Everyone had been hit. But the Americas had suffered maximum damage. Offers of assistance had come from all major, and many minor, nations. Yes, Charlie had told them. We need food, clothing, medical supplies, transportation, and communication equipment. Whatever and whomever you can send. Multinational corporations were also mobilizing help. "Goddam selfish bastards," Kerr had said. "They're only in it because they know they have to keep their customers alive."
Charlie didn't care much about motivation.
By late morning he was emotionally exhausted. There'd been a sea change in the way people thought about their lives and their world. They were, he thought, closer together than they'd ever been before during his lifetime. Maybe than they'd been since people started keeping records.
Nevertheless, Charlie's position wasn't enviable. Virtually every political leader in the world was in difficulty, expected to head off further disaster. And no one more than he, who represented an administration that was widely held responsible for having failed even to warn its citizens.
His cell phone chimed.
"Pilot, Mr. President."
"Yes, Saber?"
"I just wanted to let you know. Lowell's on schedule. She'll be alongside in about five and a half hours."
"Thanks." He looked over at Evelyn, who was reading. The chaplain was asleep, and Morley was writing, listlessly punching the keys on his notepad. Probably recording everything for a book. The cabin was undoubtedly the most public setting from which any president had ever conducted business. His runaway White House.
Well, if he accomplished nothing else, he'd be a natural for future trivia questions.
• • • Hilltop west of Staunton, Virginia. 11:47 A.M.
Lieutenant Colonel Steven R. Gallagher lowered his field glasses. He didn't like working his troops Sunday morning, when they should be at church, but he knew that the critical moment was drawing close and he wanted to ensure that the Legion was ready.
He was with the Blue Star Company, Third Freedom Battalion, Thomas Jefferson Legion. The exercise was in its fourth hour. He leaned his hefty frame against the Ford van that served as his command vehicle, and looked at his watch. "They're about out of time, Jack," he told his brother, who was wearing a major's oak leaves.
"Tad reports he's in position to take out a few more," said the major.
They were running a security exercise. Tad Wickett, with six men, had blown up a simulated arsenal. The security forces, charged with defending the target, could now hope for nothing better than to apprehend the strike force. But it was apparent they weren't going to do that either. "It's not entirely their fault, Colonel," said Jack, reluctantly. "Tad is very good."
Steve knew security assignments bored his people. They wanted to blow things up, not protect them. But the day was coming soon when they would have to defend installations against guerrillas. His accession to power in Virginia would be resisted. Not least of all by surviving government loyalists. But he understood he'd also have to face a lawless element that had simply been waiting for something like the Tomiko affair to seize power. And in the days to come, the only protection civilized life would have against the inevitable wilderness thugs was going to be the Jefferson Legion.
Tad was still pinned within the six-square-mile training area. There were two roads and two bridges by which he could leave, and all had been sealed off. But the security forces had failed to bring him to ground, losing several more people in the effort. Not a particularly good demonstration. "Did I explain about methodical?" he asked Jack. "Did we talk about how important it was that operations be systematic?"
His brother nodded. "Doesn't look like it took, Steve."
"No, it doesn't." The colonel looked at his watch. It was twelve o'clock. "Okay. Let's call it a day. Send the troops home and we'll get the officers in. We need to talk for a bit."
Legion headquarters was located in the east wing of the colonel's rambling frame house. There were seven officers all told, not counting himself. They were good, well trained, intelligent, loyal. A hell of a lot better than his critics knew.
A large family room in back served as his conference area. When Jack signaled that everyone had arrived, Colonel Gallagher entered from the side. They jumped to attention. "As you were, men," he said, and took his place at the lectern. (Actually, one of the captains was a woman, but no distinction in gender was ever noted, nor did she seem to object.)
The aroma of coffee filled the room. Someone handed the colonel a cup, and he began the proceedings by inviting Tad to explain how he'd evaded the security forces all morning. Wickett, who was only a captain, irritated his colleagues by observing it had been simple, that the security units hadn't been coordinated. He showed why, drew arrows on maps, and suggested alternate strategies. Wickett was one of the two people in the room with actual military experience. The colonel himself had never worn the uniform of his country. But no one other than his brother Jack knew that. To the rest, Steve Gallagher had served a dozen years with combat infantry and the Rangers. That he was able to carry off this imposture was a tribute to his extensive interest in, and ability for, military techniques and technology.
There was something cold and vaguely reptilian about Tad Wickett. Jack listened to him speak, watched his eyes move smoothly around the room, saw his tongue occasionally brush his upper lip, noted the sense of ongoing calculation about the man. He never missed a chance to make his colleagues look incompetent.
When Wickett finished, Steve invited comments, listened dutifully, and then added his own observations. Peterson's unit had been slow to react when their planning went awry; Barber had failed to anticipate several possibilities; as a result, the terrorist force had been completely successful and had escaped with only one casualty. It was, he implied, a pathetic demonstration by the security force.
If Steve Gallagher had never served, it hadn't been for lack of desire. He'd struggled with asthma and a multitude of allergies, and they'd kept him from the colors. The asthma was gone now, long since outgrown. He'd learned a lot since those early days when he wanted nothing so much as to qualify for the Rangers. Mostly he'd learned that the United States was governed by a small cabal of families who pretended to squabble but who kept power in their own hands and milked the nation's working people dry. Today he would never have considered defending the dictators.
He'd found a better way to serve the American Ideal. He'd founded the Thomas Jefferson Legion, a group of God-fearing, country-loving men and women dedicated to preserving liberty at home against the assorted shadowy manifestations of an oppressive government that was itself an arm of a world body whose only interest was to maintain its grip on power.
The colonel owned the Potluck Restaurant in downtown Staunton. The Potluck, founded by his grandfather, had been in the family thirty-eight years, and had thrown off a sister establishment in nearby Harrisonburg.
But the Potluck was not as profitable as it should have been. Unlike most Americans, whose tax money vanishes without their ever seeing it, the colonel was burdened with actually paying out substantial sums each month to an increasingly onerous and corrupt government. But that wasn't the worst of it. Regulators were everywhere. Inspectors from all levels of government, following the example set by the feds, harassed him continually with safety and health inspections, demanded licenses, controlled how much he paid his help, dictated whom he should hire and what medical plan he should provide. All the money went to support the vicious practices of a decadent nation, a nation that forbade God to enter the schoolroom, that allowed women to murder their children, that had so distorted the reproductive process that men were no longer necessary.
He had become over the years a fiery enemy of the invisible hand that weighed so heavily on his fortunes and on those of his countrymen. Right-thinking men and women across the state of Virginia had flocked to him, and the Jefferson Legion now had units in a dozen counties.