War Gods

Chapter Two.

The sun streamed through the tinted inch thick Plexiglas, muted, casting as much shadow across her office as it did light. The glass wasn’t bullet proof. Fear of bullets hadn’t been the impetus behind the thickness of the glass. Rather, fear of viral infection, deadly germs, and that ever present fear of a Russian-Chinese sneak attack.

She activated the icon projected on the glass screen that occupied the top of her highly polished mahogany desk with an equally polished and manicured fingernail. She was intrigued with the speed that the Department of Justice and Security had managed to generate such a complete report on the incident, mere hours after it occurred. It painted a very clear picture of incompetence, as a minimum, and something far darker if some of the speculative conclusions in the report were in any way accurate. She dismissed most of the findings and conclusions as mere political maneuvering, but there was no doubt, a disaster had occurred at Fort Drum.

She brushed a strand of blonde hair away from her face, blowing air noisily through her pursed lips.

How could they so completely screw up this mission? She demanded of herself, still not having the answer even though she’d read the report twice already. Or the better question, who conspired to create this fuck up?

Whatever had happened remained a mystery, and one she knew she would have difficulty unravelling.

Swearing, she rose from her desk and stepped in front of the floor to ceiling window, staring out across the base. Pre-war it had been the Griffiss Business and Technology Park, home to the Eastern Air Defense Sector, NORAD’s eastern command center. After the war the survivors, military personnel and their families, riding out the worst of the chaos in their underground bunker, had simply changed the name of the airport to Eads.

From her office on the 18th floor she could look across Perimeter Road towards the main taxiways and massive hangars that had been saved following the war. Two large Goliath transports were parked next to the main hangar, with a full five squadrons of Falcons arrayed further along the parking apron.

The baseball diamonds of Delutis Field were long gone, replaced with pasture where today a slow moving flock of sheep peacefully munched away their afternoon. Most were taking shelter in the shade cast by the ancient gate guard, an antique B-52 bomber mounted on a concrete pedestal, which had marked the entrance to the facility when it had once belonged to the United States Air Force. The old bomber, rusting, its wings collapsed and its fuselage riddled with holes, served now only to ease the late afternoon heat for a flock of sheep.

She could see three of the flock’s shepherds, lazing away the morning in the shade of a copse of trees flanking the meadow. Thy were likely the children or grandchildren of refugee survivors that had lived in the area before the war, who’d sought help from the military personnel serving in NORAD’s Sector Operations Control Center and the surviving government in Rome. The city in New York State, not Italy.

They were now the farmers, labourers, and menial workers that served Eads elite. Gillian was well educated and knew full well what happened to societies that developed small and privileged elite while keeping the masses uneducated and largely leading poor and meaningless lives. Eventually those masses rose up to overthrow the elites, and to place others from their ranks into positions of power so that the entire miserable cycle could begin again.

Not my problem though, she thought absently as she diverted her thoughts to other more important issues. It will be decades before such a thing could happen.

The building that cast its shadow across the shepherds in the field below was a tower of steel, concrete, Plexiglas, and technology that would have amazed anyone from pre-war America. This new 20 story office tower had been completed only a year prior, built by the Army Corps of Engineers and equipped with the latest biological defences developed in Portland, NewAm’s capitol, at its primary research center. The designers guaranteed that no biological or chemical warfare agent could ever infiltrate through the buildings defensive filtration systems.

The regional governor’s office was on the top floor of the building and that gave her far more comfort than any of the engineer’s guarantees. Governor Franklin was not one to place himself in danger, physically or politically. He rarely left the hermetically cleansed 20th floor, his staff insisting on receiving a full medical report from any visitor, current to within 48 hours.

Politically he was even more cautious. He kept at least five levels of deniability between himself and the actual implementation of any order or event that could potentially harm his position.

He’d already insulated himself from this disaster of a mission. Oh, he was prepared to take the credit if what had turned into an absolute shit show had actually succeeded, but he’d placed enough layers of bureaucracy between himself and the mission that his overall responsibility was arguably minimal. Not even the president in Portland would be able to link him with the events that lead to the mission’s failure.

Unfortunately, if Franklin had his way her political future would be measured in hours, and the governor had been looking for reasons to get rid of her for quite a while now. He didn’t like people that argued with his policies, and she had done nothing but since the day she’d been placed in her current office. She was certain that he intended to make as much of this disaster at the 1700 meeting as he could, placing as much of the blame on her as he could.

He’d settle for inflicting significant damage to her, but she suspected he might try for something even more meaningful, a means to remove her from her post, permanently.

“Little fuck probably arranged this entire fiasco,” she swore, reaching for the vodka and ice sitting on her desk.

No, this isn’t the way he operates, she chided herself for letting her hatred for the man give him more capability than he possessed.

This took brains, technical ability of an order beyond anyone she knew, and full knowledge of the entire operation. Franklin didn’t have any of that, nor did anyone on his staff. The destruction of the C-50 was the intent, the destruction of the six Falcon escorts the tool with which it was accomplished, but also a distraction.

“Deputy Director Roth,” John, her personal assistant, interrupted her thoughts as his voice came over the intercom. “General Ash to see you.”

Of course, she smiled, an expression that started on her lips but didn’t reach her cold sea-green eyes. General Ash was the commander of Eads 224th Air Defence Squadron, and the Director of Military Operations. He had a great deal to lose as well if an investigation under Franklin’s control moved forward and would be just as aware as she was what Governor Franklin was planning.

Her staff had informed her that Ash had been one of the people summoned to conduct hastily arranged teleconferences with the Governor earlier this morning. Not unusual, given the general’s position, but her sources indicated that Franklin might use this event to place pressure on the General.

Not might, she told herself. It was a certainty. Franklin would secure an ally any way he could get one, bribery or threats, it was all the same to him.

“Send him in, John.”

Gillian moved across the room, lithe as a tiger in her element, across the pre-war Persian carpet she’d received as a gift from the Director of the Office of Strategic Operations when she’d been promoted to her post the previous year. She’d had the carpet checked. It was the genuine article, handmade in Iran and more than one hundred years old. It was literally priceless. She’d heard that there were entire warehouses in Portland, filled with all manner of furnishings, all salvaged a year or two after the first nukes had hit.

She’d always wanted to visit Portland. She’d heard the government had restored Portland’s core area and government sector to a state even more impressive than its pre-war condition. She’d seen enough government patriotic videos showcasing the city’s beauty and elegance. Unfortunately, nobody visited Portland unless they received an invitation. That was as rare as a radiation free day in New York City.

She lowered herself onto the black leather couch, balancing her glass on her knee. She’d worn an appropriate business dress today, but one she wore relatively short and accessorized with black three inch stiletto heels. Men, regardless of their positions in the government, were completely predictable. She’d learned early in life that an attractive woman could accomplish a great many things. An attractive woman, with intelligence and ambition, well, she could achieve a great many more things. If she was completely ruthless, she could achieve even more.

The door to her office opened and General Ash stepped in, his grey eyes scanning the room as if seeking a target. With his crooked beak of a nose, his pinched lips and perpetual scowl, Ash looked like a bird of prey constantly searching for its next victim. He was wearing his dress uniform, a dark blue tunic resplendent with medals and gold rank, and lighter blue trousers with twin gold stripes up the inseam. He was in his early thirties, and very fit, the picture of NewAm’s military power. The uniform was somehow antiquated; a relic of the past, but one that still represented the hopes and dreams of a resurgent America.

The man wearing the uniform was like the uniform. A man out of time, a man that believed in the Manifest Destiny of the United States, and who had pledged himself to the restoration of that amazing dream. Gillian had no doubt that this was a ruthless, intelligent, and ambitious man, and one to be wary of.

Ash saw her seated on the couch, made eye contact and then unconsciously glanced quickly at her legs.

“Ah, Gillian,” he smiled, a brusque look, a gaze filled with confidence and perhaps a touch of contempt. It had nothing to do with her gender; the General had little use for civilians of any sort. “I was hoping we could talk before the meeting.”

“Of course, Bob,” she answered, choosing to be just as informal as he’d been. She smiled as his eyes narrowed, a sign he didn’t appreciate her use of his first name. “We have a little while to talk. Why don’t you pour yourself a drink first?”

Ash nodded after a moment’s thought and moved towards the antique Second Empire American mahogany carved center table, a product of Colonial American craftsmen, or so she’d been told when she’d received it as a gift from the previous Deputy Director of OSO. A rather dull-witted man, Gillian thought as she watched the General pour himself a scotch, neat. He’d also been a little too trusting, particularly of his mistress and the carefully instructed words she whispered to him. That mistress now had a very comfortable villa in an exclusive Eads neighbourhood and a lifetime stipend. Poor Dwayne had swallowed far too many sleeping pills. He’d chosen to avoid the investigation and the likely execution, and his death had been explained as a tragic heart attack.

“You’ve seen the DJS report?”

“I’d just finished looking it over before you arrived,” she told him, twirling her glass lightly in her hand and studying his body language. “Your soldiers really fucked up.”

Ash kept his back to her as he poured her another vodka and ice, but she could tell by the way his shoulders tightened her comment had struck a nerve.

So, he wasn’t confident that he was safe from recrimination in this disaster, she thought. Good.

“My soldiers were following orders generated by the OSO,” he pointed out as he turned and made eye contact, revealing a stare as cold and unreadable as her own. “The entire mission, from planning to execution, originated from your office.”

“That is true, Bob,” she admitted, deciding there were more important issues to cover than what his pilots did or did not do earlier this morning. “Though it’s safe to say those orders didn’t instruct them to destroy the C-50 transport they were meant to escort, or to engage in lethal combat with each other. That will be a little difficult to explain to the Governor.”

“Now that’s the truth,” he snorted, knocking back a good portion of his scotch. “The son of a bitch will be looking for blood.”

“No doubt,” she said as she knocked back her own drink in a single swallow. “I could use a refill, Bob.”

The General turned back to the bar, placing ice into a crystal glass and selecting the very valuable and rare bottle of Snow Queen vodka, a product of Kazakhstan. Ash raised an eyebrow, wondering how a mere Deputy Director could manage to get her hands on such an unbelievably rare bottle. He doubted the country of Kazakhstan even existed anymore. He was tempted to have a glass himself but he knew Gillian had issues with sharing her vodka. Previous visits to her office had taught him that any other beverage on the table was available for guests, but the vodka was hers and hers alone.

She smiled as she took the offered drink from his hand. He then lowered his long and fit frame easily into the leather wingback chair that sat opposite her. He placed his drink lightly on the side table and pulled the legs of his pants upwards to relieve the stress on the cloth, making himself more comfortable. Crossing one leg over the other he recovered his drink and smile at her.

As always, he was impressed by her appearance. He’d seen plenty of attractive women in Eads. Getting anything done in Eads involved parties, and mingling with the political elite. Such affairs always involved the best booze, the best food, and the best women. Gillian always stood apart; more invariably better looking than any of the prize women brought to those political parties and by far often the most dangerous person in attendance. She reminded him of tales he’d read about certain flowers, some of the world’s most beautiful but also the most deadly.

“He might try to implicate me in this,” he finally admitted, choosing his words carefully. “But I’m betting you’re going to be his main target. You haven’t exactly played ball with him on, oh, just about every issue to come out of his office.”

“The man is a fool,” Gillian said with an easy smile. “But he’s not so big a fool that he would go after you, not yet anyway. In his book, I’m the smaller fish, and easier to take down.

She was the picture of confidence, and her total lack of concern for the situation was obviously of interest to the general.

“You don’t seem all that concerned.”

“He has to implicate me,” she said with a slight shrug. “For that he needs to prove that I was involved or orchestrated what happened. Since I had nothing to do with it that will be rather difficult.”

“Or all he has to do is prove your department was incompetent,” Ash said, leaning his glass towards her. “If he can prove that it was incompetence that caused the mission to turn out the way it did he’d be able to remove you from your post.”

“No matter what, he is looking for a fight,” she admitted, staring intently at the ice swirling in her glass. “I can guarantee he is going to get one, though not necessarily the one he wants.”

She smiled and in return tilted her glass towards Ash, making sure he understood her point.

“As soon as my team gets to the site and recovers all the data we’ll have a better idea of what actually happened,” she continued, already putting the upcoming meeting lower on her list of priorities. “We need to know what the fuck happened at Fort Drum.”

“Unfortunately, that electronic storm passing between us and the battle site will complicate matters,” Ash informed her, impressed with her calm demeanor. “It will be days before they can get there.”

“Yes, my people have informed me of the delay,” she admitted, but not sounding overly concerned. “Still, since this was an OSO operation, my people have jurisdiction over the site, and will be the first on the scene as soon as the storm abates.”

“Maybe,” Ash stated after a slight pause. “Although, I understand that the Governor may wish to handle the investigation personally. From what I’ve been told, he will claim it would all be in the interests of transparency and uncovering the complete truth.”

Gillian paused, locking her smile in place, and taking a small, thoughtful breath. So, the little worm was going to interfere, as she’d expected. He’d covered his ass as best he could, but by taking charge of the investigation he could fix the findings to implicate anyone he chose. Her name was certainly at the top of his list, and by fixing the investigations results he could achieve more than just removing her from her post.

The information Ash had just provided also proved what she’d suspected. The general did have a source in the Governor’s office. She’d have to discover who that was.

“That would be an interesting development,” Gillian offered, keeping her tone as neutral as she could manage.

Ash shrugged slightly, suspecting that he’d just provided her with information that she didn’t already have. If so, she now owed him.

“So, I thought I could offer you a little assistance during the meeting,” he offered, deciding to take advantage of whatever good will he’d just generated.

Gillian’s eyes sparkled, for once showing emotion. That it was amusement made Ash feel a little less comfortable.

“Assistance, Bob?” She asked, sipping from her drink, placing a leg onto the floor and then crossing the other one over it. Her skirt hitched up just enough to provide a tantalizing glimpse of her thigh. “What sort of assistance would you be able to offer?”

Ash cleared his throat, and then sipped from his drink, clearing his voice a second time after swallowing.

“If we assume I won’t be an immediate target, I can provide a counterpoint to the Governor’s accusations,” he suggested, offering a little while not committing too much.

“Bob, I said the Governor isn’t likely to go after you, yet,” she stated with calculated indifference. “However, aligning yourself with me will make you a target.”

Ash leaned forward, a predatory smile on his face, his eyes locked with Gillian’s.

“Gillian, I’m a soldier, I’ve been a target for a considerable number of enemies my entire career,” his eyes were cold, but the horror of things he’d seen was clearly etched there. “I face the bastard now, with an ally, or I face him later alone. Pretty easy choice.”

She raised an eyebrow, wondering if she’d underestimated this man. She’d reviewed his record a number of times. His claim to being a warrior was no exaggeration. He’d fought in major and minor battles stretching from the New York ruins all the way to Colorado. None of what she’d seen suggested he had the mind for the maneuverings common to the NewAm political scene, but he couldn’t be completely unskilled. Nobody reached high office of any kind in NewAm without playing the game, and playing it well.

“It seems strange to be aligning yourself with me at this particular moment,” she hazarded, tilting her head in a way she knew most men found intriguing. “For all you know I could be ousted in less than an hour’s time.”

“A long time ago, there was a famous scholar who studied the Art of War,” Ash mused after a moment’s thought. “One of the things he determined was that If you do not seek out allies and helpers, then you will be isolated and weak. I did not choose this time and this battle. It has chosen me."

“So, you think we are going to war?”

“You don’t?” He asked with a wry grin. “Franklin, for whatever reason, wants you gone. This incident has provided him with the means to accomplish that end.”

“So, you’ll side with me?” Gillian asked with a soft chuckle. “Hardly seems like the appropriate strategic move.”

“Well, only time will tell,” he offered, setting his drink down.

Gillian nodded, considering how much she should or even could trust him.

“So, General, the big question,” she said, deciding to see how much information he’d be willing to divulge. As knowledge is power, the divulging of knowledge is usually a sign of someone whose interests are aligned with your own. “How did six state of the art friendly ships destroy each other and a transport aircraft? I thought that was impossible.”

“Not impossible,” he shrugged. “Just damn difficult.”

“How so?”

“All of our aircraft broadcast a signal, what we call the Identify Friend of Foe, and IFF,” he began. “A bit of a misnomer really, as it really only lets one friendly ship know that there is another friendly aircraft nearby. Our IFF signal is all computerized of course, linked to the aircraft’s offensive/defensive systems. In theory it makes launching a missile or using guns against another friendly ship impossible.”

“In theory?”

“Yah,” he nodded, sipping from his drink, raising an eyebrow with enjoyment. “It might be possible to override the IFF signal, which would allow one friendly to attack another.”

“How possible?” She asked, intrigued. She had many skills, but the actual technical operation of NewAm’s military forces wasn’t something she was all that familiar with.

“Well, not fucking easy,” he admitted as he considered everything involved. “Okay, let’s assume an enemy wanted to do what we’re discussing. First off, it would involve breaking our military encryptions, which I gotta tell you are unbelievably complex. Even if you could do that you’d have to then tap into MAGIC, and I’m told that is actually impossible. The system is programmed to randomly shift its transmission encryptions every second or so. That isn’t a problem for MAGIC because it is both the system that transmits and the system that receives. It knows what the encryption is going to be before it changes.”

“But an enemy wouldn’t?” She asked, her mind working the problem. “Not even an enemy computer system?”

“Not a chance,” he shook his head. “Every transmission is like MAGIC talking to itself, and only itself. There isn’t anyone else on the frequency, which the system also shifts automatically multiple times a second. An enemy computer wouldn’t be able to communicate with MAGIC, or even listen to MAGIC, simply because MAGIC isn’t talking to it, or listening to it.”

“Interesting.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a lot more complex than that,” he said, shrugging and twitching his eyebrows simultaneously. “There are probably only four or five people in all of NewAm who really understand how MAGIC really works. They’re all in Portland, buried so deep in the New Skunk Works I doubt they’ve seen the sun for years.”

“So, if an enemy didn’t do it, and couldn’t do it, who could?” She asked, watching his face for any sign of a reaction.

“Only someone who could legitimately access MAGIC.”

“Those people being?”

“The Office of Strategic Operations had full and total control of this mission, as well as the transmission of MAGIC data,” Ash continued, tapping his knee with a finger as he made his point. “The order to disengage the IFF could have originated from someone inside the OSO, someone with access to the MAGIC coding and passwords.”

“That would be a very short list,” she pointed out. She could have easily read the names off to him, but another rule of politics was to never let on how much you actually did know. If your competition believed you were stupid, so much the better.

“Very short,” he nodded with a knowing smile. “With your name at the top.”

“I can assure you General, neither I nor anyone in my office tampered with the IFF codes or authorized the destruction of the C-50,” she informed him solemnly, using his title. It didn’t matter whether he believed her or not. It was enough that her statement had been recorded by her office computer, as had this entire conversation.

“I know that, Gillian,” Ash told her, smiling, almost leaning forward to reassuringly pat her on the knee. “Unfortunately, I doubt that the Governor will choose to believe you.”

And that, she thought, was the issue. The fucker planned on being a major pain in the ass, and getting in the way of discovering what the fuck really happened.

Still, he was an annoyance, and not the main problem. The real problem was the destruction of the C-50, and the very, very complicated issues that would develop as a result. Someone, an enemy obviously, had discovered the purpose of that flight, had somehow gained access to the very closely held classified details of the mission, and manipulated a system that was supposedly impossible to manipulate.

The fight she was facing with Franklin was nothing compared to the threat posed by whoever had accomplished the destruction of that transport aircraft.

“The Governor has no evidence that can implicate me or my office,” she informed the General, tipping her cards just a little. Just enough information to reassure him he had chosen the winning side. “There is no way he can implicate me in all this.”

Well, that wasn’t entirely the truth, she admitted, but she’d have bet on it if someone had been running a pool. She grinned suddenly, thinking it was very possible that some smart ass in one of the departments in the Tower might just have done that. She wondered what odds they’d be giving for her keeping her head.

“Ms. Roth,” John announced over the intercom. “Its now 1650. I’ve activated the communications channels to the participants and received confirmations.”

“From all our participants?” She asked, feigning disinterest.

“All of them, Deputy Director,” John confirmed.

“Thank you, John,” she said, draining her vodka and ice with a speed and certainty that impressed Ash.

He wouldn’t be so impressed if he knew that my drink was actually water and ice, she thought with a small laugh. Her supposed preference for vodka was well known to all her contemporaries, and she ensured she was always seen with a glass.

“Shall we?”

“May I say, you seem very confident,” Bob stated as he rose from his chair, placing his half full drink on the side table.

“He has no truth to condemn me with, Bob,” Gillian said with a warm smile. “I also have a few tricks left up my sleeve, even ones the Governor doesn’t know about.”

“This is going to be a very interesting meeting,” Ash said, more to himself than to Gillian. The thought reflected his doubts. He had a lot riding on this meeting, and a lot at stake if Gillian were to fail. Still, one way or the other, at some point, the Governor was going to try and take him down and replace him with one of his cronies. Standing by the Deputy Director of the OSO on this issue wouldn’t change that. However, if she could somehow pull a miracle out of her pocket, well, that would change things considerably.

Gillian moved towards the conference room, like a storm heading for shore, pulling the general along in her wake. One of the benefits of being the Deputy Director of the OSO was that she’d been able to put one of her people into an Assistant Deputy Director slot in the Office of Strategic Intelligence. The general didn’t take a shit without her knowing about it.

The man, despite his heroism and war record, had his weaknesses, and she knew every one of them. If he was being less than honest, if he betrayed her in any way, she had the means to destroy him.

The wood panelled door slid open at her approach, revealing a large conference room, complete with a large mahogany briefing table large enough to sit twenty people, four large wall screens for presentations, and of course the NewAm flag, five of them, trimmed in gold tassels, draped from gold standards, and with mighty eagles atop the staffs.

A politician can never appear to be too patriotic, she knew from experience.

She took her seat at the head of the table, foregoing the decanter of disguised water and ice for the moment. John had laid out three folders on the table in front of her seat with various reports that might be discussed at the meeting, and had already cued her laptop to allow her to bring up any details that might be required.

General Ash took a seat farther down the table, close to her but not so close as to appear overly friendly or connected. He hadn’t brought any papers, and ignored the laptop in front of his seat as he made himself comfortable. Trying to make himself look busy he carefully poured himself a glass of water.

At precisely 1700 hrs, a soft chime sounded and the meeting’s participants appeared, holographically projected in their seats from their various locations.

People always claimed they were too busy to attend meetings in person, but the truth was people still feared germs. In the immediate aftermath of the nuclear strikes, when diseases both natural and manmade were running rampant people learned to avoid physical contact with others. People rarely travelled these days, even within their own communities. Mankind had evolved as a herd animal, gregarious, social, but that was changing. Perhaps a new type of human was evolving now.

Solo Sapiens, she joked to herself.

Governor Franklin appeared at the opposite head of the table, positioned so that he could glare directly at her. The other Directors and Deputy Directors appeared, located almost exclusively at the Governor’s end of the table. All of them appeared, electronic particles gradually forming into perfect holographic images, their projected faces instantly turning towards her.

Gillian wasn’t surprised, and knew she wasn’t going to gain any support from the members sitting at the table. Half of them owed their jobs to the governor, and the other half were politically astute enough to sense the direction the political wind was blowing. The report on the incident made it abundantly clear; there’d been a significant disaster, and someone needed to be sacrificed.

She noted that Director Johnson, the head of the OSO, was not present. Someone must have ordered that, because the man would have a very vested interest in the outcome of this meeting.

“I’ve called this emergency meeting to discuss the OSO military disaster in the vicinity of Fort Drum that occurred approximately seven hours ago,” the Governor began, his face grim, but his eyes showing delighted triumph. He glared at Gillian, declaring, I have you now, bitch.

“The report prepared by the Eads Department of Justice and Security clearly proves that Eads Military personnel operating under OSO direction deliberately fired upon an unarmed aircraft and then upon those military forces who attempted to protect that same C-50 transport,” he continued. “The information available at this time suggests that the transport aircraft as well as six military fighter jets were destroyed in this act of sabotage and treason.”

Gillian watched for the predictable demonstration of outrage s each individual at the table took the opportunity to nod their support for the governor. Those aligned with Franklin were especially agreeable, while the others made the expected noises.

Trained seals barking for their supper, Gillian concluded, amused.

She noted that General Ash merely looked in her direction, not reacting to the governor’s statement. He was watching her as intently as she was watching the Governor’s minions.

“I have summoned Deputy Director Roth, the architect of this disastrous mission, to respond to questions so that we can get to the bottom of this heinous and treasonous act.”

Gillian smiled calmly, amused by the Governor’s description of an event still under investigation, locking her gaze with his.

“I am anxious to respond to any questions you may have, Governor,” she responded, her voice firm and confident.

But I’d be much happier slitting your throat with a very dull knife, she thought, keeping her wishes buried deep.

“You are aware that this meeting’s purpose is to determine whether there is sufficient evidence to bring charges of treason and sabotage against you?” Governor Franklin asked, using his warmest yet most commanding voice. He wanted everyone involved in this meeting to know he was in favour of such charges and confident that he would be able to press them.

“Completely,” Gillian nodded, almost dismissively.

Franklin leaned back, his image flickering slightly. He nodded to the projected image of a man seated to his left at the table.

“My first question involves the C-50 transport aircraft,” Jason Blake, the Director of Eads Department of Justice and Security stated. Gillian considered Blake to be the governor’s hatchet man, a loyal lackey with few brain cells of his own, but possessed of a total willingness to do whatever Franklin demanded. A trained chimp. “What was on that aircraft, and what was its final destination?”

All eyes at the table turned to Roth. She took a moment, letting everyone wait expectantly as she calmly clasped her hands together on the table in front of her.

“That is two questions, Director,” she finally stated, as she tilted her head quizzically. “Which question would you prefer I answer first?”

“Answer both of them,” the governor growled, irritated that she wasn’t acting sufficiently cowed. Surely she understood how much trouble she was in?

“Of course, Governor,” she replied happily, staring at Blake and with a look letting him know exactly how he measured up. He wilted a little under her gaze, before rallying with confidence in the thought that he had the Governor on his side.

“In response to your first question, the contents of the aircraft are classified,” she responded with a slight shrug. “In response to your second question, the final destination of the aircraft is also classified.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, woman,” Blake snapped. “Who gave the order to classify this information?”

Gillian paused, pouring herself a drink, the clear liquid flowing over the ice cubes in the expensive crystal glass. She took her time, fully aware of the angry eyes cast in her direction.

“That information would also be classified, Director,” Gillian stated, still smiling, as she sipped from her glass.

“Deputy Director Roth,” the governor interjected, clearly growing impatient with her confusing lack of cooperation. “I am the Regional Governor, and every member at this table has higher security clearances than you do. Answer the question.”

“It is true, Governor, that you have higher security clearances than I,” she admitted, bowing her head slightly in a mocking sign of respect. “However, as you cannot demonstrate a need to know, I am not required to reveal any details to you. I cite Security Order 773, Article 8. I can recite it for you if you wish.”

The people at the table howled in protest, each member making a comment, an argument, or simply demonstrating shock that she would dare answer in such a way.

“The record will indicate that Deputy Director Roth has refused to answer the question and is failing to cooperate,” the governor stated formally and carefully for the record, his voice, augmented by the computer, rising above the din. Franklin didn’t like the way this meeting was progressing. His gut was telling him that something wasn’t right, but his brain and ego were telling him that the case against this irritant that had worked so actively against him was iron-clad.

“Governor Franklin,” General Ash spoke up, looking towards that end of the table. The room remained quiet, expecting the General to add his condemnation of Roth to the formal record. “The Deputy Director has explained why she cannot answer the question, correctly citing that the answer is classified and that in accordance with the classification level involved we do not have a need to know. That wasn’t the answer you wanted, but it is still an answer.”

The Governor glared at Ash, his eyes narrowing. Less than three hours earlier the general had given him assurances that he would support the findings of the initial report and any action the Governor deemed necessary. He’d even told him that he was considering reducing the charges of incompetence he’d planned on levelling against him.

You’ll pay for this, General, the governor’s eyes announced as he leaned back towards the table.

“Obviously, your expertise concerning classification matters cannot be ignored, General,” Franklin said, his tone betraying a flash of anger and irritation.

“I merely want the record of this proceeding to be accurate,” Ash informed him, respectfully, but with a slight upwards twitch of his lips. “Sir.”

Gillian raised an eyebrow, impressed with the General’s support, particularly since it was clear the governor was out for blood.

Interesting, I wonder what he suspects, she thought. I may have to reconsider my opinion of the man.

“The data we downloaded from MAGIC has provided very damaging evidence, Deputy Director,” Franklin stated as he shifted his attention back to Roth. “It is clear that the phase two data pack transmitted by MAGIC did not originate from the military communications center. The actual transmission came from the Operations Center located in your Directorate.”

“That is correct, Governor,” Gillian admitted readily. “Phase two of the operation did not involve any individuals from the Directorate of Military Operations. Neither General Ash or any of his staff were in the loop after the successful execution of phase one.”

She carefully avoided making eye contact with Ash, but she knew he’d be likely feeling a degree of relief. She’d just cleared him of any involvement in what had happened after phase one of the mission. The murmured whispers at the far end of the table were proof enough that her enemies were fully aware of what she’d done. She’d just made herself the single target for their witch hunt.

She smiled coldly, lifting her chin slightly as she regarded the people facing her.

“Then you accept full responsibility then for this message that was imbedded in the data stream sent by MAGIC,” Franklin stated, his voice smooth and calculating, as every screen in the room lit up showing the message he was referencing. “My people have informed me this is an order to the onboard systems of the C-50 and the F-90 Falcons, instructing them to deactivate their IFFs.”

Silence fell across the room like a shroud across a corpse. All eyes were focussed on Roth, who gazed at the Governor with a serene calm none of them could understand.

“No such message was included in the data stream sent by the OSO,” Gillian stated, breaking the silence with a firm voice devoid of any doubt.

“You deny that the OSO under your direction sent this message?”

“No Governor, I deny that any such message was sent at all,” she informed him, a corner of her mouth quirking upwards slightly, dismissively. “Your claim that such a message was sent is a deliberate fabrication, a lie intended to implicate me.”

Gillian stared at the people at the far end of the room, gauging their reactions.

The way their jaws have dropped open you’d think I’d just flashed my tits at them, she chuckled to herself.

“That is quite the accusation, Deputy Director,” Blake said, his neck growing increasingly flushed, not bothering to conceal his contempt. “Who would do such a thing?”

“You, Director Blake,” Gillian said, her words causing an immediate uproar across the room. She waited for their protests to subside before continuing. “On the orders of the Governor, of course.”

The various Directors responded in different ways. The governor’s loyalists yelled with outrage, demanding that her remarks be struck from the record immediately. Blake was angrily slamming his fist down onto the table, a comical gesture though as his holographic fist passed straight through it.

Others, those that had supported the governor in the interests of their own careers were more restrained, beginning to see potential opportunities, particularly if Gillian could prove her accusations. The more intelligent at the table were becoming increasingly impressed by her calm demeanor.

Franklin raised his holographic hand, waiting for the room to quiet before he continued.

“You are being investigated to see if a charge of treason is warranted, Deputy Director Roth,” Franklin stated, his eyes dark and threatening. “I am willing to add the charge of slander to that list. I will not tolerate such unfounded accusations at this enquiry.”

“The evidence is incontrovertible,” Blake interjected, his face flushed with anger. “The outgoing data stream bears the OSO timestamp, and the authorization code belonging to Deputy Director Roth. There is no error!”

“I didn’t say there was an error, Director Blake,” Gillian purred, leaning back in her chair, broadcasting her complete disregard for the evidence being presented against her. “I said it was a fabrication, and one created by your office, upon your order, a mere hour after the destruction of the C-50 and its escorts.”

This time the meeting attendees remained silent. The accusation that Gillian had made was unprecedented, an attack not only against the Director of Justice and Security, but by association an attack against the Governor himself. If she was unable to prove the accusation, they all knew that Gillian had almost literally slit her own throat in front of everyone attending the meeting. If she could prove it, well, nobody quite knew what would result from that.

“You have evidence of this?” Amanda Albright, the Director for Health, Welfare, and Public Works asked cautiously. The question needed to be asked, and none of Franklin’s loyalists dared to be the one to speak into the silence that had followed on the heels of Gillian’s statement.

A soft chime sounded, emanating from the laptop in front of Gillian. She smiled, a little relieved, and a little more amused as she imagined what was about to happen.

“Actually, no,” she admitted, finally pouring herself a drink from the fake bottle of vodka. “I personally have no proof whatsoever.”

“How dare you waste our time with your ridiculous fabrications, slanderous bifurcations, and outlandish fantasies!” Blake roared, working himself into an admirable state of angry condemnation. “I move we immediately vote to initiate charge proceedings against this individual, a person clearly unsuited to her current post and likely a traitor to our glorious New America!”

Now, she thought. This has gone on long enough, and the prefect moment to drop the sword has arrived. She couldn’t help herself; she glanced at General Ash and winked.

“I take it Director Blake, that you have personally reviewed the evidence against me and find it both accurate and authentic?” Governor Franklin asked, himself wishing to bring these proceedings to an end, though for quite different reasons.

“I most certainly have,” he responded, a sinister grin spreading across his face. “The evidence against Deputy Director Roth is incontrovertible.”

Gillian smiled and then nodded, allowing the room to settle before she rose to her feet. Whatever they’d expected her to say, what she actually announced shocked them all into complete silence.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she intoned as she tapped an illuminated icon on her glass display. “The President of New America.”

If the room had been quiet before, it sank to a level best described as the silence appropriate for a tomb. Every screen in the room lit up, filling with the image of a man, unmistakably the President of NewAm, Brad Harper. Every person at the table, regardless of their actual location in the community of Eads, and present in this room through holographic technology, leapt to their feet. Governor Franklin, now pale as a ghost, stood to his feet, staring at a monitor in his office, rather than the one in Gillian’s conference room.

“Mr. President!” Franklin managed to stammer

“Dale, I’ve been listening to this so-called enquiry, and I have to ask, are you out of your fucking mind?”

“President Harper, you’re aware that…”

“Let me stop you right there, Dale,” Harper interrupted, holding up a single finger. “I’ve seen the report issued by Deputy Director Roth, and I’ve seen the completely fabricated evidence that your man, Blake, claims is proof of the Deputy Director’s wrongdoing.

“Mr. President, I assure you…”

“Stow it, I’ve heard enough of this bullshit,” Harper growled. “Director Blake is to be placed under arrest and assigned to Level One detention pending an investigation into falsification of military records. Deputy Director Roth will be in charge of that investigation as well as the investigation into the events at Fort Drum. She will have full Presidential Authority in this matter, and may God help the people she determines are involved in this disaster, regardless of whom they might be.”

Franklin’s image flickered again, though it showed he was sitting in his office with his mouth hanging open and that he had gone pale, all the colour drained from his face.

“General Ash.”

“Yes, Mr. President?” Ash responded, standing at attention, but with a definite smile on his face.

“You are to provide whatever resources the Deputy Director may require,” Harper explained, turning his attention to the man that had helped Roth during the interrogation. “I expect that her investigation will not be interrupted by external, or internal, issues. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, Mr. President,” Ash said, his body becoming even more rigid with respect.

All the other participants, with the exception of the Governor and Blake, faded, likely at the President’s command.

“I expect that my orders will be followed, Dale,” Harper stated, again using the Governor’s first name, and not his title. “I’ll be watching developments, and I don’t want do have to deal with any more dumb ass stunts.”

The President smiled at Gillian and cut the connection. She found herself suddenly alone in the conference room, with a very curious General Ash staring at her.

“Well, that was interesting,” he managed a short but nervous laugh.

Next Chapter: Chapter Three