Battlefield Pacific

The Resistance

“Slowly let your breath out and then hold it. Then gently squeeze the trigger,” the shooting instructor said calmly as George Philips applied pressure to the trigger.

Bang!

The round hit center mass. “Excellent shot, George!” his instructor said.

Smiling, George felt good about the hit. “Finally,” said George with a sigh of relief. “Now I just need to consistently hit the target like that.”

The instructor laughed at the comment. “You know, George, when you came here several months ago, you couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. Now you’re hitting targets 600 yards away. I think you’re more than ready for that corporate hunting trip this fall. No one is going to laugh at you because you can’t shoot,” he replied.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” George said as he ejected the spent casing out of the chamber and left the bolt open to show that the rifle was unloaded. Then he placed the Winchester Model 70 rifle on the ground and proceeded to get up.

“It helps that you have an excellent optical sight on that rifle,” George’s instructor commented. “That Trijicon Accupoint makes all the difference when shooting a target at the distances you guys will be shooting at. I personally love hunting elk out in South Dakota, but man, are they long shots.”

“This is going to be my first hunt,” George admitted. “Who knows if I’ll even see an elk? But at least if I do, I know I’ll be able to hit it. Thanks again for all your help; I’ll let you know how things go when I get back.” George extended his hand and shook his instructor’s hand before he finished packing his rifle and other belongings and headed to his car.

Secretly, George hated guns. Like many of his fellow Antifa activists, he was all for taking away people’s right to “bear arms.” However, he didn’t see any other course to stopping this fascist regime from waging their global war than to try and cut the head of the snake off. When George’s younger brother shipped off to the Pacific with the Marines, he suddenly felt a sense of urgency to do something.

Once George had decided on his course of action, he researched hunting and the types of rifles used by hunters when they were going to shoot something beyond 400 yards. His investigation led him to elk hunting. Then he looked into the types of rifles and optics used by those types of hunters. Next, George created a cover story for why he had developed a sudden interest in hunting. When he bought his rifle, he found a range that offered training on how to shoot a rifle and used this tall tale about a corporate hunting trip to make it all seem normal.

Every Saturday for the past three months, George had spent between two and four hours at the rifle range with his instructor. With each outing, George became better and more comfortable with the rifle. He even had to admit to himself that he was actually starting to understand why people enjoyed sport shooting. It was fun to hold an object that could reach out and kill something from so far away.

After placing his rifle back into its case, George closed the trunk, got into his vehicle and headed back to his apartment in Providence. Once home, he looked over the map of where the GOP rally was going to be held and felt confident that the Airbnb room he had rented would give him the best vantage point for what he was going to do. Now it was a matter of waiting until the appointed time.

“Hang in there, little brother,” he thought as he looked at a picture of his kid brother. “This war will end soon enough.”

“Someone, please tell me what the heck is going on in Great Britain?” demanded the President.

Secretary of State Travis Johnson looked exhausted and haggard as he stared back at the President. He shook his head before responding, “I honestly don’t know, Sir. I think something is seriously wrong inside Prime Minister Chattem’s office. It was one thing for them to withdraw from the war and sue for a separate peace, but to try and intern our forces operating on the bases we’re leasing from them is going too far,” he replied.

Jim Castle, who was speaking to them through a secure video conference from the Pentagon, broke in to add, “This is ludicrous, Mr. President, and illegal. We have base rights to use those bases as we see fit. Furthermore, the United Kingdom had agreed to allow us to use those bases in defense of Europe. They cannot simply renege on the agreements!” he added angrily.

“They’ve already reneged on their treaty obligations with the Global Defense Force. Why should we expect them to honor our basing rights?” said the National Security Advisor in a snarky voice.

“I’m with Secretary Johnson on this one,” said Jedediah Perth, the Director of the CIA. He was also joining via teleconference. “I think there is more going on behind the scenes in 10 Downing Street than we are aware of. I have no proof, but a friend of mine who works for MI5 believes something is amiss with the PM. They’re currently looking into the situation, but right now, they say it’s completely out of character that he would be issuing this threat.”

Gates nodded. “JP, continue to look into this further,” he ordered. “Find out what’s going on. Maybe the Russians somehow got to Chattem and have him over a barrel. Something just isn’t right with what’s going on over there.”

“I’ve had more than a few generals reach out to me, Mr. President, saying the mood within the Ministry of Defense is rather foul,” Castle added. “While they wouldn’t openly talk about removing Chattem from power, there’s a lot of grumbles about what he’s doing. One of the generals — I won’t say his name — did say that if the PM was to order the MOD to intern our forces, they would not obey that order. He said they may have to cease fighting the Russians, but they won’t lift a finger to help the Russians defeat us or Europe.”

Leaning forward, the President put his head in his hands for a moment. “Gentlemen, we will have to come back to this… what is the status of our operations in Europe?”

Clearing his throat before beginning, Secretary Castle answered, “We’ve launched Operation Nordic Thunder. General Cotton’s forces are now pushing the Russians out of the Nordic countries. They’ve encountered resistance, but by and large, the Russians are giving ground without much of a fight. We anticipate that changing as we get closer to the actual Russian border.”

The President nodded.

Castle continued. “As to the Continent — the French, German and Polish armies are set to launch Operation Eisenadler, which means Iron Eagle. The name was agreed upon by the three countries, so we’re letting them run with it. While General Cotton is overseeing the operation, it’s largely being led by the Bundeswehr. The offensive will start in a week and will begin the liberation of Ukraine. We’re still hoping that Operation Strawman will ultimately succeed, and we won’t need to invade Russia directly.”

Sensing that he should provide some sort of update on the covert action to remove Petrov, JP jumped into the conversation. “We’re still moving forward in that direction. As you know, we’ve encountered a couple of recent problems, mainly with the withdrawal of the British from the war. Part of the operation was being run by MI6, who have been ordered home. The direct handling of Strawman is still being carried out by the Germans, while the digital arm and funding are being carried out by us. It’s hard to gain outside coverage of what’s going on inside Russia, but what’s managed to leak or get out has shown a lot of civil unrest among the population.”

“Do tell,” said the President.

“The majority of the civilians are still in support of the war, but they’re mad at how long it’s dragged out and how it’s negatively affecting their daily lives,” JP answered. “The shortages in fuel and food are having the desired effect, so we should keep that pressure on. What has caused a mixed reaction in the country right now is the arrival of the Indian troops. While India and Russia have always had a good working relationship politically and economically, this is the first time the average Russian has seen large numbers of Indian people inside Russia.”

JP took a swig of coffee before he continued. “Right now, the Indian Army is largely being deployed along the actual Russian border, as opposed to inside Ukraine or the Nordic States. They appear to be fortifying the border and building a series of defense-in-depth positions to force our troops to have to travel down specific routes they want us to. Secretary Castle can probably talk more about this angle than I can.”

Castle nodded. “If we can, Mr. President, I’d like to go over this with you during our next war update. My people are still putting together a detailed assessment of what they’re doing, and I think it would be prudent if I had that information present when I talk about it.”

The President grunted. “OK, then let’s talk about Asia. Bring me up to speed on what’s happening there,” he said.

Castle nodded. “General Cutter has officially secured the Island of Luzon from the Chinese Army. His forces and the Navy are largely going to bypass the remaining PLA soldiers on the other Philippine Islands and either force them to surrender or starve them out. Now his Marines are staging and preparing to invade Taiwan. General Cutter says he’ll need at least 45 days to get his forces ready to retake Taiwan. The Navy also needs some time to rearm with missiles before they move closer to the Chinese mainland, and Admiral Richards wants to get a few of his ships repaired so they can be available for the invasion.”

Castle paused for a second, then resumed. “Invading Taiwan is going to be like Iwo Jima or Okinawa was during World War II. The PLA is going to throw everything they have at us, and it’s going to get real dicey. I’d expect a lot of casualties when this operation kicks off, so we need to be prepared for that when the time comes.”

He turned a couple of papers over. “Now on to the good news. The ANZAC force that landed on the Indonesian Island of Java caught the enemy with their pants down. They were able to capture the Indonesian capital of Jakarta and many of the military and political leaders. While the president of Indonesia did manage to escape, the rest of his government did not, and they opted to surrender rather than fight it out in the capital. We’re in negotiations with them now to get them to drop out of the Eastern Alliance and surrender the rest of their military forces on the Philippine Islands.”

The President smiled. He needed some good news.

Castle continued. “This was, by all accounts, a resounding victory in the Pacific, Mr. President, and will greatly reduce the threat to Australia. We can now look to liberate Malaysia and the rest of Southeast Asia with the Australians in the lead.” Castle spoke with genuine satisfaction written across his face. It had been a huge gamble to have the ANZACs and a single American brigade combat team conduct a surprise landing on Java and then race to the capital, but it had succeeded beyond their wildest dreams.

“Jim, that is good news indeed,” said the President. “Send my congratulations to the commanders and the soldiers involved. They’ve moved us one step closer to victory.”

An aide walked in and handed a note to the Commander-in-Chief.

“All right, gentlemen,” Gates announced, “I’m being given the signal that we’re less than twenty minutes away from landing. I need to let you all go, but we’ll continue our discussion tomorrow when I’m back in Washington. Apparently, elections still have to happen during a world war, and I’m still required to do some campaigning.”

When the President’s plane landed at the military base, the Secret Service was ready with their convoy of vehicles to escort him to his speaking engagement. Due to the heightened risk of Russian and Chinese saboteurs, the Secretary of Defense had insisted that the military also have a Special Forces team involved in the security.

Gates descended the stairs and was greeted by a member of his campaign staff, and businessman Andrew Turner, the man he’d be stumping for in a few hours. Extending his hand, the President shook Turner’s. “It’s good to see you again, Andrew. I’m glad we were able to work this out.”

Andrew Turner smiled. “Likewise. I’m glad you were able to fit this into your schedule. It’s a tight race here, and we could really use your help.”

Turner was an Iraq War veteran and local businessman and was running against the Democrat Senate incumbent. It was a close election according to the polls, although by all accounts, it should have been a slam dunk for the incumbent. The sitting senator had recently made a few gaffes that had been caught by the media when he’d made comments about how the new British Prime Minister had found a way to deal with the Russian President Petrov, leading Britain to secure a separate peace with the Eastern Alliance. This had created a bit of a media firestorm as conservative radio pundits reminded the public that it was the Eastern Alliance that was responsible the nuclear destruction of Northern California.

Since then, the race that had been written off by the GOP was suddenly within reach. Despite Gates’ unpopularity and combative relationship with the media and the polls prior to the war, the nation had largely rallied behind him during the country’s struggle, just as America had done for previous wartime presidents. So now the GOP was eager to use his new popularity to potentially influence this election.

“Before we head into town, let’s sit down in the conference room in the hangar here and talk,” said Gates. “I want to know from you, Andrew, what are the meat-and-potato issues for your constituents? What are they concerned with? What are they optimistic about, and what can I specifically do to help Michigan, etc.”

This was something the President did whenever he spoke somewhere. He preferred to find out from local leaders, not pollsters, what the situation on the ground was like. In his experience, the people who lived in a district were by far the ones who knew the issues the best.

The two of them talked for roughly twenty minutes before settling on a couple of main talking points Gates would focus on and projects that could really use government assistance. Following the discussion, the President signaled it was time to bring in the security folks and discuss the potential threats and what they would do should a threat materialize.

Taking the lead in this discussion, the FBI agent in charge for Detroit explained, “We do not have any credible threats from any foreign actors. There is no chatter on any of the cyber rooms we monitor and nothing from our sources on the ground. That isn’t to say the Russians or Chinese may not try something, which is why we have Major Natal and his team with us on loan from Joint Special Operations Command or JSOC.”

The military man, wearing 511 clothes and decked out in full combat gear, just nodded.

“We do anticipate a large number of protesters in the area — mostly Antifa and antiwar protesters and student groups,” the FBI agent continued. “We have a number of agents wearing civilian clothes intermixed with them to help keep an eye on the protests and make sure they don’t turn violent. We’ve also limited where they can protest, so they shouldn’t clash with any of your supporters or those just coming to hear you speak. We’re trying as best we can to minimize our security presence per your request, but please keep in mind, it’s incredibly difficult for us to secure an outdoor venue for you during a war.”

The head of the President’s Secret Service detail nodded in agreement. “I still wish you’d hold this event indoors, Mr. President. We have an alternate site secured and set up. It wouldn’t be difficult for us to shift the event to that location,” he offered, once more hoping the President might agree to a more protected venue.

Looking at Andrew, Gates saw in the man’s eyes that he was really looking forward to this outdoor event. The park could hold a few thousand people or more, and word had it the park was already solidly packed. If they changed venues now, it would be to a much smaller indoor location that could probably only accommodate maybe three or four thousand people at best.

Gates shook his head. “No, we’ll keep the outdoor venue. I don’t want to have to exclude people when we don’t even have any credible threats. People need to see that their political leaders aren’t afraid to see them, and we need to project confidence in our law enforcement and military to protect us,” the President said, ending the debate.

A half hour later, the presidential motorcade left the Air Force base for the first of many 2018 campaign stops.

As he waded through the throngs of people who were coming to hear the President speak, George thought to himself how much he loved Michigan, and how he would really be enjoying this trip if he weren’t so wrapped up in his purpose for being there. “What’s not to love?” he thought. “Beautiful parks, the Upper Peninsula, and of course, Canada right across the border.”

Walking up to the Jeffersonian, George entered the electronic code his Airbnb host had given him, unlocking the outer door to the lobby. He smiled warmly at the young woman manning the reception desk as he made his way to the elevator bank. A bell dinged as he approached the elevator. A second later, a young couple wearing obnoxiously gaudy Gates T-shirts emerged, laughing at something as they walked past him and headed out the door to join the mass of humanity that was gathering in the park to hear President Gates speak.

George pressed the button for the eighteenth floor and waited for the doors to close. Once he got off, he headed toward apartment 1818 and entered the second electronic code that unlocked the door. Walking in, George immediately headed over to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water. He opened it and took a long drink, rehydrating himself.

Next, he walked over to the family room and plopped himself down on the La-Z-Boy recliner and grabbed the remote control for the 65-inch flat-screen TV. He turned it on and clicked through the channels until he found MSNBC, his favorite channel, and listened in on the coverage of the President’s motorcade as it continued to make its journey from the Air National Guard base in Townships to Detroit, where it would eventually stop in Erma Henderson Park. The talking heads on MSNBC were in a bewildered state as they discussed a new Gallup poll that showed the race in Michigan to be toss-up at this point. George shuddered. The President was doing his best to help elect more of his own party to the Senate, and George and many of his fellow Antifa activists feared this would only enable the fascist Gates to pursue more of his radical agenda.

George watched intently as the local news helicopter showed an aerial picture of the President’s motorcade driving down I-94 before it would turn south to head toward the park where that night’s speaking event would occur. Twenty minutes went by with various pundits talking about what the President might say, or what they believed he should say. Slowly, the motorcade eventually made its way to the park. As it entered the perimeter, George could hear the roar of the crowd.

Getting up from the chair, he walked over to the sliding glass doors and looked through them out at Erma Henderson Park next door. He found himself amazed that so many thousands of people had gathered to hear one man speak. “How can so many people be deceived by this fascist?” he thought. It blew his mind to think that all of those masses before him were blind to how the dictator Gates was destroying the country. “How many people have to die in this fascist war?”

He was still struggling with what he was about to do — it went against everything he had ever been taught, but deep down, he knew he couldn’t sit by and let his little brother die in a senseless war, not if he could do something to stop it.

Turning away from the sliding glass doors, George examined his setup one last time. He had moved the kitchen table further back into the kitchen, placing additional distance between it and the sliding glass doors. Then he’d placed a few pillows on the table and propped up his Winchester Model 70. He had a pillow plush against the tripod to help provide more stability for him. When George had arrived at the Airbnb condo three days ago, he’d checked the park out and calculated where the President was likely to speak from to make sure he had placed the table and the rifle in a position that would allow him to shift his aim as needed. He knew he was likely only going to get one solid shot off, or else another sniper would probably find him and shoot him.

Being a novice shooter and having never shot anything living before, he was nervous he might miss, or that his hands might be shaky. He looked down at his fingers. They were still, but definitely sweaty.

The crowd outside broke his circling thoughts as they roared and then chanted, “USA, USA, USA!”

George couldn’t really hear exactly what the President was saying over all the noise. Then again, he really wasn’t focused on the speech, despite the audio of the President’s speech being relayed over MSNBC. Placing his head against the stock of the rifle, he leaned his right eye into the scope. He closed his left eye as he tried to zero in on Gates.

George shifted the rifle a couple of times before finding a comfortable position that still allowed him to place the red dot on the man's chest.

“Aim small… miss small,” he said quietly as he recited the phrase his shooting instructor had taught him. That retired Marine sniper had spent every Saturday at the range with him for nearly three months, teaching him everything he knew about marksmanship.

As the President raised his right hand with the Senate candidate’s hand up in the air, that was the moment when George decided to make history. “This is for you, little brother,” he thought, hopeful that his actions would speed the war’s end and bring his brother home.

He took a deep breath, then applied pressure on the trigger, just like he had been taught, until he heard the rifle bark, recoiling hard into his shoulder. The glass sliding door in front of him shattered instantly as the .300 magnum round flew out the barrel at 3,000 feet per second, crossing the 500 meters between George and the President in less than a second.

Through the scope, he saw the round hit the President. Before he could comprehend what he had just done, he immediately pulled the bolt back, ejecting the spent casing and loading another round into the chamber. George took aim at the stage, which was suddenly being swarmed by Secret Service agents who were attempting to cover the President. The businessman who had just been holding the President's hand ducked for cover, just as George squeezed the trigger again, sending a second round at the stage. His next round slammed center mass into the upper body of the Secretary of State, who was being led off the stage by the Secret Service.

Once his second shot was fired, George immediately worked the bolt, loading the third round into the chamber, and scanned the stage. A cluster of Secret Service agents was carrying the President off the stage, and now the Secretary of State. George was scanning quickly for another high-value fascist to take out as precious seconds were ticking by.

“There you are,” he said aloud, speaking to no one in particular. The President’s vehicle, “The Beast,” pulled up and an agent was yanking the door open as several agents tried to throw the President inside. George fired his third round, hitting one of the agents as he attempted to move the President into the vehicle. The agent fell, and it looked like the President fell with him. Then the two of them were shoved into the vehicle together, and it sped away faster than a vehicle that size and weight should be able to move.

Just as George scooted off the table away from his rifle, the optical sight on his Winchester exploded, scaring him half to death. George fell to the floor and began to backpedal toward the wall when a second round flew into the room and hit the floor where his foot had just been. George quickly jumped to his feet, grabbing his backpack, and was out the door of the apartment seconds later. He quickly made his way down the emergency exit stairs, practically leaping from one landing to the next as he desperately tried to get out of the building.

When he entered the lobby, he immediately made a beeline for the front door. Outside the apartment complex, hundreds if not thousands of people were running down the street, screaming and yelling, trying desperately to get away from the danger. No one knew if another attack was going to happen or not. Then they heard a loud Boom!

About a block away, a small charge in a dumpster blew up right on time.

“`Bout time my Antifa brothers did their part,” George thought as he joined the throng of people trying to run away.

There was chaos all around him. George could hear helicopters flying overhead and police sirens traveling in multiple directions. Several clusters of police were trying to stop the mass of humanity from running past them as they attempted to set up a perimeter.

“Crap!” thought George. “I need to make it past that perimeter before they get it set or I’m screwed.”

Several dozen police cars suddenly descended on the crowd maybe a block ahead of him. Looking up in the sky, he saw a police helicopter and several of those new tiltrotor helicopters he had seen on the news circling above them. George darted to the left down a side alley when he spotted several teenagers veer off that direction. He sprinted with all his might, trying to keep up with them as they did their best to find another way past the police. Huffing and puffing to keep up with them, he called, “Wait up, guys! I’ll pay you each a hundred dollars if you can help me get past the police.”

As they stopped to catch their own breath, the teenagers looked at him suspiciously as he pulled out five one-hundred-dollar bills. “Look, I’m on probation,” he said, “and the last thing I need is to get stopped by the police. My probation officer will have my ass. Can you guys help me?” he asked, hoping his cover story might be enough.

The kid with red hair just nodded as he reached over and took the money from George’s hand. “My brother has a PO who’s a real piece of work. I understand. Follow us this way. Bill here works for a pizza joint, and we can walk through it to get to the other side of the police roadblock, but only if we hurry.” They took off down the side street toward the road the police were cordoning off.

A half hour later, George had made it past the police roadblock and was waiting at the bus stop for the next available bus. When it arrived, he paid cash for three stops and then got off. Activating the new smartphone he’d purchased the day before, he opened up the Lyft app and called for a ride. When the driver showed up, he ducked inside and was on his way out of the city to a friend’s house, where he’d be able to hide and lie low for a while until he figured out what to do next.

“Shots fired!” shouted Major Natal. He immediately lifted his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the building just beyond the park. His eyes quickly settled on the most likely position of an enemy shooter, a thirty-story building nearly opposite of the stage where the President had been speaking. While Secret Service agents were swarming the stage, Major Natal scanned the building, making his way up each floor. Then a second shot rang out, followed by more screams.

Someone yelled, “Secretary Johnson has just been hit!”

A new sense of urgency took over as Natal desperately looked for the sniper. “There you are, you old goat!” he thought.

Natal clicked the talk button on his mic. “White apartment complex directly across from the stage, eighteenth floor. Enemy sniper. Take him out!” he shouted to his own sniper. The FBI and Secret Service snipers would surely also shift to get a shot on the shooter.

Bam! A third shot rang out.

Boom! The report on the Barrett M82 .50 sniper rifle barked as a JSOC sniper fired into the enemy sniper nest. Seconds later, another sniper fired, and then he heard his JSOC team yell out, “We’re moving to the location of the shooter. Requesting primacy!”

Then the combat-equipped men took off at a full sprint toward the apartment complex.

Special Agent Terry Lightman could barely breathe as he coughed up more blood. “Hang in there, Mr. President,” he said. He climbed off the President and tried to help turn him over, so he could inspect the President’s wound. He needed to relay as much information as possible to the hospital, which would be standing by to receive the President. When Lightman turned the president over, all he saw was blood, but he wasn’t sure if it was the President's or his own. Looking down, Terry saw he had been shot clean through his back, and the bullet had exited his chest.

“Dear God — did the bullet go through me and hit the President?” he thought in horror.

“How’s he doing?” shouted the driver. The Beast took a hard turn and then accelerated again.

“I don’t know. He’s covered in blood, but I’m hit as well. I can’t tell if he’s covered in my blood or if the bullet went through me and hit him,” he yelled back. Then he started coughing. His coughing increased in intensity until he felt lightheaded and suddenly passed out on top of the President.

“Terry, stay with me!” yelled the driver. Hearing no reply, the driver just pressed his foot harder on the gas pedal, racing down the street, his speedometer blowing past 100mph as the engine just roared and other vehicles did their best to keep up with him.

A couple of cars were on the same road as the hospital, most of them steered themselves off to the shoulder out of the way of the armored limousine that was racing down the road. One unlucky driver thought they could dart across the road, but completely underestimated the speed at which the Beast was traveling. The tail end of the car was hit and sent into a hard tailspin as they barreled on through toward the hospital.

Approaching the emergency entrance to the hospital, the driver of the Beast saw the police had already cleared away any traffic that had previously been there. A small cluster of doctors, nurses and Secret Service agents were also standing under the overhang waiting for him to arrive. Nearby were close to two dozen military soldiers in full combat gear. As they pulled up, two more military helicopters landed, unloading more soldiers.

Racing up the road leading to the emergency room, the agent hit the brakes, causing the wheels to squeal as the Beast lurched forward from the sudden change in velocity. As soon as the vehicle came to a halt, the rear passenger door with the presidential seal was opened, and a pair of hands reached in and grabbed the now-unconscious agent lying on top of the President. They placed him on a gurney and got him out of the way, so they could get to Gates.

Seconds later, they had pulled the President from the back of the Beast and placed his body on the gurney. The cluster of nurses and doctors rushed the leader of the free world into the ER and headed straight to an operating room.

“He’s covered in blood!” yelled one of the doctors. “Somebody, get me a set of vitals!”

Nurses and paramedics had already cut the President’s shirt open. Once person was wiping up blood as they looked for the source of the bleeding. Another was starting an IV line, a third was attaching a BP cuff. It was like a beehive, chaotic but very well-orchestrated.

“His BP is low, 82/50,” said one of the nurses.

“His pulse is weak and thready,” said another. After a slight pause, she announced, “I just lost his pulse!”

Then they entered the elevator that would take them to the operating floor.

As soon as the door closed, Tom McMillan grabbed his smartphone and hit the speed dial to the SecDef.

“This is Castle,” replied the gruff voice on the first ring.

“Jim, it’s Tom. The President’s been hit. I have no idea how bad or what his condition is. Travis was also hit. The last word I heard from the Secret Service is he’s dead. I’m not sure what more to really tell you, but I needed to make sure you knew what happened,” he told his friend, who was silent on the other end, probably digesting what he had just been told.

“Tom, what the heck is going on?” Jim Castle finally asked. “Call me back as soon as you hear anything more about the President. You should probably call the Vice President,” he replied, and then the call was ended.

Looking through his contacts, Tom found the Vice President’s number and hit dial. It rang twice before he picked up. “How bad is the President, Tom?”

“I don’t know yet. All I know is he was covered in blood, and one of the doctors said they couldn’t feel a pulse and then the elevator doors closed. I honestly don’t know, but I’m going to stay here until I do,” he replied.

“OK, keep me informed. The Secret Service has just taken me down to the bunker. The Chief Justice is also on his way. They are going to invoke the 25th Amendment for the time being, until we know what the President’s status is,” he replied, his voice a bit shaken and unsure.

“You’ll do fine, Sir,” Tom McMillan said reassuringly. “We have a good team in place, and we’ll get through this. I’ll call you as soon as I know more.”

They quickly concluded their call. Both men had a lot of things to take care of.

“Doc, he’s got jugular venous distension,” said one of the nurses as they continued wheeling toward the OR.

“Crap,” said the surgeon. “He’s probably got pericardial tamponade.” He turned to one of the other nurses. “Did you get the pulse back?”

“I can’t feel it any more, Sir. We’ll find out more once the EKG is completely hooked up,” she answered. Most of the stickers and leads had already been placed — only a couple more to go.

Everyone continued with their duties as they moved along, until the green line started to dance across the screen. A string of expletives filled the room. “He’s got low QRS voltage,” the surgeon finally said. “He’s definitely in tamponade. We’ve got to get him open and drain the bleeding that’s pushing on his heart, or we’re going to lose him.”

The President’s breathing was becoming more shallow and rapid. His face started to look pale.

The surgeon consulted with the anesthesiologist. Meds were pushed and just like that the President was intubated. A nurse kept a steady rhythm going on the Ambu bag, one breath every six seconds.

Just as the surgeon was about to make a cut so he could get a scope in there and see what was going on, he noticed blood oozing out around the President’s IV site. He stopped.

“No, please no,” he thought.

Blood started to spill out of every orifice of the Commander-in-Chief’s body, including his eyes and ears. He didn’t need a blood test to tell him what was happening.

“Get me some platelets, frozen plasma, and Factor 7 STAT!” he yelled. “He’s going into DIC.” Two people ran out of the room. The President’s clotting factors had been disrupted by the violent trauma of the gunshot wound, and if didn’t get these treatments quickly, he would bleed out.

A few painful moments went by as they waited for the bags to arrive. They ran normal saline wide open, trying to preserve what little blood pressure he had left. Finally, the two heroes of the moment returned, and they began to run the vitally needed infusions.

It was too late. The President’s skin was already turning yellow from damage to his liver.

“He’s flatlining!” yelled one of the nurses.

“Give compressions and let’s see if we can get a rhythm,” said the surgeon.

After five cycles of chest compressions, there was no change. His heart had stopped. The surgeon couldn’t open him up because he would bleed out while in DIC, and without a functioning heart, the platelets and clotting factors wouldn’t circulate throughout the body. There was nothing they could do.

“He’s gone,” announced the surgeon.

They all took a step back. One man saluted the President, and then the others followed suit. President Patrick Gates was dead.