Apache Dawn - - (classic fiction .TXT) 📗

weakly. He cleared his throat and spoke more forcefully, “As the saying goes, the reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.” He smiled thinly, clearly in pain. The smile faded as he stared into the camera.

“I’m speaking to you today…” He coughed wetly and only with great effort regained his sitting position. Brenda felt a strong urge to run to him and help. That was when she noticed the pounding at the door had stopped. She looked at Cooper. He winked and nodded at the door. Brenda felt a flutter in her belly. She suddenly wanted very much to feel the texture of his stubbly beard under her fingertips.

“I am sorry. To all Americans, I wish to say…” He coughed again. “I’m sorry, so terribly sorry. It was through…” He wheezed for breath. “Through my actions, my policies, and those of my party that brought this great nation…” Another coughing fit. This latest one seemed to sap his strength. “It has brought us to this unfortunate moment. I see that now. I cannot express to you how very much I regret the decisions I’ve made during the course of my political career. But that is behind us. History will judge me, and me alone for that.”

Brenda could see the outline of one of the airmen wheeling his hand to signal the President to hurry it up. She silently prayed that he would have the strength to say whatever it was he wanted to say. Behind her, the nurse sneezed again. She winced.

“I don’t have much time with you…so I want say this: it is clear that Vice President Harold Barron has been a wolf in sheep's clothing. He has had himself sworn in as president and has taken power in Washington, D.C…in an unprecedented, illegal act. He has usurped the Constitution itself and is in the process of bending it to his will…” He slumped a little, struggling to breathe through fluid-filled lungs. Brenda’s heart nearly broke at the sight of the old man fighting so hard.

When the President at last raised his head, a trickle of blood was tracing a line out of his nose. “You people in Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and the other occupied cites of the east…you know this all too well,” he said in a wheeze. He swallowed and coughed again.

“I want you all—all Americans loyal to the Constitution, to the foundation, the history, the very essence of our society—I want you to know, I hereby appoint the Speaker of the House, Orren Harris, as my legitimate successor, until such time as a special election can be held. I have heard of the actions Vice President Barron has taken and ordered to be taken…I…” He shook his head and coughed.

“It is beyond me why this man has acted in this unlawful and unpatriotic manner. But what really breaks my heart, is that so many people are…allowing it, or condoning it with outright apathy, if not direct support. The doling out of American soil to foreign powers is…anathema to our very way of life!”

“One minute, Mr. President!” warned one of the Air Force men off-camera.

The President shook his head. “Not enough damn time.” He looked up at the camera and what strength was lacking from his sallow face and fever-kissed skin, was made up with the burning resolution in his eyes. Visibly summoning every ounce of strength, the President said in a strong voice, “I ask you to do one thing, America. Rise.” He paused in a vain attempt to clear his flooded lungs. Weakly, he continued, leaning heavily on the podium across his lap.

Jesus, he’s got blood coming from his ear now…Brenda put a hand to her mouth and bumped her mask. She stood helpless as tears spilled down her face.

“Rise, America, rise against this bald grab for power. Rise in defense of your rights, your homes, your country, and your fellow citizens. Rise, as one nation, one people, and fight off the tyrants, oppressors, and invaders of this sacred land.” He coughed violently and couldn’t seem to catch his breath. Brenda moved to help him but he looked up and raised a gaunt hand to keep her away. There was a pink-tinged froth dribbling from his mouth. The flu was destroying his lungs right before her eyes.

“Rise, America—and fight—every man, woman, and child…every minute of every day…in any way you can…with every fiber of your being…to the very last breath in your body.

“You have my blessing and authority to take whatever actions necessary to defeat the illegal occupations, defeat the Koreans and defeat those who support Vice President Barron.” He slumped forward on the podium, breathing raggedly yet trying to lift his head up. After a few excruciating seconds, he pushed himself up again and squared his shoulders, panting with the effort.

“Rise, America. Rise, and wake the sleeping giant!” A cadaverous arm went up, the gaunt, blue-tinted fist pointed at the sky.

“RISE!”

“Annnnnnd, we’ve lost signal,” called out someone in the shadows. The red light above the camera winked out.

“Did he just start a civil war?” asked Lopez quietly. No one answered him.

The President gasped, his eyes rolled up and he fell back with a thud onto the gurney. Brenda and Dr. Honeycutt were immediately at his side, stethoscopes out and checking vitals.

The pounding on the door resumed, with vigor. There was a loud boom, and a dent appeared in the center of the steel door. Boom, boom, boom and the metal began to stretch. Brenda stared in horror. The tip of an ax had forced its way through the middle of the door.

“We’re gonna have company real soon, Chief,” said one of the SEALs.

“Sweet Jesus,” said Dr. Honeycutt, head cocked, listening to his stethoscope. “His pulse is through the roof.”

Brenda was shining a penlight in the President’s eye. “Pupils non-responsive, I’ve got blood from the nose and ears—we’re losing him,” she said.

“Sub-conjunctival bleeding,” muttered Dr. Honeycutt, using a flashlight to examine the President’s suddenly blood-red eyes.

Another crash from the door and a small piece broke away when the ax was pulled free. “Open this goddamn door!” a voice snarled. Threats of courts martial and firing squads were shouted in at them through the half-inch wide hole in the door.

“Leave…leave me in peace,” the exhausted President exhaled in a gurgle of air and bloody froth.

“But—” said Brenda.

“No,” he said, limply raising his right hand. “Too late…you did good…” He tried to find her hand. She gripped his paper-thin, weak hand in both of hers. “Sweet girl.”

The President slowly rolled his head to the left and his unfocused eyes sought the SEAL commander. “Will…it…will it work?” he whispered, blood, mucus, and lung fluid leaking from the President’s mouth onto his suit jacket. Despite everything, Brenda’s breath caught at the desperate hope in the man’s eyes.

Master Chief Braaten, bristling with weapons, approached and knelt at the side of his Commander in Chief without a mask, apparently unafraid of the microbial killer so close at hand. There was an MP-5 in a combat sling harness on his side, a sidearm in the holster on his leg, a grenade launcher on his back, and a big knife on his tactical vest. He stared at his clenched hands for a moment. When he looked up, his eyes were distant and empty. She caught herself once more thinking that he had a very handsome face…

“Open this door!” echoed behind them. Brenda flinched, her mind ripped back to the crisis at hand.

I need sleep…hard to focus.

“It—I’d say…yes, sir. I think it worked, sir.” Master Chief Braaten wiped his nose on the back of a thick forearm. He sniffed. “If I was a civilian, I’d be loading up my shotgun right now.”

The President sighed and looked at the ceiling. “So this is how it ends…” he said quietly, and then coughed, a wet, sucking sound.

That cough made Brenda cringe. She knew this was the end. Of what, though? His life? America? She wondered idly if the North Koreans could track the location of their signal and hone in on where they were hiding, deep under the Los Angeles Air Force Base.

“Never wanted…” the President said quietly, “this…” A tear rolled down his wrinkled cheek and mixed with the blood from his nose. He closed his red eyes and sobbed in silence.

“We’ll get out of this, sir, don’t worry,” promised the SEAL commander. “America will survive this and we’ll return, stronger than ever. It’s what we do.”

“I hope…” the old man said, face streaked with tears. His eyes were still closed tight in pain. He was very still for a long time. Brenda moved to check his wrist for a pulse. Suddenly, the President’s eyes bulged and his body stiffened.

“Oh my—what are you doing here?” he said in a voice that sounded eerily normal. Then his body relaxed. His blood-red eyes were still staring straight ahead. The breath slowly escaped his body in a bubbling gurgle. His chest fell one last time and did not rise again.

Brenda felt for a pulse, glanced at Dr. Honeycutt and shook her head, tears running down her face. “He’s gone,” she said, her voice cracking.

A thud behind her announced the infected nurse had passed out. She glanced over her shoulder to see Dr. Fletcher kneel beside the stricken woman. “She’s burning up,” he reported calmly.

The SEAL placed a hand on the President’s shallow chest and lowered his head. “Hail to the Chief,” he mumbled. Brenda had to wipe the tears from her eyes to see. Or was it sweat? In a panic, she felt her own forehead. It was warm, but that could’ve been caused by all the people stuffed into the room.

Dr. Honeycutt gently passed his hands over the President’s eyes. “Time of death…” He glanced at his watch. Brenda could the see the face of the expensive-looking watch was a spiderweb of cracks. “It’s broken,” he said with a sad smile, stifling a laugh. He looked up. “Anyone have a watch?”

“Eighteen twenty-one,”