“Yes, sir,” Hargesty nodded. He himself had heard it on more than one occasion.
The president slid a red plastic folder marked, “Damage/Civilian Casualties Estimate,” in front of him. He opened it. His mood darkened noticeably. Military matters provided a temporary refuge, a chess game to avoid the pain and suffering beating at the door. They were all reluctant to face the terrible civilian death toll and destruction head-on.
“These are the latest casualty numbers,” the chief of staff remarked. His voice trembled. Thomas grimaced as he scanned the summary. The figures were lower than early initial estimates, but still abhorrent, and climbing daily. A number over fifteen million was shocking, unbelievable. The military dead paled in comparison. But he had yet to witness the devastation firsthand. None of them had. They circumvented the duty based on security concerns, but deep down they were terrified it would cripple their objectivity and decision making. Sooner or later, they would have to face the devil in person.
The president spoke softly to the group, in a matter-of-fact voice. “I’m told that if we don’t act decisively in the next week, these numbers could double within two months. Food shortages are epidemic, and fuel is almost nonexistent. Civil order is collapsing.”
The president looked straight at Hargesty. His face tightened. “I need all our troops for reconstruction and soon. That means a total pullback from overseas.”
Hargesty took a deep breath and tugged at the stubble on his head. He had been prepared for this. Juggling conflicting requirements from the president and the theater Commanders-in-Chiefs was proving impossible. Time and the numbers were against them.
“It’s not that easy, Mr. President. A total pullback would leave a vacuum that would lead to anarchy. Foreign governments are biding their time, waiting to see what happens to us. Skirmishes have already started on more than one border. There are old scores to settle, and most have correctly concluded that they won’t have to worry about the United States sticking its nose in their business. Then there are overseas resources. We’ve got to be able to play that game.”
The president began to doodle intently on the yellow legal pad resting before him. He drew a box and inscribed the word “survival,” then underlined it repeatedly. He seemed totally absorbed but suddenly looked up.
“The country’s recovery is paramount. Nothing else matters. Continuing to fight overseas is pointless. If the world goes to hell, so be it.”
Hargesty leaned forward to answer. He’d give it one more shot. “I have to disagree, Mr. President. Once we retreat, it will be impossible to reverse course. Forward deployment has been the cornerstone of our military strategy since World War II. We should hang on as best we can. We need the clout to secure resources. We need to rebuild coalitions.”
Hargesty’s argument was lost on the president. He continued to scribble, disinterested. “I’m well aware of that. But we have to establish economic viability at home. Otherwise we’re doomed. People are terrified. The country is at a standstill. We need to reestablish order. And the troops can do that.”
“We’ll never get economic viability without access to overseas resources,” replied Hargesty forcefully.
The president looked up sternly, cutting off the debate. “My mind’s made up. I want to see a redeployment plan. General?” the president inquired, arching his brow.
“I will ensure your orders are carried out, sir.”
The president stood, leaning on the back of his chair. His eyes were glued to a large map of the United States hanging from the far bulkhead. State boundaries were superimposed on a two-dimensional colored-relief format. “The country’s falling apart. The States are screaming, and there’s nothing I can do. Anarchy’s spreading from coast to coast. FEMA has been overwhelmed. I fear a total breakdown of authority then mass starvation and epidemics. God knows how we’re going to make it through the winter.”
The president closed his puffy eyes and slowly rubbed his brow. One of his now-frequent headaches was returning. “Have you read about Europe during the Black Death?” he addressed no one in particular. “One-third of the population of Europe perished, maybe more. Corpses were stacked like cordwood, waiting to be burned. Starving peasants ate grass, and in some cases, each other. Whole towns ceased to exist. Terror gripped their lives for years; recovery took decades.” An uncomfortable silence ensued, broken only by an occasional cough.
“We need every American soldier we can get our hands on. Governors and military commanders are grumbling. A few have openly defied orders, questioning the legitimacy of the government. That’s why we need to seize control of all surviving industrial production to ensure equitable distribution. I never dreamed I’d be an ardent supporter of martial law, but it’s the only path leading out of this wilderness.”
Finished, he gazed at his audience. His voice had a pathetic touch of sadness. “I want a plan to get those troops home, General Hargesty.”
Thomas didn’t say a word. He had been uncharacteristically quiet during the discussion. He sensed the president had something else in mind for him.
“That’s all,” the president said abruptly. They all rose in unison and formed a loose file. “General Thomas, please stay. I have a matter I’d like to discuss.”
Thomas extracted himself from those exiting and stood with his hands on his hips. He ignored the glares of the others. He was used to it.
“Let’s sit on the couch,” the president said with a sweep of his arm. Thomas obliged.
The president offered a warm, pleasant expression, not a smile, but a face filled with gratitude.
“You’ve served me well these past few days. I appreciate your candor and loyalty.”
Thomas appreciated the words. He needed them. “You’re welcome, sir.”
The president pulled himself closer, his tired eyes suddenly alive. “But now, I have a critical mission for you.” The president pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Thomas. Thomas unfolded the message and began to scan the twenty or so lines of text.
“It’s a transmission from our ambassador in Switzerland. He received it from the Japanese Ambassador. Supposedly, it’s credible. We have no way of knowing for sure.” By then Thomas was halfway down the page, studying each line. It was an offer from the Russians for direct negotiations, at a place of the Americans’ choosing. Thomas had to force down his cynicism. So far contact with the Russians had been spotty at best and through questionable intermediaries. But this was different, more direct. It had the proper tone that piqued Thomas’s interest.
“What about the Russians’ buildup? It’s real; I’ve seen it.” Thomas said.
“I understand,” answered the president. “It’s not entirely clear who’s in charge over there. This could be some splinter group.” The president locked onto Thomas’s eyes. “But it could be legitimate. I have to take the chance.”
Thomas nodded agreement. They both understood that they were on the threshold of renewed, large-scale fighting.
“I’m asking you to go and meet the Russians in my place. My heart says it should be me, but my head realizes my duty is here.” The president leaned back. “You’ll have full authority to represent the government, and I’ll accept any terms you get. You pick your team.”
Thomas was stunned. He believed with all his heart that the president was right — the fighting had to stop. But an inexorable force was building against them, a mountain of fear and hate pushing everything out of its way. He was tired, more tired than he had ever been in his life. He felt inadequate and very, very small.
“You’re hesitating?”
“I’m a soldier, sir, not a diplomat. There’s no room for error on this. Are you sure?”