He had already decided that he should approach the problem as though America would never come back. It was the last thing he wanted to believe, but he owed it to his family to face that reality. For starters, he would have to frankly consider the end of the American nation and all the comforts that had come with it.
Not only would he have to imagine his world without modern advantages, but he would have to see it without him as president. In a desolate future, Dutch’s role as leader of the free world would be a curiosity at best, a death warrant at worst. For seven days, hanging over America in the sky, Dutch had born witness to tens of thousands of fires, particularly as they passed over populated areas. From horizon to horizon, the hopelessness of Americans billowed into the air like blackened fists, thrusting their impotent wrath skyward only to dissipate in the coming jet stream of winter.
A hundred thousand pilasters of smoke offered final judgment on modern American city culture: they were not of a heart to redouble their efforts, tighten their belts and proceed forward with greater humility. This was not the America of the Great Depression, where most turned to growing vegetables instead of lawns, packing families into smaller homes for warmth, and scavenging trash for reuse.
In contrast, modern Americans set fire to their cities.
If he were recognized as president, their indignation and blame would likely sweep his family up like rats. It made him think of black and white photographs of Mussolini, the Italian dictator, hanging upside down with his mistress from iron scaffolding.
The thought made him glance at his driver, an Air Force supply management officer. The man stared straight ahead as he drove, wrapped in professionalism. Dutch couldn’t tell if the man blamed his president for the sudden loss of his hopes and dreams.
The air whipping through the Humvee blew heavy with the smell of smoke, a grim reminder of the panic and disorder that had swallowed nearby Omaha. Dutch wondered how the man must feel about helping them take resources from their base. Those same resources could’ve otherwise contributed to the survival of the man, his base and maybe his family. Dutch felt an urge to ask about the man’s family, and almost spoke. Instead, he clamped his mouth shut.
For these next two hours, he needed to put aside his concern for anyone other than his family and friends. For the next two hours, he would be a father again; maybe too late, but better late than never.
As the Humvee sped closer to the chain-link fence surrounding the airfield, Dutch reined in his thoughts. For the first time ever, he needed to focus on the animal survival of those he loved. He tapped that version of himself—almost fifty years in the past—that had lived in the hardscrabble world; a lifetime distant from when he worried about whether blue socks clashed with his charcoal slacks.
Dutch would have to locate that place in his soul that once scaled Mount Whitney, the lives of his hikers utterly reliant upon his judgment. In a past life, he once concerned himself with pack weight, calories, exertion, and above all else, weather. He would take in the capabilities of those in his care and assess their strength and needs, their boots and cardiovascular fitness. He would set contingency plans to ensure survival when Murphy’s Law came to call and stacked against them all the worst-case scenarios and maybe some scenario he had never considered.
Dutch forced his mind to consider merciless nature and entropy; a heartless adversary who would fight his every move with random, dangerous permutations. All his education, experience and intelligence could come down to this moment and this question: what would he pack aboard Air Force One to save his family’s lives?
Dutch had already decided they would not remain at Offutt Air Force Base. Earlier, as they’d descended from above the clouds in Air Force One, he’d seen the burning of Omaha—hundreds of fires, curling black-on-black tendrils into the sky. Something in Dutch’s subconscious had known that those chemical fires bespoke a greater evil; that a malevolent legion would eventually come for his family if they stayed long at Offutt.
After doing all he could for his family to survive, Dutch might have to shrug off the mantle of president and go forward as any other man, fighting to protect his own.
Food was the first thing to come to mind, but Dutch held that thought at bay for a moment, considering the minarets of smoke over Omaha.
“Guns.” Dutch shouted to the driver over the howling wind in the Humvee. “Please take me to the armory.”
The officer nodded with a slight smile, apparently approving of Dutch’s awakening.
Security first. Everything else second.
20
Dutch, his son Teddy, the supply officer, and two Air Force security officers stood together for a moment, regarding the racks filled with modern firearms. Given the critical nature of Strategic Air Command to the defense of the United States, someone had seen fit to arm the base security forces to the teeth. Unfortunately, the array of weapons did more to confuse Dutch than inspire him.
“I’m really, really wishing you had taken my advice and joined the damn Marines, Teddy,” Dutch said, half-jokingly. The three servicemen chuckled.
“Sorry, Dad. I’m pretty useless in this department,” Teddy apologized. “Everything I know about this stuff I learned from Call of Duty."
Dutch had shot guns a lot growing up on the slopes of the California High Sierras, but his father’s arsenal titled decidedly toward cowboy-style firearms. The scores of oiled, black rifles arrayed before him looked like movie props to Dutch.
“If I may, sir…” one of the Air Force security men spoke. Both he and the other security force officer were outfitted like Navy SEAL assaulters: camouflage fatigues, kevlar helmets and chest rigs with magazines, radios and other doo-dads sticking out in all directions.
“Please do. I would consider it a favor,” Dutch said, motioning to the racks of weapons.
The three airmen snapped to work loading up a rolling handcart for the president. They began with six, compact assault rifles, each with a chunky holographic sight on top. The men buzzed around the armory grabbing guns, ammunition, batteries, extra batteries; chatting it up like schoolgirls on a shopping spree at the mall. For a moment, Dutch forgot how deadly-serious this exercise might be. Even with America burning, it was hard to imagine he would ever defend his life and family with military hardware.
“Sir, how do you feel about this one?” One of the airmen held up a big, bolt action rifle with a hulking scope on top.
“If that’s a Remington 700, then I think we’re good to go,” Dutch couldn’t help but show off a little. When he was a young man, he had hunted deer in central California with a wood stock version of the same rifle.
“Excellent.” The airman beamed approval and loaded the rifle in the cart. “This one’s a 7.62, sir. I’ll grab a case of ammo for it,” he said as he darted into another room.
Finally, the supply officer brought out three crates full of hand grenades.
Dutch held up his hands. “I’m not sure grenades would make sense for us.”
His son shook his head, smiling in a parody of disappointment with his old dad. “If I’ve learned one thing from hundreds of hours playing Call of Duty, it’s that you never pass up on grenades.” Teddy carefully took the crates from the waiting airman and loaded them into the rolling cart.
“I suppose that means Javelin and LAW rockets won’t be required,” one of the airmen asked.
“No, thank you,” Dutch confirmed. “But I do think that night vision goggles and maybe some body armor could be helpful.”