True Allegiance

The red light on the camera blinked off. Allison Martin looked at her reflection in the dark eye of the lens. Then she stood, ramrod straight, and walked briskly toward the Oval Office.

Detroit, Michigan

Levon spoke into the computer’s camera. On the line, he could see from the list on the right-hand side of his screen, were the mayors of Indianapolis, New Orleans, Chicago, Philadelphia, Baltimore, St. Louis, Boston, Memphis, and a dozen other major cities. He’d talked with all of them repeatedly over the past few weeks, since the media and Mark Prescott had appointed him an emissary of peace, and since his big victory over Detroit Energy. Levon had reached out to others, too—“activist affiliates,” he called them—who could influence the community to bring pressure against companies and government actors.

Now he sat alongside the mayor of Detroit in his conference room.

“Folks,” Levon said, “I have known President Martin for a long time—we had dealings when she was governor of my state. She has asked me to speak with you all about basic security within your cities.”

“We’re at war,” Levon said, “and that war is down south, as you know.” Some of the mayors nodded; a few looked uncomfortable. He pressed on. “That means that we’ve got to have order in our own cities. I know that you’re all doing your best. But as you know, and as Mark Prescott said, police departments across this country have a long legacy of racial bigotry. With the current shortage of National Guard and federal military aid available, there’s bound to be some unrest.”

Levon looked at the faces of the mayors—most of them nodded along. “So here’s what needs to happen, and here’s what President Martin wants to happen: you’re all going to set up civilian oversight commissions. These will be parallel to your city councils, and they’ll have real authority, real public authority.” He hoped his emphasis conveyed the threat. Just in case, he added, “If not, I can guarantee violence will happen. That’s a guarantee.

“Now, don’t worry—all of the leaders of these commissions will be in touch with me regularly, and I’ll be in touch with President Martin. She has also asked me to work with the commissions to recruit for the new civilian national service corps she’s planning, as well as help fill out the military’s needs. So we’ll all be working together a fair bit. Hope that works for y’all.”

The dialect drew a few chuckles. Levon smiled. They could all chuckle. Underneath, they knew exactly what he did: they no longer ran their cities. Levon Williams did.

The South China Sea

The aircraft carrier sat moored to the man-made island atop the atolls of the Spratly Islands. The Chinese government had spent years dredging the coral reefs, turning them into military outposts in spite of international furor. The crew of the Liaoning, fully two thousand strong, had been trained aboard the ship and knew her well. They came accompanied by another seven hundred members of the air group. Beside the Liaoning sat a full flotilla of destroyers and frigates.

At 0400 hours, the flotilla, led by the Liaoning, began its over eight-thousand-mile journey to the West Coast of the United States. Admiral Chen De stood on the deck of the aircraft carrier, watching the greatest armed amphibious force ever assembled by his nation steam toward America. His orders had come through that morning. He knew that Chinese forces would be joined in the United States by coalition forces from Europe, Japan, Canada, and Russia. But by far the largest on-the-ground contingent came from China, which the new president of the United States had publicly labeled a friend and partner.

In the game of international politics, friendship and partnership only went so far, Admiral Chen knew. He had contingency plans, just in case something should go wrong. Such things were bound to happen from time to time.

Austin, Texas

Pages sprinted around the Texas House of Representatives, bearing paperwork and messages from the legislators to each other. In the hallways, congressmen berated one another, cornering each other, trying to talk some sense into each other. Cameras clogged the corridors, reporters frantically attempting to sequester some unlucky rube politician and peg him or her down on the vote.

The impeachment vote against Governor Bubba Davis was underway.

Blocks away, Davis sat in his office, the drapes closed, the room dark. He stared into the darkness, thinking about Ellen Hawthorne. He’d watched the speech from President Martin, disbelieving—there was no way that the federal government, even this federal government, could actually believe Ellen Hawthorne responsible for the worst terror attack in the history of the United States. Could believe him responsible for that attack.

But they had said it. They had declared war. His bluff had been called.

Unless he wasn’t bluffing.