The Last President (32 page)

A distant droning rumble alerted her, and then it was drowned out in cheers from the camp. What was approaching from the south looked to Jenny something like an Art Deco railroad diner car sandwiched between sections of a circus tent, one low and one high, joined by wooden trusses. Five propellers, one at each wingtip, one close to the body, and one on the nose, were pulling it through the air. Twin pipes stuck up from the middle of her fuselage, looking like—

“Well, shit,” Chris said beside her, sounding somewhere between amused and amazed. “Those are the old raised exhaust pipes from some semi rig, but they look a lot like smokestacks. You almost expect it to have paddle wheels.”

The ground crew were waiting and flagged the NSP-12 down. As it passed overhead, Jenny's party could see that it had about half again the wingspan of the Gooney Express, “but since that's doubled, on a biplane, figure maybe three times the wing area? Lots of lift but it probably needs all those props to fight drag,” Chris said. “I can't wait to hear what Quattro thinks of it.”

“Boys and airplanes,” Jenny said, “I'm just glad it got here. I'm guessing if we start walking now he'll have finished his taxi and be climbing out by the time we get there.”

Bret Duquesne was a handsome young man. When he stepped down from NSP-12 and shoved his flying helmet back off his head, letting his straw-blond forelock flop down between his deep blue eyes, Jenny thought,
Definitely, back before, he could've done underwear ads.

Introductions were quick; the NeoGoliath, as Bret had dubbed it, had flown here direct from Fort Benning and could loop back to Campbell before needing to refuel. This was “logistically marvelous, but since the design team didn't think to provide the NeoGoliath with a restroom, urologically disastrous,” Bret said, returning from claiming a pilot's privilege of being first at the latrine.

“Where did they come up with the design?”

“One of our machinists at Castle Newberry used to build R/C model planes. He had lived a few miles out of Newberry, back before, and it occurred to Dad to send a wagon and some guards to recover his whole model collection, as research material for later. Well, one of his proudest productions was a big honking model of the Farman Goliath, the first real airliner. Not the most aerodynamic or esthetic thing you've ever seen, but at least we knew that airframe would work if we built it out of canvas, wood, and wire. And we'd been working toward a high-powered pure diesel engine, something that wouldn't attract nanospawn or have to be rebuilt after an EMP. The power part was fine, plenty of horsepower, but making that work took such a big engine block that we only wanted one per plane, and that was where someone thought, you know, quite a few early planes had chain-driven props. So the NeoGoliath has four chain-driven and one shaft-driven, and that big diesel can chug away, nice and slow, the way it wants to, without having to spin a high-speed shaft, and still give it plenty of thrust.”

Jenny raised an eyebrow toward Chris to remind him of her earlier comment about boys and airplanes, but he appeared to be rapt with Bret's explanation.
Well, I guess that proves my point. Wish I had Bambi here for sympathy.
To break up the conversation, she asked, “So you said this thing is EMP and nanospawn immune?”

“Because it's pure diesel,” Bret said. “No spark plugs or alternator, no electricity at all. You just have to preheat the glow plugs, but you can do that in a campfire if you have to. In fact, you probably haven't heard but we've been warned there's a blackout in three days—mid-day till midnight on the tenth—and it'll be our first chance to see how the NeoGoliath does. We expect it'll be fine even if it's right under the EMP bomb, ready to go without any repairs. Even the structural metal, like wires and struts, has been set up not to let big charges or currents form. Then if it rides out an EMP on the ground, we'll actually try flying during one. So they haven't got us grounded forever.

“But I've got some news that's a lot more urgent than the aircraft tech news—and not nearly as fun. We purposely flew along the Wabash as reconnaissance, and Lord Robert's forces are already in Terre Haute.”

The punch-in-the-gut feeling must have shown on Jenny's face, because she could see how Bret Duquesne was reacting to it; that was annoying, as if he was regretting have stressed out the little lady, so she snapped at him. “And you couldn't tell us that right away?”

He winced. “I already admitted that I should have.”

Chris Manckiewicz broke the awkwardness. “Look, it took us five days to walk here from Terre Haute, and that was with cavalry and air scouting, and a baggage train with wheels and horses and mules. How did a bunch of unorganized hippies on foot and rafts manage to do the same distance in three days?”

“Probably less than two,” Bret said. “Major Southern here did a lot of coursework at Fort Lee, back before. Even while we were circling, and trying to figure out what had happened, he started scribbling and arguing things out, and then we did some more reconnaissance by tracking a couple of the rafts against the street grid along the bank. Southern's answer is, we've all been working with the number 0.6 mph, which is about how fast the Wabash flows in normal times. But these aren't normal times; thanks to all the fires and soot in the air and all the rest of it, we've had way over average snow and rainfall, and way more than usual erosion too. All the rivers on the continent are flooding or close to it.”

“We should have realized that,” Jenny said. “The river was so high that on the way in we never even thought of fording it or stopping to build a temporary bridge. No shallow spots left, and it's way up on its banks.”

“Exactly,” Duquesne said. “We were surprised too, but in present conditions, the Wabash flows at between three and four miles an hour, five to seven times as fast as normal. And although it's full of trash, it has a deep center channel, and if they stay on that, they're mostly okay. So they just floated all the heavy stuff on rafts, letting the guarding force run along the bank carrying nothing but a little food and water, and switching off between floating and running so they could literally sleep on the march. The force you left behind at Terre Haute probably didn't have any idea what was coming till Lord Robert and his Daybreakers were right on top of them.

“So when we flew over Terre Haute, whatever hadn't been burned before was burning now, and there was a huge encampment of tribals along the river, swarming with boats and rafts. We think he's regrouping, but at this current speed, he's only a day or so by river from St. Francisville, which is the closest landing to Pale Bluff.”

“Well, that answers the question,” Chris said softly. “We've lost the race before we start. We're ten days from Pale Bluff, minimum; they're only about three or four.”

“Ma'am,” Patel said, “the new officers are all comfortable, and they're ready for their briefing in the pavilion tent.”

“Let's get it done,” she said.

Duquesne said, “I've got nothing more to report than what I've already told you, and Major Southern can give better details and a clearer idea about things. If you don't mind, I'd like to look up your dad and maybe talk some things over with him.”

“Sure. He's that way, at the Quartermaster's tent; he's been doing a lot of our logistic and organizational work.”

“Thanks!” Duquesne almost sprinted away.

“Why is he so eager to see your father?” Chris asked.

“Well, purely personally, that beats me too, but it's probably that he's quite religious, and a lot of people who are like to pray or get a blessing from a particular person they think is wise or holy. Bret Duquesne kind of looks the handsome-playboy type but he's what Daddy calls ‘solid Bible all the way down.' When his father was killed in that accident, all of a sudden Castle Newberry went from being a bulwark of the secular types to square in the church's corner. So, I'm guessing, Daddy's been away for a long time, and the Earl of the Broad River, or the Satrap of Carolina, or whatever he's calling himself probably feels a need to get caught up on the spiritual guidance.”

“I'm not going to quote any of this till I do a book, years from now,” Chris Manckiewicz said, “but you don't sound quite like you used to.”

She sighed. “The last few weeks have been an eye-opener. I had no idea how many things were wrong with Jeff Grayson; I think if I'd married him but Daybreak had never happened, I'd never have had anything worse than a creepy feeling about him, which I'd probably have shrugged off as ‘Mama told me men were like that.' And I might've just thought my father was a crusty old poop, but very sincere and after all we're both Christians and he just wants what's best for his daughter and . . . well. I found out so much was bullshit that I'm still sorting out what parts aren't. It might take me a while, and I might be a little sarcastic about people who really just believe the same things I did a month ago. Especially Bret, because he's so schizo about it all; he'll be joking and laughing and kind of a dashing young heroic type, reminds me a lot of Quattro Larsen, and then somebody makes a slightly off-color joke or says ‘God' or ‘Jesus' as an oath, and he'll lose it and go crazy rigid puritan, worse than Daddy. A couple months ago I'd've attributed it to his spiritual struggles but nowadays I just think he's an unpredictable part-time dick.”

“Language like that will humanize you in the history, you know.”

“Like anyone wants to be human, or has the time.” She grinned at him. “Sometimes you just need to call a thing by its right name. Well, let's get the handover to the officers done. After that I'll figure out the rest of my life, or take a nap, or something.”

ABOUT THE SAME TIME. MANBROOKSTAT. ABOUT 11 AM EASTERN TIME. THURSDAY, MAY 7, 2026.

Jamayu Rollings had worked hard and consistently to thoroughly establish that he did not permit anyone to interrupt him, ever, during his just-before-lunch daily meeting with his daughter Deanna. Anyone with a really thorough inside knowledge of Ferengi Enterprises might have wondered why an hour-long meeting was needed every day for a company that consisted of a couple of warehouses of high-value salvage cataloged on index cards, an office with four clerks, and a largish yacht that needed a crew of three. But Rollings kept so much of his operations quiet and out of view that no one really knew how little administration Ferengi Enterprises needed or how simple things really were.

The real purpose was not to secure the non-existent meeting, but to make sure that no one who wasn't family would ever walk in while they had the clandestine radio and the one-time pads out in view. The transmission from Pueblo to White Fang was exactly 500 words long, as always, so that if anyone was listening, a change in the length of the message would not provide any hints to the codebreakers.

Private radios were not exactly illegal in Manbrookstat. They were on the list of “Discouraged Activities,” and “participation in a discouraged activity” could result in being assigned to a labor gang or preventive detention, and every now and then a preventively detained person simply vanished, leaving behind only a name on the list of subjects about which unnecessary conversation should be avoided. But they were not officially illegal.

Usually the message from the RRC in Pueblo was merely that their report had been received, with perhaps a question or two that James or Heather had about it. But today it concluded with an answer to an earlier question:

RRC Board has overruled us on request for active measures. No support unless&until events make clear revolt underway, resistance widespread, coup already planned, or other evidence. WF, HoG here: basically first steps all you. Board only willing to come in to back success, not initiate, fund, or plan. J/L/me badly outvoted. Sorry, please forgive.

JH append1p3: Situation here could change drastically if situation there did.

There was another brief, appended note:

No transmissions from noon till 11 pm Eastern on 10 May. Moon gun shot detected.

“So we're screwed,” Deanna said.

“Sort of. Basically it means we have to stick our neck out, maybe take the chop, but if we start to win, then they'll come in.”

“So do we do it, Pops?”

Rollings sat back. “Well, not this afternoon. I've got no connections I trust in the Special Assistants or the militia, so a coup is out. The Special Assistants know they're dead if the regime comes down, so if anyone openly killed the Commandant, the SAs would butcher that person on the scene, at best, and maybe drag them straight to torture.”

“So . . .” Deanna leaned back and looked toward the ceiling. Rollings had always liked the way his eldest daughter “thought with her whole face,” as his wife described it. After a moment she shook her head. “Unless there's something you haven't told me about, we got no connections, zip, for a more covert kind of assassination. I don't want to try to build a bomb that works right the first time, or cook up a poison, and I'm no sniper and no ninja, and I don't think you or anyone else in the family is.”

Rollings nodded. “I'm afraid that in every education there are always some deficiencies.”

She made a face at him. “I hate that someday I'll probably quote that and some people will think that meant you were laughing in the face of danger, instead of just couldn't resist a silly joke. Oh, well.”

“Yeah, more seriously, that was kind of what I was hoping Pueblo might provide us—some clean, covert way to take him out, and someone untraceable who knew how to use it. But the more I think about it the less useful their help would have been anyway. There's a couple of hungry creepy types that would move right in after an assassination, and the idea is to get rid of the Commandant, not replace him with a clone or worse. So it's going to have to be a revolution . . . or at least a revolt, maybe some serious rioting . . . and right now people are still pretty relieved just to have a roof and food. Any idea what we can get them to rise up about?”