CHAPTER 25 - DECISIONS

OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT OF PAN AMERICA - CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN COMPLEX, AKA: THE CAPITOL - MID JULY, 2071

"Mister President? Governor Salazar's on, sir," First Lieutenant Jamie Wise, Senior Aide to President Julius Caesar (J.C.) Phillips, says as she presses the ear bud firmly into her left ear.

"Excellent," Phillips says. "Thank you, Lieutenant." He touches a control on the computer screen sitting in front of him and it flickers to life. He regards the haggard visage on the screen for a moment before speaking.

"Alejandro! Don't tell me you're still having problems?" Phillips asks, leaning back in his chair.

"Hello, J.C.," Salazar replies. "And yes, I'm sorry to say. It's those Texas Republic Militiamen. They're better armed and better organized than we originally thought. That, plus the fact that the brigade that's stationed in the Greater Dallas/Fort Worth area hasn't exactly been receptive to my authority...well, let's just say that my governorship is limited to what you can see on your computer screen."

"Son of a bitch," Phillips mutters under his breath. "Stand by, Alejandro." Hitting the "Mute" button on the screen, he snaps his fingers impatiently and calls out, "Snow!"

Second Lieutenant Richard Snow, Junior Presidential Aide, appears in the office door in an instant. "Sir?"

"Everything you've got on economic recovery in Relief District Ten, including completed, in progress, and future rail shipments. Order of battle for the, let's see, is it the Thirty-Eighth -?"

"Thirty-Sixth, Mister President," Jamie offers. "The Thirty-Eighth is redeploying to Relief District Six."

Phillips flashes her a quick smile. "Thank you, Lieutenant." He turns back to Snow. "Order of battle for the Thirty-Sixth Separate Brigade, with the Commander's current location and his comm codes. I need this ten minutes ago, Snow."

"Yes, sir," Snow says, quickly backing out of the inner office and returning to his desk to gather the requested data. No one notices his jaw clench with anger.

Phillips taps the "Mute" button again. "Bear with me for a moment, Alejandro. I have an aide looking up some information for me. Can you give me a location on where this Texas Republic Militia might be?"

"Not precisely," Salazar replies. "Their command structure seems to be quite informal. They seem to be most active around the railway marshalling yards, the airport, and some of the larger cattle ranches in the area."

"So who's in charge?" Phillips asks.

"Man by the name of Lipton. Alfred James Lipton. Self-styled 'Commander' of the Texas Republic Militia," Salazar replies. He smiles ruefully. "I only met him once. He wasted no time in letting me know that his mission in life was to 'run my ass back across the Rio Grande.'"

Phillips glances down at his PADD, now beeping insistently. "Stand by, Alejandro," he says quickly before pressing the "Mute" button. "Snow!" He calls out.

"I just finished uploading the data that you requested to your PADD, Mister President," Richard Snow explains as he appears in the doorway. "The Thirty-Sixth is a heavy brigade - two battalions of Bradley Mark III Infantry Fighting Vehicles and a battalion of Abrams Mark IV Main Battle Tanks. They're supported by a heavy artillery battalion. Various other support units. Commander is an officer named Colonel George Kirby."

At the sound of the name Phillips lets out a loud snort, causing Dan Crane to look up from his PADD in surprise. "Do you know this officer, Mister President?" Crane asks.

"Unfortunately, yes," Phillips replies. "He was two years ahead of me at the Academy. If it wasn't for the comet he would have been riffed a long time ago. Always butting heads with the higher-ups." Phillips glances up at Snow, still standing in the doorway. "I want to speak with Colonel Kirby. Find him and get him on the line."

"Yes, sir," Snow replies tightly, turning back to the outer office.

Phillips presses the "Mute" button again. "Sorry to keep you, Alejandro. If you can't give me the location of this so-called 'Commander' Lipton, give me his troop dispositions and, if you can get them, his troop strengths at the airport, marshalling yards, and the largest ranching operation in the area."

"I can get that information to your staff within the hour," Salazar says.

"Good," Phillips replies with a smile. "Once we deal with this Militia problem, I'll take care of my brigade. Phillips out." He reaches over to his computer screen and taps the "End Call" button, then turns to Jamie Wise.

"Okay, Lieutenant," he says. "Give me your 'grunt's eye view' of Kirby's capabilities."

"His Abrams and Bradley vehicles are H-Two burners, just like our Strykers, Mister President," Jamie replies. "If he has a water source, he has fuel. He has the edge in armor protection, we have the edge in mobility. His tanks definitely have the edge when main guns are concerned. The North Texas plain is tailor-made for heavy armor like his. It would take your entire division to beat him in an open fight, Mister President."

"I agree," Phillips mutters. "But I don't think it'll come to that."

Snow appears in the door once more. "I've located Colonel Kirby, Mister President."

Phillips glances up. "Good work, Snow," he says. "Stand by on that call for now. Please find Lieutenant Colonel Kendrick and ask him to report to me as soon as possible."

"Yes, Mister President," Snow replies. "And thank you."

"Can you do it?" Phillips asks Lieutenant Colonel Gene Kendrick.

Kendrick leans back in his chair and looks thoughtful. "Yes, Mister President," he replies. "If Governor Salazar's information is accurate, we can neutralize the airport, marshalling yards, and the largest ranch with one Ranger company at each site. These Militia have numbers and weapons but are not well trained. I don't foresee much resistance from them."

"Colonel, it's not the Militia that concerns me, but the Thirty-Sixth," Phillips replies. "Specifically, what Kirby will do when he becomes aware of a military operation in his own back yard."

"Mister President, to the best of my knowledge there's been no intel to indicate that he would actively oppose any action against this rogue Militia," Kendrick points out.

"And nothing to indicate that he would support it," Phillips replies. "I've spoken with him several times. His claims are difficult to refute. He's got a huge area of responsibility and not enough troops to adequately patrol it all. He depends on assistance from the Militia to help keep the peace in Relief District Ten. His chief claim is that this is all nothing more than a personality conflict between Governor Salazar and this Lipton character."

"So why doesn't he rein in Lipton?" Kendrick asks.

Phillips sighs heavily. "I asked him the same question. His response was that he couldn't afford to alienate the Militia - that he needs their cooperation too much. Well, I'm not concerned about 'alienating' anyone!"

Phillips pauses for a moment, consulting his PADD, before continuing. "Get with my planning staff after we're through here, but in a nutshell, this is what's gonna happen: Your Rangers drop on the cattle ranch, the marshalling yards, and Dallas/Fort Worth Airport. I'm gonna move two special Stryker companies by rail to Wichita Falls and have them road in - one to the marshalling yards and one to Dallas/Forth Worth Airport. These are the same companies that provided escort for the summit last month. They'll give you a little extra muscle where you'll need it most. They're tough, well trained, and disciplined. We'll time it to allow your Rangers plenty of time for the drop, consolidation, and establishing your perimeter. The hoverplanes and hovercraft that we'll use for your drop will return to the Capitol to pick up a battalion of dismounted Stryker infantry. That's the best we can do. We don't have sufficient rail assets to move more than a couple of company sized elements, nor can we move more than one battalion at a time through the air."

Kendrick looks thoughtful. "Mister President, I assume that the dismounted battalion will be landing at the airport?"

Phillips nods. "That's correct, Colonel. From there, you can assign them wherever they're needed the most, according to your tactical situation."

"Tactical air?" Kendrick asks.

"Virtually all of our available air assets will be committed to your drop and subsequent pick up and transportation of the dismounted Stryker force," Phillips replies. "No tac air."

"What are Kirby's air assets?" Kendrick asks.

Phillips consults his PADD. "Command and control birds. A handful of small hovercraft. Defensive armament only."

Kendrick rubs his chin. "Kirby's the real wild card here," he says. "If he sides with this Lipton character and uses his brigade to oppose this op -"

"Your Rangers, the two reinforced Stryker companies, and the dismounts will be cut to ribbons," Phillips finishes grimly. "I know. Gene, George Kirby is...well, let's just say he's never impressed anyone. He's plodding, deliberate, and has never been a risk taker. He graduated near the bottom of his Academy class. The one role I just don't see him in is that of a plotter. My gut tells me that, when the chips are down, he'll support you and not Lipton." Phillips stands up. "You have some planning to do. My aides will see to it that you get all the help you need."

Kendrick stands up and salutes. "Thank you, Mister President. I won't let you down."

Phillips returns the salute. "I know you won't, Gene." The two men shake hands, then Kendrick departs quickly.

Phillips sinks back into his chair, leans back, and closes his eyes for a moment. I just hope that I don't let you down, Gene, he says to himself.

DALLAS/FORT WORTH INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT - RELIEF DISTRICT TEN - LATE JULY, 2071 - ONE HOUR BEFORE SUNRISE

Two men, both members of the Texas Republic Militia, sit on the well-worn seats of their small truck, staring morosely out at the expanse of concrete and asphalt that lay before them. Both men had, for the last hour, been fighting off the urge to doze off, with varying degrees of success. Their guard shift had started at midnight. The driver yawns loudly, rubbing his face and glancing down to check his watch. Off at sunrise. One more hour to go.

"You hear that?" The driver glances irritably at his partner sitting in the passenger seat.

"Don't hear nuthin' but the wind," the driver mutters. "Jesus, but it's cold! Ain't supposed to be cold in July!"

"Ain't you been payin' attention to Commander Lipton's memos?" The passenger asks. "World climate's all fucked up and will be for a while."

"No shit," the driver mumbles. "And yeah, I've been payin' attention!"

"So you didn't hear anything?" The passenger asks doubtfully.

"I already told you I don't hear nuthin,'" the driver replies. "What the hell do you keep hearin' anyway?"

"I dunno," the passenger replies slowly. "Kind of a fluttering sound."

"Yer hearin' things," the driver says. "Better get them ears checked."

A sharp rapping noise from the driver's door window causes both men to jump violently. The driver twists around and sees a pair of uniformed soldiers standing almost casually outside the truck.

"What the fuck?" The driver frowns and turns toward the passenger. As he does so he can see two more soldiers standing near the passenger side door. "Any o' Kirby's men supposed to be here tonight?"

The passenger shrugs, wide-eyed. Soldiers usually stayed away from areas under Militia control. Another rap at the window causes the driver to turn back around. The soldier standing nearest the door could be seen peering impatiently into the truck.

"Shit," the driver mutters as he lowers his window. "What's up?" He calls out.

"Hey," the soldier nearest the door says conversationally. "You on guard?"

"No," the driver replies sarcastically. "We're just sittin' out here for the fuck of it. What are you doin' out here, anyway?"

"Why, we're hear to relieve you of your guard duty," the soldier replies with a smile. "And we're to take you into custody, and confiscate your weapons."

For a long moment, both the driver and passenger simply sit and stare at the soldiers now half-surrounding their truck. The driver swivels his head around to look at the passenger, and in the dim pre-dawn light sees another soldier literally drop from the sky about twenty meters or so to the front of the truck, the soldier's parachute collapsing even as the soldier hits the concrete. The soldier collapses, rolls, and springs to his feet gracefully, hitting the quick release on his chest and shrugging out of the parachute harness in a single smooth motion. He spins and drops to one knee, his back to the truck, scanning the area directly to his front, his hands suddenly filled with a small, lethal looking submachine gun.

Kind of a fluttering sound. Parachute silk panels flapping in the wind.

"Easy," the soldier standing by the truck door says. "No need for you to die today."

The driver turns his head slowly back to the open window and sees the soldier casually pointing a pistol into the truck. The soldier slowly opens the driver's side door and steps back.

"Come on out now, Slick," the soldier says, gesturing with his pistol. Numbly, the driver complies, hearing the passenger door opening and a similar command issued to the passenger.

Quickly, the soldiers search the two Militiamen, relieving them of weapons and radios, handcuffing them securely. A sergeant raises his commicuff to his mouth and speaks quickly.

"Runway One-Three Right secure." The sergeant receives an acknowledgement to his transmission, then turns back to the group of soldiers assembled around the truck.

"Looks like this may be a lot easier than we thought," he says with a grin.

First Lieutenant Jamie Wise looks up from her work station. "Mister President, Commander Lipton of the Texas Republic Militia is on the line."

"Excellent!" J.C. Phillips says. "Are we all set with the video conference call?"

"Snow's tying it in now, sir," Jamie replies.

"I've got it," Richard Snow interjects. "Anytime you're ready, Mister President."

"Good work, you two," Phillips says. "Snow, stand by. I need to speak with 'Commander' Lipton first." Phillips taps his video screen and sits back as the doughy face of the commander of the Texas Republic Militia appears.

"Well, well, well," Lipton sneers. "'President' Phillips, I presume? Or is it still 'General?'"

"Both, actually," Phillips replies smoothly. "So whatever you're comfortable with."

Lipton lets out an unpleasant laugh. "'General' it is then," he says. "Considering that the office of President of the United States is vacant, and has been for quite some time...not to mention the fact that we don't recognize this so-called nation of 'Pan America' down here in the Texas Republic."

"Mister Lipton," J.C. Phillips says in an even, conversational tone, "You might as well get used to the idea that the United States as we knew it is gone. Dead. Pan America is the only way to ensure not only our survival, but our growth as a nation. And the Pan American National Economic Movement is the cornerstone to that growth. And your interference is hampering not only the recovery of Relief District Ten - what you continually insist on referring to as the 'Texas Republic' - but to the nation as a whole."

"It's 'Commander,' not 'Mister!'" Lipton barks. "And let's get one thing straight - we control all of the surviving cattle ranches in the country, as well as most of the surviving oil wells and petroleum refineries, and a significant portion of the new coastline as well. We can do just fine without you or this so-called bastard country of yours!"

Phillips leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers. "Perhaps," he says slowly, "but Pan America can't do 'just fine' without the economic contributions of Relief District Ten."

"And you have the nerve - the gall - to send a...a Mexican down here as Governor?" Lipton says, his voice rising. "Fuck you and Pan America!"

"Mister Lipton," Phillips says calmly, "It would be much easier on everyone if you would cooperate. I can see that won't be the case here. Fine. You say you control cows, oil and fish." Phillips pauses and leans in closer to the monitor. "I control an army," he hisses. "One that I will not hesitate to order to roll over you unless you meet the conditions that I'm about to give you."

Lipton laughs. "I've got Kirby's heavy brigade, you stupid fuck!"

"Ahh, yes," Phillips says with a smile. "About that. Please stand by." Phillips presses the "Mute" button and calls out, "Okay, Snow. Conference call time."

"Stand by, Mister President," Richard Snow calls out. Phillips sees his screen flicker, the separate neatly down the middle. On the left side of the screen the image of Commander Alfred Lipton glowered at Phillips, while on the right the craggy, stern visage of a man in a United States Army field uniform stared impassively out of the screen.

"Colonel Kirby? How do you read?" Phillips asks.

"Five by five, Mister President," Kirby replies.

"Excellent. Stand by," Phillips says, tapping a control on his screen. "Mister Lipton? Are you receiving the split transmission?"

Lipton stares back at Phillips in confusion, his eyes flickering from side to side. "Kirby? What the fuck is goin' on?"

"Commander," Kirby replies, "What's going on is this - you mistook my non-interference with your operation here in Ten for approval. Governor Salazar is the duly appointed chief executive of this district. And don't for a minute think that you have any sort of control over transportation or cattle assets. The airport, rail marshalling yards, and the largest ranch in the area were seized less than two hours ago by Capitol forces."

"Bullshit," Lipton replies flatly. "I would have heard something."

"Why don't you check for yourself, Mister Lipton?" Phillips suggests with a smile. "We'll wait."

As Phillips watches, the left side of the video screen suddenly freezes, and a window appears on that half of the screen bearing the words "TRANSMISSION PAUSED." Phillips nods in satisfaction then turns toward the image of George Kirby, his face still staring impassively from the right side of the screen.

"How long do you think it will take him to verify that our op was successful?" Phillips asks.

"Not long, Mister President," Kirby replies. His mouth set in a grim line, he continues, "I'll have my resignation to you within an hour, sir."

"Don't bother, George," Phillips says. "I have no intention of accepting it."

"Sir?" Kirby says, confused. "I - I don't understand. It's obvious that my performance here has been substandard. I let a redneck Hitler with delusions of grandeur run loose and nearly wreck what chance we have of real recovery and progress. And I did it thinking that I needed his cooperation."

"You're half-right, George," Phillips replies. "You need the cooperation of the Texas Republic Militia. What you don't need is the cooperation of Alfred Lipton."

"Mister President, I -" Kirby says, before Phillips holds up one hand.

"George, don't argue with your Commander-in-Chief. I need you there. End of story. Now, who's Lipton's second in command?"

"I don't believe that he has one, sir," Kirby replies.

"Excellent," Phillips says with a smile. "I have just the man for the position of Militia Commander. A Captain by the name of Estes. Brandon Estes. He's commanding one of the two reinforced Stryker companies that I sent down there. I think he and his company would make an excellent cadre for the Militia."

"Mister President, this raises another question." Kirby says.

"Regarding Lipton?" Phillips asks.

"Yes, sir," Kirby replies. "Regarding Lipton."

"You have a unit in place to take him into custody?" Phillips asks, raising a single eyebrow with the question.

"Yes, Mister President," Kirby replies. "Ready to move on your order."

"Excellent," Phillips says with a grin. "Schedule his execution as soon as Captain - make that Major - Estes is installed as the new Commander of the Texas Republic Militia. Make it something public - hanging or firing squad. We'll be broadcasting the execution in every Relief District. We need to make an example of him and send the message that treasonous behavior will not be tolerated. Clear?"

"Execution, Mister President?" Kirby asks doubtfully. "Without a trial or due process?"

Phillips sighs heavily. "George, I'm sure that you've heard of the Paris and Benton bombings. This is much more surgical. And yes, if it will add legitimacy to the execution, by all means try Lipton first. Charge him with High Treason. Find him guilty. And execute him. Publicly."

Kirby says nothing as he stares out of the video screen at Phillips. "George," Phillips says quietly, "This is a critical time for Pan America. We're extending the rail network slowly and surely. Relief Districts are beginning to come around to the National Economic Movement and are cooperating with us and with one another. But there's still resistance out there. One man's life is a small price to pay to quell further resistance. If this has the effect that I think it will, the entire country can move forward and really start to recover and even prosper. Can't you see that?"

"Mister President," Kirby finally says, "I am at your service, sir."

"Lipton is signaling, Mister President," Jamie Wise says. "He's back online."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Phillips replies. He taps a control on his video screen. "Mister Lipton! I assume from the expression on your face that you managed to confirm what Colonel Kirby told you earlier?"

"I...I don't...what is it you want?" Lipton asks miserably.

As Phillips and Kirby watch on their video screens, a group of soldiers appears behind Lipton. Phillips grins as they haul the Militia Commander to his feet and handcuff him.

"What do I want, Mister Lipton?" Phillips asks. "Only your head...on a silver platter."

EXECUTIVE CONFERENCE ROOM - CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN SECURITY ZONE - THE CAPITOL - EARLY AUGUST, 2071

The group assembled in the Executive Conference Room watches the main view screen intently as Colonel George Kirby reads the list of charges and the penalty - death by firing squad. They watch as Alfred James Lipton is chained securely to a wooden post and a black hood is placed over his head. The front of the hood hangs down over his chest, exposing the concentric red rings of a classic bulls-eye target.

Kirby, stepping off to one side, issues the firing commands. Seven rifles, one loaded with a blank according to tradition, bark simultaneously. Lipton jerks against the post and slumps against the chains, his body hanging limply to his right. A doctor quickly moves forward and presses a medical sensor against the side of Lipton's neck, then looks up and shakes his head.

"This went out to all of the Relief Districts, correct?" President J.C. Phillips asks his Chief of Staff, Dan Crane.

"Yes, Mister President," Dan replies. "We've received confirmation from all of them."

"And the reactions?" Phillips asks.

"Too early to tell, Mister President," Dan replies. "However, there doesn't seem to be any negative backlash."

"Stay on top of it, Dan," Phillips instructs his Chief of Staff.

"Next order of business," Phillips says, consulting his PADD. He glances up and quickly scans each face at the conference table before continuing. "I'm sending you all home at the earliest opportunity."

Confused chatter immediately rises from the others seated at the conference table. Phillips lets it go on for a moment, then raises both hands. Gradually the din subsides until relative quiet is restored once again.

"Mister President?" Phillip Abernathy says. "Sir, I have to admit I'm confused. Some of us - well, our pre-Impact homes aren't there any more."

"A poor choice of words on my part," Phillips says. "Look, everyone. This fiasco in Ten showed us all that this system has vulnerabilities. It's fragile. A single charismatic racist was able to effectively shut down Pan America's primary source of animal protein. This country can't afford to take that sort of risk again. So, I've made the decision to send all of you back to your respective Relief Districts - some to actively lead, others to be representatives of our new government. In time, each Relief District will have democratically elected representation here in the Capitol - but that time will be a long time coming. Now, we won't be able to cover each district, but here's the plan that Dan and I have put together so far."

As if on cue, the lights in the conference room dim and the main view screen flickers to life. A list of names and Relief District numbers flashes in turn on the screen as Phillips speaks.

"Relief Districts One and Two already have representation through the Cray and Thread families. I've been in contact with both districts and both families and both families have agreed to help out."

Phillips taps a key on his PADD and more names and district numbers appear on the screen. "Relief Districts Three, Five, Six, Nine, and Thirteen will, for now, have no Capitol representation. I plan on making a quick trip to each of these districts sometime in the very near future to meet with the leaders there. In the meantime, I've made the following assignments for the other Relief Districts." He taps keys on his PADD again as he speaks.

"Relief District Four - General Cresta. Sir, I understand that your wife and family are still in old Louisiana. We'll arrange your transport to pick them up as well. Seat of government for Four is, as you all know, located in Pine Bluff in the former state of Arkansas."

Paul Cresta inclines his head gravely. "Thank you, Mister President." He says no more.

Phillips nods slightly at Cresta before continuing. "Relief District Seven - Admiral Mason. Admiral, I understand that your wife and family have already relocated near old Spokane?"

"Yes, sir," Mason replies simply.

"You'll see them again soon," Phillips says with a smile before he continues. "Relief District Eight - Secretary Paylor and her family."

"Yes, sir," Leigh Paylor says quietly. "There may be an addition to our list. My son is quite - involved - with Justine Heavensbee. They met while hospitalized together last year."

Both Phillips and Paylor quickly glance at Elliott Heavensbee, who was sitting quietly, but tight lipped, at the end of the table.

"Well, that's between you and Doctor Heavensbee," Phillips says, chuckling quietly. The rest of the table joins him in dutiful laughter before he continues.

"Relief District Ten. Amanda Dalton."

"Sir?" Amanda says from her seat at a small work station behind and to the right of the President's seat. "You already have - I mean, Governor Salazar is down there, and Colonel Kendrick, and Major Estes..."

"Alejandro Salazar needs help, Amanda," Phillips explains gently. "From someone that knows and understands the cattle industry...but can also navigate through the political world as well. I know it's not exactly home - but it's the best I can do."

"Yes, sir," Amanda says quietly.

"And that brings us to our last two Relief Districts - Eleven and Twelve," Phillips says. "For Eleven, I'm giving up someone that I've really come to depend on over the past few weeks - Captain Jamie Wise."

Jamie stiffens at the sound of her name, and even more so by the rank that Phillips had referred to her by - Captain. She glances at Phillips in confusion.

"Mister President? Sir?" Jamie takes a deep breath. "I ain't - I mean, I'm not - qualified to do this, sir. You need someone with experience in politics - not me. I'm just a grunt. A year ago I was a squad leader!"

"And look at you now, Jamie," Phillips says with a smile. "Jamie, what I need in Eleven are your eyes and ears. I've talked to the people running things there...decent folks for the most part. But I need someone loyal to the big picture - and that's you."

"You want me to spy for you," Jamie says flatly.

"Not at all," Phillips replies smoothly. "Jamie, the powers that be in Eleven know that I'm sending someone out. And they know why. They know that you're there to be my eyes and ears. No spying, no sneaking around. Can you handle that?"

Jamie is silent for a long moment before replying. "Yes, Mister President. I can do that."

Phillips grins widely. "Good! And now, last but not least. Phil, I suspect you know where I'm heading with this?"

"I have a suspicion, Mister President," Phillip Abernathy says warily. "And I'm sure it involves me headed to the former Bethel Park sometime in the near future."

"Indeed it does, Phil," Phillips replies, nodding his head. "Questions? Concerns?"

"Just one," Abernathy says. "Mister President, you are effectively sending what remains of your entire Cabinet away, not to mention some very close advisors. I'm wondering if this is the best course of action for Pan America."

"I appreciate your concern, Phil," Phillips replies. "And no, I am not dissolving either the remains of the Cabinet or my advisory staff. Now that we have fairly reliable communications networks established I fully intend to keep soliciting all of you for advice whenever I need it."

"I consider each and every one of you a valuable member of this team," Phillips continues. "However, I know that conference calls are a poor substitute for a team actually present here. So, with Dan Crane still operating as my Chief of Staff, I've asked our Capitol Council members - specifically the Heavensbees, Trinkets, and Flickermans - to assume a greater role in helping me govern Pan America."

"Mister President," Paul Cresta says, "I'll be the first to commend the Heavensbees, Trinkets and Flickermans on their contributions thus far - but perhaps something like this is somewhat out of their area of expertise."

"And I would be the first to agree with you, Paul, if we were sitting here in August of 2069 - when the pre-Impact population of the United States was right around four hundred thirty four million," Phillips says. "Dan, what are the most current estimated census figures?"

"Around forty-five million, Mister President," Dan replies after a moment.

"Ninety percent," Phillips says. "We've lost almost ninety percent of our population. Another winter is looming on the horizon. We hope that it's nowhere near as devastating as the last winter, but we can still expect a death toll in seven figures. It's been almost two hundred years since our population was that low. Ladies and gentlemen, this is an entirely new set of circumstances that we've been forced to deal with here - and it requires that we look at problems in a different way. This way."

The room was silent for a moment. Finally, Leigh Paylor says, "When can we expect to leave for our new assignments?"

"I want you all in place in your assigned Relief Districts by the end of the month," Phillips replies. "I'll leave the details up to each of you. I'm planning on touring each of the Relief Districts starting September First, starting with Eleven." Phillips turns to Jamie Wise. "Captain, I'll deliver you personally," he says with a smile.

"Thank you, Mister President," Jamie says softly.

"Alright," Phillips says. "Anything else?" Silence. "No? Okay, we're adjourned."

As everyone is filing out Dan Crane quietly takes Phillips aside. "Major Estes has been requesting to speak with you, Mister President," he says.

"I'll be in my office in ten minutes, Dan," Phillips says. "Have Snow get him on video conference for me."

"Yes, sir," Crane replies. "Ten minutes."

"Major Estes!" Phillips says, as the younger man's face appears on the video screen. "I was told you wanted to speak to me?"

"Thank you for speaking with me on such short notice, Mister President," Estes says. "I wanted to talk to you about the uniforms that were shipped to us."

Phillips chuckles. "I take it you have an issue with the color?"

"Mister President," Estes begins slowly, "I know it was my idea to outfit the Militia in uniforms. What I expected was something along the lines of a combat uniform camouflage pattern, or perhaps some khaki variant."

"Major, you were informed that the plant in Relief District Eight was able to fill the order but has been having problems in procuring fabric dyes?" Phillips says in an amused tone.

"Yes, sir," Estes replies. "Mister President, when you told me that, I expected some strange color." He stands up, revealing himself to be clad head to toe in a white uniform. "I never expected it to be no color!"

Phillips tries, and fails, to suppress a smile. "Major, you have to admit that they are distinctive."

"Mister President," Estes replies, "Sir, with all due respect, this uniform puts me more in mind of a mechanic than a member of a paramilitary organization."

"Major, have no fear," Phillips says. "The uniforms contract that we have entered into with the textiles folks in Eight means that they'll be supplying uniforms for a long time to come. Soon, everyone will be wearing white!"

"Everyone?" Estes says doubtfully.

"Everyone," Phillips confirms. "We're in the process now of drafting an executive order to combine existing law enforcement agencies all over Pan America with military units. Some places have already done this - Four, for example. But this will make it official."

"And the uniforms?" Estes asks.

"Major, I will make it my personal mission to see that whatever law enforcement still is operational in Ten, along with the Thirty-Sixth Brigade, receives top priority for uniform replacement with the new white uniforms," Phillips says.

"It'll take some getting used to," Estes says. "By the way, Mister President, I've come up with a replacement name for the Militia."

"Oh?" Phillips says. "Let's hear it!"

Estes pulls a pistol from a holster worn low on his hip. "I'm naming it after this. This pistol has been in my family for almost two hundred years. The Colt Single Action Army. Not modern by any means, but one of the best pistols ever."

"So the Texas Republic Militia has become the Single Action Army Militia?" Phillips asks with an amused glint in his eye.

Estes catches the humorous tone. "No, Mister President," he says with a smile. "The Militia is now known by a one-word name that was not only a popular name for this pistol, it also describes the Militia's new mission perfectly."

Major Brandon Estes pauses before speaking a single word.

"Peacekeepers."