why so many former members of the U.S. Armed Forces had gone down to Blackstone's self-styled Republic of Texas. Kip was taking care of their health needs and providing them with preferential hiring privileges and free education in a society that did not have much time for such things these days. They got fast-track placements into both the urban and regional resettlement programs. They were exempt from the various compulsory labor laws, yet they still went to Texas. Meanwhile, those who stayed under the federal banner often took advantage of the benefits while supporting the rump Republicans, which was a real kick in the head. Not all of them, by any means, but a sufficient number to inflame his acid reflux on a daily basis.
'Different dreams,' said his chief of staff in answer to Kip's question. 'We haven't offered them a better one. Blackstone has. He is growing and hardening his forces, Mister President, and if you'll excuse me pushing the metaphor perhaps a tad too far, we are gonna get fucked because of it.'
Kipper couldn't help but smile in spite of the sense of frustration that welled up as a bilious taste at the back of his throat whenever he was forced to give due consideration to the antics of Jackson Blackstone. Jed would not let this dog lie, and Kipper supposed he would one day have to thank him for that, but right at the moment, the renegade former general turned politician and his Southern political machine were hardly a more pressing issue than the small war that apparently had broken out in the city below them.
He stole a quick glance out of the small window to his left and shook his head at the dismal scene of a large part of Manhattan shrouded in smoke and flames, with the flash of bomb bursts and rockets clearly visible in the dark gray canyons below midtown as long sparkling chains of yellow and green tracer fire lashed up from street level.
The door guns opened up, spewing a stream of red light down on the city, spattering their rounds against the streets. Lucifer tearing the curtains of Hell came to Kipper's mind as the brass tinkled away from Marine One. Riflemen took their positions at the rear of the cabin, opening the windows to get a clear shot at whatever might try to kill them. Kipper saw Corporal Peckham swivel his door gun as his brother directed the rest of the detail over his headset.
'RPG! Evasive!' one of the riflemen roared.
Kipper gripped his armrest as the chopper dipped and dropped to the right so suddenly that his stomach felt as though he'd left it a few hundred feet higher up. The door gunner opened up again on an unknown target beneath them, and he caught a black flash out of the corner of his eye as one of the Super Cobras screamed away to lay fire on whatever had caused them to maneuver so violently. The machine gun fire cut off abruptly, and he felt the chopper settle into a new heading that took them directly away from the island. Both Kip and Jed were used to the extremes of flying out of contested airspace, and neither man bothered to check with the air crew. For their part, the crew did not interrupt the presidential party, in line with orders Kipper had issued long ago to just get on with their jobs and not waste time briefing him on every little scare and mishap during flight.
Marine One powered higher above the Manhattan skyline until they were well out of reach of everything short of a decent surface-to-air missile. The marine detail eased back from the windows and returned to their seats, allowing Kipper to refocus on Jed. He sighed heavily, trying to gather his thoughts. It was more a protracted grunt of annoyance, really, and he rubbed his eyes, which were hot and gritty with a lack of sleep.
'Why, Jed? Why now?' he asked over the ringing in his ears from the gunfire. 'Don't you think I have enough on my plate out here without starting another fight down South? Mad Jack loves it when I get on his case. He fucking lives for it.'
Culver reached into a briefcase on the floor between his legs. It was a battered old brown leather satchel that he carried with him everywhere, and Kip was certain it must be a relic of his former life as an attorney. It was out of character, because Jed Culver was a man who even now dressed in only the finest clothes and still wore expensive aftershave, but in Kip's experience most people liked to keep something of the old days close to them, and he assumed that the briefcase was a talisman of sorts for his chief of staff.
Jed passed across an unmarked manila folder that Kip opened to find three sheets of paper and a couple of poorly focused low-res color photos. The printout was a long list of place names and dates followed by notations that made little sense to Kipper. The first read: • Baker Lake/Madison/14-March-07/Pieraro/TDF-Bravo 2/14…/13CC
'I'm sorry, Jed. What does all this mean?'
Jed tapped the top of the sheet Kipper was holding.
'What it means, Mister President, in the first case there, for instance, is that soldiers from Bravo Company, Second Infantry Battalion of the Texas Defense Force, entered the property of one of our homesteaders, a Miguel Pieraro, three months ago. There they found fourteen members of the Pieraro clan dead. Killed by bandits, according to the TDF report. The state authorities then seized the property and reallocated it to their own settler program under the agreement we signed with them to ensure the Federal Mandates did not lie fallow.'
Kipper found himself grinding his teeth together. He felt a sick sort of anger curling tightly in his stomach.
'Bandits, they reckon? And three months ago?' Kipper asked. 'Why so long to let us know?'
Culver shrugged. 'Travel time required to get the dispatches back to Corpus Christi, according to Fort Hood.'
'Bullshit.'
'Of course.'
Kipper fought to get his temper under control. He looked at the name on the file again. Pieraro. It didn't ring a bell, but he did recall a clear blue day more than two years ago on the deck of an aircraft carrier filled with homesteaders down at Corpus Christi. The photo op included pressing the flesh and handing out warrants for homesteads throughout Texas. A delegation from Fort Hood had been there, watching the ceremony and promising that they would protect the new homesteaders. Governor Blackstone had been notably absent.
'Want in one hand, shit in the other,' Kipper muttered.
'What's that, Mister President?' Jed asked.
'Never mind. The fourteen dead homesteaders. Was that all of them?'
'No, sir. Pieraro himself and one of his children, a girl called Sofia, were not found. That doesn't tell us anything, though.'
Kipper examined the sheet of paper again. There were dozens of entries, some with subtle differences that he picked up after a moment. He held the report up to Jed, pointing at a word he didn't understand.
'What does 'ivet' mean?'
'Involuntary transfer,' Jed replied. 'Deportation. The Pieraro homestead was attacked and emptied out by bandits, according to Fort Hood. But some of those other cases detail settlers in the Federal Mandate who've been evicted by Texas Defense Force personnel on Blackstone's orders. Usually citing disagreements over the extent of the Mandate.'
Kipper felt a world-class headache sharpening itself up for an assault on his skull. He rubbed his forehead irritably, continuing to read the report. 'And K.I.T.O.P.?'
'Killed in transfer operation,' Jed said flatly.
That sick bilious taste was rising in his gorge again. 'I see. And when did we get this information?' the president asked.
Culver essayed an apologetic dip of the head.
'I've been on at the FBI to collate the figures for about five months now, sir. They have a field office in Corpus Christi, but as you can imagine, it is understaffed, overwhelmed, and mainly dedicated to fraudulent salvage contracts. They finally put someone on this full-time when we got confirmation of the first kitops.'
Kipper frowned at the ugly acronym.
'Murder,' he said. 'The first murders, you mean.'
Culver nodded at the photographs behind the printout. 'A bureau agent managed to get coverage of a transfer in progress just outside a town called Groveton in Trinity County.'
Kip examined the photographs properly for the first time, and his face twisted into a contorted mask of disgust. The images were poor, probably shot from a great distance, but there was no mistaking the story they told. A small group of men, women, and children were being beaten by a larger number of uniformed men. One of the photos appeared to show one of the victims being shot.
'Jesus H. Christ,' he breathed. 'How extensive is… this…'
Words failed him, and he simply waved the folder at Culver.
'We're still compiling data, sir. And you have to remember that we don't control the south any more than we
