[b]Fort Norman Cascadia Territory [/b] Hank Kelly sipped lukewarm coffee out of a paper cup and pined for DC. At the Campus in Alexandria they really knew how to brew a cup of Joe. These Army guys could kick serious ass, but their gourmet skills were severely lacking. Hank drained the coffee from the cup and tossed it into a wastepaper basket as he walked down Fort Norman’s beige colored corridors. A general fatigue was setting into his bones, unsurprising since he had been up for nearly twenty hours at this point. Hank had been in a meeting yesterday evening with the rest of the analysts in the Company’s Canada Section when he D/CO called him up to his office. As a senior analyst in the department, the Deputy had picked him to go up north for the op. He was able to leave the Campus and stay home long enough to eat dinner and pack a bag before he told Tiff and the boys he had to go away on business. Tiff understood. She had been a Company wife for fifteen years now. He caught a ride on a military transport out of Andrews Field at five this morning. Twelve hours in the air and a three-hour car ride and here he was, puttering around the military intelligence offices of the base and waiting for Pat and whatever he was able to find at Bragg. Yawning, he found a couch in an empty office off the main hallway. Hank checked the watch on his wrist before stretching out on the couch. He unknotted his tie and kicked off his shoes before he closed his eyes. “Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey.” Hank opened his eyes and saw Pat Connelly staring down at him with a smirk. “How long have I been asleep?” Hank mumbled to himself, checking his watch. Four hours had passed since he closed his eyes. “Damn… when did you guys get in?” “Ten minutes ago,” Pat said as he helped Hank to his feet. “Good to see you again, Hank.” Pat was Hank’s opposite number in the Operations Directorate. Hank rode a desk while Pat was an actual intelligence officer out in the field. The two men had known each other for nearly ten years and were practically neighbors since they lived two blocks away from each other Georgetown and their kids went to the same school. “So what did you get?” Hank asked with a yawn. “I think I got us a winner. They’re an A-Team with experience in the region from the war. High marks in all their fitness reports. Their NCO is solid as a rock.” “Good.” Hank tried to pat some of the wrinkles out of his shirt. He gave up and started tying his necktie back in place. “Give me a chance to get some coffee and I’ll be ready for a briefing.” [b]Vancouver[/b] Arthur shifted uneasily in the small bed. Joanna stirred on his left and rolled over with her back to him. He looked over at her and felt something he couldn’t quite articulate. Was it love? Regret? Sadness? Maybe it was all three. He joined the Friends because they seemed to have all the answers he was looking for. They were smart and passionate, and they liked him. Alex and Chris liked him and Joanna… well, she was sleeping next to him in bed wasn’t she? He felt like he belonged to something. But was it something he wanted to be part of? Arthur had his reservations about the robberies and the bombings, but Alex had kept true to his word that nobody would get hurt. What they were doing was criminal, but it served a purpose. They had to show the imperialist they were serious. Their methods seemed to be working since the media was reporting general unrest in the territory. The Friends could be the spark that ignited the dynamite… but it was all in danger of being thrown off course. Everyone knew what VX was and what it could do. This wasn’t bombing an empty office building or even kidnapping some Army technical sergeant. VX was made for one thing only, and that one thing was killing people in en mass in a horrible way. Joanna shifted again, resting her head on Arthur’s chest. He thought of a third option while he listened to her steady breathing. So far, Alex had kept her and Chris in the dark about the VX option. He could force the issue, confront Alex and talk some sense into him, force him to abandon the plan if necessary. But then there was that gigantic man who wore sunglasses even in the middle of the night, the man with the fake name who talked slow and deliberate to cover up an accent. Who was he, and how had he gotten his hands on VX. More importantly, how would he feel if the Friends backed out of the bombing? [b]USS Ranger Sixteen Miles North-Northeast of New York City[/b] Colonel Wallace Lee’s stomach did summersaults as he approached the jet waiting on the flight deck. Carrier sorties were nothing new to Wallace, especially jet sorties.[i]Ranger[/i] and the three nearby aircraft carriers had been built just for jet sorties like this. The runway was more compact due to the jet engines achieving lift faster. While he was among the Marine Corps’ senior most aviators, he was still new to the jet technology like everyone else. The majority of his career in the Corps was spent on the prop planes. He had heard of the jet engine scuttlebutt for years now until it finally became a reality five years ago. Resting on the deck was the FJ Mark 2. It was so new it didn't even have a catchy nickname. It was a silver, snub-nosed little thing with two fixed wings that came off the fuselage at a severe angle. It didn’t look like much, but it could book it like nobody’s business. All the military eggheads and crash test dummies had done the work in the desert, but today would be the first time the Mark 2 launched from a carrier. Along with Wallace’s plane, the USS [i]Eric Fernandez[/i] and the USS [i]Saratoga[/i] had Mark 2’s waiting on their deck to launch. The sortie mission was to launch and fly over New York before landing back on the Ranger’s deck. Cameras present on the deck, inside the jet, and placed throughout he city would document the jets on their trip. That footage would be distributed to the media for national and international use. The message was a simple one: One more weapon had been added to the US’s ever growing arsenal. The flight crew helped Wallace into the jet and handed him his helmet. He strapped in while they prepared the jet and the deck for takeoff. “Ranger Actual to Linebacker,” Captain Lopez said over the radio. “How’s it feeling in there?” “Good. It could use a cigarette lighter, though.” “I’ll be sure to pass that news along to the boys at Skunkworks. I’m passing the mic over to Admiral Boyce.” “Colonel Lee? I’ll be brief. I just want to say good luck, we’re all counting on you. Boyce out.” Lopez signed off, leaving Wallace to go through pre-flight checks before he started the engine. The Mark 2’s single engine roared to life. Wallace took a deep breath and looked to his side. The flight crew had the hydraulic catapult ready to shoot him forward off the deck. He showed them the thumbs-up. The crew chief returned the thumbs-up and gave the signal. In the blink of an eye, Wallace and the Mark 2 were shot down the runway at high speed. He gripped the yoke with one hand, the throttle with the other. As soon as he heard the clank of the catapult bolt disconnecting, Wallace gunned the throttle and pulled back on the yoke. He climbed into the air and banked to the left, seeing Ranger and the rest of the carrier task force hundreds of feet below him. “Linebacker 1 to Linebacking corps. Linebackers fall in.” Linebacker 2, the pilot from the Fernandez replied with the affirmative, followed by Saratoga’s pilot Linebacker 3. The two FJ’s fell in behind Wallace. The three jets circled around the three carriers and watched their instruments. The uncertainty from earlier was replaced with excitement when he saw the speeds he was travelling. “Holy shit. Five hundred and fifty miles an hour, I’ve never gone that fast.” “Linebacker 2 to Linebacker 1, everything on my end looks good.” “Linebacker 3, I roger that.” “Okay, fellas. Let’s take these bad boys into the city. Tell ya what, last one back to their carrier is a rotten egg.” Wallace punched the throttle down and broke away from the other two pilots as he raced towards New York City. [b]Senate Chamber US Capitol Building Washington, D.C.[/b] “’At the mention of his youngest daughter’s name, Mr. Bennet shook his head.’” Jim Sanderson, the junior senator from Georgia, read the words of Jane Austen with his syrupy South Georgia drawl. “’Although quite pretty, Lydia was a lively headstrong girl prone to a breathiness of speech and a most peculiar fondness for raising up the hems of her gowns to rub her lower half against objects and furnishings and, to the embarrassment of all parties concerned, young officers…’“ Sanderson stood next to his desk and read while a skeleton crew of clerks sat at the dais to record the words. From the entrance of the chamber, Russell watched Sanderson with a scowl. The Southern filibuster was now in its twentieth hour. Before Jim, Louisiana’s Jeff Murphy and Mississippi’s Barry McCall had spoken until their voices were raw. Jim taking part in the filibuster was particularly galling to Russell. Jim had taken Russell’s seat in the Senate after he had resigned to be Vice-President. It was on Russell’s recommendation that Governor Taliaferro had appointed Jim. Russell had promised to help him out this summer in the special election to serve out the rest of the term’s four years, but that was off the table. Both Jim and Herbert Tallmadge, Georgia’s other senator, had sided with the Southern bloc in the filibuster fight. It made Russell look weak that he couldn’t control the people from his own state. Fuming, Russell stalked off from the chamber and made a beeline to Wilbur Helms’ office. The two Secret Service agents assigned to him tried to keep up as Russell rushed down the marble halls. The ancient solon was standing behind his desk preparing to leave for the day when Russell burst in. Helms smiled, showing a full mouth of his yellow teeth. “Come to surrender?” Helms asked brightly. “I am a good winner, Russ. I won’t require you to bend the knee.” “You misunderstand, Wilbur. I’ve come to accept your surrender.” Helms cocked a gray eyebrow upward and sat back down in his chair. It took him a moment to comprehend what Russell was saying. A leathery hand scratched his slicked back silver hair while he spoke. “That a joke or something, son? Because I don’t rightly get it. From where I’m sitting, I hold all the cards. I got eight other senators that can get up on that floor and speak until their goddamn gums bleed. The entire legislative machinery of the United States government is at our control.” “It is,” said Russell. “And that’s why you’re gonna stop. You’re gonna come to the realization that, with the current state of global affairs, hijacking the government’s ability to create legislation is tantamount to treason. You’re gonna realize that in most of the world, you and the rest of the Southerners would have been hanged for trying to pull this shit. That’s why you’re gonna do the right thing and call the filibuster off.” “Make me,” snarled the old man. “Use all your power at your disposal to make me do it, you son of a bitch. At the end of the day, I do not give a flying fuck about this military bill. I do not want you and your goddamn Yankees interfering with my state. It ain’t personal, it’s politics.” Silence settled in as the two men stared at each other. Helms’ steely blue eyes refused to blink or look away as Russell stared forward. Finally, Russell blinked and stepped backwards. He adjusted his tie and cleared his throat. “’Warm bucket of piss,’” he mumbled. “What’s that, son?” “’Warm bucket of piss’, isn’t that what you said the other week about what the Vice Presidency is worth?” “That’s right,” Helms said smugly. “There’s truth to that. Constitutionally, I can’t do jack squat to convince you to do the right thing. But… here’s the thing about almost all the men who end up becoming the Vice President. They were all experience politicians. They didn’t have power, but they knew what to do with it if they had it. It’s the same with me. There is not a goddamn thing I can do to convince you in my role as Vice President. But as a politician.” Russell sat down in the chair opposite Helms and leaned forward with his arms on the desk. He started to speak before chuckling. “You know, Wilbur, we both grew up pretty close to each other. Where I’m from in Georgia, Lavonia, is just a few hours away from your hometown in South Carolina. Edgefield, right?” “That’s right.” “Back when I first got to the Senate, I took a trip down there one weekend. I knew who you were and knew all about what you could do for me in the Senate. I wanted to learn more, so I went searching. I found something mighty interesting, Wilbur. I found Catherine Turman.” The old man’s face turned so white so quickly that, had it not been for his wheezing breaths, Russell would have thought he had just died. A smile crept onto Russell’s face as he pressed on. “You remember Catherine? Swell negro lady who teaches school at the colored school in town. She looks more on the biracial side, you ask me. Funny thing about that, there is no daddy listed on her birth certificate. Her momma was your housekeeper back in the day.” “Russell—“ “She got a fine education down at that negro college in Columbia, Benedict College right? According to her, it was a memorial scholarship as part of the Wilburn Helms Foundation. The thing is, I don’t remember you having a charity like that, especially one that gives scholarships to negro gals. Apparently, that same foundation helped Ms. Turman’s mother out after she left your employ.” “Russ, please—“ Russell smiled and leaned back. He thoroughly enjoyed the desperate tone in the old man’s voice.“I can’t do anything to get your cooperation as VP, you are right about that. But as a politician? I still know how to hit you where it hurts. Just imagine all the papers if this gets out. Wilbur Helms, the stalwart defender of Southern rights and segregation… has a half-black daughter. Not only that, but he's been running a slush fund to keep that half-black baby and the baby's momma up.” “Russ, son…,” Helms said, tears beginning to form in his eyes. “You can’t do that. It would ruin my career… my legacy! It would ruin… her life. This isn’t right, this is blackmail!” “It’s just politics,” Russ said with a wink. “And if you want this to stay buried, call off the filibuster and let the NEWI bill pass.” “You son of a bitch… You’ve known this for ten years?” “More or less. It’s always good to have something your back pocket when someone won’t play ball.” “This doesn’t mean any other civil rights bill will pass through this body. I would rather die than see that come to pass.” “Be careful what you wish for.” Russell stood and looked down at the wheezing, crying old man who just a few minutes ago said he had all the cards. “Cheer up, Wilbur. Catherine and her husband gave birth a few months ago. Let me be the first to congratulate you on being a granddaddy." Russell adjusted his tie and checked his watch. "I understand it’s almost too late in the evening to wake the rest of the walking dead that make up the Southern Caucus, but I expect I’ll hear that the filibuster has officially ended tomorrow morning, and the good men of the Senate can go about their duty of passing legislation. Have a good night, Senator.” [b]Fort Norman Cascadia Territory[/b] “Operation Cruiser.” The chubby, middle-aged man in the wrinkled shirt and tie stood in front of Silas and his A-team for their briefing. Unlike the CIA agent known to Silas as Smith, this man looked more like an office worker than a Company man. He hadn’t even bothered to give Silas and the men a fake name, instead he just said he was Company and got right into the briefing. To the man’s right was Smith, sitting and watching impassively while he smoked a cigarette. “With the recent unrest in the territory, we’ve been given a green light for this joint CIA-DoD operation. Simply put, we’re terrorist hunting. These people who call themselves the Friends of Northwest Sovereignty have yet to hurt someone, but they will eventually. This activity falls under the purview of the FCB and the territorial police, but this is special circumstances.” “The FCB doesn’t trust the territorial police,” Smith added. “They’ll probably be spending most of their time mole hunting instead of trying to find the bombers.” “Technically Mr. Smith and I aren’t supposed to be here. A CIA operation on US soil violates our charter. That’s why this is a DoD operation. Since this is a US territory under military occupation, you boys have free reign to be here. Cruiser’s head, nominally, is the base commander here, Brigadier General Johnson. He’ll work with us and provide us with whatever we need, but for all intents and purposes this operation is being run by CIA. We provide the intelligence, coordinate with the Campus back in Alexandria, but you five will be the boots on the ground and Sergeant Crystal has the final say on any ground action, we’re committed to this being a joint command. Since you are soldiers, you are not held to the same standards as law enforcement. They have to make arrests and trials. You boys aren’t in that same boat. Simply put, if we find these terrorist first you have orders to take them out.” “Terminate...,” Smith said, before adding, “Terminate... With extreme prejudice."