[b]Madison, Wisconsin [/b]

Clay Foulke looked out the window of the car and thought of home. Scenic Madison with its lakes and beautiful trees was a long way from Harlan, Kentucky. In Harlan they had trees, but they were sparse due to the strip mining. The once rolling hills were flattened, every ounce of anthracite sucked dry from them. Clay’s dad, granddad, and great-granddad had all been coal miners. They worked twelve and sixteen hour days down in those cramped mine shafts, doing whatever it took to get that four hundred foot quota of coal. His great-granddad died in a mine collapse, his granddad got the black lung and died of it at the ripe old age of forty-five after almost thirty years in the mines. Clay was four at the time and he couldn’t remember what his granddad looked like, but he would never forget that wheezing cough that filled the house, the way he always sounded like each breath was going to be his last. Clay was fourteen when his dad died. One errant spark in the shaft caused an explosion that killed Roger Foulke and twenty-four other miners. Standing in the chapel with his mom and four sisters, looking at their father’s closed casket because his body was too torn up to leave it open, Clay made a vow that he would never dig coal. He also decided then and there to help people like his family and the miners in Harlan. People who had no options, people who were forced to dig coal.

He’d gotten out of Harlan by working four different part-time jobs through the week, helping take care of his sister's, and attending school at night. He got his law degree at UK and went straight into politics. He was twenty-five when he won a seat in the Kentucky House of Representatives. Ten years in state politics, followed by another sixteen as a US congressman for Kentucky’s 5th district and now he was Speaker of the House. Second in line for the presidency behind his mentor, Russell Reed, and a strong Speaker committed to using the powers of the gavel to get progressive legislation through the House. After eight terms he had yet to suffer from incumbent creep like a lot of long-serving politicians. He knew he was there for the people in his district and, as Speaker, every American across the country. He caucused with the Socialist during his earlier days in congress before he saw the way the wind was blowing and defected to the Democrats. He kept his strongly liberal bent when it came to  politics, though. That was why he found himself here in Madison today. With no pressing bills in committee or on the floor, congress had recessed for a one-week summer vacation and he was taking advantage of it to do a little backroom politicking.

Jennifer Armstrong drove the car. Jen was Clay’s majority whip and acted as his enforcer in Congress. She looked like an average housewife, late 30’s with strawberry blonde hair kept in an updo. A gentle smile was always on her face and she spoke with a slight Midwestern accent that came from spending her entire life in Iowa. It was alarming to most people how quickly that charm faded when she got mad or wanted to intimidate. The housewife became a pitbull and once she got her teeth into something, not even Clay could get her to let go. Like Clay she had a modest upbringing, but unlike him she was still part of the Socialist caucus. Appointing her as whip was part of the compromise coalition to get the gavel. Clay the slightly left of center Democrat as speaker, Hayes a conservative southerner as majority leader, and Jen the Socialist as whip appeased all major factions inside the House Democratic caucus. All part of the give and take nature of politics.

“I’m nervous,” Jen said as she pulled into the long, dirt driveway leading up to a ranch-style home with a large yard. 

“Why? You’ve met him before, right?”

“Of course, but that was always as part of some delegation or as part of the leadership, never one on one with him like this. I’ve never had an actual conversation with him.”

“Bring up the Packers,” Clay said with a grin. “He likes the Packers.”

The home was five miles outside of Madison on Lake Mendota. They were subtle, but Clay saw the waiting Secret Service agent in the driveway. He gave them the go ahead once he checked to see that they were who they said they were, that they were expected and that they carried no weapons.

“He’s in the back with his grandkids,” said the agent. “You can get out and walk around, I'll park your car.”

The agent took over the rental car and drove it up the road while Clay and Jen rounded the corner of the modest home. Two young children flew by, laughing and giggling while they played. Another Secret Service agent stood by a tree and watched while Eric Fernandez, the thirty-sixth president of the United States, sat in a lounge chair overlooking the lake and smoking a cigar.

To Clay, Fernandez looked wholly unnatural in his lakeside clothing. He’d never seen the president in anything other than a conservative suit and tie and maybe a collared shirt with khakis. Now he wore a garish Hawaiian shirt with pineapples printed on it. He had on swim trunks and flip-flops with a large pair of aviator sunglasses on his face.

“Clay,” said Fernandez, rising to shake his hand. Ever the charmer, he kissed Jen’s hand and smiled at her. “Mrs. Armstrong.”

“Mr. President,” Clay said before Fernandez waved his cigar at him. 

“It’s Eric now. Cut the president crap out and I won’t call you Mr. Speaker and Madam Whip. Follow me, you two.”

Fernandez led them to the patio deck at the rear of the house beside the lake. A picnic table sat in the middle of the deck. On top sat a pitcher of tea and three glasses.

“I made sure they put sugar in it, Clay. I know how you southerners like your sweet tea.”

“When did you take up smoking, sir?” Jen asked as they sat down at the table.

“What did I say about the formalities,” he said with a scowl. “And I used to smoke like a chimney when I was younger. I easily smoked forty cigarettes a day; my fingers were stained yellow with nicotine. In ’61, I collapsed in my office at the Senate building and almost died from a massive heart attack. The doctors told me to stop smoking then and there and I quit cold turkey. For almost twenty years I didn’t touch a cigarette. I picked it back up after I left the White House, just a single cigar every few days. Mavis gets on to me for it, but I like smoking. I'm retired now, nothing to worry about staying alive for and, besides you gotta die of something, right?”

“I had a grandfather die of black lung,” Clay said quietly. “I can think of plenty of better ways to die than that.” 

Fernandez shrugged and puffed on his cigar. The three of them spent a half hour making small talk, they talked about their families and the two congress members gave Fernandez the latest Capitol Hill gossip that he was out of the loop on.

“They’re working on my library over at UW-Madison,” Fernandez said, flicking cigar ashes off the deck. “I lobbied with Governor Reese to have it in Green Bay, but they said it was too small. It should be completed sometime next summer.”

“You don’t sound excited,” said Jen.

“It’s because I don’t like it. It’s a creepy shrine to me; it makes me uncomfortable as hell to have people honoring me like I’m some dead Egyptian pharaoh.”

Fernandez took a long drag off his cigar and exhaled smoke, cutting his eyes at the two legislators as their conversation lapsed into silence.

“So when are you two going to stop beating around the bush and get to what you came here for.”

Clay and Jen exchanged looks before Clay leaned forward in his chair to meet the ex-president’s gaze.

“We know it’s early days, and there’s plenty of time between now and then, but we want you out on the stump in ’82, campaigning.”

Fernandez bit down on his cigar, showing his teeth to Clay and Jen while he spoke.

“Why the hell would I want to do that?”

“Because the socialist party is becoming irrelevant,” said Jen. “Norman’s moving the country away from all the hard work you did, Mr. President. We had something great and unique in this country and its going away. There are maybe less than one hundred congressmen who even partially align with the socialist party.”

“The vice president is a former socialist,” said Fernandez, before he pointed a finger at Clay. “And so are you.”

“Russell Reed’s a political animal,” said Clay. “He went with us when were on top, but now he’s nowhere to be found. He’d wear high heels and a dress if it got him elected.”

“Funny, but the man knows where the people are going,” said Fernandez. “Norman beat my own goddamn vice president in a landslide. They wanted a change.”

“He’s a war hero,” Jen argued. “He could have run Republican and still got the same outcome.”

”For God’s sake,” Fernandez said, flicking ashes. “The man isn’t that far from a socialist. He just nationalized New England Weapons and he’s advocating civil rights in the South, something I could never get passed through congress thanks to your mentor in the Senate, Clay.  He’s a democrat in name, but a socialist in spirit.”

“There’s also something beyond ’82,” Clay said quietly. “A strong showing by you on the stump could lead to something else.”

“A third term in ’84,” Jen said. “We’re a long way from ’84, but if Norman’s term doesn’t go well it could open the door to you.”

“You both need to clam down,” Fernandez said with a scowl. “You’re putting the cart way before the horse and asking me something I don’t want to do.”

“We just want you to think about it,” Clay said assuredly. “Norman got elected on his reputation from the war, but that won’t help if he has a weak record as president.”

“I’m thinking,” said Fernandez. “This sounds like 1912 all over again. A third party candidate splits the liberal and democratic vote and opens the door to the Republicans. I’d rather have Jaret Arnold in the White House than a Republican.”

“A weak sitting president could mean a Republican in the White House regardless, Mr. President,” said Jen. “Dixon is the likeliest candidate to come out for them. You’d cream him but he could give Norman a run for his money.”

Fernandez stared at his smoldering cigar while Clay and Jen waited for his response.  The former president stubbed the cigar out in the ashtray on the table before he stood up.

“I’ll think about it," he said gruffly before adding, "and that's all I'll be doing. Come on in, my wife made steaks for dinner.”

Clay couldn’t help but smile when, as they followed Fernandez though his house, he heard him instruct the secret service at his side to throw all the cigars in the house out.


[b]Vancouver [/b]


Inspector Mark Echols hobbled down the hallway as fast as his busted knee would let him move. He was on the fourth floor CTPF headquarters, struggling to keep up with his new partner. Special Agent Bryan Simpson, part of the Federal Crime Bureau’s special team sent to Vancouver, was working with Echols on the Brian Shea case. The two had managed a rough timeline of the dead sergeant’s whereabouts leading up to his murder.

“Come on, Echols,” Simpson chided. His ruddy face held a grin on it. “This scumbag isn’t going to catch himself.”

Back at Homicide, the big board was covered in evidence from the Shea case. What had started as just Brian Shea’s autopsy photo was now covered in paperwork, witness interviews, and Brian Shea’s Army service record.  Simpson and the feebs had muscle when it came to red tape. They were able to get the Army to unass its files on the murdered sergeant. Prior to his disappearance, the Shea was part of the 203rd Engineer Battalion working out of Fort Dixon. His company handled all explosive ordnance for the base. Following the EOD led them a path to potential criminal behavior. It wasn’t uncommon for people on the base to trade goods. And if someone like Shea could get his hands on explosives then it wouldn’t be too much a stretch to tie him to—

“Reg Boland,” said Echols.

The mugshot of the surly man with shaggy brown hair was tacked up in the middle of the board alongside his rap sheet.

“Former Major in the NWC armed forces turned weapons smuggler.”

“I’ve got the FCB’s quick response team downstairs,” said Simpson. “They’re suiting up and getting ready for the raid.”

“Good,” Echols said with a creeping smile. “Let’s nail this son of a bitch.”


[b]Burnaby
Cascadia Territory[/b]


Reg Boland shuffled his feet as he walked down the side street. While he walked calmly enough, he kept jerking his head around every so often to check to see if he was being followed. What he didn’t know was that he was in fact being followed at this very moment. He had five tails on him total, three front tails that rotated every mile and then two back tails that gave Boland a very long lease. One of the men watching from afar was Silas Crystal. He and Corporal Allen were the back team while Burress and Green were one front team. The two CIA men were the second front team, trailing in nondescript vans. They would follow before one of the CIA vans picked them up for a change of clothes and disguise before they were dropped back out to continue following the suspected arms dealer.

Six hours into their tail and Boland had taken them through Vancouver and out east where he met some shady people. The CIA intelligence was solid that Boland had to be the one supplying the Friends of Northwest Soverigenty with their weapons. Part of the annexation of the NWC was stricter gun control laws, at least until the territory could be brought into the fold as an official state. The type of firepower they were using had to come from someone like Boland.

[i]“Eddie to the Cruisers,”[/i] their CIA handler Smith said over the radio, the agent’s voice coming through on the earwig wedged in Silas’ right ear. [i]“We’re pulling the stakes on this one, Cruisers 1 and 2, move in and subdue the target.”[/i]

Silas ducked into an alley and pulled his radio from his jacket.

“Cruiser 1 to Eddie, what’s the problem?”

[i]“I got some intel just now. The Territorial Police are coming for the target. We can’t let them fall into his hands. Move in and snatch him.”[/i]

Silas cursed and rogered his order before taking off after Boland. The skittish man spooked when he saw Silas running towards him and took off.

“He’s going rabbit,” Silas said into his radio. “Move in now!”