Chapter 13 Sanctioned
Chapter thirteen
Sanctioned
The next morning, General Crane sat at a table in his spartan quarters, cleaning his revolver, killing time until the executive meeting.
He’d showered, polished his boots, trimmed his beard, and finished his single cup of rationed coffee.
Dominion was down to its last case—all reserved for party leaders and high officials.
He thought back to the day three years ago when a trading vessel from the West African Coalition had come up the southeast bayou to Port Freedom.
He’d been sent with a division of soldiers to make sure their motives were peaceful.
Merchants from all over eastern Red River Republic came with trucks, carts, or wagons to trade for coffee and quality cotton cloth.
Luther had cut off trade with Verdancia the year before, so cotton—the preferred fabric for hot weather—was at a premium.
Unfortunately, Charles Ramirez, the former Economic Advisor and Resource Director, had opened his big, stupid mouth, pointing out how we should be courting the West African Coalition, since they were now the most powerful, influential nation in the world.
Irons had thrown a fit, fired Ramirez, who subsequently “moved to Tucson,” and declared a tariff on West African imports so high that trade essentially stopped.
So much for coffee. One more thing I love—gone.
He forced himself up, slipped into a crisp uniform, and holstered his clean, oiled sidearm.
Looking every inch the Republic’s top officer, Maddox strode down the passageway toward the Command Hall.
The keep had rooms for different purposes.
Iron Hall was where the Congress met, Justice Hall for important trials, and Founders’ Chamber served as a chapel.
He passed the Greeting Parlor for meeting important guests and the dining hall where the president, his family, and invited friends shared meals, bedrooms and bathrooms, private sitting areas, and a library.
There were other rooms. In the basement.
Maddox was early, as usual. He’d been indoctrinated that on time was late, punctuality the apex. Beatrice Graves arrived next, gray suit, severe bun, glasses this time. She glided into her seat with the grace of a venomous snake—without a word of greeting—and opened a ledger.
No point disturbing her with a customary hello, he thought.
Soon they were all there: the egghead Dr. Rourke Venz, the zealot Reverend Abram Quell, the more recent Economic Advisor and Resource Director Dalia Ren, and the rot off a private’s boot Colonel Bram Vexler. A staffer passed out glasses of water, precious as gold.
The fact that water was quite literally life out here wasn’t lost on Maddox.
He appreciated every drop that came from the city’s prime source—Possum Kingdom Lake, a reservoir on the Brazos River.
Most of the groundwater here, along with the old mineral springs, was toxic.
Deadly. The river and reservoir water still had to go through a purification process, but the city had that running decades ago.
There wouldn’t have been a city if they hadn’t.
He remembered a lot of people died drinking radiated groundwater, spring water, not knowing any better.
Maddox lingered over his sip of the pure liquid.
Rainwater would be better—if it ever rained.
“That’s right, Colt,” Luther was saying as he and his oldest son entered the official chamber.
It was patriotic—the flag and seal, steel-plated walls, red curtains drawn over pretend windows, portraits of the founders and first president on the walls.
Electric lights hummed. A fan whirred. A metallic scent in the air.
“It would be better,” Colt offered hesitantly with a shrug.
“I’ll think on it, son. Now.” Raising an assessing glance over the members of the advisory board, Irons took his seat at the oval table, Colt at his right hand. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
“Isn’t Vice President Reagan planning to attend?” asked the stenographer, an older man, built like a bent twig with a tuft of hair slapped on it.
“What do we need him for?” Irons scoffed, like the question insulted him. “Born politician. Why’d I ever consider advice from him?” He scooped up his glass, jostling some over the sides, and gulped.
“It’s just that, sir,” the twig with eyes stammered, “he usually attends.”
“Only because somehow he keeps finding out about the meetings,” Irons grumbled, slapping his water glass back down. “It’s not like I invite him. Anyway, on to business.”
“Mr. President,” Dalia Ren addressed in a tone teetering between respectful and scolding.
Maddox liked Dalia. A woman in her mid-forties, she was shrewd, efficient, fair, and didn’t talk too much.
She wore her earthy hair down in pleasant waves around a heart-shaped face.
Her brown eyes never revealed all, as if some deep secret lay within, waiting for the right person to reveal it.
Yes, she was single. Smart. Attractive. But those days were long over for Maddox.
His full attention rested with duty—and his son, Marcus. He pinned her with a curious stare.
“Are you aware of how much yesterday’s production cost?
The parade, the stadium, the decorations, the free popcorn and beer?
And that’s without adding in the fuel to run the generators.
I know you love to present your populist message in the most flamboyant ways possible, but we must operate within the budget. ”
“Must we?” Luther’s withering stare melted into a mocking grin.
He pointed at her. “I guarantee it costs a hell of a lot less to appease the masses, to keep them enraptured with our message, to keep them loyal, than it would to go about putting down rebellions and bribing hundreds of thousands of voters. Free beer and snacks, free entertainment, and an afternoon of indoctrination? Peanuts. Haven’t you ever read your history, Ms. Ren?
Roman emperors used to do this all the time.
Bread and circuses. Keep the people happy and distracted, and they won’t even know you’re amassing all the power to yourself. Isn’t that right?”
He glanced around the table.
“The people must hear a message many times before they accept it as true,” said Reverend Quell.
“If we wish to convince them their pittance of rationings is a feast, they must hear it time and again. Luther did a brilliant job of painting us in a superior light to our neighbors. The fact that they received food, music, and a cause to celebrate will only reinforce why they love their leader so much. He gives them what they want—within reason—and tells them what they want to hear.”
Maddox considered the strategy. Distraction often worked on the battlefield as well.
Keep their attention in front of them, and they won’t see the soldiers creeping in at their flanks.
It was clear Irons wished to consolidate power, but to what end?
Maddox had always believed in democracy. Surely, Irons did too.
“See there?” Irons said and downed the rest of his water. “Ren, my other boy tells me our munitions production is booming. That so?”
“Indeed,” Dalia answered. She removed a neat handwritten sheet from her folder and passed it down the table.
“These are the summer projections. We should hit a million boxes by mid-July, divided between .9 mm and .45 caliber for handguns, 6.8 mm ammo for the XMZ 5000 machine guns, and .22 caliber for long rifles. They’re not as lethal as the big guns, but our troops have a lot more of them. ”
Irons granted her a satisfied nod. “Anyone here remember how folks used to make fun of Texas for having more guns than people?”
Maddox figured he and Dr. Venz were the only old-timers who remembered anything before the Reckoning.
“Well, they aren’t laughing now, are they?” Irons concluded. “Great news about the ammo.”
“None too soon,” Maddox commented in his deep, gravelly voice. “I received a letter from Fort Rustin requesting more munitions and supplies. Thankfully, they’ve got better access to food and water in the east, but the soldiers’ paychecks are weeks overdue. Many have families to support.”
“I’ll take it under advisement. Fort Rustin is our most critical base. Graves, what was it you started to tell me about last night?” He pivoted to the calculating woman.
“About the upcoming elections. Your spot is secure, as it isn’t a presidential year, but I’ve put together some projections based on what my spies have reported and the trends from the past few elections.
” She rolled out a map of the Red River Republic with lines drawn in color to mark the congressional districts.
A blood-red nail, matching the hue of her lips, tapped on a spot near the top of the map.
“The old Unity Coalition is still strong in this northern border region. Between there and the Ozarks, Unitists are projected to win the majority of local elections and congressional seats. Over here,” she said, shifting to the east, “is divided between the Loyalists and the Agrarians. We all know a vote for the Loyalists is merely a vote for the Dominion Party in disguise. The people need the illusion of choice, after all.”
The expression of glee on Luther Irons’ face troubled Maddox. Two more years, and someone else could win the presidency. But he didn’t truly believe it.