The Last President: A Novel of an Alternative America (28 page)

Over thirty thousand people stood and watched the small helicopter crash into the side of the Washington Monument. Millions more saw it on television. The event was bloody and horrible. The only question was, Who was in the helicopter? One of the network anchormen announced that it seemed to be Vandermeer and the President. But no word had come from inside the White House, and nobody on the outside knew.

Colonel Hanes, feeling that he should do something, switched on the giant loudspeaker mounted above the 155-millimeter gun on his tank. “All Marines in this immediate area,” he yelled, “will lay down their arms and come forward with their hands above their heads. This is a direct order.”

A Marine corporal, leaning behind the statue of Rochambeau in Lafayette Square, took casual aim with his rifle and plinked two harmless rounds off the tank. Colonel Hanes immediately dropped down into the tank and slammed the hatch shut. A few seconds later the air was full of small-arms fire.

Within minutes the firing spread, completely surrounding the White House and sending the television camera crews scurrying for cover. Two Marines and three soldiers were killed in the first exchange, and somehow the nose was clipped off the statue of General Sherman in Treasury Place.

The sound of a helicopter once again came from overhead, and the firing lessened while both sides craned their necks to see who was coming in. As the machine landed in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue, the MacPherson News Syndicate logo could be made out on the door.

Two television cameramen raced out, oblivious to the continuing gunfire, to get close-ups of it as it came down. Ian Faulkes must have primed them for this, Adams thought.

An Army officer jumped out of the helicopter, brass gleaming, ribbons sparkling, and an unlit cigar clamped firmly between his teeth. As he strode away from the copter, it lifted off and moved to the far side of Lafayette Square.

Slowly and deliberately the officer walked forward, surrounded and protected by the innate majesty and assurance of command. He marched steadily down the clear space between the opposing forces.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
, Adams intoned as he watched Tank MacGregor’s progress,
I shall fear no evil.
Then he held his breath as one lone rifle barked and one bullet splatted off the pavement a yard in front of MacGregor.

Tank paused and glared in the direction of the shot, and then, firmly, he continued his walk.

When he was directly in front of the White House, MacGregor stopped and looked around. He took in the surrounding scene with an unhurried sweep of his gaze. The firing had stopped as everyone watched this American legend—this hero—and tried to figure out what he was going to do.

MacGregor pointed to the vehicle nearest to him, Colonel Hanes’s command tank, and gestured like a man calling his dog. Nothing happened. He gestured again.

The M-60 rumbled into life and slowly came forward until it reached MacGregor, who climbed up onto the turret and pounded on the hatch. After a few seconds it opened and Colonel Hanes stuck out his head cautiously. MacGregor grabbed the loudspeaker microphone from him and stood up on top of the turret, staring around him.

“Can you all see me?” he demanded. “I am General of the Army Hiram MacGregor,” he spoke slowly and distinctly. “And I hereby take command of all United States military units within the sound of my voice!” The words echoed off the buildings and rolled on down the avenues. “All officers will report to me, here, immediately! Let me repeat that. All military officers, of whatever service, within the sound of my voice, will report to me immediately. All enlisted men, of whatever service, will immediately ground their weapons and stay in place.”

The troops on both sides stared at him. Nobody moved.

“I want this clearly understood,” MacGregor said, enunciating carefully, “if any of you fire any of those weapons you’re waving around I personally will come over and bend it over your head. Put them down now! All commissioned officers report here now! This has gone far enough.”

The television cameramen had gathered on Pennsylvania Avenue in front of MacGregor while he was talking, and now seven cameras were aimed up at him, catching the expression on his face as he chewed savagely on his cigar. Army and Marine officers were climbing out of their tanks and trenches and heading toward him from all around the disputed area. The cameras slowly panned around to catch the moment, and then turned back to MacGregor.

Tank looked down at the cameras and stared into the soul of America. “It is over,” he said, discarding the loudspeaker mike. “Whatever has been happening here is over.”

“Will you speak to the American people now, General?” the reporter asked. “They’re watching and listening.”

MacGregor looked around at the officers who were gathered around the tank. “Let me speak to my officers now,” he said. “Please.”

“But the American people?”

“I shall speak to the people this evening,” MacGregor said. “For now, just let me say that the time of hate and division is over. We shall return to a constitutional government with all deliberate speed. As a first step in achieving this,” he added, “let us immediately open the gates to all the internment camps. Thousands of Americans are, right now, locked up behind barbed-wire fences without due process. They have been deprived of their basic civil rights. I hereby order all camp commanders to open their gates.”

“By what authority do you order this, General?” the reporter asked.

MacGregor glared at him. “Justice,” he said. “And the Constitution of the United States—the final authority. Now go away, son, and let me do my job.”

All around, soldiers and Marines, their guns grounded, were standing up, stretching, and looking relieved. Tank MacGregor had arrived. Tank could be trusted. It was in his hands now.

Aaron Adams put the phone down and turned to stare across the room to where Kit and Miriam were sitting on the ancient leather couch. Kit’s left arm itched where the bullet had torn through, but he couldn’t get under the plastic splint and bandage contraption to scratch it, so he kept twisting around uncomfortably on his side of the couch.

“Obie is dead,” Adams said.

“Obie?” Kit repeated.

“That’s right,” Adams said. “Congressman Obediah Porfritt. He died on the operating table about an hour ago. He caught a bullet resisting arrest. They didn’t think it was serious, but he died on the table. Son of a bitch!”

“I’m sorry,” Kit said.

“So am I,” Adams said. “Are you sure you’re up to wandering around with that arm?”

“I’m not wandering around,” Kit said. “I’m sitting quietly on my corner of the couch waiting for ten o’clock.”

Adams looked at his watch. “In fifteen minutes,” he said, “General MacGregor will address the nation, and we shall discover our fates.”

“Our fates?” Miriam looked surprised. “What do you think he’s going to say?”

“I have no idea what Tank will say, but he can’t ignore what happened today. And he certainly can’t ignore those who made it happen.”

“Us,” Kit said.

“Us. Indeed.”

The front-door chime sounded the opening bars of “Yankee Doodle,” and then they heard the solid footsteps of George on his way to open the door. Kit had a momentary frightening vision of who George might find outside, and he put his good arm around Miriam and held her close until Ian Faulkes came through the study door and waved at them.

“Greetings, my friends,” Faulkes said. “Thought I’d drop in, if you don’t mind.”

“Hello, Ian,” Adams said. “Take a chair. I thought you’d be where the action is.”

“I am where the action is when I’m with you,” Faulkes said. “Which may sound like the first line of a love ballad, but nonetheless—”

”We’re just sitting here quietly, waiting for the general to tell us what’s happening next,” Adams said. “Why aren’t you by MacGregor’s side, waiting to ask him a few selected incisive and pertinent questions after his speech?”

“I’ve already filed my story,” Faulkes said, “having taken advantage of my providential closeness to the great man earlier. I can learn nothing more than we shall all see on the telly shortly, so I’ve come to watch the proceedings with you, and perhaps catch the expression on your faces when Tank throws you to the wolves.”

“You think that’s going to happen?” Adams asked.

Faulkes shrugged. “It wouldn’t be entirely without precedent,” he said. “And what are friends for, but to provide me with good copy?”

“I’ve often asked myself that very question,” Adams said. He reached over and turned on his television set. A bearded news commentator appeared on the screen. Then the scene switched to tape, and they saw Vandermeer pilot the helicopter into the side of the Washington Monument in slow motion.

As they watched silently, a figure seemed to float out the door of the craft and fall slowly away from it. Then, with the magic of television, the figure froze in midair and the camera closed in on it until the falling body filled the screen. It was St. Yves. Kit thought he could see a look of rage on St. Yves’ face as he fell to his death.

The program cut away to the commentator for a moment, and then switched again. The scene was now the exterior of the main gate of an internment camp. Kit thought it was Camp Washington Irving, the one he had visited, but he couldn’t be sure. The camp gates were wide open, and a steady stream of internees were making their way down the asphalt road to freedom. One full bus pulled out as they watched, and an empty one swung in to fill up. But most of the prisoners didn’t wait for the buses; they were walking. Some were crying.

“That,” Adams said, “is a good sign.”

“That’s a beautiful sight,” Miriam said. “I thought that was one of the reasons we did all this.”

“Yes,” Adams agreed. “But the fact that it’s actually happening shows that they’re taking Tank seriously where it counts. The mantle of authority is a delicate thing, but Tank seems to have assumed it successfully.”

“What do you suppose he’s going to do about the President?” Kit asked.

Adams eyed Kit sourly. “That son of a bitch had better live,” he said. “Nobody’s ever going to believe that Vandermeer shot him. I’m not sure I believe it myself.”

“The doctor at Bethesda said the bullet penetrated a lung, but the operation was clean and he’s in no real danger,” Kit said. “He’ll be in the hospital a few weeks at most.”

“If I were Tank,” Adams said, “I’d keep him in the hospital until the impeachment starts. Nice and safe and out of the way. I’m glad I’m not.”

The picture on the screen switched to an overview of the blocked streets of Washington as they had been a few hours earlier. “It will take a strong hand to hold this country together until we can hold elections,” Adams said. “Tank has that. But did you ever consider that a hand strong enough to do that is also strong enough to take over the elections if he so chooses?”

“I thought you trusted MacGregor,” Kit said. “You think he could be tempted?”

“I think
I
could be tempted,” Adams said. “The most powerful temptation in the world: the knowledge that you know what is good for the people, that you alone can bring it all about in the way that you know is best.”

Miriam wrapped her arms around her knees. “Here he comes,” she said. “We’ll know in a minute.”

Tank MacGregor came on the screen. He was seated behind a large desk with the Great Seal of the United States on the wall behind him. Adams turned up the volume.

“My fellow Americans—” MacGregor said. He paused and looked directly into the camera. “My fellow Americans,” he repeated, “this talk will be very brief. We have just been through a grave national trauma. But one which has shown the strength of our nation and our constitution. I have three announcements to make.

“The first is that a special election will be held ninety days from today to elect a new president and a full House of Representatives, as well as to replace those senators whose terms have expired.

“The second is that the man who, until today, was occupying the White House as President, will be brought to trial in a federal court for various crimes against the United States and against many of its citizens. I have been informed by the Justice Department that impeachment proceedings are redundant, as he was illegally holding office and is now removed.

“The third is that I will not be a candidate for the presidency of the United States under any conditions whatsoever.

“Thank you.”

Adams looked at Faulkes and broke into a broad smile. Kit and Miriam looked at each other. Kit grinned and squeezed her so hard with his good arm that it hurt her shoulder, but she didn’t wince. She just took his head in both hands and kissed him harder than she had ever done before.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Michael Kurland
is the recipient of two Edgar scrolls and was nominated for an American Book Award for his first Moriarty novel,
The Infernal Device
. His works have been translated into over a dozen difference languages, and have been selected by the History Book Club, the Book of the Month Club, and the Junior Literary Guild. He can be reached at:

www.michaelkurland.com

S. W. Barton
is the pseudonym of an armchair magician and intelligence analyst.