“After New York, the niggers will get back in their place or die,” he muttered, as the teams raced out to their trucks. The teams were hidden in a warehouse on the outskirts of Washington; it was just a short drive to the White House. Then…
“You deserve it,” he muttered, thinking of Roosevelt. The man had done a lot of good, but only at the price of letting the niggers think that they could be good Americans. When they had finally tried to rise above their station, had Roosevelt done anything? No – the President had listened to his black advisor and allowed the niggers to run rampant.
“Take us out,” he ordered. As one of the few soldiers with combat experience – back in the Great War – Buckley had been placed in charge of one aspect of the mission. He knew why; if anything went wrong, it would be blamed on him, rather than on MacArthur, a good American who’d crushed rioters in the streets.
“We’ll be there in no time,” his driver said. The entire convoy had military plates, which should allow it to pass through any checkpoints that might have been set up. In all the confusion following New York, he doubted that anyone would be thinking about stopping military vehicles.
“Good,” he muttered back, checking his weapon. The plan was simple; shoot down the Secret Service agents if they refused to surrender, surround the White House and search the place from top to bottom. Everyone inside was to be arrested and held prisoner without any communications until after events had settled down.
“Nearly there,” the driver said. “Everyone’s ready, sir.”
“Good,” Buckley said. “Let’s get this over with and then we can all go home.”
Marine Lieutenant Bosco had taken up position near the White House, lying on a roof of a building that felt very cold, even with the warm day. One advantage the counter-plotters had; they could use radio bursts without having to worry about detection.
He watched grimly as a line of trucks drove up towards the White House. They were basic trucks, but they wore army plates. Rumour had it that the local police had been bought off, but if the men were armed with the missing AK-47s, the local police would be outgunned anyway – badly.
“They’re here,” he muttered into his radio. There was no reply, as per procedure, but he would have been glad of a reply, just to convince him that he wasn’t alone. He felt dreadfully alone, both with the tiny number of real Marines in America – and being positioned in a very vulnerable position.
“I’ve got to stop volunteering for things,” he muttered to himself. “Colonel, I count nine trucks and at least two hundred men.”
“Noted,” Palter’s voice said. “Continue to observe.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, watching as the men spread out around the White House. He shuddered; like all who’d spent time on the Presidential Protection Detail, he’d been through endless wargames and exercises – and watching a real coup happen was disconcerting.
The bullet cracked against the side of the car, glinting off the bullet-proof window. Cursing, Colonel Palter jammed on the accelerator, running away from the ambush force. Seventeen men, armed with pistols and rifles, trying to kill the Vice-President.
“I’m too old for this,” he screamed, as he swung the car into a tight turn. He silently blessed the foresight – and the KKK attempts to kill the Ambassador – that had led them to purchase a special car from Britain.
“Does this happen a lot in your time?” Truman asked, keeping his composure with a skill that Palter could only admire. “Political assassinations and coups?”
“This is the first one we’ve ever had,” Palter snapped, taking the car though a tight turn and running away from the assassins, breaking every speed law in the book. He smiled suddenly; if they’d been in 2015, they would have run into traffic by now, but Contemporary Washington didn’t have anything like as many cars, not with the war on. All the auto manufacturers had been converted to producing tanks.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Truman said, holding on to his seat as Palter accelerated still further. Habit kept Palter glancing at the sky, even though there were no helicopters around. “What about Franklin?”
It took Palter several seconds to realise that he meant the President. “I don’t know,” he said. “The last I heard was that the White House was being surrounded, so he might be a prisoner by now.”
Truman shivered. “Or dead,” he said. “He was never in very good health after the Transition suddenly shook up the world.”
“We never stopped apologising for that,” Palter said. He tapped his radio. “Report?”
“The FBI is moving in on the Progressive party headquarters,” one of his marines snapped. Palter kept one ear listening to him. “They’re arresting Wallace and all of his people… sir, there’s firing coming from the black union halls!”
“They must be killing them out of hand,” Palter muttered. “Sir, we have to stop this.”
“If we get out of this alive, the FBI is going to be ripped to shreds,” Truman muttered. An explosion billowed up from the official section of Washington. “What the hell was that?”
“Sir, someone blew up the Soviet Embassy,” the watcher said. “Sir, its madness out here.”
“I know,” Palter said, as he made the final turn and headed directly into the Future Embassy. He sent a signal ahead; the gates opened and he plunged in without stopping. “Over and out, for now.”
“It’s like a bloody fortress in here,” Truman said. “Can we retake Washington?”
“That’s rather up to our friends,” Palter said. “For now… we’re safe.”
The Secret Service man was carrying a pistol. It looked a toy next to the AK-47s that Buckley and his men were carrying. His air of grim determination completely failed to awe Buckley, who had seen worse from drill sergeants in the first war.
“What the hell are you people doing here?” The Secret Service man demanded. “Leave at once…”
He broke off as Buckley pointed his AK-47 at his chest. “This is your only choice,” Buckley said calmly. “You can surrender now, along with your men, or you can die.”
“Fuck you,” the man snapped, lifting his pistol. Buckley shot him once, the other men opened fire on the other Secret Service men. The battle was short, sharp, and preordained. Buckley lost only three men.
“Move in,” he snapped. “Gary, you secure the rear; Todd, Wally, you get the sides. Everyone else, you’re with me!”
He ran forward, crossing the lawn and kicking in the main doors with a grenade. The explosion shattered the doors and he forced his way forward, fanning the men around the ground floor. It was vital that it be secured before the upper floors could be taken.
“Secure the ground floor,” he snapped, and then a bullet cracked past him, striking one of his men. The Secret Service had rallied, sending men to fight him. He fired back madly; shooting bursts through the defenders, his men spreading out behind him. “Die, you idiots.”
“Grenade,” his second shouted, tossing a grenade up the stairs. The explosion shattered the stairs, blasting the hastily improvised barricade down and slaughtering the defenders. He ran forward, his men leap-hopping each other as they moved forward, using their grenades whenever the defenders built a barricade.
“The Oval Office,” his guide snapped. The final doors lay in front of them; the men fell quiet. Buckley stepped forward, watching for a trap, and pushed the door open gently with his weapon’s butt. It opened easily; the core of American power was at their mercy.
“You know, if you want to petition for redress of grievances, there are other ways to do it,” a man’s voice remarked. It was very familiar from the fireside radio chats he’d heard on the radio. It took them moments to connect the strong voice with the weak form sitting in a wheelchair, shaking his head sadly at them.