The impact from the bullets caused Rahab to fall backward and trip over the children. He held the detonator firmly, but then looked up and yelled, “Praise be to God!” and lifted his thumb off the trigger. Then everything went black.
FEBRUARY 27, 2015
• • •
“Never look back unless you are planning to go that way.”
Conner exited the Humvee in front of Pat’s Coffee Shop. When he had heard that the coffee shop down the street from the capitol had stayed open and its owner had been instrumental in maintaining order, he made a point to pay a visit.
Pat’s Coffee Shop had been a local Wyoming spot for almost two decades. During the rise of Starbucks, Pat Coldwell, a former air force airman, opened it up. He had been stationed at F. E. Warren back in the 1990s as a security police officer, guarding the missile silos. At the end of his enlistment, Pat stayed in Cheyenne. He loved the people, the country, and most importantly the city. Cheyenne had become his new home. He was originally from Seattle but going home wasn’t an option for him. He took the idea of fine coffee and brought it to Cheyenne, where he saw success. When the lights went out, he decided to keep the place open. Even while initial panic set in, he refused to give in. When vandals began to descend on downtown, he and a few other business owners rallied and, with support of the government, squashed it. His perseverance paid off. Things had turned around for Cheyenne, and he was now being heralded as a local icon.
Conner walked into the shop and was greeted with a loud hello from behind the bar. The shop was being lit by generators that were powered by a wind turbine constructed on the roof of the building.
“Good morning! I hear this is the place to grab a hot cup of java,” Conner shouted out.
Pat was behind the counter pouring water into a small, stainless espresso maker. He looked up and saw Conner followed by a long line of armed men. He’d never seen this man before but the entourage told him this person was someone of importance.
“You heard right, sir. What can I get you?” Pat wiped his hands and walked to the counter.
“Just a coffee, large,” Conner said.
“You have a cup with you?” Pat asked.
“Ah, no, I don’t.”
“I don’t have many paper cups left, so that will be extra,” Pat said, holding up a white paper cup with plastic lid.
“Sure,” Conner answered.
Pat poured hot water from a kettle he had sitting on a Coleman stove into a French press and set it aside. “It will take a moment.”
“That’s fine. Pat, do you have a minute?” Conner asked.
Pat looked around and said, “Sure, I can spare a minute.”
Conner reached over the counter with his hand and said, “Pat, my name is Brad Conner. I’m the President of the United States.”
Pat looked shocked as he grabbed Conner’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Well, this is a surprise. Nice to meet you, sir.”
“I came in here because I heard about everything you did and I wanted to personally thank you. You are an example to other Americans,” Conner said. He looked around quickly, then turned back to him and finished by saying, “Keeping this shop open means a lot. It signifies hope.”
Pat couldn’t believe the president was standing in front of him, much less thanking him for doing what he thought anyone should do. “Sir, it just felt right. That’s all.”
“Well, we need more Americans like you. We have a tough road ahead of us, but with people like you, we can make it.”
Pat blushed from the praise. Nervously, he turned around and said, “Your coffee is ready.” He pushed down the screen and poured the coffee. “Room for cream?”
“Wow, you have cream?” Conner asked, surprised.
“Ahh, sorry, not real cream; I have some powdered over there,” he said, pointing to a small table against the wall. He handed Conner the coffee.
“Thank you. How much?”
“On the house, sir.”
“No, you made this and it has value. I insist on paying.”
“Well, things are a bit different. I can take an egg, a candy bar, something like that in exchange.”
Conner then realized he didn’t have a wallet anymore and, of course, didn’t have an egg or candy bar on his person. “You know, I’m sorry. I came in here with no way to pay for this.” He turned to one of his security, who shrugged. Cash money didn’t have value anymore.
“No worries, sir. Like I said at first, it’s on the house.”
“Pat, I’ll send one of my men back with payment. I’m a man of my word and I will pay for this. Thank you again. It was a pleasure to finally meet you.” Pat nodded in response, still shocked by the interaction.
Conner headed toward the door. Taking a sip, he turned and called over his shoulder, “This is a damn good cup of coffee.” Pat smiled.
Conner got into the Humvee. Dylan was sitting in the backseat, finishing up a call on his satellite phone.
“To the office,” Conner instructed.
Just as the vehicle began to move a few people rushed Conner’s side of Humvee.
“Mr. President, thank you. Thank you!” they yelled.
“Wait a minute. Stop!” Conner commanded.
Security poured out of the vehicle behind and came at the people with guns drawn.
Conner stepped out of the Humvee and said, “Hold on! Wait!”
In front of him were two men and a woman with a toddler. All looked weathered and tired.
The woman reached out and touched him. “Mr. President, thank you for coming to Cheyenne. You being here has given us hope!” The men spoke and expressed the same sentiment.
His team backed off and the people again stepped forward.
“What’s your name?” he asked the woman.
“My name is Belinda.”
“And yours, sweetheart?”
“I’m Faith,” the little girl said. Her blonde curls hung in her face.
“What a beautiful name for such a beautiful little girl,” Conner said, touching her hand.
Other people on the street began to gather. He now stood in front of a group of twenty or more. Seeing an opportunity, he bellowed out, “People of Cheyenne, I’m here to stay. Your country is still here and your government is still here. We will begin rebuilding this great country one brick at a time and this great city is where we will begin. Thank you for being strong during these tough times!”
The people cheered.
He finished by saying, “Please stay strong. I need each and every one of you to do that. We are in this together. Thank you!” He shook a few hands, then jumped back in the Humvee.
“Great job, sir,” Dylan said, smiling ear to ear. “That’s the Brad Conner I remember from Congress.”
“That felt really good. You know, Dylan, this was a smart move on many counts,” he said as he waved out the window, a grin on his face. “Oh, and get me some rations, and find me milk or cream. I’ll need it for tomorrow. Now, I’ve got a call to make.”
“We lost another councilor last night,” Roger Timms told Simpson.
“The colonel won’t like hearing that.”
“I don’t know what else to say—there’s no other way sugarcoat this. The mayor has managed to convince these people that having you leave is the right thing to do.”
Simpson looked down at his watch. “Sorry to make you wait, Roger, but he’s still on an important call.”
“A call?” Roger looked surprised when he heard that once-common phrase. It seemed like it had been years since he had used a telephone.
“Yes, he’s down at the CIC.”