The House of War: Book One Of : THE OMEGA CRUSADE (10 page)

In a perverse anticipation of midnight, the media has been playing every inch of footage they possess of that decade-old, tragic, clash between citizen and soldier. The President doesn’t need to see any of the clips. He has his own vivid memories of the riots to remind him of what could happen on the streets tonight. O’Neill watched it all through the window of his office when he served as the first Director General of the Department of Peace. Beyond the millions of dollars’ worth of damages and the one hundred and eight deaths that resulted from the confrontation, the real tragedy, for President O’Neill, was the failure of leadership that caused the whole needless mess and further hardened the hearts of a whole generation against the government.

While there was plenty of blame that could be heaped on both sides, he had to place ultimate responsibility on the White House. The administration at the time refused to engage the Tea Party on principles and instead opted, with the
help of their cohorts in the media, to vilify them. They were denounced as sexists and mere reactionaries who balked at the fact that America had progressed far enough to elect a woman president. They were called many other things besides, but the epithets only seemed to swell their ranks. When the congresswoman from California claimed that she was spat on and called a derogatory name by a ‘mob of Tea Party militants’, President Pelosi branded the demonstrators terrorists and ordered the National Guard to disperse the crowd of nearly two hundred thousand.

DC became a war zone overnight.

To keep that from happening, O’Neill insisted that no one in his administration stoop to name-calling and personal attacks when talking of the latest demonstrators. The protestors were never referred to by anything harsher than, ‘dissident Americans’ by his people. It is not enough however; the President also needs to have a little chat with the Mayor of DC, Barry Marion.

The very name of the man makes the President reach for his Rolaids.

The two men shared similar goals, but O’Neill detested Marion’s methods. The mayor was a socialist of the old school whose splenetic demagoguery and too easy resort to violence was antithetical to the President’s preferred soft-sell. In O’Neill’s opinion, socialists of Marion’s ilk ultimately undermined the cause. Mayor Marion however, was a rising and formidable star for the Left. He first rose to prominence during the Public Sector Labor Movement that swept across the states from 2011 through 2014. Marion was among the handful of union organizers credited with winning concessions from states with recalcitrant republican legislatures through their use of what the Mayor dubbed, ‘enhanced democracy’, and his opponents saw as plain, criminal intimidation. His use of social media to organize the ‘flash riots’ that defined the movement was deft enough that he escaped any litigable connection to the abuses and violence they caused.

Four years later, running on his union victories, Barry Marion won himself the mayor’s seat in his hometown of DC, making him the first Socialist Party member to hold the office. Barry Marion then went on to use his organizational muscle and win the District of Columbia its long sought representation in The House. The Washington Post recently called him ‘Unstoppable.’ There was talk of drafting him to chair the DNC and even running him for President in ’24.

William O’Neill didn’t begrudge the man his future prospects; he just didn’t want them compromising his own, which they were more than likely to if the
Mayor went through with his threat to arrest anyone who performed a religious service in public tonight. O’Neill had no illusions about winning any votes from the religionists, but he didn’t want to appear weak and out of control to the country at large. While his administration was as plagued with terrorism as the last three, only one small riot had broken out during his term. It was not a minor thing for an anxiety-wracked public. The President meant to keep it that way even if he had to bring the full weight of his office down on an uppity mayor.

He glanced at the clock on his desk. It read 6:43. Two minutes before the scheduled call to his Honor, the Mayor.

William O’Neill catches the make-up lady’s eye and gives her a thumbs-up.

“Thank you, Mrs. Jefferson,” he says. “Give my best to your husband and kids. Penny has a little something for you and your family on the way out.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” she answers. “Merry Christmas to you and yours!”

She gathers her things and heads out of the Oval Office. His Chief of Staff, Burt Owens enters after her.

“It’s time, sir,” he says.

“I know,” says O’Neill. “Let’s get it over with.”

The President thumbs his desktop video phone and is, in a matter of moments, connected to the Mayor’s office. The eight inch screen lights to life with the dark, bony features of Barry Marion. His eyes are large, dark and bright under the shiny, bald pate of his head. The Mayor is seated at his desk, his blue, pin-striped shirt open at the collar and his sleeves rolled up to the elbows of his wiry arms.

O’Neill smiles warmly. “Merry Christmas, Mayor Marion.”

“Good evening, Mr. President.”

The President smiles even more broadly. “Did you get a chance to read the speech I’ll be delivering in a few minutes?”

O’Neill had Owens send over a copy of the text an hour ago. Not the complete text. It was missing one part.

The Mayor nods. “Pretty speech, but it ain’t going to make a lick of difference to the crowds.”

“Perhaps not,” the President concedes. “But you can certainly make a great deal of difference tonight, Mr. Mayor. Let the crowds hold their ceremonies. I would consider it a personal favor to me, if you did.”

“Sorry, Mr. President,” the Mayor says. “But these Jesus freaks need to know that their day is over and done with.”

“Come now Mr. Mayor, we both know the court injunction is just a temporary one.”

“As we both know the Supreme Court is likely to make it permanent in the spring, Mr. President.”

“We’re agreed on that as well, Mayor Marion,” O’Neill nods. “So why not wait, in the interest of public safety, until the law is made permanent?”

“Because by the spring,” Mayor Marion says. “There will likely be a million of these bible-thumpers in town. It’ll be easier to take care of them now.”

The President shakes his head. “Not without the National Guard it won’t.”

O’Neill watches the news sink in. The Mayor’s jawline tightens and his eyes narrow ever so slightly.

“What are you saying, Mr. President?”

“I’m saying that I’m having the Guard pulled out after my speech,” O’Neill answers. “The Governor has agreed to my request. If you’re going to insist on trying to arrest a quarter of a million people you’re going to have to attempt it with just the DC Police.”

“Why would you do that, Mr. President?”

“Because you’re being unreasonable, Mr. Mayor,” President O’Neill says. “There is no harm in allowing the demonstrators one, last, public celebration of Christmas. If there are to be riots because of your unreasonableness, I want you and your office to bear all the responsibility for it. I want none of the blame at my door.”

“You don’t really believe this is going to score you points with conservatives, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” O’Neill responds. “It won’t lose me any points with conservatives either. That is neither here nor there, however. My concern is public safety and the maintenance of order. It’s been years since the nation has suffered through a major riot. I would think that we would all want to keep it that way.”

“So I should just ignore the law?” Marion asks. “Is that what you’re advising me?”

“I’m advising you, Mr. Mayor, to weigh your new-found regard for the law against the interests of public safety.”

The two men stare stonily at each other for several moments.

“Very well, Mr. President,” Mayor Marion says at last. “You can consider your hands washed of the matter. For myself, I shall press on with my original intention and duty to enforce the law.”

President O’Neill watches as the Mayor reaches across his desk and unceremoniously severs their connection.

“That went over about as well as I expected,” Owens says from across the President’s desk.

The President nods. “Do we still have Whittaker on board?”

“Yes,” Owens says. “I got off the phone with him minutes ago. If the Mayor issues the order to arrest the demonstrators, Whittaker will defect on the eleven o’clock news. He assured me that we can count on one hundred and forty-three officers jumping ship with him.”

“Good,” says the President.

Whittaker is DC’s Chief of Police. He was installed by Marion but their relationship has been deteriorating over the last year. Everyone expected the Mayor to replace him soon. Whittaker himself expected it. Burt Owens wooed him on the President’s behalf. Whittaker agreed to publically defy his boss if the White House asked him. The Chief of Police will explain that it is the President’s regard for the wellbeing of the demonstrators that convinced him to disobey the Mayor’s callous command. In return, a place would be found for him and his people in the administration. The President hopes the removal of the National Guard and the police chief ’s surprise mutiny will be enough to derail the mayor’s plans and allow the night to pass uneventfully.

He knows he is only kicking the can down the road. The court’s decision in the spring could lead to confrontations as well, but he would deal with that later.

Burt Owens taps his watch. “Five minutes to seven, Mr. President.”

President William O’Neill spins lazily in his chair to look out at the crowds gathered beyond the Oval Office. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly before spinning back around.

“Extremists to the left of me,” he says, nodding at the videophone. “Extremists to the right of me,” he adds with a nod to the window.

“It’s a real thin line you have to walk, Mr. President,” Owen says with a slight shake of his small, bald head.

“Thin as a razor,” says the President of the United States. “And it’s about as pleasant to walk on.”

23:04:20

Elmer Kidd accepts a cup of hot chocolate from the young nun.

“Thank you, sister.”

She smiles, nods and begins pouring another one for the young man in line behind him. Kidd moves on, carefully lifting the lid off the Styrofoam cup. He blows gently into the thick, brown liquid. His breath and the steam off the chocolate mix into a cloud-white wisp that flares up to fog his glasses. Elmer takes a sip and savors the drink’s heat against the night’s chilling temperature. After a second, larger sip there is enough room to doctor the beverage with a shot of whiskey from his flask. Kidd spikes the chocolate, reapplies the lid and takes a third sip. Much better, he thinks. He looks up to face West Potomac Park. It is already packed with people even as more make their way to it. A make-shift stage is set up in front the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. JumboTron screens are set up on either side of the stage and a third is raised in front of the World War Two Memorial on the opposite end of the park. The screens are set up to watch the President’s address and the response from the protest leaders. In the meantime, the local news is being broadcast live. Few people are paying it any mind. He glances up to watch for a moment. Somewhere in the mass of humanity, Charles Hughes, Kidd’s fellow ex-war correspondent turned local, slick-haired newsman is interviewing demonstrators. He holds his microphone up to a redheaded, twenty-something year old male waving the golden
‘Don’t Tread on Me’
flag that has long been the mainstay of anti-government crowds. Their images are beamed larger than life across the park.

“What do you expect to hear from the President tonight, young man?”

“The usual,” the redhead answers. “A whole lot of nothing.”

Four girls position themselves to be seen by the camera. They raise a large green and red, hand painted banner above their heads.

All we want for Christmas is our country back!
The sign declares in large, block letters.

Nice one, Elmer thinks.

“Start recording, Ernie,” Kidd says out loud.

“Tape is rolling, Jefe.” The PalmPal in his breast pocket answers. The reply comes through the small, inconspicuous speakers ringing the diamond studs he wears in his ear lobes.

Like most people, Elmer Kidd has personalized his computer. His is named after his boyhood hero, Ernest Hemingway. The PalmPal uses samples of the writer’s voice to interact with its user. A tiny camera in the bridge of his glasses wirelessly feeds video of what Elmer looks at to the portable computer. The PalmPal, in turn, uploads it to his mini-Mainframe at home in Newark New Jersey. He will later edit the raw, life-streamed footage, add a voice over analysis and commentary and then post it to his blog,
Kidding Around
.

Elmer Kidd begins walking up Independence Avenue, scanning the crowds. There are two camps. The larger of the two, the Christians, are north of Independence, gathered in and around the park; the smaller, counter-demonstrators are south of Independence, stretched thinly across the far sidewalks.

He fixes his sight on a banner ahead of him.

“This country was not founded upon religion but on Christianity.”

The lettering is white over a grayscale portrait of Patrick Henry.

Elmer takes another sip of his spiked chocolate. Looking over the rim of the cup he spots another group of young people talking animatedly under a giant poster which caricatures DC’s Mayor as the Grinch, lynched from a Christmas tree. He focuses on the placard for a few moments and then turns his head south.

A cluster of counter-demonstrators are chanting, “God is dead… God is dead…” They are under a banner that reads:

Religion = War Crimes

The letters are in red, dripping in places like blood from open wounds.

Elmer captures the image and continues on, sipping at his drink, until he comes across several dozen children kneeling under a long, raised sign which declares:

The world aborted another 250,000 babies today.