True Allegiance

“Go ahead. I’d love to tell the press just why you did. Because you couldn’t keep this country safe. You weren’t willing to make the tough choices.”

Prescott went quiet for a moment. Then, oddly, he smiled. “Well, I’ll make this tough choice, General. At least for you. You can either walk out of here and stop this nonsense, or you can keep going. If you keep going, I’ll instruct my attorney general to draw up federal charges against you for violation of Imam Omari’s civil rights. And this time, there won’t be any sending you to Afghanistan.”

“Mr. President, I would think not. You lost that country, so there wouldn’t be much to send me to, would there? I just want you to think about this, Mr. President: all those people out there would be alive today if you’d just followed my advice. I’ll tell that to every camera I can find.”

Prescott reached down to the coffee table and picked up the remote control. He flipped the channel to CNN, where the anchors continued to gush over Prescott’s big speech. “General,” he said, “I can afford a few public relations hits right now. Rally ’round the flag effect, and all that. You’ll be seen as an ungrateful rube looking to hit back at the man who saved you.

“Your time is over, General,” he concluded. “Now get out of my sight.”

Brett looked back at him as he headed toward the door. “I understand our enemies better now, Mr. President. You’re not a very credible bluffer.” He turned his back and slammed the door behind him.

Prescott woke from his nap an hour later to Tommy Bradley’s face. Written across it was panic.

“Jesus,” he grumbled, “what now?”

“Mr. President,” said Bradley, “I think you’d better come see this.”

When he stumbled his way into the living room, the footage from the television made him stop in his tracks. “REVEREND JIM CRAWFORD ASSASSINATED,” the chyron read. “WHITE SUPREMACIST GROUP WITH TIES TO ‘TERRORIST MAMA’ IMPLICATED.” Above the chyron ran the footage of continuing riots in the streets of Detroit. Then the anchors cut to some strong-jawed young black man named Levon Williams. They billed him as “Protest Leader.”

“I call for the people of my city to join me. It is time to rise up and claim our freedom,” he said.

The CNN anchor looked worried. “Levon Williams, the man you just saw there, was a close associate of the Reverend Jim Crawford. Jim Crawford, dead at fifty-four years of age, gunned down, we are told, in the bathroom of his hotel room. Crawford was in Detroit to calm tensions after the killing of eight-year-old Kendrick Malone.

“Law enforcement sources tell us that Soledad Ramirez, the fugitive wanted in connection with the bombing of government offices in Sacramento, California, earlier this year, was spotted during the chaos in the aftermath of the Crawford assassination, entering the police station. Sergeant Ricky O’Sullivan, who had just been cleared in Malone’s killing, is missing as well.”

The footage flashed to riots in Cleveland, Washington, DC, Los Angeles.

“The cities are burning,” said the anchor. “The death of Big Jim Crawford has opened wounds Americans hoped had healed long ago. We still await comment from the president of the United States on this.”

The moment had to end sometime, Prescott knew. But for it to end this quickly—for things to fall apart this quickly—felt like a blow to the stomach. He plopped back heavily onto the sofa. “Well, Tommy, what do you suggest?”

Bradley scratched his head. “Seems to me you’ve got two choices. One is to allocate resources from New York to these various cities. We’ve got governors beginning to call, asking for help from the feds; they want some of the Guard members we’ve brought here back in their states.”

President Prescott shook his head. “No. Bad imagery. You remember Ferguson. You put guns on the street, you might as well tell the media you’re a racist looking for street warfare. Next option?”

“We parlay.”

“With whom?”

Bradley pointed at the TV, where CNN flashed footage of Levon again. “Him.”

“What do we know about him?”

“Well educated. Popular. Some criminal connections. FBI has had an eye on him for a while. They say he runs a shakedown racket.”

Prescott guffawed. “So did Big Jim, and that didn’t stop anybody from sainting the bastard. Can you talk to him?”

“Will do.”

Levon had set up his headquarters inside the now-abandoned detention center. Overnight, Levon had become de facto mayor of the city.

Without the force of the National Guard to back them, the local police had fallen into a standoff position with the protesters, but Mayor Burns refused to authorize action to push Levon and his men out of the building, believing that such action would be too provocative. Levon had quickly set up a system of runners among various positions in the city—he knew enough about surveillance practices that he didn’t trust electronic communications.