Axis of Evil

Chapter Forty: Twenty-Four Hours

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

24^th June 1941

Hanover stared at McLachlan. “What the hell is happening in America?” He demanded. “They’re doing what?”

“It’s a coup,” McLachlan said. “They’ve confined our staff to the embassy.”

Hanover gaped at him. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “It’s not in the American tradition to have coups! They’re not some banana republic, are they?” McLachlan shook his head. “What’s happening over there?”

“I’m not quite sure,” McLachlan admitted. “All I know is that something went badly wrong in Washington, then a group attacked the White House… and then silence. Ambassador Quinn is panicking.”

“And we never had a sniff of anything,” Hanover said thoughtfully. “Shit.”

“Sir, you know how badly America has been suffering since the Transition,” McLachlan said. “This could be an attempt to prevent progress.”

Hanover nodded. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “So, what’s happening?”

“I don’t know, no one’s confessed to anything,” McLachlan said. “Our agents in place are reporting major confusion, but the coup masters haven’t shown their hand. There’s been no attempt to broadcast to the nation, or anything like that.”

“General Cunningham reported that General Patton is going spare,” Hanover said. “He was demanding that we ask the Canadians to tell us what’s going on.”

“Something’s gone off the rails somewhere, that’s for sure,” McLachlan said. “And there’s the radioactive debris in New York. Where the hell did that come from?”

“Our attack,” Hanover snapped. “We told them how to do it, for fuck’s sake!” His voice darkened. “Those blasted backbenchers!”

McLachlan scowled. The backbenches had staged a revolt, demanding that the British tell the Germans how to clean up a nuclear site, which had been done. As soon as the debris in New York had been checked, it had been proven to have come from a standard detonation signature from a British weapon, and only one had been used since the Transition.

Hanover paced angrily. “How bad is it going to be in New York?”

“It’s still burning,” McLachlan said. “The blast looked like a nuclear blast on the satellites. It levelled nearly three kilometres around ground zero, so that’s immense damage done to Manhattan and Jersey City. The death toll is going to be huge.” He made a face. “And, of course, there is the radioactive damage. It’s nowhere near as high as the attacks in Paris, or an neutron bomb attack, but a lot of people are going to be suffering in the future.”

“And the Soviets were involved,” Hanover said. “Well, well.”

“Apparently so,” McLachlan said. They exchanged glances. “Prime Minister, this is a weapon of mass destruction used against a civilian target, in one of our ally’s cities. Are we not obliged to retaliate?”

“Yes, but against whom?” Hanover asked. “The Russians or the Germans? If so, where do we hit?”

“The Russians,” McLachlan said. “They’re certainly the most guilty ones. It was their ship, after all.” They exchanged a second glance. “As for the target… Basra or Baghdad are both occupied by Russian troops, and they’ve purged most of the civilians from the cities. Either one would…”

“Ruin our relations with the Arabs,” Hanover said. “Tactically, yes; strategically, no. We need somewhere useful for strategic purposes.” He scowled. “Their oil wells, or their factories, might make good targets.”

“True,” McLachlan agreed. “What about that major staging post in Chechnya?”

“Still, its not a priority at the moment,” Hanover said. “The main priority is mounting Redemption before the Germans take advantage of the chaos in America.” He frowned. “They weren’t keen on moving it forward more than a few days, but if we launch it on the 28^th we might get all of the deception plan in place first.”

Washington DC, USA

24^th June 1941

Despite the summer heat, the darkness felt cold to the citizens of Washington, many of whom stayed home and prayed. The radio broadcast endless pleas for calm, but was unable to explain what was happening, partly because of the lack of clear leadership from the White House. Everyone knew, even though it had never been reported, that the White House had been attacked, but by whom?

Another crackle of gunfire echoed outside the Future Embassy. Ambassador King shuddered; the rebels – as he was starting to think of them – had moved up and tried to take the Embassy, but the reinforced Marines had held them off. A determined attack might have succeeded – or artillery could have been brought up from the federal armoury – but the rebels seemed curiously languid. King had been expecting them to be broadcasting demands for submission over all of the airwaves, but instead…

Instead, very little seemed to be happening. His spies in the city had reported an ongoing arresting spree, mainly communists, leftists, black union leaders… but nothing else. The treacherous Speaker of the House of Representatives, William Brockman Bankhead, had arrived at the White House – but nothing had come out of the centre of government.

“Something must have gone off the rails somewhere,” he muttered. “Any change?”

Palter shook his head. “No change at all,” he said. “Just small attacks against us… and some people going into the White House.”

King nodded. The waiting was terrible. “And the Internet?”

“We’re putting our story out now,” Palter said. “It seems to have had some affect, a lot of would-be plotters got lynched. Some other people, mainly the Governors, are sitting on their butts, waiting – I suspect – for clear signs of success.”

He scowled. “For the moment, the bastards hold the centres of power, and they’re not doing anything with them. Why?”

“I don’t know,” King said. He looked up at Truman. The Vice-President looked pale and wan. “We have to move soon, Colonel; we’re not in a good position here.”

Truman looked up at him. “Yes, Ambassador,” he said. “God only knows what they’re doing to the President.”

“They should have made him put a message out,” Palter said. He’d been studying coup techniques on King’s instructions. “An… abdication, in effect. Instead… we have silence and all the time we need to launch a counter-attack. It’s… odd.”

“It’s bloody frustrating,” King snapped. “What about Robinson?”

“His people are in position,” Palter said. “He said he could move at first light.”

King scowled. It was dawn, way too early for any serious activity. “Tell him to wait until the sun has risen, unless the situation changes radically,” he said. “I wish we’d bugged the White House; we’d know what was happening then.”

William Brockman Bankhead, Speaker of the House of Representatives, stared in horror at the body of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the man who had presided over the American political scene for so long. Beside him, MacArthur stared at the body as well, laid out on his bed.

“Where the hell is Hoover?” Bankhead snapped finally. “What happened to the President?”

“A heart attack,” MacArthur said. “According to his doctor” – they’d found the future citizen hiding in his rooms in the White House – “the man had a dicky heart. He was under a lot of stress recently and…”

“And we will be blamed for his death,” Bankhead snapped. It had been the single issue they’d argued over since arriving, late last night. Even a few hours sleep hadn’t made it look any better. “Where the hell is Hoover?”

MacArthur, not a coward by any means, no matter what was muttered about him when no one thought he could hear, flinched back. “He’s back at FBI headquarters, organising the round-up of communist sympathisers,” he said. “We have to move fast”

“But what do we tell them?” Bankhead asked sharply. “Do we tell them that the President is dead? Where the hell is Truman?”

“I don’t know,” MacArthur snapped back. “The FBI team that was meant to protect him” – he coughed – “reported that he escaped!”

“And those blasted Governors, even my Governor, are sitting on their hands,” Bankhead said. “What do we tell them?”

MacArthur sighed; Bankhead glared at him. He’d agreed to the plot because of the riots spreading through his native Alabama, but now they’d come so far… he’d almost lost his nerve. Nothing was going the way they’d planned it… and there was no sign of Truman.

A cough from the bespectacled FBI agent drew his attention. Agent Eastwood had been trained on the new-fangled computers in London; he was the closest thing the FBI had to an expert. Short and fat, he hung on in the FBI by the skin of his teeth – Hoover had come close to firing him more than once.

“Sirs, there is bad news,” he said. Both men glared at him. “Sirs, someone is putting out a pretty accurate version of what’s happened on the web.”

“Shit,” Bankhead swore. “What are they telling them?”

“That the New Deal’s enemies have taken the White House and intend to crush all the labour gains,” Eastwood said grimly. “Sir, there are riots going on in the South, and some very nasty incidents in…”

“Hellfire,” Bankhead swore, seeing his entire country starting to collapse around him. His dreams shattered. “What the hell do we do now?”

MacArthur glared at him. “We continue, of course,” he snapped. “It’s time we made a statement to the public. We can explain that Roosevelt and Truman were assassinated by communists, the same ones who blew hell out of New York, ok?”

Bankwood nodded grimly. MacArthur’s eyes were starting to flicker dangerously. “Of course,” he said. “Let’s do it now.”

Marine Lieutenant Jones Robinson knew just how dangerous the next step would be, and not just because of MacArthur’s troops, most of whom were white trash from the south. He wasn’t scared of them. The real danger, however, came from the citizens of Washington, who would see a black army attacking the White House. If they reached for their weapons, there would be a bloodbath. The best and brightest of Black Power, three hundred men armed with AK-47s and equipped with some other weapons from Jim Oliver’s warehouses, pitted against an army of unknown strength and power.

“Mount up,” he snapped, as the doors opened. Jim Oliver had provided them with enough trucks to move the army, but he knew that they would have to dismount near the White House; Lieutenant Bosco had provided them with images of the site. The bastards had dug into the grounds; it looked as if they were prepared to stand off tanks.

“A shame Oliver couldn’t provide us with any of those,” he muttered. He’d had some jeeps rigged up, as the Marines had done in Iraq, with armour, but if they had the new anti-tank rockets the jeeps would be lost quickly. “Let’s go,” he shouted. “Move out!”

The men responded quickly and well; he was pleased with them, particularly his grandfather. They boarded the trucks and moved out, the jeeps in the lead, heading down towards the White House. There was no traffic on the streets; the only bit of advice from the radios had been to ask people to stay off the roads. The handful of police on the streets gaped at them, saw their weapons, and decided that discretion was the better part of valour.

“They’ll have let the bastards know we’re coming,” Jackie said. Robinson shrugged. It had never been part of his plan to have surprise; he’d assumed that the coup plotters would have taken care to watch all the roads leading into Washington central. The first sign they saw of enemy opposition was the barricade across the road near the George Washington University.

“Fire,” Robinson snapped, as the jeeps lurched towards the barricade. Machine guns, welded onto the jeeps, poured fire into the barricade, shredding it with ease. “Everyone dismount, move out!”

His radio buzzed. “They’re moving up a column of troops from the White House,” Bosco said. “Permission to start sniping?”

“Granted,” Robinson said, as the firing began again. He smiled; the so-called troops would be picked off one by one by an invisible enemy, lacking computers that could track the bullets back to the sniper. “Forward!”

“Don’t you ever say anything else,” Jackie asked, tossing a grenade at the advancing troops, who seemed shocked to see armed black men coming their way. The explosion blasted the troops to the ground, blowing them apart. The force advanced, passing through the barricade, heading onwards to the White House.

“No, my drill sergeant was very hot on that,” Robinson snapped. “Bosco; what’s coming now?”

“I can’t see anything from the White house,” Bosco reported. “I’ve been picking off a number of officers, but I can’t see anyone important.”

“Hope someone is watching the FBI building,” Robinson muttered, as they passed where the World Bank would have been, in a different future. The White House had never been attacked in their timeline, not even by the terrorists. It stood ahead, gleaming with promise, even as the men lying in the bushes poured fire at them.

“Bosco, see how many of them you can pick off,” Robinson ordered. “Colonel, we need more snipers!”

“We’re working on it,” Palter said, through the radio. “They just got frisky outside here, Jones.”

Robinson hesitated. “Should we head to help you?”

“Fuck no,” Palter snapped. “You have to retake the White House.”

“Yes, sir,” Robinson said. An explosion billowed up from the White House gardens. “Bosco, was that you?”

“RPG shell,” Bosco said. “My only one.”

“We won’t waste it,” Robinson promised. “Forward!”

The assault team surged out of the street and into the gardens, forcing their way through opposition. “Surrender,” Robinson bellowed. “Surrender and we’ll let you live!”

There was no reply, just an increasing hail of fire from the windows. The snipers duelled it out, uncaring of the conflict below them, trading single shots for single shots. Robinson wasn’t worried; Bosco should have been well out of their range. More alarming were the shots that were hacking away at his men.

“In there,” he snapped, as one of his men brought up the bazooka. He targeted it on the rear and fired, blowing a hole in the side of the building. Robinson leapt forward, firing as he moved, forcing an entry into the house itself.

“We surrender,” a man shouted. Robinson glared at a middle-aged white man and his team, who were throwing down their weapons. “Don’t kill us, please…”

“Get down on the ground and stay down,” Robinson snapped. “If there is any resistance, we will kill you on the spot.”

He waited long enough for several of his men to take the prisoners into custody, and then pushed forward again. Resistance seemed to have been broken; more and more men surrendered as they realised they weren’t being shot on the spot. It was just like Iran had been; the first few to surrender had been testing the waters. A single shot rang out from upstairs, causing everyone to jump.

“Sir, that’s the Oval Office,” Jackie said. Robinson nodded; the door seemed to have been broken. He activated his helmet; two heat sources and one rapidly cooling one lay inside, well away from the door.

“Surrender or die,” Robinson bellowed. “Choose now!”

“We surrender,” a weak tired voice muttered. Robinson moved inside quickly; the treacherous Speaker and a young man, whose very air said computer nerd, lifted their hands as he pointed his gun at him. A body lay over the President’s desk; a single check revealed it to be General MacArthur.

“He took his own life,” the computer nerd said.

“Shut up,” Robinson snapped, as one of his men cried out. “What is it?”

“Sir, you have to see this,” Hobson said. Robinson moved into the next room and cursed; the body of President Roosevelt lay on the bed. For a long chilling moment, he thought that the President was asleep, and then he realised that there was no breathing. The President was dead.

“Round up everyone,” he ordered harshly. “I want this building secured before the new president arrives, now!”

Colonel Palter led the raid on FBI headquarters himself, once the people trying to attack the Future Embassy scattered. Resistance was almost non-existent; many of the FBI agents seemed to have disappeared. A quick and brutal search of the building revealed no sign of Hoover, or of his long-time ‘companion.’

Palter scowled as the first fire erupted in the records room. Thousands of FBI files were being burnt; he could only curse as FBI agents, under the guns of his men, fought to save what they could. The technology used to create the fires was modern, the question of where Hoover had gotten it a problem for another time. They burnt rapidly, despite all desperate men at gunpoint could do, and vanished into ashes.

He lifted his radio. “Ambassador, the bird has flown,” he said. “Sir, he’s destroyed his files.”

“The bastard must have realised that they were doomed,” King said. “What about the people Hoover rounded up?”

Palter put the question to one of the captives and recoiled at the answer. “The communists were shot,” he reported grimly. “Most of the black unionists were jailed, apparently for show trials later.”

“Understood,” King said. “Let them out, then secure FBI headquarters and take all of his remaining personnel into custody. We’ll sort them all out later.”

Harry Truman stood in the centre of the Oval Office, wondering what had gone so badly wrong with the plan. He hadn’t expected to have been selected as Vice-President, and now he was the President. He shook his head sadly; no matter what everyone said, he would have been happier with Roosevelt still alive.

The buck stops here, he thought, and felt cold terror spreading through his veins. Hoover – the twisted little fairy – had escaped; MacArthur had taken his own life. There had been thousands of things to deal with, before the entire country collapsed. For one thing, Congress – the members who had escaped Hoover’s premature purge – had been debating a declaration of war on Soviet Russia, and he was expected to support it.

He sat down in the old seat. Roosevelt had had little sympathy for him and had tried to keep him out of the limelight; it had been part of the old bastard’s style. Was anyone truly capable of handing the Presidency under such circumstances? Could the country be held together?

“Mr President, we’re ready for your broadcast now,” Lieutenant Bosco reported. Truman nodded; Bosco was in line for the highest award he could bestow, along with Robinson and his men, who would represent another problem for him. They would want full civil rights – and the need to fight the Axis made giving them those rights urgent – but some elements of Congress would fight against them, tooth and nail.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said. The White House no longer felt the same; it would need a full refit and some better defences. He smiled; perhaps Robinson would consider becoming the near head of his close-protection detail. Mentally composing his speech, he followed the Marine to the radio room, linked to the big transmitters near Washington.

“Speak when the red light goes on,” the technician said. Truman nodded and waited for the light, preparing to speak.

“My fellow Americans,” he said, as the light came on. “Rumours of my death have proven grossly exaggerated. It is with heavy heart, however, that I must confirm to you the death of President Roosevelt, killed by the coup plotters who wanted to shatter our country and take us back to the dark years before the civil war. Those men, allies of the Germans and the Russians in spirit, would have sparked off a civil war for their own selfish benefit.”

He spoke on, growing in confidence. He warned the implicated governors of the people in their states who would rise up against them. He promised a conditional amnesty for those who might have taken part, as long as they confessed and resigned from public life, and branded Hoover as a fugitive and a wanted traitor.

“We have suffered badly in the last year,” he said finally. “Together, however, as one united country, we will fight the war against the evil of Germany and Russia, who attacked us so treacherously only two days ago. Goodnight… and God bless America.”