“Yes, sir,” Robinson said. An explosion billowed up from the White House gardens. “Bosco, was that you?”
“RPG shell,” Bosco said. “My only one.”
“We won’t waste it,” Robinson promised. “Forward!”
The assault team surged out of the street and into the gardens, forcing their way through opposition. “Surrender,” Robinson bellowed. “Surrender and we’ll let you live!”
There was no reply, just an increasing hail of fire from the windows. The snipers duelled it out, uncaring of the conflict below them, trading single shots for single shots. Robinson wasn’t worried; Bosco should have been well out of their range. More alarming were the shots that were hacking away at his men.
“In there,” he snapped, as one of his men brought up the bazooka. He targeted it on the rear and fired, blowing a hole in the side of the building. Robinson leapt forward, firing as he moved, forcing an entry into the house itself.
“We surrender,” a man shouted. Robinson glared at a middle-aged white man and his team, who were throwing down their weapons. “Don’t kill us, please…”
“Get down on the ground and stay down,” Robinson snapped. “If there is any resistance, we will kill you on the spot.”
He waited long enough for several of his men to take the prisoners into custody, and then pushed forward again. Resistance seemed to have been broken; more and more men surrendered as they realised they weren’t being shot on the spot. It was just like Iran had been; the first few to surrender had been testing the waters. A single shot rang out from upstairs, causing everyone to jump.
“Sir, that’s the Oval Office,” Jackie said. Robinson nodded; the door seemed to have been broken. He activated his helmet; two heat sources and one rapidly cooling one lay inside, well away from the door.
“Surrender or die,” Robinson bellowed. “Choose now!”
“We surrender,” a weak tired voice muttered. Robinson moved inside quickly; the treacherous Speaker and a young man, whose very air said computer nerd, lifted their hands as he pointed his gun at him. A body lay over the President’s desk; a single check revealed it to be General MacArthur.
“He took his own life,” the computer nerd said.
“Shut up,” Robinson snapped, as one of his men cried out. “What is it?”
“Sir, you have to see this,” Hobson said. Robinson moved into the next room and cursed; the body of President Roosevelt lay on the bed. For a long chilling moment, he thought that the President was asleep, and then he realised that there was no breathing. The President was dead.
“Round up everyone,” he ordered harshly. “I want this building secured before the new president arrives, now!”
Colonel Palter led the raid on FBI headquarters himself, once the people trying to attack the Future Embassy scattered. Resistance was almost non-existent; many of the FBI agents seemed to have disappeared. A quick and brutal search of the building revealed no sign of Hoover, or of his long-time ‘companion.’
Palter scowled as the first fire erupted in the records room. Thousands of FBI files were being burnt; he could only curse as FBI agents, under the guns of his men, fought to save what they could. The technology used to create the fires was modern, the question of where Hoover had gotten it a problem for another time. They burnt rapidly, despite all desperate men at gunpoint could do, and vanished into ashes.
He lifted his radio. “Ambassador, the bird has flown,” he said. “Sir, he’s destroyed his files.”
“The bastard must have realised that they were doomed,” King said. “What about the people Hoover rounded up?”
Palter put the question to one of the captives and recoiled at the answer. “The communists were shot,” he reported grimly. “Most of the black unionists were jailed, apparently for show trials later.”
“Understood,” King said. “Let them out, then secure FBI headquarters and take all of his remaining personnel into custody. We’ll sort them all out later.”
Harry Truman stood in the centre of the Oval Office, wondering what had gone so badly wrong with the plan. He hadn’t expected to have been selected as Vice-President, and now he was the President. He shook his head sadly; no matter what everyone said, he would have been happier with Roosevelt still alive.
The buck stops here, he thought, and felt cold terror spreading through his veins. Hoover – the twisted little fairy – had escaped; MacArthur had taken his own life. There had been thousands of things to deal with, before the entire country collapsed. For one thing, Congress – the members who had escaped Hoover’s premature purge – had been debating a declaration of war on Soviet Russia, and he was expected to support it.
He sat down in the old seat. Roosevelt had had little sympathy for him and had tried to keep him out of the limelight; it had been part of the old bastard’s style. Was anyone truly capable of handing the Presidency under such circumstances? Could the country be held together?
“Mr President, we’re ready for your broadcast now,” Lieutenant Bosco reported. Truman nodded; Bosco was in line for the highest award he could bestow, along with Robinson and his men, who would represent another problem for him. They would want full civil rights – and the need to fight the Axis made giving them those rights urgent – but some elements of Congress would fight against them, tooth and nail.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said. The White House no longer felt the same; it would need a full refit and some better defences. He smiled; perhaps Robinson would consider becoming the near head of his close-protection detail. Mentally composing his speech, he followed the Marine to the radio room, linked to the big transmitters near Washington.
“Speak when the red light goes on,” the technician said. Truman nodded and waited for the light, preparing to speak.
“My fellow Americans,” he said, as the light came on. “Rumours of my death have proven grossly exaggerated. It is with heavy heart, however, that I must confirm to you the death of President Roosevelt, killed by the coup plotters who wanted to shatter our country and take us back to the dark years before the civil war. Those men, allies of the Germans and the Russians in spirit, would have sparked off a civil war for their own selfish benefit.”
He spoke on, growing in confidence. He warned the implicated governors of the people in their states who would rise up against them. He promised a conditional amnesty for those who might have taken part, as long as they confessed and resigned from public life, and branded Hoover as a fugitive and a wanted traitor.
“We have suffered badly in the last year,” he said finally. “Together, however, as one united country, we will fight the war against the evil of Germany and Russia, who attacked us so treacherously only two days ago. Goodnight… and God bless America.”
Chapter Forty-One: What Price Redemption?
Fuhrerbunker
Berlin, Germany
24th June 1941
Field Marshal Kesselring nodded politely to Himmler and saluted Hitler as he entered the main conference room. The loss of the main base in Norway, even though new German forces were inching their way towards the American positions through Sweden, had alarmed the Fuhrer, whose paranoia had risen to new heights.
“I have urgent information,” he said, before Hitler could begin an hour-long monologue. Few in the bunker could bear to listen to Hitler’s monologues, except a few die-hard SS men and Ribbentrop, who never had original thoughts of his own. Hitler, unfortunately, had too many.
“The Norwegians have revolted against our remaining positions?” Himmler asked. There were a handful of Germans along the Norwegian-Swedish border, nervously awaiting their reinforcements. “The Americans have left the war?”