He held the door open for the General. Eight of his bodyguards fell into lockstep, two in front, two behind, four flanking him.
They wore dark camo uniforms with chest rigs, tactical gear, and black helmets. Long guns slung over their chests on two-point slings, various knives affixed to their belts, and pistols in thigh, ankle, and waist holsters.
Baxter met them in the hallway, flushed and out of breath. He held up a lukewarm Coors Light. “I confiscated this from one of the soldiers—”
“Put it in the room. And bring your notebook. I want you to record this. It’s going to be…interesting.”
Baxter bobbed his head. “Sir.”
21
The General
Day One Hundred and Eight
Gibbs took the lead, followed by the General.
The door slammed behind them as Baxter scurried to catch up, clutching the brown leather notebook with archival-quality paper in his long slender fingers.
He’d chosen Baxter’s flowery but exacting script to dictate the events of America’s fall—and eventual revival.
Whether that was ten years from now, or fifty, or a hundred, it didn’t matter. The victors wrote history. The General intended to be one of them.
This book—this version of history—would become his legacy. He was certain of it.
The General followed Gibbs through the labyrinthine hotel. Pity the elevators didn’t work; they had to take the stairs.
The stairwell was pitch black. Gibbs flicked on a flashlight. By the time they reached the ground floor, the General was sucking air through his teeth.
They passed through several large convention halls. The carpet was a ghastly flowery print. Picture windows along one wall featured slivers of blue—Lake Michigan a vivid cobalt against the horizon of heavy gray clouds.
The professional kitchen was the size of a house. Dust filmed the once-gleaming stainless-steel counters, cabinets, and oversized appliances. Crates of MREs and other supplies were stacked near the service entrance.
Two guardsmen sat on metal folding chairs before an oversized steel door. A couple of lanterns set on a nearby counter provided light.
The guardsmen stood and saluted as he entered. They wore BDUs and nervous expressions.
“At ease,” the General said.
Gibbs inserted a key in the freezer’s lock, and the door swung open. Inside, the room was a twelve-by-sixteen-foot rectangle. Sleek metal floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls—emptied except for some cardboard boxes, twist ties, and shredded plastic bags.
Someone had emptied this place in a hurry.
The deserters slumped in folding chairs placed side by side. Handcuffs bound their hands behind them.
When the General entered, their heads jerked up, their blood-shot eyes widening in shame and terror.
They were young, in their mid-twenties. The first, a wiry guy with a blond mustache. The second one was a sandy-haired girl with acne dotting her chin. She looked like she still belonged in high school.
The stale air reeked of sour sweat and the stomach-churning stench of ammonia. The guy had urinated on himself.
His men settled into relaxed but watchful stances a few feet from the door. Behind them, the two soldiers who’d been guarding the freezer watched in apprehension.
That was fortunate. They could spread the message.
The General drew his pistol. In a loud, commanding voice, he repeated his spiel about the court martial, times of war, the necessity of difficult acts to preserve the nation, yada yada.
Beside him, Baxter recorded his every word.
He allowed himself to wax eloquent, knowing the two guardsmen were his primary audience, not these poor souls before him.
They begged, cried, and made pathetic excuses, but the General barely heard them.
He didn’t relish this. He knew nothing of them, and didn’t want to, either. Neither did he feel guilt over meting out their punishment. Without swift and severe retaliation, more soldiers would disappear.
As far as the General was concerned, the National Guard consisted of warm bodies with guns. Pawns to direct on the chessboard as needed.
He needed soldiers with their heads on straight. He was prepared to do whatever was necessary to keep them that way.
When it came to getting his hands dirty, he’d never shied from the task.
Some men had scruples. Others were squeamish. People believed they were ‘good,’ though most were anything but.
The General had no such qualms, a character trait which aided him both in warfare and politics. He’d never considered a lack of conscience a flaw. He didn’t consider it one now.
Without hesitating, the General raised his Sig Sauer M18, aimed, and fired twice in quick succession. The concussive bangs exploded in his eardrums.
From short range, the rounds struck their targets, drilling straight between the eyes. The deserters’ heads snapped back. Their bodies went limp.
The scratch of Baxter’s pen on paper filled the room. For a long moment, it was the only sound. His ears rang. He should have worn ear protection.
Calmly, he holstered his weapon. “Keep those cuffs. I’ve got a feeling we’ll need them again.”
“Yes, sir,” Gibbs said.
The General spun on his heels and pointed to the two guardsmen who gaped at him, their expressions stricken. “You two. Clean up this mess and dispose of the corpses. Report to Gibbs when you’re finished. Inform your fellow soldiers that the same fate awaits anyone who even considers desertion.”
They stared at him blankly.
He clapped his hands. “Now!”
They scurried off to find mops, buckets, and a tarp, eager to be out of his reach—and out of sight of their deceased comrades.
He inhaled the familiar scent of gunpowder and scanned the kitchen, the rumble of his empty stomach intensifying.
This place could cook a meal fit for a king a hundred times over. With just a little electricity. With on-demand deliveries from across the world—Malaysia, China, Mexico.
All gone now. What a waste.
“I’m starving,” he said. “What’s for lunch? If anyone says another MRE, you’re court-martialed.”