Resistance (6 page)

“What does it do?” Alvarez wanted to know.

“I don't know,” Hale replied soberly, as he restored the cube to its container. “But Captain Nash thought it was worth dying for—and that's good enough for me.”

It was still dark outside as President Noah Grace awoke at exactly 5:58
A.M.
, and reached over to silence the alarm clock before it could go off. What little light there was came from the streetlamps beyond the curtains or slid in under the door from the hallway.

Careful not to disturb his wife, Grace rolled off the bed. His bare feet were silent as he padded across the soft carpet, entered the bathroom, and closed the door behind him. At that point he could flick the lights on without bothering Cora.

He blinked at the sudden brightness, made his way over to the commode, and lifted the seat.

Having emptied his bladder, Grace stepped in front of the pedestal-style sink, opened the medicine cabinet, and laid his implements out on the shelf above the basin. The array included a toothbrush, a tube of Ipana toothpaste, a nearly new Gillette Super Speed safety razor with an aluminum handle, a can of Mollé shaving cream, and a pair of tiny scissors, all laid out like surgical instruments.

Ten minutes later the President used a warm washcloth to wipe the last traces of shaving cream off his face and took a moment to survey the person reflected in the
mirror. His hair was black, except for a little gray at the temples, and it was parted on the right. A broad forehead suggested intelligence, he thought, two perfectly shaped eyebrows served to frame his large brown eyes, and a long straight nose conveyed a sense of strength and purpose. All anchored by a firm jaw.

There were imperfections of course, like the hairs that threatened to sprout from his nostrils and ears, but a snip here and a snip there left Grace ready to go.

Satisfied with what he'd seen, Grace returned each implement to its rightful place. Then he checked the time on his Rolex Royal Stainless Steel Oyster wristwatch. It was 6:26
A.M.
, which meant Grace was running a minute late as he slid his arms into a white bathrobe.

The lonely wail of an air raid siren could be heard off in the distance as Grace entered the bedroom and paused for a moment.

A Chimeran attack? No, more likely a false alarm, triggered by a nervous volunteer out in the suburbs.

There was a soft knock, and Grace opened the door to the hallway. Bright light gave Bessie a halo of white hair, framing her kindly face, and there was so much starch in her gray and white uniform that it crackled as she moved.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” she said respectfully. “Here's your coffee.” And with that she extended a tray loaded with a coffeepot, creamer, a bowl of sugar, two cups, and two spoons. It was a ritual the two of them had shared for eleven years.

“Thank you, Bessie,” Grace said, and he turned to carry the tray over to the big bed. He heard the door close behind him.

Cora was sitting up by then, and by long-standing tradition the next half-hour belonged to her, as another day in the White House began.

Then, at precisely 7:30
A.M.
, President Grace made the journey downstairs.

Presidential Chief of Staff William Dentweiler awoke with a headache, a bad taste in his mouth, and the cloying scent of Eau d'Hermès perfume in his nostrils. His left arm was numb, and no wonder, since someone was lying on top of it.

But who?

Then he remembered the party at the French embassy, the desperate gaiety as two hundred guests sought to drink the war away with bottles of Taittinger champagne. The wine was increasingly hard to come by, yet many American officials seemed to have quite a bit of it. Most of Europe had fallen to the Chimera, and just about all the foreign diplomats wanted to bring someone into the United States before communications were severed.

This also explained why a stone-faced German military attaché had turned the other way when Dentweiler had left the party with his beautiful wife. A willowy blonde, who, though less than fluent where the English language was concerned, certainly knew how to please a man. She was snoring softly as Dentweiler pulled his arm out from under her bare shoulders, swung his feet onto the floor, and eyed the clock next to the bed.

It was 8:12
A.M.
!
Damn
. And the cabinet meeting was scheduled for 9:00. Not 9:05, 9:10, or—God forbid—9:15.

Not while Noah Grace was President.

Dentweiler swore under his breath, made his way into the bathroom, and stepped into the tub. There was a rattling noise as he pulled the shower curtain closed, followed by the shock of cold water, which gradually turned warm. Once it reached body temperature Dentweiler
was free to pee and shower at the same time. A rather efficient practice that continued to serve him well.

Fifteen minutes later Dentweiler was freshly shaved, dressed in one of his tailor-made gray suits, and ready to go. The German woman was still asleep—but he left her a note with a name and telephone number on it.
If
her husband's parents were still alive, and
if
they could make it to a pick-up point near Bremen on a certain date, they would be brought to America. “A deal,” as Dentweiler liked to say, “is a deal.”

A long black town car was waiting in front of Dentweiler's apartment building as he turned up the collar of his sleek Brooks Brothers overcoat and entered the crisp November air. There weren't many Christmas decorations to be seen, and weren't likely to be. Not with thousands dying every day.

Dentweiler stepped into the car, and it pulled away.

Having heard Dentweiler leave, the German woman opened her eyes. Then, softly, she began to cry.

The Cabinet Room was located in the West Wing of the White House, on the first floor. It had been completed in 1934 and was positioned to look out on to the Rose Garden through French doors topped with lunette windows. A painting titled
The Signing of the Declaration of Independence
hung over the fireplace at the north end of the room, while a row of portraits personally selected by President Grace lined the west wall. The floor was covered by a custom-made burgundy-colored carpet. And that's what Secretary of War Henry Walker was looking at as he completed the last of his twenty-five push-ups. It was a ritual he performed frequently throughout the day.

Having regained his feet, the sixty-three-year-old re-tired
colonel was in the process of putting his blue pinstriped jacket on as President Grace entered the room, closely followed by the other members of his cabinet.

“There you are,” Grace said cheerfully. “I should have known …
Military men are always on time
. Especially when the budget comes up for discussion!”

That was sufficient to elicit a chorus of chuckles from the coterie of toadies, sycophants, and ass kissers with whom Grace had chosen to surround himself. The group didn't care for Walker any more than he cared for them. But he was—insofar as they were concerned—a necessary evil, due to the fact that he was popular with the top brass. A group upon whom Grace was
very
dependent.

So as everyone took their seats, Walker knew he was deep inside enemy territory, and largely on his own. His only potential ally was Vice President Harvey Mc-Cullen, who, in his own scholarly way, served to put the brakes on Grace's worst excesses.

Walker scanned the group. Grace sat halfway down the long oval table with his back to the Rose Garden. Chief of Staff Dentweiler and Secretary of the Interior Farnsworth sat to his right, with Secretary of Commerce Lasky and Secretary of State Moody on his left. Presidential Counsel Hanson, Attorney General Clowers, Vice President McCullen, Secretary of Agriculture Seymore, and Secretary of Transportation Keyes were seated opposite the President.

That left Ridley, the Director of the Office of Special Projects (OSP), and Walker himself to man opposite ends of the table, where their flanks were open to attack. Or that was the way Walker thought about it as he took his seat.

As was his habit, Grace said a prayer once everyone
was seated. But if God had been listening during the last eight-plus years, there weren't any signs of it.

Secretary of the Interior Farnsworth was the first to give a report. Walker had a hard time taking him seriously, since he wore carefully brushed shoulder-length hair at a time when most men cut theirs short. His prow-shaped nose extended out over a handlebar mustache so prominent it was impossible to see his lips. His department was responsible for the Protection Camps that thousands of displaced Americans had been forced to enter after being driven from their homes by Chimeran forces.

Yet despite the relative safety of the camps, many people who entered them rebelled against the highly regimented lives they were forced to live within the fenced enclaves. In fact many were leaving to take up residence in the sprawling shacklands that were growing up around the larger cities. Slums really, which Farnsworth described as “breeding grounds for crime and disease.”

“So,” Grace responded once the report was complete, “what would you suggest?”

“We need armed security guards, Mr. President,” Farnsworth said. “And we need to require all displaced persons to demonstrate a verifiable need before they can leave the camps. For God's sake, the United States is under attack! We can't have people running around like lunatics.”

Grace nodded thoughtfully.

“What you say makes sense. Homer, do you see any problem with Larry's suggestion?”

The Attorney General's head was covered by an explosion of frizzy white hair and he had eyebrows to match. His mustache was unexpectedly dark, however, and it bobbed up and down as he spoke.

“You have the necessary authority, Mr. President. It's
implicit in the Executive Protection Act of 1950. Should you wish to create the sort of security force that Larry mentioned, you could tuck the new organization in under the Domestic Security Agency. That would lay the groundwork to use the Protection Camps as a place to house agitators, dissidents, and anarchists until the cessation of hostilities.”

“Which is just a fancy way of saying that people who attempt to exercise their civil liberties—including the right of free speech—will be imprisoned,” Walker put in cynically. Walker had a countenance that one wag had likened to Mr. Potato Head, which was a reference to the toy that enabled children to create funny faces by attaching plastic ears, noses, and lips to an Idaho spud. Now, as blood suffused his already homely features, he became even less attractive. “Or, put another way,” the Secretary of War growled, “I think Larry's full of shit.”

A pained expression appeared on Grace's face, and he sighed audibly.

“I know the Secretary is accustomed to rough language—but I would appreciate a semblance of civility here in the White House. And, while I applaud the Secretary's love of
liberty
, I feel it necessary to remind him that our freedoms extend from the rule of
law
. Not protest, not chaos, but law. We
will
have order in this country—or we will have nothing at all.

“So,” Grace continued as his eyes shifted to the Attorney General, “Larry's proposal is approved. Homer … please prepare the necessary paperwork for my signature.” Then, having turned his attention to Seymore, Grace spoke again.

“George?” Grace inquired. “How's the Department of Agriculture doing?”

Seymore was a long-faced man with a receding hairline and the demeanor of an undertaker. And for good
reason. Crops had begun to fail due to changes in the weather, food shortages were becoming alarmingly common, and the price of even the most basic foodstuffs was spiking. Seymore noted that while the Victory Garden program had met with some success, it wasn't going to be enough.

For the moment, however, there was one glimmer of hope. The administration's decision to stop shipping food abroad was helping to ameliorate the shortfall.

And so it went as the Secretaries of Commerce, Transportation, and State all weighed in with reports that were unrelentingly grim. Ironically, the only person with anything even remotely positive to say was Walker, who gave a report regarding a successful commando raid into Chimera-occupied Britain, and a high-altitude fly-over of enemy headquarters in Iceland. Where, based on aerial photography, it was clear that some sort of construction program was underway. But, in spite of a few isolated victories, Walker had to admit that the future looked bleak.

Grace nodded somberly. “That brings us to the last item on today's agenda,” he said. “A contingency plan I don't believe we'll have reason to use—but which I feel obligated to put in place. I call it Project Omega. Simply put, it would be a process by which to conduct negotiations with the Chimera.”

After a moment of stunned silence, Walker opened his mouth to object, but Vice President McCullen beat him to it.

“Surely you can't be serious, Mr. President … Why, just last month you gave a speech in which you swore that the United States would fight to the last man, woman, and child! Were the news of such a plan to get out, there would be political hell to pay.”

Thanks to the efforts of SRPA, knowledge gleaned
from the Chimera had been applied to all sorts of things over the last few years, including audio technology. And as Secretary of War, Walker had access to all the latest products, including the pocket-sized wire recorder he used for taking notes. Walker reached into a pocket to turn the device on as Grace formed a steeple with his fingertips. The recorder made a soft whirring noise, but thanks to Walker's position at the end of the table, no one else could hear it.

“I hear you, Harvey,” Grace said tolerantly. “And, as I said before, I continue to believe that we
will
win a military victory. But I think you'll agree that the government has a responsibility to examine every alternative, no matter how unpleasant.

“Furthermore,” Grace added, as his eyes swept those around him, “if there is to be any chance of a successful negotiation with the Chimera, it would have to take place while the country is in a position of strength, or the enemy won't have a reason to enter into talks with us.”