[h1]Lower Peninsula[/h1] [h2]Lansing[/h2] “Major General Adam Roscol will see you now, senator.” the secretary announced, leaning out from behind the door of the commander's office. Rising from his seat Andrew Steffenson went to the door. The old State Police headquarters at the center of Lansing was one of the buildings in the capital's downtown that survived the scourging that had taken East Lansing. It, the state offices, the Radison, city offices, and those west of the Grand River remained standing. Though the windows were blown out by the shock waves, there was little doubt to the viability of the structure's continued purpose. The former police station was with the Capital Building as having had its windows fully replaced where they were broken inward. Yet on its eastern face the brown brick of its facade had been stained with the light of nuclear fire. “Major General.” Steffenson politely hailed, stopping with his arms crossed as he stepped into the office. Looking up from a lantern lit desk the major smiled and went forward to greet the senator. “Steffenson, it's fine to see you again.” he beamed, shaking his hand, “What brings you to me?” asked the commanding officer. Adam Roscol was an imposing figure of a man, even well into fifty years of age. He was as large as a bear, and as well kept as any professional person. His blues eyes shown with a warm welcoming light and a dark blue uniform put his heavy frame into a sharp and military profile. “State business.” Steffenson replied. Roscol wasn't a fool himself and he guided himself back to the world of professional ceremony. “Then sit, please.” he asked, holding out his hand to one of the two chairs he kept in front of his desk. He walked to his side, his boots thumping heavily across the old tile floor. “Word has come to my ears the House of Representatives is pursuing authorization for the governor to exercise military maneuvers to occupy and hold the Great Lake coast. Before it reaches the Senate I want the professional opinion of our military men to carry with me onto the floor.” “Or to committee.” the general corrected, “I no doubt you'll lead your senate into the backroom to decide on the show you want to put forward. “So, what do you need me to say?” he asked. There was a low tinge of criticism that subdued in otherwise low voice. “I don't need you to say anything particular, I just want to know the status of our armed forced for whether we want the state to pull this off before the Governor puts his name on the authorization.” General Roscol nodded, “Well, we're certainly not in any position to take the entire coast of the lakes. Even under full authorization to legally sieze the whole lake coast we won't be capable of prolonged war against all regional powers to wrest coastal power from everyone. My recommendation presently would be that could maybe take Windsor and Sault Ste. Marie but that's without proper intelligence work on either, I'd be recommending Governor Coleman to accept requests to send or acquire men in the area to build up full and accurate intelligence files. “But to say we should go for everything is unnecessary. Simply holding the Detroit River and both Sault Ste. Maries would give us near defacto control of the waterways. From Mackinac Island we can exert full control of the Straights of Mackinac.” “So what you're saying is we're not prepared?” Steffenson asked. “Well that's ultimately what you men in the suits think.” Roscol declared, tapping his knuckled on the desk for emphasis, “When it comes down to the table it's up to you on whether or not you press certain things on our enemies through the diplomatic process. I wouldn't recommend trying to push total authority since we may not have the manpower for that sort of prolonged push.” “I get what you're at.” “Of course.” “In the end then it won't be worth the state to push for everything the House may be pushing. Good to know general. I think we came to a productive conclusion.” Steffenson rose, “But, I'm going to want this to be put into paper and issued to the Senate by next week so we have written and signed word as proof.” “A stink will still be raised by the House if you shoot down their bill and send it back on it, but they'll still moan.” Roscol added, “But I will. I'll write it out and throw in numbers for your benefit. Have fun.” “And you too.” [h1]Upper Peninsula[/h1] [h2]Escanaba[/h2] The air smelled heavy of pine sap as the woods echoed with the noise and chatter of men entering the the thick forests north of Escanaba proper. Horses neighed as their drivers lead them along down dirty two-tracks into the woods that dotted the quilted landscape of northern Michigan. In the post-war world, the old world had charitably carved the countryside into parcels with the inter-lapping straight roads that ran through the country and the forests. Many of these plots sold off to the post-war lumber barons by the state who built from them the timber empires of the Upper Peninsula. “Hey, Marc!” a man called out in the work line. His head still thrumming from a fading hangover Marc turned to look at who called him out as they meandered through the forest, passing spindly furs and birches still naked from winter. Running up from behind him a spindly grasshopper of a man bound through the muck with explosive excitement and a devlish glow in his eyes. His pack of gear flapped from his out stretched hand as he held his balance to keep from slipping through the treacherous spring-time mud with his jump. “You're a pretty cheeky cunt, eh?” the little weasel whipped and hollered. “What about it?” Marc grumbled, hoisting his own bound gear higher up on his shoulder. “Well shit brother, thinkin' you can take Jethro Toole as ya did, yea?” he laughed, “Shit brother, he really walloped you a fuckin' good one. I'm surprised you came in to work today!” “I did what?” Marc asked. Laughing, the little rat of a man wooped and hollered, “Aw shit!” he cackled, “You were really fuckin' wasted then! I don't fucking believe it!” “I guess you haven't quite heard of dha McTarson name!” roared another lumber jack with a dry whipping crack in his voice, “Everyone with that name can slam it down and walk dha next day.” “Apparently dhey all gotta head ah' steel.” laughed another. “Oh brother, the way fuckin' Toole threw your face against the side of the bar I thought you were done for sure!” the scrawny man exclaimed. “I ain't seen shit like that ever. Fucking wild!” “Flannagan you stupid piece of shit, maybe if'er weren't born as a Troll you'da known fighting when you see it. Dhat fight was just a bout ah' roudy sex is all.” someone laughed. “Oh, while we're trying to sound all tough and shit, Flannagan answer me this: ya ever bagged a buck when you lived under that bridge of yours?” “What does that have to do with anything?” Flannagan demanded. “Because it determines if I get to whip you dead.”