“What development? We’re about to roast the president over the fire here. Shake up the country! What could be a bigger story than that?”
The producer winked. “Believe me; I just saved your ass. Take a look.” He switched his phone over to CSPAN, of all places. For the first time in history, this special joint session of Congress was far from dull.
Between the reluctant recall of Florida’s 27-member congressional delegation and the untimely death of Scott and Pierce, their two most crucial leaders, the House was in an incredible state of disarray, to put it mildly. Jessica’s report was merely the straw that crushed the camel’s back. Congress had teetered on the edge for weeks. Most of the special interests already rerouted their river of lobbying cash to flood state legislatures and various “grassroots, community based organizations.” Which was such a sweet term that ignored the armed nature of these civic-minded citizens.
If change in general is spooky, such extreme change is petrifying. As if the politicians didn’t have enough internal problems, the Supreme Court declared open season on them until they installed Dimone in power. The new Congress and every piece of legislation they pumped out, no matter how mild or innocuous, was labeled unconstitutional by those old judges. Legally speaking, there was no legitimate president to hide behind.
By this point, Congress truly needed a president, any president. Republican or Democrat, it didn’t matter. Just someone to nut up and make the hard decisions. Most importantly, someone to shoulder the responsibility of decisive action. That R word was as scandalous and shocking to these professional politicians as a flasher was to a maiden. It disturbed them to their souls. Their entire carefully constructed understanding of reality was under attack. Apparently, the only bipartisan force powerful enough to make these children agree on anything was mutual fear.
As tempting as it was to give in to the courts and just go with Dimone, Congress couldn’t. Capitulation wouldn’t end the crisis, even if such a move wasn’t political suicide. No good way to spin a decision like that. Total surrender, no matter how you cut it.
“Turn up the volume!” The wind carried away most of the House Majority leader’s speech.
Jessica snatched the phone and held it close.
“That’s why we are forced to exercise Congress’s 20th Amendment power to select….” She turned away from the wind and hunched over the phone, “…until such time as new elections can be safely held.”
“No way…” Jessica gawked as the president stepped to the dais amid a thunderous standing ovation from both parties. With all the military uniforms, senior bureaucrats and foreign ambassadors crowding the chamber, there was only standing room. Even without a single member of the Supreme Court present.
Jessica handed the phone back in disgust as the now three-term president gave his inauguration speech. It was short, since he only had one item on his agenda: “Restore law and order, by any means necessary.”
Jessica grabbed her cameraman’s shoulder. Her producer was already gone. “That thing can zoom. Let’s get the hell out of the middle of this, right now.”
“Ah, relax. You know better than to be scared. It’s all theater.”
Jessica glanced back and forth at the rival soldiers, all in the same uniform, stacking sandbags on each end of the bridge.
“Right. I bet that’s what the emperor told the Christians at the coliseum.”
He lowered his camera, but didn’t budge. “Come on. The president’s not some type of Caesar.”
Two Apache attack helicopters thumped over from the Georgia side of the border. As soon as they crossed the river, rebel troops fired flares as warning shots. The helicopters hovered in place and burrrped out 25mm cannon bursts into the empty water. Rebel troops scattered under the much more intimidating warning fire.
The cameraman grinned and stowed his gear. “Okay, okay, maybe he is a little bit like a warlord.”
As they both walked briskly back to the federal side of the line with their hands in the open, Jessica wagged a finger at the new Fed tanks pulling up.
“These things aren’t the problem. I’m not scared of the president’s power. No, what’s frightening is this single-minded sense of purpose from a man who has only one thing left to lose: his legacy. Power might corrupt, but purpose kills.”
Eufaula, Southeast Alabama
The first combat action of the Florida Campaign actually took place over the Chattahoochee River on the Alabama/Georgia border. An A-Team from Florida’s National Guard Special Forces group pushed a zip-tied and gagged drawbridge operator through the dark Pines. The Afghanistan veterans dressed as civilians were having too much fun playing the insurgents.
Following President Dimone’s orders, the SF team were doing everything they could to slow down the federal military buildup along the border. That sterile order, decided upon by politicians sitting around in plush, air-conditioned offices, was less sanitary in the field.
“Damn, he looks pissed. Ha!” One of the plain clothed weekend killers gave the prisoner a gentle shove. “Would you rather us have left you sitting on the bridge with 300 pounds of plastic explosive? You wanna die that bad? Well, the day’s still young… unlike you. We’ll move faster without your old ass.”
The SF master sergeant running the show almost told the new demolitions expert to shut the hell up. He let it slide, for now. The harassment might be unprofessional, but it did help keep things quiet if a detainee wasn’t 100 % sure of your intentions. Besides, it was important to stick with the rednecks-blowing-random-shit-up cover story. Good neighbors wouldn’t destroy their neighbor’s infrastructure, but who knew what a bunch of crazy hicks might do?
The tied-up old black man, a Vietnam veteran himself, failed to pick up on the humor. All he heard was some dumb cracker joking about shooting him and the head honcho looking contemplative and then smiling. For the first time, his anger faded and he began to worry. They hustled down some deer trail a good half mile from the rail bridge and only heading deeper into the Pines. Not much around in the way of witnesses.
A familiar whistle in the distance didn’t distract him, but stunned the rednecks like a gunshot. “Shit, since when the fuck are the trains early!” one shouted. The head Bubba, who strangely enough had a Chicago accent, issued an order.
“Two minutes to detonation. Blow it now. Right now or they won’t have any time to stop!”
The asshole in a Lynnrd Skynyrd T-shirt behind the prisoner hauled out a green box from his cargo pants. He turned one key and began taking a knee like the rest of the squad. Two of his teeth went flying when he took a bonus knee to his face from the old man on the way down. The barely conscious redneck lost control of the armed detonator. It sailed out of his hands and disappeared somewhere in a stand of blackberries along the trail.
Several soldiers scrambled into the bush after the little box, cursing at the thorns, while two more dived for the old man. He hadn’t shown such flexibility since his wedding night, but somehow slid his tied hands up under his butt and out front before they reached him. It was an awkward grip on the fallen man’s M4, what with both cuffed hands on the handle and butt stock pressed against his chest, but he managed. Style wasn’t important at arm’s length range anyway. He flipped the selector to three round burst, what was full Rock n’ Roll in his day, and grinned as the first hillbilly took it all in the chest.