“President Roosevelt?” Buckley asked, stunned. Hardly anyone had known that Roosevelt was wheelchair-bound.
The dry voice was wracked with pain. “You were expecting Abraham Lincoln?” Roosevelt asked. You have to stop this!”
“You lead us to ruin,” Buckley’s aide snapped. “Why didn’t you send in the army to punish the niggers?”
“They had grievances against you too,” Roosevelt said. His voice was harsher, coming through pain. “You saw them as nothing, but inferiors, lynched them, raped them…”
He coughed. “I never wanted to abandon anyone,” he said, though hoarse breaths. “For America to progress, the entire people had to progress, even black folk. Yet it was hard; no matter what your fool of a general tells you, the President is not all-powerful. Press on one group, they press back. Tax the rich too highly, they go elsewhere and close factories. Tax the poor, who don’t have much money, and you get riots. Convince managers and unions to balance, instead of one crushing the other and destroying entire factories because of the demands.”
“My boss laid me off when he left the country,” one of Buckley’s men snapped. “You didn’t force him to give me a job.”
“And did you join a Union?” Roosevelt asked. He coughed; Buckley saw blood on his sleeve. “If you pay the employees too much, the employers have less money to invest in new materials and…”
His voice broke off. “Please,” he said, each word an effort. “Don’t destroy America and…”
He slumped in his wheelchair. By the time a doctor reached the White House, it was too late. President Roosevelt, President of the United States of America, was dead.
Chapter Forty: Twenty-Four Hours
Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
24th June 1941
Hanover stared at McLachlan. “What the hell is happening in America?” He demanded. “They’re doing what?”
“It’s a coup,” McLachlan said. “They’ve confined our staff to the embassy.”
Hanover gaped at him. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “It’s not in the American tradition to have coups! They’re not some banana republic, are they?” McLachlan shook his head. “What’s happening over there?”
“I’m not quite sure,” McLachlan admitted. “All I know is that something went badly wrong in Washington, then a group attacked the White House… and then silence. Ambassador Quinn is panicking.”
“And we never had a sniff of anything,” Hanover said thoughtfully. “Shit.”
“Sir, you know how badly America has been suffering since the Transition,” McLachlan said. “This could be an attempt to prevent progress.”
Hanover nodded. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “So, what’s happening?”
“I don’t know, no one’s confessed to anything,” McLachlan said. “Our agents in place are reporting major confusion, but the coup masters haven’t shown their hand. There’s been no attempt to broadcast to the nation, or anything like that.”
“General Cunningham reported that General Patton is going spare,” Hanover said. “He was demanding that we ask the Canadians to tell us what’s going on.”
“Something’s gone off the rails somewhere, that’s for sure,” McLachlan said. “And there’s the radioactive debris in New York. Where the hell did that come from?”
“Our attack,” Hanover snapped. “We told them how to do it, for fuck’s sake!” His voice darkened. “Those blasted backbenchers!”
McLachlan scowled. The backbenches had staged a revolt, demanding that the British tell the Germans how to clean up a nuclear site, which had been done. As soon as the debris in New York had been checked, it had been proven to have come from a standard detonation signature from a British weapon, and only one had been used since the Transition.
Hanover paced angrily. “How bad is it going to be in New York?”
“It’s still burning,” McLachlan said. “The blast looked like a nuclear blast on the satellites. It levelled nearly three kilometres around ground zero, so that’s immense damage done to Manhattan and Jersey City. The death toll is going to be huge.” He made a face. “And, of course, there is the radioactive damage. It’s nowhere near as high as the attacks in Paris, or an neutron bomb attack, but a lot of people are going to be suffering in the future.”
“And the Soviets were involved,” Hanover said. “Well, well.”
“Apparently so,” McLachlan said. They exchanged glances. “Prime Minister, this is a weapon of mass destruction used against a civilian target, in one of our ally’s cities. Are we not obliged to retaliate?”
“Yes, but against whom?” Hanover asked. “The Russians or the Germans? If so, where do we hit?”
“The Russians,” McLachlan said. “They’re certainly the most guilty ones. It was their ship, after all.” They exchanged a second glance. “As for the target… Basra or Baghdad are both occupied by Russian troops, and they’ve purged most of the civilians from the cities. Either one would…”
“Ruin our relations with the Arabs,” Hanover said. “Tactically, yes; strategically, no. We need somewhere useful for strategic purposes.” He scowled. “Their oil wells, or their factories, might make good targets.”
“True,” McLachlan agreed. “What about that major staging post in Chechnya?”
“Still, its not a priority at the moment,” Hanover said. “The main priority is mounting Redemption before the Germans take advantage of the chaos in America.” He frowned. “They weren’t keen on moving it forward more than a few days, but if we launch it on the 28th we might get all of the deception plan in place first.”
Washington DC, USA
24th June 1941
Despite the summer heat, the darkness felt cold to the citizens of Washington, many of whom stayed home and prayed. The radio broadcast endless pleas for calm, but was unable to explain what was happening, partly because of the lack of clear leadership from the White House. Everyone knew, even though it had never been reported, that the White House had been attacked, but by whom?
Another crackle of gunfire echoed outside the Future Embassy. Ambassador King shuddered; the rebels – as he was starting to think of them – had moved up and tried to take the Embassy, but the reinforced Marines had held them off. A determined attack might have succeeded – or artillery could have been brought up from the federal armoury – but the rebels seemed curiously languid. King had been expecting them to be broadcasting demands for submission over all of the airwaves, but instead…
Instead, very little seemed to be happening. His spies in the city had reported an ongoing arresting spree, mainly communists, leftists, black union leaders… but nothing else. The treacherous Speaker of the House of Representatives, William Brockman Bankhead, had arrived at the White House – but nothing had come out of the centre of government.
“Something must have gone off the rails somewhere,” he muttered. “Any change?”
Palter shook his head. “No change at all,” he said. “Just small attacks against us… and some people going into the White House.”
King nodded. The waiting was terrible. “And the Internet?”
“We’re putting our story out now,” Palter said. “It seems to have had some affect, a lot of would-be plotters got lynched. Some other people, mainly the Governors, are sitting on their butts, waiting – I suspect – for clear signs of success.”