COG Chapter 17

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.

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Chapter 17

Buckminster found President Manfred on the golf course. He was playing alone. Fricke stood nearby clasping the Nuclear Football. Tibbles was reading something on his cell. Haberdash was serving as his caddy. Buckminster’s driver pulled their golf cart next to them on the 10th tee.

“Mr. President?”

“Bucky!” The president responded without making eye contact. He took three practice swings then hit. The ball shot out with a ping, low but true. “Come, walk with me Bucky.”

Buckminster exited his cart and marched up to the POTUS. The president motioned for Fricke and Tibbles to hang back.

“Bucky,” the POTUS started, let’s have a little chat.” The duo started down the turf fairway towards the president’s ball. “Isn’t it good to get out and get some fresh air?”

“I suppose. But we’re a thousand feet underground, sir.”

“Oh, Bucky….”

“What can I do for you, sir.”

“Bucky…”

“Yes?”

“I want you to be the first person to know about my decision.”

“Which decision, sir?”

“I want you to know I’ve been laboring long and hard about this. Last night, I got down on my knees and prayed to the good Lord for a sign. Well Bucky, I think I got that sign earlier this morning.”

“Really, sir?”

“Yep. You see, I got myself into a little trouble back on hole three. My tee shot hooked– you know that nasty slap hook I have. Well, it hit in the middle of the fairway but… but then it just rolled left, and rolled, and rolled…”

“Sorry to hear that, sir.”

“It rolled left, right off the fairway and right into the bunker.”

“Oh no,” Buckminster feigned concern.

“Yep. Right down into the middle of the trap.”

“That’s terrible, sir.”

“Yes, it is. Oh, you should have heard me cussing, Bucky. I was so angry. You know my bunker play is not my strong suit. What have I said a thousand times about my theory of golf?”

“You always say to ‘attack the green,’ sir.”

“That’s right. Attack, attack, attack! You can’t ever give your opponent breathing room. If you lay up, you give your enemy time to take the initiative.”

“I believe the putting green is an inanimate object, sir, but I think I get your point.”

“Play golf like Patton would, Bucky. Sitting in a bunker is like god damn trench warfare. It doesn’t suit his or my style.”

“No, it doesn’t, sir.”

“So, after breaking my three iron in half, I took my sand wedge from Hab and walked up to that evil, godless bunker to face my peril alone. I was in a dark place, Bucky. How was I going to get out of that quagmire?”

“I don’t know sir.”

“It was very bleak, very bleak. But I just kept thinking about General George S. Patton Jr. What would he do in my place, Bucky?”

“I don’t know, sir. Maybe he would have slapped his caddy?”

“I took a deep breath and I drew into my backswing…” the president’s eyes closed so that he could immerse himself in the memory. “…and a great sense of calm came over me.”

“Then what, sir?”

“I let go and swung. I brought my wedge down into the trap just an inch behind the ball, launching a perfect little dollop of sand and my ball up into the air. That little white projectile hung in space and time and I was transported.”

“Transported, sir?”

“Yes. I was transported to June 1945. I saw, for instant, Patton storming the beaches of Normandy… I was with him.”

“Patton wasn’t at Normandy, sir. I believe he was stationed in England as a decoy.”

“He was there, Bucky, and so was I. We were together on Omaha beach, directing artillery fire at the Nazi positions.”

“Artillery, sir? From the middle of the English Channel?”

“We were dialing it right in on those Hun bastards.”

“Then what?”

“Then I transported back here and watched as my ball descended, like shell, no, like an ICBM on re-entry, perfectly on target. It bounced once… twice… then rolled… curving along the slope of the green… closer… closer… until it fell directly into the hole, vanquishing that son of a bitch Nazi green!”

“Wow, sir. An eagle. Nice job.”

“It was right then and there that I knew what my decision was going to be, Bucky.”

“Which is?”

“I’ve decided I am going to go public and announce my campaign for re-election.”

Buckminster stood aghast for a moment while the announcement sunk in, then he congratulated the POTUS. They finally reached the president’s ball where they stopped and waited for Haberdash to catch up. The president walked over to Haberdash and unzipped one of the pouches in his golf bag. He took out his gold-plated .44 magnum and walked back to Bucky whose face was filling with concern.

“Bucky…”

“Yes sir?”

“It is going to be very hard for me to win re-election if the First Lady releases that video. Do you understand?”

“I do sir. I am doing everything I can to find her. The Russians have her well-hidden.”

“I don’t want excuses, Bucky. Excuses are what people use when they flub three shots out of the sand trap and end up taking a triple bogie. Excuses are what the Germans made when they lost Berlin to the Allies. I want results, Bucky.” The president waived his gun for emphasis. “You have to neutralize that situation; you have to neutralize that situation before we open those blast doors again. Because about a minute after they open, Huli and Timmy are gonna know what we did and there won’t be any turning back at that point.”

“Why don’t we just call it off, sir? Just leave things as they are… in Protocol 4.”

“There’s no upside in that. If we don’t rescind it, the Sino-Russians will know something’s up. At least by opening the doors we can buy some goodwill with whom we’re allowing in. But if you don’t get that bitch neutralized beforehand, then we’ll have to go with my Plan B.”

“Plan B?”

“Just do your job, Bucky. If not, it will all be over, and it will all be your fault.” The president pointed the magnum at Buckminster, right between the eyes.

“But sir, I…”

“Shh, shh, shh,” the POTUS shushed. “No excuses. …It’ll be all your fault.”

 


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