Battlefield Russia

State of Shock

Vice President Walter “Wally” Foss was finishing up his daily five-mile run on the treadmill at his residence at the Naval Observatory when a member of his Secret Service detail walked up to him and signaled somewhat frantically that he needed to speak with him. Wally hit the stop button on the treadmill and pressed the pause button on his smartphone, stopping the playback of an audiobook about Teddy Roosevelt.

Taking his earbuds out, he asked, “What’s going on, Jim?”

Just then, three other agents walked into the room, spreading out to sweep the room for any potential threats. This unsettled Foss a bit — he had never seen a Secret Service agent anything other than calm, and one of them was visibly sweaty as he searched the room.

The first Secret Service agent explained, “Mr. Vice President, we need to move you to the White House Situation Room. The vehicles should be pulling up in a few minutes.” The agent handed him a towel to wipe the sweat from his face.

Foss sighed as he stepped off the treadmill. “That’s fine. Just give me a couple of minutes to get a quick shower and put some more appropriate clothes on.”

Mike Morrel, the head of his Secret Service detail, shook his head. “Sir, there isn’t time,” he asserted. “We have to get you to the White House immediately. We were just informed a couple of minutes ago that there was an attempt on the President’s life at the rally in Michigan. We don’t know if the President was hit, but we do know the Secretary of State was shot, and it has been reported that he was killed.” Agent Morrel guided the VP out of the fitness room and toward the stairs that would lead them to the main entrance of the building.

Within minutes, the procession of agents in black suits, black sunglasses, and clear earbuds had the VP out of the building and into the waiting motorcade. While the sirens wailed, VP Foss’s mind raced. “What the hell is going on? Did I really just hear what I think I did?” he thought in shock.

They raced down the road at top speed. The Vice President started thinking more about how many traffic laws they were violating than anything else. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, the sea of Secret Service agents was ushering him out of the vehicle and borderline shoving him down the hall. Before Foss knew it, he was down in the White House bunker.

“So, now what happens?” he asked.

Agent Morrel replied, “I just received word that the President was indeed hit, although we don’t know his status yet. The Chief Justice is traveling here now. Until we know more, the Twenty-Fifth Amendment is going to be invoked.”

The weight of what had just been said sat on the Vice President’s chest like an elephant. He had always known he was a heartbeat away from the presidency, but truthfully, he’d never wanted to ascend to that office in such a dramatic way. “Please let this be temporary…”

A few minutes went by with no new information. Foss started checking every possible source, turning the various televisions in the room to different news channels, hoping to find out something new.

His phone rang, startling him. He looked down and saw that the caller ID said Tom McMillan.

“How bad is the President, Tom?” Foss said, not waiting for the usual conversational cues.

“I don’t know yet,” said the National Security Advisor. “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.

The Vice President took a deep breath. “OK, keep me informed,” he said, trying to sound more positive about the situation than he felt. “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 Twenty-Fifth Amendment for the time being until we know what the President’s status is.” Despite his best efforts, he recognized that his voice sounded a bit shaken as he spoke.

“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.”

The phone clicked, and the call ended.

Almost twenty minutes went by. The Chief Justice still hadn’t arrived. Foss was getting really antsy. He started pacing the room.

Finally, he couldn’t take the anticipation any longer, and he got the attention of Agent Morrel. “Do we know how the President is doing yet?”

Lifting his cufflink to his mouth, Agent Morrel stated, “Hoosier wants a status update on POTUS.”

What seemed to Foss like an hour, but was really more like five seconds, dragged by. Suddenly, the Vice President noticed that the facial expressions and demeanor of Agent Morrel changed. He looked at the other agents — their faces were ashen. Morrel lowered his hand and then looked up at the VP with a look of sorrow in his eyes.

“We just got confirmation, Sir,” he finally said. “POTUS is dead. You are now the President.” He paused for a second, then added, “I’ve been instructed that we are to take you directly to the Oval Office. The Chief Justice just arrived at the White House to swear you in. The Secretary of Defense is also on his way here.”

The Vice President sat down in a chair for a moment, absorbing the information. He wasn’t sure what to say, or what to think for that matter. Forty minutes ago, he had been on his last leg of his five-mile run, just like any other day. The President was supposed to give a campaign endorsement in support of the GOP challenger in Michigan as they looked to flip that Senate seat. “How could he have been assassinated?” he wondered. It had been 55 years since a US president had been assassinated. It didn’t seem like this was really possible.

Given the situation, the agents did give him a moment. Then Agent Morrel put his hand on his shoulder. “Sir, we need to move,” he said gently.

Foss nodded and stood up. Soon, they rode the elevator out of the bunker, and he was quickly led down a series of hallways until they entered the Oval Office. The moment he walked in the door, everyone stood out of respect. A few people were wiping away tears; others were obviously still in a state of shock themselves. Before he could say anything, his wife walked in with another agent and his two children.

She gave him a quick hug and whispered, “I’m so sorry, Wally. Hang in there. You can do this, and we’re here to help you. We have your back.” His two children wrapped their arms around the two of them and they shared a family hug.

Just then, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court finally arrived. He gave a moment for the family reunion, then he walked over with his hand extended. “You have my deepest sympathies, Mr. Vice President,” he said. “I still can’t believe that someone would assassinate our President like this, but please, we have to get you sworn in. Do you have a Bible you want to use? If not, I brought my own.”

Wally’s wife, Dana, produced the Foss family Bible. In minutes, Vice President Walter Foss was sworn in as the 46th President of the United States of America. A handful of pictures were taken of the event, and someone from the White House communications department video-recorded the swearing in. Soon these images would be posted to the official government websites and social media accounts. It was imperative that people know the government was still functioning despite this horrific event.

Once the ceremony was complete, the Director of the CIA and the Secretary of Defense urged him to join them and the rest of the national security staff in the briefing room. They had urgent matters to discuss and they needed his authorization. President Foss said a quick goodbye to his wife and two children and quickly followed the men to the Situation Room.

Upon entering the briefing room, the new President took his seat at the head of the table and motioned for everyone else to take their seats. Not looking at any one particular person, he immediately asked, “Could someone please give us an update on what happened in Michigan? Do we know who is responsible? Is the Eastern Alliance involved?”

Maria Nelson, the Director of the FBI, spoke up first. “Mr. President, the information we have presently is incomplete. We are still in the early stages of identifying who the shooter was, and if he was aligned with any of the Eastern Alliance powers or other political groups,” she replied.

Maria had just taken over as the new Director of the FBI three weeks ago. She was the first woman to hold the position at the agency. She had previously served as the head of the Science & Technology Directorate at the Department of Homeland Security before President Gates had appointed her to replace FBI Director Flagman, who opted to resign when it had become known that he was the subject of a Department of Justice investigation. When it had become public knowledge that he had tried to cover up the number of foreign agents that had been working within the government, the only way to recover was to step down. Besides, he had failed to investigate the plethora of elected officials who had obviously leaked sensitive and classified information to the press and to American adversaries. Flagman had become persona non grata in the public sphere.

When Gates had nominated someone new to head up the FBI, he had wanted someone who could bring a heavy technology background and fresh perspective. His goal had been to bring someone in who could bring the FBI’s way of solving crimes into the 21st century and restore public and political trust back to the agency. Not even a month on the job, and Director Nelson would now have to handle the death of a President and the continued threat of foreign intelligence and Special Forces actively carrying out attacks within the country.

While Foss felt for the situation that the new director found herself in, he wasn’t going to give her a lot of extra room. “I need more than that, Maria,” he told her bluntly. “What do you guys have so far?”

Director Nelson squirmed in her chair for a second. She looked around to the others in the room before she returned her gaze back to the President. “What we know right now is that the shooter fired multiple shots at President Gates. The first shot hit the President in his bulletproof vest, knocking him to the ground. The second shot hit the Secretary of State when the President’s security detailed jumped on top Gates to protect him. As the agents moved to secure the President in the Beast, the shooter fired a third shot. This one struck Gates’s bodyguard, went through the agent and hit the President, ultimately killing him.”

She sighed, realizing she would have to reveal her hand. “We believe we know who the shooter is, but we are waiting on a few more pieces of information to come in before we make it official. Preliminary reports indicate the shooter is named George Philips, an American citizen. So that means we are not dealing with a foreign national. Mr. Philips is currently in his final year as a PhD student at Brown University, where he was also the university president of the local antifascist or Antifa group. We have agents raiding his apartment in Providence, Rhode Island, right now.”

Several of the people near the President grumbled some obscenities. She overheard someone mutter somethings about Antifa having gone too far this time in their political disagreements with the government. President Foss silenced the comments with an icy stare.

“Do we have the shooter in custody yet?” asked Foss.

She shook her head. “No, Mr. President. Not yet. We set up a large cordon around the shooting, but we are not optimistic about capturing him inside of it. There was just too much chaos happening around the area when the shooting started. People started scattering and running every which way, making it incredibly hard to seal everyone inside our search perimeter. I am, however, confident that once we determine he is in fact the shooter, we will apprehend him within the next couple of days. Mr. Philips is not trained in how to evade capture, and he’s about to become the most wanted man in America,” she added.

Sitting back in his chair for a minute, Foss needed a few seconds to absorb the information. “What am I supposed to do next?” he thought.

“OK, here is what I want to happen,” the President said. “I want every trail, link, and associate of this Mr. Philips tracked down. We need to find out if he is a lone wolf assassin or if he had help.”

Foss then turned to his generals, adding, “I want everything that was going on with the war prior to this shooting to continue. We are not going to alter our plans unless something on the ground changes. In the meantime, I need some time to be brought up to speed on the status of the war, where we stand, and what our next steps are. I want to know everything the President had previously agreed to, what he had turned down, and any additional options that were to be brought up to him prior to the assassination. Let’s reconvene the war council in two days, once I’ve had some time to get caught up. Director Nelson, I want hourly updates from your office and Homeland on this manhunt.”

With his first orders as President issued, Foss got up and left the Situation Room to return to the Oval Office and try to figure out exactly what he was supposed to do next.

Mikhail Fedorov ducked his head slightly and moved into the small cabin of the speedboat he and his colleagues would be using for this operation. It was still relatively dark, and the others wouldn’t arrive for at least another twenty minutes, but he wanted to make sure everything was ready. He reached down and grabbed several fishing poles and brought them out to the main deck. Once there, he assembled the poles before placing them in the six trolling pole holders, three on each side of the open-air cabin.

Running his hand across the side of the cabin wall, Mikhail had to admit, he really loved this boat. He had purchased the 42-foot Boston Whaler fishing boat two years ago and had really taken to the sport. He’d go out several times a week with friends he’d made through work and genuinely enjoyed his time out on the water. In many cases, he’d head down the Arthur Kill Inlet, which was part of the waterway that surrounded Statin Island and was fed by the Hackensack, Passaic, and Rahway Rivers from New Jersey. It was more of an industrial channel than a commercial or recreational one, but he made sure to use it often, so his boat became a normal sight there.

Hearing some voices coming closer to him, Mikhail looked up. He smiled as he saw that his three compatriots had found the marina.

“Mikhail, you’re a lucky man to live here. This place is beautiful,” Artem Petrikov said. He tossed his duffel back to Mikhail, who caught it with both hands, grunting as the weight of the bag hit him. The other two Spetsnaz men near Artem climbed aboard the boat, handling their four-foot black hockey bags a lot more gingerly than Artem had.

Shaking his head, Mikhail asked, “What the heck is in here?”

Patting Mikhail on the shoulder, the ringleader Artem coyly answered, “The tools needed to complete this next mission.” Then his facial expressions became more serious. “Is Daria ready to meet us?” he asked. “It’s important that she be ready to pick everyone up and know how to get us to the safe house once this show starts.”

“Daria is ready. The van is fueled, and we’ve checked everything: headlights, taillights, and blinkers. There should be nothing that draws attention to the vehicle by law enforcement. She’ll get you to the safe house,” Mikhail replied, annoyed at being questioned for probably the fifth or sixth time in the last two days.

Artem nodded. “Mikhail, I only ask about these details because these are the issues that often lead to people being stopped. This is perhaps the most dangerous mission my team has embarked upon. We need to do our best to make sure we survive so we can carry out future attacks as directed. There are not many direct-action units left in America, so the ones that are still alive and operating need to make sure we do what we can to keep carrying out missions for the Motherland.”

Mikhail nodded, then changed the subject by pulling up the news report. The assassination of President Gates was all anyone had been talking about the past couple of days. Apparently, the shooter was still at large, despite the authorities having released his picture and name the same day the President had been shot. There was a massive manhunt underway across the country.

“How long do you think it will take them to find the President’s shooter?” inquired Mikhail.

Thinking about that for a second, Artem replied, “A couple more days, tops. I’m not aware of the shooter being a part of any of our teams, and I don’t believe Moscow would have sanctioned an action like that. From what the media is saying, the shooter appears to be a leader with the American antifascist group.” Chuckling for a second, he added, “I find it funny that he was ultimately killed by a PhD student, an academic.” He shook his head in disbelief.

Mikhail untied the last line that had been keeping the boat tied to the slip before turning on the engine. With a half dozen fishing poles hanging off the side of the cabin, the twin 300-horsepower engines purred softly as the boat cut gently through the water, leading them to the Hudson River, toward the Arthur Kill Inlet and their primary target.

An hour went by as the four of them drove the boat down the Hudson until they came to the inlet. The sun was fully up at that point, and it had turned into a beautiful morning, with the sun glistening off the skyscrapers of Manhattan to their left and the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island to their right. When they turned to head closer to their target, two of the Spetsnaz soldiers went below to the galley and began to get their weapon of choice for this operation ready.

“We are almost to the target now, if you want to see it,” Mikhail said to the two men who were getting the Kornet-EM missile ready. One of the soldiers brought the tripod launcher up to the front of the boat to set it up, while the other brought the tube with the missile. The two Spetsnaz soldiers got the antitank missile system configured deftly, like practiced professionals. Unlike the Sagger missile systems of old, the Kornets were true fire-and-forget missiles. The specific version they would be using for this attack was the EM Thermobaric, which packed a 10-kilogram high-explosive warhead, perfect for what they wanted to blow up.

As they got the missile set up on the bow of the ship, the soldiers looked at the Kinder Morgan Terminal and smiled as they saw the 37 fuel tanks, which housed roughly 2,900,000 barrels of gasoline.

Letting out a soft whistle, Artem turned to Mikhail. “I fully understand why you said this target had to be destroyed with a Kornet-EM,” he said. “If we tried to use an RPG, we’d all be killed when that place goes up.” He obviously had a new appreciation for the work the GRU agent had done ahead of time.

Mikhail smiled, happy to have his efforts recognized. “I’m going to get us roughly 8,000 meters from the terminal,” he explained. “Once the missile hits, I’m going to floor it down the inlet to try and get as much distance between us and the terminal as possible. Even still, I can’t say with certainty that we won’t be consumed in the blast if that entire place goes up at once. If that tanker farm is full, then it can hold nearly three million barrels of petrol. I can’t even imagine how big of a bang that place will set off.”

He brought the boat speed down to just a couple miles per hour, enough to steer and hold it in position. One of the Russian soldiers turned the missile seeker on and identified its target. “I sure hope you calculated this out, Mikhail,” Artem said nervously. “If not, we’re going to die in a fiery blast.” With that, he nodded toward the soldier who was going to fire the missile.

Pop. Whoosh!

The Kornet-EM ignited and shot off the bow of the boat, headed right for one of the fuel tanks. As soon as the missile had cleared the boat, Mikhail gunned the engine, racing down the rest of the inlet, doing his best to place as much distance between them and the fuel farm as humanly possible. The 1,400-horsepower engine roared as the boat picked up speed. Mikhail snuck a peek over his shoulder and spotted the missile completing the last leg of its journey as it slammed into one of the fuel tanks, causing a small explosion. The initial blast suddenly ballooned as the petrol caught fire, causing the entire tank to explode. Seconds later, more tanks blew up, adding their own mayhem to the growing conflagration, until the entire terminal detonated in one gigantic cauldron of fire that rapidly expanded beyond the terminal, engulfing a second oil wholesaler terminal across the inlet. That terminal, which housed an additional twenty fuel tanks, also exploded, adding to the growing firestorm. Fires began spreading across fuel pipelines to the other tank terminals nearby.

While Mikhail was doing his best to race down the inlet and maintain control of the speedboat, he felt the concussion of the blast. The heatwave rippled across his body and the boat, and he almost lost control when a large wave nearly pushed them into the bank of the inlet. Turning to look back one last time, he saw the fireball had grown enormous as it reached for the heavens.

“I knew those terminals were all connected,” he thought smugly, satisfied with his work. After years of covert effort, now all that was left to do was escape.

“We did it, Mikhail,” said Artem with glee. “How long until we reach the marina?”

“A few more minutes,” Mikhail responded. “Daria is waiting for us with a vehicle once we get there. She’ll drive us to the next drop vehicle at a park maybe three miles away. From there, we’ll largely stay on country roads as we drive to the cabin we’ll be using as a safe house.”

Nodding in approval, Artem just smiled. Mikhail knew exactly what he was thinking. They had just destroyed a major part of the Northeast’s fuel supply and storage terminals. This would surely hurt the Americans.

The weather was dreary. As President Foss stared out through the bulletproof windows of the Oval Office, rain suddenly started pouring down. In the distance, he could still see people gathered outside the perimeter fence, holding vigil for the deceased President Gates. The formal funeral had taken place earlier that day, with the President’s body having been brought from the capital building to lie in repose at Arlington Cemetery, where the other bodies of assassinated presidents had been laid to rest.

Knock, knock.

The sudden noise pierced his inner thoughts, pulling him back to reality. Turning, he saw his personal assistant standing in the doorway. “The Director of the FBI, Homeland and the National Security Advisor are ready. Shall I send them in?” the aide asked.

Nodding, Foss signaled with his hand for them to be brought in. He then took his seat behind the desk as the three individuals walked into the room and stood before him. Looking up, he simply asked, “Is he in custody?”

Smiling, Maria Nelson replied, “Yes. We just caught him thirty minutes ago. We’re about to break the news to the media.”

Foss let out a deep breath, obviously relieved. “What more do we know about him?” he asked.

“We’ve looked into all of the people he’s been in contact with and his past activities. We know from the initial interviews we’ve conducted of his associates, fellow classmates, and professors that he believed President Gates was a fascist that needed to be stopped, and he felt compelled to act out of fear that his younger brother, who had been drafted into the Marines, would die in Asia if the President was not stopped.”

“Do we know if he had any foreign support or help? You had told me that he was an Antifa leader at his university.”

“He had led and organized a series of protests and work stoppages at a number of defense manufacturers in his local area. In doing so, he routinely met with the Northeast director of the organization and the international leader, a man by the name of Peter Talley who’s based out of London. As we dug further into Mr. Talley’s background and coordinated our findings with MI5 and MI6, we discovered that Mr. Talley had also been on their radar for several years. Apparently, they believe he may in fact be a man by the name of Vasily Smirnov, a major in the Russian GRU.”

Tilting his head slightly to the right, the President asked, “Are you saying the GRU is organizing or controlling the Antifa organization?”

Tom McMillan, the National Security Advisor, replied, “Not exactly. We don’t believe Antifa is an overtly Russian-backed or Russian-sponsored organization. However, they are being heavily financed and influenced by the GRU. The Russians’ goal is presumably to leverage any domestic groups, both liberal and conservative, that are against the war in order to disrupt or negatively influence the war effort.”

Clearing her throat, DHS Director Molly Emerson added, “The problem we have with Antifa is we now have credible evidence that their international director, a man who has traveled and met extensively with other Antifa leaders in the US, is a Russian spy. He personally knew and worked with George Philips. Mr. Philips was also receiving a monthly stipend of $5,000 a month from the international Antifa organization as a university leader. When we inquired further into the organization’s finances, we discovered that there are only three other Antifa leaders in the US receiving a stipend from the international organization. All the other leaders are doing this pro bono, volunteering their time and skills.”

Director Emerson continued, “In March of 2018, Mr. Philips purchased the rifle he used to kill the President. The rifle and the optical system he used, combined with the four months of shooting lessons he received, cost roughly $9,000. Several weeks prior to his purchasing the rifle, Mr. Talley, aka Major Smirnov, had wire-transferred that exact amount to Mr. Philips. Right now, we are working under the assumption that Major Smirnov knew Mr. Philips was susceptible to recruitment as an assassin and provided the material support needed to make that a reality. It is my assessment, and my department’s assessment, that the GRU ordered the assassination of President Gates and used Mr. Philips to achieve that goal.”

An awkward pause sat in the room. “The Russians ordered the assassination of our president, during a time of war?” thought Foss incredulously. He couldn’t wrap his head around that reality.

After a moment, Foss turned to Maria Nelson. “Is this the FBI’s assessment as well? Do you guys have an alternate theory, or is this where the evidence is leading you too?”

Maria took a deep breath in and slowly let it out before responding, “I’m not yet 100 % ready to make that same leap. The information we have is pointing in that direction, but we need to interrogate Mr. Philips first. I want more evidence before we firmly come to that conclusion.”

President Foss frowned a bit. He appreciated Director Nelson’s thoroughness, but it wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear.

“Mr. President,” interjected McMillan, “I concur with the FBI that they need to identify more definitive links between the GRU and the assassination of the President. However, the intelligence community and Homeland Security are not responsible for building an evidence-based case for a criminal conviction in this situation. We need to look at the circumstantial evidence that is not always sufficient in a court of law. Right now, we have corroborating information from MI6 and MI5 that Mr. Talley is a suspected Russian spy. We know Mr. Talley is the international organizer, financier and lobbying point of contact for Antifa. We also know he met and worked with Mr. Philips for more than a year. The intelligence suggests that Mr. Talley had at least provided material support to the man who assassinated the President. We don’t know if he directed the assassination, but at this point it doesn’t matter. He provided the assassin with the financial and material means to do it, which makes him just as culpable in our eyes. With your permission, I would like to move that we place Mr. Talley on our Top Most Wanted list, both domestically and internationally. We need to take him into custody and question him further.”

Maria’s countenance had changed during McMillian’s speech, as if she were visibly changing her opinion. “Mr. President, I agree with the NSA on this one. We need to apprehend Mr. Talley at once,” she urged.

“OK, let’s pick Mr. Talley up,” the President agreed. “Where is he currently?”

“Philadelphia,” answered Molly. “We’re tracking down the exact location, but we’ll have it shortly. We know he flew into Newark three days prior to the assassination. He spoke at Antifa rallies at Columbia University and the City College of New York. The day before the assassination, he led a protest march at Global Container Terminals in Jersey City. Their goal for the day was to shut down the port’s activity by chaining themselves to the terminal gates and creating human barricades across the streets leading to the container terminal. They essentially stopped the port operations until the police could break them up,” Molly said.

“What is that port terminal doing to support the war?” inquired the President.

“This terminal, along with many others on the East Coast, is responsible for loading the dozens upon dozens of transports moving munitions and other war stocks to Europe,” explained Molly. “What’s suspect about these types of protests is they always seem to happen when a Global Defense Force convoy arrives from Europe. If they were just targeting this one particular port, we could move the operation to another one. The problem is these protests hit every port on the East and West Coast that’s being used to support the war efforts in Europe and Asia.”

President Foss rubbed his chin. He had only been doing this job for eight days, and it still felt like he was drinking from a firehose. He’d heard a bit about protests from the nightly news, but his attention had been focused on other situations until now. He leaned forward. “Are other antiwar groups participating in these types of work stoppages? How much of an impact are these activities having on the war?”

Molly and Maria both turned to Tom, gesturing for him to take that question. “Antifa is the main culprit, but there is a large conservative group that also joins in from time to time, called Southerners Against the War. They largely carry out these types of work stoppages at the Southern ports. As to what kind of effect are they having on the war… a lot. Let me put it this way, Mr. President. A tank round is produced in a factory in Pennsylvania on Tuesday. On Thursday, the round arrives in port and is loaded onto a ship that same day. Saturday, that ship leaves in a convoy, and it arrives in Antwerp seven days later. Five days after that, the round is loaded into an M1 Abrams battle tank, and two days later it’s fired at a Russian tank. The time from when the round is produced to when it’s fired by one of our tanks is roughly seventeen days. If we flew that round on a cargo plane, then the time from factory to firing would be reduced to seven days.” He sighed. “We are so low on munitions in Europe that these work stoppages truly have the potential to be the deciding factor in whether our front-line forces have enough ammunition or whether they’re forced to retreat or surrender because they ran out of bullets or tank rounds.”

The President sat back in his chair digesting what Tom had just said. “Gates really shielded me from a lot,” he realized. He wondered how his friend had managed to stay so calm under all this pressure, and how he had managed to hide the dire circumstances of the war.

Looking at Tom and then Molly, the President’s eyes narrowed. “This has to stop. We can’t allow these organizations to pose this significant of a risk to our winning this war. I have no problem with people exercising their First Amendment rights, but not at the expense of putting our soldiers’ lives at risk. Director Emerson, if you can find a legal link between these organizations’ activity and the Russian GRU, then I want these groups disbanded and labeled as GRU-sponsored groups. If people participate in these types of activities — stopping the day-to-day operations of a factory, port, or any other function that would result in the delay of war stocks arriving at the front lines — then I want those people charged with providing material support to the enemy during a time of war. Is that understood?” he asked.

The three of them nodded.

Shaking his head for a second, President Foss waved his left hand slightly. “I’m sorry that I got us distracted down that rabbit hole,” he said. “Where is Mr. Talley at this point?”

Molly took her cue. “The day of the assassination, Mr. Talley traveled to Chicago. He gave a speech at the University of Chicago the day after and then participated in a work stoppage rally at Boeing’s downtown office, which happens to be where their design team is for the various suite of military drones we are currently using. As of right this moment, he is scheduled to give a speech at the University of Pennsylvania tomorrow morning and then catch a flight back to London tomorrow night.”

“Apprehend him tomorrow before he gives his speech,” the President ordered. “Try to do it quietly if you can, maybe do a raid on wherever he’s sleeping.”

The group talked for a few minutes more before the directors of Homeland Security and the FBI left, leaving just the President and his National Security Advisor. Looking at Tom, the President commented, “What you told me about the supply problem is really disconcerting.” He paused, then blurted out, “Why is the problem so bad? Why are we not able to keep our army properly supplied?”

Tom briefly turned away from the President as he grabbed one of the nearby chairs and pulled it up to the President’s desk and sat down. “I’m sorry, Sir — my back is killing me,” Tom said as he got comfortable in the chair. “The issue with supply chain is our capacity to meet the demand. We’ve drafted millions of young men and women into the military. The ammunition needed to properly train this new army of millions of people is incredible. We are actually consuming nearly as much ammunition in training as we are in combat operations in Europe and Asia. The other problem is that we have active battle campaigns underway in the Russian Far East involving more than 200,000 soldiers, an active campaign in the Philippines involving more than 180,000 soldiers, and two campaigns in Europe involving 360,000 soldiers. Our forces are spread too thin, and we aren’t able to concentrate on any particular theater because we’re being hit on so many different fronts.”

“What did Gates want to do about this problem prior to being killed?” asked Foss, running his fingers through his hair.

“He wanted to slow the war down,” McMillan answered. “He’d ordered General Cotton to place everything on hold in Europe and stay on defense. Gates prioritized the invasion of Taiwan over everything else. His thinking was that once Taiwan was back in our hands, we could shift our focus back to Europe while we continued to grind the Chinese economy down through cyberattacks and precision airstrikes.”

Foss leaned in. “Why prioritize Taiwan over Europe?”

“It comes down to weather, Mr. President,” explained Tom. “From November to March is considered typhoon season in Taiwan. If we don’t land our forces and establish a beachhead before the prolonged severe weather sets in, then we risk starting a major invasion and possibly having a typhoon interrupt our ability to support the ground force. If we wait to invade until the spring, then we just give the Chinese another eight months to entrench themselves, and they’ll be that much harder to remove.”

The President grunted.

McMillan continued, “As it stands, combat operations are starting to peter out in the Russian Far East as winter creeps ever closer. We have to remember that most of that is Siberia — incredibly poor infrastructure and horribly cold temperatures. With the defeat of the Indian Army a month ago, the priority threat to our forces there is now going to be the freezing temperatures. As operations there come to a close until spring, we can shift more of our resources to Taiwan and Europe.”

“How soon until we’re ready to invade Taiwan?” asked the President. After the assassination of Gates and the horrific attacks on Statin Island and Jersey City, the country was reeling. Foss wanted to be seen as decisive in the face of all this chaos. The country needed a win.

“We had planned on launching the invasion on October 1st, Sir,” said McMillan. “In light of everything that has been happening here, we can probably move the invasion up by fifteen days, but I wouldn’t try it any sooner. We should also speak with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and get his opinion to make sure the military is ready.”

The President crossed his arms. “Set up a meeting for tomorrow with the war council, then,” he ordered, “but call the chairman today and let him know that I want to launch the invasion of Taiwan at the soonest possible date.”

Foss stood, indicating the conversation was over.

“Yes, Sir, Mr. President,” Tom answered, and they walked out together, ready to get to work.