Monthly Archives: June 2019

COG Chapter 16

CogCoverSquare

#ContinuityOfGovernment, #WW3, #Deep State

Buried a thousand feet beneath Ohio, the ten trillion dollar, UN-constructed SuperBunker can shelter a million members of the global elite indefinitely, with all the comforts of the surface including simulated blue skies, boutique shopping, and three golf courses. The President of the United States, Arman “Our Man” Manfred, regains consciousness in one of the bunker’s six hospitals. Surrounded by his trusted advisors and his official hagiographer, his office becomes ensnared in the Machiavellian underworld of SuperBunker geo-politics. The situation worsens when the president’s Russian and Chinese counterparts execute Protocol 4, sealing the blast doors and severing all contact with the surface, relegating the world’s leaders to governing a mere computer simulation of the world above. An attempt to blackmail the POTUS with a salacious video taken by his own security agency forces President Manfred into seclusion. With his office infiltrated by a traitor and hobbled by incompetence, he attempts one final ‘Hail Mary’ that might just save the office of the president… even if it destroys the world in the process.

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

Chapter 16

Sitting at his subterranean Oval Office desk, in front of the gold curtains, parted to allow the artificial light to permeate the room and illuminate the traditional furnishings, with his gold-plated .44 within arm’s reach, President Arman Manfred signed Executive Order 98745 with a flourish of pen stroke.

“We are in total support of this, Mr. President,” affirmed the wrinkled House Speaker whose false eyelashes fluttered and false teeth flashed as she spoke.

“Those republicans were running interference, again,” the president cursed. “They left me no choice.”

“This is for the greater good,” the speaker assured.

“We all know damn well that if I was a republican, they’d support my bill one hundred percent.”

“Oh, for certain. But the critical thing to remember is that the indispensable task of federal governance must continue. This order will strengthen democracy.”

What the speaker was referring to was the intent of the executive order just signed which instructed the acting attorney general to address the SuperBunker FISA court to request a warrant to access all the online data kept on everyone. Every email. Every voicemail. Every social media post… every purchase made… every website visited. Why the request? Simple. The data collection was necessary so that the SuperBunker supercomputer algorithms might be applied to the most recent backup of every American’s data in order to model the population’s behavior into the future. This was necessary due to the implementation of Protocol 4, where real world observations were no longer possible.

“I don’t see how the FISA court will interpret this request as constitutional,” Fricke commented.

“Why not?” asked Buckminster.

“Because it’s very broad. It sounds like a general warrant on everyone,” Fricke explained. “It seems it would fail the 4th Amendment test.”

“That’s exactly why the lawyers think it will be approved,” the speaker of the house replied, kicking up a fog of stale perfume. “Because it’s so broad, and because it applies to everyone, we think the court will interpret the request as not a violation of anyone’s specific rights.”

Haberdash groaned.

“We’re in a state of national emergency!” Buckminster barked. “They’d better rule favorably… or else they’re traitors.”

“They’ll approve it,” the POTUS said. “Hell, I appointed two thirds of them.” The POTUS continued, “hey, do we have the votes on the Monfasco legislation?”

“We are close, Mr. President,” answered the speaker.

“We’ve got to get it through. This is my signature legislation. It’s what I campaigned on. My re-election hinges on it.”

“I understand, Mr. President.”

“How many votes short are we?”

“We’re just a couple short. A few moderates are holding out, but we’ll get them to come around.”

“What about Fransen? She said she was ‘yes’ last week. Is she waffling, now?”

“She’s concerned about the budget projections. She ran as a deficit hawk and she’s in a tight race this year.”

“Budget projections? Who cares about the budget?”

“Sir?”
“Who cares? The whole goddamn surface of the earth is gonna end up a Superfund cleanup site. Get on the phone and ask that b… the congresswoman what she wants. Tell her I’ll expand her Air Force Base. That would create a few thousand jobs in her district.”

“Do you think that’ll work? I’m certain the Chinese and Russians have that base targeted with nukes.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’re dealing with a new reality. If we can’t know the real world, then the algorithms will become the reality. Just get her on board. If not, tell her I’ll have to make a call over to NSA and if they have anything on her. No, don’t tell her that…” He paused to ponder. “No, just casually remind her that any FISA warrant we request is likely to be approved, eventually, regardless of her vote and that will give us access to everything.” The POTUS winked. “I need a win here. This is for my legacy.”

“I believe your legacy is already well-established,” Haberdash chimed.

“What was that?”

“I’ll call Rep Fransen right away,” offered the speaker.

Faucett poked his tow head into the room. “Mr. President…”

“What is it?”

“The Russian president is on the bat line, sir.”

The room darkened. The POTUS glanced at Buckminster who averted his eyes. “Give me a moment,” the POTUS said. “Thank you, Madam Speaker. Go get those votes!” The speaker stood up from her seat, slipped past Faucett and out of the Oval Office.

“What is our plan for Timfimovich?” Fricke asked.

“I advise against speaking to him,” Tibbles remarked.

“Quiet.” The POTUS pondered with eyes still locked on to Faucett whose toothy face remained in the doorway. “Ah hell, we can’t avoid it any longer.”

“Sir I…” Buckminster started.

“Shut up, Bucky. You already failed me. You were supposed to take care of this.”

“It’s only been twenty-four hours, sir.”

“I don’t want to hear any excuses.”

“Should I ask him to hold, sir?” Faucett asked.

“No. Put him through. I know what has to be done.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Mr. President, are you absolutely certain?” asked Tibbles.

“Put him through. Do it!”

Faucett disappeared and the door closed. Within moments, President Timoshenko’s blotchy, balding, perspiring face appeared on screen. “Mr President. How are you?”

“Great, Timmy. What can I do for you?”

Timoshenko grinned. “I called to discuss a recent defection.”

“Veruca. You need to turn her over to us, Timmy. This is outrageous.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Arman.”

The president pondered. “I’m prepared to make you an offer.”

“I’m listening.”

The POTUS glanced at Tibbles whose face was painted with curiosity. “You tell me what you want, Timmy. Let’s start there.”

Timoshenko leaned back with a smirk filling his blotchy, pink face. “You know what I want. I want your missiles out of Bolshevistan.”

The POTUS glanced at Buckminster as he thought. Buckminster shook his head. The POTUS turned back to Timoshenko. “Done!”

“No!” Buckminster protested.

“Shut up, Bucky!”

“Sir, you are compromising NATO! I strongly advise you to…”

“I said shut the fuck up. That’s an order.”

Buckminster fell into a pouty silence.

“So Timmy, how do we do this?”

“You have to give the order, and we have to verify. But that is going to be difficult because Protocol 4 needs to be lifted by all members of the Security Council. The Chinese will want something in exchange for their cooperation.”

“Don’t worry about the Chinese. I’ll deal with them. So when will you hand her over to us?”

“Once it’s been verified that the missiles are removed.”

“All right. It’s a deal. But we have an understanding, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“We understand each other that any information the first lady releases to you is part of this deal.”

“I’m not exactly sure what you mean, Arman.”

“What I mean is: anything she gives you, documents, affidavits, thumb drives, pass codes… it’s all part of this deal. If you try to use it against us, the deal is off.”

“Okay.”

“Excellent. I’ll have council draw up the agreement. We’ll have it over to you today. Timmy, we may have just averted world war 3.”

“That all depends on Hu Li, Arman.”

“Don’t worry about the Chinks. Goodbye.”

“Do svidaniya.”

The screen went dark.

“Faucett!” the president called into his intercom. “Get Huli on the bat line.”

“Yes sir.”

“What are we doing here?” Fricke asked.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m saving the office of the president of the United States.”

Within moments, the Chinese president’s wide, round face appeared on screen.

“What is it Mr. Pwesident?”

“It’s time to make a deal, Huli.”

“What kind of a-deal, Arman?”

“A deal for Chung.”

“I’m grad to see you have come to yo senses. What are you pwoposing?”

“I’m not asking for much, Huli. I think you’ll find the terms are in your favor.”

“Let’s hear it, then.”

“Here it goes. I want China to agree to buy two hundred billion in Euro sovereigns. I’ll get Schumpert to agree to buy it all back in twenty-four months.”

“My guess is you just made a deal with the Timoshenko to withdraw from Bolshevistan.”

“It’s tentative, Huli. But if all goes according to plan, you’ll get your reserves back before your term is up. It’s a small price to pay for saving the world.”

“But it’s a heavy pwice to pay for Chung. Too heavy, I’m afwaid.”

“Huli, your return will be guaranteed. China will come out ahead on this.”

“It’s still not enough! I have to convince the ministry of finance. It’s vewy difficult.”

“All right, fine. I’ll sign an agreement to stay out of the East China Sea for the duration of the repo term.”

“Hmm.” Hu Li took off his glasses as he pondered. The removal of the magnifying lenses made him almost unrecognizable. “Still not enough,” he remarked.

“Huli, you’re taking us to the cleaners here.”

A total silence fell over the room. The POTUS glanced at Buckminster and sighed. Haberdash picked at his teeth.

“Okay, fine. How about this: I’ll throw in Taiwan.”

“Taiwan?”

“Sir, no!” Buckminster shouted.

“Shut the fuck up, Bucky!”

“Taiwan? Seriousree?” Hu Li’s jaw dropped. “Now that’s vewy intewesting,” Hu Li remarked. “No boo shit?”

“No bull shit.”

“So now the question become how do we make this a-happen?”

“We have to rescind Protocol 4, obviously.”

“How do I know this isn’t a trick?” Hu Li asked.

“No trick. We’ll open the doors briefly, just long enough to get three couriers out. When they’re out, we’ll immediately go back into Protocol 4. The courier will deliver orders to our vice president to withdraw the missiles from Bolshevistan and pull our navy back beyond the Seven Dash Line. We’ll also have Chung brought back down here. Your courier will instruct your government to make the financial transfer with contingencies in place, of course. The Russian courier will verify our withdrawal from Bolshevistan. At a predetermined time, we’ll re-open the doors to allow Chung back in.”

“But Chung does not have a PIN. Your Fwank Tibbers has the PIN.”

“That’s true.” The POTUS looked at Tibbles whose face was filled with concern. “How about this: the three couriers that leave the SuperBunker will be full time residents with PINs. We’ll get Chung back in on one of their numbers.”

“So you sacrifice your resident PIN for Chung?”

“No, not for Chung. For world peace.” The president looked assuredly at Tibbles, winked, then wagged his finger at Hu Li. “But not our PIN, Huli. You’ll sacrifice your resident’s PIN.”

“I don’t know if we can do a-that. That’s vewy difficult.”

“Then no Taiwan.”

“But the person next in rine for the PIN will be vewy upset.”

“Then choose carefully, Huli. Minimize the blowback. You’re getting everything you want in this deal. You can make that one small concession.”

“I don’t know.”

“Huli, the governments of the world are depending on you.”

“Too hard. You give Chung American PIN.”

“No.” Manfred’s demeanor stiffened. “Chinese PIN for Chung. If not, then no deal.”

Hu Li pondered.

“Make up your mind. I’m hanging up, Huli.”

Hu Li sighed.

“Taiwan is within your grasp. I’m counting to three…”

Hu Li scratched his head.

“One…”

Hu Li glanced left, then right.

“Two…”

The president extended his arm to press the button that would end the conversation.

“Wait! Okay, okay! Dear. We have a dear.”

“Great. We’ll send the paperwork over.”

The screen went dark.

“What just happened here?” Buckminster asked.

“I saved the world, Bucky.”

“By giving away everything? I’m sorry sir but I must tender my resignation, effective immediately.” Bucky stood up and straightened his uniform in a huff.

“Calm down, Bucky. It’s not what you think.”

Buckminster froze, glaring down at the seated POTUS.

“Sit your ass down!” the POTUS ordered.

Fricke and Tibbles watched in wide-eyed anticipation.

“Trust me…”

Buckminster finally relented and retook his seat. The POTUS reached out and pressed the intercom button.

“Faucett, can you come in here please.”

 

The next day, the emergency meeting of the U.N. Security Council convened. Arrangements were made to coordinate the temporary rescinding of Protocol 4 thus allowing the three couriers to exit the bunker laden with their diplomatic instructions. When news of the political breakthrough leaked, hopefulness effervesced within the souls of the Greys. Perhaps nuclear annihilation might be averted and they would get the chance to return to their loved ones on the surface.

Forty-eight hours later, a small ceremony was held at the Section 4 auxiliary entry node. The three presidents were introduced and took their positions behind podiums that were meticulously arranged after a six-hour negotiation. They each shook hands in a choreographed sequence, and then each gave a short speech congratulating themselves for their statesmanlike efforts to save the world.

The three couriers were then introduced. The Chinese courier was selected from the officer ranks of the People’s Army. His name was Yao. He stood five-and-a-half feet tall and was of sinewy build. He never smiled, and his narrow, dark eyes were constantly darting from point to point assessing and reassessing the situation.

His father, grandfather, and great grandfather were all ranking members in the party. His great grandfather had counseled Chairman Mao during the first Great Leap Forward to rid the country of the pestilence of sparrows that exploited the labors of the agrarian class by devouring their stores of rice. At his great grandfather’s behest, an army of three million useful idiots was assembled to patrol the countryside and murder and terrorize all the evil little birds of capitalism. But unfortunately, in addition to the rice, the sparrows ate the insects that devoured the crops afield. Once the sparrows were eradicated, a plague of feasting insects triggered a famine that killed millions. Yao’s great grandfather was reassigned to oversee the rapid industrialization of the country by placing a miniature blast furnace in every peasant’s backyard. Peasants were encouraged to melt down their pots and pans and farm implements in order to fulfill their communal steel quotas.

Yao, seeking to live up to the glorious sacrifices and achievements of his communist forebears, was quite honored when presented with the opportunity to surrender his PIN and his place in the bunker so that Taiwan might be returned to the Chinese people.

The Russian courier was an officer in the army. He was tall and fair, and lean, with deep-set eyes and a jutting jawline. His name was Petra. It was rumored that he was a descendant of both the Romanov and Smirnoff dynasties. His great grandfather was turned over to the secret police by his grandfather for maintaining royalist sentiments and reading Hemingway novels. He was sent to a Siberian gulag and never heard from again. His father was also an officer. He devised a plan to win the war in Afghanistan by poisoning the civilian water supply. His service to the Motherland ended when his helicopter ran out of fuel and he ws captured by the Mujahideen who had him dragged behind a donkey until his limbs ripped off. Petra, seeking to live up to the sacrifices and achievements of his forebears was quite honored when presented with the opportunity to surrender his PIN and his place in the bunker so that Bolshevistan might be returned to the bosom of Mother Russia.

Although officers, neither had any combat experience. Neither had even fired a rifle over the course of the previous ten years.

The American courier was somewhat of a surprise. It was none other than the president’s personal administrative assistant, Ford Faucett.

The three couriers approached the podiums and shook hands with the three presidents and each other, then posed for photos. Then, the presidents took their places at their podiums and, on cue, nodded to each other. In unison, they each pressed a red button affixed to their podium. A loud buzz was heard over the PA system. The pistons in the adjacent blast door fired and the wall of steel began to open, rising slowly upwards. Then, to the added sound of a drumroll, the three couriers proceeded abreast, down a red carpet, clutching their diplomatic satchels as they strode. They reached the blast door and waited for it to rise. When it had finally opened fully, they turned once more to their presidents stationed behind at their podiums. Yao and Petrov saluted with prideful, patriotic expressions. Faucett waived and grinned his buck-toothed grin. Then the three turned and marched out of the SuperBunker.

The presidents then gestured graciously to each other to do the honors. Hu Li acquiesced and when he was given the all clear signal, he pressed his red button which re-triggered Protocol 4. The alarms sounded and the blast door descended again.

The three couriers emerged from what resembled a plastic outhouse set in the middle of a Wal Mart parking lot in Akron Ohio. It was sunny. Nearby, a large woman was unloading sundries into her minivan while seated in a motorized mobility scooter. The couriers were greeted by a surprised army reservist who had been posted at the auxiliary entry node. Faucett communicated briefly with him and he darted off to summon a vehicle for their transportation. Faucett gestured towards the entrance of the big box store rising from the sea of asphalt some two-hundred yards away. The three couriers started off in that direction. Faucett lagged slightly behind and when they stopped to allow a rusted Kia to pull out of a parking space in front of them, Faucett withdrew a 9 mm pistol from his shoulder holster and shot Petrov and Yao each in the back of the head.

 


Follows, comments, likes, edits and suggestions are greatly appreciated. 

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

“For back in our forefathers’ time, the devils ruled this land…”

Hat tip to Bear Bussjaeger…
#DeepState, #ContinuityOfGovernment, #COG

Leslie Fish – The Digwell Carol Lyrics

It is the time of Digwell, now Summer’s gone away.
People come from miles around to meet on Digwell day.
We all come here with mighty stones, with gravel, rocks, and sand,
Bring it here with oxcarts or with buckets in your hand.

Chorus:
Pile high, pile high, the devil’s underground.
Pile high, pile high, keep the devil down.

And bring you all your blighted crops and blighted beasts beside,
And coffins of this season’s dead that of the blight have died.
Bring them to the mountain’s top and fetch the boulders near,
‘Tis fitting that the blighted dead should all be buried here.

So fetch the boulders, sand, and stones, and pile them deeply here.
We bury now the sorrows, sins, and bad luck of the year,
And when the mountain’s higher by the mound we build today,
Then we shall feast and dance and sing this autumn night away.

For back in our forefathers’ time, the devils ruled this land.
They made cruel wars and laws to rule the folks on every hand.
They spoiled the land and water, and they poisoned half the sky.
They cared for nothing but their power, though man and nature die.

In time the danger grew so fierce it threatened them as well,
And so they dug deep in the Earth and hid them safe in Hell.
They hoped to wait in comfort ’till the poisons wore away,
For then they could come out again and rule another day.

They hid themselves below the ground and left the people here,
Amid the blight that they had made and even they must fear,
But still the people stayed alive, and well they promised then
That all the devils hid in Hell would never rule again.

And so our fathers hunted ’til they found the secret gate,
And there they piled the boulders high above where devils wait,
And thus we’ve ever after done these many years and more,
So now our manmade mountain stands above their exit door.

Pile high, pile high, the devil’s underground, oh,
Pile high, pile high, keep the devil down

COG Chapter 15

CogCoverSquare

#ContinuityOfGovernment, #WW3, #Deep State

Buried a thousand feet beneath Ohio, the ten trillion dollar, UN-constructed SuperBunker can shelter a million members of the global elite indefinitely, with all the comforts of the surface including simulated blue skies, boutique shopping, and three golf courses. The President of the United States, Arman “Our Man” Manfred, regains consciousness in one of the bunker’s six hospitals. Surrounded by his trusted advisors and his official hagiographer, his office becomes ensnared in the Machiavellian underworld of SuperBunker geo-politics. The situation worsens when the president’s Russian and Chinese counterparts execute Protocol 4, sealing the blast doors and severing all contact with the surface, relegating the world’s leaders to governing a mere computer simulation of the world above. An attempt to blackmail the POTUS with a salacious video taken by his own security agency forces President Manfred into seclusion. With his office infiltrated by a traitor and hobbled by incompetence, he attempts one final ‘Hail Mary’ that might just save the office of the president… even if it destroys the world in the process.

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

Chapter 15

 

President Manfred’s eyes opened. He laid still in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He always woke precisely thirty seconds before Faucett would knock on his door. He glanced out his false window. The faint glow of simulated dawn was coloring the stretched canvas sky beyond the glass.

Knock knock

“Come in.”

“Good morning Mr. President.”

The POTUS sprung up in bed, surprised by the sound of Tibbles’ voice. “Where’s Faucett? Why are you here?”

Dread filled Tibbles’ face as he started to speak.

“What is it?” asked the POTUS.

“Sir, I’m afraid there has been a development in the matter of the first lady’s disappearance.”

Manfred rubbed the crust from his eyes. “Is she dead?” he sneered hopefully.

Tibbles didn’t immediately answer, being momentarily stunned by the president’s callousness.

“I said, is she dead?”

“No, sir,” Tibbles answered.

The POTUS sighed, then threw his covers off and swung his spindly, veiny, bluish legs out and placed his feet onto the floor.

“What is it, then?”

“We think we know where she is, sir.”

“Great.”

The POTUS got out of bed and walked, unabashedly nude, over to the closet where he retrieved his blue, chief executive’s robe, emblazoned with the presidential seal on the back. He draped it over his pale torso rendering him in the visage of some middle-aged, Irish palooka.

“So, I suppose you want to talk about how we get her back,” he groaned.

Tibbles hung his head.

“You tell me, Frank. What’s our next move?”

Tibbles struggled to speak.

“Spit it out.”

“There’s more to it, sir.”

“What?”

“Sir, she… she…”

“Out with it!”

“We believe she’s defected to the Russians.”

The president’s icy blue eyes flashed with anger, then dissolved into capitulation. He ran his fingers through his matted hair, but it sprung back just as disheveled.

“Sir—”

Manfred raised his hand to silence him. He lumbered over to his bureau and retrieved his karaff of bourbon. He poured two glasses and offered one to Tibbles. Tibbles accepted it after a prod. Manfred clinked Frank’s glass, then shuffled back to his bed and took a seat.

“I expected this.”

Tibbles gulped. “There’s more, sir.”

Manfred sighed. “What is it?”

Frank gulped down the bourbon.

“What is it, Frank?”

“We believe the Russians have a video, sir.”

“A video?”

“Yes.”

“What has she done, Frank?” Manfred took a drink, then studied his flat, boney feet.

“You should probably watch it, sir.”

The glow of the president’s demeanor darkened further as if storm clouds had rolled into his bed chamber. He sat on his bed, bluish, spindly legs splayed, exposed, holding his drink between his knees. “One look at you, Frank, tells me it’s bad.”

“Should I, sir?”

“Play it!”

Tibbles nervously scanned the room, spotted the remote control on the nightstand, grabbed it and turned on the screen. He navigated to the POTUS’ top secret messaging account and opened the message from “Timmy”, which was the contact name President Manfred had given to the Russian president. He pressed play. The visage of the first lady, bleary-eyed and mannequin cold appeared. Her silky, jet black hair was done up in meticulous fashion. Her eyebrows, which tended to grow into convergence when not shorn, had been expertly waxed into the shape of two narrow, angry brush strokes. Her heavy makeup was nevertheless flawless. When she started to speak, only her crystalline-white bottom teeth appeared. The president stared down at his glass.

“Arman, I am sorry it has come to this. I am not sorry for you, I am just sorry in general. I had nowhere else to turn. I just could not stand by and allow you to destroy my people, to destroy the world. The lives of billions of human beings hang in the balance. I know how you regard them, a thousand times you described them to me: ‘A horde of mindless, zombified fucktards’. But they are still human beings, Arman. Nuclear war would result in their deaths… their murders… their genocide. I can’t let you end life as we know it because of some assanine political disagreement. I must stop this insanity. No office, no prince or kingdom is worth the end of the world.”

“I always knew that bitch was a communist. All Jews are commies, Frank. Remember that.” The president took another drink.

“My father is Jewish, sir,” Tibbles mumbled. The president didn’t acknowledge.

The first lady continued: “You were wrong to throw that Chinese boy out. He is just a child, Arman. You threw him out so you could bring in that…” her face scrunched into a bitter scowl, “…that piece of shit Frank Tibbles. He is your undoing, Arman. He is an evil troll of a man. A sycophant bloodsucker. If you are listening to this, Frank, and I know you are, I want you to know that you are a slithering snake, and hardly a man at that. And that’s not because you are a homosexual, Frank, it’s because you just are what you are. You’d suck Satan’s cock if it would advance your career…”

President Manfred glanced up at Tibbles who had moved to the karaff to pour another bourbon.

“And you…” she paused to gather momentum “you are Satan, Arman. I hate you. I hate you because you would incinerate the world over that… that… golem.”

“She’s obviously upset that I didn’t get her entire Jew family PINs to get down here.”

“Obviously, sir,” Frank affirmed.

“What was I gonna do, Frank?” Manfred continued. “If I brought her whole family in it would look bad… like I was taking advantage of my power.”

Frank acknowledged the president with his widened eyes, but grimly turned back to the video. “There’s more, sir.”

“So I want you to know, Arman,” the first lady continued, “I want you to know that I know… that I know what you are. And I know the things you’ve done.”

The POTUS took another drink. Tibbles bowed his head and drifted backwards away from the screen as if increasing heat were being thrown off from it.

She continued: “I’ve seen you and Frank together, Arman.”

Concern strained the president’s face.

“I know exactly why you kidnapped and deported that poor little Chinese boy…”

“What is she talking about, Frank?”

“I know about you and Frank. I’ve seen it, Arman. I’ve seen it on video.”

“What is she talking about?”

“I’ve seen him blowing your tiny little cock, Arman. I’ve seen you on top of him, pounding away in your throes…”

The POTUS’ eyes widened.

“…And don’t think I am making this up. Like I said, I have seen it. It’s on video and I have it. You are so stupid, Arman. You authorized all your spies and surveillance, but it never dawned on you that those same assholes would turn around and spy on you. You are an idiot. My father warned me about you. He said, ‘Princess, you are making a big mistake marrying the dipshit goy.’ And he was right. You’re nothing but an ignorant jackass­—a jackass with his finger on the nuke button.”

Tibbles eyes filled with tears.

“Don’t think I am going to let you get away with genocide, Arman. I have the video, and soon the Russians will have it too…”

The president closed his eyes and shook his head. “She has no idea what she’s done.”

“Now you listen carefully, Arman. You are going to make peace with the president of China. You are going to bring that Chinese boy back into the bunker and you will do it on Frank’s PIN if necessary. We are putting a stop to this insanity before it goes any further. Do you understand me?”

Manfred stared at Tibbles who looked back with his desperate, watering eyes, like a puppy expecting to be beaten.

“Turn the bitch off!”

Tibbles clicked off the monitor and the screen went black.

The president downed his bourbon, set his glass on the nightstand, and braced his hands on his boney thighs.

“Mr. President, if I may make a suggestion…”

“Shut the fuck up, Frank. I know what to do. But first, I am going to have a shit.”

The POTUS pushed himself up, shuffled over to the bathroom and took a seat. A moment later, his phone, that was resting on the nightstand, lit up.

“Get that, please.”

Tibbles grabbed the president’s cell and activated it.

“Who is it?”

Tibbles took the cell into the bathroom and handed over. “It’s Buckminster.”

“Hand it over. What is it Bucky?… What?… What?… Fine.”

The president handed the cell back to Tibbles.

“What is it?”

“The Russians. Timmy wants to meet.”

“He’s going to blackmail you, sir.”

“Do I look like an idiot? Of course he is.”

“I think you should let me advise you.”

“What is your advice, Frank?”

“Don’t meet him.”

“What choice do I have?”

“You don’t have to.”

“Oh, that bitch has made a real mess of things, now.”

“Sir, no good can come of meeting.”

“But a lot of bad can if we don’t.”

“Maybe there’s a way out. Maybe we can spin this to our advantage.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Frank?”

“Hear me out for a second. Perhaps you could pull the pin on this grenade before it blows.”

“Before it blows?”

“I meant before it mushrooms.”

“How and why would I do that?”

“Think about this: You could come out, sir. You could tell the world that you’re gay. It would make you a pioneer. You would be the first gay president.”

The president’s face flushed with anger. “What are you talking about? I’m no homo, Frank. Besides, Lincoln was the first gay president.”

“Sir? But we had sex.”

“That doesn’t make me gay. Being gay is…” the president stopped to ponder.

“Being gay is being attracted to people of the same sex, sir,” Frank said.

“No, no, no. Being gay is not that at all. Gayness is a lifestyle. It’s about being emotive and sensitive and wearing skinny jeans. I’m no queer, Frank.”

“Sir, but you have sex with men,” added Haberdash who had been lounging silently on the sofa the entire time.

“So what? Inmates have sex with each other. That doesn’t make them homos. Would you call one of those inmates at Leavenworth a homo?”

“Well I…”

“You want gay? I’ll give you gay. Gay is like Elton John, and those hosts on those home decorating shows, and Bruce Jenner, and…”

“And Frank,” added Haberdash, smirking at Tibbles.

“And… and… that singer from Queen and every newsman behind a desk on CNN. Now that’s gay. I’m not one of those.”

“But—” Tibbles protested but was cut off.

“Just set up a meeting with my circle of trust. Get them over here immediately. Tell them it’s urgent.”

Tibbles surrendered and began dutifully tapping away at a message on his cell.

 

The president showered and shaved and dressed. When he was ready, Tibbles escorted him to the SuperBunker Oval Office where Fricke and Buckminster were waiting.

“Gentlemen.”

“Mr. President,” they replied as they stood up from the two opposable sofas in the middle of the room.

“Have you briefed them?” the POTUS asked Tibbles.

“No sir.”

“We came right over when we got the message from Frank,” Buckminster answered.

The POTUS ambled over to his desk and took a seat. He opened his top right drawer, reached in, and clicked off the recording device, then he pulled out his gold-plated .44 magnum and set it on the desk. He closed the drawer and gathered himself.

“Gentlemen, we have a situation.”

“What is it?” Buckminster asked.

“Do you want me to explain it, sir?” Tibbles asked.

“Shut the fuck up, Frank. Everyone have a seat.”

Buckminster, Fricke, and Tibbles sat down in the chairs facing the president’s desk. The president looked each of them directly in the eye in succession.

“It seems that the first lady has defected to the Russians.”

“What?” Buckminster asked.

“It’s true. Fricke, you don’t look surprised.”

“I’m not, sir. But at least we know she’s alive. That’s good.”

“Is that good? It seems that she is now working with them.”

“What’s she doing?” Buckminster asked.

“She said, in an encoded message to me, that she has some sensitive information that she will turn over to Timmy if we do not meet their demands.”

“How sensitive?” Buckminster asked.

“Very sensitive,” Tibbles answered. “So sensitive that it could undermine or even destroy the very legitimacy of the U.S. government.”

“Like how we lied about weapons of mass destruction?” Buckminster asked.

“More sensitive than that.”

“Like how we set the drug cartels up as a front for funding the Contras in Nicaragua?”

“Far worse.”

“Like how the CIA had Kennedy assassinated?”

“Even worse than that.”

“Worse? What’s worse than that?” Fricke asked.

“Worse than faking the moon landing?” Buckminster asked.

Silent pause.

“Worse!”

“Holy shit.”

The POTUS grabbed his gold-plated .44 magnum and started waiving it as he spoke. “We can’t allow her to give this compromising information to the Russians. We just can’t do it. The very survival of the office of the president depends on that not happening.”

“What do you propose we do about it?” Fricke asked.

“We have to stop her.”

“What exactly does she have?” Fricke asked.

“It’s so sensitive I can’t even divulge it to you.” The POTUS replied, pointing the barrel of the pistol at Fricke for extra emphasis. “She has to be stopped.”

“How?” Fricke asked, ducking slightly.

The POTUS got up from his desk, turned, and used the barrel of his gun to part the gold curtains and have a peek out the virtual window. There was nothing to see. The window was frosted glass hiding a bank of lights simulating daylight just beyond it. He cleared his throat.

“We have to terminate the first lady,” Buckminster advised, reading the president’s mind.

“Like, assassinate her?” Fricke asked.

The president turned and looked at Buckminster without any expression.

Buckminster stood up. “Mr. President, you need say nothing. I will coordinate this operation without any direct order from you.” He saluted and turned to the other two. “Gentlemen, this mission does not exist, nor will it ever exist. The president did not order it. The president has no knowledge of it.” He saluted the president again and marched out of the Oval Office.

 


Follows, comments, likes, edits and suggestions are greatly appreciated.

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

COG Chapter 14

CogCoverSquare

#ContinuityOfGovernment, #WW3, #Deep State

Buried a thousand feet beneath Ohio, the ten trillion dollar, UN-constructed SuperBunker can shelter a million members of the global elite indefinitely, with all the comforts of the surface including simulated blue skies, boutique shopping, and three golf courses. The President of the United States, Arman “Our Man” Manfred, regains consciousness in one of the bunker’s six hospitals. Surrounded by his trusted advisors and his official hagiographer, his office becomes ensnared in the Machiavellian underworld of SuperBunker geo-politics. The situation worsens when the president’s Russian and Chinese counterparts execute Protocol 4, sealing the blast doors and severing all contact with the surface, relegating the world’s leaders to governing a mere computer simulation of the world above. An attempt to blackmail the POTUS with a salacious video taken by his own security agency forces President Manfred into seclusion. With his office infiltrated by a traitor and hobbled by incompetence, he attempts one final ‘Hail Mary’ that might just save the office of the president… even if it destroys the world in the process.

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

Chapter 14

Deep within the Hades Level of the UltraBunker, the POTUS sat on his throne-like chair contemplating the situation. He was accompanied by his closest confidants: Fricke, Buckminster, Tibbles and Haberdash. The conference was marked mostly by silence. Tibbles’s eyes rolled back into his head in deep thought. Buckminster stared at Fricke, waiting for him to make a suggestion so that he could immediately shoot it down. Fricke checked the time on his cell. Haberdash doodled a pair of rotund breasts with erect nipples on his notepad.

“What?” Fricke finally burst, sensing Buckminster’s glare.

“Are you ready?” he replied.

“Ready for what?”

“Ready to activate that thing…?” He glanced down at Fricke’s feet where the nuclear football lay.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Let’s hope?” Buckminster mocked. “We don’t have the luxury of hope. We must be prepared to act. The survival of the U.S. federal government hangs in the balance.”

The POTUS sighed. “Knock it off, you two,” he barked. “What have you come up with, Frank?”

Tibbles scratched his head through his wispy hair, removed his glasses, rubbed his doe-eyes, then gulped. “I’m still working things out in my head, sir. If the Chinese have the first lady, why aren’t they using her as leverage to get Chung back? Why are they holding that back? Using her as negotiating leverage would be a vastly better alternative to Protocol 4. I’m essentially convinced that she is not with them. Perhaps the Russians have her. But if they did, I’m certain they would have notified the Chinese of it. Maybe they already have and the Chinese are playing coy. I’m not sure. I believe that—”

Just then, Faucett poked his head into the room.

“What is it?” asked the POTUS.

“You have a call.”

“Is it Huli?”

“No Sir.”

“Who then?”

“It’s the Duke of Watford Gap, sir… the Kingforebear.”

“The who?”

“The grandfather of the future Lord Protector of England,  Prince James Edward William George.”

“Oh, not that old inbred cunt. Tell him to make an appointment.”

“I tried sir, but he’s very insistent.”

“Tell him to bugger off… isn’t that the expression they use? Do it with decorum, though.”

“All right. If you say so, sir.”

Tibbles raised an eyebrow and subtly shook his head at the POTUS.

“No. Wait!” The POTUS sighed, again, sensing Frank’s disapproval. “Go ahead and put him through.” The POTUS glanced at Tibbles who nodded in affirmation.

“Yes sir.”

The Kingforebear’s long and pointy, bushy-eyebrowed face materialized on screen.

“What can I do for you, James Edward? Can I call you Jed for short?” asked the POTUS.

The Kingforebear started right in. “Good evening Mr. President. Thank you for speaking with me under such informal arrangements.”

“Always happy to make time for royalty. What can I do for you?”

“I do realize your time is extremely valuable so I’ll get right to it. I was inquiring as to the present situation and wondering how I could be of service. Perhaps I might be able to help mediate in the dispute with the Chinese.”

“I appreciate the offer Jed, but I don’t see how. There’s nothing to mediate. Those sneaky Chink bastards have exercised Protocol 4. “

“Yes, indeed they have. But perhaps we could enter into negotiations before…” the Kingforebear trailed off.

“Before what?”

“Well, before there is a global catastrophe.” The Kingforebear smiled awkwardly, but he always smiled awkwardly so nothing could be read from it.

Buckminster scowled.

“What is there to negotiate, Jed?”

“What I was thinking is that perhaps, well, perhaps we could at least get together and draw up an agreement to set aside some countryside here and there to protect it from total destruction…” the Kingforebear smiled awkwardly-er. “…so that there might be a place for the future King to go riding once this is all over.”

“What good would that do?” Buckminster chimed. “It will all be irradiated.”

“Perhaps.” Smile. “But my advisors tell me the exponential decay of the individual radionuclides is… is… not a very long time… that after a short while, the surface would have radiation levels that are less than life threatening. Perhaps our progeny could still go topside and enjoy a bit of mother nature now and then, even if wearing protective suits were necessary.” Smile.

“What areas did you have in mind, Jed?”

“Well, nothing much, really, just a million hectares of English countryside…” Smile. “Perhaps a small piece of the Scottish moors as well.” Smile.

“I’ll make a note of it and pass it on to missile command,” answered the POTUS. “Anything else?”

“That’s all, really.” Smile. “If we were to incinerate the greater portion of the world, at least we would be comforted in the knowledge that our descendants might one day enjoy a good fox hunt.” Smile.

“Thank you, Jed.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.” Smile.

Click.

No sooner had The Duke of Watford Gap’s smiling face dissolved from the screen when the face of the president of Japan appeared.

The POTUS grimaced.

“Mr. President? Am I connected? I wasn’t expecting to get through to you so quickly.”

Faucett stuck his face into the room again. “I apologize Mr. President. I seem to have patched the president of Japan through by mistake.

The POTUS shooed Faucett off. “Not now, Ticky Taki!” The president pressed a button. Taki’s face disappeared just as it was about to formulate a sentence. The screen finally went black.

“So what were you saying, Frank?” asked the POTUS.

“Sir, I do have some good news to report.”

“Let’s have it.”

Faucett’s smug face appeared in the door once more. “You have another call, Mr. President.”

“Who is it now?”

“It’s Lucious von Rothschild, sir.”

“Who?”

“You met back him back in August, in Davos,” the page explained.

“He’s the richest person in the world, sir,” Tibbles added. “He donated a hundred million dollars to your campaign… in the form of two thousand separate donations from the individual branch banks he owns.”

“No shit? Put him through.”

A pointy, wart-nosed, balding visage appeared on screen. His skin was patchy gray like worn out athletic socks and the bags under his eyes invoked the droopiness of a sleepy Saint Bernard.

“Good evening Mr. President.”

“Lucious! How the hell are you, old friend?”

“I suppose well, all things considered.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to let you know that we fully support you and that we stand at the ready to unleash our financial reserves in the event they are needed for postwar reconstruction.”

“That’s good to know, Lucious. I pray it doesn’t come to that but if it does, and it probably will, you will be the first ones we call. Is there anything else?”

“Well, as a matter of fact there is. Although our banks are very well capitalized, we fear that a full-scale nuclear conflagration would severely denigrate global infrastructure and either vaporize or at least isolate a large portion of the global workforce. Reconstruction would be very costly from a labor shortage perspective.”

“That’s true. But why would that bother you? We’d have to borrow even more to cover the rising costs.”

“Yes, yes, that is true. But if the pool of labor were to drop below a certain critical mass, no amount of credit would suffice. You can’t rebuild a bridge without someone swinging a hammer.”

“What are you getting at?” asked the POTUS.

“I’m suggesting a consideration for military strategy to accommodate preserving a pool of labor… for reconstruction.”

“This is total war, Lucious,” remarked the president. “We vaporize everything with scientific efficiency these days. Those barbaric days of antiquity, with armies maneuvering around on a pitch of battle, are long gone.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Those primitive tactics belong to the bygone era.”

“So, what are you proposing?”

“We were wondering if perhaps your military strategists might consider sparing viable pools of labor in Sub Saharan Africa, South America, and Southern Asia. There are billions of them. Billions of uneducated, hungry, and desperate Negroes and Orientals who have very reasonable expectations of living standards… if you know what I mean.”

“You mean cheap labor.”

“Yes, yes, of course. They could comprise a vast workforce which could be mobilized and imported for reconstruction. Once the rebuilding has begun, they would become a large populace from which to extract taxes that you can then use to repay your debts to us.” Lucious Rothschild, whose dead, black eyes reflected no light, grinned in the manner of a jackal baring its teeth.

The POTUS glanced over at Tibbles whose eyebrows raised. “Can we plug that parameter into the doomsday algorithm?”

“I’m sure it’s in there, sir,” Tibbles answered.

“Thanks for calling Lucious. We’ll try to work your proposal into the war plans.”

The screen went dark.

“So,” the president turned to Tibbles, “You were saying?”

“Yes, sir. So, I met with the lawyers earlier and we might have uncovered a possible remediation to this Protocol 4 situation.”

“Which is?”

“Sir…” Faucett’s face appeared in the doorway.

“No more calls!” barked the president.

“It’s not a call, sir. It’s your nurse. She’s come to take your readings and give you your vitamin shot.”

“Now?”

“She says the readings must be done now, sir, in order to get a good baselilne sampling for comparison.”

“Can she do it while we continue our discussion?” asked the POTUS.

“I don’t see why not,” Buckminster answered. “She’s vetted with security clearance level six.”

“Send her in, then.”

“Mr. President,” Tibbles continued, “I…”

The POTUS watched as Nurse Baum entered the room carrying her black medical bag. She walked over to him and placed it down on the floor next to his high back chair. The president redirected his attention to Tibbles.

“Mr. President,” Tibbles continued, “Protocol 4 seriously hampers our ability to govern. But I am happy to tell you that, after meeting with the attorneys, it seems we may still be able to send information to the surface legally.”

Nurse Baum wrapped the blood pressure cuff around the president’s arm and activated the pump.

“Explain…”

Tibbles shuffled through his notes. “It seems that Protocol 4 is quite specific in what it authorizes. It is very clear in wording that no information from the surface and no persons are to be allowed into the bunker for the duration of the situation but…”

Nurse Baum noted the president’s pressure readings on her notepad. Then she rolled up the president’s sleeve.

“But what?”

Nurse Baum wiped a spot on the president’s forearm and withdrew a syringe from her bag.

“But it does not say that all information and persons are precluded from leaving the bunker.”

Nurse Baum flicked the bubbles in the syringe and eyed the dosage.

“Go on…”

“In fact, in the fine print, there is a provision that arranges for persons to actually leave the bunker.”

Fricke’s eyes widened.

“Even so,” said the president, “how would we get someone out? The doors are sealed.”

Tibbles pondered. “We’d have to get the Chinese and the other security council members to agree to open the doors momentarily. But I’m certain they would want someone to be allowed out as well.”

“They’ll never go for it. It defeats the purpose of Protocol 4,” Buckminster argued.

“How would we convince them to go along?” pondered the POTUS.

“Maybe they have someone they want to bring in,” suggested Fricke, looking as if he was suggesting the obvious. “Chung, perhaps?”

“No. Absolutely not!” snapped Buckminster. “No Chung. It’s too risky, anyway. They would never agree to do that unless they could use it to their advantage.”

“What other options are there?” asked the POTUS.

The room fell silent. Fricke Finally looked up and started to speak. “Maybe we could—”

Buckminster rolled his eyes, then pounced. “Chung will not be a part of any deal, Fricke. Don’t even try to bring it up.”

Fricke fell silent.

“Hear me out for a second,” Buckminster continued. “We don’t want to do anything cooperatively with the Chinese. They’ll screw us for sure. But I think there’s a way we can go it alone.”

“How?” asked the POTUS.

“There are thousands of exhaust and air vents tunneled from the surface down into here. If we got the Corps of Engineers together, I’m sure they could devise a way of sending someone up to the surface through one of those, in secret.”

“Is putting a man on the surface of the earth even feasible?” asked Fricke.

Buckminster scowled. “There are grates and traps and fans and other obstacles, but it can’t be as difficult as putting a man on the moon. I’ll put the Corps on it right away. They’ll figure it out.”

“And then what?” asked Haberdash who had been sitting quietly in the corner the whole time, doodling his increasingly lewd cartoons. “What I mean is: So we get someone out, but they certainly won’t be able to get back in. Unless they can rappel back down.”

“That’s correct,” Tibbles added. “Once you leave, you can never return. But if that person or persons carry the president’s orders, the president could at least continue to exercise the powers of the office.”

Fricke interrupted. “I think we should still make the offer to rescind Protocol 4 to the Chinese… even if we know it will be rejected.”

“Why?” asked Buckminster.

“Because it will serve as a diplomatic distraction and buy us some time… and it keeps all our options open. The sticking point will be Chung and we can draw the negotiations out indefinitely.”

“Fine. Write it up and I’ll sign off,” answered the POTUS just as Nurse Baum jabbed the needle into his arm.


Follows, comments, likes, edits and suggestions are greatly appreciated. 

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

COG Chapter 13

CogCoverSquare

#ContinuityOfGovernment, #WW3, #TEOTWAWKI

Buried a thousand feet beneath Ohio, the ten trillion dollar, UN-constructed SuperBunker can shelter a million members of the global elite indefinitely, with all the comforts of the surface including simulated blue skies, boutique shopping, and three golf courses. The President of the United States, Arman “Our Man” Manfred, regains consciousness in one of the bunker’s six hospitals. Surrounded by his trusted advisors and his official hagiographer, his office becomes ensnared in the Machiavellian underworld of SuperBunker geo-politics. The situation worsens when the president’s Russian and Chinese counterparts execute Protocol 4, sealing the blast doors and severing all contact with the surface, relegating the world’s leaders to governing a mere computer simulation of the world above. An attempt to blackmail the POTUS with a salacious video taken by his own security agency forces President Manfred into seclusion. With his office infiltrated by a traitor and hobbled by incompetence, he attempts one final ‘Hail Mary’ that might just save the office of the president… even if it destroys the world in the process.

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

Chapter 13

The workers trapped inside the bunker turned away from the blast doors and staggered silently back toward their workstations. They passed through gauntlets of gawking elites, some smugly sipping their iced coffees, others casting looks of contrived pity, but most just appearing perplexed by the dazed looks on the sulking Greys.

“Why do they look so glum, grandfather?” asked the little tow-headed Prince Edward William Charles Henry, while clasping the aged hand of his great grandfather, James Edward William George, the Duke of Watford Gap, who was also known as the Kingforebear as he was the grandfather of the future King of England, Prince Henry William Edward Philip, who himself was cursed with his maternal grandfather’s hairline and was already balding at thirteen years old. The Duke of Watford Gap patted the little Prince of Northumbria and Strath Clyde atop his blond head, between the boy’s two enormous, satellite-dish-shaped ears, while examining the throngs of stunned Greys shuffling past. The little prince grinned revealing two enormous central incisors separated by a large gap.

“Everybody is saying we must have more people brought down into the bunker,” the Duke pondered, “but the people that are here are looking so ghastly that they’re here.”

In Sub-sector 16, the French sector, the glum procession was observed by French President Magimel and his sultry, ivory-skinned mistress, from the balcony of his suite.

“Francoise?” she asked.

“Oui?”

“What is wrong with them?” she asked in French, her upturned, purple nipples visible through her sheer robe.

“Who, my dear?”

“The workers, the Greys.”

President Magimel, who stood draped behind the burgundy silk of his curtains wearing only his silver rolex, took a long drag on his electric cigarette. He exhaled the steam which dissolved into the recycled air. “Madame,” he answered as his eyes rolled up into his bushy Grey eyebrows evoking a state of deep introspection. “It is because hope is the source of all sadness and worry.”

“Hope is the source of sadness?” she asked, innocently. “How can that be? Hope is what carries us through.”

“Non, my child. Hope is the anchor that pulls them down into the abyss of despair.”

“I feel sad for them.”

“Don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because they are the fortunate ones.”

“But they are separated from their families.”

“My dear, this bunker— this soute— will soon be all that is left of the world.”

“But I still feel sad for them.”

“I said no! Their lives have been spared. What else can be done for them? We have done what we can. Without us, they would soon be gone.”

“Still, we must do something to cheer them.” She pondered behind the curtain fluttering in the air-conditioned breeze. “I think that perhaps… perhaps we should let them have a sherbet.”

In Section F, which was situated the farthest possible distance from the European and North American sectors, there were hostels of the former African colonies. Sub-sector 178 was the partition carved off by the United Nations for Zimbabwe, which was comprised of a single, baroque suite, floored in marble and fine finishes, constructed for the elites of that country that consisted of two human beings with PINs: one allotted for the Zimbabwe president and one for his special guest. The Greys who worked that section— almost entirely white, bourgeois-leftist, North American coeds— appeared even more sullen than the Greys who worked the other sections. Not knowing if nuclear war had begun but fearing the worst, they worried that there would be no empathy forthcoming from their potentially permanent African masters. They were trapped in a place that was culturally and linguistically and radically foreign to them. And they feared they would be forever separated from their cozy, Silicon Valley and East Coast suburban enclaves, deprived of the most fashionable technical gadgetry, estranged from their parental guardians who were supposed to support them into their mid-thirties, and severed from the trust fund accounts to which they were duly entitled. Their lofty idealism had been shattered by an alarm bell, crushed by a descending steel blast door, and exposed by the regret of signing up for a one-year secular mission to signal their high-minded virtue to potential employers on their otherwise empty resumes.

The president of Zimbabwe, himself nary distinguishable from a murderous gangster, bankrolled into power by Chinese industrialists, poured back his Cristal champagne, snorted a vile of cocaine, and bellowed a derisive, schadenfreude cackle at the caste of pasty-faced Greys lumbering past.

“Attention!” came the vaguely sultry voice over the loudspeakers once again. “Attention: all guest worker personnel! Please refer to lodging instructions on the SuperBunker intranet home page. You are required to report to your designated Protocol 4 accommodations within thirty minutes of the end of your shift.”

Nurse Baum walked toward her post, consumed with worry for her daughter and parents, siblings, and friends. She trudged along beneath the canvas sky illuminated in happy, pastel blue. She returned to the infirmary finding it in a state of dysfunction with many posts untended and the lobby filling with elite patients in need of treatment for migraines and sciatica and toenail fungus. The check-in desk was manned by an empty chair.

“Nurse Baum!”

She turned to the sound of the voice. It was Dr. Waters. He was walking a patient into an examination room.

“So glad to see you. What I mean is: I’m sorry you were not able to escape, but I’m glad you are here.”

She stared at him blankly.

“Would you mind running over to pharmacy and filling this prescription for me?”

Baum stood frozen.

“Don’t worry, Emma,” he assured her. “It’ll be all right.”

At that moment, the comfort of escape into routine took hold of her. She took the slip from the doctor and turned to make her way to the pharmacy. She approached the counter and rung the service bell. The station there was also un-manned. She glanced left and right and did not notice anyone. She rang the bell again to no avail. Finally, she reached over the counter and felt under the surface for the switch. She found it and toggled it over which unlocked the door. She walked around the counter and into the dispensary to fill Dr. Waters’ prescription. Aisle J-L… Aisle M-N… Aisle O-P. She turned and started reading the labels on the bins: Patinase… Pavacot… Paxil. She skipped a shelf. Pharmaflur… Phazyme… Phenadoz. She jumped down a few rows. Phernergan… Pheniramine… She stopped at one label. It grabbed her attention, popping out as if it were labeled in giant font. It read “Phenobarbital”.


Comments, likes, edits and suggestions are welcome. They help increase visibility.

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

COG Chapter 12

CogCoverSquare

Buried a thousand feet beneath Ohio, the ten trillion dollar, UN-constructed SuperBunker can shelter a million members of the global elite indefinitely, with all the comforts of the surface including simulated blue skies, boutique shopping, and three golf courses. The President of the United States, Arman “Our Man” Manfred, regains consciousness in one of the bunker’s six hospitals. Surrounded by his trusted advisors and his official hagiographer, his office becomes ensnared in the Machiavellian underworld of SuperBunker geo-politics. The situation worsens when the president’s Russian and Chinese counterparts execute Protocol 4, sealing the blast doors and severing all contact with the surface, relegating the world’s leaders to governing a mere computer simulation of the world above. An attempt to blackmail the POTUS with a salacious video taken by his own security agency forces President Manfred into seclusion. With his office infiltrated by a traitor and hobbled by incompetence, he attempts one final ‘Hail Mary’ that might just save the office of the president… even if it destroys the world in the process.

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

Chapter 12

Protocol 4 is triggered by flipping a toggle switch set within a glass case mounted to the desk of each of the leaders of the nations that are permanent members of the UN Security Council. This switch, intended to be activated as a final failsafe against nuclear destruction, is not entirely dissimilar to the button that activates the launch of nuclear warheads. Each nuclear capable country has their own version of a launch button, but only China, Russia, The United Kingdom, France and the United States can trigger Protocol 4. Within minutes of activation, the exterior primary and secondary blast doors of the SuperBunker are closed and sealed and all forms of communication with the outside world are completely severed. The idea is that no one and no information gets in or out— such as nuclear launch orders, for instance. While in the Protocol 4 state, the blast doors cannot be opened and communications with the surface cannot be re-established until the leaders of all five Security Council nations agree to deactivate.

Moments before the Saxon/Norman football game went dark, the president of China summoned his aide de camp who handed him a miniature, clawless, gold hammer. President Hu Li used the ceremonial hammer to smash a glass cloche enclosing the Protocol 4 toggle switch. Surrounded by his closest advisors who nodded in encouragement, Hu Li carefully extended his index finger, just touching the tip of the metal switch. He took a deep breath and, with mustered resolve, pressed it. Aside from a faint click, the Chinese assembly noticed nothing. They bowed to the president of China and filed silently out of his office.

Elsewhere, in the public spaces of the SuperBunker, a female voice— a voice that was pleasant yet stern, and faintly sensual— emanated from the thousands of emergency loudspeakers positioned strategically around the enormous underground facility. The female voice spoke in the dominant language of the sector… except in the Middle Eastern section where the voice heard was male and grim.

 

“Attention! Protocol 4 has been activated. The bunker doors are closing. Please stand clear of the doors. Attention!  Protocol 4 has been activated. The bunker doors are closing. Please stand clear of the doors. This is not a test.”

 

The hands of the Greys reactively dug into their pockets and purses to retrieve their cell phones to check the news reports and to dial their loved ones. Their phones had no external reception.

 

“Attention! Protocol 4 has been activated. The bunker doors are closing. Please stand clear of the doors…”

 

With surprised looks, the elite inhabitants of the bunker reached for their devices as well, and spilled out of their boutiques and cafes and salons and massage parlors and yoga studios in hopes of getting better signal. But they too had forgotten that they were hundreds of feet underground and that cell phone signals were transmitted by a communication array wired into the very structures of the bunker. Their cell phones had no external reception, either. They could call each other and surf the numerous bunker hosted websites, but no connectivity to the surface could be made and no information from the surface was getting in or out. With a shrug of their shoulders, the elites wandered back into their boutiques and cafes and salons.

 

“Attention! Protocol 4 has been activated. The bunker doors are closing. Please stand clear…”

 

A spontaneous surge of frantic desperation gripped the hordes of the tens of thousands of Greys who simultaneously made a dash for the exit portals. The vast, vast majority did not want to be trapped inside. Their families and houses were on the surface and they would rather be in their own homes with their families if the world was to end.

 

“Attention! Protocol 4 has been activated. The bunker doors are closing. Please stand clear…”

 

With eyes filled with terror, Nurse Baum spilled out of a jammed elevator and sprinted out onto the subterranean avenue, joining a fray of thousands clad in their drab gray worker uniforms. Baum was lucky. The nearest access portal was a mere 100 yards away. Some workers were separated by miles of subway tunnel and had no chance to make it out, but they jammed into the subway cars, nevertheless.

Baum ran for it.

 

“Attention! Protocol 4 has been activated. The bunker doors are closing…”

 

Baum could see the ramp leading up to the secondary blast door. She sprinted with her forearm bracing against the back of the workers running in front of her. The tunnel narrowed. Someone tripped just ahead and Baum pushed to the side to avoid the scrum of tumbling Greys.

 

“Attention! Protocol 4 has been activated. The bunker doors are closing…”

 

Red lights began to flash. An alarm sounded, clanging like a deafening school bell. Baum’s heart raced. Ahead, she could now see the yellow-striped steel blast doors slowly slipping down out of the ceiling like a slow-motion cave-in.

 

“Attention! Protocol 4 has been activated. The bunker doors are closing…”

 

The Greys jammed together, shoulder to shoulder, chest to back, knee to calf, toe to heel, tighter and tighter. The red light flashed and blinded. The ringing alarm deafened. Baum was very close to escape. The yellow striped door cranked relentlessly downward.

 

“Attention! Protocol 4 has been activated…”

 

She raised her hands so that they could be kept free of the constricting, tightening mob of desperate souls. Ahead, bodies extruded through the closing blast door and sprinted up the gangway towards the elevator banks. Frozen, expressionless soldiers bearing rifles and wearing sky-blue helmets flanked the blast door. Baum thought of her daughter. A terror took hold, fomenting her desperation that quickly built and released in a scream for help.

 

“Protocol 4 has been activated…”

 

The door was halfway down, but there was still enough room to hunch through it. She shoved forward as the mob pushed her from behind. The Grey bodies squirted through the closing gap, into the light and space and freedom and certain death beyond.

 

“The bunker doors are closing…”

 

The guards, knowing that the doors had no safety mechanism to prevent them from crushing anyone stuck beneath, were pressed into action. They pushed into the mob with their rifle stocks and started shoving them back.

 

“Please stand clear…”

 

Baum was just feet away from freedom. She ducked down beneath the fray and crawled forward between the jostling legs, feet, and kneecaps, risking being crushed or suffocated, not by the doors but by the mass of flailing humanity. Her tears of desperation blinded her. She could make out the light, thirty inches of space between the door and the floor. She shot herself through, her body halfway under. The steel continued to fall but she was going to make it! Her head and shoulders poked through to the other side. She felt the cool air. But something took hold of her by the ankles and yanked her back.

 

“The bunker…

 

She clawed at the floor, screaming for someone darting up the ramp ahead to turn back and pull her through to safety but no one turned.

 

“Doors…”

 

The leading edge of the door pressed against her back. She clawed frantically, screaming her daughter’s name.

 

“Are…”

 

She felt a powerful tug on her waistband and with a giant heave, she was yanked backwards into the clamoring chaos not a moment before the doors…

 

“Closed.”

 

There was a thunderous, reverberating thud, then complete silence.

 


Comments, likes, edits and suggestions are welcome. They help increase visibility.

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter