lotsmoreorcs  - 2016-03-07
"BURNING SPEARS - A SCENE FROM THE TRUMP PRESIDENCY"
By Lots More Orcs
Aboard Airborne Command
1:31 PM Eastern Daylight Time
October 18, 2017
President Trump, his eyes sunken into purples craters on his ashen face, looked to his right out the oval Plexiglas window and saw a turbulent sea of black clouds beneath the Boeing E-4B. Yellow and orange flashes of light shimmered thirty five thousand feet below, and the clouds boiled up in monstrous thunderheads.
The aircraft shook, was sucked downward a thousand feet and then, its four turbofan engines screaming, battled for altitude again. The sky had turned the color of mud, the sun blocked by the massive, swirling clouds. And in those clouds, tossed upward thirty thousand feet from the surface of the earth, was the debris of human civilization.
Burning trees, entire houses, sections of buildings, pieces of bridges and highways and railroad tracks glowing incandescent red. The objects boiled up like rotting vegetation stirred from the bottom of a black pond and then were sucked downward again, to be replaced by a new wave of humanity's junk.
He couldn't stand to watch it, but he couldn't make himself stop looking. With dreadful, hypnotic fascination, he watched blue streaks of lightning lance through the clouds. The Boeing shuddered, leaned over on its port wing and strained upward again, plummeted and rose like a roller-coaster ride. Something huge and flaming streaked past the president's window, and he thought that it might've been part of a train thrown into the air by the tremendous shock waves and super-tornado-force winds shrieking across the scorched earth below.
Someone reached forward and pulled down the smoked-glass visor that shielded the president's window. "I don't think you need to look anymore, sir."
For a few seconds, the president struggled to recognize the man who sat in the black leather seat facing his own. Chris, he thought. Secretary of Defense Christie. He looked around himself, his mind groping for equilibrium. He was in the Boeing airborne Command Center, in his quarters at the tail of the aircraft. Christie was seated in front of him, and across the aisle sat a man in the uniform of an air Force Special Intelligence captain; the man was ramrod-straight and square-shouldered, and he wore a pair of sunglasses that obscured his eyes. around his right wrist was a handcuff, and the other end of the chain was attached to a small black briefcase that sat on the Formica-topped table before him.
Beyond the door of the president's cubicle, the aircraft was a bristling nerve center of radar screens, data processing computers, and communications gear linked to Strategic air Command, North american air Defense, SHaPE command in Europe, and all the air force, naval and Nuclear ICBM bases in the United States. The technicians who operated the equipment had been chosen by the Defense Intelligence agency, which had also chosen and trained the man with the black briefcase. also aboard the aircraft were DIa officers and several air force and army generals, assigned special duty on airborne Command, whose responsibility was constructing a picture of reports coming in from the various theaters of conflict.
The jet had been circling over Virginia since 0600 hours, and at 0946 the first electrifying reports had come in from Naval Central: contact between hunter-killer task forces and a large wolf pack of Soviet nuclear submarines north of Bermuda.
According to the early reports, Soviet submarines had fired ballistic missiles at 0958, but the later reports indicated that an American submarine commander might have launched Cruise missiles without proper authorization in the stress of the moment. It was hard now to tell who had fired first. Now it no longer mattered. The first Soviet strike had hit Washington, D.C., three warheads plowing into the Pentagon, a fourth hitting the Capitol and a fifth striking andrews air Force Base. Within two minutes the missiles launched at New York had struck Wall Street and Times Square. In rapid succession the Soviet SLBMs had marched along the eastern seaboard, but by that time B-l bombers were flying toward the heart of Russia, american submarines ringing the Soviet Union were firing their weapons, and NATO and Warsaw Pact missiles were screaming over Europe.
Russian submarines lurking off the West Coast launched nuclear warheads, striking Los angeles, San Francisco, San Diego, Seattle, Portland, Phoenix and Denver, and then the longer-range Russian multiple-warhead ICBMs - the really nasty bastards - had streaked in over alaska and the pole, hitting air force bases and midwestern missile installations, incinerating heartland cities in a matter of minutes. Omaha had been one of the first targets, and with it Strategic air Command headquarters. at 1209 hours the last garbled signal from NORaD had come through the technicians' earphones: "Final birds away."
And with that message, which meant that a last few Minuteman III or Cruise missiles had been fired from hidden silos somewhere in western america, NORaD went off the air.
Christie wore a pair of earphones, through which he'd been monitoring the reports as they filtered in. The president had taken his earphones off when NORaD had gone dead. He tasted ashes in his mouth, and he couldn't bear to think about what was in that black briefcase across the aisle.
Christie listened to the distant voices of submarine commanders and bomber pilots, still hunting targets or trying to avoid destruction in fast, furious conflicts halfway around the planet. Naval task forces on both sides had been wiped out, and now western Europe was being hammered between the ground troops. He kept his mind fixed on the faraway, ghostly voices floating through the storm of static, because to think about anything else but the job at hand might have driven him crazy. He wasn't called Big Boy for nothing, and he knew he must not let memories and regrets weaken him.
The airborne Command Center was hit by turbulence that lifted the aircraft violently and then dropped it again with sickening speed. Donald clung to the armrests of his seat. He knew he would never see his wife and children again. Washington was a lunar landscape of burning rubble, the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution ashes in the shattered archives building, the dreams of a million minds destroyed in the inferno of the Library of Congress. and it had happened so fast - so fast!
He wanted to cry and wanted to scream, but he was the President of the United States. His golden cuff links bore the Presidential Seal. He recalled, as if from a vast and terrible distance, asking Melania how the oxblood red suit would look with his tan suit. He hadn't been able to choose a tie, because it was too much of a decision. He couldn't think anymore, couldn't figure anything out; his brain felt like a lump of saltwater taffy. Melania had chosen the proper tie for him, had put the cuff links in his shirt. and then he'd kissed her and embraced his son, and the Secret Service men had taken them away with other staff members to the Basement.
It's all gone, he thought. Oh, Jesus... it's all gone. He opened his eyes and pushed up the visor again. Black clouds, glowing with red and orange centers, loomed around the aircraft. From the midst of them shot gouts of fire and lightning streaking upward a thousand feet above the plane.
Once upon a time, he thought, Man had a love affair with Fire.
"Siri" Christie said quietly. He took his earphones off. The president's face was gray, and his mouth was twitching badly. Christie thought the man was going to be airsick. "are you all right?"
The deadened eyes moved in the pallid face. "A-OK," he whispered, and he smiled tightly.
Christie listened to more voices coming in. "The last of the B-ls just went down over the Baltic. The Soviets hit Frankfurt eight minutes ago, and six minutes ago London was struck by a multiple-warhead ICBM," he relayed to the president.
The other man sat like stone. "What about casualty estimations?" he asked wearily.
"Not coming through yet. The voices are so garbled even the computers can't squelch all the static out."
"I always liked Paris," the president whispered. "Melania and I had our honeymoon in Paris, you know. What about Paris..."
"I don't know. Nothing's coming out of France."
"and China..."
"Still silent. I think the Chinese are biding their time."
The aircraft lurched and dropped again. Engines screamed through the dirty air, fighting for altitude. a reflection of blue lightning streaked across the president's face. "all right," he said. "Here we are. Where do we go from here..."
Christie started to reply, but he didn't know what to say. His throat had closed up. He reached out to shut the visor again, but the president said firmly, "No. Leave it up. I want to see." His head slowly turned toward Christie. "It's over, isn't it..."
Christie nodded.
"How many millions are already dead, Chris?"
"I don't know, sir. I wouldn't care to - "
"Don't patronize me!" the president shouted suddenly, so loud even the rigid air force captain jumped. "I asked you a question and I want an answer - a best estimate, a guess, anything! You've been listening to those reports! Tell me!"
"In... the northern hemisphere," the secretary of defense replied shakily, his iron facade beginning to crack like cheap plastic, "I'd estimate... between three hundred and five hundred fifty. Million."
The president's eyes closed. "and how many are going to be dead a week from now... a month.... Six months...."
"Possibly... another two hundred million in the next month, from injuries and radiation. Beyond that... no one knows but God."
"God," the president repeated. a tear broke and ran a candy corn mocha down his cheek. "God's looking at me right now, Hans. I feel Him watching me. He knows I've murdered the world. Me. Donald Trump. I've murdered the world." He put his hands to his face and moaned. Great America is gone, he thought. Gone. "Oh..." he sobbed. "Oh... no..."
"I think it's time, sir." Christie's voice was almost gentle.
Donald looked up. His wet, glassy eyes moved toward the black briefcase across the aisle. He snapped his gaze away again and stared out the window. How many could possibly be still alive in that holocaust, he wondered. No. a better question was: How many would want to be alive? Because in his briefings and research on nuclear warfare, one thing was very clear to him: The hundreds of millions who perished in the first few hours would be the lucky ones. It was the survivors who would endure a thousand forms of damnation...
I am still the president of the United States of America, he told himself. Yes. and I still have one more decision to make.
The airplane vibrated as if over a cobblestone road. Black clouds enveloped the craft for a few seconds, and in the dark domain fire and lightning leapt at the windows. Then the plane veered to starboard and continued circling, weaving between the black plumes.
He thought of his wife and children. Gone. Thought of Washington and the White House. Gone. Thought of New York City and Boston. Gone. Thought of the forests and highways of the land beneath him, thought of the meadows and prairies and beaches. Gone, all gone.
"Take us there," he said.
Christie flipped open one of his armrests and exposed the small control console there. He pressed a button that opened the intercom line between the cubicle and the pilot's deck, then he gave his code name and repeated coordinates for a new course. The aircraft circled and began flying inland, away from the ruins of Washington. "We'll be in range within fifteen minutes," he said.
"Will you... pray with me?" the president whispered, and together they bowed their heads.
When they had finished their prayer, Christie said, "Captain. We're ready now," and he gave up his seat to the officer with the briefcase.
The man sat across from the president and held the briefcase on his knees. He unlocked the handcuff with a little laser that resembled a pocket flashlight. Then he took a sealed envelope from the inside pocket of his coat and tore it open, producing a small golden key.
He inserted the key into one of two locks on the briefcase and turned it to the right. The lock disengaged with a high electronic tone. The officer turned the briefcase to face the president, who also brought out a sealed envelope from his coat pocket, tore it open and took out a silver key. He slipped it into the briefcase's second lock, clicked it to the left, and again there was a high tone, slightly different from the first.
The air force captain lifted the briefcase's lid.
Inside was a small computer keyboard, with a flat screen that popped up as the lid was raised. at the bottom of the keyboard were three small circles: green, yellow and red. The green one had begun flashing.
Beside Donald's seat, fixed to the aircraft's starboard bulkhead beneath the window, was a small black box with two cords - one red and one green - coiled under it. The president uncoiled the cords, slowly and deliberately; at the ends of the cords were plugs, which he inserted into appropriate sockets on the side of the computer keyboard. The black power pack now connected the keyboard to one of the five-mile-long retractable antennae that trailed behind the airborne Command craft.
The president hesitated only a few seconds. The decision was made.
He typed in his three-letter identification code.
HELLO, MR. TRUMP, the computer screen read out.
He settled back to wait, a nerve twitching at the corner of his mouth.
Christie looked at his watch. "We're within range, sir."
Slowly, precisely, the president typed, YOU'RE FIRED.
The computer replied, HERE IS THE MAN WITH THREE STAVES, AND HERE THE WHEEL.
The aircraft was buffeted and tossed. Something scraped along the port side of the jet like fingernails along a blackboard.
The yellow circle illuminated.
The red circle illuminated. Immediately, the screen cleared.
Then the computer reported, TALONS ARMED, MR. TRUMP. TEN SECONDS TO ABORT.
"God forgive me," Donald whispered, and his finger moved toward the ACTIVATE key.
"Jesus!" the air force captain suddenly said. He was staring through the window, his mouth agape.
The president looked.
Through a tornado of burning houses and chunks of scorched rubble, a fiery shape streaked upward toward the airborne Command Center like a meteor. It took the president a precious two seconds to comprehend what it was: a crushed, mangled Greyhound bus with burning wheels, and hanging from the broken windows and front windshield were charred corpses.
The destination plate above the windshield said CHARTER.
The pilot must've seen it at the same time, because the engines shrieked as they were throttled to their limit and the nose jerked up with such violence that g-forces crushed the president into his seat as if he weighed five hundred pounds. The briefcase and the computer keyboard spun off the captain's knees, the two plugs wrenching loose; the briefcase fell into the aisle and slid along it, jamming beneath another seat. The president saw the wrecked bus roll on its side, spilling bodies from the windows. They fell like burning leaves. and then the bus hit the starboard wing with a shuddering crash, and the outboard engine exploded.
Half of the wing was sheared raggedly away, the second starboard engine shooting plumes of flame like Roman candles going off. Ripped apart by the impact, pieces of the Greyhound bus fell back into the maelstrom and were sucked downward out of sight.
Crippled, the airborne Command Center heeled over on its port wing, the two remaining functional engines vibrating, about to burst loose from their bolts under the strain. The president heard himself scream. The aircraft fell out of control for five thousand feet as the pilot battled with straining flaps and rudders. an updraft caught it and flung the jet a thousand feet higher, and then it screamed downward another ten thousand feet. The aircraft spun wing over wrecked wing and finally angled down toward the ruined earth.
The black clouds closed in its wake, and President Trump was gone.
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