Blue Hope: (Book 2) (Red Hope) Page 8

  Connie wanted to scream.

  Daggett Jennings, what have you done, she thought. So many people died and my husband was abandoned on Mars, all because you made a damned fool decision to put nuclear bombs on the Space Station?

  Both hands were now pulling at her own hair while tears streamed down her cheeks.

  For months the media had hounded the Air Force to find out who gave authorization to include the clandestine cabinet on the outside of the ISS Storage Wart. They’d focused in on two possible culprits. Neither of them was standing next to the reporter on the TV screen. It was a military person whom no reporter had ever heard of.

  The mystery man wore an ironed military suit and stared calmly into the camera.

  “General Richard Alan Fenton,” the reporter stated with the authority of a mother calling out her child. “You are now being called a whistleblower. You’re a 32-year veteran of the Air Force. You’ve been awarded several times for your secret night-time flights over the Middle East during all of the US actions in the 1990’s and early 2000’s.”

  The general nodded in agreement with all of those statements. The reporter continued.

  “General Fenton, the presidential election was not long ago. President Jennings won an overwhelming majority. He was even credited for his strong response as a so-called war-time president. Why are you just now releasing this damning evidence?”

  The general stood next to the reporter, his hands dropped to his side. He looked up at the camera again.

  “As a member of the US military, I have to support my commander in chief at all times. I didn’t want this to seem politically motivated. However, the media was hounding my superiors for a scapegoat. My commander was about to take the blame for putting the missiles on the space station and tell the media that he was responsible. But he was not responsible. He was asked by the president to do it. I was there when it happened.”

  The reporter looked at his notes.

  “How did this recorded conversation come to be?”

  “About a year ago, I was called into a special meeting with my superiors. That meeting included the president. It was about shifting budget away from DOD projects,” the general paused. “That’s Department of Defense.”

  “Yes, we know what DOD means. Go on,” the reporter assured him.

  “Anyhow, they needed to shift money away from the DOD projects and into the Mars Mission. The president suggested that we assuage the DOD’s concerns by putting some tactical small-scale nukes on the outside of the ISS module that was being built. You know, killing two birds with one stone, so to speak. The module was almost done, so this was a last minute addition.”

  “Well what were the other options?” the reporter asked.

  “Good question. We considered putting in some satellite relay packages or perhaps some information gathering hardware.”

  “Spy technology?”

  “Yes, well, call it what you want.”

  “But instead you put,” the reporter looked at his notes. “Eight B-61 thermonuclear bombs modified with rocket thrusters and guidance kits?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “You did this because the president wanted the nukes option?”

  “No, the president demanded the nukes option. Later on in the recorded conversation, he threatens to cancel many of our black-budget programs if we don’t give him nukes on the ISS.”

  “How did you happen to be recording this conversation? Is that normal protocol?”

  “No, sir. This was actually the third meeting we’d had with the president. I felt his decision was so reckless that I’d obtained a recording device as a way to, well, protect myself and my superiors in case anything went wrong.”

  The reporter flipped through his notes, stopping at a page about Chris Tankovitch’s witness appearance in Congress.

  “In the hearings before Congress, the former NASA administrator Chris Tankovitch mentioned something about the arming mechanisms?”

  “Yes, they were sent up to the ISS partially armed just in case.”

  “Just in case what?”

  “Just in case there was a data communication failure. Somebody on the ISS would be able to trigger the last remaining launch protocols.”

  “But we had a total communication failure, not just data,” the savvy reporter said.

  “That’s right.”

  “But they still launched,” the reporter stated. “And tens of thousands of innocent Americans died because of our president?”

  “Yes. Unfortunately, that is true. And more continue to get sick.”

  The TV image switched back to the news anchor sitting in the studio. He was on the phone and quickly put it down when he saw himself on the live-feed camera again.

  “Hang on there, guys — General Fenton, pardon me. I’ve just found out that the president is about to have a press conference. General, will you stay with us?”

  “Yes, of course,” the general said.

  Connie continued to watch the TV with unbreakable attention. Cody sat next to her on the couch. He didn’t understand what was being said, but he knew it was serious.

  The glowing image on her screen switched over to a hastily assembled press conference in the new White House media room. The president’s press secretary was speaking, but the audio wasn’t working. The press secretary stepped away. A few seconds later, the president of the United States of America walked up to the podium. He jumped right into his statement.

  “My fellow Americans,” he paused and leaned to somebody to the side. “Is the audio working now, guys?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” came a chorus of voices from the press corps.

  “Okay, everybody just sit down. As many of you already know, our nation, and the world for that matter, experienced a terrible tragedy a few months ago that will take years to recover from. Some families never will. I want you to know that I made decisions that, well, some might call reckless,” he said, using a word that the general had used. The president took a drink of water.

  “But, reckless is the wrong word. I made these decisions to help plan for the long-term safety of our nation - to have an Ace up our sleeve in case our enemies ever tried to hold our feet to the fire.”

  The press corps erupted with questions.

  “Hang on, folks, I’ll get to your questions in a minute,” he assured them. “Last week the American people re-elected myself and my Vice-President Beatrice Bexar. They voted with their feet by going to the polls. They liked what we were doing. They liked what we had done. Especially the recovery efforts from the nuclear attack. They wanted four more years. Well, this latest revelation throws a wrench into the works, I admit.”

  “But you knew the truth all along, Mr. President?” yelled reporters.

  The president held his palms up to calm them down. He stared at the top of the lectern, deep in thought about his next words.

  “I want you to know that Ms. Bexar will make a great President.”

  The room suddenly got quiet.

  “She has worked tirelessly for this nation. As a middle-of-the-road populist, she has always fought for the middle class and she doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. More importantly, she had no part in this whole bomb misunderstanding.”

  The sound of silence was overwhelming.

  The TV viewers at home heard a muffled I think he’s resigning from one of the on-air reporters.

  The press room filled with whispered conversations.

  “President Jennings! Are you resigning?” a reporter yelled from the front of the room.

  “I’m getting to that,” President Jennings said as he took a long drink of water, savoring it.

  He had an uneasy smile. The room grew quiet.

  "You may have noticed a familiar face sitting over on the side of the stage today. I’d like to introduce Robert Donaher, the United States Secretary of State," the president said, pointing to an older gentleman in a dark suit holding his arms crossed. "Mr. Donaher, could you please join
me here at the lectern?"

  Mr. Donaher eased out of the chair and walked over to the president. They shook hands like old friends and Mr. Donaher took his place, standing next to President Jennings.

  "Thank you Secretary Donaher,” the president said with a smile before turning back to the crowd of journalists. “I have done everything I could to make this nation better and safer. A lot of accusations are going around today, but even if I did approve putting nuclear weapons in space, unknowingly endangering the crew, well, I did it to maintain our military advantage. The last thing I want is a fair fight. As your president, I have done many good things — among them, I want you to remember that I sent humans to Mars and led this country through the aftermath of a small scale atomic war."

  "Yes, but Mr. President, you caused the war!" a reporter yelled.

  The president bit his tongue and pointed his finger at that reporter.

  "You guys used to love me,” the president said, his eyes welling up with fake tears. “Didn't you? You loved me. What fickle friends you all are. You people, this press corps, you’re nothing but a viper’s nest and I refuse to let you use me as a punching bag. I have done nothing wrong. Absolutely nothing."

  “A nuclear war is not nothing!” a voice yelled from the back of the room.

  The president leaned down to the microphone and squinted his eyes to see the back of the room.

  “Who said that?” the president ask angrily. “I demand to know who said that!”

  The rest of the press corps was silent. Only coughs and pen clicks could be heard.

  “I guess there’s not a single Spartacus among you all. I suppose my next step will satisfy your bloodlust.”

  The president closed his eyes and reached into the breast pocket of his suit. He reluctantly grabbed something that had the weight of his lifetime in it. He pulled out a letter and handed it to Secretary of State Donaher.

  "With this letter, I hereby resign as president of the United States — effective immediately."

  The press room erupted into chaos.

  Among the noise, President Jennings shook Mr. Donaher's hand again and then walked over to his press secretary to shake his hand, too. The press secretary, looking shell-shocked and freshly unemployed, refused to shake the president's hand. The photographers went wild — a guaranteed front page photo opportunity.

  The president looked bewildered as he turned toward the journalists in the room. He was blinded by all of the flashes.

  "I have one last message to the press corps. This one is very sincere."

  "Speak louder!" yelled the reporters, noting that the president was no longer near a microphone.

  "I said," the president yelled, "I have one last message for the press corps."

  He raised both hands high above his head, giving the middle finger to the reporters in the room. He continuously thrusted his hands in the air, making sure that every reporter saw it.

  Back in Fort Worth, Connie leaped for the remote control and smashed down the power button. The TV turned off.

  "Mommy, what was the president doing?"

  "He was demonstrating a new way to say goodbye."

  "Oh, can I do that, too?"

  "No, no, no," Connie said. "That's only for presidents."

  "Okay," Cody agreed.

  "Let's go play outside," she said.

  Television cameras followed the former president as he walked across the lawn from the press room toward a waiting helicopter. A marine saluted him as he boarded the aircraft. The former president went straight to the pilot.

  "Get me the hell out of here."

  "Sir, the control tower at Andrews Air Force Base told us they are seeing reports of wind shear — all incoming flights are being delayed thirty minutes."

  "I can't wait that long," the president said. "Get us up in the air, pronto."

  "Sir, it's not safe right now. We recommend you take the limo to Andrews."

  "You want me to walk out of this helicopter in front of all those bloodthirsty reporters and do a perp walk across the lawn to the limo? The press would have a field day with that. I command you to fly me to Andrews Air Force Base."

  The pilot shook his head.

  "Frankly, you are no longer the president and, unless getting you to Andrews is a national emergency, I cannot risk the safety of this aircraft and its crew just because you want to fly."

  The president leaned down to the pilot and his copilot.

  "Young man, I’ll beg if I have to… please give me the dignity of one last flight."

  The pilot looked at the co-pilot. They exchanged a look that said they realized how dangerous it would be. They shouldn't go. It's not safe. However, former President Jennings was still their boss in spirit — at least until they dropped him off at Andrews Air Force Base.

  "Please take a seat," the pilot said.

  The president went back and sat down.

  The pilot advanced the throttle on the engine and lifted up on the collective pitch handle. The aircraft slowly ascended into the sky.

  "Andrews tower, this is Marine Two, we are inbound with golden cargo," the pilot said.

  "Negative, Marine Two, do not approach. Still getting reports of micro-burst wind shears."

  "Roger that, Tower, if there is no other traffic, we'd like to make approach."

  "Marine Two, no other traffic in vicinity, but the shears are strong. Can you wait thirty minutes?"

  “Negative, Andrews,” the pilot said, looking at his copilot. “It’s… an emergency.”

  The pilot turned around to look at the former president who stared back at the pilot and said, "Let's get this show on the road already. Come on!"

  "Andrews tower, we are inbound with golden cargo."

  Having shut off the TV, Connie and the kids played happily in the back yard. Had they been watching the news, they would've seen the chaos in the press room after the president resigned. They would've seen Vice President Bexar being whisked away from the National Library Association’s yearly lunch to be sworn in as president. They would've seen the initial reports of a helicopter accident just inside the property line of Andrews Air Force Base. They would've heard the news of the two marines and their passenger that all perished in the accident.

  But Connie and the kids didn't hear that news. Instead, they played happily on the swingset until the last rays of sunset shone on their smiling faces.

  CHAPTER 15

  The president’s office

  New White House

  Reston, Virginia

  (One week later)

  “Let me know when he answers,” President Bexar spoke into her phone. She set the receiver down and spun in her chair to face out the window, just barely able to see the Pentagon far to the east from the new White House.

  Her phone rang. She reached back and grabbed it.

  “Hi, is this Chris Tankovitch?” she asked.

  “Yes, Madam President. How can I help you?” a tinny sounding voice asked, obviously from a cellphone.

  “Chris, I want you to know that I always liked you and what you did for the NASA and the Mars mission.”

  “Thank you, President Bexar.”

  “I’ve just fired Howard Kelty, the NASA director who President Jennings picked to replace you.”

  “In all honesty, he was as boorish as they come.”

  The president laughed at the elitist language that Chris used.

  “That leaves me with a problem,” the president said. “I need somebody I can trust to run NASA right now.”

  Chris had a sudden infusion of hope.

  She’s going to ask me to run NASA again, he thought.

  “Obviously, I can’t pick you,” she said, crushing his hopes. “But who would you recommend to run NASA now? I trust your opinion.”

  Chris thought for a long moment. Everybody who had followed him up the chain of command at NASA had ultimately stabbed him in the back. Except for one person – she’d kept her opinions silent. At first Chris couldn’t believe
he was going to say it. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. But finally, her name fell from his lips.

  “Alexis,” he said. “Tankovitch.”

  “But isn’t she your...”

  “Ex-wife, yes,” he said uncomfortably. “She is, but she’s also the best project manager I’ve ever seen in action. And she’s one of the most executive members of the remaining team at NASA. She’ll do a good job.”

  “Are you sure? Her main office will be down near you in Fort Worth.”

  Wow, he thought. Chris once told himself that he would never speak to her again. He would never lay eyes on her again. And yet, he just recommended her to run NASA. Sometimes the heart and the brain of a man don’t always get the same memo.

  “Madam President, you won’t regret hiring her to run NASA.”

  But I might, Chris thought as the smile left his face.

  CHAPTER 16

  Alston family home

  Fort Worth, Texas

  (One month later)

  “Any word, yet?” Connie asked. She paced around the kitchen island while talking on the phone and hobbling on her crutches.

  On the other end of the line was Chris Tankovitch.

  “No, nothing yet,” he sighed. “We were able to power up the deep-space antenna complexes and we’ve made contact with the Odyssey satellite orbiting Mars, but, still, no signal from the crew on Mars. Hopefully they are midway through the return trip.”

  Connie let out a sigh of frustration.

  “Okay. So, now that power is relatively reliable, I’m going through with the back surgery. It was all paid for before the bombs hit and I’m ready for something to take my mind off my worries about Adam. The surgery is scheduled for Monday.”

  “Hang on,” Chris said. He covered the phone to ask somebody nearby a question.