Milwaukee Deep

Colonel Peter Andrews, base commander at Fort Hamilton, walked to the phone that sat on the corner of his desk.

“This is Colonel Andrews,” he stated clearly as he placed the receiver to his ear.

“Colonel, its General Conwrey.”

“General,” the Colonel instinctively straightened his stance, “what can I do for you, Sir?”

“Colonel, I need you to initiate command order Alpha-Tango and assemble your entire unit to New York City immediately. I want you and your men to rendezvous at Yankee Stadium at fourteen hundred hours – that’s less than an hour, Colonel.”

“Sir, my entire unit?”

“You heard me, Colonel, the command order has been authorised by the President himself. I’ll explain in detail what is required of you and your men at the stadium – I’ll see you within the hour.”

The Colonel stood there taken aback and motionless. He still held the phone, the sound of the dial tone buzzing in the background.

He composed himself and reached down and pressed the number 3 on his phone.

“Yes, Colonel?” asked Lieutenant Endrichs on the other end of the line.

“Get all men assembled in the courtyard immediately, Lieutenant, and call the motor pool and explain to them we need all transport vehicles in the courtyard within five minutes.”

“Yes, Sir,” replied Endrichs, “Sir,” he added, “Is anything wrong?”

“No, Endrichs, I have my orders - we’re bugging out.”

“Hello? Hello, can anyone hear me!”

He was alone – no one could hear his cries.

Joel Stoker tried the door again. It was locked – bolted shut from the outside.

“Damn it!”

He moved to the centre of the room. There were four black walls surrounding him. It was cold – he hugged himself to try to keep warm.

“Hello – for fuck’s sake, can anyone HEAR ME!”

It had been eerily quiet for just under an hour now - the sounds of the trains passing by had stopped – the quiet mumblings from outside had also stopped.

The silence was deafening.

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!”

General Conwrey sat in the back seat of the helicopter on his way to Yankee Stadium.

“We’ll be there in less than twenty minutes, Mr President,” he said with a loud and clear voice.

“How many men, General?” was the President’s immediate question over the radio.

“We’ve got confirmed four thousand plus heading to the stadium, Mr President. We’re still waiting for Fort Drum and West Point to confirm their final numbers – hopefully that’ll take us up to seven thousand within the hour.”

“That’s not enough, General. We need more. We’ve got less than twenty five, maybe twenty six hours before detonation and there are more than six thousand of those damn cars we need to search.”

Conwrey fell silent - the sound of the rotors pounding at his brain. “Sir, we can get approximately another thousand from the Air Force bases stationed around the state. I know Hancock Field and Stockbridge have available Reserves that are being summoned right now, but unfortunately the majority of our armed forces are stationed abroad, Mr President – if we had more time, Sir, I could get you what you want, but within the hour is cutting it too fine.”

“Damn it I need those men on the ground and in those subway cars ASAP, General.”

“Sir I can call in the USS Kitty Hawk – it’s in the North Atlantic, about twelve hours off our coast – that’s at least another four thousand more, Mr President.”

“Twelve hours is much too late, but call them back General – we still may need them.”

“Yes, Sir Mr President – I’ll get on it right away.”

The General ended the call and turned to his aide, Sergent Lou Bettfield.

“Get me the Kitty Hawk on the line, Sergent, and once you’ve finished there call Stockbridge, Fort Drum and West Point and find out where we’re at with their personnel!”