POTUS: A Political Fantasy in Three Parts

By T.C. Owen

POTUS: A POLITICAL FANTASY is the story of a semi-reluctant hero acting for the people of the United States and the world, as well as the Universe at large. The improbability of his election to the presidency is offset by the prodigious efforts he makes to accomplish a simple goal: the restoration of Freedom for the people of the United States and the World-at-large, as well as establishing it for sentients in the Cosmos. This simple goal inspires him and, at the same time, exasperates him. He lives to inspire and free others; while at the same time, he feels that the inspiration demands too much of him and reduces his own freedom. His life is blessed with extreme joy and accomplishments, but as often as not, beset with abject sorrow and fear that he has accomplished nothing. He is a man for the ages, but feels that he is inadequate for the jobs he has set out for himself. His growth throughout the novel allows him to at last believe that the impossible is attainable, yet sometimes at great costs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645440529

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POTUS

A Political Fantasy in Three Parts

T.C. Owen

Copyright © 2019 T.C. Owen

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2019

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-64544-051-2 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-64544-052-9 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

To G.

You were the inspiration.

Part One

Potus

Chapter One

The January night was cold and clear. The motorcade made its way to the Capitol building. Overhead, several helicopters watched over the cars. The threats made against the President of the United States (POTUS) had been growing in intensity and number for many weeks. The inaptly named ‘Afghan Alamo’ was responsible for that. Terrorists of every stripe and nationality, including Americans, hated him for the deaths of sixty thousand of their comrades in arms. Every security agency had dramatically increased its protective stance. The President himself now carried multiple weapons, including his marital arts skills, and everyone knew that he would take down as many as he could before he succumbed, if it came to that. Surprisingly, he was very kind with citizens, often inviting total strangers to dinner at the White House. That had led to some hairy moments for security, but the invitees rarely found out about it. Of course, the whole country knew of the ‘Afghan Alamo’ and had actually seen him, on many occasions, destroy people who attacked him or those he attacked in war zones. Tonight, few knew he was in one of the helicopters and that the motorcade was a diversion.

As if scheduled, the motorcade was hit by a group of terrorists who learned the hard way not to fool around with him. Two choppers limbered up their M134Bs and took them down in seconds. No one noticed POTUS’s chopper continuing to the Capitol. The bad guys had decimated the motorcade, and the press was reporting that there was no way he could have survived. The word quickly passed to the assembled Joint Session awaiting his State of the Union Address, and there were a few moans, some tears, and even some joy among his enemies, all of which were squelched by the time-honored incantation: Mr. Speaker, the President of the United States. When the doors opened and he walked in, the place exploded with relief, happiness, and chagrin.

He strode down the center aisle, shaking hands and sharing hugs from all and sundry. He walked to the Well of the House and stood quietly, almost humbly, until the tumult subsided. The Speaker of the House banged his gavel three times and introduced the President. The place exploded again. POTUS held up his left hand and flashed the V sign that meant things were going well. When the cheers settled out, the people waited for him to begin.

Not making them wait, he launched into a forty-five-minute speech that spelled out what he considered to be the most pressing problem facing the country: external terrorists and internal traitors who seek the destruction of the United States and, more importantly, freedom. As he talked, Dems sank lower and lower in their chairs as they realized they were the targets of his exegesis. For most of the rest, however, the speech was almost mesmerizing; they had never heard the truth spoken so forthrightly and so completely. He spoke with a calm, clear voice without faltering; his performance was rated superior, even by his enemies. Finally, he moved into an emotionally charged ending to his speech.

"America is the preferred destination for the world because the world knows that, even with our problems, this country is the freest, most blessed place ever seen on Earth. We need to remind ourselves of one simple point: America is the stuff of dreams for us and the world. All you need to succeed in America is the will to do so. You almost can’t fail, and even if you do, you can pick yourself up, dust off your clothes, and try again and, learning from your experience, finally succeed. Been there, done that, and here I stand tonight. It’s amazing!

"America is like the frontier—beckoning us to it, just out of reach, receding before us to the edge of Eternity, making us strive to achieve our dreams by constantly moving, hoping, dreaming always until we achieve our destiny. It’s really not achieving the dream that ennobles us; it’s the working, the hoping, the praying, the dedication to the task of becoming who we can be that ennoble us and make us free of the cant and disruptions of life and give us the only sense of self that counts—knowing who we are, which sets us free.

"How is it to be free? Look at it this way: When the men and women came to the shores of this continent in the sixteen hundreds, they looked upon a raw, unfinished land and made a commitment to themselves and their God to make this virgin land their own. How did they do this? Simply by accepting the challenge of the frontier and choosing to make it theirs and taking responsibility for that choice. The task was daunting and, at times, seemingly too hard, but they persevered, accepting the obstacles, the pain, sometimes the suffering, and they succeeded beyond the realms of imagination and made this land into the United States of America! They sought no praise, they sought no recognition at all. Today, the names of our forebears are not household names. They came, they strived, and sometimes, they died, for an ideal of freedom which entails hope and inspiration for those who come after them. That’s what this country stands for and has always stood for, despite errors and ideologies that are the graveyards of dreams. Hope—eternal hope—that things will be better tomorrow than they were today and better still the day after that established the dream we all live for today. People who are free, in the true sense of the word, made us great and set us on the pathway to becoming the greatest nation ever to exist on this planet. All it took was a belief in the greatness of the human spirit to begin the journey.

"These concepts are the absolute core of who Americans are, and we need to remind all Americans that these are not transient, temporary thoughts, but fundamental structures that are the buttresses of the American ethic that transcend the boundaries of real estate and take their place in the hall of eternal truths that endure, undiminished by time and circumstance, encompassing the universe. America is the greatest experiment in the history of the world, and even with its apparent problems, it will stand as a beacon that calls to the living and those yet to be born, as it did for those who have gone before us.

Eternity is long. Life is short. We have only a short time to do what we can to achieve those things, the hard things, that we need to do temporally, in order to restart ourselves on the only journey that really counts—the eternal journey to become ourselves in the fullest, most noble way possible. In other words, to be free. Tonight, we must begin, again, to take the first steps on the road to the frontier, a road that is eternally long and seemingly too hard to tread yet will end among the stars from which we came so long ago. Our destiny is out there. We cannot deny it, or ourselves. We are here for only a short time, and the day will come when we will no longer be here. That’s something for us to think about. That’s something we can dream about—the legacy we leave the universe. For dreams can set us free and let the American spirit spend eternity spreading the glories of freedom across the universe until the Word reaches home where it started and resides here, shining brilliantly, forever. Time flies, and we are soon to be busy. Thank you for taking time to be here tonight and share my dreams. Good night, and may the God of your lives bless you and America.¹

When he finished, there was an uneasy silence for a moment, and then polite applause that grew into full acceptance of the points made, with a few cheers thrown in for good measure. The people who felt they had been targets of the speech were pretty somber and only tepid, if that much, in their response. There were a few boos and whistles, but they were drowned out by the intensifying applause. He took this in for a few seconds then flashed the V sign and began to leave the House floor.

As he worked his way up the aisle, shaking hands and getting hugs from some he didn’t really know or like, a low rumble began vibrating the building, and a loud bang rattled the building even more. Aides and guards ran to him, attempting to establish a security perimeter, while Congressmen and Senators were panicking and making things harder to do than necessary. Things were close to being out of control until he fired a shot in the air and got everyone’s attention. He breathed a sigh of relief when things quietened instead of getting more out of control.

He yelled at the crowd: Everybody sit down and take a deep breath and get it together. They sat. With his reputation, they figured it would be safer to follow his orders than anything else. He continued, Those vibrations don’t appear to be an earthquake. Let us check things out, and then we’ll make an orderly, dignified exit. He then whispered to Tom, his head Rider, that they needed to get information fast, or else there would be uncontrollable panic. Tom whispered back that bombs were the cause of the problem and that a possible pitched battle was on hand. Just as they finished whispering, a blast splintered the doors of the House Chamber. POTUS and his six Riders ran to the splintered, still-hanging, but loosely swinging doors. Gunfire could be heard from the hallway outside the doors.

Carefully, he and Tom swung the doors a bit wider and were met with heavy gunfire. POTUS could see one of the shooters and took him down with one shot. That brought even more fire his way but allowed him to find and kill three more shooters. Meanwhile, Tom had been looking in the opposite direction and took down four shooters himself. They looked at each other and nodded then pushed the doors open and ran out into the hallway, firing as they went. The other five Riders piled out after them, also firing. They had had so much practice in Afghanistan and elsewhere that they functioned as a single unit, each seeking his place as if on autopilot. Doing so, they presented a wall of fire that was coordinated into a crisscross pattern that took out the bad guys in less than two minutes, with none of the good guys getting so much as a hangnail. As their firing died down, government agents swarmed the area and were pretty much aghast that the seven Riders had taken down forty or so bad guys so quickly. When things were completely settled down, the lead agent said to the President, I guess you didn’t need us here.

POTUS replied, Well, we are Death Riding White Horses, only this time we forgot the horses. Any more scum to clean up?

No, Sir. We think we got ’em all outside. We thought this might be a pitched battle. Good shootin’, Tex—uh, Sir.

"Keep that Sir in mind. Now, set some paths to get the folks in the House Chamber out quickly and keep them away from the carnage. I’m going to tell ’em you are arranging their getaways. Got it?"

Got it and on it, Sir. We should be able to start removing them in five to ten minutes. He walked off, talking to his fellow agents and getting plans in motion.

POTUS went back into the House Chamber, and everyone fell silent. He realized that he still had his pistol in his hand and quickly holstered it, then he said, Sorry about all the noise, etc., but there was an attack on the building. We don’t know who it was aimed for, but you’re probably looking at him right now. Sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever be rid of these pests. Maybe a large can of Raid would help. [That brought a bit of nervous laughter.] I’ve ordered that getting you folks out of here and away from the distasteful bits be accomplished as soon as possible. I was told that it should start in five to ten minutes, but remember, a government agent told me that—so we’ll be lucky if we’re out of here by the first Tuesday of next year. [Outright laughter on that.] In any case, talk among yourselves, sleep, whatever, until we can leave; just don’t make babies—that wouldn’t look good on TV. By the way, if anyone has a medical condition and is in extremis, we need to know about it. now. Thank you for your patience.

He left the Well of the House, sat down on a desk, and calmly reloaded his pistol. As he was putting away the weapon, someone asked if he was open for questions. He knew a trap when he heard one, but calmly answered, Sure, but if I don’t want to or can’t answer the question, I reserve the right to shoot the questioner. None of the newer members had been around long enough to know whether he was kidding or not. Considering the events of the night, even some who knew him best weren’t sure either.

The first question was from a new, young Congresswoman. Sir, I think we would—

He interrupted her. Let’s set a minor ground rule or two. First, tell me who you are and who you represent, even people I know well. That way, the TV people can get the name right and out in front of the nation. Second, when I finish an answer, I’m done, especially tonight. No follow-ups. On tonight’s extravaganza, I may not want to say much. Ok, go ahead.

Yes, Sir. Barbara Jones, Arkansas, tenth district. I think we would like to know as much as you are willing to tell us about tonight’s events.

"I suspect you’re right, so I’m going to give you a bit of information and not go any further. First off, the vibrations you felt were the result of bombs. Settle down, everybody, you weren’t hurt, and the building’s still standing. I have no knowledge of where they were or how potent they were. Suffice it to say, we’re all ok. One of the reasons we’re still here is the guys are checking to make sure that all were found, detonated, or destroyed by our people. Second, the bit at the door. The first part was a bomb, a small insufficient one, and you could hear gunfire in the hallway outside. My lead Rider and I peeked through the damaged doors, and each of us killed four shooters. We didn’t know it at that time, but there were about forty of them out there. They were at their last stop and ready to take down whoever came through the doors. Tom, the lead Rider, and I looked at each other and agreed that there was nothing for it but to take the chance of charging them as the seven of us have done many times in far-off climes. As Tom and I jumped out into the hallway, the other Riders followed, and we formed up as we usually do in this type of circumstance. The result was the usual: forty or so dead guys in two minutes, maybe less, with none of us injured in any way. There’s something to be said for organization and experience, and that is that it pays off well. In this case, the payoff was forty for us and zero for them. Now, the bombs and some other things were happening before and during the action I just described. At this point, I don’t know any particulars on those doin’s. That will come out later, I assure you.

I noticed that you, Ms. Jones, looked a bit chagrined at my attitude toward the forty dead guys. In a way, you are partially right; it is disturbing to kill another human being, especially when, as I have done, you have to look him, or her, in the eyes as you take that person’s life, say, in hand-to-hand fighting, where anything goes. I won’t bore you with details, but one of the first people I killed was a woman coming at me with a long knife, a kind of Kris, if you know knives. I didn’t have the Riders. The scouting party had been ambushed by small-arms fire and pinned down. The Sergeant found a way for the two of us to escape through a tight rock chute. They were waiting for us and dropped down behind and in front of us. Most were women, with some teenagers as well. The woman who came at me saw my sword, and we parried for a couple of minutes, and we got close enough to kiss, if we had wanted to. We locked our weapons and pushed hard at each other; then I saw her reach behind her back for, I thought, another knife. I pulled a second knife that I always carry and plunged it into her chest. She didn’t scream; she just sighed. I watched the light go out of her eyes as she died and pumped her life’s blood onto me. It took six months for me to make peace with that. I finally became reconciled to it when I remembered something a friend of mine who had fought in Vietnam told me—‘I never killed anybody who wasn’t trying to kill me.’ That’s the sole way to look at it. It’s either the other guy or you, and it’s not a tough choice. Now, any more questions that I might feel like answering? Yes, Ms. Jones?

How close actually were you? I’m not sure how many people would be able to do what you described.

If we had wanted to, we could have had sex. In other words, pretty damned close. Her breath was close to frosting my glasses. In that kind of situation, you don’t spend a lot of time thinking. It’s the fight-or-flight thing, only there’s nowhere to flee without being killed. A lot of folks don’t understand it. I didn’t fully get it until that happened. Shooting someone at a few feet to a half mile away is fairly impersonal. You pull the trigger, they fall down. But this was personal. It was probably the second worst moment of my life. The first was watching my first wife die, little by little, from cancer. I’ll never be completely over that. In the case I described, however, I was the direct agent of that woman’s death, but not the cause. She chose her path too. Hers was to die for her cause and kill as many others as she could in the process. Her mistake was taking me on. She didn’t stand a chance, none whatsoever. The only thing that could have possibly worked in her favor was that I had not yet killed in combat. Of course, there had been that debacle at the martial arts tournament, but that was different by an order of magnitude. There, I was purely on defense and only answered the pressure put upon me. With that woman, I had to create the pressure and assure myself of the intent to kill and then carry it out. She did manage to cut me, by the way. A field dressing, and I was up and running. I’ve probably repeated this a hundred times: fighting a battle or a war doesn’t require morality or good sense. The sole purpose is to win, and to win requires that you destroy the ability of the enemy to wage war. You do that, and you’ve won. [He paused, albeit only slightly.] Whew! That was like a speech. I would ask for a show of hands, but I may be the only one awake.

Tom came up to him, whispered in his ear, and withdrew. He said, Ladies and gentlemen, in the next few minutes, agents will start moving everyone out of here. Don’t argue with them, no matter how important you think you are, mainly because you’re not. Also, the building will be closed until further notice. Congress will have to meet in the park, the reflecting pool, or somewhere, but not here in any rooms. Figure it out on your own time. Ah, here come your escorts. Get ready to go home! Good night!

People started leaving, most following their escorts, guards, really. A few of the more arrogant members tried to go out the wrong way and had to be shunted in the right direction. He even had to threaten several with instant death to get them moving, and he knew they would try to get back into the building the next day and have to be turned away. He considered shooting several just on general principles but held back, thinking of the paperwork involved in shooting brain-dead members of Congress. He realized SCOTUS was missing and found out they had fled out the back door at the first vibration and were pinned down by bombs and gunfire for a while. Serves ’em right, he thought. Maybe impeaching a few more judges will be in order. He allowed himself to be guided out of the building and was somewhat amused when people saw him coming and started running the other way. He couldn’t blame them too much, but it hurt his feelings a bit. Since his adventures had become public knowledge, people, especially women, had taken a much-harder line with him, even when he was only saying hello. Now their faces became wooden, their eyes bespoke revulsion, disgust, even a bit of hate, as well as fear, and their responses were well-practiced evasions. Just like the old days in college, except no physical reactions; they were afraid to do that. Oh well, he thought, life goes on. It takes a special person to put up with me nowadays, such as Greta—bright, tough, wonderful. When I leave office, just punching cattle will be a sufficient avocation, but finding the right-size gloves will be a bitch. [He chuckled a bit.] God, he thought, I must be getting punchy to use an old bad joke like that.

He returned to the White House and ordered a full briefing for the next day. After the usual whining and griping that it couldn’t be done, everybody went to work. He went down to the firing range cleanup station, cleaned his weapons, and started wondering about what his next adventure would be.

---

¹ To see the full text of the SOTU referenced in this chapter, go to the appendix, p. 247.

Chapter Two

The next day, POTUS held a press conference to gauge the reaction of the media to his speech and to help him get a read on how the public would respond to his efforts. The latter was easy: The public liked the speech and were ready to join him in the efforts to come. The media, as usual, were as up in arms as the Dems, but then, he didn’t really care much what the media or the Dems thought, if thought was the right word. He called on one of the more moderate reporters to get started. Ok, Bill, you’re first.

Thank you, Mr. President. After that somewhat, er, unusual State of the Union Address, many people are wondering where your ideas came from and why you chose now to deliver such an impassioned, if not insulting, speech.

I spoke what I believed to be the truth. When I was running for office, I told all and sundry that I was not the typical politician, in that I was going to tell the truth, no matter who it hurt, including myself. I have stood by that promise and will continue to do so. If some were insulted by my speech last night, good. Maybe it will awaken their sense of shame and get them to grow up and become real citizens of this country. That probably won’t happen; apparatchiks won’t, can’t, listen—they are like Nazis—their minds are made up, and facts won’t get in the way of what they consider good politics. Got it?

Yes, Sir.

Good. Next question. Ok, Will, what’s on your mind?

Mr. President, many people are interested in what has been called the ‘Afghan Alamo,’ especially your part in the battle. Up to now, you have said little about it. First, why have you not talked about it? And second, will you fill us in today? And if not, when will you report to the nation what you, specifically, did, and why you did it?

"That was almost a soliloquy instead of a question. Part of the answer is, telling the full story would require quite some time, more than we have here today to relate it to you and the three or four people who are interested. Another part of the answer is that there are, legitimately, some national security interests involved in what went on there. By the way, I hate the term Afghan Alamo for several reasons: First, the real Alamo is an ideal that must be lived up to daily by all free men and women everywhere and aspired to by those who are not free. It is an ideal of sacrifice and heroism in the best senses of both words. Those men who fought and died in the real Alamo died, not for Texas or for anyone or anything. They fought and died for freedom from tyranny and for those who would follow them. They probably would not have articulated it quite that way, but in their hearts, they knew freedom is never a given, it must be taken from oppressors, by whatever means necessary. Second, the obvious difference is that no one, repeat, no one—in the Afghan adventure on our side died. If we had been called upon to do so, we would have gladly, but this was a battle that did not call for that much sacrifice. What we did was make sixty thousand S.O.B.s die for their cause, with no deaths on our side, with only a few minor injuries. Third, I reject the idea that we were fighting an Alamo-type battle, because I feel that we were not heroes per se, but ordinary Americans doing a job that needed to be done. I reserve the title hero for a very small group of people who have done something extraordinary in the service of their country or their cause. I’ve talked to all the people who were in the fort and waited for the enemy to fall into the kill box we set up, and not one, repeat, not one, even when I called them heroes myself, felt as if they had done something worthy of being considered heroic. I know there are some on the outside who are bandying that term around, but we who were inside don’t even consider it worth talking about. Someday, perhaps, I’ll write a bit about it, a monograph or a paragraph, if I think anyone is interested, but talking about it to large groups of people, I don’t think so. Enough said."

Might I follow up with another question, Sir?

Okay.

Thank you. Don’t you think that it is interesting or, dare I say, important for the President of the United States to report on an incident in which he, himself, was a participant, in which, he, the President, was actively leading and directly engaging in combat for the first time ever while in office? Don’t you think that the people would like to know why you chose to put yourself in harm’s way, when there was a very real possibility that you could have been injured or killed? According to the research I have done, no sitting President has actually gone into battle, killed the enemy, and been directly responsible for destroying as many enemies as you have. There are many who feel it was, to put it mildly, foolish for you to do it. What do you tell them?

A lot of presidents have been in the military, too many to mention here. I think it may be right that I am the only sitting president who has directly engaged an enemy. When I went to Afghanistan, the whole thing, as it turned out to be, was not even a glimmer on my or anyone else’s radar. I was just going to do some fact-finding and decided one day to visit a remote area in order to see what conditions were like for our people, etc. My whole purpose was to ensure that our guys and gals had everything they needed and more so they could get their jobs done. When I was told that the bad guys had heard I was in the neighborhood and were going to try to take my scalp for propaganda value, I got to thinking, and the result of that was the kill box and the so-called ‘Afghan Alamo.’ It was just that simple, and just that difficult. That’s it for today.

Thank you, Mr. President.

As he left the press room, Tom walked up, Well, Boss, that was an interesting news conference. Where do you go from here? Journalist sacrifice? Virgin sacrifice?

Tom, you know there are no virgins in the press corps, unless you’re talking about virgin minds.

Virgin minds? Don’t get what you mean.

Minds never penetrated by a single thought, except where to score some weed or something.

Boss, you’re getting cynical in your old age—uh, let me rephrase that…

Tom, I’m going to establish a new Secret Service office, and you’re going to staff it. It’s on Attu Island—just you, a couple of penguins, and a laptop to report on terrorist activities in the Aleutians. He smiled through the line.

Anything else I can take—cold beer, a warm woman?

Just kidding. But old jokes, I’ll be the one telling ’em. Anything else?

A real question: When are you going to tell your story of the ‘Afghan Alamo’? Sorry, but that’s what everyone calls it. I’m about to get hit with a subpoena from the Senate Judiciary Committee to tell them what I know, especially about your shooting of that idiot senator.

Just tell them that you are under presidential order not to comment on the doings there, and so is everyone else involved, and that I will tell the few people who are really interested and not out for political gain when I am good and ready. As for as shooting Senator Smith, I shot him in the leg to shut him up; his panic and attendant cowardice were out of control and spooking everybody else. Several folks told me later that they wished I’d killed him. Kinda wish I had now. Save me having to listen to his fatuous twallop about it. ’Course, the more he talks, the more he embarrasses himself. I’ve also had a few…well, more than a few emails and letters asking why I didn’t put him out of all our misery.

I can’t say that to the committee, can I? That would really set off a Dem firestorm.

Dems always have their panties in a twist. Like I said, just tell them that, until I give the ok, you can’t comment on anything. In fact, I’m not sure that, since you’re an agent, you can be compelled to show up. I’ll get the AG on it. When do you have to appear?

"A couple of weeks or so. A friend told me sub rosa it’s coming, but the Dems are putting up a fight for it, even though they don’t have the votes for a combative hearing. Oh, the First Lady said to tell you she needs to talk to you about something important."

Warm up the doghouse. I must have stepped into something…again. George, when and who is my next appointment.

Coming closer, George answered, Let me check. Oh, yeah, the Saudi Ambassador. Apparently, they are more than a little torqued by your decision to go full-scale on drilling. He’ll be here at four, an hour and a half, but he usually runs late on purpose.

POTUS responded, Well, that’ll be the easy part of the day. I’ll go see what my wife is up to—more than likely, that’ll be the tricky bit. Tom, you and the Riders stay here. George, buzz me at ten till. Okay?

In unison, they offered, Okay.

He climbed the back stairs, going up to the living quarters, knowing exactly what she wanted to talk about. He started thinking: His first wife had died after many years of illness, and he had thought he could never be happy again. Then he met Greta, and life had become interesting for the first time in a long time. He had been President for just over a year and had, as the Dems called it, pulled a new stunt. He had gone to Afghanistan and created the ‘Alamo’ and its mystique, as well as other trips into war zones with varying degrees of success, mostly positive, been wounded several times, and with his Riders, established a worldwide reputation as being one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. When enemies saw him coming aboard his horse, Traveler, flanked by his six Riders, on their own horses, they just gave up, except for die-hards who died or ran away. The fact that, with his phalanx, there were seven of them didn’t seem to faze those who saw him as ‘Death Riding a White Horse.’ This reputation had done some real good and saved no telling how many lives, but it had become a domestic burden. ‘Alamo’ stories, so far all positive—had been leaking for half a year and whetted the public appetite for the story. Congress was on his back about it, mostly about shooting the cowardly Smith, who was screaming for justice. Most people figured he should shoot him again, this time in the mouth.

The ‘stunt’ had been his insistence on bringing some Hollywood, actually Valley, types he thought would extend the idea that he was president of all the people to a presidential dinner. The Dems didn’t like it, even when he invited ordinary people to White House functions. Climbing the stairs to the residence, he thought about the events that led to his second great love. He had invited some porn stars, some retired, some near retirement, to a dinner designed to let all Americans know that indeed it was their house. He hadn’t met any of the invitees who came that night, but he knew none were particularly famous, rich, or powerful; they were simply people. Some had supported him in the election, some hadn’t, but they began to believe what he had said when the invitations went out. The country was theirs, much more than the pols, bureaucrats, and others who believed everyone should bow down to them. Predictably, when the list was made public, the Dems did their best, along with their pets in the media, to raise hell. How could he invite whores, pimps, and nobodies to the White House? His response stunned the nation: When he said that people who sometimes played whores who were just ordinary folks were going to sit down with the real whores of the Washington establishment, the Dems and others got a bad case of the vapors. The rest of the country got the point and started laughing at the complainers, who were so humiliated by his treatment of them that they were silent for a few days, before they went back to sniping about the ‘Afghan Alamo’ and the poor ‘innocents’ he had killed there. The fact that those ‘innocents’ were the usual terrorist garbage didn’t seem to resonate with them. He often wondered if he had killed the wrong people. Then he remembered how much paperwork would be involved in killing the enemies at home and was glad he had only to deal with bad guys in Afghanistan. Someday, he thought, the American bad guys are going to meet their end, and I plan to be there when it happens.

Thinking through this, his mind shifted back to Greta and their first meeting. He was in a receiving line, much to the horror of the Secret Service and everybody else, when she and the others from the Valley came through. Though they were told they could bring a guest, she was traveling alone, hooked up with Angela and Bradley. When Greta came up to him and shook hands, they felt an electric shock. They both looked startled and then laughed, and she moved on. He continued receiving the guests, but his mind was on that handshake.

Later on, after everyone had had a predinner drink, dinner was announced, and he was formally introduced. To make the point of having the dinner crystal clear, he went to Greta’s table first to welcome them and make small talk. He noticed that it was not only Greta who was interested in him—Angela seemed taken in as well. As he moved from table to table, engaging everyone, even Dems, the atmosphere got lighter and brighter with every minute.

Then, Tom walked up to him and said, "Uh, Boss, I need to talk to you, Now."

Of course, Tom. If you folks will excuse me for a moment, I’ll be right back.

Tom led him away from the tables, sporting a worried look. Boss, we have a situation you ain’t gonna believe.

Such grammar. It can’t be that serious.

For one of the most fortified buildings on the planet, it is.

Ok, what’s up?

Intruder alarms are tripping all over town. Virtually every building of any use has been infiltrated, including this one. We’ve had over a hundred trips in the last hour alone. According to D.C. cop reports, there are hundreds of suspicious vehicles all over town. We’ve found ten of ’em so far around our perimeter: all empty, motors running. We don’t know where the bodies are that were in them. Dogs alerted on them for explosives and gunpowder. Also, we found two rented trucks, good size, one with enough bomb material to make OKC look small, the other empty. Dogs didn’t alert on that one, but it had a faint odor of sweat and general B.O. This is a fucking mess—uh, pardon my French.

POTUS said, We’ve got to get the guests out as—

Not possible. Some of ’em may be bad guys. Anyway, they’re in more danger getting out than staying put.

POTUS let out a long breath. Shit. What about the Situation Room and the Range? There’s enough room in both for everyone, including staff. If we work it out just right, we can practice marksmanship on some members for distraction… I know, gallows humor. Let’s get ’em moving. Damn!

We’ll get on it immediately, but an announcement from you will help.

Help scare the crap out of everybody, but you’re right. With my reputation, the Dems will surrender to the dog rather than get caught in anything I happen to be doing. Let’s get moving.

He stepped back into the center of the room, cleared his throat, then began, Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please? We are in the midst of a city-wide security breach. For your safety, when the agents ask you to follow them, please do so. They will take you to a secure place. You will be as safe there as anywhere in Washington, D.C. I only ask that, when you are placed there, you touch nothing. Prepare to go with the agents… No, you cannot leave. The White House grounds have been compromised and infiltrated. We all are in great danger. I wish it were otherwise, but it isn’t. Senator, I said no one leaves until I say they can. No arguments. If we have to, we will take the more cowardly of you into custody, and you won’t like that at all. Tom, you guys ready to move them? Good. Ladies and gentlemen, follow the agents who are now approaching your tables. Agents, anybody causes trouble, shoot ’em. That’s a presidential order. Then he said to Tom, I guess I scared ’em enough—even the Dems are doing as they’re told.

Tom responded, Even the Senator, though he looks like he needs a diaper change. They’ll all be safely ensconced in a couple of minutes. One sec, Sir. Message coming in. He said to his device, Are you sure? He then looked at the President. Get an alert out to everybody now! Sir, bad guys are coming up the stairs and back channels, including routes to the safe zones. We’ve got to get those people back up here now!

They ran down the stairs, guns drawn, and heard sounds of confusion and alarm. Dems were panicking and looking to surrender; everyone else was steamed that they were being turned around. POTUS and Tom came racing around a corner, and the former Speaker of the House tried to surrender to them. As he was about to shoot her, he noticed his controversial guests standing off to the side, looking around with bemused looks on their faces. They weren’t scared, apparently, just waiting for instructions. Actors. He saw Greta and Angela standing together, looking like beautiful bookends, and almost forgot what he was doing. Then he heard a gunshot and came back to reality. Everyone dropped down, and he and the agents could see where the smoke was coming from. Fortunately, it was gun smoke, but it gave them some idea as to where to concentrate their fire when it came to that. An explosion rocked the building, and plaster and stone chips fell on everyone, increasing the level of terror some were exhibiting. POTUS thought that, as usual, things go well for fifteen to twenty minutes then go down the pull-chain convenience in a hurry. People were screaming and acting frantic enough to do something stupid. All but Greta and Angela. They hadn’t even ducked; they stood up against the corridor wall and calmly looked at him. That look bolstered him a bit, and he took charge forcefully.

Everybody shut up! I will personally shoot the next person who screams or tries to start a panicky run. To emphasize the point, he fired one shot over their heads. They took the point and settled down. Now, everybody stay down, and we’ll protect you. You screw around, and you’ll probably die. Tom, you’re with me. The rest of you agents, protect these people and make them and you safe. Don’t hesitate to open fire. Let’s go, Tom.

They moved down the stairs quickly and quietly. When they came to a corner, both froze: They heard voices on the other side speaking in a foreign tongue. Neither knew what language it was. They were about to round the corner when they heard movement and realized the bad guys were coming up the stairs directly toward them. They both shrugged their shoulders and figured they were about to buy the farm. The bad guys were unaware of their presence, so they rounded the corner at a run and opened up on the armed men and killed almost a dozen immediately. The bad guys backed down the stairs, firing wildly and to no effect. POTUS and Tom jumped down five or six steps and grabbed weapons from the dead and dying then took a deep breath and ran down the stairs. Not a good idea. The baddies opened up on them this time and drove them back up the stairs. The two of them got off a few shots as they retreated, where they met Monica and the other Riders coming down with ammo, weapons, flak jackets, and helmets. Most important for POTUS, someone had thoughtfully brought some hand grenades. He took two and sent them around the corner. They heard noises made by the struggle to get hold of them and throw them back, but it was too late. The twin explosions nearly deafened everyone; however, it was a good trade-off compared to the people down the stairs. POTUS carefully peeked around the corner and saw a bloody mass of former human beings plastered on the wall and covering the floor. There was no way to tell how many had been there; how many there were didn’t matter; they were dead and in pieces.

Beyond the slaughter, a subbasement door swung uneasily on its hinges, and he saw a shadow on the wall in the room beyond. He raised the rifle Monica had given him as a figure stepped into the doorframe. His finger had just begun to move the trigger when he recognized the agent. The agent saw him and quickly raised his hands while turning white in the face and was very relieved when he saw the rifle lowered.

POTUS asked, All clear back there? The agent nodded, for some reason flashed a V, and faded back into the room while carefully closing and locking the door. Tom, who was that goober?

He’s a new kid on the block. I don’t think he’s ever been involved in true combat. Spent his military time mostly stateside. Talks tough, but nobody was too sure about him. Probably not too sure about himself now. We sure made a mess down there.

We do have a cleaning staff, but you’re right, it’s a mess. Follow up on him—usual stuff, helpful, you know the drill. From behind the door, they heard retching sounds. Maybe later. Let’s not embarrass him. Too much at any rate. Your electric ear telling you anything?

Several other groups are in the building. Some serious fighting going on.

Let’s hope our guys hold. We need to get the guests back upstairs and get ’em something for their vapors. This hallway already stinks. [He wrinkled his nose slightly.] Okay! Everybody can get up now. We’re going back upstairs. Things got a little messy downstairs. I know, Senator, you’re old, complain a lot, and need a diaper change. Tom, detail somebody to get some adult pampers for the Senator. Also, a can of Raid…I mean Lysol. [Snickers spread in the crowd.] I assure you, this doesn’t happen every day around here, he said, [walking up to his favorite guests.] Well, you two ladies look calm, cool, collected. I always like that in women. Let’s see—you’re Greta, and you’re Angela, right? Good. Senator, will you just go upstairs? Thank you. He’s a good reason for saying senators aren’t fit for anything except sitting around bitching and voting themselves raises—Dems, at any rate. Anyway, you two still in the business or retired? Don’t look so scandalized. I’m terrible at small talk."

We’re both semiretired, Sir. It takes a while to build up the cash to quit entirely, Greta replied.

POTUS said: I hear that. Fortunately, I’ve got a golden parachute, and I’m probably going to need it, if I can’t stay out of trouble, and here it comes. [He turned to another lady.] Good evening, Madame Former Speaker. What’s on your mind?

She replied icily, Nothing much, except you’re stand here talking to two whores while, because of you, the entire country is under attack and you aren’t doing anything.

POTUS responded: First, of the three women standing here, only one is a whore, and she’s not one of the ones I was talking with. Second, I didn’t start this shit. You and your kind are so keen to go down on and for anybody that you gave the idea to these pieces of shit that we are weak and willing to surrender. I’ll be goddamned if I let some two-bit whore call me out on anything. I’ve been in on the kill of probably a dozen or so bits of garbage protecting your sorry ass. Next time, I won’t throw a grenade at ’em, I’ll throw you at ’em. Then you can kill ’em by boring the shit out of ’em, or they die laughing at your foolishness while they rape your ass off before they kill you. Now, apologize to my guests and get upstairs before I put a grenade in your underwear. He stepped toward her with a grenade he pulled out of his pocket. She muttered a panic-stricken apology and ran off as her face turned even more pasty than usual. Turning to his guests, he said, Oh, well, ladies, I win friends everywhere I go. However, that bitch irritates the stuffings out of me. Next time I go to Afghanistan, I think I’ll take her. I had that gal in the Senate with me at the ‘Alamo,’ who had much the same attitude, but she learned, the hard way, how wrong she is on many things. She’s still not a complete fan, but she gets reality, and her votes reflect that understanding. Bet y’all weren’t expecting a dinner show complete with gunfire when you got your invitations, were you?

Greta answered, We’re from California, so we always expect the sublime and the ridiculous. I don’t know Angie too well, but I come from Texas myself. I grew up around the Big Bend. My father ranched and farmed, and I grew up doing the same, as well as fishing, hunting, shooting, and general outdoor stuff. Back home in Texas, the family is holding onto the ranch and the guns my father owned. Quite a collection, but not anything to match yours.

My collection is small, but good stuff. I wish I had more antiques, but I’m the first real gun enthusiast in my family. [He smiled.] How ’bout you, Angela?

I’m Californian through and through, though I have roots in Texas. I do own one pistol for protection. I’m a lover, not a fighter, but I throw a mean punch when necessary.

POTUS: Hang around me for five minutes, and you’ll probably have to throw that punch. Well, let’s go up. Without trying to sound too far out of line, you are two of the loveliest ladies I’ve been around in a good while. I don’t know if that’s much of a compliment, considering some of the troglodytes I see every day, but it is meant to be such.

Angela said, I think we’ll both take it the way you meant it. I’ll also bet you don’t get much of a call for small talk anyway.

Smooth, Angela. I’ll bet y’all’s husbands appreciate that.

Angela responded, My husband appreciates the fact that I like sex. Smooth ain’t his thing. Greta, you know Brad ’bout as well as I do.

Greta: Yeah. He’s kinda what you’d expect a guy to be—not really perverse, but leaning that way. I’m in between husbands right now. For people like us, especially women, it’s hard to find someone who can get past what we do, even with the men in the business. Believe it or not.

POTUS: Having seen what I’ve seen, I’m prepared to believe just about anything, especially the negatives. Some people are just mondo weird, as we used to say in West Texas. [He laughed a bit.] How long y’all gonna be in town?

Greta responded, We’re going back tomorrow.

Tom, where’s George? Send him my way, would you? Thanks. I have an idea. If George’ll just rear his ugly head… Oh, there you are. Once things settle down, take these ladies and their companions on a complete tour of the place. You can skip this stairwell. Tom’ll explain. I’m going to leave you all in George’s hands. I need to check on a few things. He’s in the Oval Office, I guess.

Yes, Sir. Should I show them that anytime soon?

By all means. Give me fifteen to twenty minutes and time to clean up the blood, then bring ’em. Tom’ll know when it’s clear. [POTUS turned to his guests.] Ladies, see you later. George, make sure their entire group gets the tour. Okay?

Got it, Sir… Boy, he can be a pill sometimes.

I heard that, George.

Shit. Uh, excuse me. I was going to say that about him when he’s stirred up. I heard he blasted the former Speaker on the stairwell. I wish I could’ve heard it. The one he’s about to do, he may not have been kidding about the blood. What’s that god-awful smell?

Angela answered, Something he did with hand grenades. We all came up the stairs ’cause he said it was messy down there.

George continued, When he says that, he usually isn’t kidding. Guy needs a hobby that doesn’t involve getting shot at constantly. Anyway, where are your friends? You folks are getting a tour not even members of Congress get. If there are hot spots still, we’ll have to skip those areas for the time being. By the way, if anyone needs a restroom, there’s one nearby. Ok, we’ll stop off there first. Everyone here? After the potty break, we’ll go to the residential quarters, Lincoln bedroom, etc. then move to some more esoteric areas. He ok’d going into some secure areas. If we meet Secret Service resistance, it might take a few minutes, but we’ll get in. He’ll see to it. Excuse me, my electric ear is buzzing…This is George. Do what??? We were going to a potty break. He listened for a few seconds, and the small group watched his face go from fairly ruddy to white. Then it lost all color; even his hair seemed to whiten. Folks, we have a major hiccup. We’re to go back to the East Room and wait for instructions.

Greta asked, What’s happened? You look like someone just killed your dog.

George whispered, Word is, the Boss got hit. No word on how severely. This next part may not be true, but I’m told that he and the Secret Service Station Chief shot it out in the Oval Office. If it’s true, the Chief brought it on. Long story there. If it’s accurate, we’re in deep…what’re you looking at behind me, Ms. Angela?

Angela responded, The President just walked in—arm in a sling and looking pissed, but okay. [She turned to him.] Hello, Mr. President, are you all right?

POTUS replied, Yeah. I had to shoot that S.O.B. in the Oval Office. God, the paperwork. He shouldn’t have tried to outdraw me. Rookie mistake…George, gonna need a cleanup ASAP.

Yes, Sir. Is he…?

Of course, he’s dead. You point a gun in my direction, you die. Anyhow, get a cleanup started. By the way, just to assuage your tender sensibilities, there were several witnesses who’ll testify he drew first, even agents. He noticed the ladies. Oh, hi, Greta, Angela, and company. I saw you, but you didn’t register for a minute. Kind of a reaction to the killing of another human being. Don’t look so scared! I’m not going to hurt you. Uh, what are you seeing, Greta?

Behind you and to your left. They’re grungy agents or trouble.

Shit. George, quickly and unobtrusively call Tom, the Riders, and the cavalry. Angela, you folks, let’s see if we can just mosey back to the East Room. Good, stay calm, don’t look back. If you hear clicks, head for the floor, preferably in the next county, but down fast.

Surprisingly, the simple ruse worked. As they turned a corner, POTUS sneaked a peek at the group behind him and saw them standing as if waiting for someone or something. As he pulled back from the corner, he heard the unmistakable sounds of rifle bolts being pulled back and then slamming shut. He hustled his guests into the East Room and ran into Tom and the others. As Tom handed him a .308 bullpup, he asked, George get through?

"Yes, Sir. We think, hope, these are the last of ’em. If we’re right, this should be a plain pain in the butt, but doable."

One shot rang out in the hallway he and the others had just left.

I think we need to do something right now. What? Oh, shoulder’s okay, just a scratch. I filled the sling with hand grenades, just in case. I almost knocked a pin loose when I put my hand in. How many? A bunch. All right, a big bunch, maybe thirty or so. Enough…Everyone in this room! Get down under the tables! now! And stay there. Those tables are your best protection at this time. Don’t move until either Tom or I give you the word. You agents got that? Good.

The Boss and the Riders moved out and left a very frightened group of people, including agents, behind. He looked around a corner and noticed a surveillance camera with its red light on. George, Tom, somebody check with security and see whether these cameras are still working. If so, we can finesse ’em. If not, we’ll have to do it the hard way.

George: Boss, the security office was just taken over by the bad guys, and the Situation Room is under attack. The bastards want the codes and the lines to use ’em.

POTUS: Get on to whoever and cut off power, phone, etc., to the White House and destroy the backups as well. Those shitheads can’t be allowed to get the codes and the ability to use them. Also, warn everyone to ignore codes unless they have definitive ID that it’s me giving them personally. Got grenades? Here, take a few. Screw ’em. I’m going for the Situation Room. If I have to, I’ll destroy it to stop ’em. Put the plane on maximum alert. Where’s the guy with the codes, anyway?

Tom responded while dialing, Haven’t seen him in a while. This is Tom. I’m with the President. Where is the briefcase? Repeat: where is the briefcase? Shit! Sir, he was last seen near the Situation Room, trying to help button it up. No word since. If it’s sealed, nothing can get in, but no one predicted this type of assault!

I guess it’s a measure of my popularity. See any Dems around? Just kidding, sort of. Well, I’m off to see the wizard or the Situation Room, at any rate. Maybe…good. There goes the power. The camera’s light is off. If you’re going with me, saddle up. Let’s sneak up on ’em and send ’em to hell.

They moved down the halls, quickly and quietly. They were fortunate that they were familiar with the building’s layout. As they went, they found several intruders who appeared to be lost, until they were laid dead quietly on the floor. Within five minutes, they were around a corner from the Situation Room and could hear banging as the invaders tried to get through its doors. The President and Tom sneaked a look around the corner and saw there were no obvious guards. They stepped back, nodded at each other, and the assembled Riders, then stepped into the hall and machine-gunned everyone in sight. More raiders poured out of a side hall, and they killed them as well. Just to be sure everything was under control, they filled every hall with grenades. Then, they kicked open nearby office doors and found terrified staff and only a few bad guys, who were dispatched quickly.

POTUS walked up to the Situation Room doors and quietly said