Into the Guns (23 page)

Even so, the president had never been consumed by a crowd the way Sloan had been. It was exhilarating, and being the center of attention felt good.
Too good,
Sloan admonished himself.
Be careful, or you'll turn into an egotistical jerk.

The initial thrill was short-lived. After five minutes or so, the press of the crowd began to feel oppressive. And Sloan was extremely vulnerable. The man he thought of as the
real
president had staff, police officers, and the Secret Service to protect him. So there was a natural desire to wall himself off. But the voice was there to offer contradictory advice.
These are early days, and the citizens of the United States need a leader they can reach out and touch. Be
that person, and word will spread. You need their approval. More than that, you need their love. Because in order to do what needs to be done, thousands, no, tens of thousands of your followers will die, and that means the bond with them must be strong.

It was a sobering thought . . . And as the group marched northeast, feelings of self-doubt began to pull Sloan down. There was so much to do. So much to
be
. Was he up to it? Perhaps someone else would do a better job. That possibility followed him into the town of Rolla, where it haunted his dreams.

The next day began with breakfast at a local restaurant followed by another speech. There were hecklers this time. People who, judging from the Confederate flags they carried, were aligned with the South. The patriots in the crowd drove them away. It was a sobering moment, though, and a potent reminder that the North was far from homogenous.

The group had limited funds. But that didn't present much of a problem because there were plenty of people who wanted to buy them dinner, put them up for the night, or both. That was nice but exhausting as well. Sloan said as much to Besom, who was quick to push back. “Some of these people are wealthy, Mr. President. Even after the disaster. And you're going to need donors.”

Sloan frowned. “Donors? Why?”

Besom spoke as if to a child. “The president had served three years when he was killed and replaced by the vice president. That means you'll have to start campaigning in a few months. By that time, at least two or three people from your party will come forward to oppose you, never mind the New Whigs, who have a pro-Confederate bent. So relationships like the ones you're developing now will become critical later on.”

Sloan stared at him. “What makes you think that I'll run?”

“The war will still be under way a year from now,” Besom predicted. “And you won't want to leave office in the middle of it.”

Sloan hadn't thought of that—and realized that he should have. He forced a grin. “Point taken. I will be nice to the wealthy donors.”

Dinner was nearly over when a man burst into the restaurant. He was disheveled, as if he'd traveled a long way, and his eyes were darting about. “I'm looking for the president,” he said loudly. “I was told that I could find him here.”

“He's over there,” a waiter said, and pointed at Sloan.

The man nodded and made his way over. “Are you the president?” he demanded, as he stared at Sloan.

Jenkins stood before Sloan could answer and stepped in between them. “Are you armed?”

The man nodded. “Place your hands on your head,” Jenkins ordered, “and keep them there. I'm going to pat you down. Or, if you don't like that, you can leave.”

“That's right,” McKinney said as he held his Glock barrel up.

“I understand,” the man said, and placed his hands on his head.

Jenkins conducted a thorough search. In the process he turned up a .9mm Beretta, a wicked-looking knife, and a derringer. All of which were placed on the table. “He's clean,” Jenkins declared as he stepped back and out of the way.

“Thank you,” Sloan said. Then, having turned his eyes to the man in front of him, “I'm President Sloan. And you are?”

“Captain Frederick Yancy, of the 213th Ordnance Company, Ohio National Guard. The Secretary of Defense sent me to find you. I have an important message.”

Sloan was mystified. “
Secretary of Defense?
I don't have one.”

That was when Marsha Roston spoke up. “Would that be Secretary of Defense
Garrison
?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Yancy replied. “And his message is urgent.”

Sloan wasn't sure how to react. Garrison had agreed to carry messages to patriot leaders farther east. Now it appeared that the gentleman farmer and part-time stamp collector had named himself Secretary of Defense! “Please,” Sloan said, “have a seat. Would you like something to eat or drink?”

“Yes, sir,” Yancy responded. “
After
I deliver the secretary's message.”

“Understood,” Sloan replied. “Please proceed.”

“It's about Fort Knox,” Yancy said eagerly. “Secretary Garrison tried to take control of the facility, and the CO, a general named Carol Cox, refused. She believes, or pretends to believe, that the former president is still alive. And she won't take orders from anyone other than him.”

“Is there reason to believe that General Cox is pretending?” Roston inquired. “Does she want to keep the gold for herself?”

Yancy shrugged. “I can't say for sure, ma'am . . . But Secretary Garrison believes that's the case.”

Sloan was appalled by how much Garrison had taken upon himself. But he understood the stakes, which, to put it simply, were billions of dollars' worth of gold. “Thank you,” he said. “Is there more?”

“Yes, sir,” Yancy said. “Based on orders from Secretary Garrison, Colonel Foster attacked the fort. But the assault didn't go well. We lost more than a hundred soldiers.”

Sloan felt a sudden emptiness at the pit of this stomach. A hundred! Casualties taken trying to wrest control of Fort Knox away from the woman assigned to protect it. What a waste. “And?”

“And Secretary Garrison wants you to return with me,” Yancy replied. “He gave me this.” At that point, Yancy removed an envelope from a pocket and gave it over. Sloan used his dinner knife to cut it open.

Dear Mr. President,

By now Captain Yancy has told you about the situation here at Fort Knox. I would like to add some advice. As you know, our attack failed. That alone is reason enough for the commander in chief of the armed forces to come here. But I submit that there's a second reason as well. If you are present when we win, people will trust you to take the next step, and that will be an attack on the South. We await your arrival.

Respectfully yours,

Frank Garrison
Interim Secretary of Defense

Sloan continued to stare at the document after he had finished reading it. “We await your arrival.” That sounded like an order rather than a request. And what about Garrison's advice? Was it genuine? Or was Garrison one of the people who would oppose him during the coming election?
No,
the voice told him,
you're too paranoid. Besides, even if your worst suspicions turn out to be true, Garrison is right. Here's an opportunity to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Go there, win the battle, and secure the fort. More than that—prove that you're worthy to be president.

Sloan stood. “Grab your packs,” he said. “And let's find some transportation. We're going to Fort Knox.”

ATHENS, OHIO

After a succession of miserable days, the sun was out. And as Victoria Macintyre eyed the highway ahead, she felt free—or as free as any army officer could feel while on duty. The beat-up BMW
wasn't much to look at—but the big motor ran smoothly as it carried her north. Vic was wearing goggles, but no helmet, and gloried in the way the air pressed against her face. It felt good to be alive.

The mission was simple: Gather intel, check in with some of the Confederacy's spies, and build relationships with potential allies. Victoria's journey had begun in Texas and carried her up through Kentucky and into Ohio. As she entered Athens, Victoria knew that the town was situated on the Hocking River and was home to Ohio University.

Vic also knew that Ohio had supplied troops and supplies to the Union Army during the first civil war. Did that mean the state would oppose the New Order if a
second
civil war began? Or could the people who lived there be convinced to join the nascent Confederacy? Huxton and newly named CEO Lemaire believed, or
pretended
to believe, that the “Northern rabble” were going to descend on the South like locusts and consume everything in their path. That was possible, of course—but by no means certain.

Victoria believed it was equally possible that the Northerners were too disorganized to attack anyone other than each other. She'd ridden past the devastated farmhouses, seen hamlets that had been savaged by bandits, and circled around towns ruled by warlords. And therein lay what she considered to be the
real
problem. What if a warlord or an alliance of warlords formed an army? And having harvested the easy pickings up north turned their attention to the South. At that point, the dire predictions voiced by Huxton and others might come true.

But as Victoria entered the outskirts of Athens, there weren't any signs of combat. The strip malls had been looted, and abandoned cars littered the streets, but that was to be expected. Where were the people? Outside of foraging dogs, the streets were nearly
deserted. And that seemed strange in a town of what had been twenty-four thousand people.

At that point, Victoria spotted the column of gray smoke that was pouring up into the sky. Something was burning? But what? And
why
? Victoria steered the BMW through empty streets to the edge of Ohio University's campus. The column of smoke was rising from a point on the far side of the building in front of her. Rather than ride the bike into the middle of whatever was going on, Victoria chose to park it behind a dumpster.

A knapsack containing a change of clothes and her personal items was on Victoria's back, and a Glock 17 was within easy reach under her left arm as she made her way forward. Then, as Victoria caught a whiff of the smoke, she knew what was taking place. The smell was similar to that of burned pork—and once encountered was impossible to forget.

And sure enough . . . As Victoria rounded the building, she could see fire. It was burning in the middle of a large green, and she could hear the sizzle of burning fat, along with an occasional pop as a skull split open. And when Victoria paused, she could feel the resulting heat.

The fire was already quite large and about to become even larger as a man on a front loader drove the machine forward, raised a bucketful of bodies, and dumped them into the pyre. The force of the impact caused a half-charred leg to roll free of the blaze. The limb continued to smoke as a person in a protective suit stepped in to spear the leg and return it to the fire.

Meanwhile, other people, all clad in white, continued to converge on the scene. They were pushing carts loaded with more bodies—which were taken over to a spot where the front loader could scoop them up. Victoria noticed a figure standing apart from the workers and went over to speak with him. “Excuse me,” she said. “Can I ask a question?”

The man was wearing a protective face shield. And when he pushed it up out of the way, she could see the tears on his cheeks. A grubby hand wiped the moisture away. “Sorry . . . But they were my students, and I feel responsible for what happened to them.”

“You're an administrator here?”

“The president. Or ex-president. All we can do is burn the bodies to keep the disease from spreading.”

Victoria felt suddenly vulnerable. “Which disease?”

“Cholera. The power went out, the water department's equipment failed, and a contaminant entered the system.”

Victoria looked around. “And
all
of the students died?”

“No, but at least five hundred of them did. The rest fled, along with most of the city's other residents.”

“But you stayed.”

“Yes,” the man replied. “It was my duty to do so.”

Victoria understood the concept of duty better than most—and couldn't help but admire him. “I'm from down south,” she told him. “And I just arrived. Is it like this everywhere?”

“No,” he replied. “I don't think so. But news reports are spotty, so it's hard to tell. There's reason to hope though . . . We have a president again—and he's going to pull the country together.”

The statement caught Victoria by surprise. A new president! Someone to replace Wainwright . . . That was an important piece of information. “Do you know his name?” she inquired.

“Yes, I do,” the administrator responded. “Samuel T. Sloan. He was the Secretary of Energy before the meteorites struck.”

Victoria was surprised to say the least. According to what she'd heard, Sloan had thrown himself out of a helicopter and died in a swamp. “There are lots of rumors floating around,” she said. “Are you sure?”

The man fumbled with a zipper, withdrew a piece of carefully
folded paper from an inside pocket, and passed it over. “Here, look at this. Just before the cholera struck, a man in a Revolutionary War costume passed through town. He had thousands of these things in the back of his pickup. I kept mine as a memento.”

When Victoria opened the piece of paper, she saw a skillfully drawn likeness of Uncle Sam pointing a finger at her. “President Samuel T. Sloan needs you!” the cartoon figure proclaimed. “Conserve energy, store food, and help your neighbors. America is rising!”

It was an innocuous message in many ways—but Victoria could see past that to a larger plan. The purpose of the message was to reassure the populace, take the first step toward the restoration of civil law, and pave the way to
what
? A government in the North? Or an attempt to reunify a broken nation? There was no way to know—but it was valuable information nevertheless. “Can I keep this?” Victoria inquired.