The Last President (13 page)

She stammered and felt flustered and foolish, but she managed it.

He nodded. “Excellent. Don't let any officious wiener take the message copy from you, and if the CO isn't available right away, tell it to the highest-ranking person and move on. No delays. Good luck. And come back safe.” He mounted and rode off with a wave.

Jenny zipped the message into the pocket of her leather jacket and rode off to the northeast on Market Street. She leaned forward and told Buttermilk, “Well, for once, we've got something to fight besides boredom.”

AN HOUR LATER. JEFFERSONVILLE, INDIANA. 5:45 PM EASTERN TIME. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 2026.

As the most distinctive-looking person traveling with the Army, Jenny encountered no questions or arguments.
Maybe it's even
better
than having a regular messenger on this job; I'll have to mention that to Jeff.
Every colonel and major on the way had immediately issued a flurry of orders to the officers around him or her. (
Of course, how would I know if they were the
right
orders?
she thought.)

She was riding fast and hard, promising Buttermilk they could just walk after this last one, picking along the debris-choked Utica Pike toward the rearguard company of the rearguard battalion. Definitely, this beat hell out sitting next to her father while he prayed for victory, being steered around by polite young men from the invalid list, or watching in a lady-like manner from a distant hilltop.

Delta Company, Third Battalion, Fourth Iowa Provisional Volunteers, was the rear-of-the-rearguard. Captain Shirley Mendoza listened to the orders from battalion and nodded. “Makes sense. We'll take Port Road, it's close and goes the way we're going. And tell the general he's in our prayers, and I'm voting for him for president.”

“Let's win the war first,” Jenny said.
That'll make for a good little story for them to hear up in Provi country.

She considered traveling along with Mendoza's company, but after all they were moving toward battle to the north and west; if she stayed on the south side of the scorpion's tail swinging north, she would probably be closer to obeying Jeff's order to stay safe, and besides, Buttermilk was tiring.

She had ridden only about a hundred yards back toward the main body of the rearguard when a man jumped out from behind a burned-out SUV and threw an ax at her. She ducked sideways and the ax flew past; Buttermilk went light to the front, preparing to rear, but Jenny leaned forward, put her arms around the horse's neck, and pressed with her legs, urging Buttermilk forward.

She drew her pistol from her sash. The man had followed his ax in, and was two steps away with his drawn knife when she shot him, putting a hole where his nose had been and scattering bloody meat on the road behind him.

Buttermilk had heard gunfire before, and smelled blood, but had not been trained to it; she started to rear again, and Jenny leaned far forward, pressing down on the neck, letting the reins go slack and urging, “Come on, baby, come on, chill out now.” Buttermilk took a tentative step forward, but Jenny could feel the mare's terror.

When she spared a moment to look up, more tribals were swarming out from between the row of old apartment buildings. She turned Buttermilk and galloped back toward Delta Company; rifles roared around her as she reached them. Mendoza ran up to her. “Look at that,” she said. “They're coming out of hiding all along the road. And the army is scattered all over the town, with all that behind it.”

Jenny nodded. “Right now our side's in a big arc to the northwest. I'll try to ride along it and let everyone know what's happening, follow it all the way back to HQ if I have to. Thanks for the backup. I gotta run.”

If there was anything Buttermilk was happy to do now, it was
run
. That was good, because Jenny found that all along the tail, there had been harassing attacks from the north and east. From officer to officer, unit to unit, Jenny rode as fast as she dared in the swiftly failing light. Luckily most of the units had managed to stay in touch with their flanks, and knew approximately where the next unit in the arc was.

Shortly, she had evolved a single long, fast, clear sentence that summed up where the tribal counterattacks were coming in. It was growing darker, but not full dark yet, and while she could keep up this pace, she wanted to cover as much ground as she could.

Once, a tribal arrow flew past Jenny, but she didn't see where it came from, and just rode on faster. By an old junkyard, a man stepped out from behind a fence with a spear, and she shot him before she even knew she had drawn her pistol; a few times she saw tribals in the distance. It was clear that they were “ambushed, surrounded, and infiltrated,” as she said to Jeff, who had come out of his improvised headquarters in an old Burger King to see what the shouting was about.

He looked like he'd received an electric shock, but he managed to say, “Well, thank God you're safe. Sergeant, have Mrs. Grayson's horse seen to. Jenny, come on in here and let's get everything you can remember onto the map as quick as we can. We have a lot of figuring out to do. Meanwhile, messenger!” He was scrawling but looked up in amusement as Jenny had begun to open her mouth and step forward. “Not you, Jenny, the only recent source of intel I have is in your invaluable head, and anyway Buttermilk doesn't have any reserve left. I'm through trying to keep you out of things, and you've more than proved you can be useful, but I get to decide where and when you're most useful. It's one of those general-privileges.”

With his hand on her shoulder, he guided her to the chart table; realizing he was right, Jenny complied, answering his rapid-fire questions as clearly and quickly as she could.

At least this part of Jeff's memoirs is going to be vivid.
She gratefully accepted a sandwich and a mug of Sherpa tea. When Jeff seemed satisfied with what he'd extracted and was quickly sketching out his plan to his officers, she did not look for a way to leave, but hung around in the shadows and watched the swarm of scouts and messengers flowing in and out as Jeff re-established his grip on his army and moved forces up to hold the junction, and struck back at the many small harassing attacks.

Those solder soldiers that he had brought along slid back and forth over the map as he tracked where he had closed some escapes, where he needed to move to close the others, and where the parts of the trap closed around the tribals.

As the crescent moon was setting, well before midnight, the diversionary attackers had been pinned down, and were being captured or wiped out, or had fled back toward the main tribal force, adding to the chaos there. With too many choices and too much disparate information flooding in from all sides, the tribal system of cooperative, cellular organization was collapsing into paralytic thrashing. The confused mass of several thousand tribals stalled south of the junction was now encircled, but in the deeper darkness it was difficult to tighten up lines enough to keep them from exfiltrating. Desperate little squad-sized struggles were happening everywhere by starlight; between them, Daybreakers crept away quietly, and the haul in the trap was decreasing by the hour.

Grayson stood up from the table, nodding, and rubbing his neck. “Most of our officers have watches and clocks, correct?”

“All of them, sir, as far as we know. Might have been some breakage—”

“This doesn't have to be perfect. All right, tell everyone we want fires, but controlled fires, for visibility, all along the line, everywhere around the pocket. Bonfires in cleared areas, isolated buildings, I don't care what, we want light everywhere. It's not like the enemy doesn't know where we are.”

“Sir, we can't light enough fires to light up the whole pocket, it's at least two miles across—”

“No, but we can make more of them afraid to try. In fact . . .” He smiled. “Tell them that as much as possible, without taking men out of combat, they're to cook something that smells good on those fires. Conceal nothing as they prepare for a big assault at dawn, but make sure it looks like everyone's getting a good meal first.”

“Sir, everyone is exhausted and—”

“I know that. I'm thinking that the Daybreakers are in even worse shape, and we need to help them see that. Less than forty-eight hours ago, they were in their nice safe dirtbag encampment, with the comforting smell of their shit and body odor, and at least they had something to eat, anyway. Now they're out there trying to sneak around in the dark and find somewhere to lie up till day, and they've run all day, with only what they could carry. Let's see if a night staying awake, cold and hungry and surrounded, makes a difference.” He nodded, liking his own idea. “Let's set up surrender poles where they can turn themselves in and get some soup, a safe place to lie down, and some handcuffs. At least the less-willing slaves will come in to us that way. But the most important thing is, make it look like our forces are just waiting for dawn.”

“Won't more of them get away?”

“All the ones that really want to and have some initiative, sure. I could be wrong but I'm betting that's a small fraction. I think this might be our first chance to capture most of a Daybreaker horde alive.” He smiled. “I don't like the idea of being the general who wouldn't take that chance. Anyway, meanwhile, I'm going to get some rest, and everyone who can is to do the same.”

Back in their tent, gulping some boiled corn and unidentified meat, they fell onto the bed together; Jenny looked sideways at Jeff, and caught him looking back. Without a word, they grabbed each other, shoving bodies together, frantic to put him inside her, and went at each other maniacally for a few minutes, nails scratching both their skin, biting hard enough to bruise, clutching and slapping each other until they fell back on the bed next to each other, holding hands.

Now what in Jesus's sweet name was that all about?
Jenny thought, before realizing,
Hunh. I killed two men. Apparently Jeff isn't the only one that gets horny from that.
She thought perhaps she should pray, but
Well, Lord, you already saw everything, so as they teach the young soldiers to say, “No excuse, sir!”
She plunged into such a deep sleep that it seemed only a moment before Towers awoke them with more boiled corn and mugs of chicory and milk, and they staggered back to headquarters in the freezing, sullen gray pre-dawn.

THE NEXT DAY. FACILITY 1, PUEBLO. 10 AM MOUNTAIN TIME. SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 2026.

James had brought Jason this time because seizures tended to be particularly violent when Daybreak was losing. Since the seizures also provided windows of clarity, periods of a few minutes when Daybreak's control of 162 was imperfect, James wanted 162 to have the seizure; he just didn't want to be hit or kicked.

He sprang the news of the victory at Jeffersonville on 162 very suddenly, just walking into the room and announcing it. A moment later they were both tackling the man, who bumped his head a couple of times on the concrete table harder than James would have wanted him to. Whether the blows to the head helped him fall asleep without talking, or he was too deep into Daybreak, he had nothing to say. “Frustrating session,” he said to Jason.

“Can't always be a breakthrough. It's funny, I was in Daybreak a lot longer, and voluntarily, and I was never anywhere near as resistant as this guy.”

“Well, he had three of the things known to strengthen the effect—sustained study of Daybreak for its own sake. Professional training at being open-minded. And, don't take this wrong, but being an intellectual.”

Jason grinned at him. “So I wasn't smart enough to catch Daybreak as deeply as, um, 162 did?”

“There's a difference between being smart and being intellectual. An intellectual thinks ideas, in and of themselves, are the most important thing in the world. And Daybreak, despite all its other scary properties, really is an idea. The difference is, if something is going on with the ideas, 162 has to put his whole mind on it. Whereas a poet like you can be distracted by real things that seem more important than ideas—like having a great marriage and a kid on the way—how is Beth?”

“Awesome as ever. Also healthy, and Doctor MaryBeth is telling us it looks great for the baby. Thanks for asking.”

The two men shook hands and went about their day, each bothered somewhat differently by the picture of a man screaming and fainting when told about a military operation a thousand miles away.

THAT AFTERNOON. CHRISTIANSTED. 2:30 PM ATLANTIC TIME. SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 2026.

“Here it comes—” Although the roaring seaplane was at least fifty feet above them, Whorf, Ihor, and the other sailor-scholars ducked instinctively as it passed over, before rowing frantically toward where it descended into a towering white spray.

“Wow, smells like a fire at McDonald's,” Whorf said.

Pulling hard on his oar, Ihor said, “Our kids will say, ‘Smells like an airplane,' the first time they have French fries.”

“Put your backs into it,” Jorge shouted from the tiller. The sailor-scholars stopped jabbering and bent to the job. Rowing was always hard work, but dragging a long cable was much more so.

The pilot brought the seaplane about and killed the prop; the plane settled onto the gentle waves just within Christiansted harbor. Whorf, Ihor, Polly, Felicia, Sendhar, and Pablo couldn't see behind themselves while rowing, but Jorge, at the tiller, announced, “it says NSP-8 on the side.”

After interminably more rowing, Jorge brought them alongside, and the pilot climbed out on the short lower wing, picking his way between the struts and wires. “Hey, chief, what do you call this contraption?” Polly asked, passing him the tow rope from Jorge.

The pilot glanced back from where he was securing the cable to the thwart that ran just under and behind the prop, between the pontoons. “Technically, it's a sesqui-seaplane. High tech if this was 1910. The NSP stands for Newberry Scratch Plane—it's the eighth plane we've built from scratch at Castle Newberry, where I'm the freeholder.” He was a muscular, young sandy blond with what, back before, had been called movie-star looks. “And who are the hecklers whose acquaintance I am making?”