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“IS AMERICA TOO BIG TO FAIL?” The letters were projected in all capitals on the screen and the professor’s stentorian tones echoed for a moment as the screen faded to black and the lights in the small classroom came back on. Anthony O’Brien swung his feet off of the desk, rolling his eyes as the students, mostly freshmen, burst into spontaneous applause like they did every year.
Kids today, he thought with cynicism as the applause faded away. So easy to hook with flashy slogans and fancy speeches. It made him sick, it really did, but that was higher education today. Professors were rock stars now, brands, franchises, trademarks; some of them still carried the contagious arrogance that infected many denizens of the Ivory Tower Academia of the twentieth century. Others had realized that actually being good at your job and you know, a decent educator could actually make you a pile of money these days.
But Anthony rolled his eyes because he knew that professor Adam Clarke fell into the former category rather than the latter. He was an arrogant son-of-a-bitch who enjoyed putting on a profanity-laced fireworks show to shock his students into awestruck silence at the supposed depths of his knowledge. ‘Is America Too Big To Fail?’ was his opening lecture every fall semester and it was a hit, each and every time.
Anthony stood up, reached into his pocket, and placed his two phones on top of the white, polished, flat panel in front of him. He reached down to press a button that raised the panel (his personal classroom command and control unit) to the usual height he liked. As it rose, the panel began to power up and Anthony reached out to reposition both of his phones. They were identical in every way except one. The first was Anthony’s personal phone and the other one was his work phone. The work phone never rang. Well, almost never.
“Is America too big to fail?” Anthony began. “This is the central question we’ll be tackling this semester.” He pressed a button and the walls of the classroom, seemingly bare, opaque glass came to life with a gigantic map of the United States that wrapped itself around the room. “Seems like everyone these days always wants to know exactly what happened to America. What went wrong?”
“We know most of the story already,” he said and pressed another button on the panel. This one brought up a series of images on the wall behind him that were familiar to everyone in the room: the shattered shell of the Capitol Building after the bomb, Los Angeles burning, and the wreckage of a 747 in San Francisco. Washington, D.C. was destroyed and The West Coast was devastated.
“The army of bureaucrats, hidden away in bunkers in the Appalachians for such an apocalypse, our shadow government emerged and took charge. Together with the governors, they signed the Treaty of Philadelphia to give the Federal Council some shred of legitimacy for a period of national reconstruction for five years except they didn’t want to give up power when their five years were up.”
“Then came the Revolt,” he said. More images appeared, this time of the fighting that had gripped the Midwest fifteen years before: the shattered city of Madison after it fell to advancing Federal forces, Alliance troops retreating from Omaha, and the governor of Minnesota evacuating her capitol. “And five years later, another Uprising- this time in Southern Minnesota. Another five years after that and,” he finished, “here we are.” The map moved one last time to hover over the upper Midwest. “North,” a sizeable chunk of southern Minnesota was circled in red “and south,” the same thing happened to a chunk of Eastern Iowa, “we are the Free Territories- and if you want to learn about the Revolt and all its glory, you’re in the wrong class.” There was laughter at that.
“Today, things aren’t much better though,” Anthony said. “Sure we’re free, but the very existence of the Territories seems to have threatened the cohesion of the United States like nothing else since the Civil War.” The map zoomed over to North Carolina, a red dot appearing over Asheville. “When the Southern Party issued The Asheville Declaration in 1999, they were laughed at. Now, they’re in control of two statehouses and are the official opposition in half a dozen more,” The map zoomed westward to the Pacific Northwest. “Not to be outdone, five years ago, secessionists in Oregon and Washington issued the Astoria Proclamation that called for the formation of the Republic of Cascadia.”
The map moved southward. “Then, of course, there’s poor California. The rebels from the Jefferson Uprising five years back managed to keep the northern third of California stirred up, while Fremontists calling for independence gain support all over the state.” The map moved southeast until was hovering over Arizona and New Mexico. “The FLEN also known as the Front for the Liberation of the Northern States- of Mexico that is, have been engaging in full-scale bombing campaigns for years now...” and finally the map stopped over Texas. “And Texas just wants out, plain and simple.”
“Let ‘em go,” someone snickered at the back of the classroom. “Who needs ‘em anyway?”
“Fair enough,” Anthony replied with a slight grin of his own. “But if we let them go, what happens to the rest of them? Where do we draw the line? What happens to America then? Which brings us back to the question of the day: is America too big to fail?”
The question hung in the air for a moment until the silence was broken by the sound of Anthony’s phone vibrating on the control panel.
“Hey, no fair!” A student protested from the back of the classroom. “What about the signal jammers?”
It was his second phone, the one that never rang. He picked it up and opened it. It was a simple message: General Casey assassinated. He needed to get to the office. Now. He looked up with a grin.
“I’m a better hacker than you are,” he replied. “And, I know this is going to thrill you all to no end,” he continued, “but we’re going to have to leave it there for today. Don’t worry,” he said, slipping both his phones back into his pocket as he shut down the control panel. “It’s only the first day of class, so I’ve got plenty of time to make it up to you all.”
Anthony wasted no time. Once he had left the classroom he took off down the hallway running, remembering the day, nearly seven years ago now that he had been recruited into the Territorial Intelligence Service.
The Territorial Government held fast to their position of the non-existence of their intelligence services, which annoyed Anthony, as he was required to maintain some semblance of official cover while at the same time serving as Minister Without Portfolio in the Cabinet. Thankfully, graduate school had become more relaxed in these days of massive online courses and low-cost, quality education. Now it was not uncommon for PhD students to go to school half time and work a full-time job while they pursued their doctorate; a fact Anthony took advantage of as he had only just passed his comprehensive exams last semester and intended to take his sweet time writing his dissertation.
As he flung himself down the first flight of stairs toward the basement he reminded himself, not for the first time that he did not have to be in graduate school. There were plenty of other jobs he could have taken that were far less stressful and would have allowed him to do this job better. He could have gotten a mid-level, eight to five, government gig making coffee and shuffling papers; but he had made a promise and he intended to keep it.
His memories of The Great Revolt were murky. He had been around five years old when it had begun and he and his mother fled as the fighting spread into Southern Minnesota. The next year was a blur, moving from refugee camp to refugee camp as the noose tightened around the Alliance forces until the ceasefire was declared and they began, like so many others to struggle to carve out a new existence in the confusion and chaos of the early days of The Free Territories.
His mother had tried, he remembered. She had tried so hard, working two, three jobs to get him into the best school she could. Education, she’d tell him, is the silver bullet. You get everything you can out of it and then you can go anywhere. He believed her and had worked hard, through high school and into college but then, cancer came. Nano-treatments were still in their infancy seven years ago and they had tried everything to no avail. She held on long enough to see him graduate college before succumbing to the disease.
The one promise she extracted from him was to get his Doctorate- a dream of her own that had been swept aside in the chaos of the Revolt. He had readily agreed, planning on getting one anyway but that had been before they had recruited him and before-
Now. He reached the basement where an unobtrusive, plain wooden door, identical to every other door in the building was in front of him with a simple hand scanner next to it. There were dozens of doors just like this scattered and hidden throughout the rebuilt University Campus. He placed his palm on the hand scanner and waited for the click of the locks releasing before stepping inside to the small elevator lobby beyond. He stepped up to the retina scanner, waited for a moment, and then the elevator doors opened. He stepped inside, the doors closed behind him, and the elevator began its plunge downwards.
~~
The office had exploded into chaos by the time he got there. People were rushing around, phones ringing. The news had hit the Territorial Government like a bomb and hundreds of people had sprung into action to try to figure out what to do next.
Shannon was waiting for him, clad in her usual cowboy boots, jeans, leather coat, and t-shirt. “Took you long enough,” she said.
“It took me three minutes to get here and you know it,” he replied.
“She’s here,” Ramirez replied. “She wants us in The Bunker.” They both started walking down the long, concrete-lined hallway ahead of them that formed the main artery of the sprawling underground complex of offices housing the Territorial Ministry of Defense.
With space at a premium in those early, cramped days after The Revolt, with refugees and dissidents pouring in from every direction, the new Territorial Government had either two choices- build-up or burrow down. And with no missile defenses at the time, they burrowed down and burrowed deep.
“Hey wait!” They both stopped and turned as the breathless, slight figure of Angela Wu, backpack still strapped across her back, came running up. “I came as soon as I heard,” she said. “He was really assassinated?”
“Yes,” Shannon said.
“Did you have any whisper of this from our people on the East Coast?” Anthony asked. Angela was in charge of the massive, intricate network of spies and informants that fed the growing number of dissidents that sprang up on college campuses all across the country faster than the Federal Council could crack down on them.
Angela shook her head. “No, we’ve heard nothing. This came out of the blue.” Her eyes narrowed a bit. “There was some news from Minneapolis though.”
“What?”
“The Independence Party is organizing again.”
Shannon snorted. “We hear that rumor every two years. Never happens.”
Angela shrugged as they reached their destination. “Word is they’ve got a full slate of candidates they’re ready to announce. And soon.”
At the center of this massive underground complex that made up the bulk of the government offices of the Free Territories, was a long room known as The Bunker. Every inch of wall space was covered in computer monitors displaying different information, news channels and at the far end, a display with the United States and different military forces and bases illuminated in red.
Prime Minister Chelsea Andrews was looking furious as they entered. She was standing at her usual place at the head of the long table, her hair pulled back into its usual tight ponytail. “Where the hell is O’Brien?”
“I’m here,” Anthony replied.
“What do you know?” Chelsea said.
“We’re working our usual sources,” Shannon said. “We’re getting information quickly now.”
“So you know as much as CNN does?”
“Sir?” A young military aide stationed along the wall beckoned to Anthony. “I’ve got a phone call for you.” As Shannon kept briefing Chelsea, Anthony stepped to the phone and listened for a moment. “When? Are they closing the air corridor?” He placed his hand over the receiver. “They’re closing the border.”
Stunned silence greeted that statement.
“When?” Chelsea asked.
“Right now,” Anthony said. “They’re leaving the air corridor open.” He went back to the phone for a moment. “When did they- already? Send me everything you’ve got through secure channels.” Then he hung up.
“It gets worse,” Anthony said. “They’ve already selected Casey’s replacement. General Nathan Miller.”
“Damn,” Chelsea said. “The hardliner of hardliners.”
“The hardliners on the Council have been waiting for a moment like this for years,” Anthony said. ”I’m surprised it took them this long.”
“I don’t understand why they would have moved so fast,” Chelsea said. “It makes no sense. You don’t just replace General Casey with any warm body.”
“We’ve got something.” Shannon had been talking with one of their couriers. “A signal from a source in Mankato. An old source... haven’t seen this code since The Revolt.”
“Let me see,” Anthony said. She handed it over to him. Anthony frowned as he read it. “This is old.” He passed it over to Chelsea. “Ring any bells?”
There was a flicker of surprise on her face, so quickly Anthony thought he must have imagined it. Then Chelsea pushed back from the table and stood up. “Everybody, we’re going to need the room.”
The room began to empty. “Shannon, Angela, stay a minute,” Anthony said. Both Shannon and Angela froze as the rest of the room emptied until the three of them were left alone with Chelsea.
None of them said anything for a long moment until Chelsea spoke. “Say something already.”
“Our analysts think the Cubs have a shot this year.”
“Really?”
“They’re the hottest team in baseball.”
“ESPN could tell me the exact same thing,” Chelsea sighed. “Tax dollars well spent, I see.”
Anthony smiled. “Who’s the signal from?”
“An old friend,” Chelsea said, pulling her chair back from the table and sitting again. Anthony slipped into the chair opposite. “I actually thought he was dead,” Chelsea said. “He was my original NSA contact.”
“Mike?” Anthony asked.
“You read the file, I see.”
“Well, it is my job.”
“Smartass.”
“You get grumpier the older you get you know.”
“And how old is that?” Chelsea asked, arching an eyebrow at him.
“Twenty-nine,” he replied.
“Good man,” she said. “Now what are we looking at?”
“Our board was clear this morning,” Anthony said. “Unless we got something in the past couple of hours?”
Shannon shook her head. “Nothing- except what Angela reported.”
“And that could be nothing as well,” Angela replied.
“What?” Chelsea asked.
“There are reports out of Minneapolis that the Independence Party is re-organizing, with a full slate of candidates for the fall elections.”
Chelsea shrugged. “We hear that a lot. It’s talk.”
“Given what just happened, I’m no longer comfortable taking anything for granted,” Anthony said. “If it’s true...”
“You make a good point.”
“Angela, let’s get you up to Minneapolis. Find out how real this is and try to keep them out of trouble. If this gets out of control it could cause a world of chaos up there.”
Angela nodded.
“Can we have the room?” Chelsea asked. Shannon and Angela nodded and headed for the door. When the door closed behind them, Chelsea got right to the point.
“Anything from Merlin?”
It was a longstanding source of irritation to Anthony that Chelsea would not reveal the identity of the most highly placed double agent the Free Territories had. She had guarded that secret for nearly twenty years now and despite Anthony’s occasional entreaties and outright demands, she still would not reveal Merlin’s identity. “The less you know, the better,” was her inevitable rejoinder.
“Regular check-in isn’t for a couple of days. I doubt Merlin would break protocol unless Miller was going to open full hostilities.”
“All right,” Chelsea said. “Let’s wait and see what Merlin has to say.” She pushed back from the table and stood up. “I’ve got to brief the rest of the cabinet.”
“What do you want me to do about this?” Anthony held up the sheet of paper.
“Go to Mankato,” Chelsea said. “Find out what he’s got to say. I can’t imagine given today’s events that his re-emergence is coincidental.”