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Superiority

Chapter 14

Timothy Goodman looked around at the devastation caused by the bomb. Where before he would have seen tall buildings stretching to the sky, all he saw was smoke. Rubble covered the ground all over, making it difficult to walk. Adding to the difficulty, were the radiation rich areas. They were everywhere. They had traveled about seven kilometers, but had only made it about two kilometers away from the exit to the fallout shelter. It was going to be a long walk to the President's vehicle warehouse.

"Dammit," said Agent Gammel, who was in the lead. The device he was holding began emitting a click, signaling the presence of a radiation spike. The group changed directions.

They continued traveling. Every now, and then, the Secret Service agents accompanying The President, would point their weapons off to the distance. It was usually nothing, but everyone was paranoid. A flicker of movement would catch their attention, and most would panic, unsure of whether it was friendly. They didn't have any communications, so they were unsure of whether, or not there was a Lupine presence in the city.

"Shit, is that a car?" asked one of the agents, excitedly.

Gammel looked into the distance. "Yeah," he replied. "But I guarantee you it doesn't work."

The other agent gave a look of disappointment before replying. "It wouldn't hurt to check."

"No way," said Gammel, now annoyed. "That's way far out of our way. We have a priority here, and that's too big of a risk to take."

The other agent shrank back. He obviously disagreed with Gammel, but wasn't about to question his authority.

"How far 'till the warehouse?" asked The President.

Gammel looked at the crude tourist map he had found in the rubble. "We should be there within the hour," replied Gammel. "But unless the airstrip is free of rubble, we're going to be driving, so I wouldn't get your hopes up."

Goodman was hoping they didn't have to drive. He wanted to get out of this place. The atmosphere was so oppressive, it brought everybody's mood down. He also kind of wanted to see the devastation from the air. Being on the ground gave him an appreciation of the destruction, but to truly understand it, he wanted an aerial view.

The President's jet was a small civilian jet. He couldn't risk using a behemoth like the old Air Force One, when he didn't want the world to know he existed anymore. As far as the enemy knew, he had killed himself shortly after surrender.

He had started the Rebellion shortly after reaching Canada. It wasn't that difficult to gather a following. Most of the Americans living near the Canadian border had fled to Canada, giving him a huge member base, not to mention, the military that had followed him. A good amount of the United States Armed Forces had secretly ventured to Canada, attempting to flee Lupine rule, only to discover that the fight for their country wasn't over.

But all seemed lost now. Their entire base of operations was destroyed. The buildings housing their at-home forces leveled. All of the troops out in the field, were now without command. The future seemed grim for the United States.

Goodman looked around as they turned a corner. They were getting closer to the edge of town now, and bodies were beginning to be visible under the rubble. At least they hadn't started to smell yet.

"Oh my god," said Goodman. "How many bodies have we been stepping over?"

Gammel jumped down from a large steel girder. "I've been trying not to think about it," he replied, extending his hand to help The President down.

The President grabbed his hand, and climbed down, followed by the other agents.

No one in the group could stop thinking about how many were dead. If there were this many here, how many were there in the middle of the city? The casualties were definitely in the millions. When the enemy decided to attack, they attacked with full force.

Goodman wondered if Canada would still house the Rebellion. If the enemies of The United States had attacked them this hard, then it was difficult to imagine they would want to consort with them anymore. The President worried about this for the rest of the walk to the warehouse.

"Everything looks good," said Gammel, putting away the binoculars he found in their supply bag. "The radio tower is down, but the warehouse itself is still standing. I doubt there would be anyone alive to man the tower anyway."

"Is the runway clear?" asked Goodman.

"Yes, Sir, Mister President," answered Gammel. "As long as the jet is alright, we should be on our way soon."

"Oh, good," replied The President.

They walked through the rubble for a little while longer, before reaching the warehouse. Gammel disappeared behind the corner, before returning with bolt cutters for the lock on the door. With a grunt, the padlock fell to the ground, and Gammel rolled open the wide door, revealing an intact jet.

"Hey Alvarez," said Gammel. "Is this thing flyable?"

"Lemme check," replied Alvarez, their pilot, as he opened the door.

Everyone outside the plane fidgeted nervously, awaiting the news.

They didn't have to wait long, before the jet engines stirred, and came to life. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, as Alvarez exited, and beckoned them all inside.

The President entered first, followed immediately by Gammel, and the other agents. They all sat down comfortably in the soft leather seats. The flight out of here was going to be the best part of the day.

Alvarez sat down in the pilot's seat, and placed his headset on. He turned on the navigational equipment, and pulled the microphone close to his mouth.

"CYKZ Ground, this is Air Force One, do you copy?" he broadcast, knowing he wasn't going to receive an answer. He waited patiently for thirty seconds, before entering his destination into the gps, and inputting the desired altitude.

"Looks like we're flying solo," he said to the passengers, who nodded understandingly.

Alvarez disengaged the brakes, and applied a bit of throttle, easing the plane out of the warehouse. He quickly taxied up to the runway, and lined himself up. He lowered the flaps, and applied full throttle. They began rolling down the runway, quickly gaining speed. At one-hundred-sixty knots, Alvarez rotated the stick, and they were airborne.

It wasn't long before they could see most of the city. It was almost as if it had ceased to exist. It was mostly a flat pile of ash, and rubble. From the air, it almost looked liquid. Smoke was coming up from several places that were still on fire. No one saw the lights of rescue personnel. It appeared help for the city had still not arrived.

The President thought he had wanted to see the devastation in full, but now he regretted looking out the window. The First Lady didn't have time to escape. She was away from the shelter at the time.

Goodman pulled his head away from the window. How many more people were the enemy going to take from him? His son had died in the initial attempt at retaliation, before the U.S. had surrendered, and now they had taken his wife as well. Not to mention the majority of his family had either died,or been captured.

Goodman leaned over, and tapped Gammel on the shoulder. "Where are we heading anyway?" he asked.

"Fort Nelson, British Columbia," replied Gammel. "There's a military base there, and it's the predetermined location for us to head to, if we don't have communications, which we don't."

"Okay," said The President, leaning back in his seat. That was clear across the country, it was going to take them hours to get there. "Might as well get some rest," thought The President, as he reclined his chair, and closed his eyes.

Gammel scanned the ground for any potential threats. They were still unsure of whether it was a full invasion, or an isolated attack. If it was the former, they could potentially face danger from Lupine fire. That didn't seem the case though, considering there was no visible military force.

Alvarez leveled off at thirty-five-thousand feet, and activated the plane's primitive cloaking system. It wasn't anything like the pre-war cloaking system Air Force One used to implement, but it was sufficient in hiding them from basic detection techniques.

The plane was covered in standard radar absorbing material, which was so common, some military bases no longer used radar as a method of tracking enemy aircraft. It also boasted an electrical detection jamming field, which halted enemies from detecting the electromagnetic frequencies the jet was emitting.

The plane's system had one huge flaw however, it didn't mask it's thermal signature, leaving it a beacon in the sky for anyone using a thermal camera, which enemies were prone to do.

Alvarez had initially refused to condone the construction of the jet a couple of years ago, but it wasn't his place to argue, even if it meant his life was endangered as well. Not that his life mattered to him anymore anyway. His wife, and daughter had died with the rest of Toronto. He tried not to think about it.

"Hurry back," were the last words Alvarez said to his wife, and young daughter, as they left for the store. It was stormy out, and he didn't want them away from the headquarters too long.

"I'll try," replied his wife, who wasn't worried about a little bad weather. Alvarez had always been the one to worry about things like that.

His daughter, too young to speak, just waved at him, before they walked out the door. Alvarez smiled, and waved back at her.

The reality of what happened hit Alvarez hard. In the excitement of the explosion, everything seemed unreal, but with nothing to do but stare out the window for a few hours, he was forced to think about it. He wanted to kill himself. The thought of the satisfaction he would receive from that was tempting. He had his sub-machine gun in his lap, fully loaded. It would be so easy.

Alvarez removed the magazine, and the round loaded into the chamber, setting them in the co-pilot's seat. He placed the empty gun to his head, and pulled the trigger. The sound of the hammer falling into place without a round reaffirmed the hollowness he was feeling. He wanted so badly to be dead right now. To be with his wife, and daughter.

His wife was so beautiful. He never could understand why she would want to be with him, when she could have any man she wanted. She would always tell him it was because he was a nice person. Other times she would say that it was because he was great with kids. Sometimes she joked with him, saying she loved a man in uniform. He was so lucky to have had her.

Alvarez set the gun down next to it's ammunition. He didn't want to hold it anymore. It was a weapon of war, and he hated it.

He thought of his daughter. She was so young. She wasn't even given a chance to experience life, before it was taken from her. He was never going to get to see her grow up, never going to hear her first word. He laughed quietly to himself. It was an ongoing battle with his wife. He was always trying to get her to say "Daddy," and his wife was always trying to get her to say "Mommy."

Alvarez reached behind him, and closed the door of the cockpit. He wanted to be alone.

He reached over, and grabbed the gun, and ammunition. He looked it over, running his hand down the side of it. It was beautiful, and ugly at the same time. Alvarez both hated it, and loved it.

He put the free round back into the magazine before reloading the magazine itself, back into the gun. He quickly pulled back the bolt, and released it. With a satisfying click, the round was loaded into the chamber.

He wanted to be with his family more than he had ever wanted anything.

He lowered the gun into his lap. Memories flooded back into him. His wedding, his daughter's birth, how proud he was to be a father. It was all taken from him in an instant.

He looked away from the controls, and a tear fell from his face. Slowly he began to cry. Softly at first, but then more emotion flooded through him, to the point he was making noise now. The other agents heard him outside, but knew what he was crying about, so they left him alone.

He couldn't stop thinking about them. They were gone, both of them, torn from his life without warning. His life overturned again. He lifted the gun to his head. He loved them so much.

He leaned back, to make sure the bullet collided with the plane's metal shell, instead of the thin acrylic window that was next to him. He held the gun there for a moment longer. He took off the safety with a flick of his thumb.

He reached forward with his finger, and pulled the trigger. The noise was deafening in the enclosed cockpit, but he didn't hear it for long.

As he was fading away from life, he could already hear the soft, loving voice of his wife, and see his daughter's beautiful face.

Goodman was awakened by the sound of gunfire from the cockpit. Gammel immediately jumped on top of him, covering him almost completely. "Carver, go check that out!" he yelled to one of his subordinates.

A younger agent got up, weapon drawn, and walked to the front of the plane. He slowly opened the door of the cockpit, poking his weapon through first, followed by his head, peeking around the room. He could see Alvarez's hand laid over the arm rest, gun on the floor next to him. He continued into the room, with an assumption of what he was going to find.

Alvarez was leaning to the left in his chair, most of his head missing. Blood was everywhere.

"Oh, my god," he said, as he slowly backed out of the cockpit.

"What, dammit?" yelled Gammel, as he got off of The President.

"Alvarez just killed himself," replied a very pale Carver.

"Killed himself?" asked Gammel, as he walked towards the cockpit.

"Yes, Sir," replied Carver, as he sat back down, obviously shaken.

Gammel peeked into the cockpit, confirming the news. This wasn't good. Now they had no pilot.

"Anybody else know how to fly a plane?" asked Gammel.

"I, I might be able to," replied Carver. "I've got some experience flying a four-seat plane, but I don't know if I can fly a jet."

"That'll have to do," said Gammel, with a frown.

Gammel, and another agent found a blanket in the back, and wrapped Alvarez's body in it, before taking it to the back of the plane.

Carver sat down in the blood covered pilot's seat, before taking a look at the controls. They were much more complicated than he was used to. His single engine propeller driven plane was as simple as they come, and he hadn't flown anything else.

He looked at the unfamiliar navigational equipment. He couldn't find the compass anywhere, and the gps had more buttons than he cared to count, most of them unlabeled . He placed the headset on his head. It had blood covering most of it. Alvarez hadn't removed it before he killed himself.

He looked at the screen of the gps, and determined their destination, before reaching behind the seat, and grabbing the maps, which he was more comfortable using. He unfolded the appropriate map, and took a look. They weren't far, which worried him. He reached forward, and lowered the altitude selection, and dialed the frequency into the radio.

He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. He didn't want to deal with this right now, but he didn't really have a choice. A few seconds later, he felt moisture on his back. He leaned forward in the chair, remembering the blood that covered the chair, which he now had all over his back. He shuddered at the thought of Alvarez's suicide. He didn't know him that well, but it wasn't everyday that someone kills himself less than ten feet from you.

He sat, staring out the window for a little while longer, waiting to reach the altitude he had input. Within about fifteen minutes, they were there. Carver dialed back the speed, and waited for the aircraft to lose momentum, and drop to two-hundred-seventy-five knots, the legal limit for flying under ten-thousand feet.

The airport was getting closer fast. Carver once again, lowered the selected altitude to a more maneuverable height, before pulling the microphone closer to his mouth.

"CYYE Traffic, this is Air Force One, three-one miles east, inbound to land, runway two-one," said Carver, hoping they would get a friendly response. He waited for an agonizing two minutes, before receiving a reply.

"You are claiming to pilot an aircraft recognized by the flight director to appear only under dire circumstances. Your landing will be secured, and you will not be authorized to leave the aircraft unless escorted," said the voice on the radio, much to Carver's relief. A brief silence was followed by the pattern entry instructions which Carver followed carefully.

Carver could see the runway now. He was only at fifteen-hundred feet, and was closing in fast. Remembering basic functions of jet piloting he was taught when he learned to fly, he set the auto-brake, before lowering the throttle, and the flaps.

The slower the plane went, the lower the flaps were. Sweat was rolling down Carver's face now. It was all going perfect, but he was still nervous. Gammel had come up to the cockpit, and sat in the co-pilot's seat.

They were really low now. The suspense was killing Carver, as he lowered the flaps to their lowest setting, and killed the throttle. As soon as they got to the runway, he pulled the stick back, lifting the nose of the jet into the air, allowing the back wheels to touch first. So far, so good.

Anxiously, he lowered the front end down to the ground. As soon as the front wheel made contact with the runway, the brakes kicked in, and pulled the aircraft to a halt, much to the relief of everybody on board.

Waiting for them, were several armed vehicles, which cautiously approached the plane. The vehicle in the lead parked a few meters from the door. A man got out, and brought a megaphone up to his face.

"Slowly open the door to your aircraft," he said.

Gammel ascended from the co-pilot's seat, and complied. The man then commanded him to lower the stairs. After doing so, he was ordered away from the door.

Ten armed men entered the aircraft, handcuffing all passengers, and escorted them off of the plane, and into the waiting transports.

The men were taken to a small building next to the entrance to the military base, where they were ordered to sit.

"Which one of you is The President?" asked the man with the megaphone.

"I am," replied Goodman.

"I you'll please come with me then, Sir," said the man, escorting The President to an even smaller room.

"You're making a very serious claim, Sir," said the man. "Because of that, we will be running a DNA test, to determine whether, or not you are telling the truth."

Another man entered the room, carrying a small pen sized device, which he placed on Goodman's arm. With a click, and a flicker of pain, the man exited the room.

"This should only take a few minutes, Sir," said the man across from him. "I'm sure you're who you say you are, but we're under orders to take no chances.

"I completely understand," said The President, with a smile.

The men didn't have to wait long, before the man returned, a piece of paper in his hand.

"He is who he claims to be, Sir," he said to the other man.

"Now that that little formality is out of the way, I'd like to introduce myself," said the man. "My name is Charles Feldman. I'm sure you're very tired from the experiences you've had over the past couple of days, so I'll show you, and those accompanying you, to where you'll be staying."

He then got up, and beckoned for Goodman to follow him. The men left the small room, and joined the others outside.

"Get those off of them," said Feldman, referring to the handcuffs still on the Secret Service agents.

They were removed, and the men joined them. They walked through the entrance to the base, and boarded a large transport, big enough for all of them. They drove about half of a kilometer before stopping in front of a large, concrete building, where all the men exited the vehicle.

"Here we are, Mister President," said Feldman, holding the door open for him.

The men all entered the building, which was decorated surprisingly well on the inside. This wasn't a temporary base, that was for sure. A group of Canadian soldiers walked past, obviously surprised to see the American President alive, and well.

The soldiers were dressed for battle. Most likely a precaution of the Toronto bomb. They wore their fully armored uniforms, and carried their C8 assault rifles with them. They both saluted the important politician in front of them, one of them dropping his weapon at the same time. He quickly collected it, and left embarrassed.

"If you men will accompany him," Feldman said to the Secret Service agents, referring to a man that had entered the room.

The men looked at The President for permission to leave his side.

"I'll be quite alright, men," said Goodman. "We're in friendly hands now, no need for caution."

Gammel nervously nodded, and the agents followed.

"I'll get straight to the point Mister President," said Feldman. "We need your experience as a General. Only a week ago, a Lupine Intelligence Department Operative assassinated the ranking officer here, and we would like you to assist us."

Goodman looked at the man quizzically. "Why would you need me, personally?" he asked.

"Because, Sir," replied Feldman. "Everybody with talent, is on the front lines. We need someone of your capabilities to lead this base. We've got something very important here, Mister President."

Goodman stared at him, trying to stare through him, into his intentions. His military experience had given him the ability to determine motives from people.

"Let me show you the base," said Feldman. "That way, you can see the whole operation before you decide."

Sensing the man was genuinely interested in his assistance, Goodman agreed, and followed him. He was led back outside the building, where the two men climbed into a small vehicle, and began riding.

"I'm going to show something very important, Mister President," said Feldman. "Something very important to this war."

Goodman raised one eyebrow. "Now, this sounds interesting," he said.

Feldman stopped the car in front of a concrete building. The building was about fifteen meters wide, and six meters tall, with a flat roof. Feldman exited the vehicle, and was soon followed by The President.

Without a word, Feldman entered the building, Goodman in tow, and flashed a badge to an armed man guarding a thick metal door.

"Open door," the man whispered into the microphone on his shoulder. "Security access level Alpha."

The door opened with a hiss of air, and revealed it's true depth of nearly a meter thick. Feldman entered the door, followed by a cautious Goodman. The pair continued down a flight of stairs for about two minutes, before reaching another guarded door. Feldman flashed his badge again, and the door opened. This door was much thinner, but still made of what appeared to be steel.

Feldman continued to lead Goodman without a word, through a short hallway. He pulled a key out of his pocket, and stuck it in the door now facing them, and turned it.

Goodman was greeted by a rather unexpected sight, as he entered the room. Several Canadian scientists were surrounding a large missile in the center of the room. Feldman turned around to face Goodman.

"This, Mister President," said Feldman. "Is the pride, and shame of the Canadian Armed Forces."

Goodman stared at him in confusion. "Is this...?"

"Yes, Sir," replied Feldman. "This is one of three nuclear warheads possessed by Canada."

.....

David stared at his father situated high in his throne. "That's why I'm here?" he asked. "Because you were worried?"

"David," started Alga.

"No!," he yelled. "There are people risking their lives everyday out there. How am I any different? How could you be so selfish? You ask thousands of innocent wolves everyday, to die for their country, yet you pull me out because you don't want me to get hurt? How do you think their families feel?"

Alga looked away, slightly ashamed, while Dimitri looked down on him in anger.

"How dare you insult me like that," he said. "Someday you'll thank me for saving your life. You'll realize how foolish you're being right now."

David exhaled forcefully, staring deep into his father's eyes with anger. "I don't think you understand what I'm trying to say here," he started. "I won't stand here, and watch innocent wolves die. You wouldn't know about this. You've never fought."

"Oh, haven't I?" asked Dimitri.

"No, you haven't!" yelled David. "You've sat in a comfortable chair, and ordered other people to fight. You haven't ever experienced the hell of war, you've only watched it unfold under your corrupt hand!"

"That's enough!" yelled Dimitri, standing up from his chair. "I won't sit here, and let a child insult me like this!"

"Dimitri!" yelled Alga. "I don't think either of you are fit to talk right now. You're both too angry. You need to take some time to cool off."

Dimitri slowly let out a strong withheld breath, and sat back down, his hands still shaking in anger. "I suppose you're right," he said. "Perhaps we can have a family dinner later. Until then, I don't think I can talk to you."

David stared at him angrily, wanting to argue, but knowing his mother was right. There was no chance of a productive conversation while they were both angry. He turned around, and walked out of the Throne Room.

Continuing to his quarters, Daniel joined David in the hall. Seeing the look on his face, he decided it was best to not say anything. David threw open the door, knocking down a painting in the process, breaking the glass. He didn't care right now. All he could think about was the selfishness of his father. How could he ask the wolves serving in the military to lay down their lives, when he wouldn't ask his son to do it?

David laid down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The beautiful patterns carved in relief made him sick. They would spare no luxury in the Imperial Palace, yet their front line troops slept in tents that didn't keep the snow out. David half wished to be back in his tent. At least then he would know he wasn't cowardly hiding from the war.

He sat up, hanging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Do you think I'm a coward?" he asked Daniel. "I put on an act of hatred, but in reality, I feel a little relieved to be away."

"Not at all, Your Majesty," replied Daniel. "Anyone would wish to leave that place."

David stared at the beautiful hardwood floors of the room. "That may be, Daniel," he started. "But not everyone is brave. It takes someone who isn't 'anyone' to be someone. I don't think I'm that someone."

"Modesty is a virtue, Your Majesty," said Daniel. "Bravery isn't measured by whether, or not you want to do something brave. Nobody wants to. Bravery is measured by whether, or not you do something brave."

David sighed. "I'm not sure I'm able to do something brave, Daniel."