“We’ve finished installing the underground Extreme Low Frequency antennas, Mr. President. In addition, there are five shortwave antennas around the White House.” She pointed to various locations on the drawing.
One of her aides handed her a sheaf of papers. “The ELF antenna has already raised communication with six Trident-class submarines, still underwater and still unaffected by the plague, as far as we know. That leaves ten subs unaccounted for, and three confirmed missing after the plague. We assume they have been destroyed, probably because their watertight seals were breached, but it’s not a foregone conclusion.”
“Destroyed?”
“Yes, sir. They either surfaced and the petroplague infiltrated their systems, or they were so close to the mix layer, the petroplague got to them that way.”
Mayeaux glanced over the material. Page after page of handwritten code appeared on the pages, with elaborate decoding inked in by hand after each line. Even the decoded material seemed a jumble of nonsense.
“So, can we still communicate with the surviving nuclear submarines? Can I issue them new orders?”
She nodded. “That’s right, sir. At least to a fair fraction of them. We’re still attempting to raise those assigned to ocean areas in electromagnetic voids, but we should have confirmation in a week.”
Mayeaux pushed the papers back. “What does the Navy think about this?”
The team chief spoke slowly. “We haven’t seen their complete analysis, Mr. President. Our instructions were only to collect unbiased communications traffic.”
Mayeaux thought it over for a moment. So far none of this new information conflicted with what his military chiefs had told him, but he still wasn’t convinced he had the whole story. He made a mental note to have Weathersee scare up a new list of advisors he could trust. “Okay—next topic. What’s the status of those out-of-touch military bases? Are you doing any better than the Joint Chiefs in raising them?”
The NSA staff exchanged glances. The team chief cleared her throat. “No, sir, we have not. We’re working closely with our military counterparts out in the field, and we have not yet been able to reestablish communication.”
Mayeaux shook his head. He knew he should have gulped down the rest of that damned drink before coming downstairs. “What about the communities outside the bases? Are they responding at all?”
“Well, sir, about the only thing we have are reports of looting and out-of-control fires in the larger cities: Philadelphia, Chicago, Dallas, and Denver.”
Mayeaux looked up from his desk. “What happened to LA? That was a hot spot before.”
“That’s a problem, sir.” She shuffled through her papers again, but he could tell she was just avoiding his gaze. “We think perhaps another organization should handle this—”
“I’m sick of doubletalk,” Mayeaux growled, flicking his glance to skewer every person in the room. “I asked a question—give me the fucking answer!”
The NSA team chief continued. “Los Angeles refused to establish martial law, sir. We have word from the city’s mayor that they are considering seceding from the nation. They do not want to participate in conscription activities or food taxation. The mayor has ordered breaking open all military stockpiles of food to the populace at large. From what we can tell, the military in the Los Angeles area is cooperating with this action, directly countermanding your orders.”
She stacked her papers neatly. “The last we heard was a call for action to help some sort of expedition going to New Mexico from the Jet Propulsion Laboratory. It wasn’t clear what was going on, but the New Mexico connection may be a symptom of breakdown in martial law across the country. JPL has commandeered Caltech’s Emergency Network Radio node and they also refuse to cooperate with FEMA or any other emergency agencies. They are apparently behind this expedition.”
Deep resentment ran through Mayeaux. He had to push with a crowbar to get anyone to tell him bad news. Did they really fear him that much, or were they crawfishin’ around the issue?
“Mais, let me tell you something. This crap has gone too far. It’s going to stop, right now. I didn’t ask for this damned responsibility, but I will not be remembered as the man who allowed the United States to fall apart.” He turned to Frank Weathersee. “Pull the Joint Chiefs in here, right now. I want more information, and if they give you any grief in return, throw their asses out. Period.”
Weathersee stiffened. “Very well, Mr. President.”
Mayeaux was on a roll now. Sometimes it felt damned good to kick some butt. He hunched over the table, talking rapidly. On reflection, he thought he sounded very presidential. “That expedition to New Mexico. Are they spreading this call for secession? Did they instigate this damned mess in LA? Who was that general I met at Kirtland a few months ago, on my way to Acapulco—” He snapped his fingers, trying to remember.
“Bayclock, sir.”
“That’s right. Have the Chiefs warn General Bayclock there’s some sort of traitor movement heading his way. He seemed like a down-to-earth man. Make sure the general understands that everyone must support him, nip this thing in the bud, all that rah rah stuff. This might be the test for keeping anarchy in check.”
Weathersee looked unconvinced. “Yes, sir, traitor movement. Any other items the Joint Chiefs should work on?”
“So far we’re nothing but a voice over a radio to these people. We don’t have any way to back up our threats.” He set his mouth. “Make sure the Vice President has this information at the Naval Observatory. And have the Chiefs draw up a plan to make an example of… something—if LA is going to try to secede, maybe they need a knock on the head to set them right.”
He steepled his fingers. “Take a lesson from history. Abraham Lincoln took that step. He threw most of the Baltimore businessmen and newspaper editors in jail when they wouldn’t support him. Sure taught them a lesson!”
“What do you propose, Mr. President?” Weathersee said.
He glared at his Chief of Staff. “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe take out Catalina Island with a nuke. We’re in touch with the subs again, after all.”
Weathersee stood tall, his arms at his sides, as he looked at Mayeaux. “If you’re going to take a lesson from history, sir, perhaps you should remember what happened to President Lincoln. I just thought I should remind you of that.”
Chapter 64
“Hey, Lieutenant,” Spencer asked, “what do you know about military intelligence?”
“Military intelligence? That’s how I remember the definition of the word ‘oxymoron.’” Bobby Carron looked up from untying the tentlike sun-screen at the blockhouse corner. The sun had set over the Organ Mountains, and already the high desert air took on a chill. “Me, I just flew fighters—you know, grapefruit and peas.”
“Grapefruit and peas?” Spencer made a disgusted grimace. “Is that what they feed you guys?”
Bobby laughed. “No, sir. It’s just what they say about us fighter pilots. Balls the size of grapefruits, brains the size of peas.”
“I see.” Spencer chuckled. “Come on inside the trailer. You’re the only military type around here. You might be able to figure this out.”
“Right.” Bobby left the cords dangle from the sprawling sun-screen tent made of parachute silk. To keep the bunkers cooler during the hottest part of the day, Spencer’s group had obtained some surplus fabric in Alamogordo. Stenciled on the parachutes were the words HOLLOMAN AIR FORCE BASE, taken from the closing of the base a few years earlier. After high evening winds had torn away the last sun-screen, taking down the parachute had become Bobby’s nightly ritual.