The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga (57 page)

Washington, D.C.

The White House.

Presidential Emergency Operations Center.

P
RESIDENT
B
ARRON
GLANCED
AT
his Rolex for the third time.
 
He nodded judiciously as Tennyson Jones rambled on about what this traitor did and what that traitor did.
 
The man must have spies everywhere.
 
He’s got details on average Americans that J. Edgar Hoover would have killed for.
 
Scary bastard.

Barron added Jones’ name to his mental retribution list.
 
He cracked a sly smile.
 
Maybe he’d just let the people have at him.
 
That would be justice well served.

“—something amusing about all this, sir?
 
The nation is a hotbed of rebellion and deceit and I for one do not find anything at all about the situation funny.”

The attitude.
 
Barron decided that it was the man’s attitude, his sense of superiority, not his looks—those were frightful enough—that angered him.
 
He frowned.
 
“Stick to the facts, Tennyson and remember who you’re talking to.”

Tennyson the frog blinked slowly as if he suddenly realized for the first time he’d been lecturing the President of the United States like a schoolboy.
 
“My apologies, sir.”

Barron nodded in concession.
 
I wonder just what kind of a bonus you’re getting out of all this from Reginald?
 
“What you’re doing is important for the security of the nation.
 
Please, continue.”

The frog nodded.
 
“As I was saying, sir, our efforts are beginning to bear fruit—faster than even I had hoped, I might add.”

“Oh?
 
What kind of fruit?”

Jones smiled.
 
A perfect smile for Halloween.
 
“I’m quite proud of our people in Alabama.
 
A group of concerned citizens rallied around our ‘Information is Power’ campaign and really took things to the next level.
 
They rounded up suspected traitors and marched them to the local train depot.”

Barron swallowed, attempting to illicit an air of anticipation, not dread.
 
“And?”

“They rounded up the malcontents and their families into a few boxcars and locked them in.”

Barron sighed.
 
At least they weren’t executed in the streets.
 
“Well, I suppose they did us a favor.
 
Saved a little payroll, eh?”
 
He chuckled.
 
“That’ll help out with transportation to the camps, right?”

Jones shook his head but retained that oil-slick smile.
 
“Well, sort of.”
 

Barron clenched his jaw.
 
“Then get on with it, Tennyson, I’m a busy man, you know.”

“Yessir,” he said with a nod.
 
“My men found the bodies—”

Barron’s chest tightened.
 
He didn’t even hear the rest of Jones’ words.
 
He couldn’t see how average citizens could turn on their friends and neighbors over politics.
 
And behave so viciously!
 
For God’s sake, there were women and children…

“—a mess.
 
They’d been in there for a few days before we were told they were there.
 
We spread the word that next time we’d do the wetwork…”

Wetwork
.
 
As if Joe Sixpack is now an operative of the United States government.
 
Barron looked over the camera on his desk, past the screen with Jones’ frightening visage on it to the gilt-framed portrait of George Washington on the far wall.
 
The only decoration in the room.

He could see the pain and disappointment in Washington’s eyes.
 
You failed us.
 
All that we sacrificed, all that we bled and died for, we gave to you without hesitation.
 
You squandered it.
 
You destroyed it.

The President sighed.
 
You’re right.
 
I did.
 
I did all that and more.
 
But I was just the instrument.
 
Reginald is the one who caused it, who…
Barron looked at Jones and nodded at whatever the vile man had just said.
 
It seemed to make him happy.
 
Something about upping the ante.
 
The President looked at the painting again.
 
There’s still time for me to make things right.
 
Time!

He checked his watch.
 
Two minutes.
 
Jesus, I almost missed it…pay attention!
 
He cleared his throat and resolved to keep a clear head going forward.
 
In two minutes, the coded message he’d asked James to deliver to President Harris would go out.

By now,
thought the President,
he’s on the surface.
 
He subconsciously looked at the ceiling.

“—okay, sir?” asked Jones.

Shit
.
 
“Yes, yes,” he said irritably.
 
“I was just thinking.”

“About what, sir?
 
If I may.”

“You may not,” Barron snapped.
 
“Continue.”
 

Jones’ face paled.
 
“Of course, sir, my apologies.”
 
The frog cleared his throat.
 
“As I was saying, results around the country—at least from areas we control—indicate our barrage of programs is gaining traction…”

Don’t you mean pograms?
Barron wanted to ask.
 
When do we start building the walled ghettos?

“We’re rooting out the dissenters almost as fast as we can process them.”

No…they’re just going into hiding.
 
They’re getting clever.
 
And our tactics are just creating more.
 
God
, Barron told himself as he tried to look interested in whatever the hell Jones was rambling on about,
we’re all Americans.
 
How did it come to this—how did I let this happen?

Barron glanced at the clock on the screen below Jones’ image.
 
3:17pm.
 
His chest filled with anxiety.
 
By now, James would have sent the message.
 
He had finally struck a blow against Reginald and Jayne, something they wouldn’t be able to laugh off.
 
He tapped his finger on the desk and wondered how long it would be before Harris acted on his information.
 
How long would it take before Reginald’s plans were thwarted and he was exposed as the double-agent?

Am I really a double agent?
 
No.
 
That would mean I willingly went along with this madness in the first place.
 
He frowned at Jones, pointing at a chart showing re-education camp population levels in Missouri.
 
The man was sick.
 
Dedicated, but sick.

I never wanted this.
 
Any of it.
 
I wanted the Oval Office
…he looked at the ceiling.
 
Up there.
 
I never wanted Atlanta to get nuked, all those people killed.
 
I never wanted the flu or the invasion.
 
I never wanted Jayne.

A stirring in his loins told him he could lie to himself about not wanting what Jayne had offered, but his body would know the difference.

A double-agent works only for himself.
 
I work for redemption, now—for retribution.
 
I work for vengeance.
 
I don’t care about myself anymore.
 
I don’t have that right any more.
 
Not after Atlanta.

By the time Jones began wrapping up his briefing, Barron could hardly stand to look at the man anymore.
 
He was about to congratulate Jones on a job well done—to keep up appearances—when he heard a scuffle outside his door.
 
He held up a hand.
 
“Just a moment, Tennyson.”

Barron punched the intercom button on his desk and ignored the squawk from Jones.
 
“Alice, what’s going on out there?”
 

“
Uh, it’s really nothing, sir…
” Alice said in a wavering voice.
 
Barron could hear a struggle taking place in the background.
 
Someone grunted.
 
It sounded like a fistfight taking place, right on top of Alice’s desk.

“Sir!
 
They’re trying to arrest me!”

James.
 
Without another thought for Jones and his gestapo program, the President jumped up and flew to the door.
 
He threw it open as hard as he could and the action froze three agents who were attempting to restrain James.

“What the
hell
is going on out here?
 
I’m in the middle of a briefing in there—”

“Sir!
 
Unh,” James said as he struggled against two beefy agents who held him by the arms.
 
A third man stepped forward, confidence plastered across his face like a mask.

“Apologies, Mr. President, I’ll make sure the traitor here is taken care of.”

Barron raised a finger.
 
“Wait one second.
 
What’s this all about?
 
James?”

“I don’t know, sir, I was topside and—”

“This man went topside without proper authorization—strictly against standing orders!
 
Get him out of here,” growled the agent in front of the President.
 
He turned to face Barron.
 
“We’ll handle this internally, sir, if you don’t mind.”

“I
do
mind.
 
This man has been with me since the beginning—
you
on the other hand,” the President said.
 
He glanced at the two large agents on either side of James.
 
“I’ve never seen any of you before.”

“Oh, you must be mistaken, sir, we’ve been—”

Barron stepped up close to the troublemaker.
 
“I don’t know what game you’re playing, Agent…?”

“Gruber, sir.”

Barron nodded.
 
“I don’t know what game you’re playing, Gruber, but I assure you, James is no traitor.”
 
He looked at the two big agents.
 
“Release him.
 
Now.”

The two men didn’t even acknowledge the order.
 
They glanced at Gruber.
 
When Barron did likewise, he saw a man smaller than the other two who was filled with stoic confidence.
 
He returned Barron’s stare with eyes that betrayed no emotion.
 
“Like I said, we’ll handle this.
 
You and I both know who I work for.”

Jesus
.
 
Reginald’s hand reaches everywhere.
 
Anger flared to life in Barron’s gut.
 
“And you know I work for him too, right?
 
So the next time he wants me to do something, guess what?
 
I’m telling him no.
 
And I’m telling him it’s all because you disobeyed my orders in front of others,” Barron whispered, making sure to lean in close.
 
He stepped back and watched in satisfaction as the agent paled and swallowed.

Reginald must be scarier than I’d imagined.

“Of…of course, sir,” Gruber stammered, deflated.
 
He glanced at the others.
 
“Let him go.”

James shrugged out of the grasps of his guards and stepped up to the President.
 
“Are you okay, sir?”

That was loyalty.
 
He’s just been threatened with death by agents loyal to Reginald and after being set free the first thing he asks was whether I’m okay.
 

“Yes, thank you, James.
 
And you?”

“A little confused and angry,” he said, shooting a withering glare at Gruber, “but I’ll live.”

Barron shot his own dirty look at the two big agents who didn’t even so much as blink.
 
He glared at Gruber and poked a finger into his chest.
 
“If anyone raises a hand against this man in the future, I will deal with you, personally.
 
Do I make myself clear?”

“Absolutely, sir,” said Gruber.
 
He moved past the President and whispered, “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“I am the President of the United States, I don’t play games.
 
I am still the internationally recognized leader of the free world.”

“For now,” muttered Gruber as he gathered the other two agents and left the reception area.

Barron ushered James into his office and shut the door, blocking out Alice’s flustered questions.

“Well?” he asked as he showed James to a chair opposite his desk.
 
“How are things topside?”

James smiled and flicked his eyes to the right, indicating he knew about the cameras and microphones.
 
“Everything was as you’d expect.
 
Quiet.
 
The streets are deserted.
 
I think there’s a lot of sick people in D.C., sir.”

Barron closed his eyes as he leaned on his desk.
 
He did it.
 
He got the message out.
 
He opened his eyes and nodded.
 
“We knew it’d get bad up there.
 
I just pray we can stop this thing before people start dying.”