“How?” Mayeaux said, sounding like a croaking toad. “How was he killed.”
“Uh, he was…” The Secret Service man swallowed and stood stiffly, staring at the far wall. “He was decapitated, sir.”
Mayeaux’s vision seemed to grow warm and black, fuzzed at the edges. What was he going to do without Weathersee? He took a long, shuddering breath and forced himself to focus on the people gathered in the Situation Room.
“You have my sympathy, Mr. President,” General Wacom said.
“I don’t give a damn about your sympathy,” Mayeaux said. He tok a long slow breath and spoke each word like a heavy footfall down a long staircase. “I believe you were about to answer my question about the availability of nuclear-tipped missiles on Trident submarines.”
The Chairman’s face fell slack. “Mr. President, you can’t consider launching a nuclear missile against American targets. Even at the height of the Cold War, using these against the Soviet Union was considered only a last resort for survival—”
“Just what the living hell do you think this is?” Mayeaux shouted. He struck his palm on the table, scattering two pencils beside his coffee cup. “By your own admission, the military cannot function. The greatest nation on Earth is decaying into pockets of barbarism, even here in our capital city! Just when do you draw the line and say that things have gone far enough!”
Mayeaux breathed hard as he looked around the room. He was surprised to feel tears on the verge of spilling from his eyes. No one spoke. The Joint Chiefs returned his icy stare; two of his cabinet members looked down, shaking their heads.
Mayeaux took another deep breath, but his pulse kept pounding like a drumbeat in his head. “The United States must be willing to cauterize a wound to keep this nation from bleeding to death. We cannot tolerate this situation any longer. Look what’s happening in our own neighborhood.”
The general tried to calm him. “Mr. President, maybe you should reconsider the options, wait until you have calmed down from this shocking news. Within a few days we can prepare an extensive list ranging from a light to intermediate response against San Diego—”
Mayeaux’s Louisiana drawl got worse as his anger rose and he lost control. “Mais—let me tell you somethin’! The people must be utterly convinced that the President is still in charge! Abraham Lincoln did it, and so can I. Lincoln suspended the writ of habeas corpus, jailed political leaders and newspaper editors in Baltimore to prevent Maryland from seceding from the union.”
Wacom sat rigid, masking his emotions. Beside him, the CNO’s eyes widened when Mayeaux turned his attention to him. “Admiral, I want you to give me a list of the surviving Trident-II submarines within range of San Diego.”
The Admiral threw a glance at the Chairman; General Wacom nodded stiffly. Mayeaux scowled. Who the hell was in charge here, anyway?
The Admiral avoided Mayeaux’s eyes by glancing at a sheet of paper. He cleared his throat. “Of the subs still in contact, two are in position to strike targets on the west coast of the United States.” He fiddled with his paper, as if it was very important for him to file it away at that moment. “However, Mr. President, I cannot assure you that the crews of either vessel will carry out war orders that require them to retarget missiles against their own country—”
“Thank you, Admiral,” said Mayeaux icily. “I’m sure the captains of those vessels remember who their Commander is, even if my Joint Chiefs do not.”
He felt giddy, detached, as if he had just been swept up by a giant invisible hand. Within days of the first strike—one decisive strike—word would spread like wildfire over the available channels of communication. The rebellios cities would be shocked, then afraid, then repentant. Time for everyone to work together, not break apart. History would hail Jeffrey Mayeaux as a savior, the architect of the future United States.
Mayeaux leaned back in his seat and tapped his fingers together. “Very well, Admiral. I’ve made my decision. I want you to transmit the order that one nuclear missile be launched at the heart of downtown San Diego.”
The Chairman and admiral exchanged glances. General Wacom’s face looked blotchy with submerged fury.
Mayeaux turned to the Chairman. “General Wacom, work with the NSA to broadcast in the widest possible manner that unless the nationwide rioting stops and all of the new city-states recind their claims of independence, one city after another will be obliterated in a similar fashion. The leaders advocating secession must resign their posts and surrender.”
No one spoke. Mayeaux looked from person to person. Each member of his staff looked away, not meeting his glance.
He drew in a breath. “Well? What are you waiting for?”
The military officers sat erect, hands on the table.
Mayeaux felt his face grow warm. “Admiral, I gave you a direct order. The Navy will fulfill its legal obligations under my authority as Commander-in-Chief. Do I have to repeat it? Is something not clear?”
The CNO spoke slowly. “No, Mr. President. I understand completely.” Still, he made no move.
Mayeaux felt his heart rate quicken. A flush of adrenaline flooded his system, now that he had finally made his decision. “General Wacom—do I have to remind you, too? I am your Commander-in-Chief.”
The general pushed back his chair with a sudden motion. His silver hair contrasted with the dark blue of his worn Air Force uniform; his eyes looked glazed as he glared straight at Mayeaux and spoke in a level tone. “My allegiance is to the Constitution of the United States of America, sir, and to obey the legal orders of those appointed over me. I’m sorry, but I respectfully refuse to obey your illegal order. You cannot use nuclear force against our own citizens.”
Mayeaux leaped to his feet, his eyes wide, his breath coming in short gasps. “General Wacom—you are relieved!”
The Chairman picked up his papers and walked away. Without a word, the admiral also stood up and followed him to the door. Mayeaux’s voice sounded shrill in his own ears. “History will brand you a coward, General! Both of you!”
Wacom was halfway out the door when he turned and pointed an angry finger at Mayeaux. “Nuremberg set the stage, Mr. President—ask any American military officer since Lieutenant Calley. We’re responsible for our actions, and we have to pay the price. And as far as I’m concerned, using nuclear missiles to make an example of American cities is bullshit.” He hesitated, then added, “Sir!” before whirling to leave. The admiral followed him.
Two other members of the President’s staff got up and walked out the door. “Sorry, sir,” one of them muttered.
Mayeaux shook; he felt his teeth grinding together as his jaw worked tightly. Where was Weathersee, dammit?
“Come back here!” he shouted. “I’m still the President!”
One by one, the President’s staff exited the Situation Room, their heads down, muttering as they left, and not meeting his glare. They didn’t have to impeach him. They had stripped him of power in a much simpler way.
“Weathersee! Where are you!”
In a moment, Jeffrey Mayeaux stood alone—the most powerful man in the world, in the most important room… with no one around to hear him rage.
Chapter 74
A white flag of surrender dangled from a broomstick as Spencer Lockwood and Heather Dixon approached the burned-out control building for the electromagnetic launcher.