The Last President (29 page)

Taking turns, the four scouts told a quick, brutal version of the last stands of the TexICs and the President's Own Rangers. Larry Mensche confirmed that it had been he who had fired the shots that alerted the camp; while over on the western bank he had seen most of the gigantic tribal horde pass down the Wabash in rafts and canoes, or moving at a quick march along the river road. The tribal force had escaped them and they had no way of catching up.

On their way in, Freddie, Roger, and Dave had seen all the bridges below the narrow, old one at Prophetstown, knocked down; they had actually witnessed the tribals drag rafts loaded with fifty-five-gallon drums against the pillars of the US-231 bridge and then detonate the rafts, dumping the bridge into the river.

“So if we wanted to cross the river and catch'em, and we had the rested men to do it,” Freddie said, “we'd have to go about ten miles the wrong way up to Prophetstown, go over a truss bridge there that's only two lanes, and then the way the river arcs, we'd have another twelve miles or so to get to a point opposite us here. More than a day's march just to be at a point where they've already passed. Makes me sick to think about it but there ain't a thing we can do.”

Jenny sighed. “How did you get back to this bank, Larry?”

“I stole one of their canoes, and they had so much traffic on the river right then I'm not sure they even noticed. I probably just looked like another cruddy, worn-out old guy with some mission for Mother Gaia. Paddled into a corner where a lot of them were loading into canoes, said, ‘Here's another one,' and took off before they looked too close; walked like I had someplace to be through their camp, yelled ‘On my way!' at the edge and charged down into the brush, sneaked this way. They were pretty busy; looks like they loaded twenty-two to twenty-five thousand tribals onto rafts and canoes for the next leg down the Wabash. Closer in than I landed, they've got maybe three thousand still holding south and east of here, to keep us from pursuing them. Had to come around them, which took a while longer.”

Jenny leaned across the map and said, “On those rafts and canoes, it's not likely they'll make it through a wrecked dam or bridge. So if they're going to keep wrecking bridges to keep us trapped on this side, they'll have to take their whole force under each bridge first, before they blow it. And the ones still fighting us probably aren't being expended either; Lord Robert doesn't think of all human death as progress the way mainstream Daybreak does. So there should be a bridge across the Wabash open somewhere not far downstream.” She called softly, “Patel.”

He came in at once, and she said, “Your opinion. Will the troops do something really hard if I ask them?”

“Depends on what you mean by
hard
, and how you ask, ma'am, I think.”

“Well, here's what we need to do. We're not under siege anymore; they've lifted the forces east and north of us. I think they're trying to trick us into going twenty miles out of our way to use a bridge up that way, and make it hopeless for us to catch them. So they'll be very encouraged if their scouts see our forces moving out on the east side of camp. But what I want is the fastest-moving forces we can get to go way out around and then attack them from the south side, along the river to pin them against the main force. If our troops have the energy, we might bag that whole Daybreaker force. Then after that—”

“
After that
, ma'am? They're already exhausted.”

“—after that, as I was saying, we all head downriver as fast as we can to the first open bridge, and start chasing the enemy main force. Don't tell me whether our troops will be
willing
to try—leave that up to me. Just tell me, physically, if they try, can they do it?”

“I think so, ma'am. They had more than a night's sleep yesterday. They've fought all day today but once you started the rotation they've all had some rest, most have had a hot meal. But you have no officers left to speak of, these are mostly militia or not much better, and—”

“But they
could
do it.”

“They
could
.”

“Get me battalion and independent company commanders in here, and anyone we have left at regimental level. Half an hour. And kick a medic for me and make sure someone puts Roger into a bed and takes a look at his leg.”

“Right away.” Patel vanished through the door again.

“All right. Freddie, Larry, Dave, find somewhere to finish your meals, and sack out someplace Patel can find you. You're all the functioning scouts I have left and there's going to be work soon. Adele, any word back from the transmissions?”

“Just a QSL from Pueblo and one from Pale Bluff. So they know what you told them.”

“Well, then you might as well take down the station and wipe it and box it for the night, and after that you're dismissed but make sure the messenger pool knows where to find you. Thanks for your help. Chris, I need you to stick around and let's—finally.”

Two men carrying a stretcher had arrived, and Roger fell asleep literally as they picked him up; the other three scouts followed along to the infirmary, leaving Jenny and Chris alone.

She turned to him and visibly forced a smile. “Well, chief of intel and staff, what do you think?” Her face hung limp and enervated; she must have seen his worry because there was a brief flicker of her beauty-pageant dazzle when she added, “Don't worry, I'll be all sparkly and vivacious for the captains in a few minutes, but right now, with you, I figure I can rest my face a little.”

“You're pretty amazing,” he said. “All right, my take on things, bwana-boss-milady, is that you did it. The only reason the tribals left a bridge standing, just barely in reach, was to sucker us into losing more time by going around the back way. They're moving as fast as they can, and the target has to be Pale Bluff.”

“Checking our thinking, why Pale Bluff? Why not go all the way down the Wabash, land on the south bank of the Ohio someplace, and put themselves totally out of reach?”

“Because Lord Robert is smart but he's not cold-blooded. He hates Pale Bluff as a symbol; it's the closest town that's still really part of the old order. And if he can shut down the airfield there, and the railroad close to it, that breaks the quickest, easiest links between Tempers and Provis, his two biggest enemies.

“But what worries me more is that now that he's gotten past the army with a horde that size, I doubt anything can stop them before Pueblo. They're going to burn out a big part of the functioning middle of the country and I don't see what we can do about it. Do you see any way we can catch them now?”

She shook her head. “Not really. But I think we have to try, at least till we're sure we can't. Lord Robert and his mob are only mortal, too, and they could run into so many kinds of trouble with what they're trying to pull off. So in case they do, I want to be right there on their back to pull them down right away. So I want to keep up the pursuit, and preserve the possibility of our having some dumb luck.” She shook her head and clicked her tongue.

“What?” Chris asked. “You just had a thought.”

“I sure did. I just thought
can my army do this?
I hate how much I'm getting to understand poor old Jeff.”

Chris Manckiewicz had spent a lifetime doing interviews, and he'd mastered the art of the quizzical look that calls forth more words long ago. Feeling like a little bit of a shit for taking advantage of her vulnerability—she looked so tired—he gave her the quizzical look, and waited.

After a moment she looked away, and stammered, “We quarreled very badly just before he was assassinated, and somehow I keep remembering I'm angry and forgetting he's dead. Uh, I hope that's off the record.”

“You know as well as I do—you're one of my best writers, whenever you have time for it—that the
Pueblo Post-Times
is dedicated to printing the legend always, and the truth when it's convenient.”

“You're a cynical guy, Mister Manckiewicz. I take it that means that my marital problems—”

“Are your own business. As for General Grayson,
de mortuis nil nisi bonum
. If you haven't figured it out yet, he may have been a hard guy to get along with, and we'll miss some of his talents, but he might be even better as a legend.”

“He was still my husband.”

“I'm sorry, it's much too soon. I spoke thoughtlessly.”

“Don't beat yourself up. You're right, he wasn't an easy man to like, not even—well, especially not—as his wife. It's just, right now when I'm scared stiff, I can't help missing him; he was the only person in the world, including me, ever to have complete confidence in me.”

“There's at least one more now, because I do. And when I write it up the way I intend to, the rest of the country will too. By the time it's officially history, everyone will understand that General Grayson was the brightest hope we had, but because his warrior widow rose to the occasion and played the part of the American Joan of Arc—”

“Oh, geahhh, yuck.”

“By the time history is written, I hope none of us will recognize ourselves.”

THE NEXT DAY. WHITEFISH, MONTANA. 2:00 PM MOUNTAIN TIME. WEDNESDAY, MAY 6, 2026.

The town square of Whitefish hadn't changed much for almost a hundred years, back before. Two buildings on its perimeter had burned in the last year, victims of the difficulty of fighting fires by nineteenth-century methods; because knocking their charred remains down was not a priority, the blackened timbers still framed the holes in the facade of the town. For similar reasons, the surrounding streets were still lined with abandoned, decaying cars, slowly being picked apart for salvage. But most of the chimneys in town sputtered little gasps of smoke into the brisk spring breeze, staining the bright blue sky, and the snow still clinging in the shadows was trampled and dirty from human traffic. The little town smelled of cold damp, woodsmoke, and outhouses, but it was still recognizably civilized.

Looking at it from the President's Residence car of “Amtrak One,” Allie said, “Such a pretty little town. I don't know if I'm more relieved that it's in such good shape, or more heartbroken that it's in such bad shape.”

“Eventually we'll put it back into good shape, and you'll just be saying, ‘What a pretty little town,' like people did back before,” Graham said. “For right now, though, it's not what it looks like, it's what it is. An intact town that's winnable in the fall election, but not in the bag. And they have a newspaper, and regular radio contact with the outside world.”

“I still . . . well, I guess it goes back to your grad seminar, doesn't it? I'll never understand why we don't just have the smart people figure out the right answer, and give it to everyone else, and they just do it.”

“The technical term is ‘democracy,' Allie.”

“Yeah, I know.” She turned to rest a shoulder on his, and run a hand down his arm. “I've enjoyed this express train ride so much. Just you and me in the car for a whole day, nothing to do but rest and eat and talk. And the ride from Olympia to here . . . well, it's still a beautiful country, isn't it? Mountains and rivers and canyons, and pretty little towns like this—behind fortified walls, and with tribals dangling from gallows by the gates . . .”

“You have a knack for the unpleasant,” he said, stroking her hair.

“Yeah. Maybe losing my whole family, maybe having Daybreak take my mind for a while, whatever, I'm not the sunshine girl I was before.” But her mouth twitched in a little smile. “You mean you don't think the gallows, and the palisades, are part of the beauty?”

“I'm a sentimental old poop, as you never tire of reminding me, sweetheart. I remember when we Americans did our killing overseas and out of sight except for what was on screens. Anyway, here we are, and—”

A guard stuck his head in and said, “Showtime in two, Mister President.”

“Thanks,” Weisbrod said. “All right. Quick review. Goals here: electoral, get stories into news media about what nice reasonable answers I give to people who don't agree with me, so that we get some favorable coverage in the Temper states, but we still reassure all our Provi supporters that I haven't sold the side out. Presidential, firm up this area's commitment to staying in the state of Montana and Montana's commitment to the Union, because there's a growing independence movement and a growing federate-with-Alberta movement and we don't want either of them to grow any bigger. What am I forgetting?”

She glanced down at her pad. “National security goal. Firm up the commitment to keep them involved in suppressing the tribals. The Whitefish city government has been conducting covert talks with Daybreakers about a separate peace. There's considerable support in the town for that and local merchants are almost openly trading with tribals. You need to tell them to cut
that
crap right away, as a last warning before we send some muscle out here to
make
them cut it. You'll be doing the nice-doggie part of the program, you might say, because I don't quite have the rock picked up yet.” She held her breath a moment as she squeezed his hand, afraid he'd reopen the genocide argument right now, while there wasn't time, or insist on some unacceptable condition at the last moment.

But he nodded. “Slipped my mind. Three sets of goals for 40 towns on this trip is 120 sets of goals. That's a lot for a guy to remember when he's at an age where a more common goal used to be getting through a day without losing my glasses.”

Recognizing her cue, she kissed him passionately and said, “You're still in shape to seduce a former student.”

“Even if it's a grad student from a quarter century—”

“Poo. The student/seducee rules it's a score and you're a stud. Now, go out there and—”