Chapter 31 Chains of Loyalty
Chapter thirty-one
Chains of Loyalty
Dominion, the Red River Republic, the first day of summer
General Maddox Crane scratched an itch on his arm, struggling to maintain his focus in the meeting President Irons had called.
The inner circle was all present to listen to Luther pontificate, expecting lockstep agreement with every word.
He kept his thoughts to himself. If he was going to protect his country from the myriad of dangers pressing in from every side, he had to remain in his post. A few more years and someone else will be president, he reminded himself.
“Purification, plain and simple,” Irons droned on. “I’ll tell you, one thing the Oligarchy has going for them is successfully brainwashing the public. That’s why we need to lean more into religion, convince them serving the state is no different from serving God, isn’t that right, Reverend Quell?”
“The scriptures do instruct us to obey our leaders,” the finely dressed, middle-aged revival preacher replied in his compelling, charismatic tone.
Maddox tugged at his collar. The official chamber was stuffy, even with the rotating fan. The windowless, steel-plated walls pressed in on him like a giant tomb, the founders’ portraits inspecting him, finding him wanting. Electric lights gleamed overhead, brighter and colder than the sun.
Dalia Ren opened the door, poked her head in. “Mr. President, he’s here.”
He’d wondered why Dalia hadn’t been at the table from the start. At least she gave him someone interesting to look at while enduring Irons’ political scheming.
“Excellent!” A rare, broad smile and twinkle of interest glowed on Luther’s face.
He lifted his chin, squared his shoulders, and glanced at himself in a mirror.
He gently adjusted a stray strand of strawberry-blond hair, brushed down his bushy sideburns.
Returning his gaze to the Economic Advisor and Resource Director, he said, “Show him in.”
Dalia nodded and ushered in a man Maddox noticed for all the wrong reasons.
His narrow frame looked stretched like a scarecrow that someone had forgotten to stuff properly.
A long, beak-like nose dominated his tan, leathery face, while deep-set eyes took in the room with a calculating measure.
He wore his dark hair—what remained of it—slicked back, drawing attention to his receding hairline.
“Mr. President, cabinet members, this is Mr. Franklin Pickett, former Procurement Secretary of Verdancia,” Dalia announced.
Irons stood, the table following. He extended a hand, motioning to an empty seat. “Mr. Pickett, so glad to meet you at last. I see Verdancia still has one bright bulb,” he said with a laugh, “or used to. Come. Join us. Dalia, introduce everyone to Mr. Pickett.” The council retook their seats.
Pickett fidgeted as he settled into his chair, eyes darting from face to face. He was clean, smelling of brisk aftershave, dressed in Dominion fashion, a narrow gold watch chain draping from his breast pocket to a button. Clearly, he hadn’t just arrived in town.
Dalia called each advisory board member’s name in turn: Colonel Bram Vexler, Dr. Rourke Venz, Ms. Beatrice Graves, Reverend Abram Quell, and General Maddox Crane.
“One of my spies discovered Secretary Pickett drowning his sorrows in a wayside tavern in Falcon’s Point along the eastern bank of the Great River,” Vexler expounded with a crocodile smile. “Fortunately for all parties, he was ready to make a deal.”
“What is it you wish in exchange for the information you offer?” Beatrice stared at him, pinched-faced.
Maddox wondered if having her hair pulled back so tightly caused her physical pain, adding to her disagreeable manner.
Her steel-gray suit, stiff as an industrial smokestack, seemed to belong to this chamber.
He shifted uneasily, hoping he wouldn’t be called upon to perform an execution.
“As Samuel Clemens—the spy’s codename, I presume—and I discussed, all I request is safe passage to Colorado.
I hear there’s free land along the Arkansas River near the Pueblo Reservoir.
They say the water’s clean, and the Confederacy pays little attention to their eastern-most member.
I tire of rulers constantly telling me what to do.
” Pickett shrugged. “If you deem my intel worth a small reward, I wouldn’t object.
Mainly, I just want to live free—something folks can do out west.”
Maddox had heard similar tales yet couldn’t vouch for their validity.
Irons sat back, studying the man, who by any definition would be called a traitor.
As a rule, Maddox detested traitors, even when their information proved beneficial.
However, he could see Pickett’s angle. Who wouldn’t wish to retire on a lake in Colorado with practically no government taxing you or imposing laws you disagreed with?
And if he’d caught a whiff on the breeze that war was coming, and his side would probably lose, making a deal with the superior force would be in his best interest. Still … traitor. It reeked of rotten fish.
Irons nodded. “And here I thought you’d demand chests of gold.”
Pickett’s keen eyes returned the president’s gaze.
“That would be quite foolish for a man in my position. But I see you’re a businessman at heart, who realizes torturing me instead would be a waste of time and effort.
By setting a reasonable price for what I’m selling, I ensure you’ll grant it.
We both get something we want, and you’ll have eyes and ears in the west, should Pacifica ever land in your sights. ”
Irons grinned. A thumping noise rose from below, jerking Maddox’s attention away. He shifted uneasily in his seat. A metallic clang. Another thump. A thundering, wailing cry. Irons’ face scrunched in on itself in annoyance.
“Colonel Vexler, do something about all that racket.” Irons made a shooing motion. “Rats in the basement,” he said to Pickett. “Big ones. Now, I believe you were about to share your inside knowledge regarding the queen’s strengths and weaknesses.”
Maddox narrowed his brows at the black-clad leader of Dominion’s secret police, who nodded his bald head and skittered from the room like a scorpion.
“If you have a tablet, I can write down the figures as I give them to you,” the traitor offered.
“I’ll take dictation,” Beatrice declared, looking down on Pickett with scorn. “That way I can ensure a legible script. And be accurate. Remember, loyalty isn’t proven by words alone. You are swearing your loyalty to President Irons, aren’t you?”
“Well, I mean,” Pickett scrambled, nervously twirling his fingers, “I swear to tell you the truth, not to raise arms against my old neighbors.”
“That will be satisfactory,” Maddox answered. He couldn’t bear to listen to Beatrice’s sharp tongue any longer than necessary. “You were in procurement, correct?” Pickett nodded. “Then you can tell us about Verdancia’s resources and supplies.”
“Yes, sir, and about their troop counts and where they’re stationed.”
“Technology?” Dr. Venz inquired. He even raised his gaze from the electronic pad he constantly fiddled with.
“Indeed. Some buildings are still powered by old solar panels, and others have generators or batteries, but Verdancia lacks an electric grid or long-distance communication devices. The country relies on homing pigeons. However, it grows an abundance of corn, and what isn’t eaten by humans or animals is processed into ethanol.
Some factories have been refitted to run on the fuel, but most rely on water or steam power.
The army and the crown have a scattering of working vehicles, and engineers have finally redesigned a functioning locomotive engine, which would be news—if Verdancia had enough tracks intact to matter.
They don’t,” Pickett concluded with a slimy smile.
“Bullet trains,” Venz muttered to himself as he tapped his tablet. “Lost genius.”
“You said you know the troop counts, where they’re stationed?” Irons asked, ignoring the scientist’s eccentricity.
Franklin Pickett proceeded to share detailed military information, down to the number of rounds to fit each firearm.
Maddox was surprised at how exposed the southern coast and stretches of Verdancia’s borderlands were.
While he dreaded the idea of marching his major force past the radiated red zone ruins of old Memphis, if he did, they could easily avoid Stonevale, take Tupelo, and attack the enemy’s army at Marchland from the east—the easiest approach.
I wonder if Lady Cade has considered my proposal?
While Pickett rattled off numbers and resources, Vexler slunk back to his chair, chewing the end of a matchstick. The thumping and moaning had ceased. Maddox disagreed with Vexler on many points—especially his reliance on torture. Still, the colonel got results.
“Mr. Pickett, I’d like you to join my family for dinner tonight in my dining hall as our honored guest,” Irons invited. “A member of my staff will escort you back to your quarters or take you on a tour of our capital. I’m certain you’ll be impressed. Shall we say seven o’clock?”
“Thank you, Mr. President.” Picket stood, bowing toward Irons. “If you have more questions, I’ve no doubt I can answer them for you.”
“Excellent.” Irons cocked his head. “We’ll schedule another session for later this week. I can’t wait to introduce you to my lovely wife and strapping sons this evening.”
When he had gone, Irons glanced around the table. “Well, what do you think?”
“I have questions about Verdancian society, the state of the church there,” Quell said. “I know the Old Religion is still practiced, but are they doing it correctly?”
“I’m more interested in how they run an economy without rationing,” Dalia added. “He started sharing about their transportation and agriculture a bit before you dragged him into military talk.” She shot Maddox a mockingly accusing look. He lifted his palms, returning her gaze with innocent charm.
“All that matters is that we devise a strategy to defeat them swiftly, expending as few lives and resources as possible.” Irons frowned, pointing a finger in an arc at them.
“You mark my words. The Oligarchy has something up its sleeve. I trust them even less than Queen Frost. If we weren’t in such desperate need of food, I’d be inclined to go after them first. Unfortunately, even a mountain full of computer cores won’t replenish our dwindling rations. ”
“Mr. President, if I might change the subject.”
All eyes turned to Vexler, who sat on Irons’ left.
Luther quirked a questioning brow at him.
The colonel leaned in, hand cupped to the president’s ear, and whispered for several minutes.
Irons nodded, occasionally inserting, “Uh, huh,” and “You don’t say?
” The others occupied themselves by checking notes or twiddling their thumbs.
Maddox’s thoughts drifted to his son Marcus.
They’d had a good, if brief, visit when he and Colt escorted the munitions supply to Fort Rustin. However, he’d been disturbed by Marcus’ blind faith in Luther Irons. “He should be elected for life,” Marcus had declared, repeating a growing movement among the president’s staunchest supporters.
“But then we wouldn’t have a democracy anymore, son,” he’d argued. “Upholding democracy is the prime directive of the Republic.”
“Standing behind a powerful leader is even more important,” Marcus had countered. Maddox let the topic drop. He didn’t want his visit to be spent talking about his ambitious boss.
“General?” Maddox blinked, returning his attention to the blowhard at the head of the table.
“Yes, sir?”
“It seems we have an uprising on our hands.” Irons assumed a posture of command, shoulders back, chin up, one arm laid across the table.
“Colonel Vexler has just informed me what his operative learned from the prisoner downstairs. I need you to take a brigade up to Chickasaw, by Arbuckle Lake, and squelch the rebellion. Put Colt in charge of a company,” he stipulated. “I want to see how he handles command.”
Irons’ insistence on micromanaging military decisions irked Maddox, his displeasure showing on his face. This is how the Germans lost World War II, he thought. Why is it nobody knows their history?
“What’s wrong, Crane?” Irons fixed him with an icy glare. “If you aren’t up to the challenge, I’ll appoint another head general.”
“No, sir, that isn’t it,” he answered as respectfully as possible.
“I would just like to hear the intel for myself, send my scouts to assess the situation. We don’t want to pull an entire brigade to put down two dozen rabble-rousers.
Likewise, if the entire territory is up in arms, I might require a larger force.
Sir, with all due respect, you placed me in charge of making military decisions. Let me do my job.”
“You can do your job, soldier,” he countered haughtily, his voice dripping with threat, “by obeying your commander-in-chief’s orders. Pull half the troops from the Dominion Guard and the other half from Fort Amarillo. Send word for General Garcia to meet you in the field.”
“But Mr. President.” Maddox sat back, his bloodshot hazel eyes bulging. He rubbed his salt and pepper beard, staring at Irons in disbelief. “Those are our least-seasoned soldiers. If we meet with heavy resistance—”
Irons slammed his fist on the table, leaned across it, and snarled, “If you ever question my command again, it will be a court-martial for you. Is that clear, Crane?”
The arrogance of this man! Maddox wished he’d turned down the appointment, retired to a quiet emu ranch on the edge of the city. But no. He thought he was being patriotic, doing the right thing, advising a president with no military experience—one who’d listen to his better judgment. No such luck.
A vein throbbed in his neck, his whole body wound tight as a drawn bow. “Yes, sir, Mr. President. I understand. Please be assured that I’ll keep a close watch on Captain Irons.”
Darts shot from Luther’s beady eyes. “You’d better.”