The worst angle in the world: prone, prey, broken, looking up at others looking down and laughing. Slowly, he nodded. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“Hey, anything. Hope you find the freak.”
Cooper let them take a step toward the hall before he said, “By the way, I lied.”
“Huh?”
“We’re not all normals.” He rolled his shoulders and shook out his hands. “The three of you humiliated and beat the shit out of one brilliant. Let’s see if you can do it again.”
Cooper let that sink in, then turned to Ethan. “Doc, do me a favor, would you?” He smiled. “Shut the door.”
. . . and we’re back, I don’t have to hope you stayed with us, I know you did, because here is where you find the truth. Not the liberal drivel the No-News Networks pass off, but the straight dope. Hundred-and-fifty-proof truth, uncut and uncolored, a coast-to-coast broadcast of nothing but the good stuff. Get ready to drink deep, because El Swifto is fired up this morning.
It’s been two weeks since the tragic events of December 1st, when enemies rose up in the heart of our nation and used our own weapons against us.
And in response, America has done . . . diddly squat is what we’ve done, my friends, and that’s just the polite term I’m using, because the one I have in mind is not radio friendly.
This country was founded by men who acted. Men of vision and strength who faced everything thrown at them head-on. That’s the America I love. And in that America, we would already have rained death on Wyoming. We would have glassed the New Canaan Holdfast and mounted Erik Epstein’s head on a spike. We would have blasted the whole collection of cowards and deviants back to the Stone Age.
But instead our politicians wring their hands and talk, and talk, and talk. A bunch of bureaucrats, that’s what we’ve got instead of a government. Not leaders, not commanders, not world builders. Frightened little boys and girls without the stones to act.
This is America today, my friends. This is the American Nightmare.
Let’s go to the phones. Dave from Flint, it’s great to have you on the program.
“Swift, sir, it’s an absolute pleasure. Thank you for telling it how it is.”
Just doing my duty, Dave.
“What I want to know is, what can regular people do? I agree with everything you’re saying, I’m ready to do something about the abnorm situation, but I don’t know what.”
Well, let me be clear here. The leftist media likes to accuse me of racism. They call me intolerant, a fearmonger. They fling similar insults at any patriot who dares stand up.
But they can’t stop me from telling the truth, and the truth is that the New Canaan Holdfast in Wyoming—which slaughtered our soldiers, assassinated our president, and destroyed the seat of our government—is an abnorm group. Founded by abnorms, financed by abnorms, ruled by abnorms.
The Children of Darwin—who starved three cities and burned one to the ground—are an abnorm group.
John Smith—oh, I know, the liberals like to say he was framed, but you heard it from Swift, he’s a terrorist—is an abnorm.
Some people say that not all abnorms are evil. Maybe. But this is a time of war, and while not every abnorm is an enemy, all our enemies are abnorms.
If there are good ones out there, patriotic ones who stand by their country, by our country, yours, Dave, and mine, then I say, fine, they’re my brothers.
But my feeling is that there are ninety-nine decent, honest, normal people for every one of the twists—oops, the FCC will ding me for that—and it’s time we remembered. So if our government is too weak, too soft, too tangled in gridlock, and too fat on pork to do anything, well, maybe it’s time we acted ourselves.
Thanks for calling, Dave. Next up we’ve got Anne-Marie from Lubbock, Texas . . .
CHAPTER 3
“You can go in now, sir,” the assistant said. “Can I get—” The ripping whine of a circular saw cut him off. When it died, he said, “Can I get you—” Again the saw screamed through lumber. The moment it stopped, the man opened his mouth to try again.
“I’m fine.” Secretary of Defense Owen Leahy rose and walked into what had been the Speaker’s office.
From behind a desk of heavy wood, Gabriela Ramirez nodded at him, held up one finger, and continued talking on the phone. “I understand. Yes. I’m trying to get you that assistance now.” A pause. “Well, Governor, perhaps if you had declared a state of emergency when the Children of Darwin first attacked, you wouldn’t be in this position. Yes. You’re welcome.” She tugged the headset from her ear and tossed it on the desk.
Leahy said, “Madam President.”
“Owen,” she said. Out in the hallway, a pneumatic nail gun went thunk, thunk, thunk, the sound only slightly more muffled here. “Sorry about the racket. You’d think that the Speaker’s office would have been pretty secure in the first place, but evidently the Secret Service disagrees.”
In 1947, Congress had codified the line of presidential succession to seventeen places, although in the decades since, there had never been a need to go beyond the VP. Then in a span of three months one president was impeached and his successor murdered, and now Gabriela Ramirez, the Speaker of the House of Representatives, had become the president of the United States.
“I think the Secret Service is right,” Leahy said. “You should relocate to Camp David for now.”
“America needs to know their government is still functioning.”
“America needs you to stay alive.”
“What do you think about the yahoos in the desert?”
“Seriously, ma’am, Camp David is a fortress—”
“Wyoming, outside Rawlins. This morning’s security briefing said there are a couple of thousand now?”
“About five thousand,” Leahy said. “With more arriving every day. They’re chartering buses, coming in pickup trucks with gun racks in the back. The camp is a mile from the New Canaan Holdfast fence line. Tri-d news picking up the story hasn’t helped. May as well be running advertisements.”
“All civilians?”
“Depends what you mean. They’re survivalists, right-wingers, that sort of thing. Plenty are former soldiers. But there’s no structure. Just disparate groups keeping to their own. Drinking beer and yelling anti-abnorm slurs. Firing guns in the air.”
“You’re not concerned.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“What would you say?”
“That I’m monitoring the situation.”
“Fine. Mind if we walk and talk? I’ve got an AFL-CIO thing.” Gabriela Ramirez stood, took a charcoal suit jacket from her chair back, and slid into it. “What’s the status on the military retrograde?”
“On schedule. All nuclear warheads were secured following December 1st. As of this morning, all ground-based missiles have been deactivated. Those carried by—”
“I’m sorry, but when you say ‘deactivated’—there’s no way that Erik Epstein can reactivate them?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You’re sure? His computer virus launched a missile that destroyed the White House, and no one thought he could do that.”
Leahy fought the urge to grit his teeth, said, “They’ve been physically disabled. Like removing the spark plugs from a car. Nothing a computer can do about that.”
The president took a final slug of coffee, set the mug on her desk, and started for the door. Leahy held it open. To her assistant, Ramirez said, “Geoff, tell them I’m coming down.” Out in the hallway, the cacophony of construction noise bounced off the polished marble. Sawdust hazed the air. Two Secret Service agents fell into step in front of them, another two behind.