Most Revolutionary - Chapter Five

Sabia Versus The Secret Service

Jun 07, 2024

Previously: Sabia locks her abuelo Roca, President Silver, and campaign manager Ellen Lin deep underground in the secret Perez family survival bunker, where they had taken refuge after the bombing of Ground Force One, in an abandoned coal mine beneath the Iowa farmhouse. Sabia fakes Roca’s death at the bomb site of Ground Force One, then waits through the night in the farmhouse for the blizzard to break and the authorities to find the disaster at orchard’s edge. With no communication to President Silver and her whereabouts unknown, Secret Service Director William Kingsley orders the swearing in of the Acting President. Having missed the ride north on Ground Force One due to food poisoning, Vice President Alecta O’Roura-Chavez vomits as she is sworn into office as Acting President of the United States in her Kansas City hotel room. She is sworn in, left hand on the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, by the state of Kansas Supreme Court Chief Justice Melanie Lockhart, as witnessed by Alecta’s Chief of Staff Shakeeta Glazier, her Press Secretary Tisha Noori, Secret Service officers, and state police.

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Chapter Six

MOST REVOLUTIONARY - A SERIALIZED NOVEL

Fields and forests a mile down the road to the nearest house from the Perez orchard, rolling farmland, miraculous bits of preserved prairie, dense copses and brush thickets, past all that and the wild more, the Yonkin family farmstead shakes from the blast that is the death of Ground Force One. And the death of all the bus denizens and attendants — except for two — President Kristen Silver and her campaign manager Ellen Lin — unwittingly escaped.

High school senior Billy “The Moto Kid” Yonkin edits his Youtube channel wearing headphones, hears nothing but feels and sees the shaking.

Billy’s younger brother Avery runs into his bedroom.

“Billy, did you hear that?!”

Annoyed, Billy snaps off his headphones. “Felt like an earthquake. Don’t bother Mom and Dad. They’ll be up early to plow.”

“An earthquake in Iowa?”

“There’s earthquakes everywhere, Avery, you moron. Leave me alone!”

Glowing snow-white all-white at dawn as emergency vehicles race past the Yonkin farmstead where Mr. and Ms. Yonkin clear snow with a bucket loader and a pickup plow.

Billy stows a camera drone on an electric snowmobile. Then using his helmet camera, Billy video-records his path through blinding white fields, alongside the emergency vehicles racing on the country road. He rides with his Youtube channel name “Billy the Moto Kid” emblazoned on his jacket. He rides with the freedom and thrill, the exhilaration of a teen who has turned himself loose into unknown adult doings, danger, and excitement.

Frantic. Post blizzard, where Ground Force One was blown up overnight, near the Perez farmhouse, rescue workers, some armed, find an ocean of white. Beneath snow, they uncover bits of bus in field. A huge crater near the road is filled with wind-driven snow 20 feet deep. In the Perez orchard, the snowplow, flipped upside down by the blast, is snow-covered, partly cleared. It looks supremely out of time and place, an improbable chunk of litter tossed to the base of the craggy old hickory planted more than a century ago by Sylvia Perez.

Galvanized. Billy stops his snowmobile on a ridge across the road from the blast site and Perez farmhouse. Rescue workers go in and out of the farmhouse, along with scent dogs, combing the entire bomb area for any clue and for each telling particulate and residue of the disaster.

Police and FBI helicopters control airspace and visually sweep the greater area, searching for any unlikely sign of life or unexpected glimpse into the nature of the treachery by field and orchard, creek and woods and road.

“Holy Hell! That’s old man Roca and Sabia’s house.”

Falsely accusing, Billy records the chaotic scene on camera: live-streaming and narrating to his minuscule Youtube audience, which begins to grow in size rapidly:

“Sabia, what the Hell did you do this time? First, you chained and jammed every school door one night – you and your lousy eco group – locked out the whole school for an entire day, just to get recycling bins in the hall.”

Billy remembers Sabia and her high school ecology friends chained to the front doors of the school wearing tee shirts that say “RECYCLE OR DIE.”

Billy continues talking to camera. “Why do you need to make people hate you, Sabia? Then you made a 'Whitey Boy' outfit and danced around at a football game with the school’s Indian mascot to protest what you called the 'dehumanization'.” Billy makes a face to the camera. It looks a bit dehumanized.

Billy remembers Sabia on the sideline of the football field of play in a caricature Whitey Boy costume dancing wildly with plastic rifle and hatchet by the school’s caricature Native American Mascot. “RACIST” is written across her mascot chest.

Two white security personnel, one man, one woman, rip off her mascot head and drag her away.

Sabia yells at the school mascot: “Racist! Racist! Racist!”

Then she yells at security: “Don’t scalp me, Cowboys! Don’t shoot!”

“Everyone hates you, Sabia,” says Billy to camera. “Another night, you drove your pickup truck full of rotten vegetables from your farm and forked the mess onto school steps to protest the crap food in the cafeteria.” Billy makes another face at the camera.

He remembers Sabia and her ecology group friends using pitchforks to fling rotten produce off the back of her pickup truck onto school steps. They post signs: “GOOD FOOD NOW!” and “HEALTHY FOOD FOR ALL!” “KILL SUGAR!” “SUGAR KILLS!”

“Okay, the school food is crap. But why make people mad, Sabia? You can’t fight the world, Sabia Perez. Why do you think you can? What in Hell did you do this time?”

Billy launches his camera drone. He records the disaster scene and nearby Perez Farmhouse, while trying to avoid notice of uniformed personnel with guns below. More arrive.

Sabia is detained in her farmhouse and interrogated, while Secret Service, FBI, State Police, Iowa National Guard, and other agencies swarm the blast site and Perez farmhouse. Sabia tolerates the grilling for as long as she can, then gets up without a word and goes onto the porch.

Secret Service Director Kingsley walks from the bomb crater along a newly plowed path to the farmhouse. He holds an electronic tablet of notes that he reads as it updates.

Sabia stands in bright wool socks on the porch watching the uniformed workers with guns. FBI and Secret Service agents stand guard in and around the farmhouse. They dangle assault rifles in their black-gloved hands like mutant farmers brandishing modern-day pitchforks of death.

“How far we've come,” says Sabia.

From the edge of the porch, she watches the Secret Service Director approach, not knowing who he is. He studies an electronic tablet like a clipboard of old, so he must be somebody up in the hierarchy who supposedly works with his brain, whatever use his hands.

A passing Secret Service guard nods and addresses him as “Director Kingsley.”

“Agent,” says Kingsley.

Still a distance from Sabia, Kingsley seems to her almost as an overgrown kid who has the vibe of being a bit too officious and aloof. Kingsley strikes Sabia as a wannabe, copycat type who thinks of himself as a good cop and yet doesn’t mind acting like a bad cop from time to time. That's her best guess in the moment.

Kingsley is bundled against the post-blizzard cold in his official uniform and black puffer trench coat. Sabia wears dark jeans and tee shirt and colorful red, black, and yellow flannel, in addition to her prized wool socks. She has set her mind and wouldn't mind the cold of the day even in shorts.

“No gods no masters,” says Sabia under her breath.

“Sabia Perez?” says Director Kingsley. He stops in front of her, below her. Sabia does not invite him onto the porch. She stands two steps above him.

Sabia is drained, pissed, doesn’t mind showing it. She thinks that presenting herself as blatant as she likes to be, and playing it up a bit, can function in reverse psychology, of a sort, if she were to ever come under suspicion. For anything. Sabia knows she can be shrewd. Whether other people recognize that in herself, she doesn't care. Dumb or smart, let others judge as they will.

“Who in Hell are you?” says Sabia to this armed man in front of her home.

Director Kingsley has been shown photos of Sabia and her presumed deceased abuelo Roca. “Hello, Sabia. William Kingsley, Director of the Secret Service.”

“The FBI already interrogated me. Your people asked some dumb questions too.” She sweeps her arm. “I’m hostage to these guns in my house.”

“I'm sorry about that, Sabia.”

“There’s no battle here, Director. You don’t need guns around me. Or do you pathetic johns plan to shoot each other for your own amusement?”

Kingsley hesitates, tries to take the full measure of Sabia. She's short. She has a big nose, he thinks. She may be smart. She's a victim here, and a witness. “This is a terrible, upsetting day,” he says. “A tragic day, for you especially.”

“I hate guns,” says Sabia.

Kingsley looks away. “A necessary Evil. Part of the job.”

“An Evil.”

Kingsley returns Sabia's level gaze.

“I’m sorry about your grandfather, Ms. Perez.”

“All the Ms. Perezes around her are dead, Director. And I’m sorry about your job. Where’s the President, by the way? You lose someone?”

Sabia turns away from the armed man in the trench coat. She goes inside the house and slams the front door behind her.

Director Kingsley stares at the door. Then at the empty porch.

Then he studies the dirty beaten snow beneath his shiny black boots.

He steps onto the painted green planks of the porch. He opens the front door, enters. He finds himself standing uncertainly at the edge of the kitchen in the old Perez farmhouse.

The living rooms, halls, upstairs, basement, and attic are currently overrun by FBI, Secret Service, and any number of other security agencies.

Sabia is nowhere to be seen.

Sabia gives no fucks. Why should she? She's on home ground, and feeling it.

She comes out of the bathroom and goes to the kitchen and pours more coffee.

Director Kingsley has taken a seat at the table as if he owns the place. He ends a call and glances at his tablet.

Sabia sits down directly across from Kingsley with her coffee. She stares into his taut blue eyes. To her, he looks dazed, dense, rigid, and possibly mean.

“You must be exhausted, Sabia. I’m so sorry about your grandfather.”

“Mi abuelo. So am I.”

“Your abuelo. I’m afraid I need to ask a few questions. Then we’ll get you taken care of.”

“You mean shipped out of here.”

“We need to relocate you. Temporarily.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Director Kingsley hesitates. “Sabia, what happened last night?”

“You tell me.”

“We lost so many good people. Your abuelo included.”

Director Kingsley glances at notes on his tablet.

“You won't find your answers there,” Sabia tells him.

She looks around at the officials from various agencies working at laptops set on long folding tables in the adjacent living room. She's sure they would try to hack into her brain if they could.

“No one will find the answers they want,” she says.

“And why is that?” says Director Kingsley.

“Have you looked outside?”

“At length.”

“There's a plow in my orchard. Upside down. Who does that?”

“People with strong opinions.”

“Let's think. No. People with disgusting, vicious opinions.”

Director Kingsley pushes aside the tablet.

“Sabia, is there anything beyond the obvious that you can tell me about what-”

“There’s nothing obvious about what happened last night, Director.”

“It only looks that way at first,” says Kingsley. “Eventually the entire picture will become clear.”

“I doubt that very much,” says Sabia.

“We’re lucky to have you as a witness. The only one.”

Sabia leans forward. “Are you? The weather was the only witness to what happened last night, Director.”

“A snowplow in the orchard.”

“The house shook. I grabbed on. I already told all this.”

“Why did your abuelo go to the bus?”

“Why did you send President Silver into a blizzard?”

“Did Roca want to meet the President?”

“My abuelo cared as much for politics as it cared for him, okay?”

“It wasn’t appropriate – my agents – to let anyone near the bus.”

“There was nothing appropriate about what happened last night, Mr. Clueless Cop.”

“It was – terrible. There will be a victims fund, I’m sure. You’ll be taken care of, I'm certain.”

“That's bullshit. There will be lawsuits. Count on it. And right now, the FBI is holding me hostage in my own kitchen. How cruel is that. They took my phone, my laptop.”

“Sabia, missiles disintegrated the President’s bus. White supremacist secessionists from Texas, the Navy’s own people, launched from their naval submarine. Part of a group called Free Sovereign Texas. They claimed responsibility. Some are dead now.”

“You know this already?”

“The FBI. They leaked it this morning to calm fears and to end speculation about an international terror attack or invasion.”

“Oh, I see. It’s a relief to be attacked by all-American white Navy guys. Brown freelancers would be scary.”

“That’s not – we know what we’re doing, Sabia.”

“Clearly. I was almost nuked off my ass by a Navy sub, but you with the gun on your hip, you know what’s what. Smart guy. If you were so smart, you wouldn’t need to carry a gun. Did you ever see, a while back, a government report came out, it said the Navy was too dangerous to be allowed on the open seas. You know, after it blew up a passenger airline.”

“Iran Air 655, 1988. That was a mistake. This was different.”

“Oh. Wow. Comforting.”

“Certain things were known. In advance. I’m told. Sabia. Not well enough. Not all the military is civilian friendly.”

“I had no idea! Standing armies are suicidal, Director. History proves it. And this country is way beyond history. Way beyond.”

“You read that somewhere.”

“Shockingly, I’m literate.”

“Well, it’s sheer luck that the Vice President was not on board Ground Force One last night. She was supposed to be.”

Sabia is stunned. “Alecta…”

“The Vice President got sick, stayed behind in Kansas City after the President’s speech. The Speaker of the House is a hard-line right-winger. I guess you know. And next in line. He would have been President.”

“It was a total coup then.”

“We don’t know that. Look, the Navy has already destroyed its own submarine that launched the missiles. We will hunt the rest of the perpetrators and arrest them where possible or kill them where not. They should be very afraid.”

“Alecta escaped the coup. She’s safe.” Sabia leans back in her chair. She realizes she had stopped breathing. “The coup boys fucked up, big time. Didn't they, Director. What a pity.”

In the bunker, Ellen Lin stocks the kitchen cabinets and arranges the counter with food from the storerooms. She doesn't expect to use much of it, but she's beginning to think you never know. Anyway, it gives her something orderly, creative, and time-consuming to do. Roca walks on the treadmill. President Silver picks up the metal ladle again and wants to bang away at the pipes for all she's worth.

“They must be right above us right now,” she says.

“They might as well be on the moon,” says Roca.

“What if we ran water until the well goes dry? Wouldn’t they hear the pump running?”

“Forget it, Madame President. The bunker well is not connected to the house well. There's a second well. And it’s connected right down here with us, and the bowels of the Earth.”

“Kristen, hang in there,” says Lin. “We’re going to be rescued. Everyone wants to find you. Everyone is looking for you.”

“Not if they think I’m dead.”

“You’re not.”

“Well it doesn’t feel that way!”

President Silver smashes the ladle against the pipe. Lin covers her ears. Roca keeps walking, shakes his head.

Sitting across from Sabia at the kitchen table, Secret Service Director William Kingsley painstakingly tries to work with her.

“Mourn and grieve for your grandfather, Sabia. Speak out to reporters if you wish. Help us show how evil these homegrown terrorists truly are.”

“They’re the worst people on the planet.”

“The planet’s a big place.”

“Who’s worse?”

Director Kingsley reflects. “It was a simple trip from Kansas City to Des Moines. We thought we would beat the storm. We were wrong. We didn’t count on getting blocked on the interstate. We were wrong. We thought we would of course maintain contact with Ground Force One. We were wrong. The stormfront was too quick and strong. And we had no idea of any planned terror strike of course. We were wrong. We can’t be wrong again. Especially me.”

“It’s climate collapse,” says Sabia. “It got you. You should have known. It’s the greatest wrong of all time. It's the final wrong.”

FBI agents enter the farmhouse with several new scent dogs. Sabia stiffens. One is walked down to the basement, another upstairs, a third over to Sabia who is told to remain still while the dog sniffs her. Sabia throws up her hands.

“Don’t shoot.”

The dog lingers with Sabia, then moves on.

“I apologize for that. This is all standard procedure,” says Kingsley.

“You say you can’t be wrong again, Director. It would be wrong to kick me out of my home. This is my abuelo’s home. My only home.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Sabia. We need to secure the area.”

“I’m totally secure. I get to school on my own. I drive an old pickup, not far. It’s my senior year. I’m eighteen. Everything I know is here. I have no family now. Abuelo and I worked as a team. It was supposed to be a fucking team!”

Sabia stands, lifts her wood chair, holds it as if she’s going to throw it, then slams it on the wood floor.

“This is what I have left. I’m not responsible for your fucking bus!”

“Sabia, I’m sorry. Tell me about your site online: Sabia the Fig Girl.”

Sabia sits back down.

“Why? Mamá helped me start it. She filmed me a lot. Now, too late, it supports me full-time. Almost. I don’t even need school. Mamá then Abuelo filmed me night and day in the gardens, in the orchard, in the greenhouses. We have everything now. And nothing. No family. A ton of subscribers, Patreon support, a website, even merch.”

“Impressive.”

“Then you fuckers show up.”

“Sabia, this is a crime scene.”

“There’s no crime here, Director. Not in this house. Not on my person. You’re a pathetic old man who can’t even protect the President. Old Silver-Ass. The crime is in the hole in the ground on the road! At the edge of my orchard! Focus on that!”

“I’m not old.”

“What? Oh – fuck's sake. Your brain is. You’re here to kick a young woman out of her own home. Wow, CNN is going to love that story. And Fox. And CBS. Youtube, everyone. I can’t wait to tell it. Broken Secret Service Director tries to manhandle…” Sabia puts her hands on her chest. “…little Sabia Perez…The Fig Girl…” Sabia removes her hands from her chest and holds them up, palms to Kingsley. “…in her own home the day she lost her Abuelo, the day white supremacist terrorists blew up her backyard, all but nuked her, poor thing.” Sabia jabs her finger at Kingsley's face. “That’s the crime I see, Director. My subscribers will go ballistic on your ass.”

The scent dog tugs its handler back to Sabia. The dog sniffs her again. Sabia and the dog lock eyes. The dog barks.

“Don’t stare at the dog,” says the handler.

“Fuck off.”

“Agent, enough, thank you. She’s been through a lot.”

The handler and the dog exit the house.

Sabia and Kingsley study each other. “Yes,” she says. “I have been through a lot.”

And with that the Good Boy Secret Service Director and the Bad Girl revolutionary consider one another and their next move.

President Silver tries to understand the fuzzy reports on the antenna TV.

Lin boils water then steeps three types of tea in a row on the kitchen counter. She patiently allows them to cool, then tastes each by each.

“Elderberry,” she says. “There's something about elderberry.”

Roca has fallen asleep sitting upright on the couch.

Frustrated, Silver looks to the ceiling and screams.

“We’re down here! We’re right here! I’m alive!”

Lin slops, spills, spits tea. Roca wakes. Silver listens for any response from above.

“I think you woke the dead,” says Roca. “But not the cops.”

“I don’t care about the dead.”

“No, you do, Kristen,” says Lin. “Now, look, for the sake of our own sanity, let your people do their jobs, Ms. President.”

“You see where that got me. Do you see where I am?”

“I'm here too.”

“We were tanking in the polls. This is a total road trip to Hell, this whole campaign.”

“Maybe Sabia was right to call you Silver-Ass,” says Roca. “People are dead.”

Silver glares at Roca. “My people. Not yours.”

“Oh really.” Roca closes his eyes again as if to sleep.

“Yes, really,” says Lin.

“You both owe Sabia your life,” says Roca.

Silver looks like she wants to take Roca’s.

“I know she’s your family, Roca,” says Lin, “but you have to admit – imprisoning the President and holding her hostage and taking the presidency hostage is extremely fucking insane. It's suicidal.”

“No respect for power,” says President Silver. “No respect whatsoever.”

Roca feels weary beyond all repair. He feels Sabia is doomed. He never opens his eyes.

“I'm sorry for your losses,” says Roca. “It's a horrible thing, to lose those close to you.”

Sabia points both hands like guns at Director Kingsley.

“Do you know that if all the police in the US were considered to be an army, then they would be the world’s second largest army? Larger even than China’s army, and second only to the US military. So who says this is not a police state, and here you are siccing police dogs on me. And kicking me out of my own home.”

“Look, Sabia, this whole thing is a horror show. Surely you can understand that the President of the United States was assassinated not far from your door-”

“I had nothing to do with it!”

“I understand-”

“Then act like it. Did President Silver happen to see my Abuelo when the blast hit? I mean, 'surely, you can understand'.”

“Tell me about your abuelo.”

Sabia softens, somewhat. “He would have been able to protect the President better than you. He knew the weather better than you. He knew which way the wind blows. He used to.”

“After your parents passed, he became your world.”

“We survived. He taught me so much. Plants and soil, trees, water, weather. I was going to study horticulture next year at college. Climate collapse or no. Loose nukes or no. Pompous Presidents or no. Mad bombers or no.”

“You must go. Go to college for horticulture.”

“If I ever leave this place now, I doubt it will be of my own free will.”

In the bunker, President Silver points at Roca with every bit of indigant accusation she can muster.

“When we get out of here, I’m going to make Sabia eat shit. I tell you that. And then I’m going to see her thrown into prison until she’s old enough to know better.”

“The pills are in the back, Silver. ”

“Respect! Now. A little respect here,” says Lin. “I’m under a lot stress in this bunker too. I’m the most vulnerable person here, am I not? I have no value, to Sabia, compared to the President, and Roca, this is your home. You're on your home ground. Or under it. So I would appreciate it, if we could all work together, to survive, shall we?”

“Got any alcohol, Roca?” says Silver.

Roca shakes his head.

“Perfect.”

Lin sips her teas.

“No one has ever died of sobriety, Kristen.”

“Oh, please, Ellen. I have. Repeatedly.”

Kansas City International Airport is plowed out early the morning after the blizzard. Air Force One lands. Acting President Alecta O'Roura-Chavez, her staff, and other high officials are hurried onto the flying White House. Within minutes, they are airborne.

Through long hours, Alecta, her Chief of Staff Shakeeta Glazier, and her Press Secretary Tisha Noori huddle on a couch in the center of the plane watching the news like everyone else. Shakeeta and Tisha flank Alecta who is bundled in blankets and sipping electrolytes. They receive periodic intelligence updates by way of secure calls from the National Security Agency and the Pentagon. They study the news and information in resignation and shock.

Two news moderators watch and discuss long clips of Billy the Moto Kid’s drone video of the crisis by the Perez farmhouse. The moderators go back and forth with their comments:

“Just extraordinary images from Billy the Moto Kid’s livestream. The media is still banned from the disaster site, but these do-it-yourself drone shots went viral before they could be stopped and are now everywhere.”

“This is strictly unbelievable, this level of violence.”

“The FBI is already calling it an assassination and coup attempt. President Silver and her high level staff and campaign team and many Secret Service agents are all missing and presumed dead, killed in a barrage of missiles shot from a rogue US Navy submarine.”

“Strictly unbelievable.”

“All too real. The missiles hit President Silver’s campaign bus Ground Force One late last night in remote rural Iowa. The site unreachable until early this morning due to a ferocious blizzard. Fearing further violence, Navy Admiral Robert Bentcan ordered the rogue sub sunk, and it was. Apparently without survivors.”

“A coup attempt against liberal US President Silver. A white supremacist faction within the US Navy is suspected. Vice President now Acting President O’Roura-Chavez has been sworn in. We hope to have video, at least photos soon. Reportedly O’Roura-Chavez and staff are currently on a flight to nowhere, high aboard Air Force One.”

A photo of the swearing in appears on the TV.

“Well, now. Here is the first image of the swearing in. Curiously O’Roura-Chavez with her left hand on an electronic tablet. We can’t make out the text. She appears to be wrapped in a shawl. She looks like she has seen better days.”

“Ironically, the food poisoning that kept her in Kansas City after President Silver’s campaign speech saved her life.”

“Of course conspiracy theorists are claiming online that O’Roura-Chavez was in on the coup. And they are also saying that President Silver is alive somewhere in hiding and that she orchestrated the whole thing to hand over power to her Vice President to fulfill the Socialist Agenda-”

“I suppose anything is possible.”

“It’s a travesty what people will say in times of crisis. The FBI is pursuing every lead to find each traitor to bring them to justice. More soon.”

Alecta mutes the TV with a remote.

“It's all fucked,” says Tisha.

“We're alive,” says Shakeeta.

“We're fucked,” says Tisha.

“Others are fucked worse. And permanently,” says Alecta.

“Of course, but...”

They stare out the window at the distant ground.

“The whole country really is fucked,” says Tisha.

“The dead are dead,” says Alecta. “We need to not make more of them.”

“You need to do better than that, Madame President,” says Shakeeta. “You need to give Tisha something she can go to the press with. To the whole country.”

“Something healing,” says Tisha.

“Anything not morbid,” says Shakeeta.

Director Kingsley slides his hands apart along the edge of the kitchen table as if to wipe away all negativity and doubt, then gestures wide with his arms. “Brighter days lie ahead, Sabia. It’s so bad now, but one day … one day you’ll rebound.”

“I’m dug in. Here. Director Kingsley. More than you can know. You don’t live here. You’re not from here. You don’t know me. You don’t know what happens on this land. You may think you do. But you don't.”

“The world is wide-open, Sabia. It’s full of opportunity.”

“For people like you. Not me.”

“Give it time.”

“I’ll probably die here. Me and my abuelo.” Sabia glances out at the cold and the snow. “I’m a real orphan now.”

Alecta sits alone on a couch by a window on Air Force One. She watches TV news and listens through earbuds. Shakeeta and Tisha stand behind the couch discussing the unprecedented day and the unimaginably difficult time to come.

The news runs Billy's drone video of Sabia standing on the porch looking over the disaster site. “There’s the witness!” says Alecta. “Look, there's the teen. Who on Earth is Sabia Perez? 18 years-old. Her abuelo is missing. Presumed dead. Poor Sabia. Their farmhouse was so near the explosion.”

Shakeeta and Tisha lean over the couch to watch.

“That's too much,” says Shakeeta. “Look at her. Poor girl got hit with a blizzard, a bomb, and the death of her abuelo.”

“The bus was stuck near the farmhouse,” says Alecta. “Sabia’s abuelo Roca went out to help.”

“Sabia saw it happen?” says Tisha.

“I hope not,” says Alecta.

“That girl is going to need therapy for the rest of her life,” says Shakeeta.

“Fuck. All of us,” says Tisha. “It’s not even safe for us to be on the planet right now. Not safe for anyone. Look where we are. We don’t know if we can return.”

“Nevertheless, we will,” says Alecta.

“Definite therapy,” says Shakeeta.

“In the meantime, to Hell with Earth,” says Alecta. “I’m happy to fly far away from it all for a while.”

Alecta stares out the window at the planet below. She wonders about Sabia, poor girl, so far from power, so far from the mighty and treacherous centers of rule, her abuelo killed, dead, her senior year of high school, how sad. Poor girl probably has no idea what she's doing right now.

Air Force One drifts over the impact site of Ground Force One like some terrible flying fossil of the metallic age, like a dead and seemingly extinct airborne aluminum dinosaur that comes to life at the flip of a switch. And then terrorizes the skies where Acting President Alecta O’Roura-Chavez and staff ride within the beast like the gulped Jonahs of a monstrous flying whale. They have been devoured and eaten by the thing they would ride except that it rides them, hurtling them along in its steely cage.

In blankets on couch by window, resting alone, Alecta stares at the snow-buried land far below. She can't make out many details compared to the amateur drone footage she's seen on TV. A desolate world, encased in frozen white, lonely, where she was supposed to have been blown up.

Alecta tries to think it all through but is obsessed by the sea of snow and dark skeletal trees where she would have been shredded last night. Saved by sickness. Not Kristen and Ellen. That's where they were killed. And their staff. And agents. The drivers. That's where Democracy goes to die. Iowa. It looks so austere. Spare and beautiful, a horribly aesthetic place for an assassination and coup attempt.

The ongoing grim security briefings and updates on Air Force One emphasize the overwhelming lethal nature of the attack. The impossibility of escape from what she by luck – bad luck, good luck, weird luck – flies high above.

TV muted, Alecta watches again the drone video by Billy the Moto Kid at the Perez farmhouse. She sees Sabia standing on the porch. Sabia seems so small. So alone. “Poor Sabia.”

Alecta unmutes the TV “...a dark day in the history of the United States of America...” Alecta mutes the TV again.

“Shakeeta.”

“You need to turn that thing off,” says Shakeeta, coming up from behind the couch. “It's a terrible day. Don't watch.”

“That's our job, I think.”

“Not every second. You'll go insane.”

“Too late, I think. Make a mental note with me, will you? Let's do something for Sabia.”

Tisha joins them: “We can visit, for one.”

“We'll do that. Something more though. Think on it. Maybe we should bring Sabia a long way into our lives. Let's learn her story.”

They each watch Sabia on TV via the drone footage.

“She's tiny,” says Shakeeta.

“The world's so big,” says Alecta.

Alecta stares again out the window at the endless Iowa fields and forests full of snow far below, her would-be place of assassination and death. Her vision fuzzes out. Her mind goes its own way. Her brain dreams of a better day.

Director Kingsley feels comfortable at the farmhouse kitchen table with Sabia despite her acid tongue and acrid mind. It's strange, he doesn't want to get up to do the rest of his job – what's left of it. He could be fired at any moment, except that the person who should fire him for his total failure is dead. Well, there's still the Vice President to protect. For now. And the former Presidents. And there's an investigation to see through, but here before him sits mad Sabia, and she feels both like a welcome enemy – someone to fight face to face – and a pathetic wretch who got body-crushed from out of the blue.

Kingsley considers Sabia's plea to stay in her home. Time to decide and move on. Her abuelo dead. Her world blasted upside down. Poor girl, he attributes her wicked tongue to a kind of perverse shock at the loss of her abuelo and her life blown sky-high.

Kingsley studies the Secret Service Officer across the room who has been standing by.

“Officer, we’re going to need round-the-clock coverage assigned to Ms. Perez, in this household. Reporting directly to me. Sabia will drive herself to and from school and elsewhere, as she sees fit. She will need a site pass.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Director Kingsley waits until Sabia meets his eyes. “After all,” he says, “the bombing happened down the road. The crime is over there. You'll need the approval of the FBI too. I'll handle the Director. Okay?”

“That’s more like it. I told you this wasn’t a crime scene – because it’s not. My house is my home. None of you should be here. You fuckers are afraid of the snow, pissing on everything I own.”

The remaining scent dogs finish. Handlers take the dogs outside to continue work. Sabia watches the dogs go.

“I want everyone out of my house.”

“Not happening,” says Director Kingsley. “More officers and agents will come by with questions. You will need to answer, I’m sorry, or be detained to headquarters for formal interrogation.”

“I’m not a suspect.”

Director Kingsley stands up.

“Sabia, failure to cooperate will arouse suspicion and resentment. Anyone can be a suspect. I’m sorry to meet you under these terrible circumstances.”

“I can’t believe you’re going to guard me night and day.”

“Sorry.”

Director Kingsley slides Sabia his card with his personal contact information and returns to the disaster outside.

Sabia goes upstairs alone to her bedroom.

She looks out at the aftermath of the blizzard and bombing, at the results of molten fire and ice.

“Fire and ice,” she says to the frigid windowpane.

Emergency workers seem to move like ants in snow.

“I command you all,” says Sabia.

Sabia hears gunshots. She spots agents aiming. She sees a person in the field across the road riding a snowmobile.

“Fucking imbeciles!” shouts Sabia. “They're shooting at Billy the Kid.”

Sabia races downstairs and runs out onto the porch.

“Stop shooting! Stop!” From the porch of her farmhouse, Sabia shouts. “Put your fucking guns down for once you fucking assholes! That’s my fucking neighbor! Jesus Christ I don’t even like him but you don’t have to kill him!”

“Stop firing!” Director Kingsley commands.

Sabia runs back inside from the porch, shoves her feet into boots, then runs out into the snow. Director Kingsley hurries to Sabia.

“Who is that?”

“He’s just a kid. He’s in my class. A neighbor. Farm down the road.”

“Those were warning shots. On my instruction. He was flying a drone. Probably a camera. No media allowed. Not yet.”

“So you’re keeping the media out with guns. That’s Billy the Moto Kid. He has a nothing video channel, but it’s going to blow up now with clips of you morons. Great job. Runs his dirt bikes and snowmobiles. And now shots of the disaster, and your violent police state response. I bet it goes viral.”

Kingsley shrugs. “Let him scoop the big boys, let him report gunfire. Maybe that will deter rubberneckers and thrill seekers. We don’t need the hassle.”

“That’s basically your job, Director: rubbernecking and thrill seeking. Isn’t that why cops get into it in the first place? Bonus if you can go after brown and black skins too. That’s the whole history of the police, past and present. The police literally started as slave patrols. They were slave catchers! And now what are they? Prison patrol, across all society. It’s one big prison. A police state of captive consumers, bought and sold, locked down.”

“First, no. Second, we’re not all like that, Sabia.”

“Oh, really. Well, you gunslingers attract the type. If only you cops would chase each other instead of the poor guy on the street. Would solve the whole problem. Imagine if prisons were full of cops instead of poor people like me. Justice.”

“It’s mainly a lot of investigation and paperwork.”

“You tried to kick me out of my own home. With a gun. Guns everywhere. Kick me out and you don’t know Jack Shit about who’s out there in the snow filming your every fucking move. You think you know this, that, and the other. You don’t. You know wrong. That's white ignorance. And worse.”

“Do people around here hate the police as much as you do?”

“You got that backwards, Copper. Who hates who? There's plenty of people around here who act like cops themselves. Gun nuts. Wannabes. Billy the Moto Kid, I could see him becoming a cop. I’m sure he could do just as bad a job as you do.”

“It’s really me you hate.”

“Don't make it personal, Copper.”

“You make it personal.”

“Anyone who doesn't own a healthy disrespect for country is a fucking thug tool of Empire, Big Shot. Besides, you're a professional, Director Kinglsey. And you're on the clock. But don't you dare boss me, Goldilocks. You’re a dull boy with a gun. Many guns. You can’t civilize me, Copper. Look around. You are a fucking thug tool of Empire.”

“Sabia the Insult Queen. Words like that in some countries can get you locked up. And worse.”

“Far less than that can get you shot and killed in this one. It's a police state run by the rich that calls itself a democracy.” Sabia raises her hands. “Don’t shoot. Don't shoot the Foul Mouth of the People. With an even fouler mind. It's one of my finest qualities. All my friends think so.”

Sabia turns from Director Kingsley, begins to walk toward the farmhouse keeping her hands held up. She stops after a few steps and lowers her arms. “It’s the police state I hate, Copper. It’s killing the world. It creates so much hate, and destruction. All the time.”

Sabia throws out her arms.

“You know – you didn’t ask my politics. I’m a progressive and a socialist. I don’t like liberals like President Silver-Queen. That doesn’t mean she deserves to die.”

“Look, I’m a conservative. That doesn’t mean I didn’t do my best to protect her – and everyone else. Including you.”

“Oh, fuck you. You can see how very safe you’ve made us all. Happy horror show, Big Shot. Is Billy the Kid even still alive? Lucky he’s white.”

Sabia raises her hands again. “Don’t shoot!”

She runs back to the farmhouse porch.

“Jesus Christ.” Director Kingsley faces the wind. “Fucking Sabia. Shoot me now.”

Kingsley walks toward the heavy digging, the cold and tedious searching in and around the crater that once was Ground Force One.

In the bunker, President Silver, Ellen Lin, and Roca Perez are absorbed in their internal exile each in their own way: watching TV, writing in notebook, walking on treadmill. Their worlds seem as stable and cloistered as can be. None feel much like eating. They almost look to be at peace, except that they become increasingly conscious that they can feel each second linger and go, arrive, linger and go. Then arrive, linger, and go again. And again. And again.

There seems to be no choice but to wait it out. And so they do. And they think: How to be more patient than time?

At the front door of her farmhouse, Sabia pauses, senses the entire convent of unwanted agents inside mumbling through gods know what set of mystical state rites. White supremacist religious wackos probably most of them, Sabia muses, whatever else they might be. Some days it seems to Sabia that all the crazy medieval religious freaks got kicked out England, called themselves Pure, rather than say, wholly delusional – Holy delusional – and then they emigrated their lunacy and fanaticism to the land they called America. And bred. Doing everything they could to conquer what they washed into, to cut it all down, control and spread their viral lethal ways. Fucking crazy ass Europeans full of their barbaric guns and other diseases.

And then European slavers overran the South to complete the barbaric picture.

For anyone who wanted to found a make-believe religious Empire, or build a very real Empire of slaves or serf workers, America was the place to be. Damn – given the current prison plantations, gag jobs, and religious malevolence and make-believe insanity called “faith,” it looks like it still is the place to be.

Well, that's exactly what happened, yes, that's what happens when people go nuts and call it “good common sense and decency.” The European invaders and colonizers created a new state of their own, the American state that kicked out the English King and his British Empire and made their very own Holy Empire of Constitutional slavery and wage slave servitude. And they called it good.

Oh, how the preachers preached and the authorities raved, glorifying slavery and the Constitution itself – especially the part without the actually humane Bill of Rights – and pushing for the “extermination” of the indigenous and for the enshrinement of the so-called God-given rights of the whites and the wealthy. What a psychotic mess. What a brutal, vicious, and cruel panorama.

And now here in Sabia's face are the oath-sworn upholders of that very same barbaric Constitution taking over Sabia's own house and home, pilfering through with their dogs. Fucking invaders, White Empire. There it is. There they are. Pillaging Sabia and her continent.

Who can blame her for fighting back?

Sabia looks over the cold expanse beyond her house at the endless digging and sorting through snow. She shakes a power fist at the back of Director Kingsley as he walks to the crater. Then she goes inside and slams the door.

Sabia glares at the security agents, each and every one and thinks of President Silver, Roca, and Ellen Lin in the coal mine bunker 50 feet below the frenzy of this uninvited official state activity in her home. “Some day, they'll write a book about me,” she says quietly to herself. “A truly accurate one. When I'm long dead.”

It will be an impolite book. Full of all kinds of political, social, and cultural gossip, scandal, and taboos. Maybe she'll write it herself. She wants to think of a good title.

What would be a good title for her liberatory lit manifesto?

Or maybe, since Sabia likes to write not only nature shape poetry but well-formed short stories and essays, maybe she could narrate all her dramatic experiences of late as an autobiographical novel. Maybe she could make it into the shape of a natural revolution. What would that look like? She wonders whether or not it's possible. She thinks it must be. She realizes there's only one way to find out.

Billy the Moto Kid rides his snowmobile home – bouncing, leaping, gliding fast from the Perez farmhouse – giddy with scalp-lifting joy and residual fear at having survived the agents' gunfire. He feels so alive. Scary though it is, he never wants the ride to stop, the rush to leave him.

Billy would never admit: he can't wait to tell his mom everything. Scoop of the day, of the whole wide world, live-streamed, to Youtube. He, Billy the Moto Kid Yonkin, got it. Big bank. A once in a lifetime opportunity. Score! Billy scored. And he knows it. He knows it, he knows it.

In her coal mine bunker bedroom, President Silver pushes out of an old plank board bed that is sturdy and broad but with a mattress so thin and no springs that it feels something like an iron cot to her. The last time she was stuck in a place so primitive was high school summer camp with Ellen at a nature retreat in the Poconos. Who knew the next time reduced to living the frontier life would be at a kidnapping? Her own.

“What the fuck is this world coming to,” says Silver. First thing in the morning.

Silver finds flannel shirts stored in a supply room and wears one against the slight damp and chill. Lin discovers a knit sweater she likes. Silver and Lin are now dressed in Perez family clothes, while Roca wears his own customary flannel. A few small electric heaters keep the bunker-sealed coal mine reasonably temperate and dry.

Roca can't help it – he is amused thinking how President Silver and Ellen will take the news when they finally realize that no hot water at the kitchen sink faucet means no hot water for shower. Nothing but ice cold showers for the President and her campaign manager from now. It's the healthiest thing for them, or anyone, so Roca can't feel too bad.

This morning after their first full day in the bunker, it's finally dawning on each of them that they can't simply keep snacking out of the storeroom. They need to create actual meals and generate a schedule of eating, cleaning, working, exercising, entertaining, and relaxing. And whatever ever else they might need to do to best survive.

Lin plugs in the refrigerator then realizes that nothing needs to go in it until they open cans and jars of food stuffs that can spoil, or make iced tea, or keep leftovers from a meal.

So Lin, Silver, and Roca move items from the storeroom and stock the kitchen cabinet with small containers of oat, wheat, and rice kernels; beans, pasta, and canned goods; honey, sugar, tea, and spices; real maple syrup, oils, baking powder, and popcorn; and the instant and powdered milk, potatoes, soup, coffee, eggs, Tang and more; plus protein bars and vitamins. An array of nuts, nuts, and more nuts Roca transfers from wooden boxes into air-tight pouches and sets them on the kitchen counter next to a mounted hand oil press and nut cracker. Every good thing of long term storage that a good non-prepper's prepper heart may desire.

“Jesus,” says Silver studying the counter and open cabinets full of dry goods boxed, bagged, and jarred. “We really are in the nineteenth century here in middle American, aren't we, Ellen?”

“At least we won't starve.”

“I don't think we can use that motto for the campaign, Ellen: At least we won't starve!”

Roca closes a cabinet door directly in front of President Silver.” Sabia says tens of million of Americans are food insecure.” He adds, “In a rich country, with endless wealth, and endless capacity to extend instant credit, that's sheer criminal. That's on the state. That's on you, President Silver. You don't have to be Sabia to know that.”

“Well, policy advisor, Roca. What a pleasure. First, you hold me hostage, then you torture me with your ever so pleasant company.”

“Okay,” says Lin. “Let's eat something. I think we'll all feel better.”

“We will,” says Roca.

Then Roca, the good host, prepares everyone a breakfast of pancakes with honey, applesauce, and cinnamon. He smears his applesauce on his pancakes while Silver and Lin keep theirs separate.

“We have enough canned fruit, syrup, honey, mix or flour to eat this kind of breakfast every day for years,” says Roca.

“How lucky we are,” says Lin. “And look, no bars. Only a cage. Is there an exercise yard we get to use for an hour a day?”

“If you try to keep us here for anything approaching a part of year, Roca,” says Silver, “then at some point, I'll try to kill you and eat you for breakfast instead of these simple pancakes. Don't think I won't. And I won't be held responsible if I do.”

“I'll look forward to that,” says Roca. He holds up a bite-size square of pancake smeared with thick applesauce on the tip of his fork. He points it at Silver. “This is good stuff.” He continues eating as if he hasn't eaten in a week.

After breakfast they squabble to try to be the main person to clean the dishes, a banal task that already feels like nothing of a chore and more like a refreshing return to the normalcy of their lives, past lives, a normalcy that no longer remotely exists.

Then they all but line up to take their turns with a hot shower. At the end of which, Roca, as always, does his hard-working mitochondria the favor of cranking the handle all the way to cold to douse his body in a brute eye-popping stream of water that never fails to make him feel more refreshed and clean than any amount of soap and hot water ever can.

Lin writes endlessly across blank lines of paper. She records every last impression she can recall of the terrible day that was yesterday – everyone she interacted with, looked at, heard, every word spoken, every thought recollected, every emotion sensed and felt, never to be forgotten.

Silver paces in front of the fuzzy screen of the TV, hands behind her back, staring at the floor as if trying to read something in the ether that might better be sussed out from herself internally. She has been forever doing, forever talking – hazard of the job and her personality – always hearing, rarely listening, seldom or never reconsidering. The continued slow passing of time after breakfast soon grinds away any little patience she can muster. She turns off the storm-wrecked static of the TV in disgust.

Roca rereads his favorite book selected from the small library on hand, a single shelf: Tree Crops: A Permanent Agriculture by Russell Smith. He's always rethinking the farm, the perennial trees and bushes, and the ecology within which it sits, and how better to make a go of things on their acreage rolling from bare ridge to wooded stream, within the surrounding sweep of pasture and corporate-driven monoculture farmland.

“They need to fix the cable,” says Silver. “And they need to come find me.”

“And me,” says Lin. “They’ll figure it out. They will.”

“It's been less than a day,” says Roca.

“We survive a direct missile strike by crazed elements of our own military only to be taken hostage by an Iowa farm girl with an ax to grind.”

“She thinks she’s a revolutionary,” says Lin.

“Where in Hell is she? Roca!”

“I’m getting a book out of this, though it makes me puke. You should too, Kristen. The country needs to hear from its leader.”

“Roca, my team won’t negotiate. Sabia will be lucky not to get killed. She’ll go to prison. Or she’ll get us killed, and maybe others. That’s the kind of revolutionary she is.”

Roca sets his book down. He strips off his flannel to his tee shirt and gets on the treadmill, walks.

“Sabia changed her school, against all odds,” says Roca. “A bit.”

“Her school? Give me a break. She can't negotiate anything with my people. How? Even if she could, upon release I would take back anything she thinks she got. Everyone knows it. And there will be nothing to stop me.”

Roca stops walking.

“That’s crazy. She would never let you out if she thinks you would do that. I mean – never. You don't know mi nieta.”

“'Never' is what Sabia will get. She will never get what she wants. Not from me or anyone else. Tu nieta.”

“Maybe she already did. Revenge in a bunker.”

“I didn’t kill her mother, Roca.”

“People like you did.”

“That's not fair,” says Lin.

“It's totally fair,” say Roca. “Especially in Sabia's mind.”

“She’s going to get herself killed. Do you understand? Maybe we should take you hostage, Roca. Tie you up and see how your nieta acts then.”

“Don’t test her. I'm telling you. Look where it got me.”

“She’s a dead girl walking. Okay? If she keeps this up. Fucking teenager.”

“You’re standing 50 feet below mi nieta’s very pissed-off feet. I wouldn’t touch me if I were you.”

“I'm the President. I'll do whatever I want. Your nieta is mentally unstable.”

“The drugs are in the back, Silver-Toes, if you need to self-medicate.”

“Roca,” says Lin. “You said Sabia would make ransom demands. Lunatic though that may be. In fact, is. Well where are they? That’s how she’ll get caught.”

President Silver angrily powers the TV back on. The endless streaming sheets of static garbling transmission and communication seem to taunt her.

“I’m the President of the United States of America, and no one even knows I’m alive. Not even the fucking news knows I'm alive.”

“Or me. I’m alive too.”

“Ellen, when I say 'me' I also mean 'you'. You know that, right?”

“Sure.”

“Because it doesn't sound like you do.”

“No, it's okay.”

“You know what, Silver?” says Roca. “Sabia always says, 'The dead make demands of the living.' I always say, 'When you’re dead, you’re dead.' But maybe she’s right. Maybe we should be thinking a lot more about the dead right now and a lot less about, oh, I don't know – you.”

“Well I didn't kill them,” says Silver.

“That's debatable,” says Roca.

“What?”

“I said that may be debatable.”

“That would be a bad ending,” says Lin. “Our own deaths.” She lifts her pen off the page. Then she continues writing. “I guess posthumous publication is better than none at all.”

Roca is tired. He gets off the treadmill. Sits on a wooden bench.

“Things are complicated for Sabia.”

“Nothing like they will be.”

“Sabia’s the only reason you’re alive anyway. She gave you shelter. You better hope the Acting President comes through for you. Alecta O’Roura-Chavez. Put your faith in her.”

A trace of fear appears on President Silver’s face.

“I'm telling you – I wouldn’t cross her,” says Roca.

“Sabia or Alecta?” says President Silver.

Roca sees Silver and Lin glance at each other. They both seem increasingly worried.

“Christ. Yes. Both,” says Roca.

Alecta, Shakeeta, and Tisha gather around the conference room table in Air Force One the day after the bombing. Staff Aide Malcolm Xavier is already there and seated, working on a laptop.

“Shakeeta,” says Alecta, “is there anyone on this plane who knows anything more about what's going on then we already know?”

“Anyone like that would be in on the updates. Our NSA liaison surely knows everything there is to know on this plane. Given the Navy's involvement, he says it looks like a coup. You'd have to be blind not to see it.”

“We don't know anything. We don't see anything up here. It's the people on the ground who know what's going on. That's where we need to be. Think about who's really on this plane, Shakeeta.”

“The National Security liaison, the Air Force officers with the nuclear briefcase, our limited travel staff, the doctor, the pilots, the plane crew-”

“That's exactly right. Nobody. Let's hear what Kingsley has to say directly, and alone. He's the one who put us here in the first place, but he's the one who can keep us safe on the ground.”

“Now?”

“Right now.”

It doesn't take long for Shakeeta to arrange for Secret Service Director William Kingsley to be connected by satellite to Ground Force One.

Alecta keeps and allows only Shakeeta, Tisha, and Malcolm in the conference room for the call. She cuts straight to the point.

“Director Kingsley, I feel I really should be on the ground with everyone else on the planet.”

“Madame President, I’m afraid I can’t guarantee your safety anywhere but in the air, right now. I'm sorry, Ma’am.”

“Can you guarantee my safety anywhere at all, Director?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Well-”

“Ground Force One was blown up in the Iowa heartland by US Navy missiles that can just as easily reach Air Force One in the sky. Am I correct?”

Malcolm, for one, nods.

“Yes, Ma’am,” says Director Kingsley.

“Director, is this going to be another 9-11 situation where no one takes responsibility for anything?”

“No Ma’am.”

“What are security forces for, after all, Director, if not to keep people secure?”

“Yes-”

“Am I secure, Director?”

“In the air, you are. There's no significant change in the situation on the ground, Ma'am, I'm sorry.”

Alecta signals to Shakeeta who ends the call.

“Fuck!”

“Shakeeta.”

“Ma’am.”

“Let's try Silver’s FBI Director Castelan.”

Shakeeta hesitates. “I'm not sure you can shop around for the best deal with the security and protection forces. There's no double coupon days for protecting the President, you know.”

“I don't want Castelan to protect me, Shakeeta. I want to light a fire under his sorry ass so I can get down on the ground sooner.”

“Alecta,” says Tisha, “maybe take a breather before talking to Director Castelan. He can be volatile.”

“Let him blow. His ass is about to be fired anyway. Silver kept him over from the previous administration. Ridiculous. I opposed it all the way. Let him blow like Ground Force One did on his watch.”

In the Perez farmhouse living room, security agents come and go to the tables and laptops to the cold outdoors. Sabia sits at the kitchen table and watches the parade, while checking in on the news for any new reveal.

One agent pauses at the door.

“Security personnel will be working here and in the vans on the road all night and day for a while, until the temporary headquarters get built across the way. We’re here if you need us.”

“How long?”

“About a week, I'm told.”

“A week!”

He nods.

“And then you move out.”

“Then we move across the road.”

“Great,” says Sabia.

The agent nods again and leaves.

Sabia trudges upstairs to her bed and falls onto it, exhausted.

Eventually, she raises her left hand, stares at the power fist on her palm. She pokes at it with the index finger of her right hand.

“Don't poke the bear,” she says.

Shakeeta connects Alecta to Castelan by satellite.

“Director Castelan, this is Acting President, Alecta O'Roura-Chavez.”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

“Here's what I know: a rogue naval sub destroyed the President's bus and there are no survivors. Texas secessionists involved, white supremacists. Has anything changed? I should know more than that by now, Director.”

“The Navy successfully sunk its own sub, the rogue. It was deemed a continuing threat. You're aware.”

“Yes, that was quite a 'success', Director. What will the Navy do next, bomb the Air Force and call it a victory?”

“Not while you're in a plane, Ma'am, no, I hope. Sinking our own sub is not an outcome we ever looked forward too. However necessary.”

“Amazing times, no, Director? How’s your good friend, House Speaker Barry Bombarill?”

“He's not a close friend, not really.”

“The only reason Bombarill’s not President at this very moment is the food poisoning that kept me off my scheduled bus ride to the debate.”

“I don't believe I've ever called Speaker Bombarill my good-”

“You two golf, I'm told. In private. Surely, not because you're enemies.”

“We're friendly. I like to think I'm friendly with many-”

“Don't bullshit me, Director Castelan. You failed. You failed to stop the assassination and the coup attempt. The Secret Service knew at the very last minute that I was not going to be on that bus, but it's doubtful you knew.”

“Ma'am?”

“Go ahead. Answer to that.”

“I'm not clear on any question.”

“Okay, Director, well, if you achieve a moment of clarity in the near future, you get back to me. I depend on you for my security, Director.”

Castelan does not respond.

“Don't I.”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

Alecta ends the call. She stares at the phone.

The conference room is silent.

Malcolm speaks up. “Welp. His ass is grass.”

Alecta looks at Malcolm in a way that drops the smile from his face.

“Everything's gonna change,” she says. She looks at Shakeeta and Tisha. “Everything.”

Alecta grabs at a chair. Air Force One seems to spin and dip wildly. Alecta grabs at the table, slips, falls face-down on the floor. Under the conference table, she sees the feet of others move toward her. She sees their knees kneeling beside her.

“The plane – is it crashing?” says Alecta.

“The plane's okay,” says Tisha. “You need rest.”

“The President's dead,” says Alecta. “Who killed the President?”

“We'll soon find out,” says Tisha.

“Let's get her up. Get the doctor,” says Shakeeta.

Malcolm goes.

Shakeeta and Tisha help Alecta stand. They hang onto her as she grabs for the table.

“We need to cancel the debate,” says Alecta.

Shakeeta and Tisha exchange a look.

“Yeah, okay, that's been done,” says Shakeeta.

“Maybe Sabia would want to go to the next debate,” Alecta says.

“It’s okay, Alecta,” says Tisha.