Apache Dawn - - (classic fiction .TXT) 📗

Washington, D.C.

The White House

Presidential Emergency Operations Center

“I am truly disappointed by your performance to date, Mr. President,” said Reginald in a clipped voice, rolling out of the cell phone like the wrath of God coming down on the President's head.

The President rolled his eyes and tried to calm his trembling hands. Wait, why are my hands shaking?

“I gave you a set of instructions to be carried out—”

“I’m the President of the United States, not some damned kid,” the President mumbled, staring at his hands.

“Then bloody act like it!”

The President was shocked into silence by the venom in Reginald’s outburst. It was completely outside the range of emotion normally displayed by the mysterious voice that controlled his destiny. The President frowned. He’s keeping me from seeing Jayne, I know it.

“Where is she?” the President asked in a voice that was close to a whisper. He winced. God, I sound pathetic. But I need her…

It took a moment for Reginald to respond. “You miss her, don’t you?”

“Of course I miss her,” the leader of the free world whimpered. “I…” He had to put out an arm and steady himself. What’s wrong with me?

“Mr. President, did you honestly expect—”

“What did you…unh…” His knees felt weak. It was getting harder to stand. “What did you do to me?” He leaned heavily on the conference table in the War Room. This is not good!

Reginald chuckled softly. “My good man, I have done nothing at all to you. You have done this to yourself.”

“Did what you asked…” the President gasped. He looked down in shock at his right hand. It was past trembling. I’m shaking like a leaf…what the hell is happening?

“Oh, you did some of what I asked. But you have started to go…how is it that you Americans put it? Ah yes…you’ve gone off the reservation. You are losing control of your government. There is an usurper out there, this Orren Harris. Your military is flocking to him. And you have done nothing. The Germans have been screaming for help, the Russians too, and you have done nothing. Where are the National Guard troops you promised to help quell the riots?”

“I suspended the Constitution and gave your military governors absolute, regional control—just like you asked. I declared martial law in the major cities—just like you asked…the troops are there…they’re just…refusing…orders…”

“That is true, you certainly—”

“I forced North Korea to the table with the airstrike on Pyongyang. Don’t forget that—because you did nothing.”

“Indeed, but that has only given their military leaders more incentive to use tactical nuclear weapons on American soil,” replied Reginald in a thoughtful tone. “Which, I assure you, is coming. More importantly, you have lost the Source.”

“But…the Rangers took blood samples—”

“Yes, against my orders, they were allowed to send blood samples, not the Source. And where is that plane? Do you have it? Because I hear this flu the Koreans gave you is starting to mutate…”

“Well…no…we lost contact with the plane after it picked up the blood.”

“So? Was it shot down? Or did the pilots defect to Harris?” asked Reginald’s voice, tight with emotion. “Do you understand what you have allowed to happen? If Harris gets his hands on that blood—”

“He won’t.”

“How do you know that? You can barely stand up, let alone prevent a plane from flying to Denver.” Reginald laughed, a mocking, sinister sound. “And that situation would still be recoverable, if we had the Source. Which of course, your precious Rangers lost.”

“But—”

“Mr. President,” Reginald sighed. “You do understand the predicament you have so incompetently put me in, do you not? My employers were adamant that the Source—him, not his blood—be delivered to them as the price for your presidency. You have done moderately well for yourself up to this point. But, you have now lost the only bargaining chips in your hand.”

“The…what—?” The President could see the room start to spin.

“Precisely. You are overwhelmed. I don’t see how there is any other option going forward but to withdraw support for your administration. You aren’t the only person who can be president, you know—”

The President lost his grip on the cell phone when his head hit the side of the table. He felt an odd, floating-falling sensation, but could only see Jayne in his mind’s clouded eye. She was reaching out to him, covered in soapy suds, begging him to join her in the tub. He reached his arms out and felt nausea sweep over his body. Then a part of his addled mind recognized that he was on the floor.

His heart rate slowed; he could feel himself drifting off into deep relaxation. Is this the end? Am I dying?

The cell phone landed next to him. A barely audible sound emanated from the phone—a voice, rising in concern or anger…he couldn’t decide. He tried to say something but found his mouth wouldn’t listen to the commands his brain was sending. His hand twitched, but didn’t move when he ordered it to touch his face. In a panic, he tried to shout for help and heard only a muffled, faint mumble.

What the hell is going on!? I…His eyes closed slowly, then opened even slower. His thoughts drifted by on a mere trickle of a stream of consciousness. Jayne…Reginald…my wife…shaking hands…room spinning…panic…I can’t speak…Jayne…the riots…Jayne…

He closed his eyes and when they didn’t open, he began to cry and waited for death. As he slipped into nothingness, an image of his wife’s face flashed before him with a sad, mournful look.