“What do we know about the people, Sam? How many died because of the bomb? What’s our radiation exposure?” Dutch fired back.
“Hardly anything, really. Our best guess right now is that we might have lost eighty people, mostly those in boats and others who crashed their cars because of the flash. The California civil authorities are barely picking up their phones in the Los Angeles area, presumably because the place is like Mogadishu right now. We’d love a chance to get some eyes on Los Angeles Harbor from the Coast Guard, but they’re scrambling to put together a HAZMAT team from Monterey four hundred miles to the north. There used to be a Coastie HAZMAT team in Los Angeles Harbor, but less than half those guys are answering their phones, and the Coast Guard base got blown all to hell by the blast. The Coast Guard uses union dock workers to get their boats underway, and you can bet dollars-to-donuts that none of those union guys are going to show up right after a nuke. Cell service in L.A. is working fine, actually, but a lot of people aren’t answering their phones right now. They’re busy freaking out, I guess.”
“So, we won’t know the radiation exposure until your team from either Monterey or Twentynine Palms gets there?”
“Correct, Mister President. But the winds are favorable—SoCal is getting Santa Ana winds, which are hellacious for wildfires, but good for fallout. We’re speculating that most of the particles from the nuke are blowing out to sea. The bad news is that the civil disorder in town has sparked fires that are now blowing into full-fledged wildfires.”
“I know we already deployed FEMA to the site. When do they arrive?”
Silenced stretched until the president gave in. Apparently, nobody wanted to vouch for FEMA.
“Robbie, will you please find out where FEMA is? Americans might be dying from radiation exposure as we speak. I want to know how long it’ll be before we turn this thing around.”
“Yes, Mister President,” Robbie vacillated between leaving the Oval Office or staying to take further orders.
“All bullshit aside, Mister President,” Sam Greaney took another sip of his coffee. “FEMA’s not going to get into L.A. anytime soon. Their air assets are skeletal, and they can’t do anything without semitrucks. There’s not a single road in or out of Los Angeles that isn’t choked, balls-to-butt with abandoned vehicles, or will be by this afternoon.”
The attorney general spoke up. “I’m concerned about the Marine Corps radiation team flying into L.A.. Will they be armed? Their presence might be construed as a violation of the Insurrection Act if they conduct an armed mission within the U.S.. There’s a small carve out in the law for using federal troops to secure fissionable materials, but I’ll have to check on that…”
“Zach,” the president talked over the top of his attorney general. “We’re friends, right? So you know I mean it with respect when I tell you to shut the fuck up. I need you to be less of a lawyer and more of a patriot right now.”
5
“I sure as hell hope you have solutions, Sam, because I’m sick of dead ends and colossal fuck ups,” the President continued his tirade as soon as the door to the Oval Office closed behind his retreating staff. Sam Greaney, Secretary of Defense, braved the President’s meltdown without any apparent bump in his blood pressure.
The plane did a small shudder, causing Sam to steady his coffee to keep from spilling it on the president’s rug.
“I have solutions, Dutch, but you’re not going to like them,” the SecDef drawled.
“I’m up for absolutely anything that saves lives and gets us back on our game. Are you going to hit me up about counter-strikes against the Russians?”
“No, Mister President. That’s the long game. We don’t have the luxury of playing the long game right now. Nothing we do against the Russians is going to stop the virus that’s already in our computers, and I doubt the Russians will mount an analog attack. They don’t need to do anything more. We’re doing a great job of screwing one another on Facebook and Insta-whatever.”
“Then what’s next on your list?”
“I’ve already given the Fifth Fleet a warning order that they’ll sail for the states in five days and the Third Fleet is already steaming for home in Southern California. I’m frankly more worried about the inner-city riots. In my mind, they’re the critical threat.”
Dutch always had a sneaking suspicion that Sam Greaney was a bit of a racist, so he cocked his ear, preparing to take this next part with a grain of salt.
“I believe we might be facing a social media, psych warfare attack from our enemies. Probably Russia. Maybe China. Quite possibly both. This bit about ‘Fair Power’ reeks of a social media play by the Russians. They pit us against each other on issues of race or hashtag-blah, blah, blah and we never fail to take the bait. Most Americans strut around thinking it was our idea. The CIA knows for a fact that the Russians are manipulating us through social media, but we just don’t know how much.”
Dutch McAdams didn’t think it was very much, but he let his SecDef keep talking. If he knew the man, the punchline was coming.
“We need to drop the hammer on these riots, before social media eats our lunch. Right now, we’re getting just a little taste of the chaos that’s on deck. Wait until those blackouts hit the big cities of the Midwest and the East. The race-baiters are going to lose their minds. Our troops need to roll NOW. When the droopy-pant gangbangers wake up from their night of looting and partying, they need to see Humvees with belt-fed machine guns outside their windows. Either we do that, or tonight’s going to be hellfire.”
Sam hadn’t said anything that surprised Dutch. His SecDef had let his inner bigot fly, if only a little bit. Sam had been ideologically primed to blame the decline of America on racial minorities and inner-city criminals. For his part, Dutch sensed that American moral decay went a lot deeper than gangbanger criminals and welfare mamas, but a lot of what Sam said about race riots resonated with Dutch. He couldn’t deny the threat of toxic ideas.
Even so, Dutch preferred to let this play without taking military action. Sam Greaney was right: something needed to be done immediately or the power failures from the cyber-attacks would cause social unrest to skyrocket. But it was Dutch’s job to find a third way—a middle course that would stop short of ordering Americans to point guns at Americans.
“Okay, let’s take a sanity break and meet here in fifteen minutes. Bring Zach in. I’m guessing there’ll be some legal issues and he’s going to insist on having a say.”
6
It never ceased to amaze Dutch how Sharon could compartmentalize stress. While he had been dealing with an existential threat to the United States, his wife, daughter and son had been looking through old photo albums back in the guest section of Air Force One. Sharon must have grabbed the albums when their secret service detail scooped them up for emergency transport to Andrews. Sharon always took the long view for the family. If the country was going to be nuked, she damn well wasn’t going to lose the photo albums.
“Daddy, I didn’t know you were a mountain man,” Abby gleamed at her father.
“That’s overstating things a bit, honey,” Dutch rested his hand on the back of her auburn hair, taking emotional refuge in her youth and beauty. He and Sharon had gotten a late start on parenting; both getting through college, grad school and a good chunk of their careers before beginning their family. During the married-without-children time, Sharon earned her degree in clinical psychology, which had unexpectedly become a secret weapon during Dutch’s career in politics.