Chapter Seventeen

Hanson

 

Granger was driving, his hands steady on the wheel. Hanson wasn't nervous as such, but he was very curious as to what he was going to see. California had established three main bases for armed personnel. Three huge camps set up to house the refugee soldiers, marines, sailors, and air-force men who were streaming over the borders. He and Granger were on their way to one of them, the largest.

So far, Granger had given him the basic briefing. He knew the command structure, which had quickly been implemented once it was clear that an army was forming whether California liked it or not. He knew that the men were being adequately housed in tents, fed and watered, trained and equipped.

“Any problems?” he asked.

“The usual,” said Granger, his eyes on the road ahead. “Fighting, intoxication. We've got a brig set up. But you know how soldiers are when they're kept on base; it's to be expected.”

“Best to get them out on the frontier then,” said Hanson.

“Agreed. Deployment will solve most of those problems. But then there's the usual service rivalry. The marines aren't interested in being posted anywhere with the navy, the army prefer the marines, and the air force don't like anyone and keep to themselves.”

“Got it,” said Hanson. That was something he'd need to deal with. The last thing he needed was in-fighting.

They were quiet as Granger drew up at a large gate. The compound had been fenced in, and the two guards carefully checked their IDs while a third did a car check, looking under the vehicle with a mirror to ensure everything was in order.

Hanson stepped out into bright, hot sunlight. Already there was the stench of a base, something he was too familiar with. It was the combination of sweat, gun oil, bad food, and sewage. Tents stretched out as far as he could see.

“Captain Hanson, sir!” said a young soldier, snapping a salute.

Hanson saluted back and felt a brief burst of pride in his stomach. It was the first time he'd saluted since coming back into uniform, and he'd forgotten how damn good it felt. They were led off on the official tour, and Hanson showed interest as he was taken around the commissary, canteen, and various staging tents. All seemed in order as he watched a long training drill.

That the men were adequately looked after and supremely well trained was not in doubt. What was in doubt, for him at least, was loyalty. But he'd come prepared. He'd arranged with Granger that he would speak to the men, and a large stage had been erected in the center of camp. Cameras circled the stage to film him, and the video would be pumped out live across huge screens in this camp and the two others nearby. He wanted everyone to hear him, wanted everyone to have the option.

“Nervous?” Granger asked as Hanson wiped his hands down the sides of his pants to get the sweat off his palms.

“A little,” Hanson confessed.

He wasn't nervous to be in front of the men; he'd commanded before, after all. But he was nervous about what he was about to say. He had no idea if it was the right thing to say or not, but hadn't wanted to run it by anyone else. He'd had no time, for a start, but also he wanted to take full responsibility for this himself. This was going to be his job now, so he might as well start bearing the burden. He steeled himself as his name was announced, before marching up the stairs to the stage.

“My name is Captain Kelvin Hanson,” he began. “And I do not have the rank to command you all. You may be wondering why that is, and why I have the right to send you out to fight. Allow me to tell you.”

He had thought the truth was necessary from the very beginning. He wanted no arguments about rank or his ability to lead. So he told them, all of them, everyone watching, exactly what had happened on the USS Brandyn. Told them of his dismissal, of his work with the Freedom Group. Many of them already knew—the services were not discreet, and word got around. But those who hadn't known did now.

“I command you because I stood up against the US military, and I am going to ask you to do the same. Which brings me to the most important of points.”

He paused and took a deep breath. In the front row he could see every set of eyes on him. Well, he had their attention at least, he supposed.

“You have defected. You have gone AWOL, disobeyed orders, and should by rights all be court-martialed. Every single one of you.”

Again, best to be honest.

“You have also made a brave and bold and moral decision. You have decided that you will not fight against your own countrymen. You have decided that the US military has no right to hold government in this country. You have decided that the Constitution is more important than the oath you took in your service. And for that, I applaud you.”

There was a cheer at this, and he let the noise die down before continuing.

“However, I am going to ask you to reconsider that decision.”

Dead silence.

“As of tomorrow, troops will be stationed on the borders of both California and Texas. You will be expected to defend our territory. You will not attack, but you will fight fire with fire. Should you be fired upon, you have the right to defend yourself. This will inevitably mean that you shoot at troops from the other side. Troops that many of you trained with. Troops that may be your friends or family members.”

He was quiet, allowing that to sink in.

“But it will be your job. And once at the border, you will be expected to fulfil your duties. I will not ask any man to do this if he does not feel able. It is therefore my order that any of you, anyone who reports to his group leader that he does not want to be deployed to the frontier will not be forced to go. There will be no repercussions for refusal to be posted. Anyone, fellow soldier or rear admiral, seen or heard punishing, threatening, insulting, or otherwise harming a man who has decided not to be posted will immediately be court-martialed in the Republic of California.”

He heard murmuring now. And he knew he'd done the right thing. No one in his army would be forced to fight if they chose not to.

“Furthermore, it has come to my attention that there is some rivalry between the services. In the old country, this was understandable. As of right now, it stops. As of right now there is no US Army, no US Air Force, no US Marines. As of now there is only a general US Service. You will all need each other, and you can trust me on this. Every fighting man will be needed to defend our liberty. You will stand side by side, black, white, navy and marine, man and woman, and you will do what you came here to do.”

More murmuring, but the general feeling was that of agreement, of understanding, so Hanson let it pass.

“Finally, you may be wondering as to the real nature of your duties. So that we're all on the same page, and that there is no underhandedness or secrecy, I shall tell every man of you what you are here to do. First and foremost, you are to protect the borders of secessionist states against the forces of the old country. You are not to attack; you are to defend. However, the real aim here, the one true goal of all of us, is to reunite the United States and bring back the country that we all once proudly served.”

A large cheer rocked the stage, and Hanson could feel the stage vibrating beneath his feet as the noise grew louder and louder.

He looked around, then nodded at the stage hand, and a large US flag began to descend behind him, the familiar music already beginning to ring out.

“On your feet, soldiers!” he shouted.

It had been deliberate. They could have sung the anthem of California, but that wasn't what Hanson wanted. He wanted everyone here to remember that they were Americans, so it was the national anthem that they sang. And as thousands of voices rose together, he felt an aching in his heart. He knew that they were all doing the right thing—he just hoped to God that they would be successful.

 

***

 

“Not bad,” Granger said as they got back into the car and were waved out of the gate. “Some might think you'd done that before.”

“Given stirring speeches?” asked Hanson. “It's all part of being in command. Maybe even the most important part. Let's hope they all took it to heart.”

He sat back in his seat and let out a deep sigh.

“Missed it?” asked Granger.

“More than you'll ever know,” said Hanson.

Back in uniform, back in front of men, he suddenly realized how empty his life had felt without the military. There was a sense of ease, of comfort about all this now. He'd spent so long not understanding things that it was a relief to finally have the familiar routines and logistics to fill his mind.

“What do you make of all this?” Hanson asked, after a while. “I mean, you came over here for a reason, I'm thinking. And part of that reason is that you don't think the military has a right to rule the country. Right?”

Granger drove.

“That isn't the military,” he said finally, after Hanson had thought he was ignoring the question. “From everything I can tell, from everything I've heard and read and seen, it's not the military.”

“What do you mean?” Hanson asked, curious.

“I mean that I have access to documents and clearances that you will never get your hands on,” Granger said, smiling a little. “I know more than I can ever tell you. And as far as I can tell, this isn't the real military.”

“Yeah, I'm gonna need a bit more than that.”

“Okay, sure, the actual taking over of power is military protocol,” Granger said. “There is, and always has been, a plan for the military to take over control of the government should something happen that renders the current administration unable to govern. So that part I'm okay with.”

“Agreed.”

“The actual coup, though—that's not real military. Keeping hold of power—that's not real military either. There's something more personal going on here.”

“Like what?” asked Hanson.

Granger shrugged. “Who knows? Who knows what darkness lurks in the heart of man, and all that. Probably the same as anything else. People get flustered when their way of doing things is overturned. Silva began a series of small incursions, rather than deploying huge military teams. The military didn't like that; it wasn't their way of doing things. And to make things even worse, Silva's way was effective. It worked.”

“But . . .”

“But nothing,” said Granger. “I don't agree with why Silva did what he did in terms of the military, but in terms of efficiency, it did work. And that pissed people off. So that starts things, that starts rumbles of disagreement, that starts people saying 'Well, what can we do? How can we solve this problem?' And then maybe things get out of hand, or maybe this was always the plan. Maybe there was always a plan in place to assassinate a president if necessary. If he was insane, for example, or if he refused to give up power. That's very possible.”

“So they assassinate him,” said Hanson. “Okay, I can follow that line of reasoning. But why then hold on to power afterward?”

“Because men like power,” said Granger. “Maybe Hammersmith never meant to remain in power, or maybe he did. Either way, when the time came to begin election procedures, he decided not to. He decided he was doing the best job possible and that the country was running better under him than it could under another. It's not unimaginable.”

“People always think they're doing the right thing for the right reasons,” Hanson said.

“Exactly,” said Granger. “Sometimes they are, sometimes not, but it all depends on your viewpoint. On which side you're on.”

“This isn't the military that I know,” Hanson said. “Not the military that I serve. And I'm ashamed. Ashamed to be associated with them.”

“But the military has done terrible things in the past,” Granger pointed out. “Silva isn't the first leader we've assassinated, although the first leader of our own, I suppose.”

“That's true. But . . .”

“And I think Hammersmith and his personality have a lot to do with this,” said Granger. “There's something about him. His son was killed in Iraq; did you know that?”

Hanson shook his head.

“He was sent out there on one of the first missions arranged under Silva's administration. Supposed to be defending US interests in a humanitarian mission. The team was blown to bits—nothing bigger than a toenail came home. Turns out the humanitarian mission was actually sabotaging an Iraqi pipeline that was threatening to compete against an oil supply owned by American interests. Owned by Silva, if you follow the paperchain far enough.”

“That's awful,” said Hanson, and he knew the word didn't even begin to cover it. “But it makes no excuse.”

“I'm not saying it does. But an explanation, or part of an explanation, isn't the same as an excuse,” said Granger.

“And now we have to fix things.”

“Yes,” Granger said simply. “We have to fix things. And we'll think that we're doing the right things for the right reasons, just like everyone else always does. Bit of a conundrum, isn't it?”

Hanson was quiet for a long time. He knew they were doing the right thing. But he was about to send men out to fight, possibly to be killed. And God knew what Ashlee and Matt were planning. They'd been shut up in one of the bedrooms when he'd left, the buzz of their voices clear, but the actual words muffled. They were planning something, and perhaps it was best for the time being that he didn't know what.

He'd offered both of them the chance to work with him, to be appointed, to have an official role. And both had turned him down, as he’d known they would. Their job would be to work in the shadows, to do the things a public official could not. And that was for the best. He just hoped they had a plan, and a good one. Because he couldn't keep sending men to the borders to defend and fight without a long-term plan.