Page 83 of Cross Down
“Thanks,” I say. “Haul ass.”
Deacon hauls ass, and I resume firing.
Chapter
92
The president looksat the document, frowns, and pokes a finger at it like it’s a raw piece of chicken presented to him as lunch.
“Martial law?” he asks.
Grissom says, “Yes, sir. I’m afraid so. We are at the limit of the powers accorded to us by the Constitution. We have to take the next step, as distasteful as it is, to protect you and the nation.”
The president says, “And what does that entail, martial law?”
“It’s all in that letter, sir. You should consult with the attorney general as soon as you can and make the announcement. It means the suspension of habeas corpus, the arrest and detainment of individuals the FBI and CIA know have connections to various terrorist and extremist groups, travel restrictions, and government oversight of the news media.”
“Oversight?” the president says. “You mean censorship?”
Grissom says, “No, sir. Oversight. It’s the news media’s job to report the news. That won’t be affected. But when you have certain cable networks and their respective talking heads spreading lies, rumors, and absolute bitterness in order to drive up their ratings, that’s not news anymore. It’s inciting hate, inciting violence, poisoning civil discourse.”
“And what about the National Guard?”
“Activated across the nation to support regular army troops, assist law enforcement in making arrests, and provide security for vital infrastructure.”
The president stares at the memo, his eyes welling up with tears. “I can’t do this, General Grissom. I can’t declare martial law and go down in history as a U.S. president who became a dictator.”
Grissom has been expecting this response. “With all due respect, Mr. President, nearly a hundred years ago, another president faced incredible challenges as well. He met these challenges by sometimes skirting the law and issuing executive orders. He even illegally sent more than one hundred thousand loyal Americans of Japanese descent to internment camps, where nearly two thousand eventually met their death.”
Grissom reaches into his trouser pocket, pulls out a handful of change, removes a dime, and slides it across the desk. “But was this president demonized? Impeached? Hated from generation to generation? No, he remains one of our most admired presidents.”
The president shakes his head again. “I can’t do it. I won’t do it. I swore an oath to defend the Constitution, and I won’t violate that oath.”
“Mr. President, one of your predecessors, Abraham Lincoln, once said that the Constitution is not a death pact. He did what he had to do to save the Union.” Grissom reaches across, taps the letter. “You need to do the same.”
The president stares at the sheet of paper, then abruptly pushes it back across the desk. “Take it,” he says. “I won’t do it.”
“Sir, you—”
“That’s all, General Grissom,” he says. “You are dismissed.”
Grissom works his jaw and puts the letter back into his briefcase, picks up his hat, and says, “With your permission, sir, I’d like to dispatch a company of soldiers from the Third U.S. Infantry Regiment at Fort Myers to the White House grounds as an added layer of protection. They can be here within hours.”
“No,” the president says. “This is the people’s house. Not a fortress.”
Grissom sourly thinks,Well, I offered.“Very well, sir,” he says, wondering if he’s talking to a dead man. “The best of luck to you, sir.”
The president doesn’t answer, just stares at his clear desk.
Grissom walks to the door, desperate to get fresh air.
Chapter
93
With Deacon gone,I’m under no illusion that I can win this battle. My little fighting force has lost half its effectiveness, and the enemy—the Taliban, angry tribal members, or farmers who think we stole their goats—is still advancing.
But I’m not giving up. I’m buying time for Deacon to get back to the CIA outpost just over the border, and I plan to join her as soon as I can.
