Apache Dawn - - (classic fiction .TXT) 📗

The monitor in front of the Secretary chirped and lit up. The President watched the Secretary of Defense read for a moment. “Sir,” he said softly, “another riot has started. Boston.”

The President sighed. “When will they realize the Germans are there to help them?”

“I believe we'll be ice skating in hell before that happens, sir.”

The President sighed once more. “Here we go again. Just like Philly. All right,” he said, bringing his attention back down to the conference table. “How bad is it, this time?”

“Looks like the Germans lost another eleven men last night. Three more this morning. The usual M.O.: Molotov cocktails, rocks, small arms fire, and a few snipers using hunting rifles from the distance. How they keep smuggling these damn things into the towns that are blockaded is beyond me…”

“Damn!” muttered the President. Reginald would not be pleased. He seemed to take a European death as a personal affront during this little adventure of his. Though it had been a few days since he had spoken directly with Reginald. All his communications of late had been through…

Jayne. The President had to force himself to not think of her and focus on the older man next to him.

“Okay. So what happened? How many American casualties?” the President mumbled.

“Well, let’s see…” Secretary Troyes said, perusing the report. “Says here the Germans report they were on a routine patrol…blah, blah, blah…bad neighborhood…uh…oh, here it is—they had to fire live ammunition into the crowd in order to effect a retreat to their outpost.”

The Secretary of Defense continued reading, then paused and suddenly looked very old and very tired. “Christ Almighty,” he whispered and removed his glasses. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. “This will not be good.”

“How many?”

The Secretary of Defense put his glasses back on to read the report. “The trigger-happy bastards killed 37 citizens and wounded another 129. My God—the pictures, sir…it was a bloodbath.” He peered at the President over the rims of his glasses like a constipated frog.

“Well…maybe these rabble rousers will have learned the lesson this time—” President Barron began. “I mean, I made the announcements, I signed the executive order—the U.N. has full legal and military control over cities like Boston, what more do I have to—”

“Sir, have you considered the possibility that actions like this,” Secretary Troyes said, slapping the gruesome report onto the table, “sanctioned by your administration, are literally pouring gasoline on the fire?”

“Albert, this is for the greater good—”

“Mr. President, these Americans are sick, hungry, and scared to death of the super flu. Then, they get news that the Germans are taking over Boston. Boston, sir. The very cradle of our nation. Do you realize there’s a group operating there calling themselves the Sons of Liberty? The Germans have already labeled them terrorists, but the people in Boston are hailing them as heroes. Do you have any idea what an event like this—” He shook his head. “Then, you suspend the cotton-picking Constitution—”

“That was only necessary to maintain order and appease the German Governor, because the people—” Barron began.

“Sir, will you listen to yourself?” snapped the Secretary of Defense. “You are the President of the United States of America—the most powerful man on the planet! You don’t need to appease anyone! Let alone a bunch of pompous Europeans—right here, inside our own cities! Is it any wonder the people are good and pissed off?” He stared at the President.

“I…” President Barron cleared his throat. “I thought if we partnered with—”

“These people are just looking for an excuse to riot after the trucks stopped delivering food and supplies, thanks to that damn flu…and you’re handing it to them on a daily basis the more you get in bed with the Germans,” said the Secretary.

“Maybe if we had the National Guard on station—”

“Sir, they’d be more likely to shoot the U.N. troops than American citizens, even if they were rioting. And with good reason.”

President Barron clenched his teeth for a moment and decided enough was enough. “Is that so? Tell me, Albert—if we suggested that anyone in uniform that wasn’t loyal to my administration was summarily discharged, without pay, without food tickets, without base housing for their families…do you really think you’d have that many on our side just throw their hands up and walk away because a bunch of strangers decided to riot? I don’t think so—everyone in our military has access to the latest medical treatment, food, shelter, protection. Out there…” The President waved a hand, then checked himself. “Up there, the unwashed masses are fighting and squabbling over scraps of food and clean water. They’re losing reliable electrical power, they’re getting sick and watching people die all around them as this damn flu sweeps across the country—”

“I am telling you sir, putting American soldiers into this situation will just piss everyone off—”

The President’s heart hardened. “We’ll see who’s pissed off after they realize that working for me and following my orders is the only way they and their families will have even a chance at surviving this shitstorm we’re in right now. Order the National Guard to back up the Germans. The next time the rioters get out of control, we’ll have American troops there to help crush it as well.”

The Secretary of Defense gaped at the President like a fish out of water. “Sir…sir. I beg you to reconsider…” He looked at his hands and stammered incoherently for a moment, then regained some composure. “Sir, ordering American troops to fire on American civilians…in a situation like this…” He shrugged. “It could start a civil war.”

The President wasn’t listening anymore. He detected a faint whiff of a…a familiar sweet fragrance…gently circulating in the air. Something that sent his pulse racing. Absently, he lifted a hand, bored with the conversation. “Albert, you’re as bad as that old-goat of a Marine. What’s-his-face. The Commandant.”

Secretary Troyes’ face flushed, but the President didn’t care. His eyes were open but he was remembering Jayne in the bubble bath. “I’ll expect your resignation letter on my desk by three o’clock. If you won’t carry out my orders and do your duty for your country, I’ll just find someone who will. There seem to be plenty of people that want to help around here…Now leave me alone.”

The Secretary of Defense’s face darkened with anger. “You little…of all the arrogance…” he growled. “I’ve faithfully served the last three presidents, and you couldn’t hold a candle next to any one of them—”

“What are you talking about, Albert?” The President laughed. “Candles? Are you senile?” the President asked dreamily. He giggled when the door on the far side of the room cracked open. Jayne gracefully leaned inside the door and smiled; the seductive look in her sensuous eyes were filled with promise. Her scent wafted in with the air from outside the room in a new wave—it made his body tingle with anticipation.

“Go on, Al, get out of here. I’ve got important things to…handle.”

“You’re destroying this country, you…you…fool! And you don’t even know it. I had my doubts that you were fit to command…now, I know…” The Secretary of Defense stood up, gathering his papers in a huff. Another door opened and a Secret Service agent in black fatigues stepped in and waited. With an angry glance over his shoulder, Secretary Troyes continued, “General Rykker is right; you are a pompous ass that never should've been on the ticket, let alone elected.”

The President turned his full fury on the older man in a sudden blast. “And you, sir,” he said, jumping out of his plush chair and pointing a finger in the Secretary’s face, “are dangerously close to treason. Get him out of here! Now!”

Before the Secretary of Defense could retort, the agent grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him out of the room, sputtering like a wet cat. Papers flew through the air as the Secretary of Defense was twirled around and shoved through the open door. The agent, one highly recommended by Jayne, paused at the door and looked at the President, one eyebrow raised.

The Commander in Chief nodded with a half-smile. The agent grinned and shut the door quietly. The President ignored the cries of pain and surprise when the door shut and the beating began.

“Now you won’t have to worry about that resignation, you old fart.” A muffled crash ended the screaming in the hallway. The President’s briefing room was once again nearly silent, the only sound being the softly purring ventilation system.

“Finally,” murmured Jayne as she sashayed across the room and sat suggestively on the edge of the conference table. She pushed a hidden button and smiled as the room resonated with the sound of all the doors locking shut.

President Barron grinned. They were alone now, and it would stay that way until one of them unlocked the doors.

In an exaggerated move, she released her golden hair from the painfully tight-looking ponytail and shook her head luxuriously. The high-slashed skirt she wore fell away nearly to her hips, revealing a toned, yet supple thigh that begged to be touched.

The President’s vision blurred in time with his accelerated heartbeat. He stumbled forward, eyes on the bare, slightly tanned skin of her upper leg resting coyly on the table. He could almost feel the heat emanating from that skin—it drew him forward like a moth to the flame.

When he staggered into her embrace and felt the soft velvet of her lips on his, it eclipsed anything he had ever experienced in his life. He was positively drunk on her, drowning in her scent, her presence. Breaking the kiss to come up for air, he stepped back. It was almost too much.

He clawed at the shirt on his chest. It was restricting his breathing somehow. Tiny black spots were flitting in and out of his vision, dancing around in a breathtaking view before his eyes. Even now, teetering on the edge of collapse, he found her irresistible.