Apache Dawn - - (classic fiction .TXT) 📗

view switched to a 3D display from the nose of the bomb as it tipped down and was pulled by gravity toward a violent death.

The clouds began to grow larger, then everything went white as the massive ordinance sliced through a cirrus cloud and emerged on the other side. The view of the ground came back abruptly, rushing up to meet the screen. The President leaned forward in his chair, nearly dumping Jayne off his lap in an effort to fight the vertigo rising in his inner ears. He felt as if he were falling forward and down with the bomb.

Faster still, the bomb raced downward; the factories, the buildings, the roads growing ever larger by the second. A beeping started as the bomb counted down to its own demise, locked on target and guiding itself home. The President gripped the arms of his chair with white knuckles. He could feel the sweat on his forehead. Ever downward the bomb fell, spinning first one way, then the other as it sailed through the air and stabilized its trajectory. The numbers counting down in the upper-left corner of the screen indicated America’s response to the invasion was less than five-thousand feet away now.

A little radar dish symbol appeared in the upper-right corner. The President pointed at the symbol, his other arm wrapped tightly around Jayne’s waist. “What’s that mean?” he gasped.

“Okay, right now, the North Koreans are attempting to lock onto the bomb with their missile defense system. It won’t work, though—the bomb has already attained terminal velocity. Besides, it’s got jamming and counter measures onboard. Once it’s released from the plane, the target is as good as gone,” responded General Andrews from his monitor.

The President watched the numbers spin and disappear: 900 feet, 800 feet, 700 feet—they turned red, his pulse quickened. Five hundred, four, three—two—one—

The last image he saw was of a large, industrial building. It must’ve occupied four city blocks and the roof was littered with satellite dishes. The GPS-guided bomb honed in on a ventilation shaft in the center of the roof and punched right through before the image went to static.

On impact, the President’s body jerked with tension, causing Jayne to squeal in surprise.

“Good kill,” reported the pilot. “Good kill.”

“Target destroyed,” announced the co-pilot. “Large secondary explosions.”

“What was it?” asked the President, loosening his tie to get some more air. What a ride! “Can I get a copy of this?”

“That was the North Korean…well, the closest equivalent is a Parliament building, sir—but it’s largely symbolic. Kim Yon Sul is not in residence. He’s in his bunker, but this will be just as effective. We need the party-elite to be scared for their lives. Kim Yon Sul is absolutely certifiable. He’ll never back down. You said to send a strong message—I think the hardliners in Pyongyang will understand things a little clearer now, Mr. President.”

“Maybe the Chinese will answer the phone now, too,” mused the head of the NSA.

The video feed changed from green-static to an image of the same four city blocks—now reduced to charred, burning rubble with a sizable crater in the middle.

“Biggest bomb we have that doesn’t glow in the dark,” said the Air Force Chief of Staff with a smirk.

“That…was…awesome…” whispered the President. He almost laughed. “How many did we drop?”

“Just one, sir.”

“One bomb did that? How many bombers went in?”

“In total, three, sir. But we only needed one.”

“Why only one? I thought I said I wanted to send a message?”

“Mr. President,” said the new Secretary of Defense, Haden Brooks, the former undersecretary. “The message was loud and clear: we only need one plane to deliver one bomb and destroy your parliament.” His image snapped fingers. “Just like that. Despite all the chaos you’ve caused on our West Coast, America is still the big dog in the fight. And there’s a lot more where that came from.”

The President looked at his new VP. “I like him.”

“Sir, if I may,” said the Army Chief of Staff. “We’ve got some more things to sort out. For starters, we need a follow up.”

“You mean, hit them again?” asked Jayne.

The President leaned around Jayne’s waist and raised an eyebrow at the General. He nodded and cleared his throat.

“Ah, yes…yes ma’am. Hit them again.” The man looked genuinely embarrassed to be talking to the President’s aide, especially one sitting on the President’s lap.

“Mr. President, I disagree,” said Vice President Hillsen. She turned to face him, her posture stiff—as if every fiber of her being was trying to ignore the woman sitting on the President’s lap. Her eyes flicked to the movement of his hand up Jayne’s blouse. Jayne giggled and squirmed and the VP blushed.

“Let me make contact with some members of the Chinese government that I…” She looked at the faces on the bank of screens that watched her. The Joint Chiefs were frowning. She cleared her throat. “I…I have some backchannel contacts. Let me use them. If I can get them to broker a ceasefire with the Koreans, we can stop the fighting and figure out a diplomatic solution that would benefit both our countries.”

“Oh, we’ll stop the fighting,” said the Air Force Chief. “As soon as we bomb North Korea back to the Stone Age.”

“And how long do you think it’ll be, General,” VP said icily, “before the Koreans try to nuke us, now? Then we nuke them…Tell me, General, who wins in that scenario?” She turned back to the President. “If I can establish a truce so that the Koreans can at least save face…we stand a much better chance at real peace, sir.”

She smiled—if you could call it that—a facial gesture that made her look like a classic witch. All she needs is a cauldron and a pointy hat, the President said to himself with a silent laugh.

The President glanced up at Jayne. He was bored. He wanted her. She winked at him, then shrugged. He sighed and looked at the VP. “Okay, go for it. We’ll hold off on further strikes until you can see what you can do. But if your way doesn’t work…”

“Understood, sir. Thank you, Mr. President.”

“What about all those cities on the Eastern Seaboard that the U.N. has taken over?” asked Jayne. “What about the rioting in the treaty zones?”

“Sir,” said the Secretary of Homeland Security. President Barron didn’t like the fact that the handwringing bureaucrat made it a point to address him and not Jayne, when it was clearly she who cared enough to ask. “I think this is beyond riots. It’s more like open rebellion. Ever since President Denton’s speech, all hell has broken loose in several major cities.”

“Did that doctored tape really fool all these people?” sighed the President. “The man was clearly dead days ago. Now there’s this broadcast displaying some actor claiming to be Denton—and people are revolting in his name?”

“People are gullible,” mumbled Jayne.

“Is there anything we can do to—”

“Sir,” said the Secretary of Homeland Security, “it’s not a question of what we can do—we can’t do anything. There’s just too many riots. They’re everywhere: Boston, Philly, New York, Chicago, Phoenix, Houston, Dallas, Miami, Charleston, Louisville…if it’s a city bigger than about 10,000 people, there are riots going on. In the treaty zones, or Occupied Zones, as they’re being called, the people are attacking the Europeans more than before, and they’re starting to really get organized.”

“The Rising,” said the FBI Director.

“What?” asked the President wearily.

“That’s what they’re calling it on the streets. The Rising.”

“I call it insurrection and it will be crushed!” the President proclaimed, waving the absurdity aside. “Riots in America. Ridiculous. Use the military, use the National Guard, just crush them!”

He got a weak chorus of “yessirs” in response. Jayne wiggled in his lap, making him forget what he was mad about. She was so flexible…

“General…” Jayne leaned back into the President’s arms and whispered a question in his ear. She nibbled it before he answered in a shaky voice.

“That’s General Harrison…” he murmured, eyes closed in bliss.

Jayne leaned provocatively forward in the President’s lap and rested her forearms on the table. The President still had one of his roaming hands up her blouse, but she acted as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Then her blouse fell open, causing more than one of the faces on the screens to blush or look away. Only the three military men kept their eyes on her—and narrowed them.

“General Harrison, be a dear and explain to me,” she said, twirling some of the liquid gold that tumbled down from her head in her fingers. “Why do you look so uncomfortable at the President’s suggestion to use the military to put down the rebellion?”

The General adjusted his uniform and cleared his throat. “For starters, ma’am, there are certain rules and time-honored customs—”

“You’re talking about posse commitatus,” Jayne said. “It’s irrelevant. The President has already suspended that outdated practice for the duration of the crisis.” She raised her eyebrows, waiting for the General to proceed.

He glared at her. “This is the United States of America. We do not use our own military to impose—”

“Impose what? The will of the people?” she asked coyly.

“The will of one man! President Barron has disbanded Congress—”

“Temporarily. There were credible threats on the lives of the Legislative Branch. He had no choice—”

“Bullshit! Singlehandedly dismissing Congress is precisely the type of activity that is causing our men and women in uniform to