Prologue: Hope

CE 74 January

Washington DC, Atlantic Federation

Snow blanketed the historical buildings of the Capitol, as if providing respite to its occupants who have been enduring a siege for the past three days. Ever since the existence of LOGOS, a conglomerate that was allegedly responsible for starting the ongoing war, was exposed, public reaction has been nothing but hysterical. It began with mass rallies and demonstrations, which were initially kept under control by the authorities, but as their ranks were gradually bolstered by disgruntled members of armed institutions, their resolve grew and their means evolved beyond shoving placards and chanting slogans to armed insurgency. Now, anarchy reigned in the capital of the mightiest nation on the planet.

Senator John Harold Murray leaned back into his leather lounge chair and closed his eyes. He was a man in his fifties, with puffy eye bags and a large nose adorning his face, combed graying hair parted down the left crowning his head, and a wrinkled suit dressing his lean body. He took off his thick horn-rimmed glasses and began to massage the bridge of his nose.

Major General Basil 'Grizzly' Hart, who was seated in front of Murray, was giving the latter another hourly report on the defense of the Capitol. They were both in Murray's suite in the center wing of the Hart Building. The suite was a shadow of its former self, which had luxurious furniture and lavish ornaments, for it was now stripped of all but a few chairs and a table, and its windows were barricaded with sandbags and planks.

"How goes our situation?" Murray asked, fixing his weary eyes on Hart.

"Could've been better. We're down to about a thousand men defending the perimeter of the entire complex. We'll last for a while as long as they don't get too bright," Hart stated succinctly.

"How many of them are there?" Murray questioned, trying to make light of their situation.

"Who knows? Tens of thousands, perhaps more," Hart estimated.

"Have these people no sense of their well-being?," a frustrated Murray asked.

"Can't really judge them. These are dark times, people get crazy when things get tough," a calm Hart replied.

"So aren't we spreading ourselves thin?" Murray asked, doubting Hart's arrangement of their defensive strategy.

"Not at all," Hart replied confidently. "Defense in depth."

Murray stared at the man marshalling the defense of what could probably be the last bastion of the remnants of the Atlantic Federation Government. Hart was a large man, about six-feet-five when erect, with short blond hair that traced the contours of his scalp, a thin moustache and beard, and pale grey eyes. He was dressed for the frontline; a flak vest on top of his multicam infantry uniform, a webbing that carried ammunition clips and grenades on his chest, an assault rifle slung behind him, and a handgun holstered on his hip.

"Do you know...," Murray began sadly. "...that we're killing the very people we swore to protect? The blood on our hands is unwashable," he finished grimly.

"Then Abraham Lincoln must've taken his sullied hands to his grave," Hart countered. "The nation comes first. Lives must be lost, if needed, but the nation must stand. I pay no heed to the blood on my hands," the patriot declared his stand.

"We're killing the citizens of this nation. We're killing this nation," Murray remained unconvinced.

"It's already dead," Hart replied matter-of-factly. "It died an hour ago on Arzachel with the President, his Cabinet and his Joint Chiefs. The maniacs out there are fighting against a government that no longer exists. Right now, I'm fighting for the survival of the next government of the Federation, Mr. President."

"Don't call me that," Murray said with a tinge of hardness in his voice.

"If not you, sir, then who?" Hart pressed. "You're the most senior politician in the Senate and you're granted this right by the Constitution. And I'll be damned if I let another Blue Cosmos freak take the helm of this country," he finished with his fist clenched.

"I will not become the first non-elected President of this country. I'm not replacing one dictatorship with another," Murray protested.

"It's dictatorship or anarchy, sir," Hart countered. "God has forsaken us, but you must not," he demanded.

Murray had coveted the presidency. Which politician didn't, he reasoned when his wife took his ambition to task. But circumstances then and now were like heaven and earth. On the brink of a disaster of epic proportions, the Atlantic Federation today demanded a man of tremendous caliber to rise to the occasion, to rest the fate of millions on his tiny shoulders, and to secure the sight of tomorrow's sunrise for the nation. Nevertheless, it was not that Murray's courage was shaken by this daunting prospect, but his concern was that there could be someone else more suited to the task.

"Very well," Murray finally yielded. "I will take the helm if there's one left to take."

Hart raised an eyebrow. "The situation here is under control. If things get out of hand, I have several evac plans on the table," he assured his superior.

"I meant the Requiem," Murray explained. "If ZAFT fires it at us, we're finished."

"Intelligence reports that Orb and its allies are fighting to neutralize that weapon right now," Hart said. "They will win," he added.

At times, Murray felt that his subordinate's exalted confidence was intriguing, but right now, it was bordering on ridiculousness. "Orb? It doesn't matter whether they win or not. They or ZAFT, they both hate us. Right now, our fleet is scattered. Our people have turned against us. And weapons of mass destruction are aimed at us in such a way that we're powerless to resist. We are on the brink of extinction," Murray bared his fears.

"Sir, I'm a soldier. I'm trained to fight to the bitter end. As long as I still live, I refuse to believe that we are defeated," Hart said firmly. "If you, sir, are willing to stand at the front and lead the struggle, then I will stand behind you as your pillar of strength. I'll put every resource we have at your disposal. I'll make available to you every resource we need but do not have. I'll smash every obstacle, dead or living, that stands in our way. But only if you lead the way, Mr. President," he promised.

Hearing the speech of the veteran soldier, Murray felt invigorated. He wished that he could inspire his people like that. The hands of the clock of fate has struck the bleakest hour of the Atlantic Federation, and it seemed that he has to take up the job of the savior that was desperately needed.

"Very well," Murray finally said, his composure somewhat restored. "Give me options."

"Yes sir."