yes. He's always with me.”
“Why?”
“Because he's capturing my life.”
“Capturing your life for what?”
“For all posterity.”
“For what?”
“For history. For future generations. Hab's going to write the story of my life.”
Her eyes narrowed into slits and a crease formed in her brow. “What sane person would want to read about your idiotic life?”
“Millions of people. I'm the president, the ruler of the free world.”
“You're the ruler, all right.”
“Yes I am.”
The first lady rolled her eyes.
“I asked you why you're dressed like you're going to a funeral when I'm obviously not dead.”
“Why does it always have to be about you?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I meant exactly what I asked.”
“Of course it's always about me, Veruca. I'm the fucking president of the United States.”
The first lady groaned. “I hate you,” she snapped. “Everyone hates you. Everyone wishes you were dead.”
“That's ridiculous. They don't hate me. My approval ratings are over sixty percent. That's a record approval rating for this century.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“Are you getting all this, Hab?” asked the president.
Haberdash stopped picking his nose and started scribbling notes.
“What do you need him around all the time for?” she asked. “Just record every second of your pathetic life on a meCam. You could put the camera on a giant gold necklace and wrap it around your neck. Maybe you’d do us all a favor and hang yourself with it.”
“I already record everything. But a writer still must put my life into prose. MeCam doesn't write prose, Veruca. An author must put it all together so it can go into my presidential library.”
“Your library? Who in the hell would visit it?”
“Lots of folks.”
“The only people who will ever visit it are psychiatrists studying megalomaniacs.”
“It’s for academics and historians.”
“Historians study Hitler, too.”
“Are you comparing me to Hitler?”
“I hate you.”
“You already said that. Why are you in mourning?”
“I hate you because you don't know why I'm in mourning.”
“How in the hell would I know? I've been unconscious.”
“I'm in mourning because billions of people are going to die as a direct result of your ego.”
“War is inevitable, Veruca. People die in war. I doubt it will be billions, though. Probably just a billion or a billion and a half.”
“It's not inevitable.” She went to the liquor cabinet and poured herself a scotch, neat.
“Pour me one of those.”
“Pour it your fucking self.”
“Hab, do you mind?”
Hab lumbered up from his seat on the sofa and went over to the liquor cabinet. He reached toward the first lady to take the carafe from her, but she set it down rather than handing it to him.
“Look, if war wasn't necessary, we wouldn't have to wage it.”
“It's a war you started.”
“It was unavoidable, Veruca. We have alliances and obligations.”
“You can still stop it, but you won't.”
“I have no choice. It’s complicated.”
“Maybe,” Hab interrupted, “...maybe everyone being down in this bunker, together, will help us to work things out before, you know...” He broke off as he was pouring the president's scotch.
“Mind your own damn business,” snapped the first lady.
Hab walked over to the president and handed him his glass, then sat back down on the sofa and returned to picking his nose.
“Oh, how I hate you,” said the first lady.
“You've already said that like three times. Jesus!”
The president took the bat phone from its charger and activated it. “Fricke!” he shouted.
“Yes, Mr. President?” came the baritone voice in the tinny speaker.
“Where in the hell is Tibbles?”
“Sir?”
“What happened to Tibbles? Where is he? I need my halfback.”
“We spoke about this earlier, sir. There was a mix up. His PIN is invalid. UN Security wouldn't let him into the bunker.”
“I don't give a god damn about any mix ups, Fricke. I want solutions. Solution this. I need my chief of staff. I need him down here with me.”
The first lady downed her scotch, shook her head, and stomped out of the room in disgust.
The president touched the control screen. “Faucett!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you come in here, please?”
“Right away, sir.”
“Hab...”
Hab glanced up.
“Stop picking your nose and look at that television.”
“Mr. President?”
“I said look at that television.”
“I'm looking at it, sir.”
“What do you see?”
“I see DeForest Reese.”
“No, you don't.”
“I don't?”
“No.”
“Then what do I see, sir?”
“Listen careful and get all this down. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“What you see on screen is the most powerful man in the universe.”
“I thought you were the most powerful man in the universe.”
“Off the record, Hab?”
“Sure.” Hab set his notepad down.
“You know he's gay, right?”
“Of course, sir. Everyone knows DeForest Reese is gay.”
“And you also know that he’s black.”
“Obviously, sir.”
“Hab, that gay Negro is the number one cable news anchor.”
“That could be interpreted as racist, sir, especially in this day and age.”
“Oh, bloody hell, Hab. You know I'm no racist. I'm a god damn democrat for Christ’s sake!”
“Democrats can't be racist?”
“What I'm trying to explain to you, Hab, is that DeForest Reese is the most powerful man in the universe.”
“Because he's a news anchor.”
“Partly, but not entirely.”
“Explain...”
“He has the ultimate toolset, Hab.”
“Sir, no one watches network news anymore except old white people.”
“Says who?”
“The statistics show declining viewership at a—”
“He has the screen, Hab,” interrupted the POTUS. “He has the screen and an audience of millions. That gives him the power to shape public opinion.”
“I suppose he—”
“But there's more to it. Just look at him. Look! He's handsome. He's a sharp dresser. He obviously works out. He's got that effeminate, coifed look about him so that women and those whiny, pussified, liberal men don't feel threatened. He's black, but he's light-skinned without that Negro dialect that scares the suburban white folk. He’s a good-looking, well-spoken, non-threatening, gay, black man. He appeals to everyone.”
“Everyone except for rednecks, I suppose,” Hab interjected.
The president continued. “You know why women have gay man-friends, don’t you?”
“Do they?”
“It's true. Women love gay men. Ask the first bitch yourself. She’s surrounded by a dozen of them: her hairdresser, her chef, her life coach, her Pilates trainer…”
“Why is that?” Hab readied his pen.
“Because women are subconsciously intelligent enough to know what they need. Women want a rational male mind around to keep them grounded... you know, when they get all hormonal and crazy like the first bitch does every god damn second of every god damn day. You know what? I'm starting to think she might be menopausal. “
“Really?”
“She’s over fifty.”
“No, I mean about needing the rational male mind.”
“Women like gay men because they need a man's rational faculty while feeling self-assured that he isn't putting on an act.”
“An act?” Hab asked as he scribbled away.
“Like he's shining her on just so he can bang her. Women don't have to worry about authenticity with gay men.”
“I suppose that makes sense.”
“Hab, in case you weren't aware, women make up more than half the voting population.”
“Is that so?”
“It is. And that makes DeForest Reese half of the electorate’s gay best friend.”
“That's an excellent point, sir.”
“...And because he's gay and black no one can ever question his objectivity, integrity, or ever criticize him. If they do, they are instantly censured as homophobic racists. That's a double whammy. Bad news for the opposition.”
“I see.”
“Put all that in my book. Wordsmith it, though. Make it read like the statesman genius that it is. Add a few lines about my admiration for gay, black men so no one takes it the wrong way.”
“Of course. Hagiography is my forte, Mr. President.”
The president watched DeForest Reese on the five-hundred-inch video screen as if he were transfixed. “I'm so jealous of him. He has the ultimate power.”
“Yeah but can he push the button, sir?”
Chapter 3
“Good morning, Mr. President.” Nurse Baum clicked on the lights illuminating the president's sprawling master suite. The president stirred awake under the silk sheets of his California king-sized bed, the posts of which rose nearly fifteen feet above the floor. Across the room, a muted and dimmed one-hundred-inch screen was set at an angle so it could be viewed comfortably from bed. It flashed pictures of various world leaders giving speeches. A ten-foot tall oil painting of FDR, cigarette holder between his teeth, swinging a cricket mallet while riding on a galloping horse adorned one wall and a ten-foot tall painting of Ronald Reagan losing his Stetson hat clinging to the reins of a bucking bronco adorned the other. Hab was fast asleep in an overstuffed chair next to a virtual fireplace.
Nurse Baum placed a blood pressure cuff on the president's arm and pumped it up, then listened to the stethoscope as the air hissed out. “160 over 115.”
“That's better than it was,” he remarked as she ripped the cuff loose and stowed it in her bag.
“Here, take your pills.” She presented a plastic container resembling a tray from a tackle box. He fished out twelve pills and swallowed them, three at a time, chasing them with the remains of a glass of scotch that was sitting on his nightstand. He finished and handed her the glass. As soon as she took it, he reached behind her and squeezed her rear.
Nurse Baum turned and scowled. “Really, Mr. President?”
“Oh, don't get all worked up, honey. I just couldn't help myself. You really are put together.”
“That's totally inappropriate, sir.”
“Not for the president.”
Nurse Baum passed Buckminster who just entered the room as she was leaving.
“And how are we feeling today, sir?”
“Splendid. I'm ready to get back to work.”
“Good to hear that. But we're going to ease you back in.”
“Oh, please...”
“Doctor's orders.”
“What's on my agenda? Where's Tibbles?”
“Fricke's working on it. Here's what I know: Tibbles is topside, but we can get him to a DOD[1] bunker within four hours’ notice.”
“I don't want Tibbles hiding out in some cave in Missouri, eating cheese and sleeping on a bunk bed. I need him down in here, with me.”
“I understand that. The issue is that the PIN ID he was issued was a duplicate of someone else's, so he can't enter this particular facility until that matter is resolved.”
“Well, issue him another.”
“It's not so simple, sir. This is not a U.S. government-run facility. We don't have carte blanche. The UN is the arbiter on these matters.”
“Bullshit! We paid for the god damn thing.”
“Well, we paid for about forty percent of it, sir. And eighty percent of that was shadow budget.”
“So, send Fricke to visit those UN twats and tell them there's been a mistake.”
“He's working those channels. The trouble is the process is very bureaucratic. It could take weeks to sort it all out.”
“Weeks? We’ll be in nuclear winter before that. Just make Tibbles a guest worker, then.”
“We tried that. The UN won't approve a guest worker PIN for him. He’s too high level. The Russians and the Chinese blocked it.”
“Then have secret service sneak him in.”
“Won’t work. We could bribe the guards to let him through, but his mere presence will ping the security surveillance facial recognition system. It will be a diplomatic mess the instant he enters. They would probably invoke Protocols 3 and 4.”
“Bucky, this facility holds over a million people...”
“Yes sir, in over three hundred miles of tunnels, sir.”
“You're telling me we can't hide one person in this giant black hole?”
“We could prevent his arrest, but his detection would be virtually instantaneous.”
“For Christ's sake...” The POTUS rubbed his chin stubble. “Okay, so there's a million people down here...”
“At capacity, sir, with an additional 100,000 guest workers at peak.”
“So, over a million people when filled, whatever... People are gonna die down here, Bucky. It's just a mathematical reality given that many people. People die all the time. When somebody dies, just give Tibbles their ID.”
“It would have to be an American, sir, which narrows that list to 200,000, but even when that opportunity arises, and the Russians and Chinese approve, there are waiting lists for each of the PIN numbers of the deceased. The waiting lists are over a thousand deep.”
“Bucky, you are not understanding the gravity of the situation. Tibbles is a national security priority. He's the halfback. He has the launch authentication code.”
“I fully understand the gravity of the situation, Mr. President. But the waiting lists have already been worked out. Billions of dollars have been invested by these people for their bunker access priority numbers. As nuclear war approaches, they are going to demand entry. And they aren't going to give up their PIN to Tibbles.”
“God damn it, Bucky. I need a solution to this.”
“We’re working on it, sir. I think there is another angle.”
“What is it?”
“I had the UN provide a dossier on the person who was assigned Tibble's ID.”
“And?”
“It's in your email.”
The president reached for his cell and brought up the message from Buckminster. He scrolled through the text and images.
“Chung Wang?”
“Yes sir.”
“He's a Chinese national?”
“That's correct, sir.”
“He's just a boy.”
“He's thirteen years old, the son of the founder of Li Chung construction of Beijing. They built the $4 billion People's Tower in Hong Kong and laid the fiber for their social credit spying network.”
“Is that the building with the sickle and hammer footprint?”
“No, you’re thinking of the Revolution Center. I'm sure you've seen it. It's the two hundred story building topped with a five-hundred-foot tall, gilded statue of a peasant charging towards Japan with a bayonet.”
“Oh, right.”
“The Chung family has very close ties to the party, there.”
The POTUS examined the picture. “He's a goofy-looking little Chinaman...” the president remarked. Bucky glanced at Hab who cringed. “This seems like a slam dunk to me. We go to the UN and tell them there's been a mix up. We tell them that this Wang Chung kid got issued an ID by mistake.”
“The Chinese won’t surrender him, sir. But…”
“But what?”
“If you're okay with deporting a thirteen-year-old, we think we can make that happen. Although it will require rendition.”
“Now you’re thinking. Don't get soft on me, Bucky. We're talking about the survival of the U.S. government, here. Tibbles is critical to the continuity of government. Like I said, he's the halfback.”
Chapter 4
When Nurse Baum finished her shift, she swiped out at a kiosk manned by a secret service agent posted at the doorway of the presidential suite. She passed through a microwave particle scanner, then a micro-EMP gate which was designed to erase any media she might be attempting to ferret out. The gate was procured from a Tel Aviv security firm at a cost of seventy-seven million dollars. Then she was escorted into an elevator which she took up 62 floors to the lobby level. She walked out the front doors with her secret service escort and across a pedestrian bridge, over the outer train line— which ran counter-clockwise round the SuperBunker— and down onto the platform of the inner line which ran clockwise. The trains arrived every twelve minutes and her escort silently waited with her until it arrived, ensuring that she boarded according to routine. Once aboard, she was unable to find a seat as it was in the middle of shift change and the monorail cars were loaded with “Greys”—as the guest workers were known by the elites. Some seventy-thousand maintenance staff members, servants, clerks, therapists, delivery drivers, gardeners, sanitation crew, janitors, security personnel and nurses, among many others, were all going top side, heading home to their families on the surface.
The monorail whisked southeast, arching slightly to the right for a couple minutes before slowing and stopping at Baum's topside station. She de-boarded along with a good portion of the remaining Greys. They all passed through a security checkpoint with revolving steel turnstiles and then up a ramp finally reaching a wide tunnel. They walked through the blast door archway, the door of which would close by descending from the ceiling in the event of nuclear war. Once up the ramp, the Greys passed through a final chain link gate before reaching the breeze and evening sunlight of the surface. Shuttle busses stood by to gobble them up and whisk them away to their home neighborhoods.
Emma Baum was relieved to be outside the suffocating tomb of the SuperBunker, but she also felt a nakedness in that she was now unprotected from nuclear annihilation. She took a bus home, got off at her park-and-ride lot, drove her ten-year-old crossover SUV to her apartment, and climbed the stairs to her third-floor condominium. She unlocked the deadbolt on the door and went in, relieved, as she always was, to find her daughter and the sitter on the sofa, watching videos.
“Oh, hello Emma. Didn't hear you come in.” The sitter got up and collected her things. “Nora had pizza rolls and mixed veggies for supper. Her homework is all finished.”
“Thank you.”
“See you tomorrow.” The sitter slipped out the door. Emma Baum watched her descend the stairs and bolted the door behind her.
“How are you, Nora?” Emma asked as she took a seat next to her on the sofa.
“Fine.”
“How was school?”
“Fine.”
“What did you learn about, today?”
“We learned about World War I.”
“Oh really?”
“Mrs. Tewksberry said that it was called the war to end all wars… but it didn't end all wars.”
“No, it didn’t, did it?”
Nora leaned over into her mother's lap while the videos of precocious house cats played on the widescreen.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Tommy Mueller says that we're going to have World War 3. Is that true?”
“I wouldn't worry about it, honey.”
“Tommy Mueller says that we're going to get vaporized.”
“Did Tommy Mueller express his feelings about being vaporized?”
“Huh?”
“Did he sound worried or was he just trying to scare you?”
“He said it like he was trying to make me mad.”
“Don't you think that if he really believed that then he would sound worried?”
“He says his family is going to their cabin.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Tommy Mueller says his dad has enough supplies to last them a year.”
“Well that's good for them. I don't know that I would be bragging about that, though, if I really expected World War 3 to happen. You wouldn't want everyone coming to your cabin trying to get your supplies.”
“Do you think he would let us come?”
“I doubt it.”
“How come?”
“There probably wouldn't be enough room. But I do hope that if something dreadful were to happen, that the Chinese or the Russians would be good enough to give the Muellers a two- or three-days advance notice so they can get to their cabin in time.”
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Is it true that you work in the SuperBunker?”
“It’s true. But it's temporary, until the crisis is over.”
“Do you ever see the president?”
“I've seen him a couple times.”
“What's he like?”
“Well…” Emma Baum sighed to buy time to formulate her answer. “He's always going around talking about being the ruler.”
“But isn’t he?”
“Well, he’s the president.”
“Doesn’t that mean he’s the ruler?”
“Presidents certainly seem to think so. Let me tell you a little secret…” Emma hugged her daughter tightly on the sofa. “Someone who has to go around reminding everyone that he is the ruler probably isn't much of a ruler.”
“I think he's strange.”
“He certainly is a character. But I imagine you have to be a bit of a character to want to become president to begin with.”
“Rock Willis is a character. Do you think he could be president?”
“Rock Willis is an actor. But I'm pretty sure he could probably be at least as good a president as the one we have now.”
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
Nora paused to gather herself. “Are we gonna die?”
Emma paused, then forced a smile. “Everyone dies, honey. But you don’t have to worry about that for a long, long time.”
“Why does everyone die?”
“That's a good question. I’m not sure. I think it's partly because if we didn't die, we wouldn't really appreciate being alive.”
Nora pondered for a moment, then stood up. “I'm going to get some pretzels.”
“Okay, honey.”
Nora went to the kitchen. While she was rummaging around, Emma Baum flicked through the channels, stopping briefly on the grim visage of DeForest Reese in a split screen with a picture of an airport...
“…And there,” Reese commented, “stopped on the tarmac, Air China flight 0628. Aboard that plane sits the president of China and his family, as well as several high-ranking Chinese party members and industrialists. If you were wondering how our enemies can land a jumbo jet in the middle of our country, their flight into our airspace was guaranteed by international treaty and by what is referred to as ‘Protocol 4.' Any member nation of the security council can permanently seal the doors to the SuperBunker and lock everyone in and everyone else out. This protocol was designed to ensure cooperation between nations who have deteriorating relations.
“Once the Chinese officials deplane, they will board those buses you see lining up there and will be taken to Entrance 12 of the Continuity of Government Bunker— or the SuperBunker as it is commonly called. I don’t know about you, but I can feel the tension...”
The image of Reese was replaced with a female analyst wearing heavy eyeliner and pancake makeup.
“I just can't believe my eyes. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined this tyrant— this Chinese Hitler, as some have labeled him— being permitted to land on our soil. This is a man who, with the aid of the Russians, has driven the world to the brink of nuclear holocaust.”
…Far across the world, in Beijing, a similar television newscast was being shown in which a male analyst with tinted glasses was commenting in Mandarin.
“…I just can't believe my eyes. I could not have imagined our great leader risking his life to travel deep into the heartland of the American imperialist empire on this last chance mission of peace. Let us all hope that the American Hitler can be convinced to come to his senses...”
…And far across the world, in the opposite direction, a similar newscast was being transmitted into households in Moscow.
“…I just can't believe my eyes. The president of China has just landed deep within the borders of America. Soon, the father of the Russian Federation will be joining him, alongside other rulers of the world. President Timoshenko must make the American Hitler understand that Mother Russia will not accept her imperialist provocations...”
The steady stream of oligarchs and cronies, apparatchiks and bureaucrats, elites and nobles arrived at one of three Oho international airports over the course of the following days. By terms of the UN accord and SuperBunker protocols, anyone who possessed a valid PIN was taken, by bus or luxury limousine, and driven down into one of the twelve bunker access points. They were ferried through the enormous, steel blast doors, photographed, DNA profiled, and GPS micro-chipped. After an interactive video orientation, they were then driven by monorail and golf cart to their apartment in their designated section within the circular bunker partitioned according to their country and continent of origin.
While the elites settled in, each day, two hundred thousand civilians with special access PINs commuted into the SuperBunker to deliver their food and goods, maintain their equipment, cut their hair and manicure their nails, cook their meals, mop their floors, and do whatever other manual functions that could not be performed by machines or the elites themselves. They each signed a contract that stipulated that, in the event the blast doors had to be closed, they would remain inside the bunker and continue performing their assigned tasks as well as any others as may be required. Six barracks nodes were established along the three-hundred-mile, circular, monorail route, where the workers would be quartered in the event of a worst-case scenario. The conditions were Spartan and dorm-like, but to be locked inside the bunker was considered a perk, at least by the elites who had written the provisions. Little consideration was given for the heartache that would be felt by the Greys who would be separated from their families facing doom on the surface.
The workers were divided into three eight-hour shifts— the first starting at 8:00 A.M, which was Nurse Baum's shift. Her routine was quite typical. In the morning, she would get Nora ready for school, then drive her to the bus stop, then drive to the park-and-ride where she would catch the bus that took her to her SuperBunker entrance. She had seniority, so her shift ran Monday to Friday which was a good thing for workers who didn't wish to be trapped in the bunker. History had shown that whenever the U.S. government intended to unleash global havoc— which presumably included a potential nuclear first strike— it would most likely do so on a Friday afternoon so as not to disrupt the stock markets.
Chapter 5
Retired Major George Russell Kilgore had been a professional soldier for over half a century. He was just shy of seventy-three years old. Every morning, at four a.m., he would get out of his bunk, relieve himself, drink sixteen ounces of chocolate whey powder spiked with two raw eggs and two shots of Smirnoff, and then go for a seven-mile run… shirtless... even in January.
A graduate of West Point, Kilgore had the distinction of being the only member of the U.S. armed forces to have seen combat in twelve conflicts, those being in: Lebanon, Grenada, Panama, Iraq War I, Somalia, Iraq War II, Afghanistan, Libya, Yemen, Syria, Niger, and Operation Restore Democracy in Puerto Rico. He was wounded six times and had a metal plate installed in his head to replace a chunk of his skull blasted away in a firing range accident. He was also kidnapped once, while in Pakistan, but managed to steal one of his captor’s cell phones and order a cruise missile strike directly onto his exact location using the phone's active GPS. He was the only survivor of the blast. At fifty years old, he snuck into the West Point football locker room, put on a uniform, and inserted himself onto the kickoff team in a game against the hated rivals from Navy. He forced a fumble on his first special teams play and recorded two more unassisted tackles before the staff finally figured out who in the hell he was and took him out. The NCAA considered making Army forfeit the game for using an ineligible player, but the penalty was waved when the hated rivals of Navy protested the ruling out of their respect for the major.
Widely admired and revered, everyone, including his wife, children, and grandchildren, addressed him as “Sir” or “Major”...
...Everyone, that is, except for the POTUS who referred to Major George Russell Kilgore as “Krusty.”
Although retired, Kilgore continued to serve his country in a position known as “The Fullback”— not because of his football exploits, but rather because he carried the nuclear football— the leather satchel containing a mobile satellite telecommunications system, a dedicated, hardened laptop computer, and a laminated manual resembling a Denny's menu that instructed the POTUS on how to go about blowing up the earth.
Currently, Major George Russell Kilgore was seated in a leather recliner in the situation room of the officially renamed “Earth House,” looking terribly uncomfortable in his starched, full dress uniform. He preferred to be standing. He considered sitting to be self-indulgent. There were seven recliners in the sitrep room, arranged in a circle. Fricke was there, as well as Haberdash, who sat with his legs crossed scratching the arch of his foot with his pen. Buckminster, the secretary of defense, was present, as was Secretary of State Dexter Fricke. Two of the recliners were empty. One belonged to White House Chief of Staff Frank Tibbles. The other empty recliner was raised onto a dais and was slightly larger than the others. The executive chair had the presidential seal emblazoned onto the headrest which formed a halo around the POTUS's head whenever he sat there.
“So...” Hab started in, looking at Kilgore. “Do you carry that thing around twenty-four hours a day?”
“Affirmative,” Kilgore answered.
“You sleep with that bag?”
“I have it beside my bunk, handcuffed to my wrist.”
“And what all's inside?”
Kilgore glanced over at Buckminster before answering. Buckminster nodded. “The satchel contains a nuclear battery-powered, satellite communications array. The electronics are hardened to withstand disruption by EMP. In addition to the array, there is a voice activated laptop computer with a video touch screen that provides the president with instructions on how to handle various thermonuclear scenarios. It is better known as a SAM device.”
“Instructions on scenarios?”
“That’s correct.”
“Such as...?”
Kilgore glanced at Buckminster again
“I can explain,” Buckminster interrupted. “It gives instructions on the optimal way to handle various scenarios such as: Is this a retaliatory scenario or a first strike? Is this a full-scale attack? Where is the enemy launch originating? What is the status of our allies? Things like that.”
“So, the president enters those parameters and the screen tells him what to do?”
“Basically, yes,” Buckminster continued. “The computer will make three suggestions: a good, a better, and a best solution.”
“Why wouldn't the president just choose the 'best' solution?”
“I suppose it's done that way to provide for lack of Pareto optimality.”
“Pareto what?”
“Pareto optimality. Although the processor has been loaded with tens of thousands of scenarios, it is possible that there is no single, optimal, ultimate, perfect solution. The top three solutions, ranked by projected risk and projected return.”
Hab bore a look of confusion, so Buckminster continued.
“…For example, let's say that a 'good' solution might be to shock-and-awe one or two civilian population centers with a 1 megaton airburst. There might be drawbacks to that such as what is the likelihood that the enemy will retaliate four-for-one. Maybe the 'better' solution might be to target a handful of enemy industrial centers with ten megaton nuclear assets. This might dampen their military resolve but may harden them, politically. Perhaps the 'best' solution might be to launch a full scale, pre-emptive attack, and knock them out completely.”
“I still don't understand.”
“When the parameters are entered, the SAM computer runs tens of thousands of simulations called Monte Carlo experiments by tweaking the parameters and plotting the risk return vector trade-offs of each. It then ranks the solutions by units of return per unit of risk. The 'good' solution, in the crude example I gave, is very sub-optimal in that there is a percentage risk that our enemy may respond with a full-scale retaliation that incapacitates our government. The return per unit of risk for that option would be very low. On the other hand, the 'best' solution, a full-scale, pre-emptive attack, would be very low in terms of risk.”
“Very low risk? How could a full-scale attack be considered very low risk? Wouldn't that mean the end of the world?”
“Essentially yes, it would, but you're making a subjective value judgment. The computer does not make value judgements. It is only evaluating objective, quantifiable performance indicators.”
“What does that mean?”
“Quantifiable measures such as: what is the statistical likelihood that the objective will be achieved or not? In a full-scale attack, the objective measure of risk would be the statistical likelihood of preserving continuity of the government in lieu of obliterating all the enemy's cities. Those odds are actually very high in a full scale, pre-emptive attack, now that we have the SuperBunker. The risk of failure is very low, thus the return to risk ratio is quite positive.”
“That's a pretty heavy burden you're carrying there,” Fricke remarked to Major Kilgore.
“How so?” interrupted Buckminster.
“Well,” Fricke answered, “he's carrying the computer that can launch doomsday. That seems like a heavy burden to me.”
“The major isn't burdened at all,” Buckminster snorted. “All he has to do is open the briefcase and turn the god damn thing on. The president or one of his advisors can do almost everything else.”
“I see.”
“If I may, sir,” interjected Major Kilgore in his gravelly voice, “I do see it as quite a responsibility. I mean, I do have to make it available to be used.”
“But that doesn't require any decision on your part,” Buckminster declared. “When the president asks, you turn it on. There's nothing more to it.”
“Well, yeah but—” Major Kilgore replied.
“Yeah but what?” Buckminster interrupted.
“I withdraw my last statement, sir.”
“No. Tell me what you meant.”
“I apologize, sir. I was speaking out of turn.”
“Just tell me what you were going to say.”
All eyes focused on Major Kilgore who began to turn pale.
“Out with it, Major!”
“Well, sir, what I was going to say was, what if the president is... what if he is incapacitated or somehow unable?”
“Unable?”
Just then, the door to the situation room opened and the president entered. Everyone stood as he walked past and took a seat in his executive recliner with the halo of the presidential seal wrapping behind his head in the headrest. Hab took out a notepad from his shirt pocket and reclined. The others sat back down together.
“What were you guys talking about?” asked the president.
“Oh, nothing,” Fricke replied.
“Oh, it was something,” Buckminster explained.
“What was it?” asked the president.
Buckminster’s eyes turned to Major Kilgore.
“What is it, Krusty?” the president asked.
Kilgore gulped.
“Spit it out.”
“We were discussing what-if scenarios, sir.”
“About what?”
“About the nuclear football, sir.”
“Like what kind of scenarios?”
“Buckminster interrupted: “The Major was wondering if there could be a situation where he would be compelled to refuse the president access to the nuclear football, sir.”
“What?” the POTUS asked Buckminster. He turned to Kilgore. “Is that true?”
“Sir,” Major Kilgore explained, “I was not implying any specific situation.”
“What kind of situation were you implying?” asked the POTUS.
“Sir, I was merely suggesting that if the president was unable to make a rational decision regarding nuclear war, due to incapacity or some extraordinary circumstance like a medical issue, that perhaps my duty to my country might require me to question granting access until we were certain he was capable.”
“By he, I assume you're referring to me?”
“I must reiterate that I was not referring to anyone specifically, sir. I was considering the possibility in general. I have no reason to question your capability, sir.”
“But you were questioning the capability of the president— the commander in chief?”
“Well...”
“Just answer.”
“Well, sir, given a very extreme set of circumstances, yes. But I don't foresee...”
“So, you were questioning the authority of the commander in chief?”
“Sir, but I...”
“Major Kilgore...”
“Yes sir?”
“You’re fired!”
“Sir?”
“You are dismissed. You are no longer the fullback. Please turn in your badge to secret service on your way out.”
Fricke tried to intervene. “Sir, do you think—”
“Quiet!” the POTUS snapped. “Major Kilgore, we thank you for your service. My decision is final.”
Major Kilgore glanced right towards an astonished Dexter Fricke then left towards a disgusted-looking Fitzmaurice Buckminster. Then he glanced briefly at Haberdash who just shrugged. Then he stared with piercing eyes directly at the president.
“That will be all, Major Kilgore,” said the POTUS.
Kilgore stood up, clicked his heels together and saluted. “Yes sir.”
“You can leave the football right there,” the POTUS advised.
Kilgore entered a code into his handcuffs, releasing his wrist, then set the satchel on the table where he was seated. He made a crisp turn and exited the situation room.
Fricke's eyes darted between the president and Buckminster. Haberdash was scribbling in his notepad as if he was trying to disappear entirely within it. A faint smirk formed on the president's face, one so faint that anyone who wasn't dialed in to the entire exchange would have missed it. Manfred waited until the door closed.
“Fricke!”
“Yes sir?”
“I'm appointing you as the new fullback.”
“Sir, I respectfully decline.”
“Bullshit. It's you. You're only one of maybe three people in this world I trust.”
Buckminster leaned in and raised a hand to object.
Fricke protested. “Sir, I don't want that responsibility.”
“It's a direct god damn order!” The POTUS snapped. Then his tone softened. “Oh, don’t get all nutty on me, Dex. Look, there's nothing to it. It’s just for while we’re down here. I’ll appoint someone else on the surface if this all blows over. You just carry that thing around at all times. If I give the command, you open it, take out the computer, and boot it up. It's on Windows. What could possibly be so difficult?”
“Sir, I...”
“I won't accept 'no'.” The president turned to Buckminster. “You don't think Kilgore keeps the instructions somewhere else, do you?”
“I think that is highly unlikely, Mr. President.
“Check it out.”
“Now, sir?”
“No, next Tuesday when Kilgore's sipping a mojito on a beach in Naples using it as a sunshade. Of course, now!”
Buckminster got up out of his recliner and went over to the satchel. All eyes locked on as he unlatched it. He carefully reached into the pocket as if the satchel contained a bomb about to explode. The president's eyes widened. Fricke stared, unblinking. Haberdash's thumb found its way into his left nostril— which was what it tended to do when he found himself in tense situations.
“It's here, sir.”
“Good. Give it to Fricke.” The president pointed. “Fricke, study that thing. Memorize it. Keep it on your person or with the satchel at all times.”
Buckminster slid the trifold, laminated instructions across the table to Fricke who looked like he was battling indigestion.
“Now...,” continued the POTUS as he waited for Buckminster to take his seat. “Now we can finally get down to business.”
“What's on the agenda?” asked Hab.
“Only one thing... Frank Tibbles,” answered the president. “Fricke, what's the latest report on your progress?”
“What? Oh, right,” Fricke gathered himself. “I just came from the UN bunker office. I would have texted you their answer but I'm not comfortable sending communications over SuperBunker Wi-Fi.”
“Of course. Of course. What did they say? Are they gonna tell that Wang kid to pack his bags?”
“I'm afraid not, sir.”
“What!?”
“I'm sorry, Mr. President. They said that, according to their interpretation of the codex, a person is granted permanent residence upon entry and that status is irrevocable. The PIN Tibbles holds belongs to Chung Wang, now.”
“This is unacceptable. What the hell am I supposed to do without my chief of staff? Those sneaky Chink bastards.”
“Sir? I don't know that any Chinese nationals were—”
“I don’t care. I need my chief of staff.”
“Perhaps you should consider appointing a new one, sir?” Buckminster suggested.
“Who asked you, Bucky?” bristled the president. “This is a big problem, Fricke.”
“I understand fully, sir.”
“No, I don't think you do. If you did you would have found a solution by now.”
“I'm doing the best I can, sir.”
“Fricke, do you know what Tibbles is?”
“I think he’s in Maryland at the moment.”
“Not where he is, Fricke. I asked what he is. Do you know what Tibbles is?”
He's the white house chief of staff, sir?”
“We already went over this. He's the halfback! Bucky, fill him in.”
Buckminster cleared his throat. “Dexter, Tibbles is what we call the 'halfback.' He is the carrier of the launch authentication codes.”
“I thought that was just for redundancy,” Fricke answered.
“This is not for civilian ears, Dexter,” Buckminster advised. “It's not done for redundancy. It's done for what is known as the 'Two Man' system. The president must have both the halfback and the fullback present in order to launch nuclear weapons— to initiate the process otherwise known as 'The Hail Mary'.”
“Can’t the president just appoint someone else?” Fricke asked.
“It's not that simple. The halfback has the codes on his person. In order to appoint a new halfback, he must be present to hand over the codes. In order to hand over the codes, he must be down here, in the bunker.”
“Why don't we just send someone up to the surface, do the switch, then bring them back down?” Fricke asked.
“It's complicated,” Buckminster explained to Fricke. “Any handoff of authentication codes requires the presence of the president.”
“How so?” asked Fricke.
“I don't want someone else, anyway! I want Tibbles!” The president pounded his first on the table.
Chapter 6
First lady Veruca Weinstein rolled over in bed and reached for her pack of Virginia Slims cigarettes. She placed one on her lips and tossed the pack back where it landed flat on the nightstand with a smack. Her fingers fumbled around in the dark, finally retrieving her lighter. She struck an enormous flame— nearly four inches tall— setting her stoic face aglow in golden light and filling the room with the sweet aroma of butane. She moved the very tip of the flame, where the fire dissolves into wisps of black smoke, to the end of the cigarette and drew in, setting the tobacco ablaze. She released the igniter which extinguished the flame, then tossed the lighter back onto the nightstand while exhaling. Holding her cigarette aloft in her left hand, she reached out with her right to retrieve her bottle of OxyContin. She unscrewed the cap with the cigarette remaining perched between her two fore fingers. She tipped the bottle and shook once. A single pill tumbled with a rattle out onto her tongue. She set the bottle back on the nightstand. Next, she reached for her short glass tumbler, raised it to her lips and washed down the pill with a last swig of bourbon. She set the tumbler down and took another drag from her smoke.
“You know smoking is not allowed down here,” her partner advised in a deep whisper.
She sighed in the darkness. “So, was it good for you?” she asked as she exhaled again.
“Sure,” answered Dexter Fricke.
“Did you just say 'sure'?”
“What's wrong, Veruca?”
“Right now? Everything.”
“It will all work itself out. Try not to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
“He’s still the president. Plan A failed.”
“Then we’ll come up with a plan B.”
“You always say that things will work out but what do you base that on?”
“Because it always works out.”
“It always does… until it doesn't. I don’t think you understand him as completely as I do, Dex.”
“Arman is… complex. No doubt.”
“Arman’s an idiot who thinks he’s a genius.” She reached out and flicked on the lamp.
“It’s an act, Veruca. He uses it because it’s worked for him.”
“He's insane.” She glanced toward the satchel containing the nuclear football that rested on the armchair in the corner of the suite.
“All presidents are insane, Veruca. You must be insane to become one. You can’t go through life worrying about them. There are safeguards in place.”
“He's getting more insane by the day. He's twice as crazy since his toy aircraft carrier was sunk.”
Dexter chuckled.
“The USS Henry Harrison, “Veruca continued. “Sunk to the bottom of the East China Sea by one, single, solitary, Chinese missile.”
“To be fair, it was a hypersonic missile.”
“One missile nonetheless.”
“Carriers are relics, Veruca. They’re mostly for show. We learned a terrible, tragic lesson.”
“Manfred learns nothing. That boat was special to him because he was the reason it existed. He saved its funding.”
“True. It was going to be decommissioned.”
“It was his baby, like a sports car or a motorcycle.” Veruca handed the cigarette to Dexter who took a half-hearted drag.
“He did love it.”
“It was an expression of his manhood— like those short, bald rednecks with tiny dicks who drive around in monster pickup trucks. He bragged about having all the foreign dignitaries and leaders visit it, especially Hu Li. He made him walk it with him from end to end. It was like a presidential cock-measuring contest.”
“Hu Li got the last laugh, I guess.”
“We'll have to wait and see.”
“Is Arman really compensating?” Fricke joked as he handed her back the cigarette.
“Do I really need to answer that?” the first lady stubbed it out.
“Well, he can't do anything too outrageous. Tibbles has the authentication codes.”
“And now you have the football.”
They both glanced at the satchel.
“Whatever happens, Dex, you can't ever let him launch.”
“As long as Tibbles is topside it won't matter.”
“He won't be topside for long.”
“We’ve taken care of it. It's impossible to get him in. The moment he crosses the threshold with his duplicate PIN, everyone will be alerted to the breech… the Chinese, the Russians, the allies would turn on us.”
“You really think Manfred gives a damn about them? Tibbles is coming. Trust me.”
“Even if he doesn't give a damn, the moment a person with a duplicate PIN enters the SuperBunker, Protocol 3 will activate. The host country will have its power and water cut by the computers. Tibbles coming in would be a poison pill.”
“Manfred will figure out a way. I know him. You think I don't know how his psychotic little mind works? He got me, Dex. He got me to marry him. I'm such an idiot. My father warned me.”
“You're not an idiot, Veruca. You're the first lady of the United States.”
“I am an idiot. This is all my fault. Without my family's money[2] he never would have amounted to anything.”
“So, divorce him.”
“What would that accomplish? I'd have even less power to stop him.” She reached over for her pack but thought better of it and tossed it back down on the stand. “You have to do more, Dex. You may have to save the world.”
Fricke laughed. “What more can I really do?”
“Keep Tibbles from getting down here as long as possible. Delay it, undermine it, do whatever you can, but make sure Manfred doesn’t have access to his authentication codes.”
“I'm already doing everything I can.”
“You know he’s got Fuckminster working on something,” she added.
“I’m not too worried about Fitzmaurice.”
“I can smell the stench of their plots. They're always having their secret conversations. They get quiet when they see me come around. Fucky is Manfred’s lackey, Dex. I bet you anything he's plotting some way to get Tibbles down here in the event you fail. You have to be ready for that.”
Chapter 7
When the vast majority of the world's leaders and elites had made their way into the SuperBunker, it was decided that the leaders of the primary world powers should hold a summit as a last-ditch effort to prevent World War 3. Motorcades of black, bullet proof golf carts brought the leaders of Russia, China, and the United States, along with their assistants, advisors, translators, massage therapists, and security personnel to a rendezvous in the event center of Section L— the Latin American section of the SuperBunker.
After a formal contest of pick-a-number, overseen by forty-seven accountants, six international judges, and the secretary general of the UN, the prestigious advantage of arriving last was awarded to the U.S. delegation.
The presidential golf carts ambled up to the curb in front of the center facade fashioned to resemble the Royal Palace of Madrid. Security agents scurried into position. When each of those sixty agents indicated to central command that the situation was safe, the footman of Golf Cart One opened the door and President Arman Manfred stepped stiffly out onto the curb. The POTUS gathered himself up, straightened his navy-blue suit, and peacock-strutted his way down the red carpet, which was flanked by polished, armored pike men and stone cauldrons bearing virtual flames. Manfred passed under a technicolor awning and through the glass and bronze doors held ajar by two African guest workers adorned as Aztec warriors.
The president passed from the main hall, decorated in an Incan, stone-block style, and filled with press, security, and mid-level diplomats, and into a large chamber with walls of golden, ceiling-to-floor curtains. The chamber was populated by smug ambassadors and pasty-faced elites with bulbous noses and thin lips, adorned with bow ties, strings of pearl, ruby rings, and thinning hairlines. The POTUS carved his way through the leering herd, through a parting in the gold drapes at the far end, and into an antechamber with a low ceiling and plaster walls. He was greeted there by his emergency cabinet members Dexter Fricke and Fitzmaurice Buckminster, and also Haberdash who looked frumpy even when wearing a suit. Fricke and Buckminster briefed the POTUS then Buckminster opened an inlaid oak door at the opposite end that led to the destination meeting room. The POTUS passed through the doorway but stopped Buckminster from following him.
“Wait here. No advisors are allowed,” the POTUS ordered. “Hab... you follow me.” Haberdash squeezed past the astonished-looking Buckminster and the POTUS shut the door in his gaping face.
The cozy conference room was adorned in the colonial Spanish style of hand-troweled, white plaster and ceramic tile flooring. A cold hearth stood on one end and centered within each of the other three walls stood an inlaid oak door. Three upholstered chairs were set facing each other in the middle of the room.
In one high back armchair sat the president of Russia, Dmitry Timfimovich Timoshenko. He wore a navy-blue suit with a sky-blue tie. His thin silver hair was receding, slicked back behind his rubbery ears that stuck out from his head like opened doors on a delivery van. His bushy eyebrows were as black as the smoke from burning tires. His thick glasses were held up by a beakish, pink nose that formed a descending point that drooped down past his upper lip.
In the other chair sat the president of China, Hu Li Jinkun. He was also dressed in a navy-blue suit but wore a mauve tie. He had an oval face mounted atop a vaguely defined neck. His jet-black hair was also badly receding. He too wore glasses with coke bottle thick lenses that hooked onto a tiny, flat nose vented by two enormous, perfectly round, portal nostrils.
The POTUS huffed before taking the empty seat. “I was supposed to have the middle chair,” he protested. The president of China and the president of Russia looked at each other befuddled.
“Mr. President,” spoke the president of Russia in his Dracula dialect, “these seats are aligned in a circle. There is no middle.”
“Why is he a-here?” asked the president of China in his best attempt at English. He gestured to Haberdash who was lounging in a side chair adjacent to the door that he and the POTUS had entered through.
“This was all agreed to in advance, Huli,” explained the POTUS. “He's my hagiographer. What are you afraid of? That he might put the details of this meeting up on his blog?”
“Perhaps he might,” answered Timoshenko in his molasses tenor.
“And I suppose you expect me to believe you aren't recording this conversation for your own purposes, Timmy?” the POTUS asked. Timoshenko demurred. “Relax, gentlemen. Hab's sworn to secrecy. He knows I'd have him suicided if he betrayed my confidence.”
Hab's eyebrows raised in concern at the threat.
Timoshenko and Hu Li exchanged a glance of acquiescence.
“So...” Hu Li began, “why are we a-here?”
A long, tense silence followed.
The president of the United States sighed.
The president of Russia scratched his temple.
The president of China forced a grin.
The president of the United States forced a grin.
The president of Russia tapped his thumb on the arm of his chair.
The president of the United States interlocked his fingers.
The president of China cracked his knuckles.
The president of Russia rubbed his chin.
The president of China stopped smiling.
The president of the U.S. cleared his throat.
The president of Russia adjusted his glasses.
The president of China removed his glasses and cleaned the gigantic lenses with his handkerchief.
The president of the United States rubbed the inside corner of his eye with his index finger. Then he looked around the room, resting his sight on a painting by Goya: Saturn Devouring His Children.
Many of the world's finest works of art had been hastened into the bunker for safe keeping. Even the curators of the world’s great museums feared the inevitability of nuclear holocaust. Michelangelo's David, for instance, was flown in, along with other sculptures from antiquity, on a C5 Galaxy transport plane. David had to be sawed into five pieces so that it could be brought down into the bunker safely. It was reassembled in the Lucious L. Rothschild Hall in Section E. Everyone marveled at the excellent job of reassembly. One could hardly notice the linear, diamond saw cuts used to sever the limbs.
After a few minutes of icy silence, the president of Russia re-crossed his legs.
Then the president of China smiled again, forcibly peeling back his lips and exposing two rows of pill-shaped teeth.
One of the presidents examined his cuticles.
Another licked his lips.
The third rubbed his nose.
Another nearly picked his nose, then, realizing he was in a semi-public setting, settled for a mere brush of the end of it.
Another stuck his finger in his ear.
Another re-crossed his legs.
One of them sniffed.
Another coughed to cover up a belch...
It went on like this for over an hour. None would dare initiate a dialogue. No one wanted to be the first. Being the first to speak was regarded as an expression of weakness and submission. In the realm of geopolitics, a leader must never evoke weakness.
Finally, Timoshenko relented, albeit off topic. “I noticed that the diesel smell has abated,” he slurred.
“Yes,” answered the POTUS. “The nuclear reactor has been brought online.” The POTUS stood and went to the liquor cabinet to pour himself a scotch. He carried his glass over to the Goya painting to study it. “It's horrible, the ugliest thing I’ve seen,” he remarked before taking a gulp.
The other two presidents watched him.
“Huli,” the POTUS said to the president of China.
“Yes?”
“I can't forgive you.”
“Forgive me for a-what?”
“Don't be coy, Huli.”
“I suppose you mean your ship. I remind you your aircraft carrier was in our territori-oh water. We were responding to your act of a-war.”
“The Henry Harrison was performing routine naval exercises.”
“It was well within the [3]seven-dash rine and far too crose to Grasshopper Island.”
“...Ah, that pile of rocks from where your hypersonic missile was launched,” commented the POTUS before downing his scotch.
“It was too crose,” Hu Li reaffirmed.
“You have no right to occupy that island, Huli.”
“It is inside the seven dash rine. Check your map.”
“So, you want to go to nuclear war over a rock in middle of the East China Sea?”
“I ask you the same a-question, Manfweed.”
“We have no interest in that rock, Huli.”
“Then why was your freet sai-ring round it, huh?”
“Because it's Ticky-Taki's rock, Huli, not yours.”
“Then let us work it out with Japan's government.”
“You know very well we have an LSA[4] with Japan. There are severe consequences if we do not honor our alliance.”
“Your a-riance is your prob-rem, not a-mine.” Hu Li grinned, mockingly.
“You know damn well that if I do not respond to your sinking of my aircraft carrier, American prestige will be irrevocably damaged.”
“Not my a-prob-rem.”
“God damnit, Huli. Do you know how much that boat cost?”
“You should have taken better care.”
“It's Japan's rock!”
“It's not Japan's rock, Manfweed. It be-rongs to the peop-uhr of China!” snapped the Chinese president with emphasis on “China”.
“It's just a rock, Huli.”
“Tell that to Taki[5].”
“Gentlemen, we’ve been over and over this, countless times,” the president of Russia interrupted. “Manfred, I could easily raise the same concerns regarding Bolshevistan.”
“Oh, good Lord. We're not getting anywhere.” The POTUS sat down, lowered his face and massaged his temples between his thumb and middle finger in frustration. “Bolshevistan,” he continued, “is a trial member of NATO, Timmy. We are bound by treaty to defend their sovereignty.”
“It's not even a real country, Manfred. Brezhnev drew it on a map in 1969.”
“It's a real country if we say it is, Timmy. The UN agrees with us.”
“Not unanimous-uh-ree,” chimed Hu Li.
“You can't just go around annexing your neighbors, Timmy.”
“What business is it of yours?”
“What business is it? Really?” Manfred glared. “Let me tell you something, Timmy, I know how it feels to be Bolshevistani. Believe me, I know.” The POTUS pointed at himself for added emphasis. “My great, great grandfather was Estonian. I understand the pain he felt in his soul when that bastard Stalin went in and took over his country. Now, my great great grandaddy died before I was born, but I still know his pain. I inherited it. It's in my DNA. For all those years, great grand dad was a man without a country. And he passed the torch of liberty to my grandfather— because my great grandfather died in a lumberjacking accident. So, my grandfather passed it to my father, and he passed the torch of liberty to me. And now…” The POTUS placed his hand over his heart. “And now that torch is me.”
“But Estonia is an independent nation, now,” Timoshenko rebutted.
“You know the point I'm trying to make. I can't let you subjugate the Bolshevistani people like Stalin did to people like my great granddad. I will not allow it!” The POTUS's eyes began to well up. “It is my sincere belief that deep, deep down inside every Bolshevistani, there is an American, yearning for full privilege membership in the EU.”
“Eighty-nine percent of Bolshewistani identify as Russian, Manfred.”
The POTUS's face hardened. Grinding his teeth in frustration, he said: “Look, even if I wanted to, I couldn't turn my back on them. If we allow you to take it over, Romania will demand NATO defense buildup. Who do you think is going to be asked to supply the mechanized infantry for Romania’s defense? Germany? Don’t make me laugh. It will be the U.S., Timmy. Do you really want U.S. forces massing in Romania?”
“Of course not.”
“Well that’s what you’re gonna get.”
“You can choose not to do that, Mr. President.”
“No, I can’t. If NATO doesn’t honor its defense obligations, Romania will default on their debt payments. It would require a massive bailout from the EU. I don't have to remind you what that would do to Deutsche bank. Do you think the French are going to bail out a German bank, Timmy? No way. They'll leave the EU. The dominoes start falling and poof, financial Armageddon.”
“Those are Europe's problems, not ours.” Timoshenko got up and went to the liquor cabinet to pour himself a vodka. “If we withdraw from Bolshewistan, you will have tactical nuclear missiles and mechanized infantries right on our border. We cannot accept that. Bolshewistan cannot be allowed to be member of NATO. It must remain a buffer between Mother Russia and Western imperialism.”
“And we cannot allow them not to be in NATO,” answered the POTUS.
“Then we are at an impasse.”
The POTUS leaned his head back and glanced up at the ceiling. “We have to find some way to trust, Timmy. Isn't that what Gorbachev said?”
Timoshenko spat. “Trust? You tried to have me assassinated.”
“That wasn't me, Timmy. That was the CIA.”
Timoshenko cursed. “Stay out of Bolshewistan.”
“No. You stay out. And you too, Huli.”
“You first, Mr. President.”
“No, you first.”
“After you.”
“You go, then I go.”
“I'm right behind you.”
“No, I'm right behind you.”
The POTUS huffed. “You sunk one of our aircraft carriers, Huli. We're at least going to need to even the score before we can even begin to consider any formal agreement. If I retreat without reprisal, the American people will skewer me as a gutless coward. I'd go down as another Jimmy Carter or Neville Chamberlain.”
“If we go to fur scare nucrear war, no one would be reft to skewer you.”
“You are lucky we didn't retaliate right then and there.”
“Oh, prease. You were given twenty-three warning before we fire.”
“The USS William Henry Harrison refurbishment cost twenty billion dollars, Huli. That's a lot of coin that we had to borrow from you. It's only fair that I get to blow up twenty billion of your shit. Then we can talk about peace.”
“Do you a-want another carrier westing on the bottom of the East China Sea? Don't forget, we gracious-ree arrowed the remainder of your freet to escape.”
The POTUS went to the cabinet and poured another drink. “Look, neither of you can win a war with the United States. Even without the Henry Harrison, our navy is still twice the size of both of your so-called navies put together.”
The president of Russia and the president of China glanced at each other.
“So, what are we having another dick measuring contest now?” asked Hu Li.
“Call it what you want,” replied the POTUS, “but our dick is the biggest. It ain't much of a contest.”
“A-maybe your dick is the biggest,” continued Hu Li with a grin, “but two dick are a-better than one.”
“What?” asked the POTUS.
“Alone, our dick is too small, we cannot a-win,” answered Hu Li, looking at Timoshenko for affirmation.
“…But if we put our small dicks together, we can ensure that you cannot win, either,” answered Timoshenko.
“What in the hell is that supposed to mean?” asked the POTUS.
“Hu Li and I have a gentleman's agreement,” answered Timoshenko.
“About what?”
“We have a mu-chu-rer defense a-pac,” answered Hu Li.
“A what?”
“I think he said they have a 'mutual defense pact',” answered Haberdash from his seat.
“Yes. Two dick better than one.”
“Oh, splendid. So, a new axis of evil.”
“We have pejoratives for you and your allies as well,” answered Timoshenko.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Timmy?” asked the POTUS. “Once you go public with it, there is no turning back. An alliance between you two will make it impossible to unwind this situation.”
“No one wants a-war,” answered Hu Li. “But hope-fu-ree our combined dick will read you to the understanding that America cannot a-fuck us around one at a time.”
The POTUS turned back to the painting depicting the wild-eyed Saturn chewing the arm off a headless child. “If we can't resolve this, think of all the things that will be lost. Think of all the pieces of art and architecture, the great cities, it will be such a tragedy.”
“The world as we know it will be destroyed,” added the president of China, “but there will be many investment opportunity.”
“Well, at least we have this bunker,” the POTUS replied, “so that the governments will be spared to emerge one day to rebuild.”
“Gentlemen, things appear to be in a deadlock,” said the president of Russia. “Let's at least agree to meet again and keep the lines of communication open. There are still hundreds of flights ari-wing daily, deli-wering VIPs and supplies and artworks.”
The POTUS added: “You’re probably right. Let us try to delay war long enough to save what we can.”
Chapter 8
Chung Wang was an only child. He spent most of his twelve years alone, filling his free time with social media, making videos, and playing air hockey. He was a lanky boy with an awkward grin and distant demeanor when in the company of adults. He drank cream soda by the liter and was occasionally seen kicking a soccer ball around. He was almost one full standard deviation above mean intelligence but was a B-minus student. He dreamed of one day being either a taikonaut[6] or a marine biologist.
Chung did not see his parents very often— his father, almost never. When he did see him, his father always brought a gift. On this most recent encounter, his father presented him a MontBlanc pen. Chung received it unenthusiastically. He felt its weight and examined the engraving.
“It has historicity,” said Chung’s father.
“Historicity?”
“Yes. It was used to sign a significant document.”
“Oh?” Chung removed the cap and scribbled a line on his forearm.
“This is the very pen used by the ministry of trade to sign a trade accord with diplomats from Bhutan.
Chung put the cap back on. “Thank you, father.”
“So how are you, my son?”
“I am well, father.”
“Are you improving at your studies?”
“I suppose so, father.”
“I want you to know that we are going to be seeing much more of each other for a while.”
Chung nodded and grinned, albeit crookedly.
“I hear you have taken an interest in soccer.”
Chung shrugged.
“I am happy to hear that. Athletics are good for the body as well as the spirit.”
“Did you play soccer, father?”
“Not exactly.”
“Did you play basketball?”
“No, I didn't.”
“How about golf?”
“Oh, once or twice.”
“Father, what sports did you play?”
Chung's father grinned. “I tried many sports in my youth.”
“Which was your favorite?”
“My favorite was...” Chung's father pondered. “My favorite sport was... Mah Jong.”
Chung looked perplexed. “Father, did you play any sports that used a ball and a goal?”
“Almost. I used to play tennis.”
“Really? On a grass court?”
“Umm, no. It was indoors.”
“So, a clay court?”
“No.”
“Was it on concrete?”
“Wood, actually. I played tennis on wood.”
“Wood? Like a basketball court configured for tennis?”
“It was table tennis, my son. Ping pong as it is also known.”
“Oh, I see.”
“But I was just a boy, probably about your age.”
“Were you any good? Did you win any tournaments?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Father?”
“Yes, my son?”
“Would you like to go kick the soccer ball around a little bit?”
“Hmm. That sounds like a wonderful idea. But let me check my work messages, first.”
“Of course, father.”
“You go ahead. Have the driver take you over to the athletic fields and I will meet you there in a half hour.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Chung's face beamed with a full-fledged grin. He hugged his father tightly who hugged him back with one arm while thumb-scrolling through his messages on his Mondo 9.0 smartphone. Chung broke loose, snatched his ball, and darted out of the sitting room towards the main hall. The doorman opened the elevator for him, and Chung rode the lift to the lobby. Before the doors could fully retract, he sliced through, darted across the marble floors, hurdled a large luggage trunk, sidestepped a decorative porcelain vase, and pushed through the revolving doors of greenish glass and bronze trim. He quickly found his driver and hopped into the back seat of the stretch golf cart.
“Where to, Master Chung?”
“To the athletic fields. My father and I are going to play soccer!”
“Should we wait for him, young sir?”
“No, he said he would meet me there in thirty minutes.”
“All right, sir.”
The driver pushed the start button and pressed the accelerator. The limousine golf cart whirled to life and accelerated down the winding path between the ornate facades of residences and shops and cafes, passing the throngs of strolling pedestrians dressed in their designer, seersucker suits, neoprene, and satin dresses. Every elite wore sunglasses even though they were several hundred feet below ground, and the sky above was a suspended canvas, and the daylight was provided by defused backlight. There were six skies in the Super bunker, one for each section, each synchronized to distinct times of day. Daylight hours were broken into twelve periods of time. They transitioned from one period of lighting to the next over the span of thirty seconds.
The limo-cart arrived at the edge of the athletic field and Chung darted out onto the green faux grass with his ball in hand. The driver watched him from his seat in the cart between glances at his handheld devices. A half minute later, Chung, by then a hundred yards off, dropped his ball onto the turf and kicked it up into the calm, subterranean air.
#
Earlier that same morning, Hank Chinansky rolled out of bed, had a shit, showered, dressed in his black, polyester security uniform, cursed his disgusting appearance in the mirror, and made himself toast and a pot of Folgers. He scrolled through the news on his cracked Mondo 4.0 cell phone reading the reports of the hundreds of flights arriving from remote capitols of the world, all descending upon Akron, Ohio, which was a primary entry point for the SuperBunker.
Chinansky recalled how— for over the past twenty years— wild conspiracies abounded regarding how this contractor saw that and that contractor saw this... and how there was a giant tunnel being dug in secret... and how seventy thousand Mexicans were brought in on United Airlines 757s, in the dead of night, and whisked away by Greyhound buses down into a secret netherworld to lay tile and hang drywall... and how Chinese muckety-mucks were spotted eating surf and turf at the local Kosar's, which was an Akron steak house... and how silver-haired twits with flaring nostrils and European accents were booking all the deluxe hotel rooms, smoking filter-less cigarettes, and ordering chateau le fete...
Hank took a gulp of his muddy, morning coffee and a bite of his buttered jelly toast, recalling the prior evening’s podcast and the muffled, monotone voices who said “uh” a lot, and who would drone endlessly. There were sasquatch hunters, and planet Nibiru astronomers, UFOlogists, time travelers, JFK assassination experts, flat earthers, and Hadron Collider doomsayers. Hank had been listening to these theorists for decades. There used to be eye-witness accounts of a supposed super bunker being built where the world's elite were going to gather and ride out an apocalypse designed to cull the human herd of useless eaters. Those guests weren’t invited on to the talk shows anymore.
For years and years, Hank was entertained by the titillating tales. His enjoyment was heightened in that he knew one, and possibly two of the conspiracies to be true. For not only did Hank know that the bunker reports were a fact, long before it was revealed to the world, he had also seen a UFO when he was seven— although he often wondered if might have been a dream.
Hank had worked his way up from the ranks of forklift driver to special security agent during his tenure on the construction of the SuperBunker. By the time its existence had become public knowledge, he had already earned his pension, which was a good thing for Hank because the instant the shadowy conspiracy became public knowledge, his mystique of having inside knowledge of its existence melted away, returning him to the status of a mere mundane civil servant.
When the bunker was still legend, people wanted to get to know Hank— and any other insider who purported to know what was going on underground— even if they just cleaned the toilets. Hank, a flabby, pock-marked, stringy-haired man with beady eyes, man boobs, and a drunkard’s nose, leveraged his secret knowledge to conquer otherwise unattainable bar-wenches at the local taverns.
Prior to the SuperBunker’s public reveal, one might have expected an awakening in proletarian consciousness immediately following the outing of the truth. There would surely be a public outcry at the trillions of dollars diverted from schools, and bridges, and healthcare, and directed to the construction of an absurdly luxurious bunker built to house and spare the world’s elites while the rest of us were left to die. But there was no public outrage when the SuperBunker reveal occurred. There wasn't even a specific date or moment or event one could point to. No one could say: “I remember exactly what I was doing that very moment when I found out that the SuperBunker was real,” which is how people anchor and personalize grand, societal events. No one could say they were “standing in line behind some fat ass at 7-11 trying to buy a bag of Doritos and a Mountain Dew...” or “I was on a 737 halfway to Albuquerque, reading an article about the Duke of Watford Gap…” or “I was doing Cuervo shots with my brother’s ex at the bar of Three Amigos Restaurante…” Instead, the governments of the world rolled out the reality of the SuperBunker's existence a single, barely noticeable degree at a time… preventing the proverbial frogs from hopping out of the pot. The public rollout occurred over the course of about five years.
The first step in the process of slow proletarian acclimatization was that public officials, whose custom was to previously ridicule and mock whoever brought any conspiracy up, stopped scoffing whenever they were questioned about events pertaining to its existence. It went something like this: “Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, does your office have any information regarding the two-hundred caterpillar end loaders that were seen by multiple witnesses driving into Akron last night at two a.m.?”
The answer to such curiosities was initially an incredulous snort or shrug followed by: “I don't know what the hell you are talking about.”
But after a while, the government response to such questions became: “This is the first I've heard of that.”
Which then changed into: “I don't have any details about that.”
Which later evolved into: “That’s interesting. I'll have my office look into that.”
Which subsequently became: “You are not the first person to bring this up. Someone from my office will get back to you.”
Which then morphed into: “We are not prepared to comment on that at this time.”
Which then became: “I've been instructed that the purpose of those machines is being kept classified in order to protect national security interests.”
Which then transformed into: “All I can say is that those assets are being deployed for use in a classified project that has to do with national defense.”
Which emerged as: “All I know at this time is that the federal government, in conjunction with the United Nations, is upgrading security assets located in the area.”
Which evolved to: “I've been instructed to inform the public that the UN is expanding its continuity of government bunker system to ensure the world's governments can survive any conceivable, global, existential threat.”
Which ripened as: “What I can say, at this time, is that they are building a bunker system to preserve democracy in the event of nuclear war.”
And then to: “We are pleased to announce that the City of Akron has won the contract to be the site of a major nodal entry point for the UN SuperBunker. This will have a tremendous financial impact on our local economy!”
And finally as: “Akron welcomes our global friends and contractors! Our goal is to make you feel at home in our fine city while you continue the patriotic construction of the UN SuperBunker!”
...By the time it had gotten to that point, Hank's knowledge was no longer esoteric, and he had lost his allure to those of the opposite sex. He was just another flabby, government-employed security guard— one faceless face of a hundred thousand— who worked in a gigantic government facility, like those people who punch a clock at the Mint or the Department of Agriculture. Hank Chinansky, deprived of his brief dalliance with allure, poured himself into his security guard work and cheap vodka to fill his void of loneliness.
One day, while Chinansky was rolling around his sector on his two-wheeled, single axel, Mo-Mo scooter— basically a motorized hand truck— he was stopped and approached by a gentleman dressed in a white polo shirt and wearing sunglasses.
“Agent Chinansky?”
“Yes sir. Can I help you, sir?”
The gentleman showed his special agent identification. Chinansky scanned it with his phone.
“You're NSA[7]?”
The agent nodded. “I've been instructed to deliver this...”
He handed Chinansky a nine-by-six-inch, manila envelope. Chinansky opened it and withdrew a glossy photograph.
“Who is this?” he asked.
“All the details are included in the dossier.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Chinansky asked.
“Follow the instructions to the letter. Your nation needs you, Agent Chinansky. This mission is of the utmost importance. The continuity of the U.S. government is at stake.”
“But I technically work for the UN.”
“Not any more. You are now a special secret agent for the U.S. government. Unless you fail or are discovered.”
“So, I’m like a spy?”
“Yes. Like a spy.”
Chinansky relished his new secret agent role. It restored his self esteem. He was partnered up with two phony maintenance crew members known to him only as Bill and Carl. Together, the trio surreptitiously surveilled their target, notating and transmitting their daily observations back to their NSA contact, waiting for the signal to proceed with their mission objective.
One morning, Chinansky wheeled up for his daily rendezvous with Bill and Carl who were pretending to be busy going through the motions as faux ventilation inspectors. Bill and Carl were both Deep State assets, as far as Chinansky could discern, judging by their complete lack of knowledge of ventilation conduit. He listened briefly as they made up mock jargon to sound authentic.
“Carl, can you please give me a transducer readout on that PH?”
“Sure, Bill. Mind handing me that eleven-seventy mil spigot...”
“Hang on, dispatch is calling...” Bill put his phone to his ear. “Yeah Boss? Yes... Understood... Yes sir... Ten four!” Bill turned to Carl and Chinansky, who was idling silently on his Mo-Mo. “It's go-time, fellas!”
Carl quickly packed up their tools and stowed them on the back of their maintenance golf cart. Bill hopped into the driver's seat.
“Position yourself there, by the gate,” he ordered Chinansky. “Then wait for my signal.”
Chinansky twisted the throttle thrusting his Mo-Mo forward down the pedestrian avenue, carving through the throng of elite pedestrians flouncing about between the boutiques and plastic chestnut trees. In that moment, with his heart pumping blood and adrenaline through his sclerotic arteries, with the rush of recycled air rippling his plumpish, blotchy face, Chinansky felt a sense of intense purpose and meaning that he had never experienced once over the course of the entirety of his life. He wheeled himself into position. In just two minutes, he obtained visual confirmation of the target.
“Yes,” Chinansky answered into his cell. “Yeah, I have visual confirmation... I see him... Yes, I see the limo-cart, over there by the Mao statue... Understood... Yes... Got it. Wait for Carl to distract him, then proceed.”
Chinansky waited and watched, heart racing, as Carl drove over to the limo-cart. Carl parked in a manner that blocked the limo in, hopped out, and began digging through his toolbox. The driver immediately got out and confronted him. Chinansky watched as the confrontation escalated. Chinansky's phone pinged. That was his signal. He twisted the throttle and the Mo-Mo sped out onto the athletic field. He was upon his target in seconds.
“Excuse me,” Chinansky shouted as he closed in. “Excuse me!”
The target paid no attention.
“Hey you! Hey kid!”
The kid turned.
“Hey, is your name Chung?”
Chung let his soccer ball drop onto the plastic turf. He turned and stared at Hank incredulously.
“I said are you Chung Wang?”
Chung shrugged. “Who wants to know?” he answered in impeccable English.
“Do you see this badge?” Chinansky exclaimed as he came to a stop beside him.
“Yeah? So?”
“Are you Chung Wang?”
“Maybe. Who the hell are you?”
“Show some respect for authority.”
Chung smirked before reaching down for his ball.
“I need you to come with me,” Chinansky ordered.
“Why?”
“We are concerned that you may have been infected with fungicide. Apparently, you didn't notice the signs posted indicating that this field has just been sprayed for mold.”
“Why aren't you telling everyone else to come with you?” Chung asked. “Look, there's a dozen other people out here.”
“We'll get to them soon enough. You need to come with me so that you can be tested for carcinogens.” Chinansky reached out to grab the boy's wrist but Chung pulled back.
“How do you know my name?” Chung asked.
“Please come with me. It's for your own good.” Hank grabbed at him again, but the boy stepped further back. Hank wheeled forward on his Mo-Mo and reached down for his zip-tie handcuffs. Chung saw this and started to run.
Chinansky twisted the throttle and sped off in pursuit.
Chung, with his ball tucked under one arm and other arm flailing at the air with each stride, glanced back over his shoulder.
Chinansky was gaining.
Chung's gangly, pubescent gait evoked the gallop of a newborn foal.
Chinansky's rippling face was riveted with purplish determination.
Chung galloped across the plastic turf, kicking up black, rubberized pellets with each footfall.
Chinansky leaned into the Mo-Mo, compelling his two-wheeled scooter even faster.
Chung reached the turnstile gate accessing the park. He extended his wrist to activate the scanner that controlled the gate. Chinansky's thumb furiously swiped at his heads-up display as he closed in, attempting to override the turnstile… but he was too late. The gate opened.
“Damn!” Chinansky cursed.
Chung darted through and banked right down the avenue, losing a sneaker in the process. Chinansky couldn't risk losing any more ground on his objective. His thumb flicked through the park access user interface as the Mo-Mo raced along. He swiped at the image of the red turnstile so that it would open and allow him to pass through without slowing his pursuit, but the icon wouldn't change from red to green. A second later, Chinansky rammed the closed gate, breaking the graphite steering mast of the Mo-Mo and bending Chinansky in half at the waste. Not to be denied, Chinansky presented his wrist. The gate opened and he staggered through, turning right down the mall in pursuit.
“Bill,” he shouted into his wrist as he chased.
“You’re losing him, Chinansky.”
“I'm in pursuit.”
“Failure is not an option, Chinansky. Your country needs you.”
“Where are you? He's headed towards the Terra Cotta statues. Can you cut him off?”
Chinansky observed a sashaying hoard of elites just ahead. How was he going to find Chung among this mass of humanity? He stomped on, now oozing sweat, searching for a sign of the cunning fugitive. Exhausted and in pain, he turned off the main walkway into a quiet alley and called Bill again. Bill didn't answer. Chinansky tried to gather his breath with a series of deep wheezes. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his flask. He unscrewed the cap and took a drink but just as he was tipping it back, he noticed a socked foot under a recycle bin not ten feet away. Chinansky tucked his flask back into his pocket and took out his taser. He approached the bin, silently, carefully. He heard panting, then shuffling. Chinansky extended his taser and stopped just on the other side, gathering himself. He drew a deep breath and lunged forward, cutting off the escape. “Aha! Got you!” he shouted.
Terror filled Chung's face beneath his swooping bangs. He glanced left, then right, then up. He was trapped. Chinansky pointed his taser. “I'm going to need you to come with me, Chung Wang. Put the ball down.”
Chung glanced left, again.
“You are endangering me,” Chinansky shouted. “Put the ball down or I will taser you!”
Chung, not knowing what else to do, extended the soccer ball forward with both hands.
“Don't be a fool, boy,” Chinansky advised. “You'll only make trouble for yourself.”
Chung glanced left again.
Chinansky furrowed his brow. “Nobody will hurt you, kid,” he urged as he took a step closer.
Chung bared his teeth.
“Easy, there.”
Chung planted his right foot back.
“Don't do it!”
Chung glanced left again.
“Whoa...”
Chung bit his lower lip.
Chinansky extended his taser.
Chung's arms tensed.
Chinansky reached down for his handcuffs.
Chung released the ball.
Chinansky followed the ball down with his eyes.
Chung's back leg swept forward.
Chinansky's hands moved reflexively.
Chung's foot swung, connecting with the ball in a perfect transference of kinetic energy. The ball launched forward, rocketing through the short distance separating assailant and pursuer. Chinansky, lowered his hands to shield his loins from the ball careening towards his groin, but in this act, he also accidentally depressed the taser button which resulted in the overwhelming of his neural circuitry with two million volts of electricity at precisely the instant the soccer ball careened into his testicles. Chinansky fell onto the ground in a howl of agony. Chung seized the opportunity and fled… to his left.
After five minutes of incapacitation, Chinansky managed to prop himself up onto the side of the plastic bin. He was drenched in sweat and had also pissed his pants.
His cell beeped.
“Chinansky, Bill here. Do you copy?”
“Go ahead,” Chinansky groaned.
“We got him!”
“Got who? Over.”
“Chung! We got Chung!”
Chinansky staggered up onto his feet. “Where? How?”
“We snared him as he darted out of the alley. We're holding him at the Jade Formosa Massage Parlor and are awaiting extraction. Nice work, Chinansky. Your nation thanks you for your service.”
Chapter 9
The president held his cabinet meeting in a chamber of the Hades level which was the deepest level of the SuperBunker—almost one-half mile below the surface. This chamber was known as the UltraBunker. One arrived at the Hades level via elevator that connected from the traditional SuperBunker Oval Office. The Hades level chamber was wrapped in a double-redundant steel faraday cage to make it extra-impregnable to disruption by radio flash. The cages were electrified to make them completely impervious to wireless surveillance transmission. One entered the UltraBunker through an eighteen-inch thick blast door that only opened after visitors passed through a particle imaging scanner, a retinal scan, and finally, an RFID chip validation.
Inside, the interior walls were stark, smooth concrete, decorated with paintings by Romantics which were brought from the Louvre to be held for safekeeping in the event of its thermonuclear destruction. The drab, nine-foot walls were adorned in a flourish of Victorian crown molding. In the center of the room, a large, polished, steel table stood. On one wall hung a large screen with a power cable running down, then up through a grommet in the table and into a power receptacle within arm's reach of the president's executive seat— which enabled the POTUS to completely kill the screen's power and signal at his discretion. No other electronic devices were present, and if one was snuck in, it was totally erased by an electromagnetic pulse upon entering and exiting the room. The audio-visual data displayed on the screen was piped in via a dedicated fiber optic cable network that passed through seven fire walls.
The dedicated audio-visual system was built by a company called Fossen-Stein, headquartered in Virginia, at a cost of one hundred and fifty million dollars.
There was another steel door inside the UltraBunker, opposite the blast door entrance, behind the president’s high back, executive chair. It was smaller, standing perhaps four-foot tall. It led to an executive safe room just big enough for the president to stow away within, in the event that the SuperBunker was somehow breached by invaders who managed to out-maneuver the thousands of security personnel, make their way down into the Hades level, and penetrate the UltraBunker blast door. The safe room was furnished with a twin-sized bed and a mini fridge and held two weeks of rations.
The POTUS sat upon his UltraBunker throne, facing the main blast door entrance through which everyone entered. One by one, the special cabinet members entered and took their seats. The COGCON cabinet consisted of only seventeen members as five secretary positions were deemed non-essential; those being:
The Secretary of the Office of Management and Budget
The Administrator of the Small Business Administration
The Secretary of Commerce
The Attorney General
And the Secretary of Government Oversight
There were still not quite enough seats for everyone at the big table. Several secretaries were relegated to sitting on folding chairs against the wall. Secretaries relegated to these kiddie seats included:
The Secretary of the Interior
The Secretary of Health and Human Services
The Secretary of Education
The Secretary of Housing and Urban Development
The Trade Representative
And the Secretary of Veterans Affairs
The POTUS did not greet anyone as they entered. He stared through them as they appeared in the doorway with their notepads clutched in hand. Haberdash sat on a folding chair against the wall, scribbling notes on his pad. Within moments of the first arrival, every seat at the big table was filled except one. The POTUS was flanked on either side by Secretary of State Fricke and Secretary of Defense Buckminster. Next to them sat the secretary of the treasury and an empty chair for the White House chief of staff. Each member of the cabinet sat in silence, waiting for the POTUS to speak, but the POTUS just stared at the door. Haberdash's eyes flitted from the president to the blast door to the empty chair at the big table. The members of the cabinet cast subtle, uneasy glances and shrugs at each other. The motions of shuffling papers and sounds of sniffles and gulps of sipped water subsided. The president continued staring at the door. It became very silent, palpably silent, so silent that everyone could hear their own breathing and stomach noises. It was so silent that a fart would have sounded like pulling the starting cord on a chainsaw… in a tiny chapel… at midnight.
And when it had become as absolutely silent as possibly imaginable, the sound of click clack click clack…
Footsteps approached from beyond chamber.
Click clack click clack
The sounds grew in decibels until they stopped just beyond the bolts of the doorway…
All eyes swung toward the sound. Haberdash scribbled away. The secretary of agriculture suppressed a cough. The POTUS remained motionless. Finally, the silhouette of a man with a briefcase appeared in the doorway. He was short, pear-shaped, with narrow shoulders. He took one step forward, into the light of the UltraBunker. His wispy silver and blond hair was combed over to one side. He wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses that magnified his doey, black eyes.
“Welcome home, Frank!” the POTUS bellowed. A wide grin filled his square face.
Frank Tibbles adjusted his glasses and grinned humbly in response, then nodded. All eyes tracked him as he walked around the table and took his place at the remaining empty seat, filling out the COGCON Cabinet.
“All right. Let's get started,” ordered the POTUS. “Who's up first?”
Just then, the red light in the center of the table began to flash. “Urgent Call from the President of China!” blazed in blood red on the screen.
“Should I clear the room, sir?” asked Fricke.
“No,” answered the POTUS. “Let's all hear what Huli has to say. Put him through.”
The face of the president of China appeared, six feet tall on screen from hairline to chin. He looked displeased.
“Huli! How the hell are you?” the POTUS asked.
“I'm a-no good, Manfweed.”
“You look upset. What's wrong?” the POTUS mocked.
“You know vewee well what's wong.”
“I thought our relations were improving.”
“You are foo of boo-shit, Manfweed.”
“What is it now, Huli? Is it the boy? Are you mad about the Wang Chung kid?”
“Removing him from the bunker was an act of a-war, Mr. Pwesident.”
“Yeah, and so was sinking the Henry Harrison.”
The eyes of the cabinet members dashed back and forth between the presidents as if they were watching the volleys of a tennis match.
“C'mon, Huli. He's just one kid. You got a billion more of them. I'm sure we can work this out. I'll make some concessions at our next summit. We're still meeting Thursday?”
“He is not just some a-kid. He is the son of a high-wanking party offisho.”
“We've all had to make sacrifices, Huli. We all have loved ones back on the surface. No one kid is worth escalating global tensions further.”
“This is vewee serious matter. You must a-bwing him back into the bunker.”
“I can't do that, Huli. His PIN is not valid.”
“His a-PIN is a-perfecwee vawid.”
“No. His PIN belongs to my chief of staff and newly appointed Secretary of SuperBunker Operations, Frank Tibbles. Say hello, Frank.”
“You ir-reegeree enter our sovereign tewitory and kidnap Master Chung.”
“No. No. That's incorrect. We detained Master Chung for his own safety after exposure to fungicide, and once it was discovered that he was here illegally, he was deported. It’s all by the book.”
“I'm not argue with you, Manfweed. You have twenty-four ow-ah to bwing Chung back in or there will be consequences.”
“Consequences? Like what?”
“You will see, Mr. Pwesident.”
“You don't want to escalate, Huli. We are already at the brink of Armageddon. Chung will be safe so long as we continue to work things out down here.”
“Consequences, Mr. Pwesident. There will be dire consequences for you,” Hu Li repeated.
“Like what?”
“The dire kind!” Hu Li’s lenses flashed.
“Like sinking another aircraft carrier?”
“More dire than that.”
“Like nuking a major metropolitan area?”
“Even worse than a-that.”
“Huli, how do you expect me to take you seriously? You're bluffing, and badly at that.”
“We are not a-bruffing. Twenty-four ow-ah!”
Click.
The monitor went dark.
Everyone's glance pivoted, locking on to the POTUS.
The president, suddenly aware that he might look uncomfortable, rolled his eyes and chuckled to diffuse the tension.
“Relax. It's Huli. He's all talk. His English seems to be getting worse, though. Don't you think?”
There was a smattering of uncomfortable chuckles.
“Huli's not crazy. He won't blow up the world over one twelve-year-old China boy.”
“Nah.” “No way.” “Not likely,” responded various members of the cabinet. “He's all talk like you say.” “Yeah, all talk. Except for the time he sunk the Harrison...”
“It wouldn't make any sense,” assured the secretary of agriculture. “He wants the boy down here in the bunker so that he is safe. But escalating to a nuclear war over him not being down here is the most unsafe thing he could possibly do for the boy.”
“I think you're on to something, Mr. President,” observed the secretary of education.
“It's 3-D chess, Mr. President. Pure Genius.”
“Hell, its 4-D chess!”
“It's all part of the plan,” replied the POTUS, whose eyes darted around the room searching for additional affirmations and to ferret out dissenters.
“I think it's brilliant, sir!” said the secretary of transportation.
“Yes, absolutely brilliant,” added the secretary of homeland security.
“You got him by the short and curlies, Mr. President,” barked Secretary of Defense Buckminster. “Very Sun Tzu, sir.”
“Yeah, you've managed to use the Chung boy as leverage for peace! It's... it's... Rooseveltian!”
“Rooseveltian?” Haberdash pondered, under his breath.
A look of satisfaction flushed the president's face.
“No, better than Rooseveltian. It's Churchilian!”
“No, better than that. You've the integrity and tenacity of a modern-day Cato, sir!” commented the attorney general.
“Cato?” asked the president who looked at Tibbles. “Who the hell is that? Is he talking about that guy who did O.J. Simpson’s laundry?”
“Cato the Younger,” answered the attorney general. “The Roman statesman who battled the corruption of the Senate. You know... Cato?”
The president stared blankly.
“Cato...the man who opposed Caesar.”
“The man who opposed Caesar? What the fuck are you talking about? I’m Caesar!”
The attorney general's shoulders curled and slumped, and his eyes dropped in the realization that he had likely just ended his career and in addition would probably now be audited by the IRS… if the IRS survived the nuclear holocaust.
“How about Reaganesque!?” suggested the secretary of the treasury.
“I like that,” answered the POTUS. “Reaganesque!”
“Reagan had the Star Wars defense initiative that brought an end to the Cold War,” the secretary continued, “and you, Mr. President, you have your Chung initiative. You've probably saved the world, sir.”
Chapter 10
“I know what they're going to do, Mr. President...”
The POTUS, nestled in his burgundy recliner, burrowed deep within the subterranean SuperBunker Oval Office, watched DeForest Reese shepherd a panel of like-minded pundits working in unison to assuage the building public terror of eminent thermo-nuclear destruction. The pundits, without citation or named source, but with confident, easy smiles and affirming nods, parroted each other's assurances that the benevolent, munificent, brilliant leaders and elites, down in the bunker, would manage to work things out and save the world. One only needed to remain calm and have faith. And if they couldn’t work things out... well... democracy would at least survive the nuclear holocaust and emerge to rebuild a better world. This was at least something all the people on the surface could be proud of... at least up until the moment they were vaporized by super-heated plasma.
The president was sipping a scotch. It was 8 a.m.
“Who is going to do what?” the POTUS asked, his voice already slowed by the alcohol.
“The Sino-Russian Axis, sir,” Tibbles replied.
“They won't do anything because of Chung.”
“But they can do something, sir.”
“They can do what?”
“They can do Protocol 4.”
“Protocol what?” the POTUS asked dismissively. “Have you seen the first lady?”
“Her schedule says she is visiting an orphanage today, sir.”
“An orphanage? There aren't any orphans down here.”
“She's visiting it virtually, sir.”
“Why wasn't I told? Sounds like a good opportunity to press the flesh.”
“You were told, sir. But I imagine you have a lot on your mind with President Hu Li's deadline looming. How are you holding up?”
“I'm fine.”
“No concerns?”
“Nope. None at all.”
“Did you get any sleep last night?”
“I slept like a baby. Only took three Unisoms.”
“Mr. President...”
“Yes, Frank?”
“We need to have a conversation.”
The president scowled at Tibbles. “About what?”
“I think you know what about.”
“Not now, Frank. This is a big day.”
Tibbles tried to hide the disappointment that was dragging at his facial expression.
“We'll talk later, after the deadline passes.”
Tibbles sighed. “Aren't you worried about what the Axis will do?”
“I'm looking forward to the deadline. When it passes, my burdens will be transformed.”
“Sir? I’m certain Protocol 4 will be a difficult burden.”
“Don’t care. The fog of uncertainty will be lifted from my mind. My course will become crystal clear. Hey, did you and Fricke get together about the nuclear football?”
“We did.”
“And you have the authentication codes with you?”
“At all times sir.”
“Good. So, we're all set? You’re ready to go?”
“Yes.”
The president’s buck-toothed butler, Faucett, appeared. “Sir, the motorcade is ready.”
“Terrific. Frank, are you ready for some golf?”
“I'm not much of a golfer, sir.”
“You'll have a great time. Hab will be your caddy.”
Haberdash, who was seated opposite the POTUS on another recliner, appeared startled as if he was just awakened.
The POTUS got up and walked to the foyer with Tibbles and Hab in tow. There, they met three secret service agents who escorted them out of the Brown House[8] doors and into the hall where they were joined by three additional secret service agents, two of whom were dressed in pastel sweater vests, plaid pants, derby hats, sunglasses, and side arms. They entered the elevator where they were greeted by two more agents bringing the total to eight secret service agents, one chief of staff, one presidential hagiographer, and one POTUS.
“God damn it's crowded in here,” grumbled the POTUS as the elevator doors closed. “Anyone breaks wind and I'll have you demoted to riding a Mo-Mo.”
One of the agents dressed in a black suit and black glasses whispered into his lapel. The elevator jolted upwards. Moments later, the doors opened to the lobby. They were greeted by five additional secret service agents in black who surrounded the presidential entourage as they strutted down the roped off red carpet, across the main lobby, through the glass doors and outside—which wasn't really outside as they were several hundred feet underground. On the avenue they were met by eleven black, bullet-proof, presidential golf carts filled with additional agents and drivers all dressed in black. The president's phalanx scrambled onto the backs of the executive carts. The president and his entourage boarded theirs and, once the appropriate hand signals were given and observed, and the right whispers were whispered into their collar radios, the giant, black secret service centipede whirled off down the subterranean avenue under the melon glow of a virtual dawn.
Within four minutes, they arrived at the Gerald R. Ford Memorial Golf Course— one of six underground golf courses of the SuperBunker. The president and his troupe hopped out and strolled into the clubhouse through a gauntlet of a hundred more security agents, several dozen media, and a smattering of perhaps eight or nine curious elite civilians— four of whom were golfers. Inside the clubhouse, the president greeted the prime ministers of Japan, Germany, and Tunisia. They all shook each other's golf-gloved hands.
The POTUS was the third-best golfer of the lot. Taki Takishima, the prime minister of Japan, was the best— a scratch golfer. He had an exceptional short game, good enough to get him a tour card if he wanted it. Schumpert, the PM of Germany was next. A tall, husky woman with broad shoulders and considerable breasts, she could absolutely crush it off the T box. But the Gerald R. Ford course was, obviously, built indoors and only designed as a par three in lieu of space constraints. Schumpert's long ball would not help her much. Faisal, the Tunisian, was short and pencil thin, and had never played golf. When his caddy handed him a club to take some practice swings, he clasped it with two spaced-apart hands, ritualistically, like he was being presented a royal scepter.
“Hmm, we have a dilemma,” remarked the POTUS. “We seem to have a five-some instead of a four-some.”
“Oh, that's okay Mr. President, I will drop out,” Tibbles remarked.
“No, no. Nonsense. You're my guest. We can fix this. Perhaps we can play with two foursomes. Are there any other prime ministers in the clubhouse?”
The faces of the secret service agents swiveled as they scanned the bar and the pro shop, but no other national leaders were spotted. The security detail was, in fact, the only occupants of the clubhouse other than the five-some and their caddies.
“Well, damn.”
“Maybe a five-some is not a big deal?” Taki remarked.
No, no. It's bad form and rude. Maybe we can play as a two-some and a three-some. We'll all T-off together. You two can hole out, then Tibbles and Faisal and I will come up after.”
“That defeats the purpose of this golf summit if we are not playing together,” remarked Schumpert.
“Well, I suppose that leaves only one option,” the POTUS turned slowly to the Japanese prime minister. “Taki, would you mind sitting this round out?”
“I will drop out,” offered Faisal. “I've never played before and I'm afraid I'll be making a fool of myself.”
“No. We have important matters to discuss regarding your little trade predicament with Algeria. Ticky-Taki's just here for show. We're already working through the East China Sea negotiations. Ain't that right, Taki?”
The prime minister of Japan, who had just had his spikes sharpened, stared blankly at the POTUS.
“Taki, you okay?”
After a faint nod evoking suppressed contempt, Taki bowed out. The prime minister of Japan stomped back to his golf cart while the remaining caddies, sixty-five security personnel, and four journalists made their way to the T-box.
They stood on the elevated mound of plastic turf, looking out at the plush fairway lined by artificial trees, the swath running down and then up to a patch of lighter plastic green flanked by sand bunkers. They heard songbirds but didn't see any as the ambient nature sounds emanated from well-hidden speakers.
“You first, Faisal.”
Faisal's caddy showed him how to place the ball on the embedded tee. Then he handed him a seven wood and corrected his grip. Then he got down on the ground and set Faisal's feet. Then he stepped back and demonstrated for Faisal how to swing.
“You might want to lay up... avoid the bunker!” joked the POTUS.
Faisal took a deep breath, reared back, and swung… missing the ball entirely by almost a foot. By some inexplicable physics, one of his shoes had come loose and flew several yards down the fairway.
“We'll give you a mulligan on that,” the POTUS remarked. “Try again.”
Faisal sighed. His caddy demonstrated once more. Faisal, now wearing one shoe, took another deep breath and swung. He connected, albeit imperfectly, and the ball ripped downhill through the plastic grass some twenty yards, passing his shoe on the way.
Next up was Marjorie Brunhilda Schumpert, chancellor of Germany, affectionately known as “Large Marge” to President Manfred. She approached the tee box with her three wood and addressed the ball.
“Do you think you have enough club to reach the green?” asked the POTUS.
Marge pretended not to hear him. She cantilevered into her backswing and uncoiled, her downswing cut the air with a whoosh, the torque bending the club as it arced descended, splicing the din of songbird chirps with a ting of perfect contact of club face onto ball. She followed through with a beastly grunt, giant breasts heaving, eyes locked on to the tiny white bullet rocketing upwards into orbit, dangerously close to the canvas sky. She exhaled as the ball carried out like a tracer round, high above the center of the plastic fairway.
“What a drive...” remarked the POTUS. “Uh oh. Trouble.”
The ball sailed on, and on, over the faux green, over the artificial shrubbery on the far edge, slamming against the backlit blue, concrete wall of the bunker. It ricocheted downward and bounced into the silk foliage.
“I got it, I think,” exclaimed the president. “You'll probably have to drop.”
Schumpert snarled in response.
Tibbles was next. As was his custom, he applied an unassuming, smooth swing with his four iron, laying it up about thirty yards short of the green on the left edge of the fairway.
“Nice safe shot, Frank!” exclaimed the POTUS while patting him on the shoulder. The president gestured to Haberdash who selected a five wood and handed it to him. The POTUS stepped onto the tee. He placed his ball and adjusted his feet. He exhaled and drew his club into his backswing—
“Mr. President!” shouted one of the sixty-five secret service agents standing by.
The POTUS aborted his swing and stepped back from his ball looking perturbed. “Not now!”
“But Mr. President, I have an urgent message for you.”
“I said not now!” President Manfred re-addressed the ball, took a breath, exhaled and swung. His shot was no golfing masterpiece. He hit it hard but not square and it launched out low and fast, in worm-burner fashion. It strafed along a few feet off the ground for a hundred and fifty yards or so, then skidded down the grass and into the rough, stopping in the vicinity of Tibbles’ layup.
“Nice ball, Mr. President!” Tibbles remarked.
“Now, Mr. President?” asked the agent.
“Forward it to Fricke. He'll handle it.”
“Yes sir.”
The foursome and their caddies and their sixty-five secret service agents started off down the fairway.
“Sir?”
“What is it, Frank?”
“What if it's the Chinese?”
“I already assume it is. So what?”
“Don't you want to speak to them?”
“Nope. Not yet, anyway. I'm going to make them sweat a little.”
“Why?”
“It's called 'the art of the deal', Frank. By ignoring them Chink bastards, we are asserting that we are in the superior position. It will make them more amenable to our demands once they capitulate.”
“Are you sure about that, sir?”
“Of course, I am.”
Faisal hit his ball, then hit again, and once more before Tibbles and the POTUS reached the president's ball.
“What the hell?” snapped the POTUS, stopping cold.
“What is it, Mr. President?”
“Is that a gofer hole?”
“I doubt it, sir. This course is artificial.”
“Yeah, but maybe they burrowed in?”
“We're more than a thousand feet below the surface, sir.”
“Maybe some gophers found a ride down here.”
“I doubt it, sir.”
“How am I supposed to hit my ball out of that hole?”
“I assume you will need to take a drop... and a one stroke penalty.”
The president winced at Tibbles. Tibbles turned to the secret service agents and Haberdash who responded by turning their backs to the president. President Manfred then scooped the ball out of the hole with his foot and fluffed it atop the plastic grass. When he looked up, he noticed that the German chancellor was watching him from the far side of the green. She shook her head in contempt.
The president pretended not to notice and chipped on, followed by Tibbles. Faisal was on the green in six and Schumpert was on in three with her penalty stroke. A secret service agent pulled the pin and held it just off the fringe of the green. Faisal putted first leaving it so short he had to putt again, this time sending it well past the hole. The POTUS putted, leaving it about two feet away. Schumpert, still looking disgusted, putted but left it a few inches short.
“Good enough, Marge,” the POTUS remarked. She picked up her ball in a huff. Tibbles put his ball within a foot. He marked it and stepped back. Faisal putted twice more, finally putting it in.
“Now you're getting the hang of it, Faisal!” encouraged the POTUS. “What is that, a nine?” He turned to Schumpert. “You're taking a five?”
She rolled her eyes.
The president studied his lie. He turned to Schumpert. “Is this a gimme, Marge?” he asked.
She didn't respond.
“I'll say it is,” answered Tibbles.
The POTUS handed his putter back to Haberdash and grabbed his ball. “Par,” he muttered as he scribbled three on his card.
Tibbles, whose ball was only twelve inches from the cup, was hitting for par as well. He re-placed his ball and snapped his marker back onto the backhand of his glove. He aligned his feet and club face. He drew back and in the mechanical manner of a silent pendulum, his putter clicked the ball. It rolled forward to the hole, onto the lip where it bent around the edge and rolled out. His face filled with contrived disappointment.
“Oh, too bad, Frank,” remarked the POTUS.
Tibbles tapped in for bogey.
Just then, a careening golf cart alerted the sixty-five secret service agents. Half scrambled towards it and the other half placed themselves between the cart and the three world leaders.
“It's the secretary of state!” Tibbles announced. “He just pinged me. Everyone stand down!”
The golf cart rolled to a stop and Fricke got out and scrambled up to the foursome.
“What is it?” asked the president.
“It's...” Fricke paused to catch his breath, “it's the first lady.”
“What happened?” asked the president.
“She's missing. She disappeared just after her appearance with the orphans.”
“How is that possible?” asked Tibbles.
“Secret Service is still trying to figure that out.”
Tibbles glanced desperately at the POTUS.
The president pondered with pursed lips. “Those sneaky Chinese,” he muttered.
“We'll need to get you to the UltraBunker, immediately, sir” barked one of the agents who nudged the president in the direction of his golf cart.
The entourage piled back into their rides and the procession sped back up the plastic fairway to the club house. They circled around and parked and the president's entourage hopped out of the white country club golf carts and hopped into the black secret service golf carts and sped back to the Brown House. In a matter of minutes, the POTUS was hustled into the Oval Office elevator and taken into the depths of the UltraBunker.
Chapter 11
Grave concern filled Tibbles’ face. Fricke's eyes darted between Tibbles and the president and Buckminster. The entire COGCON cabinet had been hastily assembled. They sat around the conference table; eyes now fixed on the POTUS. Haberdash, sitting in a corner, scratched the inside of his ear canal with his little finger, then dislodged the wax from his fingertip with a flick. The president leaned back in his chair and rocked. The squeaking of the chair permeated the silence like the mating croaks of a swamp toad.
Squawk
Squawk
Squawk
Faucett, the POTUS’s Brown House butler, had recently been promoted to executive administrative assistant. He poked his head into the room. “Sir...”
The president stopped rocking. “Yes?”
“There’s still no answer from the president of China.”
“Fine.”
The president folded his hands and rocked again.
Squawk
Squawk
Squawk
Several minutes later, the Hades Level servants wheeled in carts of lunch: turkey clubs with Weinstein pickles and Weinstein spicy mayostard and tuna fish sandwiches with coleslaw. Side salads and potato chips were also included.
A purchase order was drafted in advance and sent to accounts payable to remit payment to a contractor named Institutional Chef, an independant subsidiary of Weinstein Corp, which held the exclusive government contract to serve meals to federal agencies at a rate of $400 per meal per head. Institutional Chef was headquartered in the district of the high-ranking senator from Delaware.
The cabinet members ate in the stark UltraBunker while the giant screen projected a rectangular void with only an occasional photon of primordial light flickering within its boundaries of blackness.
After lunch, Faucett poked his face in again. “Mr. President?”
“Yes?”
“There’s still nothing to report, sir.”
“Fine.” The POTUS continued rocking.
Squawk
Squawk
Squawk
Fricke leaned forward. “Maybe we should contact the Russians. Perhaps they've heard something.”
“Good idea. Bring Timmy up.”
Fricke picked up the conference phone and asked the operator to connect the UnderKremlin— which is what the president had dubbed the Russian equivalent of the UltraBunker.
...But the screens remained black.
Fricke held on the line. Tibbles’ eyes darted between Fricke and the president. Haberdash dug the eraser end of his pencil into his sock to scratch his sweater arch.
“Well...?” asked the POTUS.
“No answer yet, sir,” replied Fricke as he held.
“I knew it.”
“Knew what, sir?” asked Tibbles.
“I knew them Slav-commie bastards were in on it with the Chinese.”
“Actually, I think only the Chinese remain communist, sir,” replied the secretary of the interior.
“Who asked you?” the POTUS snapped at her before turning back to Fricke. “Anything yet?”
“Still nothing, sir.”
The POTUS scowled, punishing Fricke for his failure of an idea. Fricke relented and hung up.
“Turn on the game!” ordered the POTUS.
The secretary of transportation grabbed the remote and fumbled with the buttons. The black viewing screens filled with a menu and then gridiron action. It was the game of the week pitting the Saxons against the Normans. This elated the POTUS as he was the biggest fan of the Saxons and a close, personal friend of their coach, Vincent Fangbright. They had played football and were roommates at Yale where they had once chanted secret rites together with seven other fraternity pledges, each holding lit candles, buck naked, with a man dressed like Darth Vader walking around and whipping them in the ass with a ping pong paddle, while they encircled a stripper named Jennifer who was lying on a coffee table altar, portraying human sacrifice, totally nude except for a goat's head mask covering her face and jello shots placed on her navel… which was the culmination of their secret fraternity initiation.
As the cabinet watched, the football game evolved into an intense defensive struggle. The teams mirrored each other's conservative strategy, and each took turns punting, attempting to gain advantage by flipping the field and pinning their opponent in their end. The clock wound down and the teams withdrew into their lockers for halftime with the score tied at 10.
“Fangbright is the greatest coach of all time,” extolled the president over the din of an ad for testosterone supplements. He pressed the intercom to ping Faucett. “Any word from the Chinks?”
“Nothing yet, sir.”
A server brought more snacks and the members of the COGCON cabinet indulged in nacho chips and guacamole dip, and a giant cheese ball with crackers, and shrimp cocktail, and hot wings, and fudge brownies, and calorie-conscious diet sodas to wash it all down.
The second half began, and the president watched intently from his chair, snacking occasionally on chilled shrimp slathered in horse radish cocktail sauce. The third quarter action lumbered left and right and right and left on the screen without any scoring. Each team punted three times. The tension built like a stalemate in a tug of war, with neither side gaining advantage, and timely defensive plays stifling the other’s possessions.
In the fourth quarter, the Saxons finally managed to sustain a drive taking them across midfield and close to field goal range. On first down, they connected on a short pass that netted seven yards. On second, they ran off tackle for four, gaining another first down, but the play was called back on an illegal formation penalty. On the replay of second down, the Saxon quarterback— the steely, gunslinger-eyed Brock McGuinn— threw a pass that was just knocked away at the last moment by the Norman defender. It was third and eight.
“This is where it will be won or lost,” remarked the POTUS. The Saxons broke the huddle. “C'mon McGuinn! You can do it!”
Brock “The Gun” McGuinn sauntered into position behind the center and called the signals. The short, white, slot receiver went into motion back across the formation. The defenders pointed and shifted their alignments with great urgency. The Saxon crowd went completely silent in anticipation. The center snapped the ball. The front lines collided in a crackle of brain trauma. The snap went dangerously high. McGuinn nonchalantly reached up to snatch it out of the air with one hand. He quickly planted his feet within his halo of blockers collapsing at his flanks. He stepped forward with his bow-legged chicken legs, into the salient of desperate, bulging, mud-stained, meshed polyester and neoprene. A receiver broke free in the middle of the field. McGuinn raised the ball to his ear. The pocket of protection was closing in on him like a garotte. The Gun McGuinn coiled his arm. A defender extended his paw to swat the ball from behind him, just missing. McGuinn snapped his wrist forward. The ball rocketed out from the scrum and down the middle of the field in a wobbly spheroid spiral. The receiver reached out his hands to receive it—
“Heh-roh Mr. Pwesident!”
The screen filled with the round, bespectacled face and nubby Grey teeth of the Chinese president.
“What the fuck is going on?” shouted the POTUS.
Faucett stuck his pubescent face into the room. “Mr. President, we have finally gotten through to the president of China.”
“I can see that. Couldn't this wait five minutes?” The POTUS shooed Faucett away. Faucett withdrew his head and closed the door. Manfred feigned cordiality and greeted the president of China. “Huli!”
“Manfweed,” Hu Li replied. “Have you fine-ree come to yo senses?”
“I don't know what you mean, Huli. Oh...,” the POTUS continued, smugly, “...do you mean that because of the first lady situation that I have somehow changed my mind and decided to acquiesce to your demands?”
“I don't a-know anything about yo first ray-dee, Mr. Pwesident.”
“Don't be coy, Huli.”
“I'm not a-being coy. I do not know anything about her.”
“Cut the crap, Huli. I know what this is.”
Tibbles pushed back from his seat, rushed over to the president, and cupped his hand over his ear to speak privately. “Maybe we should consider the possibility that he in fact doesn't know that she is missing,” Tibbles whispered.
“Huh?”
“Just in case, sir. If he does have the first lady, then we need not remind him of it. But if he doesn't, he need not know of it.”
“Oh, right.”
Tibbles withdrew.
“So, what do you want, Huli,” asked the POTUS.
“I'm returning yo call, Mr. Pwesident.”
The president glanced at Tibbles who faintly shook his head.
Hu Li Continued: “I thought you were ready to end this a-madness and arrow Master Chung to return to the bunker.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because your dead-rine is a-rapid-ree approaching.”
“And then what?” the POTUS asked.
“Then you will find out.”
“You'll get nowhere with this, Huli. I am not budging on the Chung situation, regardless of what you threaten to do with the first la—”
Tibbles scowled.
“Er... uh... whatever you intend to do,” the POTUS finished.
“I know nothing of your first a-ray-dee.”
“I'm just putting it out there, Huli. I'm letting you know that whatever you intend to do, it isn't going work. I'm not changing my position.”
“I fear that this situation may be deteriorating into world war three,” Hu Li observed.
“That’s all on you, my friend.”
“You reave me no a-choice. We cannot arrow you to kidnap our citizen.”
“You're one to talk, Huli.”
“I see there is nothing for us to discuss. This is a waste of a-time.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
Click
President Hu Li's image vanished from the screens and was replaced by a television commercial for Dodge’s best built pickup trucks. The football game resumed. The Saxons had scored a touchdown during Hu Li's interlude, but the Normans had scored as well, and the game was tied at 17 with two minutes remaining. The Saxons broke the huddle and approached the line of scrimmage which was at their own twenty. The home crowd quieted once more. The first play was a pass that resulted in an eight-yard gain. The second play connected for ten yards. McGuinn signaled for a timeout. After commercials for lite beer, erection pills, and Chevy’s best in class pickup trucks, the game returned. McGuinn ran four plays, connecting with his receivers on each, taking the Saxons down to the Norman forty-yard line. There were fifty seconds remaining in the game. The Gun rushed up to the line while the clock ticked away. Forty-nine... forty-eight... forty-seven... He took the snap and spiked the ball into the ground, stopping the clock at forty-four seconds. The camera cut to the pot-bellied Saxon place kicker who kneaded a pigskin, placed it on a tee, and with a look of furrowed seriousness, booted it into a practice net on the sideline. His longest-ever career field goal was fifty-four yards. From where the ball was placed, it would be a fifty-seven yard try. The Saxons knew they had to gain a few more yards to have a decent chance.
An on-screen banner ad pitched Truck-of-the-Year Ford pickups while Coach Fangbright took off his headset. His lips formed inaudible words on the screen. McGuinn lifted his helmet and his lips started to move. Then Fangbright, noticing that a camera was zooming in on his face from two-hundred yards away, covered his mouth with his laminated play sheet that resembled a Denny's menu— which was not unlike the nuclear football instructions. The Gun McGuinn stopped talking and just nodded every couple of seconds. Then The Gun turned and trotted out onto the field and into the Saxon huddle.
The huddle broke and the players assumed their positions. McGuinn placed his hands under the centers rear. He took the snap on first sound and extended the ball to the halfback who cut towards the right side of the line... but it was a play action fake. McGuinn withdrew the ball and rolled in the other direction. The Norman linebacker pursuing from the back side discovered the ruse and cut towards McGuinn preparing to murder him. McGuinn was just able to get the pass off and turn his back before he was pile-driven into the ground, face first. The brown pigskin wobbled out, fluttering downfield about ten yards before it was intercepted by the Norman safety who was charging up fast...
The referee watching this play unfold could easily discern that the interception would be returned for an uncontested touchdown. He glanced at the flattened Brock McGuinn, then over to the charging Norman defender who plucked the fluttering ball out of the air and charged on, without breaking stride, towards the goal line.
Then the referee looked back at McGuinn...
And as if he was perhaps overcome by some sense cognitive dissonance at the notion of the underdog Normans actually beating the Saxons...
Or perhaps because he was subtly informed by his supervisor before the game that it would be best for television ratings that Brock McGuinn continue playing in the post season for as long as possible...
Or perhaps because he was of Anglo-Saxon decent and ancient blood rivalries are sub-consciously passed on through genetic inheritance...
Or perhaps it was a legitimate, objective, unbiased assessment of the situation...
The referee reached into his pocket, withdrew his yellow hanker chief weighted by a roll of pennies and...
The Norman safety ran into the end zone and spiked the ball. His teammates followed him and embraced each other and celebrated the miracle play and good fortune virtually ensuring victory. But they soon heard the Saxon crowd let out a cheer and they knew something was amiss. They turned back toward the original line of scrimmage and their fears were realized when they spotted the yellow flag and they spotted the skinny-armed, villainous referee whom they now cursed, and they spotted their arch-nemesis Brock The Gun McGuinn, sitting up on his knees, tufts of mud and grass stuck in his facemask, and a shit-eating grin scrawled across his face.
“Unnecessary roughness!” shouted the president with unrestrained glee. “Fifteen-yard penalty! Fuck you Normans!”
The skinny-armed referee announced the call and the crowd went into a frenzy of approval. The chubby Norman coach protested and spiked his headset to no avail. The ball was moved to the twenty-five yard-line. There were thirty-two seconds left in the game.
The Saxons called three halfback dives in succession, forcing the Normans to use their allotted timeouts. With twenty-one seconds left, the pot-bellied Saxon kicker pranced out onto the field in his spotless uniform. The teams took their pre-snap positions. The crowd fell silent, meditating on the field goal that would secure yet another victory. The long snapper snapped the ball. The holder snatched it from the air and set it on the ground, spinning the laces toward the goal post. The kicker simultaneously approached, planted his left foot, and unleashed his coiled right leg. The ball launched toward the center of the uprights, over the outstretched hands of the desperate defense. The kick started out true. The crowd's roar built. But then the ball started to fade. The crowd roared louder, as if they might will it through the uprights with their screams. The ball tumbled, hooking toward the left post, it...
The screen went totally dark...
“What the hell is going on?!” screamed the POTUS.
The cabinet members stared at each other and at the blackened screen in confusion. Faucett poked his head into the room.
“Mr. President, you have a call on the bat line.”
“What?”
“The bat line, sir,” answered Tibbles. “It's the hard-wired communication network that serves the leaders in the SuperBunker.”
“I know what it is. Frank, give me the phone,” ordered the POTUS.
Frank Tibbles calmly stood up. Walked back around the table and carefully grabbed the bat phone with both hands. Then he carried it around the table and set it in front of the president. The president and the members of the cabinet all focused on the red, archaic telephone resting before the leader of the free world. The president reached out and grasped the clunky handset and slowly raised it to his ear.
“Hello?”
“He-roh, Mr. Pwesident,” came the voice of the president of China.
“What do you want now, Huli?”
“I am calling to inform you that yo dead-rine has a-passed.”
“What did you do, Huli?” asked the POTUS.
“I'm afwaid you reft us no choice.”
“What did you do?”
“Protocol 4 was our ohnree option,” answered the president of China.
“You didn't!”
“Yes, we did.”
“I don’t think you realize what you've done?”
“Yes, we know ver-ree well. Ah communication rines have been severed. The brast doors are crose-ing as we speak. In moments, no one in the bunker can have any contact with the surface. No one can get in or out. We are toe-toe-ree ice-o-rated. Maybe now you will come to your a-senses and negotiate in good faith.”
“This is another act of war!” shouted the president into the red handset.
“No. It is an act of peace. It is ohnree war if you make it so. If we can work out our differences and make arrangements for the rightfur return of Master Chung to the bunker, we will revert the situation back COGCON 3.”
The POTUS covered the mouthpiece of the receiver. “Can he really do this?”
“I'm afraid he can, Mr. President,” Fricke answered. “It was a pre-condition of bunker construction that any member of the UN Security Council can unilaterally invoke Protocol 4.”
“Tibbles?”
“Sir, we discussed this,” Tibbles answered. “Protocol 4 was a failsafe. If we find ourselves cut off from contact with the surface, we might be compelled to work out our differences before a worst-case scenario.”
“Oh, holy hell!” The president plowed his hands up over his face and through his coal and gray hair. “Is there a back door? Tell me we have a back door...”
“Mr. President?”
“Tell me we have a back door!”
Fricke glanced at Tibbles. Tibbles sighed. The president waited for an answer, cupping his hand over the receiver.
Chapter 12
Protocol 4 is triggered by flipping a toggle switch set within a glass case mounted to the desk of each of the leaders of the nations that are permanent members of the UN Security Council. This switch, intended to be activated as a final failsafe against nuclear destruction, is not entirely dissimilar to the button that activates the launch of nuclear warheads. Each nuclear capable country has their own version of a launch button, but only China, Russia, The United Kingdom, France and the United States can trigger Protocol 4. Within minutes of activation, the exterior primary and secondary blast doors of the SuperBunker are closed and sealed and all forms of communication with the outside world are completely severed. The idea is that no one and no information gets in or out— such as nuclear launch orders, for instance. While in the Protocol 4 state, the blast doors cannot be opened and communications with the surface cannot be re-established until the leaders of all five Security Council nations agree to deactivate.
Moments before the Saxon/Norman football game went dark, the president of China summoned his aide de camp who handed him a miniature, clawless, gold hammer. President Hu Li used the ceremonial hammer to smash a glass cloche enclosing China’s Protocol 4 toggle switch. Surrounded by his closest advisors who nodded in encouragement, Hu Li carefully extended his index finger, just touching the tip of the metal switch. He took a deep breath and, with mustered resolve, pressed it forward. Aside from a faint click, the assembly noticed nothing. They bowed to the president of China and filed silently out of his office.
Elsewhere, in the public spaces of the SuperBunker, a female voice— a voice that was pleasant yet stern, and faintly sensual— emanated from the thousands of emergency loudspeakers positioned strategically around the enormous underground facility. The female voice spoke in the dominant language of the sector... except in the Middle Eastern section where the voice heard was male and grim.
“Attention! Protocol 4 has been activated. The bunker doors are closing. Please stand clear of the doors. Attention! Protocol 4 has been activated. The bunker doors are closing. Please stand clear of the doors. This is not a test.”
The hands of the Greys reactively dug into their pockets and purses to retrieve their cell phones to check the news reports and to dial their loved ones. Their phones had no external reception.
“Attention! Protocol 4 has been activated. The bunker doors are closing. Please stand clear of the doors...”
With surprised looks, the elite inhabitants of the bunker reached for their devices, as well, and spilled out of their boutiques and cafes and salons and massage parlors and yoga studios in hopes of getting better signal. But they too had forgotten that they were hundreds of feet underground and that cell phone signals were transmitted by a communication array wired into the very structures of the bunker. Their cell phones had no external reception, either. They could call each other and surf the numerous bunker hosted social media and commerce websites, but no connectivity to the surface could be made and no information from the surface was getting in or out. With a shrug of their shoulders, the elites wandered back into their boutiques and cafes and salons.
“Attention! Protocol 4 has been activated. The bunker doors are closing. Please stand clear...”
A spontaneous surge of frantic desperation gripped the tens of thousands of Greys who simultaneously made a dash for the exit portals. The vast, vast majority did not want to be trapped inside. Their families and houses were on the surface and they would rather be in their own homes with their families if the world were to end.
“Attention! Protocol 4 has been activated. The bunker doors are closing. Please stand clear...”
Her eyes filled with terror, Nurse Baum spilled out of a jammed elevator and sprinted out onto the subterranean avenue, joining a fray of thousands clad in their drab gray worker uniforms. Miss Baum was lucky. The nearest access portal was a mere 100 yards away. Some workers were separated by miles of subway tunnel and had no chance to make it out, but they jammed into the subway cars, nevertheless.
Baum ran for it.
“Attention! Protocol 4 has been activated. The bunker doors are closing...”
Baum could see the ramp leading up to the secondary blast door. She sprinted with her forearm bracing against the back of the workers running in front of her. The tunnel narrowed. Someone tripped just ahead, and Baum pushed to the side to avoid the scrum of tumbling Greys.
“Attention! Protocol 4 has been activated. The bunker doors are closing...”
Red lights flashed. An alarm sounded, clanging like a deafening school bell. Baum's heart raced. Ahead, she could now see the yellow-striped steel blast doors slowly slipping down out of the ceiling like a slow-motion cave-in.
“Attention! Protocol 4 has been activated. The bunker doors are closing...”
The Greys jammed together, shoulder to shoulder, chest to back, knee to calf, toe to heel, tighter and tighter. The red light flashed and blinded. The ringing alarm deafened. Baum was very close to escape. The yellow striped door cranked relentlessly downward.
“Attention! Protocol 4 has been activated...”
She raised her hands so that they could be kept free of the constricting, tightening mob of desperate souls. Ahead, bodies extruded through the closing blast door and sprinted up the gangway towards the elevator banks. Frozen, expressionless soldiers bearing rifles and wearing sky-blue helmets flanked the blast door. Baum thought of her daughter. A terror took hold, fomenting her desperation that boiled up and released in a scream for help.
“Protocol 4 has been activated...”
The door was halfway down, but there was still enough room to hunch through it. She shoved forward as the mob pushed her from behind. The Grey bodies squirted through the closing gap, into the light and space and freedom and certain death beyond.
“The bunker doors are closing...”
The guards, knowing that the doors had no safety mechanism to prevent them from crushing anyone stuck beneath, were pressed into action. They pushed into the mob with their rifle stocks and started shoving them back.
“Please stand clear...”
Baum was just feet away from freedom. She ducked down beneath the fray and crawled forward between the jostling legs, feet, and kneecaps, risking being crushed or suffocated, not by the doors but by the mass of flailing humanity. Her tears of desperation blinded her. She could make out the light, thirty inches of space between the door and the floor. She shot herself through, her body halfway under. The steel continued to fall but she was going to make it! Her head and shoulders poked through to the other side. She felt the cool air. But something took hold of her by the ankles and yanked her back.
“The bunker...
She clawed at the floor, screaming for someone darting up the ramp ahead to turn back and pull her through to safety but no one turned.
“Doors...”
The leading edge of the door pressed against her back. She clawed frantically, screaming her daughter's name.
“Are...”
She felt a powerful tug on her waistband and with a giant heave, she was yanked backwards into the clamoring chaos not a moment before the doors...
“Closed.”
There was a thunderous, reverberating thud, then complete silence, save for the weeping.
Chapter 13
The workers trapped inside the bunker turned away from the blast doors and staggered silently back toward their workstations. They passed through gauntlets of gawking elites, some smugly sipping their iced coffees, others casting looks of contrived pity, but most just appearing perplexed by the sulking Greys.
“Why do they look so glum, grandfather?” asked the little tow-headed Prince Edward William Charles Henry, while clasping the aged hand of his great grandfather, James Edward William George, the Duke of Watford Gap, who was also known as the Kingforebear as he was grandfather of the future King of England, Prince Henry William Edward Philip, who himself was cursed with his maternal grandfather’s hairline and was already balding at thirteen years old. The Duke of Watford Gap patted the little Prince of Northumbria and Strath Clyde atop his blond head, between the boy's two enormous, satellite-dish-shaped ears, while examining the throngs of stunned Greys shuffling past. The little prince grinned revealing two enormous central incisors separated by a large gap.
“Everybody is saying we must have more people brought down into the bunker,” the Duke pondered, “but the people that are here are looking so ghastly that they're here.”
In Sub-sector 16, the French sector, the glum procession was observed by French President Magimel and his sultry, ivory-skinned mistress, from the balcony of his suite.
“Francoise?”
“Oui?”
“What is wrong with them?” she asked in French, her upturned, purple nipples visible through her sheer robe.
“Who, my dear?”
“The workers, the Greys.”
President Magimel, who stood draped behind the burgundy silk of his curtains wearing only his silver Rolex, took a long drag on his electric cigarette. He exhaled the steam which dissolved into the recycled air. “Madame,” he answered as his eyes rolled up into his bushy gray eyebrows evoking a state of deep introspection. “It is because hope is the source of all sadness and worry.”
“Hope is the source of sadness?” she asked, innocently. “How can that be? Hope is what carries us through.”
“Non, my child. Hope is the anchor that pulls one down into the abyss of despair.”
“I feel sad for them.”
“Don't.”
“Why?”
“Because they are the fortunate ones.”
“But they are separated from their families.”
“My dear, this bunker— this soute— will soon be all that is left of the world.”
“But I still feel sad for them.”
“I say no! Their lives have been spared. What else can be done for them? We have done what we can. Without us, they would soon be gone.”
“Still, we must do something to cheer them.” She pondered behind the curtain fluttering in the air-conditioned breeze. “I think that perhaps... perhaps we should let them have a sherbet.”
In Section F, which was situated the farthest possible distance from the European and North American sectors, there were hostels of the former African colonies. Sub-sector 178 was the partition carved off by the United Nations for Zimbabwe, which was comprised of a single, baroque suite, floored in marble and fine finishes, constructed for the elites of that country that consisted of two human beings with PINs: one allotted for the Zimbabwe president and one for his special guest. The Greys who worked that section— almost entirely white, bourgeois-leftist, North American coeds with hyphenated last names— appeared even more sullen than the Greys who worked the other sections. Not knowing if nuclear war had begun but fearing the worst, they worried that there would be no empathy forthcoming and no escape from their permanent African masters. They were trapped in a place that was culturally and linguistically and radically foreign to them. And they feared they would be forever separated from their cozy, Silicon Valley and East Coast suburban enclaves, deprived of the most fashionable technical gadgetry, estranged from their parental guardians who were supposed to support them into their mid-thirties, and severed from the trust fund accounts to which they were entitled. Their lofty idealism had been shattered by an alarm bell, crushed by a descending steel blast door, and exposed by the regret of signing up for a one-year secular mission to signal their high-minded virtue to potential employers on their otherwise empty resumes.
The president of Zimbabwe, himself nary distinguishable from a murderous gangster, bankrolled into power by Chinese industrialists, and rumored to have a fetish for cannibalism, poured back his Cristal champagne, snorted a vile of cocaine, and bellowed a derisive, schadenfreude cackle at the caste of pasty-faced Greys lumbering past.
“Attention!” came the sultry voice over the loudspeakers once again. “Attention: all guest worker personnel! Please refer to lodging instructions on the SuperBunker intranet home page. You are required to report to your designated Protocol 4 accommodations within thirty minutes of the end of your shift.”
Nurse Baum walked toward her post, consumed with worry for her daughter and parents, siblings, and friends. She trudged along beneath the canvas sky illuminated in happy, pastel blue. She returned to the infirmary finding it in a state of dysfunction with many posts untended and the lobby filling with elite patients in need of treatment for migraines and sciatica and toenail fungus. The check-in desk was manned by an empty chair.
“Nurse Baum!”
She turned to the sound of the voice. It was Dr. Waters. He was walking a patient into an examination room.
“So glad to see you. What I mean is: I'm sorry you were not able to escape, but I'm glad you are here.”
She stared at him blankly.
“Would you mind running over to pharmacy and filling this prescription for me?”
Baum stood frozen.
“Don't worry, Emma,” he assured her. “It'll be all right.”
At that moment, the comfort of escape into routine took hold of her. She took the slip from the doctor and turned to make her way to the pharmacy. She approached the counter and rung the service bell. The station there was also un-manned. She glanced left and right and did not notice anyone. She rang the bell again to no avail. Finally, she reached over the counter and felt under the surface for the switch. She found it and toggled it over which unlocked the half door. She walked around the counter and into the dispensary to fill Dr. Waters’ prescription. Aisle J-L... Aisle M-N... Aisle O-P. She turned and started reading the labels on the bins: Patinase... Pavacot... Paxil. She skipped a shelf. Pharmaflur... Phazyme... Phenadoz. She jumped down a few rows. Phernergan... Pheniramine... She stopped at one label. It grabbed her attention, popping out as if it were printed in giant font. It read: “Phenobarbital”.
Chapter 14
Deep within the Hades Level of the UltraBunker, the POTUS sat on his throne-like chair contemplating the situation. He was accompanied by his closest confidants: Fricke, Buckminster, Tibbles and Haberdash. The conference was marked mostly by silence. Tibbles’ eyes rolled back into his head in deep thought. Buckminster stared at Fricke, waiting for him to offer a suggestion so that he could immediately shoot it down. Fricke checked the time on his cell. Haberdash doodled a pair of rotund breasts with erect nipples on his notepad.
“What?” Fricke finally burst, sensing Buckminster’s glare.
“Are you ready?” he replied.
“Ready for what?”
“Ready to activate that thing?” He glanced down at Fricke’s feet where the nuclear football lay.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Let’s hope?” Buckminster mocked. “We don’t have the luxury of hope. We must be prepared to act. The survival of the U.S. federal government hangs in the balance.”
The POTUS sighed. “Knock it off, you two,” he barked. “What have you come up with, Frank?”
Tibbles scratched his head through his wispy hair, removed his glasses, rubbed his doe-eyes, then gulped. “I’m still working things out in my head, sir. If the Chinese have the first lady, why aren’t they using her as leverage to get Chung back? Why are they holding that back? Using her as negotiating leverage would be a vastly better alternative to Protocol 4. I’m convinced that she is not with them. Perhaps the Russians have her. But if they did, I’m certain they would have notified the Chinese of it. Maybe they already have and the Chinese are playing coy. I’m just not sure.”
Just then, Faucett poked his head into the room.
“What is it?” asked the POTUS.
“You have a call.”
“Is it Huli?”
“No Sir.”
“Who then?”
“It’s the Duke of Watford Gap, sir… the Kingforebear.”
“The who?”
“The grandfather of the future Lord Protector of England, Prince James Edward William George.”
“Oh, not that old, inbred douchebag. Tell him to make an appointment.”
“I tried sir, but he’s very insistent.”
“Tell him to bugger off… isn’t that the expression they use? Do it with decorum, though, of course.”
“All right. If you say so, sir.”
Tibbles raised an eyebrow and subtly shook his head at the POTUS.
“No. Wait!” The POTUS sighed, again, sensing Frank’s disapproval. “Go ahead and put him through.” The POTUS glanced at Tibbles who nodded in affirmation.
“Yes sir.”
The Kingforebear’s long and pointy, bushy-eyebrowed face materialized on screen.
“What can I do for you, James Edward? Can I call you Jed for short?” asked the POTUS.
The Kingforebear started right in. “Good evening, Mr. President. Thank you for speaking with me under such informal arrangements.”
“Always happy to make time for royalty. What can I do for you?”
“I do realize your time is extremely valuable, so I’ll get right to it. I was inquiring as to the present situation and wondering how I could be of service. Perhaps I might be able to help mediate in the dispute with the Chinese.”
“I appreciate the offer Jed, but I don’t see how. There’s nothing to mediate. Those sneaky Oriental bastards have exercised Protocol 4. “
“Yes, indeed they have. But perhaps we could enter into negotiations before…” the Kingforebear trailed off.
“Before what?”
“Well, before there is a global catastrophe.” The Kingforebear smiled awkwardly, but he always smiled awkwardly so nothing could be read from it.
Buckminster scowled.
“What is there to negotiate, Jed?”
“What I was thinking is that perhaps, well, perhaps we could at least get together and draw up an agreement to set aside some countryside here and there to protect it from total destruction…” the Kingforebear smiled awkwardly-er. “...So that there might be a place for the future King to go riding once this is all over.”
“What good would that do?” Buckminster chimed. “It will all be irradiated.”
“Perhaps.” He smiled. “But my advisors tell me the exponential decay of the radionuclides is... is... not a very long time... that after a short while, the surface would have radiation levels that are less than life threatening. Perhaps our progeny could still go topside and enjoy a bit of mother nature now and then, even if wearing protective suits were necessary.” Smile.
“What areas did you have in mind, Jed?”
“Well, nothing much, really, just a million hectares of English countryside...” Smile. “Perhaps a small piece of the Scottish moors as well.” Smile.
“I’ll make a note of it and pass it on to missile command,” answered the POTUS. “Anything else?”
“That’s all, really.” Smile. “If we were to incinerate the greater portion of the world, at least we would be comforted in the knowledge that our descendants might one day enjoy a good fox hunt.” Smile.
“Thank you, Jed.”
Smile. “Thank you, Mr. Pre—"
Click.
No sooner had The Duke of Watford Gap's smiling face dissolved from the screen when the face of the president of Japan appeared.
The POTUS grimaced.
“Mr. President? Am I connected? I wasn’t expecting to get through to you so quickly.”
Faucett stuck his face into the room again. “I apologize Mr. President. I seem to have patched the president of Japan through by mistake.
The POTUS shooed Faucett off and turned to the screen. “Not now, Ticky Taki!” The president pressed a button. Taki's face disappeared just as it was about to formulate a sentence. The screen finally went black.
“So, what were you saying, Frank?” asked the POTUS.
“Sir, I do have some good news to report.”
“Let’s have it.”
Faucett’s smug face appeared in the door once more. “You have another call, Mr. President.”
“Who is it now?”
“It’s Lucious von Rothschild, sir.”
“Who?”
“You met back him back in August, in Davos,” Faucett explained.
“He’s the richest person in the world, sir,” Tibbles added. “He donated a hundred million dollars to your campaign… in the form of two thousand separate donations from the individual branch banks he owns.”
“No shit? Put him through.”
A pointy, wart-nosed, balding visage appeared on screen. His skin was patchy gray like worn out athletic socks and the droopy bags under his eyes invoked a sleepy Saint Bernard.
“Good evening Mr. President.”
“Lucious! How the hell are you, old friend?”
“I suppose well, all things considered.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to let you know that we fully support you and that we stand at the ready to unleash our financial reserves in the event they are needed for postwar reconstruction.”
“That’s good to know, Lucious. I pray it doesn’t come to that but if it does, and it probably will, you will be the first ones we call. Is there anything else?”
“Well, as a matter of fact there is. Although our banks are very well capitalized, we fear that a full-scale nuclear conflagration would severely denigrate global infrastructure and either vaporize or at least isolate a large portion of the global low-skilled workforce. Reconstruction would be very costly from a labor shortage perspective.”
“That's true. But why would that bother you? We'd have to borrow even more from you to cover the rising costs.”
“Yes, yes, that is true. But if the pool of labor were to drop below a certain critical mass, no amount of credit would suffice. You can't rebuild a bridge without someone swinging a hammer.”
“What are you getting at?” asked the POTUS.
“I’m suggesting a consideration for military strategy to accommodate preserving a pool of labor… for reconstruction.”
“This is total war, Lucious,” remarked the president. “We vaporize everything with scientific efficiency these days. Those barbaric days of antiquity, with armies maneuvering around on a pitch of battle, are long gone.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Those primitive tactics belong to the bygone era.”
“So, what are you proposing?”
“We were wondering if perhaps your military strategists might consider sparing viable pools of labor in Sub Saharan Africa, South America, and Southern Asia. There are billions of uneducated, hungry, and desperate Negroes and Orientals who have very reasonable expectations of living standards... if you know what I mean.”
“You mean cheap labor?”
“Yes, yes, of course. They could comprise a vast workforce which could be mobilized and deployed for reconstruction. Once the rebuilding has begun, they would become a large populace from which to extract taxes that you can then use to repay your debts to us.” Lucious Rothschild, whose dead, black eyes reflected no light, grinned in the manner of a jackal baring its teeth.
The POTUS glanced over at Tibbles whose eyebrows raised. “Can we plug that parameter into the doomsday algorithm?”
“I'm sure it's in there, sir,” Tibbles answered.
“Thanks for calling Lucious. We'll try to work your proposal into the war plans.”
The screen went dark.
“So,” the president turned to Tibbles, “You were saying?”
“Yes, sir. So, I met with the lawyers earlier and we might have uncovered a possible remediation to this Protocol 4 situation.”
“Which is?”
“Sir…” Faucett’s face appeared in the doorway.
“No more calls!” barked the president.
“It’s not a call, sir. It’s your nurse. She’s come to take your readings and give you your vitamin shot.”
“Now?”
“She says the readings must be done now, sir, in order to get a good baseline sampling for comparison.”
“Can she do it while we continue our discussion?” asked the POTUS.
“I don’t see why not,” Buckminster answered. “She has security clearance level six.”
“Send her in, then.”
“Mr. President,” Tibbles continued, “I…”
The POTUS watched as Nurse Baum entered the room carrying her black medical bag. She walked over to him and placed it down on the floor next to his high back chair. The president redirected his attention to Tibbles.
“Mr. President,” Tibbles continued, “Protocol 4 seriously hampers our ability to govern. But I am happy to tell you that, after meeting with the attorneys, it seems we may still be able to send information to the surface legally.”
Nurse Baum wrapped the blood pressure cuff around the president’s arm and activated the pump.
“Explain...”
Tibbles shuffled through his notes. “It seems that Protocol 4 is quite specific in what it authorizes. It is very clear in wording that no information from the surface and no persons are to be allowed into the bunker for the duration of the situation but…”
Nurse Baum noted the president’s pressure readings on her notepad. Then she rolled up the president’s sleeve.
“But what?”
Nurse Baum wiped a spot on the president’s forearm and withdrew a syringe from her bag.
“But it does not say that all information and persons are precluded from leaving the bunker.”
Nurse Baum flicked the bubbles in the syringe and eyed the dosage.
“Go on...”
“In fact, in the fine print, there is a provision that arranges for persons to actually leave the bunker.”
Fricke’s eyes widened.
“Even so,” said the president, “how would we get someone out? The doors are sealed.”
Tibbles pondered. “We’d have to get the Chinese and the other security council members to agree to open the doors momentarily. But I'm certain they would want someone to be allowed out as well.”
“They'll never go for it. It defeats the purpose of Protocol 4,” Buckminster argued.
“How would we convince them to go along?” pondered the POTUS.
“Maybe they have someone they want to bring in,” suggested Fricke, looking as if he was suggesting the obvious. “Chung, perhaps?”
“No. Absolutely not!” snapped Buckminster. “No Chung. It’s too risky, anyway. They would never agree to do that unless they could use it to their advantage.”
“What other options are there?” asked the POTUS.
The room fell silent. Fricke Finally looked up and started to speak. “Maybe we could—”
Buckminster rolled his eyes, then pounced. “Chung will not be a part of any deal, Fricke. Don’t even try to bring it up.”
Fricke fell silent.
Buckminster continued, “we don’t want to do anything cooperatively with the Chinese. They’ll screw us for sure. But I think there’s a way we can go it alone.”
“How?” asked the POTUS.
“I’ve had the Defense Intelligence Agency research the possibilities. They discovered that there are thousands of exhaust and air vents tunneled from the surface down into here. If we got the Corps of Engineers together, I’m sure they could devise a way of sending someone up to the surface through one of those, in secret, of course.”
“Is putting a man on the surface of the earth even feasible?” asked Fricke.
Buckminster scowled. “There are grates and traps and fans and other obstacles, but it can’t be as difficult as putting a man into orbit. I'll put the Corps on it right away. They’ll figure it out.”
“And then what?” asked Haberdash who had been sitting quietly in the corner the whole time, doodling his increasingly lewd cartoons. “What I mean is: we get someone out, but they certainly won’t be able to get back in. Unless they can rappel back down, or something.”
“That’s correct,” Tibbles added. “Once you leave, you can never return. But if that person or persons carry the president’s orders, the president could at least continue to exercise the powers of the office.”
Fricke interrupted. “I think we should still make the offer to rescind Protocol 4 to the Chinese... even if we know it will be rejected.”
“Why?” asked Buckminster.
“Because it will serve as a diplomatic distraction and buy us some time… and it keeps all our options open. The sticking point will be Chung and we can draw out those negotiations indefinitely.”
“Fine. Write it up and I'll sign off,” answered the POTUS just as Nurse Baum jabbed the needle into his arm.
Chapter 15
President Manfred's opened his eyes. He laid still in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He always woke precisely thirty seconds before Faucett would knock on his door. He glanced out his false window. The faint glow of simulated dawn was coloring the stretched canvas sky beyond the glass.
Knock knock
“Come in.”
“Good morning Mr. President.”
The POTUS sprung up in bed, surprised by the sound of Tibbles' voice. “
“Why are you here?”
Dread filled Tibbles' face as he started to speak.
“What is it?” asked the POTUS.
“Sir, I'm afraid there has been a development in the matter of the first lady's disappearance.”
Manfred rubbed the crust from his eyes. “Is she dead?” he sneered.
Tibbles didn't immediately answer, momentarily stunned by the president's callousness.
“I said, is she dead?”
“No, sir,” Tibbles finally answered.
The POTUS sighed, then threw his covers off, then swung his spindly, veiny, bluish legs out and placed his feet onto the floor.
“What is it, then?”
“We think we know where she is, sir.”
“Great.”
The POTUS got out of bed and walked, unabashedly nude, over to the closet where he retrieved his blue, chief executive's robe, emblazoned with the presidential seal on the back. He draped it over his pale torso rendering him in the visage of some middle-aged, Irish palooka.
“So, I suppose you want to talk about how we get her back,” he groaned.
Tibbles hung his head.
“Tell me, Frank. What's our next move?”
Tibbles struggled to speak.
“Spit it out.”
“There's more to it, sir.”
“What?”
“Sir, she... she...”
“Out with it!”
“We believe she's defected to the Russians.”
The president's icy blue eyes flashed with anger, then dissolved into capitulation. He ran his fingers through his matted hair, but it sprung back just as disheveled.
“Sir—”
Manfred raised his hand to silence him. He lumbered over to his bureau and retrieved his carafe of bourbon. He poured two glasses and offered one to Tibbles. Tibbles accepted it after a prod. Manfred clinked Frank's glass, then shuffled back to his bed and took a seat.
“I expected this.”
Tibbles gulped. “There’s more, sir.”
Manfred sighed. “What else?”
Frank swigged down the bourbon.
“What is it, Frank?”
“We believe the Russians have seen a video, sir.”
“A video?”
“Yes.”
“What has she done, Frank?” Manfred took a drink, then studied his flat, boney feet.
“You should probably watch it, sir.”
The glow of the president's demeanor darkened further as if storm clouds had rolled into his chamber. He sat on his bed, bluish, spindly legs splayed, clasping his drink between his knees. “One look at you, Frank, tells me it’s bad.”
“May I, sir?”
“Go ahead. Play it!”
Tibbles nervously scanned the room, spotted the remote control on the nightstand, grabbed it and turned on the screen. He navigated to the POTUS’ top secret messaging account and opened the text from “Timmy,” which was the contact name President Manfred had given to the Russian president. He clicked play. The visage of the first lady, bleary-eyed and mannequin cold appeared. Her silky, jet black hair was done up in meticulous fashion. Her eyebrows, which tended to grow into convergence when not shorn, had been expertly waxed into the shape of two narrow, angry brush strokes. Her heavy makeup was flawless. When she started to speak, only her crystalline-white bottom teeth appeared. The president stared down at his glass.
“Arman, I am sorry it has come to this. But I am not sorry for you. I am just sorry in general. I had nowhere else to turn. I just could not stand by and allow you to destroy my people, to destroy the world. The lives of billions of human beings hang in the balance. I know how you regard them. A thousand times you described them to me: ‘A horde of mindless, zombified fucktards.’ But they are still human beings, Arman. Nuclear war would result in their deaths… their murders... their genocide. I can't let you end life as we know it because of some asinine political disagreement. I must stop this insanity. No office, no prince or kingdom is worth the end of the world.”
“I always knew that bitch was a communist. All Jews are commies, Frank. Remember that.” The president took another drink.
“My father is Jewish, sir,” Tibbles mumbled. The president didn't acknowledge.
The first lady continued: “You were wrong to throw that Chinese boy out. He is just a child, Arman. You threw him out so you could bring in that...” her face scrunched into a bitter scowl, “...that piece of shit Frank Tibbles. He is your undoing, Arman. He is an evil troll of a man. A sycophant bloodsucker. If you are listening to this, Frank, and I know you are, I want you to know that you are a slithering snake, and hardly a man at that. You'd suck Satan’s cock if it would advance your career…”
President Manfred glanced up at Tibbles who had reached toward the carafe to pour another bourbon.
“And you, Arman...” she paused to gather momentum “you are Satan. I hate you. I hate you because you would incinerate the world over that... that... golem.”
“She's obviously upset that I didn't get her entire Jew family PINs to get down here.”
“Obviously, sir,” Frank affirmed.
“What was I gonna do, Frank?” Manfred continued. “If I brought her whole family in it would look bad... like I was taking advantage of my power.”
Frank acknowledged the president with his widened eyes, but grimly turned back to the video. “There’s more, sir.”
“I just want you to know, Arman,” the first lady continued, “I want you to know that I know... that I know what you are. And I know the things you've done.”
The POTUS took another drink. Tibbles bowed his head and drifted backwards away from the screen as if increasing heat were being thrown off from it.
She continued: “I’ve seen you and Frank together, Arman.”
Concern suddenly strained the president's face.
“I know exactly why you kidnapped and deported that poor little Chinese boy...”
“What the hell is she talking about, Frank?”
“I know about you and Frank. I've seen it, Arman. I've seen it on video.”
“What the hell is she talking about!?”
“I've seen him blowing your tiny little cock, Arman. I’ve seen you on top of him, pounding away in your throes...”
The POTUS’s eyes widened.
“...And don't think I am making this up. Like I said, I have seen it. It's on video and I have it. You are so stupid, Arman. You authorized all your spies and surveillance, but it never dawned on you that those same assholes would turn around and spy on you. You are an idiot! My father warned me about you. He said, ‘Princess, you are making a big mistake marrying that goy.’ And he was right. You’re nothing but an ignorant jackass— a jackass with his finger on the nuke button.”
Tibbles’ eyes filled with tears.
“Don't think I am going to let you get away with genocide, Arman. I have the video, and soon the Russians will have it too…”
The president closed his eyes and shook his head. “She has no idea what she’s done.”
“Now you listen carefully, Arman. You are going to make peace with the president of China. You are going to bring that Chinese boy back into the bunker and you will do it on Frank's PIN if necessary. We are putting a stop to this insanity before it goes any further. Do you understand me?”
Manfred stared at Tibbles who looked back with his desperate, watering eyes that evoked a a puppy expecting to be beaten.
“Turn the bitch off!”
Tibbles clicked off the monitor and the screen went black.
The president downed his bourbon, set his glass on the nightstand, and braced his hands on his boney thighs.
“Mr. President, if I may make a suggestion…”
“Shut the fuck up, Frank. I know what to do. But first, I am going to have a shit.”
The POTUS pushed himself up, shuffled over to the bathroom and took a seat. A moment later, his phone, which was resting on the nightstand, lit up.
“Get that, please.”
Tibbles grabbed the president’s cell and activated it.
“Who is it?”
Tibbles took the cell into the bathroom. “It’s Buckminster.”
“Hand it over. What is it Bucky?... What?... What?... Fine.”
The president handed the cell back to Tibbles.
“What is it?”
“The Russians. Timmy wants to meet.”
“He’s going to blackmail you, sir.”
“Do I look like an idiot?”
“I think you should let me advise you.”
“What do you advise, Frank?”
“Don’t meet him.”
“What choice do I have?”
“You don’t have to do it, right away.”
“Oh, that bitch has made a real mess of things, now.”
“Sir, no good can come of meeting before we have a plan.”
“But a lot of bad can if we don't.”
“Maybe there's a way out. Maybe we can spin this to our advantage.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Frank?”
“Hear me out for a second. Perhaps you could pull the pin on this grenade before it blows.”
“Before it blows?”
“Oh… I meant before it mushrooms.”
“How and why would I do that?”
“Think about this: You could come out, sir. You could tell the world that you’re gay. It would make you a pioneer. You would be the first gay president.”
The president’s face flushed with anger. “What are you talking about? I’m no homo, Frank. Besides, Lincoln was the first gay president.”
“Sir? But you—"
“That doesn't make me gay. Being gay is…” the president stopped to ponder.
“Being gay is being attracted to people of the same sex, sir,” Frank added.
“No, no, no. Being gay is different than that. Being gay is a lifestyle. It's about being emotive and sensitive and wearing skinny jeans. I'm no queer, Frank.”
“Sir, but you have sex with men,” added Haberdash who had been lounging silently on the sofa the entire time.
“So what? Inmates have sex with each other. That doesn't make them homos. Would you call one of those inmates at Leavenworth a homo?”
“Well I…”
“You want gay? I'll give you gay. Gay is like Elton John, and those hosts on those home decorating shows, and Bruce Jenner, and...”
“And Frank,” added Haberdash, smirking at Tibbles.
“And... and... Liberace and David Lee Roth and every newsman behind a desk on CNN. Now that's gay. I'm not one of those.”
“But—” Tibbles protested but was cut off.
“Just set up a meeting with my circle of trust. Get them over here immediately. Tell them it's urgent.”
Tibbles surrendered and began dutifully tapping away a message on his cell.
The president showered and shaved and dressed. When he was ready, Tibbles escorted him to the SuperBunker Oval Office where Fricke and Buckminster were waiting.
“Gentlemen.”
“Mr. President,” they replied as they stood up from the two opposable sofas in the middle of the room.
“Have you briefed them?” the POTUS asked Tibbles.
“No sir.”
“We came right over when we got the message from Frank,” Buckminster answered.
The POTUS ambled over to his desk and took a seat. He opened his top right drawer, reached in, and clicked off the recording device, then he pulled out his gold-plated .44 magnum and set it on the desktop. He closed the drawer and gathered himself.
“Gentlemen, we have a situation.”
“What is it?” Buckminster asked.
“Do you want me to explain it, sir?” Tibbles asked.
“Shut the fuck up, Frank. Everyone, have a seat.”
Buckminster, Fricke, and Tibbles took seats at the chairs facing the president's desk. The president looked each of them directly in the eye in succession.
“It seems that the first lady has defected to the Russians.”
“What?” Buckminster asked.
“It's true. Fricke, you don't look surprised.”
“I'm not, sir. But at least we know she's alive. That's good.”
“Is that good? It seems that she is now working with them.”
“What's she doing?” Buckminster asked.
“She said, in an encoded message to me, that she has some sensitive information that she will turn over to Timmy if we do not meet their demands.”
“How sensitive?” Buckminster asked.
“Very sensitive,” Tibbles answered. “So sensitive that it could undermine or even destroy the very legitimacy of the U.S. government.”
“Like how we lied about weapons of mass destruction?” Buckminster asked.
“More sensitive than that.”
“Like how we set the drug cartels up as a front for funding the Contras in Nicaragua?”
“Far worse.”
“Like how the CIA had Kennedy assassinated?”
“Even worse than that.”
“Worse? What’s worse than that?” Fricke asked.
“Worse than faking the moon landing?” Buckminster asked.
Silent pause.
“Worse!”
“Holy shit!”
The POTUS grabbed his gold-plated .44 magnum and started waiving it as he spoke. “We can't allow her to give this compromising information to the Russians. We just can't do it. The very survival of the office of the president depends on that not happening.”
“What do you propose we do about it?” Fricke asked.
“We have to stop her.”
“What exactly does she have?” Fricke asked.
“It's so sensitive I can't even divulge it to you.” The POTUS replied, pointing the barrel of the pistol at Fricke for extra emphasis. “She has to be stopped.”
“How?” Fricke asked, ducking slightly.
The POTUS got up from his desk, turned, and used the barrel of his gun to part the gold curtains and have a peek out the virtual window. There was nothing to see. The window was frosted glass hiding a bank of lights simulating daylight just beyond it. He cleared his throat.
“We have to terminate the first lady,” Buckminster advised, responding to the president’s cue.
“Like, assassinate her?” Fricke asked.
The president turned and looked at Buckminster with an expression of resigned agreement.
Buckminster stood up. “Mr. President, you need say nothing. I will coordinate this operation without any direct order from you.” He saluted and turned to the other two. “Gentlemen, this mission does not exist, nor will it ever exist. The president did not order it. The president has no knowledge of it.” He saluted the president again and marched out of the Oval Office.
Chapter 16
Sitting at his subterranean Oval Office desk, in front of the gold curtains, parted to allow the artificial light to permeate the room and illuminate the traditional furnishings, with his gold-plated .44 within arm's reach, President Arman Manfred signed Executive Order 98745 with a flourish of pen.
“We are in total support of this, Mr. President,” affirmed the wrinkled House Speaker whose false eyelashes fluttered, and false teeth flashed as she spoke.
“Those republicans were running interference, again,” the president cursed. “They left me no choice.”
“This is for the greater good,” the speaker assured.
“We all know damn well that if I was a republican, they'd support my bill one hundred percent.”
“Oh, for certain. But the critical thing to remember is that the indispensable task of federal governance must continue. This order will strengthen democracy.”
What the speaker was referring to was the intent of the executive order just signed which instructed the acting attorney general to address the SuperBunker FISA court to request a warrant to access all the online data kept on everyone. Every email. Every voicemail. Every social media post. Every purchase. Every web search. Why the request? Simple. The data collection was necessary so that the SuperBunker supercomputer algorithms might be applied to the most recent backup of every American’s data in order to model the population's behavior into the simulated future. This was necessary due to the implementation of Protocol 4, where real world observations were no longer possible.
“I don't see how the FISA court will interpret this request as constitutional,” Fricke commented.
“Why not?” asked Buckminster.
“Because it's very broad. It sounds like a general warrant on everyone,” Fricke explained. “It seems it would fail the 4th Amendment test.”
“That's exactly why the lawyers think it will be approved,” the speaker of the house replied, kicking up a fog of stale perfume. “Because it's so broad, and because it applies to everyone, we think the court will interpret the request as not a violation of anyone's specific rights.”
Haberdash groaned.
“We're in a state of national emergency!” Buckminster barked. “They'd better rule favorably... or else they’re traitors.”
“They'll approve it,” the POTUS said. “Hell, I appointed two thirds of them.” The POTUS continued, “hey, do we have the votes on the Monfasco legislation?”
“We are close, Mr. President,” answered the speaker.
“We've got to get it through. This is my signature legislation. It's what I campaigned on. My re-election hinges on it.”
“I understand, Mr. President.”
“How many votes short are we?”
“We're just a couple short. A few moderates are holding out, but we'll get them to come around.”
“What about Fransen? She said she was 'yes' last week. Is she waffling, now?”
“She's concerned about the budget projections. She ran as a deficit hawk and she's in a tight race this year.”
“Budget projections? Who cares about the budget?”
“Sir?”
“Who cares? The whole goddamn surface of the earth is gonna end up a Superfund cleanup site. Get on the phone and ask that b… the congresswoman what she wants. Tell her I'll expand her Air Force Base. That would create a few thousand jobs in her district.”
“Do you think that'll work? I'm certain the Chinese and Russians have that base targeted with nukes.”
“It doesn't matter what happens on the surface. We're dealing with a new reality. The computer simulation has become reality. Just get her on board. If not, tell her I'll have to make a call over to NSA and if they have anything on her. No, don't tell her that...” He paused to ponder. “No, just casually remind her that any FISA warrant we request is likely to be approved, eventually, regardless of her vote and that will give us access to everything.” The POTUS winked. “I need a win here. This is for my legacy.”
“I believe your legacy is already well-established,” Haberdash chimed.
“What was that?”
“I'll call Rep Fransen right away,” offered the speaker.
Faucett poked his ginger head into the room. “Mr. President...”
“What is it?”
“The Russian president is on the bat line, sir.”
The room darkened. The POTUS glanced at Buckminster who averted his eyes. “Give me a moment,” he replied to Faucett. “Thank you, Madam Speaker. Go get those votes!” The speaker stood up from her seat, slipped past Faucett and out of the Oval Office.
“What is our plan for Timoshenko?” Fricke asked.
“I advised against speaking to him,” Tibbles remarked.
“Quiet.” The POTUS pondered with eyes still locked on to Faucett whose toothy face remained in the doorway. “Ah hell, we can't avoid it any longer.”
“Sir I...” Buckminster started.
“Shut the fuck up, Bucky. You already failed me. You were supposed to take care of this.”
“It's only been twenty-four hours, sir.”
“I don't want to hear any excuses.”
“Should I ask him to hold, sir?” Faucett asked.
“No. Put him through. I know what has to be done.”
“Right away, sir.”
“Mr. President, are you absolutely certain?” asked Tibbles.
“Put him through. Do it!”
Faucett disappeared and the door closed. Within moments, President Timoshenko's blotchy, balding, perspiring face appeared on screen. “Mr. President. How are you?”
“Great, Timmy. What can I do for you?”
Timoshenko grinned. “I called to discuss a recent development.”
“Regarding Veruca, I presume. You need to turn her over to us, Timmy. This is outrageous.”
“I'm afraid I can't do that, Arman.”
The president pondered. “I'm prepared to make you an offer.”
“I'm listening.”
The POTUS glanced at Tibbles whose face was painted with curiosity. “You tell me what you want, Timmy. Let's start there.”
Timoshenko leaned back with a smirk filling his blotchy, pink face. “You know what I want. I want your missiles out of Bolshevistan.”
The POTUS glanced at Buckminster as he pondered. Buckminster shook his head. The POTUS turned back to Timoshenko. “Done!”
“No!” Buckminster protested.
“Shut the fuck up!”
“Sir, you are compromising NATO! I strongly advise you to...”
“I said shut the fuck up! That's an order!”
Buckminster fell into a pouty silence.
“So, Timmy, how do we do this?”
“You have to give the order, and we have to verify. But that is going to be difficult because Protocol 4 needs to be lifted by all members of the Security Council. The Chinese will want something in exchange for their cooperation.”
“Don't worry about the Chinese. I'll deal with them. When will you hand her over to us?”
“Once it's been verified that the missiles are removed.”
“All right. It's a deal. But we have an understanding, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“We understand each other that any information the first lady releases to you is part of this deal.”
“I'm not exactly sure what you mean, Arman.”
“What I mean is: anything she gives you, documents, affidavits, thumb drives, pass codes… it’s all part of this deal. If you try to use it against us, the deal is off. The missiles go back.”
“Koneshno.”
“Excellent. I'll have council draw up the agreement. We'll have it over to you today. Timmy, we may have just averted World War 3.”
“That all depends on Hu Li, Arman.”
“Don't worry about the Chinks. Goodbye.”
“Dos vidaniya.”
The screen went dark.
“Faucett!” the president called into his intercom. “Get Huli on the bat line.”
“Yes sir.”
“What are we doing here?” Fricke asked.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m saving the office of the president of the United States.”
Within moments, the Chinese president's wide, round face appeared on screen.
“What is it Mr. Pwesident?”
“It's time to make a deal, Huli.”
“What kind of a-deal, Arman?”
“A deal for Chung.”
“I'm grad to see you have come to yo senses. What are you pwoposing?”
“I'm not asking for much, Huli. I think you'll find the terms are in your favor.”
“Let's hear it, then.”
“Here it goes. I want China to agree to buy two hundred billion in Euro sovereigns. I'll get Schumpert to agree to buy it all back in twenty-four months.”
“My guess is you just made a deal with the Timoshenko to withdraw from Bolshevistan.”
“It's tentative, Huli. But if all goes according to plan, you'll get your reserves back before your term is up. It's a small price to pay for saving the world.”
“But it's a heavy pwice to pay for Chung. Too heavy, I'm afwaid.”
“Huli, your return will be guaranteed. China will come out ahead on this.”
“It's still not enough! I must convince the ministwee of finance. It’s vewy difficult.”
“All right, fine. I'll sign an agreement to stay out of the East China Sea for the duration of the repo term.”
“Hmm.” Hu Li took off his glasses as he pondered. The removal of the magnifying lenses made him almost unrecognizable. “Still not enough,” he remarked.
“Huli, you're taking us to the cleaners here. Do you want us out of there or not?”
A total silence fell over the room. The POTUS glanced at Buckminster and sighed. Haberdash picked at his teeth.
“Okay, fine. How about this: I'll throw in Taiwan.”
“Taiwan?”
“Sir, no!” Buckminster shouted.
“Shut the fuck up, Bucky!”
“Taiwan? Seriousree?” Hu Li’s jaw dropped. “Now that’s vewy intewesting,” The Chinese president rubbed his chin. “No boo shit?”
“No bullshit.”
“So now the question become how do we make this a-happen?”
“We have to rescind Protocol 4, obviously.”
“How do I know this isn’t a twick?” Hu Li asked.
“No trick. We'll open the doors briefly, just long enough to get three couriers out. When they're out, we'll immediately go back into Protocol 4. The couriers will deliver our orders to our vice president to withdraw the missiles from Bolshevistan and pull our navy back beyond the Seven Dash Line. We’ll also have Chung brought back down here. Your courier will instruct your government to make the financial transfer with contingencies in place, of course. The Russian courier will verify our withdrawal from Bolshevistan. At a predetermined time, we'll re-open the doors to allow Chung back in.”
“But Chung does not have a PIN. Your Fwank Tibbers has the PIN.”
“That's true.” The POTUS looked at Tibbles whose face was filled with concern. “How about this: the three couriers that leave the SuperBunker will be full time residents with PINs. We'll get Chung back in on one of their numbers.”
“You sacrifice your resident a-PIN for Chung?”
“No, not for Chung. For world peace.” The president looked assuredly at Tibbles, winked, then wagged his finger at Hu Li. “But not our PIN, Huli. You’ll sacrifice your resident’s PIN.”
“I don't know if we can do a-that. That’s vewy difficult.”
“Fuck off, then. No Taiwan for you.”
“But the person next in rine for the PIN will be vewy upset.”
“Then choose carefully, Huli. Minimize the blowback. You're getting everything you want in this deal. You can make that one small concession.”
“I don’t a-know.”
“Huli, the governments of the world are depending on you.”
“Too hard. You give Chung American PIN.”
“No.” Manfred’s demeanor stiffened. “Chinese PIN for Chung. If not, then fuck off.”
Hu Li pondered.
“Make up your mind. I'm hanging up, Huli.”
Hu Li sighed.
“Taiwan is within your grasp. I’m counting to three…”
Hu Li scratched his head.
“One…”
Hu Li glanced tensely left, then right.
“Two…”
The president extended his arm to press the button that would end the conversation.
“Wait! Okay, okay! Dear. We have a dear.”
“Great. We'll send the paperwork over.”
The screen went dark.
“What just happened here?” Buckminster asked.
“I saved the world, Bucky. And I broke that commie-Chink motherfucker in the process.”
“By giving away everything? I'm sorry sir but I must tender my resignation, effective immediately.” Bucky stood up and straightened his uniform in a huff.
“Calm down, Bucky. It's not what you think.”
Buckminster froze, glaring down at the seated POTUS.
“Sit your ass down!” the POTUS ordered.
Fricke and Tibbles watched in wide-eyed anticipation.
“Trust me...”
Buckminster finally relented and retook his seat. The POTUS reached out and pressed the intercom button.
“Faucett, can you come in here please.”
The next day, the emergency meeting of the U.N. Security Council convened. Arrangements were made to coordinate the temporary rescinding of Protocol 4 thus allowing the three couriers to exit the bunker laden with their diplomatic instructions. When news of the political breakthrough leaked, hopefulness effervesced within the souls of the Greys. Perhaps nuclear annihilation might be averted, and they would get the chance to return to their loved ones on the surface.
Forty-eight hours later, a small ceremony was held at the Section 4 auxiliary entry node. The three presidents were introduced and took their positions behind podiums that were meticulously arranged after a six-hour negotiation. They each shook hands in a choreographed sequence, and then each gave a short speech congratulating themselves for their statesmanlike efforts to save the world.
The three couriers were then introduced. The Chinese courier was selected from the officer ranks of the People’s Army. His name was Yao. He stood five-and-a-half feet tall and was of sinewy build. He never smiled and his narrow, dark eyes were constantly darting from point to point assessing and reassessing the situation.
His father, grandfather, and great grandfather were all ranking members in the party. His great grandfather had counseled Chairman Mao, during the first Great Leap Forward, to rid the country of the pestilence of sparrows that exploited the labor of the agrarian class by devouring their stores of rice. At his great grandfather’s behest, an army of three million useful idiots was assembled to patrol the countryside to terrorize and exterminate all the evil little capitalist birds. Unfortunately, in addition to the rice, the sparrows ate the insects that devoured the crops afield. Once the sparrows were eradicated, a plague of feasting insects triggered a famine that killed millions of people. Yao’s great grandfather was reassigned to oversee the rapid industrialization of the country by placing a miniature blast furnace in every peasant’s backyard. Peasants were encouraged to melt down their pots and pans and farm implements in order to fulfill their communal steel quotas.
Yao, seeking to live up to the glorious sacrifices and achievements of his communist forebears, was quite honored when presented with the opportunity to surrender his PIN and his place in the bunker so that Taiwan might be returned to the Chinese people.
The Russian courier was an officer in the army. He was tall and fair, and lean, with deep-set eyes and a jutting jawline. His name was Petra. It was rumored that he was a descendant of both the Romanov and Smirnoff dynasties. His great grandfather was turned over to the secret police by his grandfather for reading Hemingway novels. He was sent to a Siberian gulag and never heard from again. His father was also an officer. He devised a plan to win the war in Afghanistan by poisoning the civilian water supply. His service to the Motherland ended when his helicopter ran out of fuel, landed in hostile territory, and he was captured by the Mujahideen who dragged him behind a donkey until his limbs ripped off.
Petra, seeking to live up to the sacrifices and achievements of his forebears was quite honored when presented with the opportunity to surrender his PIN and his place in the bunker so that Bolshevistan might be returned to the bosom of Mother Russia.
Although officers, neither had any combat experience. Neither had even fired a rifle over the course of the previous ten years.
The American courier was somewhat of a surprise. It was none other than the president’s personal administrative assistant, Ford Faucett.
The three couriers approached the podiums and shook hands with the three presidents and each other, then posed for photos. Then, the presidents took their places at their podiums and, on cue, nodded to each other. In unison, they each pressed a red button affixed to their podium. A loud buzz was heard over the PA system. The pistons in the adjacent blast door fired and the wall of steel began to open, rising slowly upwards. Then, to the added sound of a drumroll, the three couriers proceeded abreast, down a red carpet, clutching their diplomatic satchels as they strode. They reached the blast door and waited for it to rise. When it had finally opened fully, they turned once more to their presidents stationed behind at their podiums. Yao and Petrov saluted with prideful, patriotic expressions. Faucett waived and grinned his buck-toothed grin. Then the three turned and marched out of the SuperBunker.
The presidents then gestured graciously to each other to do the honors. Hu Li acquiesced and when he was given the all-clear signal, he pressed his red button which re-triggered Protocol 4. The alarms sounded and the blast doors descended again.
The three couriers emerged from what resembled a plastic outhouse set in the middle of a Wal Mart parking lot in Akron Ohio. It was sunny. Nearby, a large woman was unloading sundries into her minivan while seated in a motorized mobility scooter. The couriers were greeted by a surprised army reservist who had been posted at the node. Faucett communicated briefly with him and he darted off to summon a vehicle for their transportation. Faucett gestured towards the entrance of the big box store rising from the sea of asphalt some two-hundred yards away. The three couriers started off in that direction. Faucett lagged slightly behind, and when they stopped to allow a rusted Kia to pull out of a parking space in front of them, Faucett withdrew a 9 mm pistol from his shoulder holster and shot Petrov and Yao each in the back of the head.
Chapter 17
Buckminster found President Manfred on the golf course. He was playing alone. Fricke stood nearby clasping the nuclear football. Tibbles was reading something on his cell. Haberdash was serving as his caddy. Buckminster’s driver pulled their golf cart next to them on the 10th tee.
“Mr. President…”
“Bucky…” The president responded without making eye contact. He took three practice swings then hit. The ball shot out with a ping, low but true. “Come, walk with me Bucky.”
Buckminster exited his cart and marched up to the POTUS. The president motioned for Fricke and Tibbles to hang back.
“Bucky,” the POTUS started, let’s have a little chat.” The duo started down the turf fairway towards the president’s ball. Manfred stopped short of his ball and inhaled a deep breath. “Isn’t it good to get out and get some fresh air?”
“I suppose. But we’re a thousand feet underground, sir.”
“Oh, Bucky…”
“What can I do for you, sir.”
“Bucky…”
“Yes?”
“I want you to be the first person to know about my decision.”
“Which decision, sir?”
“I want you to know I’ve been laboring long and hard about this. Last night, I got down on my knees and prayed to the good Lord for a sign. I don’t even believe in God, but I still prayed. And you know what, Bucky? I think I got that sign earlier this morning.”
“Really, sir?”
“Yep. You see, I got myself into a little trouble back on hole three. My tee shot hooked— you know that nasty slap hook I have. Well, it hit in the middle of the fairway but… but then it just rolled left, and rolled, and rolled…”
“Sorry to hear that, sir.”
“It rolled left, clean off the fairway and into the bunker.”
“Oh no,” Buckminster feigned concern.
“Yep. Right down into the middle of the trap.”
“That’s terrible, sir.”
“Yes, it is. Oh, you should have heard me cussing, Bucky. I was so angry. You know my bunker play is not my strong suit.”
“I thought it was coming along, sir.”
“Bucky, what have I said a thousand times about my theory of golf?”
“You always say to ‘attack the green,’ sir.”
“That’s right. Attack! Attack! Attack! You can’t ever give your opponent breathing room. If you lay up, you give your enemy time to take the initiative.”
“I believe the putting green is an inanimate object, sir, but I think I get your point.”
“Play golf like Patton would, Bucky. Sitting in a bunker is like god damn trench warfare. It doesn’t suit his or my style.”
“No, it doesn’t, sir.”
“So, after breaking my three iron in half, I took my sand wedge from Hab and walked up to that evil, godless, Nazi bunker to face my peril alone. I was in a dark place, Bucky. How was I going to get out of that quagmire?”
“I don’t know sir.”
“It was very bleak, very bleak. But I just kept thinking about General George S. Patton Jr. What would he do in my place, Bucky?”
“I don’t know, sir. Maybe he would have slapped his caddy?”
“I took a deep breath and I drew into my backswing…” the president’s eyes closed so that he could immerse himself in the memory. “…and a great sense of calm came over me.”
“Then what, sir?”
“I let go and swung. I brought my wedge down into the trap just an inch behind the ball, launching a perfect little dollop of sand along with my ball up into the air. That little white projectile hung in space and time and, for a moment, I was transported.”
“Transported, sir?”
“Yes. I was transported back to June 1945. To that beach in France. You know what I saw?”
“Tell me.”
“I saw, for an instant, General Patton storming the shores of Normandy… I was there, with him.”
“Patton wasn’t at Normandy, sir. I believe he was stationed in...”
“He was there, Bucky, and so was I. We were there together on Omaha beach, directing artillery fire at the Nazi positions.”
“Artillery, sir? From the middle of the English Channel?”
“We were dialing it right in on those commie Hun bastards.”
“Then what?”
“Then I transported back here and watched as my ball descended, like shell, no, like an ICBM on re-entry, perfectly on target. It bounced once… twice… then rolled… curving along the slope of the green… closer… closer… until it fell directly into the hole, vanquishing that son of a bitch Nazi putting green!”
“Wow, sir. An eagle. Nice job.”
“And then, at the very moment the ball went in the hole, I got the text message from the speaker. The Monfasco bill passed.”
“Wow!”
“Yep. It was right then and there that I knew what my decision was going to be, Bucky.”
“Which is?”
“I’ve decided I am going to go public with an announcement tomorrow.”
“Announcing what, sir?”
“Announcing my campaign for re-election.”
Buckminster froze for a moment while to let it sink in, then he congratulated the POTUS. The POTUS waived to Haberdash and the others. They reached the president’s ball where they stopped and waited for the entourage to catch up. The president walked over to Haberdash and unzipped one of the pouches in his golf bag. He took out his gold-plated .44 magnum and walked back to Bucky whose face was filling with concern.
“Bucky…”
“Yes sir?”
“It is going to be very hard for me to win re-election if the first lady gives that video to the Russians. Do you understand?”
“I do sir. I am doing everything I can to find her. The Russians have her well-hidden.”
“I don’t want excuses, Bucky. Excuses are what people use when they flub three shots out of the sand trap and end up taking a triple bogie. Excuses are what the Germans made when they lost Berlin to Patton. Excuses are what Buffalo makes when they choke in four super bowls. I want results, Bucky.” The president waived his gun for emphasis. “You have to neutralize that situation; you have to neutralize that situation before we open those blast doors again. Because about a minute after they open, Huli and Timmy are gonna know what we pulled and there won’t be any turning back at that point.”
“Why don’t we just call it off, sir? Just leave things as they are… in Protocol 4.”
“Because there’s no upside in that. If we don’t rescind it, the Sino-Russian axis will know something’s up. At least by opening the doors we can buy some goodwill with whom we’re allowing in. But if you don’t get that bitch neutralized beforehand, then we’ll have to go with my Plan B.”
“Plan B?”
“Just do your job, Bucky. If not, it will all be over, and it will all be your fault.” The president pointed the magnum at Buckminster, right between the eyes.
“But sir, I…”
“Shh, shh, shh,” the POTUS shushed. “No more excuses. Just take care of it.”
Chapter 18
One week later, at precisely noon, Protocol 4 was about to be rescinded, as scheduled. A public ceremony was arranged, and an army of Greys were deployed to construct the temporary bleachers, build the stage, and hang the sky-blue bunting. The ten-million-dollar vending contract was awarded to a firm from South Carolina. Although no one from that firm was actually present in the bunker, or even aware of the award due to Protocol 4’s information blockade, the contract was inserted as an ear-mark into an emergency military funding bill. Upon passage, the contract was awarded to Ralfamerk, Inc. which ensured both South Carolina senators, whose spouses had family members on the board, would vote in favor the president’s Federally Appropriated Regional Transportation bill that funded, among other things, a ten-billion-dollar monorail stretching from Rapid City, South Dakota to Bismarck, North Dakota.
The Greys constructed a raised dais on the stage in the turfed athletic fields directly across from the Hotel Americana. Behind the dais was a platform with seating for dignitaries. Behind those seats hung a backdrop of sky-blue curtains embroidered with the image of three interlocking hands gripping at each other’s wrist. One hand was light brown, one was white, and one was black. Temporary fencing was erected and nude-imaging scanners, manned by security personnel which included Chinansky, were placed at the entry points. There was very minimal risk of terrorism or violence as whatever was brought down into the bunker was tightly controlled. Rather, the nude-imaging scans were conducted to find contraband as a concession to the firm awarded the exclusive vending contract. The crowd of mostly Greys had to be prevented from smuggling in any snacks in order to maximize Ralfamerk’s event revenue. A congressman from New Hampshire also had a cousin on Ralfamerk’s board of directors. He too voted yes on the ear mark and appropriations bill.
The crowd began to pass through the scanners and into the viewing area. Security agents wearing sunglasses scanned the crowd and whispered into their lapels. Greys put the finishing touches in place, tested the sound system, adjusted the signage, and rolled out the red carpets.
It was a perfect simulated day. The canvas sky above was once again featureless blue. The temperature was dialed in at a perfect seventy-two degrees. Just before noon, the dignitaries shuffled in with a flurry of perfunctory handshakes and forced grins. They took their seats behind the dais. At precisely noon, the fanfare music blared. Everyone stood. Chinese President Hu Li appeared from behind the stage, followed by Russian President Timoshenko, and then President Manfred. The three shook each other's hands, placing their free hand on the other’s shoulder as an expression of primordial dominance, then turned and straightened their blue suits and grinned for the crowd and paparazzi masquerading as journalists. When cued, they each approached their separate podium on the dais. They had negotiated in advance that only the President of the United States would do the introduction, although his opening remarks were pre-approved by the other two leaders.
“Welcome,” the POTUS began. “Two weeks ago, the leaders of three of the world’s great nations were able to set aside our differences and come together for peace.” The president turned left to Hu Li who grinned and then right to Timoshenko who nodded approvingly. “The outcome of this unprecedented meeting was the agreement to temporarily suspend the protocol that has left us cut off from the world we have been entrusted to govern. Our ability to forge an agreement has shown us all that nations can still work together… that war is not inevitable... that peace and cooperation is still possible. So, without further ado, gentlemen...”
The trio of presidents each placed their hand on a giant white button affixed to their respective podiums.
“On a count of three. One… Two… Three...”
Each pressed their button. When signaled, the crowd roared in approval. The presidents turned and congratulated each other with handshakes and smiles and shoulder pats. The sky-blue curtain raised behind the dignitaries showing an image of a bunker blast door. The video screen zoomed in on the door.
Before the event, the presidents drew lots to determine the order of presentation. Timoshenko lost so he went first. The other two presidents took their seats.
Timoshenko began to speak in his Dracula-toned English. “After much deliberation, and with much difficulty, we have made our decision regarding who we have chosen to be allowed into the bunker...”
The crowd hushed in anticipation. Would it be Roskolnikov the famed composer? What about Nikolsky the Nobel prize winning physicist?
“Ladies and gentlemen...”
“Could it be Potoff the statesman who brokered the peace between Khazakstan and Belarus? Or what about Karamzin the great author?
“Please give a warm welcome to…”
The crowd hushed in anticipation.
“Yuri Gregorivitch!”
A husky man with rosacea cheeks and narrow eyes appeared on the screen. A crooked smirk cleaved his face. He wore a shimmery gray silk suit and carried a metallic briefcase.
A sparse applause trickled out from the crowd.
“Who in the hell is that, again?” The POTUS whispered to Fricke who sat behind him.
“He's one of the oligarchs. They call him the Ukrainian Cranium,” Buckminster answered.
“I didn’t ask you, Bucky,” the POTUS snapped. “You can just sit there in silence with your thumb up your ass until I call on you.”
Buckminster nodded.
“Why do they call him the Cranium, Fricke?”
“He is apparently a genius at money laundering.”
“I see.”
The president of Russia applauded vigorously, waived, and took his seat.
Next up was Hu Li. He stepped to his podium.
He unfolded a piece of paper to read from and adjusted his thick lenses. “I will say that our serection was vewy easy to a-make. I am happy to ernounce that Master Chung has been approve. Welcome home Master Chung.”
The skinny Chinese boy appeared on screen, looking disinterested, bangs of black hair falling into his eyes. The Asian section of the crowd applauded wildly as Chung had become a cult figure since the kidnapping. The POTUS faked a smile after Hu Li glanced at him on his way back to his seat.
When Hu Li was finally seated, the POTUS rose and approached his podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming. This is a momentous event, perhaps the most momentous event since Protocol 4 was declared. These are challenging times but there is now reason for renewed hope.” The POTUS gestured to the other two presidents. “A lot... a lot of good has been accomplished since we’ve found a way to work together. And not only with our international partners, but within our own government as well. I must take this opportunity to cite the passage of the Governmental Abatement of Greenhouse Gas Act, which was passed by our senate and signed by me last week as one example of progress. If the world still exists when this crisis is over, we can all rest assured that we will have committed to reduce increases in greenhouse gas emissions .1%, thus doing our part to ensure that we’ll avoid the environmental catastrophe of a .3 degree increase in global temperatures by the turn of the century!”
Applause.
“Also, I just signed legislation that will create a ten-billion-dollar subsidy for our pharmaceutical companies so that they can continue to provide low cost pain killers to African Americans, working mothers, the handicapped, and the LGBTQ community. No person shall ever be deprived of opioids based upon the color of their skin or handicap or their gender or gender identity ever again!”
Louder applause.
The president beamed with pride.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have achieved global peace, protected the environment, expanded our transportation infrastructure, and done our part to end discrimination and promote equality!”
Wild cheers.
“On the heel of these great victories for democracy, I think this is as good a time as any to make an announcement. Ladies and gentlemen, I am officially announcing my campaign for re-election as your president of the United States.”
Smatterings of applause.
“Thank you! Thank you!”
The applause petered out.
“And finally, we come to this: the person who has been granted asylum in our magnificent SuperBunker. You must know that I met with a committee and we reviewed many excellent candidates. The process was exhaustive. Candidates were scored based upon their accomplishments… their contributions to America. And I am happy to say we arrived at a decision that I think you all will all approve of. Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, let me introduce to you the next American citizen of the SuperBunker...”
The president turned to face the monitor behind him.
“His accomplishments include…”
The crowd drew a collective breath.
“Five-time MVP. Over 75,000 career passing yards. A seven-time league champion. You all know him. You all love him. He’s the greatest of all time. America’s MVP! Quarterback for the Hartford Saxons, Brock McGuinn!”
McGuinn's sheepish smile and dimpled chin appeared on screen. The crowd, at least the Americans section, roared in unconditional, uninhibited approval. The POTUS clapped vigorously, grinning from ear to ear.
“Brock McGuinn, everyone! The GOAT!” the POTUS repeated, cajoling the crowd to louder and louder cheers.
“MVP! MVP! MVP!”
Chapter 19
Before the applause for Brock McGuinn’s entrance had subsided, aides were already whispering into the ears of the presidents of Russia and China. Within moments, they were whisked away in their executive golf carts. The POTUS left shortly after them, before the conclusion of McGuinn’s press conference. Upon arrival at the Brown House, he stepped into the elevator along with Tibbles, Haberdash, and his personal secret service bodyguard, and descended into the depths of the Hades Level. The door opened into the concrete chamber cast in the bluish hue of fluorescent lighting. They came upon the glass security corral where they placed their personal effects in a bowl and stepped through one at a time. The doors closed. A shotgun like sound fired which trailed off into a high-pitched buzz. The door on the opposite end opened and one by one, the POTUS, Tibbles, and Haberdash passed through. The secret service agent stayed behind, handing President Manfred back his gold .44 magnum, then stood guard over their other effects.
On the other side of the scanner, they came to the internal blast door where Tibbles presented his eye to a monitor for identity scanning and his wrist for RFID identification. The massive steel door pinged as the locking bolts released. It opened. They passed through into the UltraBunker.
They entered the conference room and took their seats. Fricke and Buckminster were already there. The nuclear football rested on the floor at Fricke’s feet.
“Gentlemen,” the president began. “Welcome to Plan B.”
“Yes sir,” Buckminster fawned with the eagerness of a low-ranking sycophant.
“Shut the fuck up, Bucky. Your failure is the reason we’re here.”
“So, what is the plan, sir?” asked Fricke.
“We’re going to be back in Protocol 4 shortly.”
“Are you certain?” asked Fricke.
“I’m one hundred percent certain.”
“I’m not following what is unfolding, here. What do you see as the possible outcomes?” Fricke asked, guarding the nuclear football with his leg.
“We can only hope that the first bitch hasn’t given them anything yet.” The POTUS turned to Buckminster. “How far along is your project to put a man on the surface? We’re running out of time.”
Buckminster swallowed. “We believe it is nearly operational. We just haven’t tested it.”
“Sir,” Tibbles added, “perhaps we can at least work up a short list of possibilities and…”
“There are no other possibilities. What god damn difference would it make anyway, Frank? We know where this is headed. They know we had their couriers assassinated.”
“What was that?” Fricke asked with grave concern.
“Don’t be naïve Dexter,” the POTUS replied.
“What is happening?” Fricke asked. “Why wasn’t I informed?”
“Plan B was a top-secret operation,” Buckminster answered. “Only those who needed to know were informed.”
Fricke looked as if he had just had the wind knocked out of him. He spent a moment gathering himself. “Can we just discuss this for a minute. We only think we know what the first lady will do. Yes, we know that Timoshenko and Hu Li must know that we have reneged on our end of the deal, but they may not know for certain that we had their couriers assassinated. Perhaps we should try to find out everything they know before we make any moves. We need to buy some time. Who terminated the couriers?”
“Faucett carried out the order,” answered Buckminster.
“Well, maybe we can promote the idea that Faucett was a rogue agent.”
“There’s no chance they’ll buy it,” Tibbles replied.
“I support the president. The time for dialogue is over,” barked Buckminster. “It’s time for action!”
“Sir, I…” Fricke pleaded.
“Enough!” snapped the president. “Put me through to Timoshenko right now. Do it!”
“Right away, sir.” Tibbles lifted the plastic cloche off the bat phone and lifted the red receiver to his ear. “Hello. This is the chief of staff for the president of the United States. President Manfred would like to speak to President Timoshenko…”
All eyes in the UltraBunker fixed upon Tibbles.
“Yes…,” Tibbles continued. “I’ll hold.” Tibbles put the phone on speaker. A tinny Muzak version of Tchaikovsky played. “Sir,” Tibbles whispered after clicking mute, “my advice would be to let him make his demands. Don’t capitulate. We can come up with a way out of this. I know it.”
“I didn’t ask for your counsel,” rebuffed the POTUS.
“Do you know what you’ll do if he tries to blackmail you?” Tibbles asked.
“Let’s just pray Veruca hasn’t given him anything. If she has...”
The Muzak stopped. Tibbles picked up the receiver. “Yes,” he said into the phone. “Yes… of course… I’ll let him know.”
“What is it?” asked the POTUS.
“They want to connect on screen, sir.”
“They? Who’s they?” Buckminster asked.
Tibbles’ became doe eyed. Sweat instantly beaded on his forehead. “Hu Li is with Timoshenko.
The POTUS winced and clenched his fist. “Fine. Put the commie bastard on, too,” he relented.
Tibbles pressed a button and the scowling faces of President Timoshenko and President Hu Li appeared. The POTUS didn't offer a greeting.
“Hello, Mr. Pwesident.” Timoshenko greeted in his thick toned voice.
“Heroh, Mr. President,” added Hu Li in his labored English.
“What do you want?”
“You called us,” answered Timoshenko.
“Do you want to negotiate?”
“Negotiate what?”
“A solution to this crisis,” answered the POTUS.
“There is only one sorution to this a-crisis. There ohnree one way out for you.”
“And what would that be?”
“Your wesignation.”
The POTUS scoffed. “Don't be ridiculous.”
“It will be very embarrassing for you if you don’t.”
“That’s not happening.”
“Mr. President, you have this one final opportunity to save your dignity,” explained Timoshenko.
“Be very careful,” the POTUS cautioned. “You don’t have the leverage you think you have. Do you want to trigger an even bigger World War 3?”
“This does not need to be the end of the world, Arman,” Timoshenko continued, “…just the end of your presidency.”
“I can’t resign, Timmy. I just announced my campaign for re-election.”
Buckminster pounded his fist on the table. “We won’t surrender! The president of the United States is the symbol of America and America never surrenders.”
“It seems that your General Buckminster overestimates the loyalty of his fellow commanders.” Timoshenko punctuated his explanation with a snort.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Buckminster asked.
Timoshenko leaned back with a confident look on his blotchy, pink face. “How do you suppose your first lady came into possession of this most scandalous video?”
Buckminster feigned ignorance. “What video?”
Timoshenko continued: “You don't think she just asked someone for it, do you? No. That wasn’t how it happened. She was approached. And the video was given to her. It was given by an insider— a high-ranking, insider.”
“Who was it?” Buckminster demanded, veins throbbing in his neck. “I'll have him shot for treason.”
“The who is not so important as the why they did it. Mr. President, even your closest allies are turning on you. They no longer believe you can lead your nation through this crisis. They are plotting for your removal from office.”
Buckminster shook his head in denial.
“I already know who leaked it,” the POTUS replied.
The eyes in the room jumped from person to person, piercing with suspicion.
“Who?” Tibbles gulped.
“It wasn’t me,” Buckminster protested before glaring at Fricke.
Fricke shook his head in denial.
Haberdash ceased scribbling tits on his notepad to observe the tension.
“It was Krusty. Krusty did it!” the POTUS groaned. “Krusty betrayed the Office of the President. Krusty sold out America.”
“That son of a bitch!” Buckminster growled.
“This pornogwaphic video is not the ohnree information that we have been given, Mr. Pwesident,” added Hu Li. “We have recent-ree been inform that you have begun work on a SuperBunker escape tunner. We can ohnree presume it is being built to make it possibo for you to send an agent to the surface to give your order.”
“And what of it?”
“That is fo-bidden!”
The sound of the blast door alarms rang through the complex and down into the depths of the UltraBunker.
“They must have re-triggered Protocol 4,” Fricke observed.
The POTUS had no reaction.
“That is legally incorrect,” Tibbles interjected. “Our lawyers found nothing in the codex that explicitly forbids sending someone out of the SuperBunker during Protocol 4. It only forbids making any effort to open the doors.”
“It vio-rates the intent,” Hu Li rebutted.
Timoshenko intervened. “Regardless, your tunnel is no longer an adwantage for you. Upon receiwing this information, we immediately began our own joint, Sino-Russian mission to put a man on the surface of the earth.”
“You'll never beat us,” Buckminster gloated.
Timoshenko laughed, then continued: “American hubris is both your best and worst quality. It fills you with the confidence to confront any challenge, but it blinds you to the possibility of catastrophe. You don’t even see that we have nearly completed our own tunnel.”
Tibbles looked at Buckminster who was silently cursing.
“There's nothing left to discuss here,” said the POTUS. He motioned to Tibbles who disconnected the monitor. The room fell silent. The POTUS appeared shaken. He drew a breath but began to speak in a calm tone. “What the hell is happening? Is there no respect for the office of the president? Who do my commanders think they are to do this to me?”
Buckminster stood up from his seat and watched the POTUS in emotionless anticipation. Fricke’s face filled with weariness. Tibbles began to tear up.
The president’s voice turned sharply louder. “So, this is what it has come to: My own men, the military, everyone spying on me? Even the NSA? They’re all a bunch of contemptable cowards…”
“Sir,” Buckminster interrupted out of compulsion, “I can’t let you insult the dedicated men and women serving our country.”
“They’re all traitors!“
“Mr. President, this is outrageous!”
“The Joint Chiefs of Staff are the scum of the American people! Not a shred of honor!” The president stood and started to pace, his voice rising. “They call themselves generals… years of training at the academy just so they can become little treasonous spies and voyeurs! Useless! For years they’ve prevented American victories overseas. They have decades of training, but they can’t even keep an aircraft carrier afloat.” The president rubbed his temples. “They have all these smart-bombs and laser-guided things and satellites, but they can’t even conquer ass-backwards shit hole countries defended by sheep-shagging musketeers. Worthless!” He pounded his fist on the table sending a stack of papers over the edge. “But they can turn on me like this? Why?”
Buckminster turned to Fricke as if imploring him to do something. Fricke sat motionless.
“You know what I should have done? I should have liquidated all of them like… like Stalin did. Traitors!”
The president plunked down into his seat and attempted to gather himself. Tibbles filled the moment of brief silence with his blubbering. Buckminster fumed in silence. Haberdash stood up, eyes widened in amazement, and sidled over towards Tibbles.
The POTUS’s rant continued. “I’ve been deceived all along by them… by this cabal... by this Deep State. What a monstrous betrayal of the American people!” The president curled his right hand into a fist. “But all these traitors will pay! They shall drown in their own blood!”
Haberdash patted the weeping Tibbles on the shoulder as if to say: “There, there, Frank. It'll be all right.”
The president exhaled. His posture slumped. He appeared spent. He curled up in his seat and started to rock like some distraught grandmother. “Under these circumstances,” he mumbled, “I am no longer able to lead. There is only one thing left to do.”
Fricke’s face filled with a glimmer of hopefulness, but it was quickly quashed when the president spoke again.
“…But if you think I am going to resign, you are sadly mistaken. I’d rather blow my brains out.”
Fricke glanced at Tibbles who had stopped sobbing upon hearing the president’s remark.
Buckminster broke the short silence. “What are your orders, sir?”
The POTUS pondered.
Buckminster turned to Fricke.
Fricke shrugged.
Tibbles produced a wad of tissue from his pocket and blew his nose into it.
“Fricke…” the POTUS groaned.
“Yes sir?”
“Set the football on the table.”
“Sir?”
“You heard the president,” barked Buckminster.
Fricke remained motionless. The POTUS produced his gold-plated .44 magnum. Fricke reluctantly lifted the satchel off the floor and placed it on the table.
“Open it,” ordered the POTUS.
“But sir…”
“That was an order,” Buckminster snapped.
Fricke complied.
Haberdash leaned in to have a look.
Buckminster's eyes widened.
Fricke reached in and pulled out a laptop computer emblazoned with the presidential seal and the Numenor Corporate logo in the right corner.”
“Turn it on,” the POTUS ordered.
Fricke opened it. The screen lit up and it began its boot up sequence. He reached down into the satchel and pulled out the laminated sheet that resembled a Denny's menu. He handed it to the president who passed it to Tibbles. Lastly, Fricke produced a metallic metal cube with a large red button affixed to the top and set it on the table alongside the computer.
“What does it say?” the POTUS asked of Tibbles.
Tibbles scanned down a few lines then read from the menu. “It says: Connect the Permissive Active Link (PAL) transponder to the computer with the black connector cable...”
“Do it!” the POTUS ordered.
Fricke connected the cable. The red button blinked three times.
Tibbles read on: “When connected, the red indicator light on the launch button will flash red three times. The PAL will then begin its configuration and boot sequence. When complete, the mouse pad will become active. Use the mouse pad and the left button on the computer to click 'Proceed'. You will then be taken to the Strategic Algorithm Matrix (or SAM) program...”
Buckminster moved behind Fricke to observe. “It's ready.”
Fricke clicked the mouse pad button.
“Welcome...” came a sultry but offish female voice through the laptop speaker. “My name is Sam. I am here to assist you. To initiate the Strategic Algorithm Matrix, please select a geopolitical scenario...”
“What are the options?” the POTUS asked.
Fricke read them off:
Unipolar
Bipolar
Multipolar
Fricke reluctantly eyed the POTUS, awaiting instruction.
“I presume multipolar, sir,” Tibbles offered.
“Sure.”
Fricke maneuvered the mouse pointer over ‘Multipolar’ and clicked.
“Now,” came the voice, “please enter the number of global superpowers. Please note that you can back up one step at any time by simply pressing the control and backspace buttons simultaneously.”
Fricke entered ‘3.’
“Excellent. Now please identify the global superpowers. Please enter all superpowers regardless of political alliance. For a definition of superpower, please click the appendix button on the menu bar.”
Fricke scrolled through the list of nations and selected ‘Russian Federation, The’ and ‘China, The People's Republic of’. ‘United States of America, The’ was pre-selected.
“Great. Now, on the next screen, please select all the strategic conditions that apply. Click advance to conditions to proceed.”
Fricke clicked advance and the screen filled with text and check boxes. At the bottom, he noticed a page selector. The screen was on page 1 of 207.
“Please note,” continued the voice, “that there is a search box in the upper right of the screen. You can also search for conditions by voice command by saying 'Hello Sam, search conditions... dirty bomb,' for instance. Or, 'Hello Sam, search conditions... Chinese invasion Taiwan.'“
“Hello Sam,” Buckminster shouted. “Search conditions... Russian invasion Bolshevistan.”
An hourglass appeared on screen. After a moment, Sam said, in her sultry deadpan, “I'm sorry, there are no conditions that contain 'Russian invasion Bolshevik stand.' Here are some results that contain 'Russian invasion'. Please select from one of the following or refine your search terms...”
Russian invasion of Afghanistan
Russian invasion of Alaska
Russian invasion of Bulgaria
Russian invasion of Canada
Russian invasion of China
Russian invasion of Finland
Russian invasion of Lithuania (or other Baltic State)
Russian invasion of Lapland
Russian invasion of Mongolia
Russian invasion of Monte Carlo
Russian invasion of Nepal
Russian invasion of Other
Russian invasion of Poland
Russian invasion of Turkey
Russian invasion of Uzbekistan
“Select 'other',” Buckminster urged.
Fricke toggled the checkbox.
“What else?” Tibbles asked. “Should we put more information in?”
“Hello Sam,” Buckminster barked. “Search conditions: blackmail.”
“Here are some results that contain 'blackmail'.”
Extortion of Prime Minister of Canada by China
Extortion of Prime Minister of Canada by Russia
Extortion of Prime Minister of Germany by China
Extortion of Prime Minister of Germany by Russia
Extortion of Prime Minister of Germany by China
Extortion of Prime Minister of Germany by Russia
Extortion of Prime Minister of Israel by China
Extortion of Prime Minister of Israel by Russia
Extortion of President of France by China
Extortion of President of France by Russia
Extortion of Prime Minister of United Kingdom by China
Extortion of Prime Minister of United Kingdom by Russia
There are 188 More results…
“Hello Sam, search conditions... extortion of President of United States,” Tibbles asked.
Extortion of President of United States by China
Extortion of President of United States by Russia
Extortion of President of United States by Israel
Extortion of President of United States by Mongolia
Fricke checked the first two boxes.
“What else?” Buckminster asked.
Tibbles consulted the laminated instructions. “It says to click 'advance to secondary criteria.'” Fricke clicked the button and a popup question appeared:
Have nuclear weapons been detonated by any nation state?
Fricke clicked ‘No’. Another popup immediately appeared.
Is it confirmed that nuclear weapons have been launched by any nation state?
Fricke clicked ‘No.’
Are any nation states preparing to launch nuclear weapons (including rogue states)?
Fricke looked at the POTUS who was staring at his gold .44 in a catatonic state.
“Yes, of course!” Buckminster scolded.
Fricke clicked ‘Yes’. A popup appeared with a list of countries and check boxes. Fricke clicked ‘Russian Federation, The’ and ‘China, Peoples Republic of.’
Have the critical members of government been evacuated to hardened facilities in order to ensure continuity of government?”
‘Yes.’
What day of the week is it?
‘Friday.’
Proceed?
...
Fricke looked over his shoulder at Buckminster for affirmation. Buckminster glanced at Tibbles who was faintly shaking his head. The trio turned to the POTUS who was still staring at his gun, motionless. “Just do it!” he ordered.
With a shaky hand, Fricke moved the mouse pointer onto the ‘Proceed’ button, but he hesitated.
“You have your orders. Do it!” growled Buckminster.
Fricke clicked the button. The screen went instantly black. Fricke hopped back, looking as if he had broken something.
“What did you do?” Buckminster demanded.
“I... I just clicked ‘Proceed’,” Fricke appealed.
“Please stand by...” Sam implored.
The screen came back with the icon of an hourglass with the sands running out.
“Please stand by... Pareto-optimizing...”
The sands ran down the hourglass icon.
“Please stand by... Pareto-optimizing...”
…
“Please stand by...”
…
The last grains ran out and the hourglass icon froze in the middle of the screen. Everyone but the POTUS gathered to stare at it in anticipation.
“What happens now?” Haberdash asked? “Is it frozen up? Did it crash?”
“Shouldn't the hourglass thingy flip over or something?” Tibbles wondered.
“How long should we wait?” Buckminster asked. “I think we need to call someone.” Buckminster grabbed the black telephone receiver and lifted it to his ear. “Get me IT!”
After about two minutes, Tibbles asked: “Can you put it on speaker?”
“I don't know how to do that. I'm afraid I'll hang up and go to the back of the queue.”
“It's easy,” Tibbles advised. “Here...” Tibbles took the receiver from Buckminster, pressed the speaker button, then hung the receiver up. The room filled with the melody of Summer Breeze by Seals and Croft.
“Catchy, isn't it?” Haberdash chimed in after several effervescent measures.
Finally, someone answered on the other end. “Help Desk. Who am I speaking with?”
“You are speaking to General Fitzmaurice Buckminster, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and Special National Security Advisor to the President.”
“Did you say 'Buckmeister'?”
“Buck-min-ster.”
“Okay. Got it.”
“I'm letting you know you are on speaker as well.”
“Thank you. What can I help you with?”
“It seems that the PAL system has frozen up on us.”
“The PAL system?”
“Yes. The Permissive Active Link.”
“Hmm. One moment while I look that one up. Oh, here it is. Okay, what seems to be the problem?”
“Like I just said, it appears that it has crashed or locked up on us.”
“Do you see an error message?”
Buckminster leaned in to look at the screen. “No. There's just a frozen hourglass.”
“Can you tell me what you saw before it froze?”
“Well, it said it was ‘Pareto-optimizing.’ Then it just froze up.”
“Hmm. Hmm. Uh, how long has it been frozen?”
“It's been a couple minutes.”
“Have you experienced this issue before?”
“That would be a no. I don't believe any of us have ever tried to launch nuclear weapons before.”
“I see.” They heard the click clack of keyboard typing. “Unfortunately, I cannot access this system remotely. We will have to try to solution it over the phone.”
“Fine.”
“Mr. Buckmeister, can you hit control-alt-delete, please? Make sure you press all three keys simultaneously.”
“Sure.” Buckminster nodded to Fricke who carefully pressed the three keys.
“Can you tell me what you see?”
“Nothing. I still see the hourglass.”
“Hmm. And you said you didn't see any error message?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Well, I think at this point we should try a hard reboot. Can you turn the PAL system off, wait thirty seconds, then turn it back on for me? I'll hold while it reboots.”
Buckminster picked the computer up and looked under it and on the back side and scanned the keyboard. “I don't see a power switch.”
“Hmm. Well, let me ask someone else in the department if...”
“Hang on!” Tibbles urged. “It just did something.”
The hourglass disappeared and was replaced with a popup.
Pareto-optimization complete.
Click to proceed.
Tibbles reached in and clicked the link.
“The Strategic Algorithm Matrix has resolved the current scenario to three possible strategic solutions. Select the appropriate solution and click Proceed.”
“What does it say?” The POTUS asked.
Tibbles scanned the screen. Fricke got up from his seat and Tibbles sat down in his place. “It has three solution buttons titled 'Good', 'Better', and 'Best'. Click for details.”
“Click the 'Good' one.”
Tibbles clicked the button.
“What does it say?”
“It says: 'Limited tactical nuclear strike upon frontline military and naval targets. Pros: Shock and awe should undermine adversarial resolve. Cons: A limited military strike prior to a threatened enemy launch may trigger a military coup against the Office of the President as the Joint Chiefs of Staff will view it as a waste of initiative. Chance of preserving continuity of government: 29%. Press select to transmit launch codes.”
“What is the better option?” Buckminster asked.
Tibbles read it off. “Large scale thermo-nuclear detonation over select industrialized population centers. Pros: Enemy may become demoralized and resolve to detente. Cons: If successful detonations are skewed toward civilian targets, the U.S. civilian population may attempt to overthrow the current government of the United States. Chance of preserving continuity of government: 55%. Press select to transmit launch codes.”
Buckminster pondered. Fricke gazed at the screen in astonishment. Haberdash scribbled notes over the scribbled tits in his notepad,
“And the best option?” asked the POTUS who remained fixated on his magnum.
“It says...” Tibbles started.
“It says what?” the POTUS asked.
“It says...”
“Spit it out, Frank,” ordered Buckminster.
“It says: ‘Total, full scale, thermonuclear first strike.’” Tibbles’ lip quivered.
“What could possibly be the pros of that?” Fricke asked.
“It says: 'Pros: Enemies will be totally annihilated.'“
“And the cons?” Fricke asked.
Tibbles gulped. “It says: 'The end of the world as we know it.'“
“What are the odds?” asked the POTUS.
“The odds, sir?” asked Tibbles.
“Yeah. The odds of success, of preserving continuity of government, so we can save democracy.”
“It says: ‘the chance of preserving continuity of government is... is 99%.’”
“This is ridiculous,” Fricke intervened. We don't even know that the Chinese and Russians will launch their nukes. Gentlemen we still have time to negotiate a peace.”
“Like I said before, the time for talk is over,” Buckminster rebutted. “It's time for action.”
The POTUS started to rock again in his chair. He reached up and massaged his temples, with his pistol clasped in his right hand. Then he ran his fingers through his graying hair. “I choose...”
“What was that, Mr. President?” Buckminster asked.
“I said, I choose...”
You don't have to do this, Mr. President,” Fricke urged.
“I... choose...” the sentence dissolved into mumbling.
“I'm sorry, I didn't roger that,” Buckminster said.
“I said I…”
“Sir, don't do it!” Fricke pleaded.
“Best!” shouted the president. “I choose best. Now get on with it.”
Fricke looked desperately at Tibbles imploring him to stop the madness. Buckminster's hand slid down and unsnapped his holster, forgetting that only the POTUS was permitted to possess a sidearm in the UltraBunker.
“Best! Best! Best! I choose best. Do it!”
“You heard the president, Frank,” Buckminster added.
Tibbles’ finger moved the mouse pointer. He toggled the box. Then slid the pointer down to the link that said ‘proceed.’
“Do it!” Buckminster ordered.
Click
The hourglass returned. Tibbles watched the screen as the grains of sand ran out. When the last grains passed through the icon, a new popup appeared.
Please enter authentication code.
“Authentication code?” Buckminster asked. “Fricke, give me the code.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Give me the code or I will have you shot for treason.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Mr. President? Do you have it?”
“I don't,” mumbled the POTUS.
“Who in the hell has it, then?” Buckminster asked. “Fricke? You’re a damn liar.”
Fricke shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not lying.”
Tibbles backed away from the PAL.
“Tibbles, do you have it?”
“Uh...” Tibbles gulped.
“It's Tibbles. Tibbles has the code,” the POTUS muttered. “But you have to get it out of him.”
“What do you mean, sir?” Buckminster asked. “Like beat it out of him?”
“I'm sure it's all there in the instructions.”
Buckminster yanked the Denny's menu from Tibbles' who had started shaking. He flipped to the last page where he saw the diagram of a person's head and neck, but with the skin peeled back revealing the cardiovascular system and musculature. An arrow pointed to the external carotid artery and the depiction of a small splice connecting both ends of it. A text box on the instructions described how the authentication code was contained within the arterial splice.
“How in the hell do we get it out of him?” Buckminster asked.
“You have to cut it out,” the POTUS lamented.
“But won’t Frank bleed to death?” asked Fricke.
“It's part of the Fail-Safe Thermonuclear Protocol,” the POTUS explained.
“We can't just cut him open, can we?” Haberdash asked, backing away from Frank.
“I think it would be best if we euthanized him first,” the president suggested.
“Does anyone have any poison?” Haberdash asked.
“Sir, you can use your pistol,” Buckminster advised.
“No, I… I can't do it,” the POTUS protested.
Tibbles sighed in relief.
“Why not?”
“I just can’t. I can’t do it.”
“Thank God,” Fricke exclaimed.
“Why not, sir?” Buckminster asked.
“I just can’t.”
“Well, what do we do now?” Buckminster asked.
“I said I can’t do it,” repeated the POTUS.
“We understand, sir.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Sir?”
The president looked up at Buckminster. “Here, you do it!” The POTUS slid his gold pistol across the table to Buckminster.
“Huh? Why me?” Buckminster cringed.
“Because you got us into this mess.”
“Gentlemen,” Fricke interrupted. “We really don't have to do this. We can—”
“I'm sorry, sir, but I just can't shoot a man point blank.”
Tibbles’ eyes darted between Buckminster and the POTUS.
“What?” asked the POTUS.
“I said I just can't kill someone like this.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?” The POTUS smoldered. “You've killed hundreds... thousands of people. You're a soldier... a general. Killing is your job!”
“Yeah, but that is killing by text message. It’s never done in person. Not face to face.”
“What the hell difference does it make?”
“This is way different. I... I can't do it.”
“You have to.”
“I can't.” Buckminster's voice cracked. His chest heaved and fell. He sniffed. His throat tightened his voice into a squeal. “I... I...” He started to sob.
“Do it!” the POTUS urged.
“Arman, are you sure?” Tibbles whimpered.
“I... I can't, sir,” Buckminster wept openly.
“That's a direct order, Bucky.” The POTUS got up from his seat and slapped Buckminster across the cheek.
“Arman...” Tibbles beseeched.
Buckminster hefted up the gold-plated magnum.
“Gentlemen, please!” Fricke shouted. “Let’s talk about this for a minute.”
“Arman,” Tibbles implored, “I... I...”
Haberdash backed further out of the way.
“Bucky, I'm giving you a direct order!” shouted the POTUS.
Buckminster stepped forward, tears and snot running down his face. Blubbering incoherently, he placed the barrel against Tibbles' temple.
Tibbles stared lovingly at President Arman “Our Man” Manfred, who himself had sat back down and stared at the floor rather than looking his lover in the eye.
“Sir...”
“What, Frank?” the POTUS asked, finally looking up.
“I love you.”
BANG!
Fricke sat frozen in terrified disbelief. Haberdash vigorously scribbled notes in his notepad. Buckminster wiped the tears and blood splatter and brain matter from his face with his handkerchief and reflexively stuffed the president’s sidearm into his holster.
“Is everything okay there?” came the voice of the IT support person who was still on the speaker phone. “I heard a loud bang and crying or something.”
Buckminster cleared his throat, straightened his blood splattered uniform, then withdrew his pocket-knife and proceeded to cut out the authentication code splice capsule from Tibbles' neck. When he had retrieved the capsule, he broke it open and unraveled a tiny strip. He took out his reading glasses.
“It's sort of like a fortune cookie,” Haberdash observed.
“It says '42',” Buckminster answered.
“42?”
“What do I do now? Enter it in the computer?”
“You have to enter the complete code. I have the prefix,” murmured the president. “Enter # — @ — A —then 42.”
Buckminster entered the code. “What now?”
No one answered.
“Hello Sam, what do we do now?” Haberdash asked.
“One moment please...”
Buckminster stared at the screen.
“One moment please...”
Fricke looked at the president.
“One moment please...”
The president stared at his shoes.
“I am unable to establish connection.”
“What did she say?” Buckminster asked.
“It must have been trying to transmit the launch sequence to NORAD. It can't connect due to Protocol 4.”
“Well, what do we do now?” Buckminster asked, glaring at Fricke. Fricke was unresponsive, as if in shock. Buckminster turned to the computer. “Hello Sam, what do we do now?”
“I'm sorry, I don't understand the question.”
“Hello Sam,” asked Buckminster. “How do we deliver launch sequence manually?”
“Due to loss of connectivity, you must deliver the launch codes manually.”
“Hello, Sam. How do we deliver the launch codes manually?”
“Simply re-establish internet connectivity with PAL.”
Confusion filled Buckminster's face.
“You've gotta take the PAL and the red button thing up to the surface,” the president mumbled, “so it can connect.”
“Oh, of course,” Buckminster replied. “We’ll need to send someone up to the surface, in the transport capsule? You’re not going to send me, are you? I get claustrophobic.”
“Not you, Bucky,” said the president. “You’re a useless fuckup.”
“Who then, sir?”
All eyes were set upon the president who looked down at the floor. “Fricke,” he answered. “I want Fricke to do it.”
Chapter 20
And so the race to put a man on the surface of the earth ensued. Originally deemed the “Race to the ‘Face,” it ultimately came to be known by academics and historians as the “Face Race.”
The Chinese and Russians pooled their resources and technology, for the first state to put an agent on the surface would be the first to be able to order its obliteration, or at least prevent the other from doing so.
The Americans and the Sino-Russian Axis did a great deal of spying on each other’s progress over the twenty-one days during which the Face Race raged. The Chinese and Russians struggled with cooperation as the Chinese regarded their Russian counterparts as troglodyte drunkards and the Russians regarded the Chinese as treacherous Mongoloids, but they nevertheless caught the Americans, beating them to the surface. The first terranaut was not a human agent, mind you, but was instead a Jack Russell terrier who was latched into a steel capsule and exploded upwards through a ventilator shaft. Igor could be heard, via microphone, vigorously and healthily panting until the very moment his capsule burst through the embedded, metallic Faraday latticework that protected the SuperBunker from electro-magnetic pulse and prevented the transmission of radio signals.
The Sino-Russian face program had beaten the Americans to the surface. Upon word of this, President Manfred, now exhibiting tremors and looking ill, understood that the situation was beyond desperate. If the Russians and Chinese were first to reach the surface with a human being, not only could they order a nuclear first strike, but they could stifle any American response by destroying the ventilator shaft that the Americans were intending to use for their mission. This meant that there was no time for the Americans to send a test dog or other expendable mammal. The survival of the American government required bold, brave urgency.
“You should be safe,” Buckminster assured Dexter Fricke as he stood before the coffin-sized steel tube. He opened the door.
Fricke, who was dressed in a spandex suit, holding his helmet and clutching the Nuclear Football, didn’t appear convinced. “Why does it look like a cruise missile with a window?” he asked.
“Because that’s what it basically is,” Buckminster explained.
“I was expecting an elevator type of thing. Why a missile?”
“Fricke, when you work for the Pentagon, the solution to every problem ends up looking like a missile.”
Fricke pondered.
“Isn’t it a thing of beauty? Look at the head. It’s made of solid titanium, strong enough to smash through ventilator fans, steel grates, backflow traps and flanges. It’s the toughest material we could find. Beneath your feet will be a foot of ceramic insulation protecting you from the searing heat generated by the combustion of the solid fuel rocket boosters.”
“And you put a window in.”
“Yes, although there won’t be much to see until you reach the surface, assuming you survive.”
The door to the situation room opened and in walked the frail POTUS, flanked on either side by a secret service agent and trailed by Haberdash, who was clad in Bermuda shorts and polo shirt.
“Mr. President!” Buckminster greeted with a salute.
The POTUS approached Fricke and patted him on the shoulder. “Are you ready to be a national hero, Dexter?” he asked in his weakened voice.
“I don’t believe I have a choice, sir.”
“Excellent. You’re the next Neil Armstrong. A pioneer.”
“I’m just hoping I’m not the next the next Gus Grissom.”
“I see you have the Football.”
“Right here, sir.”
“Good. Now, when you get to the surface, open the laptop and make sure you have good connectivity. Then plug in the red button thing and press it. There’s nothing more to it.”
“Are you sure that will launch the nukes, sir?”
“That will do it.” The POTUS turned to the technician seated at the computer. “Are we ready for launch?”
“Sir, we are nearing completion of our pre-checks.”
The POTUS turned back to Fricke. “Dexter, do you have any apprehensions or doubts about your mission?”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Do you harbor any second thoughts about pressing the button?”
“No sir,” Fricke answered.
“Dexter, do you love democracy?”
“I love my country, sir.”
“Excellent,” the POTUS replied while patting Fricke on the shoulder once more with his trembling hand. “Dex, you’re saving democracy.”
“By destroying the world?”
“Indeed. Here, let me help you with that.” The POTUS took the helmet from under Fricke’s arm. Fricke bowed and the POTUS slid it onto his head with his trembling grip. A technician rushed in to check that it was properly fit. The POTUS shook Fricke’s hand and patted him on the helmet. Fricke turned and stepped into the capsule, clutching the Nuclear Football at his chest. Buckminster approached to give final instructions.
“Don’t be alarmed if you hear an explosion once you reach the surface. The capsule is equipped with a C4 activated parachute. If you break through with too much speed, it will deploy and hopefully soften your landing.”
Fricke nodded.
“Let’s review one more time. What is your mission?” Buckminster asked.
“First, I need to find WIFI. Once a connection is obtained, activate the PAL and push the red button. Then I have to maneuver to the air duct located behind the Wal Mart on 2887 S Arlington Rd in Akron Ohio.”
Buckminster nodded. “Exactly. Guard that shaft and make sure no Axis terranaut terrorist breaks through. If one does, you’ll have to neutralize him.”
Buckminster closed the capsule door and saluted. Fricke gave a thumbs up sign in the portal. The technician made a few last-minute checks, then he and Buckminster joined the POTUS and the other lab coats behind the protective glass of the control room.
“Can you hear us, Dexter?” one of them asked into the radio.
“Loud and clear,” Fricke shouted back.
“Are you ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Do you know what to do when you reach the surface?” asked POTUS.
“Bucky and I just went over it.”
“Don’t forget. Wal Mart. Akron, Ohio.”
“I have the address in my pocket.”
“Failure is not an option, Dexter,” the POTUS advised.
“Understood.”
“God bless.”
Buckminster turned to the technician seated at the computer terminal. “Are we a go?”
“Roger. All systems are a go.”
Buckminster turned to the POTUS. The POTUS nodded. Buckminster gave a thumbs up to the technician.
“...Five… Four… Three… Two… One…”
The tech seated at the computer depressed the enter key. The crudely fashioned rocket’s fuel, stored mere inches from Fricke’s feet ignited. The launch chamber filled with white smoke. The chamber's air vents whined as waves of oxygen rich air was exchanged for carbon dioxide. Fricke looked out helplessly from his portal window. His capsule thrusted upwards, slowly at first, then building momentum, up, up, up it ascended into the vertical air shaft. In moments, it was accelerating through the ductwork, its titanium- shielded nose puncturing the screens and fans and grates that barred the way. Up, up, up. The capsule, dubbed The Victory, climbed from its subterranean Hades, through the steel ducts and ventilation shafts that wove upwards through the geological strata. Up, up, up. The capsule began to rifle, spun by the patterned welds in the cylindrical shaft.
Buckminster, Haberdash, the POTUS, and the technicians in white lab coats watched the capsule cam of Dexter Fricke’s face. His cheeks rippled with vibrations. His eyes rolled back into his skull. Drool ran drawn down his chin and ran across his face, drawn out by the rifling action and the G forces generated in a roar of breaking covalent bonds. Up, up, up. The Victory spun towards the surface, rotating once per second. Fricke’s eyes rolled to the right. His foaming spittle ran horizontally across his right cheek. The technicians could not discern if he was still conscious. Up, up, up.
Then nothing. The feed went black.
The POTUS stared at the floor. Haberdash stared at Buckminster. Buckminster stared at the men in white lab coats.
“Did he make it? Haberdash asked.
“We’ve lost contact, explained a technician. “The Victory has passed through the Faraday barrier.”
Chapter 21
Due to his declining health, the POTUS began conducting all his briefings and meetings in the UltraBunker. He stopped returning to the Brown House at night and slept in the eight-foot by eight-foot safe room accessible by the reinforced steel door located on the wall directly behind his UltraBunker executive throme.
It had been three days since launching Fricke to the surface. During that time, the POTUS appointed Brock McGuinn to a newly created COG cabinet position titled Special Advisor/Presidential Life Coach. McGuinn’s oath of office was administered by Buckminster at the UltraBunker conference table.
“Raise your right hand... No Brock, your other right hand. There you go. Now repeat after me: I, Anheuser Brock McGuinn...”
Brock grinned; eyes glazed.
“Repeat after me, Brock: I, Anheuser Brock McGuinn...”
“I, Anheuser Brock McGuinn.”
“Do solemnly swear...”
“Do solemnly swear.”
“That I will faithfully advise the President of the United States...”
“That I will faithfully advise the POTUS.”
“According to the best of my abilities and my understanding...”
“According to my best capabilities and understandments.”
“Agreeably to the Constitution, and laws of the United States.”
“Agreeing with the Constitution and the United States.”
“So help me God.”
“So help me God. Amen.”
“You can put your hand down now, Brock.”
Brock grinned.
“I have big plans for you, Brock,” said the POTUS after congratulating him with a pat of his shaky hand. “Come. Have a seat here, next to me.” The POTUS pointed at the cushion of the leather high back chair placed next to his. Brock complied.
“So,” continued the POTUS to his COGCON special council of three plus Haberdash. They seemed lonely seated at the conference table with places for twenty. “What's on the agenda today?”
“World War Three, sir,” Buckminster answered.
The POTUS yawned. “All right. What's the latest report?”
“Well, we obviously cannot obtain any real information due to Protocol 4, so we have to rely entirely upon computer simulations. Our models are telling us that there is a 97% likelihood of widespread gasoline shortages occurring nationwide.”
“I thought we enacted price controls.”
“We did. But the models say that the price controls only exacerbated the problem.”
“Who programmed these god damn models?”
“The program was written by Megastat Inc. from San Jose, contracted by the Bureau of Labor and Statistics, sir.”
“Can I fire them?”
“You could, sir, if we could contact them, but there would be a $250 million early termination fee and the congresswoman from San Jose would be miffed. You’d probably lose her support for your No Education Resource Denied initiative. And even if we could send the order, there is no guarantee that they are still alive. Either way, it would not be possible for them to re-program the models.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do about it, then?”
“I think we need to implement rationing.”
“How would we implement it?”
“We can plug it into the simulation, but we’re going to need to enlist the oil companies, sir. They have the logistical wherewithal to actualize a directive.”
“Is there anyone from Big Oil we can reach out to that's down here in the bunker?”
“There is, sir. Do you know Brandeis Tex Cleveland?”
“The CANAMCO CEO? The billionaire who donates to that natural gas PAC?”
“That’s him. He’s waiting outside. Should I bring him in?”
The POTUS pondered, then turned to McGuinn. “What do you think, Brock?”
Brock shrugged, eyes still glazed, smirk etched within the frame of his chiseled jaw line.
“Have the new admin send him in.”
“Sorry sir, she didn't come in to work today. She emailed saying she was ill. Hab, would you please go and bring in Mr. Cleveland.
Hab stopped doodling and set down his notepad. He pushed back from his seat, straightened his Bermuda shorts, strode over to the door and opened it. Brandeis Tex Cleveland, a balding, barrel-chested man in his mid-sixties, was seated in a chair in the concrete corridor. He stood. He wore a navy suit with a pinstriped shirt and a belt clasped with a massive silver buckle emblazoned with a five-pointed star surrounded by an outline of the border-shape of Texas. He held a white, ten-gallon hat in his hands. He entered the UltraBunker and the POTUS rose to meet him and shook his hand. They both took their seats opposite each other.
“Thanks for coming, Mr. Cleveland.”
“My pleasure, Mr. President. Please, call me Tex,” he said with a grin that revealed one golden-capped canine tooth.
“You already know Bucky, and I'm not sure if you've met my new special advisor, Brock McGuinn.”
“Although I've never met Brock in person, I've been a big fan of his over the years… so long as he wasn't playing against Dallas.”
Brock was still smirking.
“To what do I owe this honor?” Tex asked in his beefy drawl.
“Well, we need your help, Tex.”
“Let's not forget about your beloved Longhorns, either,” Brock interrupted.
“Ah, yes,” Tex replied, with a tone of reluctant deference. “You must be referring to your big game against us. What’s it been, twenty years now? I must admit it took some time to get over that one.”
“Which game are we talking about?” Buckminster asked.
“I’m sure Brock is referring to the Raytheon-Boeing Fiesta Bowl. Michigan certainly got the best of us that day,” Tex demurred.
“I'd say, 'got the best of you' is a little bit of an understatement,” Brock clarified.
“Yeah, I guess it wasn't much of a game now, was it.”
“67 to 2, as I recall.”
“Well…” Tex replied, “…at least we scored.”
“Yeah, you only scored because we fumbled the second half kickoff and the ball rolled out the back of our own end zone.”
“I forgot all about that game,” the POTUS remarked. “Brock, how many passing yards did you have?”
“I was 31 of 38 for 534 yards and 7 TDs. And they took me out at halftime.”
“Can we get down to the business at hand, gentlemen?” asked Buckminster.
“Sure. Sure. Go ahead, Bucky. Tell the CEO what we have in mind.”
“So, as we are likely in the midst of global thermal nuclear war, we are encountering special circumstances and situations that will require a shared sacrifice by our corporate partners.”
“Shared sacrifice?” Tex asked.
“We are getting reports of widespread, nationwide fuel shortages.”
Tex winced with skepticism. “How can you know that? No one is supposed to have any contact with the surface. Do you have special communications equipment? Oh, the CIA must have laid some secret fiber during construction... I knew it!”
“Actually, none of that,” Buckminster explained. “This is what our computer simulations are telling us. They are pretty good at predicting socio-macroeconomic behavior. The Bureau of Stats has been using them for years, long before this place was even built. Hell, the BLS and the Treasury Department haven't published any real data in over a decade. Everything they report is simulation-based.”
“Hey, coach uses those computers too,” Brock added. “He says he can predict what the other coach will call on every play. Some say that's how we won the last three Super Bowls.”
“I see,” added Tex. “Then what do you want from me?”
“We are asking you to cooperate with FEMA in the allocation of fuel and implementation of price controls.”
“Oh boy. Now that’s a tall order, there.”
“Why so?”
“Well, for one, I can't communicate with the surface.”
“We are aware of that,” Buckminster replied. “CANAMCO’s compliance will be done virtually. We’ll just plug it into our computer models.”
“Oh…”
“We just need your signoff.”
Tex stared blankly.
“Your signoff so we can proceed,” Buckminster repeated.
Tex sighed.
“Do you have any questions?”
“What’s this fixin’ to cost me?”
“Nothing, Tex. All your costs and lost income will be reimbursed.”
“Yeah, but at what premium?”
“Premium?”
“Reimbursed at what percent margin? Fellas, CANAMCO ain’t in the business of doing your dirty work for nothin.”
“How’s ten percent?” Buckminster answered.
“Ten?”
“Okay, fifteen,” declared the POTUS.
“So, we get fifteen percent, plus pocket any enhanced margin.”
The POTUS glared at Buckminster as if to ask, ‘why did you bring this asshole in here?’
“Just to be clear,” Buckminster answered, “you’ll have to implement our regulatory and price controls. That’s part of the deal.”
“Why wouldn’t I just raise our prices. That’s sure enough a means of rationing… and CANAMCO keeps the profit.”
“Tex,” Buckminster remarked, “if you were to raise prices to market levels, that would seriously jeopardize the president's re-election chances in the Midwest. Indiana soccer moms won't vote for ‘Our Man Manfred’ if they can't afford to fill up their minivans.”
“Does Indiana even exist anymore?” Haberdash asked.
“Twenty percent!” the POTUS snapped. “That’s all I can do. It’s more than fair. If you don’t like it, I’ll talk to the boys over at Alabrasco.”
Tex pondered in stoic silence for a moment. He scratched his bald head, then rubbed the rim of his hat with his thumbs. Then his face brightened with a wide southern smile. “Gentlemen, CANAMCO is always happy to help America in her time of dire need. Where and when do we work out the details?” Tex began flipping through the pages of the agreement that was lying on the table. “The cost of implementing some of these logistical controls could get quite exorbitant. I’ll need to make sure our shareholders are protected.”
“You’ll be reimbursed fully. I guarantee it,” the POTUS affirmed.
“The costs are all outlined in the proposal. Those numbers come from our most detailed and accurate spreadsheet models,” Buckminster explained.
“Well, you have your spreadsheets and we have ours.”
“What else do you need, Tex?” asked the POTUS. “How can we get this done right now?”
“Frankly, I want signoff on my new refinery in Panama City.”
“Impossible. The greens would revolt. I'd lose Oregon and Hawaii in the general.”
“Yeah, but you'd win Florida, sir,” Buckminster advised. “We'll feed the jobs number statistics to the simulated cable news networks.”
“One Florida is worth way more than Oregon and Hawaii,” Tex added.
“Well, we think we can win Florida even without a jobs bump.”
“I still think it’s a tossup, sir.” Buckminster explained.
The POTUS scowled at Buckminster who was proving to be terrible at negotiation. “Brock, do you have any thoughts?”
Brock, who had never ceased smirking, replied: “All I know is we crushed Florida in the Lockheed Martin-General Dynamics Cotton Bowl my junior year!”
Tex forced a smile to cover up his building annoyance at McGuinn. “I’ll get back to you with our answer shortly, Mr. President.”
Chapter 22
The Save the Earth Gala was scheduled for the upcoming evening. Widespread gossip suggested that it might be canceled in lieu of nuclear Armageddon, but it was decided by the bunker superpowers that snubbing the environmentalist movement would be bad political optics.
The POTUS had his themed wardrobe brought down into the UltraBunker. Haberdash helped him dress, assisting with his buttons and his cummerbund. The presidential nurse was summoned, and a stoic Miss Baum appeared within moments, toting her medical bag. She removed a syringe, drew medicine from a vial, and plunged the needle into Arman Manfred’s upper arm. The president’s posture immediately stiffened, and his eyes brightened as the amphetamine took hold. He shooed Haberdash back and finished dressing himself. The expressionless Nurse Baum left once excused. Haberdash used a brush to sweep the lint from the back of the president’s baroque tuxedo and escorted him out of the UltraBunker, up the elevator shaft, and helped him into his bullet proof, executive golf cart.
The black motorcade spun along the gently arcing arterial roadway flanked by the monorail line on the left and a wall of roughly hewn stone on the right. They passed beneath an endless succession of white orb lights that cast everything in lunar harshness. After several minutes, the motorcade entered the facades beneath the canvas skies of Section F, stopping before the Ballroom Africana
The host delegation of African leadership met the POTUS as he arrived. Manfred greeted each of them and their escorts with a forced grin and a handshake. The gauntlet of festooned, propped dictators, multi-national corporate puppets, and media-contrived statesmen culminated at the President of Zimbabwe. He had grown quite fat since the two leaders had last met.
“Where is your… your significant other?” The POTUS asked.
The president of Zimbabwe was patting his belly when asked. He forced a toothy grin and nodded but didn’t answer.
The POTUS continued up the steps and into the ballroom foyer where he found a Napoleonic Buckminster waiting. They were instructed to wait behind a red curtain. The Mozart music soon faded and was replaced with Hail to The Chief. The curtain was pulled aside and the POTUS, with Haberdash in his muted navy coat and pantaloons, and Buckminster Bonaparte in tow, stepped into the cavernous, ornamented hall. The crowd— women adorned in shimmering, sack back gowns and petticoats and men with long, gold-fringed waist coats and knee breeches exposing silk stockings— turned their gaze to soak in the grand entrance and assess the festiveness and presence of the American contingent. With the elite American’s arrival, the Rococo-themed ‘Save The Earth Gala’ had achieved validation.
The POTUS shook a dozen more hands on his way down the aisle, stopping before a priest-like figure dressed in head-to-toe blood red robes, with a hood that covered his face. Suspended in the air above, feathered trapeze artists swung and flipped like exotic birds. Jugglers dressed as court jesters tossed ivory bones and skulls into the air. A massive, faceted disco ball fired multi-colored laser beams across the domed ceiling.
Buckminster stepped forward, bowed, and handed a decorated box to the POTUS who, in turn, presented it to the priest. The priest bowed and turned, slowly walking up the dais behind him. He placed the box upon a glass altar shaped in the form of two feminine hands emerging from the earth. The priest raised both his hands and muttered something in Latin. He reached down and lifted the lid on the box, releasing a white dove that flew upwards into the dome to the vigorous applause of the guests. The bird circled the disco ball three times until it was blinded by a laser beam at which point it fluttered outwards, crashing headfirst into the molding and dropping motionless onto a high ledge. The Mozart resumed and the POTUS was escorted off the ballroom floor and up to his box that overlooked the festivities.
The costumed patrons mingled and bowed and curtsied, weaving around a formation of twelve-foot-tall guide stones set in a Stonehenge pattern in the center of the floor. Acrobats in flesh-toned spandex twisted and spun and flung themselves through the air. At exactly eight o'clock, an army of tuxedoed staff infiltrated the maze of round tables carrying silver trays. They set them before the famished guests and lifted the cloches revealing the gourmet courses. The meals were carved and sliced with utensils that glimmered in the reflected laser beam light. They filled their mouths and chewed and swallowed and washed it down with vintage wine, spilling crimson droplets on their silk jabots. They smudged their lipstick with embroidered linen napkins and washed the grease off their fingers in crystal finger bowls. Occasionally, one gave pause and pondered what piss the survivors on the surface might be drinking now that war had begun.
During this feast, the order of what was soon to be a post war world was being arranged. Who would be doing the rebuilding? What would be rebuilt? Who was going to pay for it? Who was going to be left out and what would it take to buy their complicity? The New World Order metastasized with handshakes, nods, and toasts.
The final courses were devoured, and the army of tuxedoed servants infiltrated the maze of tables once again, like coiffed black lab rats, and snatched up all the trays and cleared all the tables and then they scurried out through the walls.
Seated in their balcony loft, the POTUS gestured to Buckminster who handed him his miniature field glasses. The POTUS put them to his eyes and scanned the crowd, searching for the president of China. With some difficulty, he found him seated in his box, barely recognizable in his powdered white wig, but identifiable by his thick eyeglass frames. He searched for Timoshenko and found him as well, dressed like a Romanov, with a blue silk sash draped over his shoulder and a saber sheathed in his belt.
The Mozart music stopped and was replaced with an eerie baritone— the low groan of a waking dragon. A spotlight shined within the guide stones and all eyes drew towards it. The discussions, that had turned toward the frivolous as the alcohol and opiates had taken hold, ceased with a hush. The window for deal-making had closed. The disco ball stopped spinning and the lasers went dark. The floor within the guide stones opened. The baritone drone grew louder. The patrons rose from their tables and gathered around the stones and the widening window into the abyss, with some still clutching their silver cutlery.
The servants appeared once again, encircling the patrons like a shadow, just as a platform rose from the depths. A jeweled crown appeared first, rising from the floor, then the priest in the red hood beneath it, then another altar, then upon the altar, a naked man and woman, entangled in thorns. The platform rose up past the floor-level forming another dais. It stopped and the groan of the dragon ceased with it.
The priest motioned as if in a form of genuflection, then he withdrew a blade from his hilt and with two gentle strokes, he cut through the necks of the naked man and the woman to the gasps of the audience. The servants stepped into the circle and handed the guests fine china plates and the patrons formed into a queue that passed by the dais where they received a slice of the marzipan man and woman cake.
A servant appeared in the presidential balcony to deliver their desert. Haberdash took his piece which contained a confectionary eyeball that stared up at him with unblinking courage as he sectioned it with his silver fork and delivered it to his tongue.
Finally, the last guest received their portion—Adam’s genitals, served to the president of Cambodia— and all that was left of the edible Adam and Eve was a bit of frosting vines and a section of Adam's right heel. The priest in the red robes and crown descended with the dais back down into the abyss within the floor.
Just as the well closed back up, a booming thunder shook the ballroom, so powerful that it knocked the dead dove loose from the ceiling ledge and downwards where it plunked onto the table where the English royals were seated, splattering the Duke of Watford Gap’s face with cream.
“What do you think that noise was?” asked Haberdash.
“Sounds like Fricke’s mission was a success,” answered Buckminster.
After a momentary pause of grim reflection concerning the end of the world as it was known, the party resumed, carrying on into the wee hours.
Chapter 23
“Mr. President…”
Buckminster knelt and knocked on the saferoom door located at the back of the UltraBunker. He listened as the locks turned. The steel door opened, and the stubbled face of President Manfred peered out. “You have an urgent call on the bat line, sir.” The POTUS crawled out into the conference room and took a seat on his executive throne. He combed his greasy black and gray hair back with his fingers and cleared his throat, then nodded to Buckminster who patched the call through to the wall mount monitor. The first lady’s image appeared.
“Veruca… This is a surprise.”
“Hello, Arman.”
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I’m calling to say goodbye, Arman.”
“Goodbye? You’ve been gone for weeks already.”
“This time it’s for good. You’ll never see me again. Ever.”
“We’re in a bunker, Veruca. There aren’t that many places to hide. Our paths are sure to cross.”
“No, they won’t. This is it.”
“Should I expect a call from your attorney at some point?”
“No.”
“So, you don’t want a divorce?”
“What would be the point?”
“To protect your inheritance.”
“Thanks to you, it no longer exists.”
“Oh, Veruca, are you going to kill yourself?”
The first lady cackled.
“I’ll understand if you do, Veruca. But I want you to know something… I’ll carry on just fine.”
“Still making everything all about you, Arman? I do have to thank you, though.”
“For what?”
“For reminding me of why I know there’s no hope for changing you.”
“Why would I want to change? I’m the President of the United Fucking States.”
The first lady winced.
“But I do need to ask about something before you go…” the POTUS continued.
“I figured you would.”
“Not that it really matters because we’re going to spin it to our advantage.”
“You don’t have to worry, Arman. Your little sex video is safe.”
“You mean you didn’t give it to the Russians?”
“They’ve seen it, but they don’t have it.”
“You just kept it as a bargaining chip, then?”
“You see? I’m not as stupid as you think.”
The POTUS glanced at Buckminster who could hardly contain his bubbling glee. “May I ask what prompted you to change your mind about releasing it?”
“What would be the purpose? To humiliate you? You’ve already ordered the destruction of the world. I don’t think anything could be done to worsen your reputation as a human being. If anything, seeing you in your throes of passion with that fat little Frank Tibbles might actually humanize you in some people’s eyes.”
“I suppose you want me to thank you, now?”
“You’re welcome, asshole. Goodbye.”
The screen went dark.
“This is great news, sir!” Buckminster shouted enthusiastically while pumping his fist.
“Indeed, it is. Pour me a brandy. I feel like I’ve just cut a giant millstone loose. What a relief.”
Buckminster filled a snifter and set it next to the POTUS. “I’ve brought doughnuts if you’re hungry.”
Manfred glanced at the box. “We might as well keep it going. What’s on the agenda?”
“Did you get a chance to review my force redeployment directive? If you would sign off, I can issue the order to—”
“Issue the order to whom?” Manfred asked. “No orders are getting out and the nukes have already been launched.”
“Sir, conditions are constantly evolving. I think we should continue to implement our strategy.”
“Strategy for what? You heard the explosion last night. There's nothing left to strategize.”
“If the surface has been vaporized then it is what it is, but we don't have confirmation of that. I believe we need to continue to act as if there is still a nation to govern up above. Just in case…”
“Fine. I'll sign it. There.”
A sinister energy pumped through the president's veins. He pushed himself upright in his chair and coughed a bit to dislodge some phlegm. Then he rubbed his stubble. Haberdash, whom the POTUS had not even noticed, reached his hand across the conference table and grabbed a strudel.
“Bucky…”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“How can we get some intelligence on what is happening on the surface?”
“Sir, the only way I know of would be for you and Hu Li and Dmitriy to get together and agree to end Protocol 4 again.”
“Again?” Manfred laughed. “That’s never happening. That's exactly what they want me to do, to come groveling over to them and beg them to open the doors. The POTUS never grovels, Bucky. Groveling is defeatist and America is never defeated.”
“What about Vietnam?” Haberdash asked, ejecting crumbs of sweet bread as he spoke.
“America never surrenders...”
“What about the Philippines in WW2?”
“America never surrenders… without dignity.” The POTUS slouched back into his chair. “We always end everything on our terms.”
“What about Beirut? Iraq? Libya?”
There was a faint knock at the door, after which Nurse Baum entered pushing in a cart.
“It's time for your shot, Mr. President,” she said.
“I don’t think I need it, today. I’m feeling good.”
“It will help you get through the day, sir,” Buckminster added.
Baum wheeled the cart next to the president. She gazed down at him like a robot while mechanically pulling on two latex gloves that she released with a snap. She rolled up the president's right sleeve. Then she tore open a foil packet containing an alcohol swab and wiped the surface of his bicep. Next, she grabbed a plastic pouch off the cart and tore it open with her teeth, producing a needle with an orange safety cap. She clamped down on the cap with her incisors and pulled the needle free. With the orange cap still lodged between her teeth, she aimed the needle at the president's arm. She plunged it in and withdrew it, re-affixed the cap, and dropped it in a plastic jug. Fricke watched as the president's expression and posture brightened while Baum took his pulse.
“How are you feeling now, sir?” she asked.
“Even better.”
“I’m sure you have a long, busy day ahead.”
“Every day is long and busy, my dear… when you’re the president.” He turned to Buckminster. “What else do we have on the agenda?”
“Ag Secretary Roseman.”
“Is he here already?”
“He’s been waiting patiently for three hours.”
“Send him in.”
“Mr. President,” Baum asked.
“What?”
“I was wondering if I might make a request.”
“This is not the appropriate time,” Buckminster scolded.
“Go ahead, my dear. But make it quick.”
“Do you need any volunteers to go up in one of those missiles you built? You know, to deliver your orders. I would definitely go if asked.”
“Why would you want to go? You’d die.”
“It’s my daughter, sir. I'd like to go be with my daughter if she’s still alive.”
The president reached up and gently clasped Nurse Baum's forearm, his face beaming contrived sympathy. It appeared as if tears were welling up in his eyes while his chin faintly quivered. Baum looked down at him hopefully.
“I'm afraid that's impossible, honey,” he answered.
The secretary of agriculture entered the room. Baum withdrew her arm and pushed her cart past him on her way out.
“What can I do for you, Vic?”
“Mr. President, thank you for seeing me. It's the god damn Canadians, again. They refuse to curb their illegal dumping of genetically modified sorghum flour surplus on our markets. This is in total violation of our trade agreement.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the Canadian Department of Agriculture just published their quarterly report and it shows no reduction in their exports.”
“Where are they getting their data?”
“It's from their regression-based statistical inference… a computer simulation, sir.”
“What do you suggest we do about it?” asked the POTUS.
“Tariffs, sir. Slap some tariffs on those motherfucker Canucks. That'll teach them.”
“I like your thinking: teach America Junior a lesson. Do you have the executive order drafted for my review?”
“Right here, sir.”
The president signed it with a scribble. “Let me know how it goes.”
“Will do, Mr. President.”
“Is there anyone else?” the POTUS asked.
“Secretary of education,” Buckminster replied.
“Send her in.”
“Good morning Mr. President.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Lebsock.”
“I trust you are feeling better, sir?”
“Much improved. Much improved. What have you got for me?”
“Well, I need to brief you on a little situation brewing in Alabama.”
“What of it?”
“Well, I am hearing rumblings that their state legislature intends to vote to nullify the federal No Education Resource Denied program and spend their grant money on alternative special education programs.”
“What?”
“We don't even know that Alabama exists,” Haberdash remarked as he reached for a second strudel.
“Sir,” Mrs. Lebsock continued, “I heard it directly from the governor himself... last night, during the Save The Earth Gala.”
“Those god damn deplorables. You tell Governor Hogge that if he signs that legislation, I will get his transportation funding slashed.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Who's next?”
“Housing and Urban Development.”
“Send Cumberland in. Tom, how the hell are ya?”
“Great, sir.”
“What can I do for you?”
“The Orange County project... we talked about it last week.”
“Ah yes. You need funding.”
“I do.”
“Have you talked to Stu?”
“I have. He said that if you gave a verbal, he would earmark it in the budget committee meeting coming up.”
“Tell him I'm on board. Are they still going to build that petting zoo in the courtyard?”
“They are sir.”
“Excellent. Those poor colored kids need exposure to wildlife. It's good for them.”
“I am very aware that the petting zoo is your pet project, if you would excuse the pun. We all love the idea. And at one hundred and seventy million dollars, the zoo's cost is practically nothing.”
“Thank you, Tom.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. Oh, and when this is all over, we'd like to invite you and the first lady to spend a couple nights in our little cabin in Aspen. It has a helipad so you can get in and out pretty easy.”
“Tom, If Aspen is still there, I'll be there.”
#
The meetings continued in this manner for ninety minutes. Finally, they came to the subject of Manfred’s re-election campaign.
“What are the simulated polling numbers saying, Bucky?”
“We’re where we need to be, Mr. President.”
“What does that mean?”
“We’re within striking distance of the lead. We’ll hit Iowa hard with an ad blitz before the caucuses.”
“What’s the theme?”
“Wartime president, sir. We can’t afford to change leadership during an existential crisis.”
“Can I see the ad?”
“Certainly.”
Buckminster thumbed the buttons on a remote control and the wall monitor came to life.
Ominous music. A grim female voice.
“In an increasingly dangerous world…”
A first-person view of someone stumbling through a murky forest.
“Before the nuclear attack on America…”
The visage of a stalking wolf.
“Senator Mortimer voted to slash military spending…”
A montage of newspaper headlines touting spending cuts.
“…and weakened America’s defenses.”
An unflattering picture of a smirking Senator Mortimer riding in the turret of a tank with an oversized helmet tilting awkwardly on his head.
Cut to a pack of wolves.
“And weakness encouraged our enemies to attack…”
Happy music.
President Manfred appears, talking on the phone, looking presidential.
America needs proven leadership. America needs to stay the course. America needs Our Man!
“I’m Arman Manfred and I approve this message.”
“What do you think, sir?”
“I love it.”
“We’re uploading it into the campaign computer simulation today. And with Brock on the ticket as your Veep, and the whole gay sex thing out of the way, we can really take the offensive now.”
“What did you say?”
“The gay thing, sir? I’m sorry, I should have—”
“What are you talking about?”
“You and Frank, the video, the gay thing…”
“I already told you I’m not gay, Bucky. There is no gay thing.”
“Right. Understood, sir. Hang on, I have a call.”
“Who is it?”
“Oh, it’s Tex Cleveland.”
“Excellent. He’s finally ready to sign for CANAMCO. Put him on the monitor.”
Cleveland’s face appeared on screen.
“Tex, how’ve you been?” asked the POTUS.
“Is this Bucky?”
“No, it’s the POTUS. Bucky put you on the monitor.”
“I see.”
“What can I do for you, Tex? I probably shouldn’t tell you this but I’m having a great day so far. I’m anticipating it’s going to get better.”
“Sir, I am just calling to let you know that CANAMCO has declined your proposal.”
The POTUS stared in disbelief. “What?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Tex?”
“I’m sorry, but the board simply can’t agree to the terms, Mr. President.”
“But Tex, you’re the only board member left.”
“Regardless, we’ve decided to decline your proposal.”
“We had a deal, Tex. What the hell is going on?”
“Well, after talking it over with my wife, I’ve decided to go in another direction.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, it means that I’m throwing my hat in the ring.”
“Throwing your hat in the ring for what?”
“I’m running for president, Arman.”
“As what? A democrat?”
“No. As a republican?”
“Afraid so. We’ve got great backing. Hundreds of millions in the bank. It seems there are a lot of directors and executives down here that are really pissed off about you nuking their corporate empires and vacation homes.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It didn’t take much effort convincing them. Them board member types usually don’t like uncertainty. But they’ve decided to back someone other than the man who blew up the world.”
“Tex, don’t do this. You’re wasting everyone’s time and money. Throw your support to me and I’ll get you a cabinet position.”
“No can do, Arman. It’s already in motion. We announce today.”
“Why are you doing this? This makes no sense.”
“It has to be done, Arman. You must be defeated. You and that smug punk of a quarterback you call a running mate. I’m gonna bury you two bastards and I’m gonna love every minute of it.”
The POTUS was speechless.
“Hook ‘em Horns.” Tex gestured before he disconnected.
Chapter 24
Nurse Baum had barely slept for a week. The fate of her daughter consumed her thoughts, filling her with despair. Most of the Greys felt this way, having been separated from their loved ones on the surface and presuming them to be incinerated or dispersed by the mass destruction. Yet Emma Baum and the thousands of other guest workers carried on with their duties, imprisoned in the SuperBunker, subject to the perplexed or often indignant stares of their underworld masters. The elites just couldn’t comprehend why the Greys weren't more grateful for being spared.
Emma opened her eyes and turned to the cot next to her. It was vacant and had been so for the last three nights. She got up, grabbed her duffle, slid her slippers on, and navigated the maze of snoring, staring, weeping, coughing co-workers to make her way to the changing stalls. Once dressed, she went to the lockers where she fixed up her hair. She no longer wore makeup in hopes of currying the president's favor as a rumor had spread that the POTUS had gone insane and murdered his gay lover in an apocalyptic rage, deep in the inner catacombs.
Emma Baum stared at the contents of her locker, focusing on the vial of phenobarbital she had swiped from the pharmacy. She buried it with her duffel bag and removed her handbag from her locker. She walked out of the dorm and onto the avenue. The canvas sky, high above, was clear blue, and the simulating orb lights were soft and yellow. She strolled past the boutiques that were preparing to open for business: the designer barista, the fine clothier, the waxing salon, the cigar shop, the cosmetics emporium— each manned by glum-faced Greys. She forced herself to keep her eyes focused directly ahead as she walked.
“Psst,” hissed a voice from behind.
Emma dismissed it and continued to walk.
“Wait!”
She redoubled her pace, turning slightly and catching a glimpse of a figure stepping out from the alley she had passed. She pressed on hoping whoever it was would relent, but the footsteps gained. She turned to see who was pursuing her. He was a shadowy man with a high collar coat, sunglasses, and a Gatsby hat pulled down low on his forehead. She still had a few hundred meters to go to the safety and security of the medical center security queue. Surely, he wouldn’t attempt anything out in the open.
“Hold up!”
Baum broke into a trot. Her mind raced. “What did I do?” She immediately thought of the phenobarbital she had. Busted!
“Emma,” the voice called.
The voice was familiar.
“Nurse Baum, I have something for you.”
They were both standing in the avenue, passed in both directions by a steady stream of elites dressed down in designer fleece sweatpants, exotic sneakers, highlighted hair pulled or slicked back, faces masked in thousand-dollar sunglasses.
“Nurse Baum, it's me.”
She recognized the voice. “Mr. Fricke?”
“Yes.”
She started to turn.
“No, don’t!” he ordered. “The camera AI will catch it as a suspicious gesture and hone in.”
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
Just then, a portly security guard on a Mo-Mo rolled up. She pretended to check her screen until the gendarme was safely past.
“No time for that. I have a very important favor to ask.”
“What is it? I don’t want any to get involved in anything.”
“I just need you to deliver a message.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re the only Grey I can trust at the moment.”
“Why would you trust me?”
“Because we have something you want in return.”
Baum immediately thought of her daughter. “And what would that be?”
“It will be well worth it for you.”
“What does that mean?”
“That’s all I can say, for now. Just trust me.”
Even if her instincts told her it was most likely a bureaucrat’s bullshit, she had nothing to lose. A fleeting hope rooted in bullshit was better than total emptiness.
“Who am I delivering it to?”
“It'll say on the message.”
“What is the message?”
“I'll walk past you and place a card in your handbag. It has instructions written on it.”
“Is it top secret? What if I read it?”
“It doesn't matter if you read it. Just deliver it. Do that and I will come for you.”
Baum nodded her head in agreement. Fricke walked past her and slipped the card into her bag with an imperceptible sweep of his hand.
“I'll find you after,” he whispered as he walked past. “You must be ready to come with me at any moment. And don’t speak of this to anyone.” He kept walking ahead, turning left into a vegan confectionary.
Baum walked on to the hospital. She turned off the mall avenue and passed through the automatic sliding glass doors, past the desk, and into the security queue. Once through the imaging detector, manned by another sullen Grey, she boarded an elevator. She ran her thumb along the ridge of the heavy paper card as the lift carried her down. She dared not remove it as there were cameras recording every movement. She waited until the door opened and she was out in the hallway. There, she plucked the card from her bag. Holding it at her waist as she walked, she glanced down to read it. The face of the card was addressed:
To: V
C/O Mr. Quixote
1569 Section L
She unfolded the white cardstock paper card. Inside was a note, hand-scrawled in blue, fountain pen ink... a note consisting of one word:
Guacamole
Chapter 25
To V.
C/O Mr. Quixote
1569 Section L
Emma Baum stared at the note, being careful not to appear conspicuous. She had stared at it many times over the previous three days. She was riding the monorail, whirling along the SuperBunker arc towards the Latin America section— Section L. She found an open seat which was unusual as the trains at that time were perpetually standing room only.
The Asia section flew past in the windows. Billboards covered every surface, picturing glamorous, symmetrical, flawless Asian faces, layered over vistas of aquamarine surf and sugar sand beaches and mountain pinnacles framing airbrushed, luminescent melon sunsets. Words flashed and scrolled in oriental characters, sentences each punctuated with national flags. The elites were out and about upon the avenues, sipping their tea and snorting their powders, bathing in the pristine, climate-controlled, bug-free, ersatz world of the SuperBunker… in their prescription-induced fogs.
The Greys served them dutifully, if not enthusiastically. In the Asian section, the workers stood apart with their pasty skin and fair hair—when it wasn't died blue or green or some such. European guest workers were assigned to the Asian section. The race of the guest worker caste always differed from that of the host elites. This was by design. The sociologists had determined that elites would feel less dissonance and discomfort when their servants were not of the same racial heritage. In Section N, the North America section, the Greys were of brown skin and dark hair and round faces and short stature. In Section E, the prole class was comprised of sinewy North Africans and Middle Easterners. When the monorail stopped at the border between Section A and Section L, white workers boarded, and black workers got off. The Greys that worked the Latin American facilities and serviced the Latin American elites were entirely African or Aboriginal.
Baum stepped off with the crowd of uniformed passengers who quickly dispersed in the directions of their myriad destinations. She passed through an RFID tracking gate, down an escalator, and onto the colorful avenues of Imperium Hispanicum. She passed under the gaze of statues of Simon Bolivar and Che Guevara and soon found avenue 1000, then block 500 and unit 69 without trouble. She entered a cozy, terra cotta cafe and sat at a small round table surfaced in bright tiles, facing the pedestrian avenue. An image of President Manfred giving a campaign speech with scrolling Spanish subtitles filled the television monitor behind the coffee bar. His strained grin, and baggy, drooping eyes divulged the wear and tear of an intense campaign. The simulated election was expected to be close. Baum was greeted moments later.
“Buenos dias,” chimed a Nubian server topped in a wreath of interwoven braids.
“Hello,” Baum replied.
“Ingles?”
“Yes please.”
“What will you to order?” she asked in shaky English.
“I'm only here to make a delivery.”
“Oh?”
Baum reached into her bag and withdrew the envelope. “I have something I am to deliver to a Mr. Quixote. Is he here?”
The server's lips pursed in confusion. “Who do you say?”
“I'm looking for a Mr. Quixote. Is he here?”
The server pondered. “I am not know any Senor Quixote.”
“Are you sure? My instructions say I am to give him this card here, at this address.”
“May I see?”
Baum was apprehensive but relinquished the envelope after considering the simple, cryptic note it contained. The server examined the envelope. Then she examined Baum. She handed it back. “One moment, please,” she said in faultless English, and she went off behind the counter and through a door into the back.
Baum turned to watch the passersby as she waited, noticing it looked like a typical sunny midday on the surface, betrayed only by the soft multiple shadows cast by the diffuse overhead lighting rather than the hard-edged shade made by a true sun. The server returned within two minutes.
“Mr. Quixote will see you now,” she remarked before drifting into a back room.
Baum tried to call after her to no avail.
“Hello, Miss Baum,” came a voice from behind.
She turned to find a Chinese face stretched up from behind his laptop screen.
“How did you know my name?”
“You were expected.”
“You’re Mr. Quixote, then?”
“For our purposes, yes.”
“I am supposed to give you something.”
“That card you’re holding, I presume?”
“Yes. But how do I know you really are Mr. Quixote?”
Quixote grinned. “Is your note addressed to V?”
Baum nodded.
“Have you read the note inside?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Does it say 'Guacamole' or 'Habanero'?”
Now convinced of Quixote's authenticity, she handed the card over. “See for yourself.” He reached out to retrieve it and opened it up, read it, nodded, and tucked it into his shirt pocket.
“Do you have any idea about what's happening?” he asked, probing her mind with his intense gaze.
“No,” Baum answered. “Are you going to tell me?”
“No. I’m afraid it’s too dangerous for you to know right at this moment. You wouldn't want to know, anyway. It would be hard to get through your days with that knowledge, being unable to share it. But you'll know everything soon enough. I promise you that. I’ll say that big changes are coming soon.”
“Should I be worried?”
“No. You should be hopeful.”
“What reason is there for hope? Hasn't the world been destroyed?”
“Live in your hopes, Miss Baum, not your fears.”
“Well, when will I find out?”
“Days. A week or two at the most. Just be ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“Be ready to trust.”
Chapter 26
“Thank you. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.” President Manfred waved at the crowd of summoned Greys from behind his teleprompter. A Manfred/McGuinn campaign banner formed a backdrop. The “u” in “McGuinn” was fashioned into a goal post. “Tonight, America goes to the polls to exercise their unalienable right to choose their rulers. It's been a long, hard-fought campaign. And these have been trying times. We have battled an opponent in this race hardened by decades of corporate profiteering and pillaging of the environment, but we know our message of ‘staying the course and rebuilding America’ is a winning message.”
Smattering of applause.
“America loves a winner. My running mate, Brock McGuinn, is the embodiment of a winner— the winningest quarterback in football history! He brings the spirit of a champion to the Brown House, for now, and to the White House after we rebuild it!”
Brock McGuinn grinned.
Applause.
“My fellow Americans, we had to make some tough choices. Leadership is never easy. But we are firm believers that America should always stand by her convictions and never, never surrender. Americans do not stand on the sidelines. They get into the game. So do your patriotic duty and go to the polls and exercise your right. Remember to vote for your champions.”
Applause.
The POTUS held up Brock McGuinn's fist and smiled and nodded. A Cheshire grin remained frozen into McGuinn's face. His chin dimple was made especially prominent by the makeup team and lighting. The POTUS released Brock's fist then gestured for him to take center stage. Buckminster, dressed in his military dress uniform, entered the frame and crouched down over a red, white, and blue football. Brock got behind him, placed his hands between Buckminster’s legs, under his crotch, and barked out the signals. “Red eighty-eight! Red eighty-eight! Ohio! Ohio! Hu-hut!” Brock took the snap, dropped back, planted his back foot, and fired a bullet pass that rifled just over the heads of the crowd, finally hitting a bespectacled Grey in the face some fifty yards away, dislodging his glasses upon impact. The crowd went bananas. Brock raised his hands to signify a touchdown. The crowd cheered even louder. Brock pumped his fist. The crowd started jumping up and down, some started to weep. A few wetted themselves in the excitement. Then the loudspeakers began the opening chords of the Saxon football team fight song. When concluded, the crowd broke off into a fevered chorus of ‘Don't Stop Believin’ by Journey.”
The surveillance cameras captured everything that happened, converted it to code, and fed it into the supercomputer election algorithm.
POTUS and Brock and Buckminster shook a few more hands and retreated into the UltraBunker to watch the election returns. Buckminster turned on BNN. Haberdash poured everyone a brandy. Brock stood with his hands on his hips, leering at the screen.
“How're we looking?” Haberdash asked.
“It's early,” Buckminster replied. “The polls haven't closed on the East Coast.”
“Can someone explain why this whole process isn't just instantaneous? Can’t they just push a button and have it over with?” asked the POTUS.
“Sir,” Buckminster explained. “An authentic, reliable modeling of the voting decisions of every single potential voter from a voter population of over two hundred million requires a very complex computer simulation. Every conceivable voter parameter has been included. Unemployment rates. Price levels. Foreign policy decisions. The stock market indices. Consumer confidence. The time of day. The results of other states. The results of the past Super Bowl...”
“I was MVP!” shouted Brock McGuinn.
“...The simulated eastern time zone results, as reported by BNN, impact voters in the west. That parameter must be applied sequentially. There really is no way to get the most accurate simulation without processing it in real time.”
The POTUS downed his brandy and watched the television avatars break down the results.
“...and here is Wolford with the latest results in Florida where polls have just closed. Wolford...
“Thanks DeForest. We are getting simulated results in from the panhandle precincts. President Manfred has a slim lead in Broward country, which is strongly democrat, but will it hold up? Let's have a look. If Tex Cleveland can win these seven counties, all historically republican counties, he will probably have enough to win Florida.”
“Shit!” cursed the POTUS. “Why did we only get 55% in Broward county? Bucky?”
“I don't know what's happening there, sir. I'll call my people in the IT department.”
“Tell them we should be getting 65% in Broward. Those damn Mexi-Jews always vote democrat. This is wrong. The simulation is broken.”
“I think they're Cubans, sir, not Mexican, and they tend to be more conservative.”
“I don't care what you want to call them. They should be voting for democrats. What the hell is going on?”
Buckminster made a call on his cell.
Brock tossed the red, white, and blue football to himself.
Haberdash, who was already on his second brandy, began watching BNN intently.
A faint knock came from behind the UltraBunker blast door.
“Who is it?” the POTUS asked.
“It's Nurse Baum, sir.”
“Yes, yes. I'm sorry there is no one there to let you in. My assistant has not been reporting for duty. Hab, will you let her in please?”
“Sure.” Haberdash got up from his chair and backstepped to the blast door without taking his eyes off the screen or spilling his snifter.
“Oh, for the love of Christ!” shouted the POTUS. The returns from Virginia were flashing on the screen. Tex Cleveland was the projected winner. “What in the fuck is going on?”
Haberdash opened the door and Nurse Baum rolled her cart in. The POTUS stood up to curse the screen, but took a seat when Baum pulled up next to him. She took his vitals while he fumed.
Brock raised the red, white, and blue ball to his ear and feigned a throwing motion.
Buckminster made more calls on his cell.
“Bucky!” the POTUS shouted.
Nurse Baum wiped a spot on the president's arm with an alcohol swipe.
“Bucky! What the hell?”
“I don't have any information yet, sir.”
Nurse Baum removed a needle from a plastic package, bit off the cap, and flicked loose the tiny air bubbles.
The avatars on the monitor discussed the surprising victories for Cleveland. “It's going to make things interesting,” one remarked.
“Bucky!”
“Just a moment, Mr. President.”
The POTUS leaned back in his chair, trying to calm himself while awaiting his injection.
Haberdash picked over the adjacent buffet tray.
Nurse Baum reached in to administer the shot.
“BNN is now projecting republican Tex Cleveland as the winner of North Carolina.”
“What the fuck, Bucky?! Who are you talking to? Here, give me that goddamn phone.”
Bucky handed his cell to the POTUS.
“Hello. Who the fuck is this? Chester? Chester who? You listen to me, Chester, you go find out what the hell is going on or it's your ass. Do you hear me?” He handed the phone back to Buckminster.
“What do you want me to do, Mr. President?”
“What do you want me to do?” the POTUS nasally mocked, then glanced over at Brock who carefully laid his ball down on the conference table, then crossed his arms and glared at Buckminster. “You're my campaign manager, Bucky. Start managing things.”
“I don't know what I am supposed to do, Mr. President. I'm hopeful things will turn around in New York. New York is always blue.”
“I don't want any excuses,” the POTUS replied. “Brock, do you like excuses?”
“We don't make excuses,” Brock answered. “Champions don't make them. One time, we got down by 21 points to Denver due to some really bad calls and a bunch of guys on I.R., but did we make excuses? Hell no! We sucked it up and started making plays... came back and won that one in overtime.”
“Yeah! yeah!” the POTUS interrupted. “Do you hear that Bucky? No excuses.”
“What should I do then?” Buckminster asked.
“You get on the phone to that Broward County and make sure they find some missing ballots.”
“Some missing ballots, sir?”
“Some missing ballots, sir?” the POTUS mocked again. “Yeah. Missing ballots. Like they missed an entire truckload of them or something. Get them tabulated. We gotta have Florida.”
“Sir, this is a computer simulation.”
“No excuses!” Brock barked.
“Find a way, Bucky,” added the POTUS.
“But sir,” Buckminster continued. “How do I engineer a truckload of ballots to show up in a computer simulation?”
“Not my fucking problem. Figure it out.” The POTUS fell back into his chair and presented his arm to Nurse Baum who promptly injected him. He exhaled and relaxed and barely stirred when it was announced minutes later that New York had gone to Cleveland.
“We still have Texas and California,” Haberdash offered…
…But by 9 PM standard bunker time, it was all over. BNN called the race in Texas for Cleveland which put him over the top. Manfred had lost. Not only had he lost, but he had lost every single state except one— Connecticut— which is where Brock McGuinn's Saxons played their home games.
“I don't understand,” lamented Buckminster. “You're a war time president. War time presidents never lose.”
“Now you're just a one-and-done,” Brock pined. “Like those losers Bush and Carter and the Eagles.”
“I just don't get it,” Buckminster moaned as he paced the room. The POTUS reclined in his chair, barely lucid. Buckminster shuffled over to the president's side. “Mr. President,” he asked in a timid tone. “I think we may need to make the call to President Elect Cleveland.”
“What the hell for?”
“To concede.”
“Why?”
“Well, because it's what the losers do, sir. They call and concede. It’s a gesture that promotes national unity. It helps us to move forward as one republic.” Buckminster presented his phone to the POTUS as if he was a waiter presenting the check. The POTUS stared at it, his expression darkening.
“Buck…”
“Yes sir?”
“You can take that phone of yours and shove it straight up your ass.”
“Sir?”
“You heard me.”
“But...”
“I'm not conceding anything.”
Just then, Buckminster's phone rang.
“Who is it?” asked the POTUS.
“Uh, it's Tex Cleveland, sir.”
The POTUS stared at Buckminster, lost in his diabolical thoughts.
The phone rang again.
Brock stared at the POTUS.
Haberdash piled caviar onto a cracker.
“Should I answer, sir?”
The POTUS broke from his trance. “Sure. Put him on speaker... Hello! Who is it?”
“I have President Elect Brandeis Tex Cleveland on the line. Are we speaking to the president?”
“You are.”
Ruffling sounds.
“Hello, hello Mr. President.”
“Tex. What do you want?”
“I was expecting a call from you.”
“Were you?”
“Oklahoma just came in. I'm over 270 electoral votes.”
“Congratulations.”
“Aren’t you going to concede?”
“Sure. Congratulations for winning a rigged computer simulation.”
“Don’t be a sore loser. Hey, is Brock there?”
“He’s here. You're on speaker.”
“Hey Brock…”
“Yeah. What do you want?”
“What did you think about that ass-whoopin we put on you tonight? I can't recall any presidential election ever being a shutout.”
“It wasn't a shutout,” Brock snapped in a shrill voice that sounded as if he was choking back tears.
“Oh, right. You guys won Connecticut. Still, 531 to 7, that's an ass-kicking for the record books.”
“You don't have 531. We still have a chance to win the west coast and make a game of it.”
“No way, Brock. We're running up the score. We’re gonna rub your fucking nose in shit all the way up until the polls close in Guam. We want all the remaining votes, every last one. Hell, we might even contest Connecticut. You only won that by half a percent.”
Brock tried to speak but stopped when his voice came out as a squeak.
“You all have a pleasant evening.” Cleveland signed off.
“That bastard!” The POTUS slammed his fist.
Brock massaged his eyelids to prevent tears from bursting out and rolling down his face.
Bucky slouched in dejection. “Sir, what should we do?”
“Shut the fuck up, Bucky! I'm not conceding that I lost an election that didn't even happen.”
“But sir, that would be an abuse of power.”
“I said I'm not conceding. I demand a real election, with real voters and ballots, where most of the rules are enforced.”
Buckminster looked dumbfounded.
“Get that stupid look off your face, Bucky. Now listen to me…”
“Yes sir?”
Listen carefully.”
“I’m listening, sir.”
“You're fired! Now get the hell out of here and don't come back.”
“Sir?”
“Get lost!”
Buckminster stared at the president, then glanced at Haberdash who shrugged before shoving another cracker piled with caviar into his mouth. With nothing left to say, he stormed out.
“Brock...”
“Yes sir?”
“I'm promoting you to chief of staff. Can you handle that?”
“I don’t see why not? I was a walk-on at Michigan.”
Chapter 27
The day after the election, SuperBunker life carried on as it always had. The oxygen bars, hemoglobin cafes, and aromatherapy boutiques brimmed with plucked elites just as they had the day before, and the day before that. The monorails ran on time. The virtual sun rose according to its program. The ambient sounds of simulated chirping birds started on cue. At Ten O'clock Bunker Standard Time, the president's face appeared on every screen in the North American Zone.
“My fellow Americans... The first lady and I have been so touched by all the encouragement we’ve received over the past few weeks. Today, it’s my turn to give thanks. We've been through some difficult times together. Whether we have seen eye-to-eye or rarely agreed at all, the conversations I've had with you are what have kept me inspired and kept me going. You made me a better president, and you made me a better man.
“After four years as your leader, I still believe in the beating heart of our American ideal— our bold experiment in self-government. It’s the conviction that we are all created equal, endowed by our Creator with certain unalienable rights, among them life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It’s the insistence that these rights, while self-evident, have never been self-executing; that we, the people, through the instrument of our democracy, can form a more perfect union.
“This is what we mean when we say America is exceptional. Not that our nation's been flawless from the start, but that we have shown the capacity to change, and make life better for those who follow. The work of democracy has always been hard; it's always been contentious. Sometimes it's been bloody. For every two steps forward, it often feels that we take one step back. But the long sweep of America has been defined by forward motion.
“Tomorrow, the world will witness a hallmark of our democracy. We will all bear witness to the system of checks and balances, as memorialized in our Constitution. These checks and balances, envisioned and implemented by our founding fathers, have ensured the continued existence of our exceptional nation for a quarter of a thousand years.
“Elections cannot be conducted in an atmosphere of rancor. Nor can they be simulated. Real men and women and… and the non-binary types must exercise their franchise. A true election involving human beings is good for this country. Anything else is anathema to freedom. The founding fathers were very clear— that true elections are to decide who our representatives shall be. So, let us continue to work together to anticipate the challenges and address those challenges because we have the capacity to do so.
“Therefore, after long deliberation, I have decided that I must continue to serve as your president until we can hold a true presidential election, one to be decided by the actual surviving voters of this nation. As president of the United States, it is my patriotic duty to suspend democracy in order to save democracy… until we can hold real elections.
“Thank you. God bless you. And God bless the United States of America.”
All of this barely penetrated the consciousness of the elites who were sipping their designer coffees, performing their yoga poses, selecting their specialty bath salts, or engaging in their sessions of hair removal.
The Greys were too busy to take note of the machinations of the executive, either. With so many of them having gone missing from their posts, the work shifts of the remainders had been increased out of sheer necessity. Every day for them was becoming a drudgery. What was happening to their ranks? One grim rumor took root within their minds: that they were being systematically liquidated, disappeared by the gendarme of the elites, one at a time, secretly, so as not to foment a panic, in order to extend the stores of finite provisions. The Greys simply could not bring themselves to believe in the murderous nature of their masters. To accept that horror meant they would be compelled to act for their self-preservation. No more than a handful of Greys was prepared to do that, so they instead persuaded themselves it was all just a wild conspiracy theory and carried on as they had.
Nurse Baum was half-watching the president’s speech on the ubiquitous BNN monitors while in transit between shifts. But she was distracted by the sensation of being stared at from behind. The monorail decelerated into the station and Baum gathered herself to step out onto the platform. Once off, she glanced back over her shoulder, noting a man in a black jogging suit and sunglasses. This was the moment she was anticipating. What will I do? She asked herself. She held eye contact with him for a moment, then walked to an empty bench and took a seat. The man in black looked both directions, then walked over to her and took the seat beside her.
“Miss Baum?” he whispered, while watching the monorail fill with passengers.
“Yes?”
“I have someone who would like to speak to you.”
Baum had contemplated this moment many times, trying to imagine what was going to happen. If it were to be something sinister, Mr. Quixote surely wouldn’t have alerted her to it in advance. Her nervousness manifested in her racing heartbeats. She tried to remain calm. “I... I'm ready,” she forced herself to reply.
“Don't worry,” the man in black explained further. “You are not in any danger.”
“How do I know that for sure?”
“In a moment, a black golf cart with tinted windows will pull up. Please get up and walk over to the cart and get in.”
Baum searched the avenue over her shoulder.
“There's nothing to worry about.”
“You already said that.”
The cart soon appeared and stopped at the curb just a few paces from their bench.
“Walk casually over and get in.”
Baum got up from the bench and approached the cart. The plastic door opened. She looked inside. There was a driver and a man seated in the back seat who was hidden in the shadow cast by the tinted vinyl windows.
“Please, get in.”
Baum slipped into the back seat. The plastic door clicked shut and the cart whirled off down the avenue.
“Do you know who I am, Miss Baum?”
The voice was not the one she expected to hear. It wasn't Fricke. She watched as he took off his sunglasses and then she recognized him.
“My name is General Fitzmaurice Buckminster. Do you know that name?”
“Yes. I've seen you with the president many times.”
“You look surprised.”
Baum pondered the situation. Matters had become uncertain. Fricke had exhibited nothing but contempt for Buckminster, so why would he send him in his stead?
“I was expecting someone else. That's all.”
“Who?”
“Oh... no one in particular. Just someone else. Not you.”
“Do you know why you're here?”
“I don’t think so. Am I in trouble? Did I do something?”
“No.”
The cart whizzed along the avenue, passing the boutiques and cafes.
“Are you a patriot, Miss Baum?”
“I… I suppose.”
Buckminster cleared his throat. “Your country is in dire need of patriots, Miss Baum. Are you sure you are a patriot?”
“I... I guess. I don't know for sure...”
“Excellent. Did you vote in the past election?”
“For president?”
“Yes. Did you vote for president?”
“Actually, no. I had to work a double shift and I'm a nurse, so it is difficult to break away.”
“But if you did vote, who would you have voted for?”
She answered carefully. “I don't share my political views.”
“That's fine. That's fine.” Buckminster repositioned himself so that he was facing more towards her in the backseat of the luxury golf cart. He extended his arm on the setback behind her shoulders. “What do you think of the election outcome?”
Wariness filled her. She had felt nothing for the POTUS short of resentment for incinerating the surface of the planet, but Buckminster was the POTUS's right hand man. She thought it best to play coy. “I don't know. I saw that Cleveland won.”
“He didn't just win, he won by a landslide, the biggest margin of victory in electoral college history. 531 to 7.”
“I didn't realize that.”
“And yet...” Buckminster paused.
“And yet what?” Baum asked.
“And yet, President Elect Tex Cleveland's victory was stolen from him.”
“How so?”
“Didn't you watch the presidential address this morning?”
“I'm sorry, I was busy working.”
“The president of the United States suspended the results of the recent election and is refusing to hand over power”
“Wow. That’s…,” she hesitated, “audacious.”
“Audacious is an understatement, Miss Baum.”
“So why am I here?”
“You are here because you are a very special person.”
“Me? How so?”
“You are special because you have access to the president.”
“What do you mean?”
“You are his nurse. You administer his medications and perform his health checks.”
“So?” Baum shrugged.
“Miss Baum, the president is holed up in that UltraBunker, running the government and simulated country with total impunity, flouting the Constitution and rule of law. He intends to continue doing this despite losing a certified election simulation. It is time for him to go, but none of us can get close enough to make that happen. He’s paranoid and delusional. He’s had my security clearance revoked and we have no one left on the inside who can get to him. We... your country desperately needs your help to get him removed so that we can restore the republic.”
Baum felt a sense of betrayal as if she had been belted in the ribs by it. She had expected something different after speaking with Fricke and Quixote. They seemed genuine. Now she saw that she was just being used.
“Will you do this patriotic duty for us, Miss Baum?”
“Do what?” she asked.
Buckminster reached into his breast pocket and handed her a small black case. He unzipped it revealing a small vial.
“What is it?” she asked, although she already immediately recognized the name scribed on the label.
“It's a sedative. Once administered, it will put him under for several hours. When he is out, we need you to deactivate the security systems for the UltraBunker. The instructions are on this lanyard. Here, put it on. Once that's done, we will send in the SEALs to extricate the president from the office of the presidency.”
“Then what?”
“Then we’ll install the duly elected President Tex Cleveland as the new president of the United States.”
“Yeah, but then what happens to me?”
Buckminster smiled. “You, my dear, become a hero to the republic.”
“Is that it?”
Buckminster scowled. “What do you mean ‘is that it?’”
“I mean is that all? Do I get anything else?”
“Well, we can give you an honorary PIN and a priority number so you can become a permanent resident of the SuperBunker.”
Baum stared Buckminster in the eyes as a spirit of resistance welled up inside of her. Her gaze hardened. She had something of value that they wanted, access. That was leverage. So few Greys had any leverage. “That’s not what I want.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want something else.”
“I’m sorry Miss Baum, but we are making a very generous offer.”
“Oh, to hell with your offer.”
“Miss Baum…”
“You are going to meet my demands, or you can find someone else to do your dirty work.”
“Miss Baum, there is no one else. You are going to do this for us or else.”
“Or else what? You’re going to disappear me like you have all those other Greys? I don’t care anymore. Do what you must. Do it right now. Get it over with. I won’t do anything for you unless you give me what I want.”
Buckminster huffed. “All right. All right. What is it you want?”
“I want out of this bunker. I want to go home.”
Buckminster laughed. “Why on earth would you want to do that?”
“To find my daughter.”
Buckminster sighed. “Oh, Miss Baum, there's nothing left up there. This is all that remains of the world.”
“I don't care. I want to try to find her or die trying. I want you to let me go.”
“I don't know how that is possible in lieu of Protocol 4. perhaps we could get you a luxury apartment and a job promotion. Would that be enough instead?”
“I said I want out of here! I don't care if I am poisoned by radiation the moment I step on the surface. I want out of this hell.”
“I just don’t know how—"
“That's what I want or no deal.”
Buckminster bit his clenched fist trying to contain his frustration. “O.k. I'll see what I can do. Perhaps President Elect Cleveland can make an overture to the Chinese and Russians to address Protocol 4 again and let you out. That's all I can promise for now.” Buckminster stuck out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”
“No. I want you to guarantee me passage to the surface, in one of those missiles if necessary. Guarantee it or no deal.”
“Miss Baum…”
“Pull over and let me out.”
“All right. All right. Stop the cart.”
Buckminster extended his hand. Emma Baum stared him in the eye, probing his dead expression. She knew he was a liar.
“Tomorrow morning, Miss Baum. It has to happen tomorrow morning.”
Chapter 28
Emma Baum opened her eyes to the sight of mottled ceiling tile. She sat up in her cot and stretched the sleep out of her limbs. She grabbed her overnight bag tucked beneath her and went to the locker room to shower and dress for her shift. She stowed her overnight bag in her locker and grabbed her handbag. Digging through it, she removed the small black case that Buckminster had given her when they spoke in the tinted golf cart. She tossed the case back into her locker and slammed it shut, but before she could walk away, she returned, entered the swipe code, performed the iris scan, and re-opened the door. She looked around for witnesses, then reached in for a different item, a vial, the vial of Phenobarbital she had filched so many weeks before. She dropped it into her handbag and closed the locker door again.
Her path had become clear at the nadir of emptiness. Fricke, Quixote, and Buckminster offered nothing. She knew that. She had clung to the idea of them getting her to the surface, but she finally succumbed to the acceptance of the lie. When she had completed her task, she would be given a pat on the head and sent away, or perhaps disappeared like so many of the Greys in recent weeks. The SuperBunker would be her prison for the remainder of her life... however much longer that would be. The only thing she had control over was the length of her sentence.
She thought of her stint attending to a death row inmate back when she was an intern. She realized she could never know for sure if he was guilty of murder, but she knew that he was longing for the dread to end and would admit to anything if it would hasten its arrival. Like him, she wished that it would just be over.
She was resolved to assassinate the POTUS. If ever there was a human deserving of assassination, it was him. He was a man who had murdered over a billion. But what then? Would she take her own life immediately after? If so, would she turn off the security first so that Buckminster's gendarme could rush in and install a new sociopath? If she didn’t do it, the new regime was sure to make her a patsy.
She walked out onto the avenue. It was early so she took a more circuitous route to the Hotel Americana. She passed many Greys on the walkways en route, all of them aping the undead, lumbering along, sullen and bent inward on themselves, immersed in their misery. Did any of them have any hope? She searched their downcast faces for a sign. Perhaps a sign would change her mind. But there were no glimmers or glints in any eyes that she saw.
She parsed her dissonance, slicing away the doubts that clung. The world was over. Even if she were permitted to get away with it, what benefit was there in trudging on for a few more months or years until the life support systems failed or the food ran out or the elites culled her along with the remaining Greys to preserve their resource runway. Why live with that future? If she was somehow still alive, her daughter was unreachable, and she would be suffering. Emma Baum would have to carry on with that knowledge and the knowledge that she would never be able to leave to comfort her as the SuperBunker doors would never be opened. That life would not be worth living.
Her walk wrapped around Hotel Americana and down Main Street back to the entrance which passed into the Brown House. She stepped into the queue for the microwave scanner when she was tapped lightly on the shoulder.
“Nurse Baum?”
She turned. “What?”
“It's time.”
“I know. I'm ready,” she replied, in a businesslike manner.
“Excellent. Here, take this.”
“What's this?”
“Trust. Remember to trust.”
She felt a card being pressed into her hand. The source of the unrecognized voice drifted back into the walkway crowds. She wondered in confusion what it meant. Were they adding another task? Were they calling it off? Maybe there would be a delay. She looked at the card as the queue conveyor lurched forward into the Brown House entrance.
Meet me where I gave you the note for Mr. Quixote. 1 PM.
Baum checked the time. 12:45. The queue staggered forward. She felt confusion and uncertainty. If she was late to her post, they would try to contact her. If she didn't respond, they would task someone with finding her. It wouldn't take them long as there were facial recognition cameras everywhere.
Another step forward.
What if they caught up to her and searched her handbag? They'd find the vial. She would be sent to prison— a prison within a prison. Perhaps that would be relief. No more worry. A fate determined.
Next in line for the microwave scanner.
Once passed through, it would be too late. Turning back after passing through the security checkpoint would raise suspicion. Then she remembered Quixote's words: “Live in your hopes, not your fears.”
“Next!” barked the attendant.
Baum stood frozen.
“NEXT!”
“I'm sorry,” Baum explained. “I've forgotten something. I'll have to come back.”
“Next!” barked the attendant, motioning the next zombie in line.
Baum stepped out of the queue and back onto the walkway heading counterclockwise along the avenue. The place she met Fricke was not far— perhaps a thousand feet away. She searched the faces of Greys coming her way, but she dared not look over her shoulder. The gendarme on their two- wheeled Mo-Mos could be on her in a flash. She doubled her pace, passing guest-worker after guest worker. The golf carts, with their tinted glass, whizzed by. Images of BNN avatars played on numerous big screens affixed at every lamp post and atop the facades of apartments and shops and offices. The canvas sky was powder blue and featureless, as it always was, the artificial daylight casting pinwheel shadows on the SuperBunker walkways.
She turned right onto 115th Street, past the tofu bar and the yogasium, then left onto 4th Avenue. A gendarme rolled past in front, headed towards the turfed green space that lined the monorail line. The crowds of Greys were thinning. The shift change was nearly complete. Soon, all that would be left animating the underworld would be the elites in their fleece leisure suits and augmented reality sunglasses… them and their gendarme and the ever-present talking avatars.
She passed a modern art gallery and a coffee shop and a massage parlor and an oxygen bar, approaching her rendezvous. She checked the time. 12:53. She looked around, then thought better of doing that as it might make her conspicuous. She slowed her pace and drifted to the facade walls, intending to walk about a hundred yards, then turn and come back. In seven minutes, she would be reported as late. In 22 minutes, someone in a cubicle in a windowless room would receive a message to begin hunting for her on their screen.
“You're early,” came a voice behind her.
Baum slowed.
“Keep walking. You're headed in the right direction.”
The baritone voice was Fricke’s.
“When you get to the alley, turn right, just past the opioid vending machine. Wait there.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have one more to get. Go on ahead. It's not far.”
Baum walked on and turned at the alley. She found the vending machine and someone else.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello.”
“Did Dexter send you?” he asked.
Baum stared without answering. “You look familiar,” she asked.
The man grinned. “Do you watch football?”
“Sometimes.”
“Well, then you might know me.”
“Oh, you’re…”
“That’s right. I’m him: Brock McGuinn. Quarterback for the Hartford Saxons.”
“You're the one they brought into the bunker.” Baum tried hard not to seem contemptuous.
“I was.”
“And you're the president's running mate.” A streak of fear slashed through her. Everything was all mixed up. What side was she with? Nothing was making any sense.
“I don't want to talk about that,” he said, forcing a Cheshire grin. “That whole politicizing stuff ain’t for me.”
“Why am I here?” she asked. “Are they going to arrest me?”
“Who?”
“The security guys.”
“Why? Did you do something?”
“Tell me what's happening?”
“Hey!”
The two turned toward the alley. Several meters off, at the end where it opens to the avenue, Fricke stood with another man. “Come this way! Hurry!”
“I guess we should go,” Brock advised.
“Look out! Gendarme! Behind you!” Fricke called.
They started down the alley towards Fricke and the fellow next to him.
“Run!”
McGuinn started to sprint. Baum couldn't keep up.
“Run faster!”
Baum looked over her shoulder and saw a security guard on his Mo-Mo gaining. It was the portly and profusely sweating Chinansky, although she didn't know him.
“Faster!”
She heard the rubber wheels humming on the concrete right at her heels. She looked ahead, noticing Brock had reached Fricke and the other. They waved her in, but she had several yards of ground yet to cover. She wasn't going to make it. The Mo-Mo engine whined.
“Halt! Halt or I will subdue you!” Chinansky shouted.
Baum ran for her life. Arms flailing, pumping. She felt a hand grasping at her back. She shouted out in terror. She looked over her shoulder just as the chubby, dripping security guard took hold of her forearm with his course, sausage-like fingers. He yanked her, halting her forward progress, and hopped off his Mo-Mo which rolled on, slowing to a stop just a few feet ahead.
“You are being detained, ma'am,” Chinansky wheezed between breaths. He released her arm to mumble something into his collar.
Baum looked around in a daze. She presumed she was finished, but then she heard footfalls approaching. She looked ahead and saw it was Brock McGuinn.
“You stand back!” Chinansky shouted at him as Brock neared.
“Let her go!” Brock demanded.
“She's being detained.”
“For what?” he shouted as he closed.
“For suspiciousness.”
Brock stopped just before them. “Let her go,” he ordered again.
“Hey!” Chinansky's eyes lit up. “You're... you're...”
Brock grinned. “Yeah, yeah, I'm him.”
“Seven-time champion!”
“Yep. College and pro.”
“All time yardage passer!”
“That too.”
“And four-time MVP!”
“Five-time MVP!” Brock, without breaking his smile, reared back with his right leg and let loose with a ferocious whip of a kick that landed the laces of his cross-trainers squarely upon Chinansky's testicles. The fat gendarme instantly doubled over in howling agony.
“And I also led the Big Ten in net punting average,” Brock added. “Come on, let's go, ma’am.”
Brock and Baum jumped onto the Mo-Mo and sped towards Fricke and the other who had just gotten into a golf cart with tinted windows. Baum and Brock hopped off the Mo-Mo and climbed in and they pulled away before Chinansky had regained full consciousness.
No one spoke in the cart until they were safely cruising down the intersectional roadway, counterclockwise towards Section E. The road left the facades of the North American section behind and coursed along a gentle curve carved out of the rough-hewn stone. The blue canvas sky ended and harsh lamps of white, halogen light replaced the gentle, diffuse back-lighting of the populated sections. To their left, the monorails streamed along, a pair of dull, smooth ropes of raw steel, following their massive arc, marking the orbits of the monorail cars forever turning in the SuperBunker ring in opposing directions.
When the tension eased, Baum finally recognized the other man with Fricke in the cart. It was Haberdash. He had grown a scraggly beard. His hair was disheveled. His clothes were stained.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“It's not far now,” Fricke answered with a sense of satisfaction about him. Hardly a moment later, their car slowed and exited the avenue. Down they went onto a service road that turned under the avenue and crossed under the rails. They stopped. “This is it. We have to walk from here.” They got out. Fricke pressed a button on the fob and tossed it back onto the driver’s seat. They closed the doors and the empty cart pulled away, back onto the boulevard.
They walked down an embankment and for several yards along the base of a cut in the stone. They stopped at a dead end. Fricke felt along the surface of the steel wall before them for a catch. He found it and released it. A door parted. Brock helped swing the interior blast door open and they stepped into the darkness. “Follow me.” Fricke used his cell light to lead the way into a tunnel, hardly tall enough for Brock to walk upright in. It was pitch black save for Fricke's dull, blue light. “Careful. It's a little rocky through here. A few more steps. Keep coming.” They finally stopped and gathered around Fricke's beacon.
“What is this place?” Haberdash asked.
Fricke aimed his dull light ahead, illuminating a steel cage.
“A jail? You said I was getting out of here?” Brock protested.
“It's not a jail, Brock. It's a safety grate.” Fricke lifted the grate and stepped through. “This way.”
“Are you sure?” Haberdash asked.
“Get in. I'm riding with you.”
“To where?” Baum asked, hopefully.
“Live in your hopes, Emma.”
They packed into the tight cage. Fricke reached between them and pulled the grate down. “Are you ready?” They all nodded in the blue glow. Fricke felt around and pushed a button. They heard a short buzz. The cage jolted upwards and they began to ascend. Fricke shut off his cell and it went completely dark. The dangling pullies above pinged as the slack tensed and the steel cables clanged together. The lift pulled them upwards.
“I know it’s cramped. It only takes about ten minutes so just try to relax.”
No one dared to ask what was waiting for them above. What good would it do to know? They would know soon enough. Instead, they reveled in their hopes that could be silently enjoyed for the next few moments before being dashed by reality. Whatever was left of the world was going to greet them either way.
A faint din above changed into a glow and their eyes saw each other's shapes, and then their faces, gazing upwards when not looking at each other. The cables and gears whined under the strain of the lift. The cage clanged against its guides. Fragments of stone and dirt broke loose and tumbled down into the abyss below. The light grew bright, brighter, blinding.
A shrill buzz.
An abrupt stop.
“Welcome,” Fricke said as he slid the grate open.
They stepped out into the light and breathed in true air. Their eyes adjusted. Figures came into focus. People were scurrying about dressed in lab coats and polo shirts and khaki pants. Some were taking readouts. Some were tending to others. Some were giving and taking instructions.
“Where are we?” Brock asked.
“You're in the Wal Mart parking lot in Ashland, Ohio.”
“So, the world's still here?” Haberdash asked.
“It is.”
“Why didn’t you just tell us.”
“I’m under strict orders not to tell anyone until they are topside, in case they are captured.”
Relieved smiles filled their faces.
“Wasn't there a nuclear war?” Baum asked.
“It was averted.”
“How?”
“Well…” Fricke waxed, “when you remove all the lunatics from the debate, the cooler heads prevail.” Fricke smiled. “Go ahead, go outside. I can't promise you much of a view, but the sun is shining at least.
The trio walked toward the opening and out into the sun and the cool breeze of autumn. The leaves were beginning to turn.
Brock's football coach was there waiting. Brock ran toward him and they embraced. “C'mon son, we can have you ready for the Baltimore game.” A silver Lincoln pulled up and they got into the back. Brock didn’t even bother to wave as they sped away.
“Hab,” Fricke called out as he approached from behind. Hab turned. “Don't forget our deal.”
“I won't,” Haberdash replied. “It was a pleasure working with you, Dex, and you, Miss Baum.” He shook her hand briskly and jogged off towards the Walmart to buy himself a new sweat suit and a hot pocket.
Fricke stood at Baum's side. “Tell me, what are you feeling?” he asked her as she stared out at the glorious true-blue sky wrapping beyond the Wal Mart facade.
“Gratitude,” she answered.
Epilogue
Blackness. Ominous music. A white flash. A ball of glowing flame floats upward on a column of plasma.
COG
Based on the book
Continuity of Government:
An Insider’s Account from the Depths of the SuperBunker
by H. S. Haberdash
A deep, calm voice— Fricke's voice— began to speak as the black and white mushroom cloud expanded, fed by the stem of rising fire fueled from ground zero. Fricke's tone had grown raspy and even deeper over the ten years that had passed. His hair had grayed. “No one who was around in those days needs to be reminded of how close we came to ending the world...”
Dexter Fricke and Haberdash sat next to each other in armchairs on a theater stage. The opening scenes of Hab's documentary film played on a giant screen behind them, fading out as the mushroom cloud’s fire cooled to black.
Applause.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to introduce to you: Former President of the United States, Dexter Fricke, and Pulitzer Prize Winning Author H. S. Haberdash.
A vigorous applause built into a standing ovation that lasted two minutes.
The interviewer, who had receding white hair and wore a blue suit, sat in an armchair opposite them. He waited for the applause to die before asking his first question. “So, gentlemen, how close did we come?”
Haberdash, who had grown a thick beard and put on seventy pounds glanced at Fricke.
“Well, the order had been given. It was only a matter of how long it would take to get it to the surface,” Fricke answered.
“The situation was quite dire,” Haberdash added. “The president had to have his chief of staff, Frank Tibbles, euthanized— the official term— in order to retrieve the authentication code that was required for a nuclear launch. They were embedded in Frank’s carotid artery.” Haberdash pointed to his neck. “Most people didn’t know that at the time. I certainly didn’t.”
“Why was it done that way?”
“It was a failsafe implemented before the bunker was even completed. As we all know, the president and Frank were very close, so it was pretty certain that the president had no intention of changing his mind at that point.”
“But the launch order couldn’t be transmitted?”
“Right,” Hab continued. “Protocol 4 made contacting the surface impossible. The president had ordered the construction of an escape pod to get a courier out. But it took several weeks to construct.”
“Did the Chinese and the Russians know about it?”
“They did,” Fricke answered. “We were in a race to the surface. Had the Chinese or Russians gotten there first, who knows what would have happened.”
“And what were the Chinese and the Russians doing during that period? Were they trying to avert war?”
“Russian President Timoshenko and Chinese President Hu Li, they were nearly as unyielding as President Manfred,” Hab said. “It was insanity. There were no good guys.”
“But obviously, the Americans won the race to the surface.”
“Yes,” Fricke answered. “For human beings, anyway. The Axis had sent up a dog before us. They sent me up with the football.”
“President Manfred trusted you to transmit the launch order?”
“I had Arman’s complete trust. He had lost faith in Buckminster by that point.”
“Tell me something, in your view, why couldn't these men find compromise?”
“It's hard for people on the surface to understand,” Hab continued. “It’s hard for me to understand and I was right there in the middle of it. But I think it had a lot to do with the inertia of the system they were representing. Each leader bore the burden of their entire nation's ego. They were the human manifestations of it. They were sort of like god kings, you know… Louis the XIV… I am the state and all that.”
“Backing out of the war was politically impossible,” Fricke added. “Each side was completely entangled. If the U.S. tried to de-escalate by, let's say, pulling out of Bolshevistan, the banking system would collapse and there would be an economic crisis that would have likely led to government collapse. There was no feasible way out, really, not without destroying the system.”
“So, you're saying they had no choice?”
“No. Let me clarify. I'm just saying that they were intertwined within the order as it was. They weren't willing to let their system, their world dissolve, even if that required destroying ours.”
“They were a product of that system,” Hab added. “And they took that system, that order, underground with them. In their minds, destroying our world wasn't real to them in any meaningful sense. It was just a price to pay for maintaining their order. Continuity of government was the core directive. It was the only thing that would never be surrendered. The government had to be preserved at all costs, including blowing up the world.”
“Mr. President…”
“Just call me Dex, please. I’m just a civilian, now.”
“Fair enough. Dex, when you reached the surface, what was the first thing you did?”
“I called the White House operator.”
“From where?”
“From inside the Wal Mart. I actually had to buy a cellphone at the counter.”
Some laughter.
“Seriously, though. The ventilator shaft we used for the escape pod vented in a Wal Mart parking lot. Almost all of the SuperBunker ventilator shafts were in Wal Mart parking lots.”
“Why Wal Mart?”
“Their stores just seemed to align with the engineering of the bunker built beneath them. There were a lot of Wal Marts with huge parking lots back then. Wal Mart was able to bid the maintenance contract way below everyone else. Target’s bid came in twice as high.”
“What happened next, when you called the White House?”
“They put me on hold.”
Laughter. Smattering applause.
“But I finally cleared security. Vice President Yates had disappeared. As you know he’s never been found. There are a few interesting theories regarding his disappearance. So, with the speaker of the house and the president of the senate down in the bunker, that left me as the acting chief executive.”
“What was your first official act as president?”
“I had the White House put me in touch with the acting leaders of China and Russia.
“So, you're on a phone in a Wal Mart and the first leader you speak to is?”
“First it was a Russian admiral by the name of Serdyukov. He was stationed on a submarine in the Atlantic off the coast of Newfoundland.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, 'hello, my name is Dexter Fricke. I am the secretary of state the United Sates. I have been sent at the behest of President Arman Manfred to order the destruction of the world. But I was hoping we could talk this over before I give the order.”
Laughter.
“What did he say?”
“He seemed a little apprehensive. I wasn’t sure if it was the language barrier or just mistrust. Probably both. He's a career military man, obviously, and I think he believed it was my duty to carry out my orders and that my contacting him was some sort of feint or trick.”
“But he came around?”
“After I explained to him that since the president cannot communicate with the surface and because the vice president's whereabouts was unknown, I was, by law, the chief executive of the United States. He warmed up after that. We talked for over an hour. He flew into Akron and met me the next morning.”
“And the Chinese?”
“Similar situation. I spoke to a General Li. He flew in the next evening.”
“And the meeting would come to be known as the Ohio Summit.”
“Yes, and from that, the Treaty of Akron.”
“What did you discuss first?”
“It started off like any diplomatic summit. Everyone was holding back. No one wanted to reveal their hand. But we agreed that we could not and would not go to war, even if that meant a permanent state of high tension. That was day one. Day two, things started to loosen up.”
“What happened?”
“Admiral Serdyukov received a call informing him that his daughter had given birth. He saw a picture of his newborn granddaughter. He was visibly moved by that picture. We all sat around that table in silence, watching him, not knowing what to say. He shared the picture with us. The tenor of the meeting changed after that. I think we came to the realization that everything we were fighting and negotiating and making sacrifices for was being done on the behalf of someone else… someone who, as far as we were concerned, was now completely separated from our reality.”
“You are referring to the people in the bunker?”
“The ones they left behind on the surface to represent their interests weren't really all that vested in their interests anymore. Maybe they had a bonus to look forward to or a career appointment or something. But what would all that matter if we destroyed the world? Who would we collect from? We found ourselves negotiating on the behalf of entities that, for all intents and purposes, no longer existed... on the surface, anyway. Negotiations suddenly became flexible. We turned into kids swapping trading cards. We sorted the bulk of the major issues out in a matter of a week. Whatever couldn't be horse-traded was to be liquidated and the proceeds distributed to whatever shareholders remained on the surface. The rest went towards debt reduction, with the banks being made to understand that seven cents on the dollar was the best they were ever going to get.”
“How did you convince them of that? Why wouldn’t they just hold out until Protocol 4 was ended?”
“That was tricky. We had to convince them that Protocol 4 would never be ended. Ever. Not under any circumstances.”
“How?”
Fricke glanced uncomfortably at Hab who grinned. “We permanently sealed the blast doors and severed the communications.”
“How?”
“By computer virus. There is only one person in this world that has the code to open them. It’s embedded in her, at her request.”
“You've got to remember that there were still tens of thousands of guest workers trapped down there,” Hab added. “They had nothing to do with it. Hell, I was still down there!”
“So, you...?”
“So, we put engineers together to figure out a way to start getting them out,” Fricke answered.
“The guest workers?”
“Right. That was difficult. We had to blast our way through layers of stone and steel and concrete shielding. I’m sure they heard the explosions down below. One could only imagine what they thought was happening when the detonators went off. We didn’t have time to do things quietly. It was a desperate, complicated operation, like rescuing trapped miners.”
“Tens of thousands of trapped miners,” Hab added.
“Did you hear the blasting?”
“I did,” Hab replied. “When we heard the blasting, President Manfred… everyone was convinced it was nukes going off on the surface.”
“But the rescue effort was successful.”
“Thankfully. It worked as designed. It took eighteen months, but we got everyone out who wanted out.”
“And you sealed the rest in.”
“Yes. We filled the bore shafts with concrete and capped them with fifty-ton caissons.”
“And those in the bunker haven’t figured it out?”
“We don’t know. Like I said, we had to sever all communications. If you keep the information channel open, you run the risk that someone, some faction might be sympathetic to their plight. We cannot allow that to happen,” Fricke explained.
“And all the missing workers? How do you think the elites reconciled that… when the workers started disappearing?”
“We managed their perceptions before cutting the communication lines. We planted rumors and evidence that the Greys were being liquidated to preserve the bunker’s resources. We told the Chinese that the Americans did it. We told the Russians that it was the Chinese. No one seemed to have a problem with it. They carried on as if it was done out of practical necessity.”
“And each party was glad that they didn’t have to do that dirty work,” Hab added.
“So those that remain, would you say that they are in a prison?”
“I suppose so, technically. But not legally because they didn’t ask to leave. They don’t want to leave. At least they didn’t want to leave when we sealed them in. You've got to understand them. In their minds, they think they’ve survived a nuclear holocaust holed up in an underground oasis. They think they have it pretty good and so we intend to leave them thinking that way.”
“But it’s still more or less a prison. For what crime were they sentenced?”
Fricke’s eyes drifted away in thought for a moment. He cleared his throat before answering. “If it is a prison, then I suppose their crime is theft.”
“What did they steal?”
“They stole our civilization. They stole our lives and wealth. And they attempted to steal our future.”
There was a long silence.
“What do you think life is like down there now?”
“They probably continue to govern and manipulate a computer simulation of the world,” Fricke summed. “They pretend that we exist, and they move our virtual lives around like pieces on a chess board, just as they always have… with a deal here, a treaty there, a vote for this, a bomb for that. Machiavellian plots. Strategic alliances. Betrayals.
“I presume they continue to believe that we’ve been wiped out— rendered ashes and dust— but in some strange way, this knowledge gives strength to their illusion. They cling to their simulations even tighter because of it. I suppose without their contrived reality, they would have nothing left to live for.”
“Do you think they are happy?”
“I don’t know what their definition of happiness is. When I think about it, I can’t help but conclude that we all got what we wanted in the end.”
When the interview was concluded, Dexter Fricke and Haberdash shook hands.
“You did well, Hab. You didn’t leave anything out. It was all true.”
It was the last time they would speak to each other.
Dexter flew home to Boise that evening to tend his alpacas and write his memoirs. Haberdash flew direct to Las Vegas, rented the presidential suite, and snorted cocaine off the nipples of hookers until dawn, regaling them with tales that began: “This one time, while I was down in the SuperBunker, I saw President Manfred…”
The maids found his body in the morning, lying naked on his bed, with a dusting of powder on his nose. His heart had stopped beating.
On the thirtieth anniversary of the Treaty of Akron, a great gathering assembled in the parking lot of the Mao Mart— which had previously been known as Wal Mart— in Akron, Ohio. It was a festival marking the ending of the old new world order and marking the beginning of the new new world order… The world had managed to get along surprisingly well without aircraft carriers and the international monetary fund. There were still wars, but they were localized and short in duration. Poverty persisted, but opportunities abounded in the absence of strangling, supranational bureaucracies.
Dexter Fricke was unable to attend the thirtieth anniversary festivities due to a recent hip replacement. He sent a hologram of a short speech reminding everyone in attendance what the world was like before and his hope that everyone would remain ever vigilant.
When all the speeches were concluded, the crowd gathered around the concrete caisson marking the very spot where Fricke’s capsule had delivered him to the surface. Every year, the surviving Greys gathered there for a ceremony. Stones were placed upon the caisson by the survivors and their descendants one by one. Veruca Weinstein had made the trip. Although old and frail, she shrugged off her aide and stepped toward the marker to place her stone.
[1] DOD: Department of Defense
[2] Veruca Weinstein's family money originated from the Weinstein mayostard and dill pickle corporate empire, founded by Frank David Weinstein in 1907. Throughout the following decades, The Weinstein Corp expanded into newspaper holdings, film studios, professional sports ownership, fast food restaurants, and contracting cafeteria services for the department of defense.
[3] The Seven-Dash Line refers to the undefined, vaguely located, demarcation line referenced by the People's Republic of China for their territorial claims of the major part of the East China Sea.
[4] LSA refers to a Leveraged Security Alliance whereby the United States promises military defense of a nation and in return, the partner nation promises not to liquidate their holding of U.S. government debt which would trigger a default.
[5] Taki Takiyama. The Japanese prime minister. Referred to as Ticky-Taki by President Manfred.
[6] Taikonaut: English word for a Chinese astronaut
[7] NSA: National Security Agency
[8] The “Brown House” name was restored after mass outcry from activists who argued changing the name from Brown House to Earth House was racist.