'How so?'
'Because Caesar Russell wants to take America back to its pre-Civil War state,' the President said simply.
There was a silence.
'Did you hear the names of the cities he's put his plasma bombs in? Fourteen devices, in fourteen airports, all around the country. Not true. They're not placed all around the country. They're only placed in northern cities. New York, Washington, D.C., Chicago, LA, San Francisco, Seattle. The furthest south those bombs get is St. Louis. No Atlanta, no Houston, no Miami even. Nothing below the Tennessee-Kentucky state line.'
'Why those cities, then?' Schofield asked slowly.
The President said, 'Because they represent the North, the liberals, the dandies of America who talk a lot, produce nothing, and yet consume everything. And Caesar wants an America without the North.
'For with the Sinovirus and its cure in his possession, he will have what's left of the nation at his mercy. Every man, woman and child — black and white — will owe their life to him and his precious vaccine.'
The President winced.
'I imagine the black population would be eliminated first, with the vaccine being administered only to white Americans. Considering Caesar's racist tendencies, I assume it was the black population he was talking about when he mentioned 'human waste products.''
'But remember what I said before: he has to do two things to get what he wants: he has to have Kevin in his possession, and he also has to kill me. For no revolution — no true revolution — can take place without the visible and humiliating destruction of the previous regime. The execution of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette in France; the imprisonment of the Czar in Russia in 1918; Hitler's complete 'Nazification' of Germany in the thirties.'
'Anybody can kill a President, if they are determined enough. A revolutionary, however, has to do it in front of the people he desires to rule — showing them that the previous ruling system no longer deserves their respect.'
'And don't be mistaken, Caesar Russell isn't doing this in front of America. He's doing it in front of the most extreme elements of America — the Timothy McVeighs of the country; the poor, the angry, the disenfranchised, the white supremacists, the white trash, the antifederal militias — those parts of the nation, located mainly in the Southern states, that wouldn't give two shits if the cappuccino-drinking liberals in New York, Chicago and San Francisco were blasted off the face of the earth.'
'But the country would be decimated…' Schofield said. 'Why would he want to rule a destroyed country?'
'Yes, but you see, Caesar doesn't see it that way,' the President said. 'To his mind, the country wouldn't be destroyed. It would merely be purified, renewed, cleansed. It would be a new beginning. The southern city centers would be intact. The Midwest would still be largely intact, able to provide sustenance.'
Schofield asked, 'What about the other armed forces? What would he do about them?'
'Captain, as you would well know, the U.S. Air Force receives more funding than all the other armed services combined… Sure, it may have only 385,000 personnel, but it has more missiles and strike capability than all the other services combined. If, by virtue of the Brotherhood and his previous commands, Caesar has even a fiftieth of the Air Force behind him, he could scramble his bombers and take out every key Army and Navy installation in this country — plus every Air Force base that was not allied with him — before they could even raise a small counteroffensive effort.'
'Foreign defense would be the same. With its Stealth bombers, strike fighters and a stockpile of nuclear missiles greater than that of any other country in the world, Caesar's new Air Force, acting alone, would be more than capable of handling any hostile foreign incursion.'
'Captain, make no mistake, to Caesar's warped mind, this scenario would be perfect: America would be isolationist once again, completely self-sufficient, and governed by an absolutely lily-white regime. Back to its pre- Civil War state.'
'Motherfucker…' Mother breathed.
Schofield frowned.
'Okay, then,' he said, 'so what if Russell can't pull this off? What if he fails? Surely he isn't just going to accept defeat and walk away. I can't see him simply disarming his bombs if he loses and saying, 'Oh well, I was wrong, you win.''
'No,' the President said seriously. 'That worries me, too. Because if by some miracle we do survive all this, the question becomes: what has Caesar got in store for us then?'
After prising apart the personnel elevator's exterior doors, Book II and Juliet Janson came to the 'top door' exit.
Juliet entered the code Harper had revealed earlier: 5564771.
With a sharp hiss, the heavy titanium door opened.
They raced down the concrete corridor beyond it, each holding one of Book's pistols.
They ran for about forty yards before, abruptly, they burst through another door and found themselves standing inside an ordinary-looking aircraft hangar. Shafts of brilliant sunlight slanted in through the hangar's wide- open doors. The hangar was completely empty: no planes, no cars, no…
Goliath must have been waiting behind the door.
Juliet stepped out first, only to feel the barrel of a P-90 press up against the side of her head.
'Bang-bang, you're dead,' Goliath said oafishly.
He squeezed the trigger just as Book II — whom Goliath hadn't seen yet — lunged forward and with lightning speed swiped back the P-90's charging handle, ejecting the round that was in its chamber.
Click!
The gun against Juliet's head fired nothing.
'Wha…?' Goliath snapped to look at Book II.
And then everything happened very fast.
In one movement, Juliet grabbed the barrel of Goliath's P-90 and whipped up her own gun, at the same moment as Goliath's other enormous fist — which still held Schofield's Maghook — came rushing at her face. The Maghook hit Juliet on the side of the head, and she and the P-90 went sprawling to the floor. Juliet hit the ground hard. The P-90 clattered away.
Book raised his Beretta — but not fast enough. Goliath caught his gun hand… and growled at him.
Now the two men were holding the same gun.
Goliath thrust his Frankensteinian chin right up close to Book II's face as he began depressing Book's own trigger finger.
Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam!
As the gun boomed, Goliath brought it around in a wide arc, angling it so that in a few shots' time, it would be pointed at Book's head.
It was like an arm wrestle.
Book II tried with all his might to stop the movement of the gun, but Goliath was far too strong.
Blam! Blam! Blam!
The gun was now pointed at Book's left arm…
Blam!
Book's left bicep exploded. Blood sprayed all over his head. He roared with pain.
Then before he knew it, the gun barrel was pointing directly at his face and…
Click.
Out of ammo.
'That's better.' Goliath grinned. 'Now we can have a fair fight.'
He discarded the gun and — onehanded — grabbed Book by the throat and thrust him up against the wall.
Book's feet dangled twelve inches off the ground.
He struggled uselessly in Goliath's grip, his wounded arm burning. He let fly with a weak punch that hit Goliath square on the forehead.
The big man didn't even seem to feel the blow. Indeed, Book's fist seemed to just bounce off his skull.
Goliath chuckled stupidly. 'Steel plate. May not make me too bright, but it sure makes me tough.'
