Authors: Murray McDonald
If they were aiming to project menace, the slow speed certainly worked. However, the reason for their slow pace soon became blatantly clear. Despite the overwhelming noise of the engines, the sound of boots marching on the tarmac became clear. A wall of men in full riot gear were walking in a line the width of the four-lane road, turning the corner with military precision. Not an inch of exposed skin was visible, and their helmets, visors, and neck protectors gave no clue as to whether they were human or some kind of high tech robots.
Marching in perfect unison, row upon row, perfectly spaced, each man was armed with a shield in one hand, a long baton in the other, and a holstered sidearm. FPS was stamped across their backs. Over one thousand men followed the sixty trucks containing approximately 700 men. Although outnumbered over ten to one by protestors, the protestors wouldn’t stand a chance. The men were so well protected, it was unlikely anything other than a bullet would have any effect on them. Even then, from the protective look of their outfits, that would have to be a well placed bullet.
It was a show of force and Joe couldn’t help think a very orchestrated one. Somebody wanted to make a point. He wondered about the message that the couple had received to join the protest. He walked across to the bus station, where the TV was showing footage of clashes between protestors and the force that had passed by.
“It all kicked off about a half hour ago,” whispered a man as Joe joined the small crowd watching the screen.
He wondered how that could be, they weren’t even at the park yet. Until he noticed Ferguson, Missouri was the location. The protestors were being crushed by the overwhelming force and organization of the FPS. Whoever the FPS were, they were seriously well trained. And if Joe had to guess, he’d have said all were military trained. The discipline they displayed was second to none in the heat of action.
Any doubt Joe had that somebody was putting on a show to introduce America to the all new and shiny FPS force disappeared. The protestors had been corralled exactly as they had been in Atlanta. The concrete barriers kept the protestors where the authorities wanted them and the FPS waded through relentlessly.
The same images were being beamed live across the country. The primetime performance of the power and effectiveness of the FPS had President Caldwell lost for words. He sat in stunned silence, watching the scenes play out, protestors swept aside by powerful water cannons before being beaten back by the shields and batons of the FPS officers.
The Ferguson protest was over within an hour, Atlanta in less time than that. With the sun still to set in L.A., only small localized protests had been reported.
“Well, they’re not messing about!” Val exclaimed, joining Clay in the lounge.
“No, most definitely not.” Clay squirmed when slow motion footage of a baton hitting a soaked and disorientated protestor was replayed.
“You never mentioned them.”
“The FPS?” Clay said furiously.
Val took a step back, Clay never took his anger out on her.
“Sorry,” he said, calming himself. “I didn’t mention it because I didn’t know anything about it. The FPS are, or should I say
were
, a small federal security team, nothing like this!”
A knock on their lounge door interrupted their conversation.
“Yes?” Val called.
The door opened to reveal Bill Miller, a man who would be able to explain what was happening.
“Before you say a word,” he said preemptively, “I knew nothing about this!” he said, indicating to the TV screen.
“How in the hell could neither of you know?” asked Val, voicing an opinion that would be heard across the nation if either of the men said the same in public.
“Get the Secretary of Homeland Security in here now!” Clay ordered.
Bill was hitting dial on his cell when the Watch Commander from the Situation Room knocked and poked his head in.
“Mr. President, apologies for disrupting your evening but I have the governors of New York, Illinois, and Texas requesting assistance from the FPS teams. We’ve got unrest being reported in pretty much ever major city.”
“We’ll come down to the Situation Room, can you give us a minute or two?” Clay instructed.
When the Watch Commander closed the door, Clay said, “Bill, find out what the hell is going on before we get asked questions we can’t answer!”
Leading the way to the Situation Room, Bill hit dial as they walked. It went straight to voicemail. He tried the FEMA administrator with the same result.
Clay arrived at the Situation Room, none the wiser as to who or how the FPS had become the force he had just witnessed. The Watch Commander noted his arrival and joined them both in the main conference room.
“We’ve received another two calls from state governors,”
Clay was barely listening. The TV screens lining the conference room were showing major unrest across major cities, exactly what they had predicted would happen. However, watching cars and stores burn and people wrestling with police officers on the streets of his country did not make the fact they expected it any easier.
“How are things in Ferguson, Atlanta, and L.A.?”
“Contained, Mr. President. The FPS force made over a thousand arrests across the three cities and from what we can gather have prevented any further outbreaks.”
“So our three hotspots are in effect the least of our problems?” Clay asked, addressing Bill.
The entrance of the Homeland Secretary and FEMA administrator could not have been orchestrated more perfectly.
“Our plan has worked even better than anticipated, Mr. President,” cooed the secretary as they entered the room.
“Can you give us the room?” Clay asked the watch commander. “What the fuck was that?” he snapped the instant the door clicked closed behind him.
“What?” the Homeland Secretary looked at Bill and the FEMA administrator.
“The fucking FPS, whatever they are!”
“What do you mean whatever they are?”
“What do I mean? What do you
mean
, what do I mean?” Clay shouted. To him, it was clear, the two men in front of him were part of the conspiracy, had killed his friends, and were threatening his family.
“The Federal Protective Service, they—”
“I know what it fucking stands for.” He was using all his powers of control not to reach down the Homeland Secretary’s throat and rip him a new asshole.
“They provide security for FEMA when required,” continued the secretary, his voice wavering. President Caldwell was an imposing figure at the best of times, an ex-Marine, tall, and powerfully built. In a fury, he was truly terrifying.
“I witnessed our citizens being steamrollered by what looked like a mechanized fucking division!” he shouted. “It was fucking carnage. Men and women in shorts and t-shirts being beaten by…by…I don’t know, fucking Stormtroopers or something!”
The secretary looked desperately at his subordinate, the FEMA administrator, for support. Both were speechless under the onslaught from Clay.
“We’re not supposed to have military equipment on the streets. We put a stop to selling it to law enforcement years ago yet there they were hundreds of armored assault vehicles on our streets, fighting our citizens. They still had their gun turrets for—”
“They’ve been converted to water cannon as per…” the FEMA Administrator interrupted cautiously.
“As per what?” Clay fumed.
“Your instructions, Mr. President.”
For thirty-four-year old Eric Warner, the unrest that had broken out in Birmingham, Alabama was the ultimate test. Following the untimely and tragic death a few weeks earlier of his boss, the relatively young and untried lieutenant governor had had to step up and take on the role of governor. Many had questioned the old governor’s endorsement of the young lawyer for lieutenant governor although nobody could fault his credentials. He had been top of his class at Harvard Law before shunning the corporate world and returning to his home town and the Birmingham Prosecutor’s office, where as a prosecutor he had a one hundred percent record in court. Jurors loved him, in particular female voters. Eric Warner was photogenic, not simply political candidate photogenic, catalogue model photogenic.
The governor’s endorsement had upset many within the Republican party who believed another candidate should have had his chance instead of Eric, who should have waited his turn. However, the governor, along with other supporters, curried huge favor and Eric Warner won the primary with ease.
The death of the governor from a heart attack had elevated Eric to governor just a few months after his election, and overnight, the young, unproven politician was the Chief Executive Officer and Commander-in-Chief of the great State of Alabama.
A daunting prospect for the soon to be thirty-five-year old young man. A full nine years younger than the next youngest governor currently serving and unfortunately thanks to his age amongst other factors, under ten times more media scrutiny than any other governor. With a catwalk model wife announcing her pregnancy mere days after being elevated to governor, there was hardly a broadsheet paper or lifestyle magazine that did not feature the beautiful couple.
He had called a press conference the day after his inauguration and made his tenure as governor clear. He was going to be tough on crime. During his time as prosecutor, he had witnessed the worst that Alabama had to offer and he was going to make sure that he would do everything in his power to stop the horror and tragedy of violent crime affecting any more Alabama citizens.
First up, he was calling time on death row inmates. Alabama had the laws and processes in place to discourage crime, they just weren’t enforcing them effectively enough. Alabama had the highest number of death row inmates per capita of any state, yet still had one of the highest murder rates. His answer for that was simple, over 75% of the inmates on death row had spent over fifteen years in jail, some over thirty, despite being sentenced to death. Apart from the financial burden those prisoners put on the law abiding citizenry, the death sentence wasn’t working as a deterrent.
His solution was to fast track the death row process. He wanted five years maximum between sentence and execution. Courts were going to be instructed to ensure that all death row appeals and procedures were heard as a matter of urgency. Justice would still be upheld, it was just going to happen a lot quicker. Of the 197 death row inmates, 171 had been incarcerated for over five years. Alabama was going to have a clear out, he had promised to great applause.
He promised that every cent saved from housing death row inmates would be plowed directly back into front-line policing, together with a further multi-million dollar investment in law enforcement. Governor Eric Warner had added a number of promises over employment programs for the long term unemployed, tax breaks, and a major drive to encourage international investment into Alabama. It was an impressive rise to the major stage from a young politician. The hard talking, no nonsense governor was an overnight sensation, but despite everything he had said and done, he couldn’t shake the main reason for the overwhelming interest in him and Alabama.
Every reference in the media still led with the same three words before his name, “
the President’s nephew
, Governor Eric Warner.”
With Birmingham in flames, rioters running wild, and honest law abiding Alabamians fearing for their safety, for the first time since his inauguration as Governor, Eric picked up the phone to call his uncle. He needed some help to keep his promises alive.
The final boarding call interrupted the news reports that had engrossed the bus passengers in the station. The thin fabric that held America together was fraying badly. The underlying race issues that nobody had wanted to admit still existed had boiled over into a night of unrest never before seen in the world’s most democratic nation. From the reports flooding in from across the nation, there wasn’t a major conurbation in the country that had not had experienced some level of unrest. Major cities were faring the worst, burnt out cars and pitched battles seemed to be the norm, white against black, white and black against law enforcement. Wherever the footage came from, the images were similar. Except for the three most feared trouble spots—L.A., Atlanta, and Ferguson—areas hotly tipped throughout the day to bear the brunt of the violence and unrest, law and order had been restored swiftly and without any major incident.
The FPS were on every anchor’s lips as the news reports of unrest from other cities flooded in throughout the night. Nobody seemed to know anything about them other than the information already available. They were a law enforcement agency under the Homeland Security banner providing security for government facilities, and policing duties for FEMA when called upon. Nothing like what had been witnessed that day, and no one from the government seemed able to explain their new role.
The bus leaving from Atlanta was only half full. If Joe hadn’t needed to travel, he’d not have bothered, given the unrest. Sandy was curled in a ball on the seat next him. He stretched out his hand. The shake was becoming far more noticeable, his head pounded, and he was drenched in sweat. All in all, he felt as bad as he had felt in a very long time. He had been worse, his nightmares would visit and remind him soon enough, of that fact he was certain. He had chosen not to visit a liquor store in Atlanta. Whether he wanted to or not, there was no way to get a drink in any event. It was going to be a long and very hard night. He threw back four painkillers and washed them down with two pints of water. Among other things, the pharmacist had recommended keeping well hydrated. The other things he couldn’t afford, water he could.
***
“When is the attack going to happen?” shouted Uday.
Joe could barely hear him. The electricity surging through him was killing every one of his senses, bar his ability to feel pain. Sweat poured from him, the electricity igniting every receptor in his body, heating him to his very core. The relief from the cold was better than the pain. His hunger forgotten, he almost wished they’d not stop. The instant he wished, the electricity stopped. His body wet from sweat felt the cold more profoundly as the dramatic switch from hot to cold robbed him of the relief.
“When is the attack going to happen?” repeated Uday, lowering his voice, fully aware of the impact of his work and how best to work his prisoners.
“I told you already,” Joe managed weakly.
“We don’t believe you!”
“So why ask me?”
A punch to his jaw loosened another tooth. Joe wrestled it with his tongue and spat it on the floor.
Uday nodded to his colleague, and the battery was reconnected. Joe smiled as the heat flooded through him once again.
“Stop,” said Uday.
Joe had made a mistake, the smile.
“Ah, I see.” Uday waved to his colleagues to remove the cabling and battery.
Joe had shown his hand to a master torturer. His body began to shake, the coldness of the concrete cell biting at his sweat ridden body. The shaking increased, becoming more and more violent, his body swaying from side to side.
A low grumbling growl joined the swaying. Joe looked down to his stomach, the pain of hunger.
***
Joe woke to Sandy staring up at him, growling as she tugged at his shirt, pulling him awake. He had been fighting against her in his sleep.
“You okay, buddy?” asked a fellow passenger, concern in his voice.
Joe took a second, not fully aware of his surroundings.
“You okay?” the passenger asked again, rising from his seat.
“I’m fine, mind your own business!” Joe snapped.
The passenger sat back down, grumbling to his partner.
Joe felt a wave of nausea. The disorientation wasn’t leaving him. He placed his hand on Sandy’s head and despite shaking uncontrollably managed a reassuring pat that stopped her low growl. She lay her head in his lap and he rested his shaking hand on her back. After the wave of nausea passed he took a sip of water and checked the clock above the driver’s head at the front of the bus. One hour. They had only been on the road for an hour. It was going to be a very long night.