Extracted from Chapter 1
Martial Law
Gordon Robestone watched all the hurry and preparations for the day’s events out the window of his private quarters. He stood there statesmanlike, statuesque, as White House employees and staff scurried, and gave orders to make everything ready for such an historic event. The president’s resolution had been cast. There was no joy, though, in their work or his. It was drudgery and the great dread of their lives and his life. They did not know what was about to come down—it was simply felt, but they knew it would forever be remembered. In the prevailing silence they did everything, as usual, with the determination to fulfill their President’s request to his utmost satisfaction.
The
First Lady had taken to her bed, having been plagued by the upset. Camilla
Winters, personal secretary to the President, had notified the White House
physician of Elizabeth Robestone’s emotional state. The aged medical doctor
gave her an injection that would calm her nerves and allow her to confront the
forthcoming cataclysmic events of the day.
President
Robestone came away from the window, and went into his and the First Lady’s
bedroom. Liz lay in repose. He crossed to that side of the room and sat on the
edge of their bed. Grasping her hand, he brought it up to his lips and kissed
it tenderly.
“I have always loved you, and I always
will,” Gordon Robestone warmly and passionately professed to his loving wife in
a whisper.Elizabeth Robestone did not stir. It was
better this way. Gordon Robestone knew that it would be difficult for her
delicate disposition to endure the oh-so-necessary dirty deed and all the mandatory
protocol leading up to it. She, for this short while, could be at peace, to
regain her strength, to seize the day as First Lady of the United States of
America.
The telephone on the nightstand gently
jingled. President Robestone picked up the receiver.
“Yes?”
“Mr. President, Royal asked me to inform
you the press corps is waiting for you in the Rose Garden,” personal secretary
to the president Camilla Winters said, as she almost choked up.
“I’ll be right down.”
President Robestone put on the black
coat to his suit. It highlighted his silver temples. He looked in the mirror.
His barber and make up staff had him looking like the professional the people
adored and wanted to see. He crossed the living room area and met his selective
service agents at the door from his private quarters into the world at large.
Gordon Robestone looked at the four
agents. “It’s show time, boys. Let’s get on with it,” he said coolly as if all
was right with his world. The four agents escorted the Commander-in-Chief to
his press conference in the Rose Garden.
“Can you give us some inkling of an idea
why President Robestone called this press conference?” Bill Cunningham of the Washington Post asked Royal Roundtree.
“I am as much in the dark as you are. I
haven’t spoken to the President since yesterday morning,” Royal stressed. “This
is all going to be improvised. There isn’t even text for the teleprompter.”As President Robestone came out the
double doors on the left-hand side, the Marine band struck up Hail to the Chief. The President walked
up to the podium, quickly adjusted the cuff on his left sleeve, and looked at a
surprised and curious press corps.
“I apologize for such short notice. Many
things have been weighing on my mind that you need to be aware of.”
“Why this lack of transparency, Mr.
President?” Scott Lawrence of the New
York Times asked with polished aggression.
President Robestone looked at Mr.
Lawrence with tempered patience. “I’m here today to inform you of developments
from closed sessions that took place all over Washington yesterday, Mr.
Lawrence. I hardly think this is a lack of transparency,” the President
rebutted. “This is why I am standing here before you today, to make sure everything is crystal clear to you and
to the great people of this nation.”
President Robestone now looked at the
sitting press corps and the television cameras that were focused on him. He
paused a moment, and took a deep breath.
“It is with the heaviest of heart I
inform you that as of this moment our nation is under martial law.”
The press corps gasped.
With this pronouncement drab green
military helicopters came into view and hovered overhead in the distance;
military jets streaked the skies over the nation’s capital in a show of power.
Cherry blossoms gently fell to the ground.
“When I took office I promised to uphold
the Constitution of these United States. In order to do so, I have taken this
drastic measure, as one in a series, to protect the three hundred million
patriots who inhabit this great land.”
The
press corps feverishly hung on to every word the President issued forth.
“I and my administration, with the
assistance of the attorney general’s office, have spent this last year
investigating members of Congress, the judiciary, and all those associated and
affiliated with them, at the federal and state levels.” The President looked
straight into the camera. “As I speak, those members of our government under
suspicion from American Samoa to Maine are being arrested and taken to a secret
location, where they will be detained until the time of their trials for
treason and other high crimes against the people of the United States of
America. Since members of our high judiciary have been implicated in illegal
acts, all trials will be held in military tribunals. The accused have acted in
their interests and those who employ them over the interests of the people of
the United States. Those individuals who are found guilty will be dealt with in
the most appropriate and harshest manner afforded in these United States of
America. ”
The press corps exploded into nothingness,
as it grasped to understand the information it had just been blindsided with
and its implications. Here was a man who professed to uphold the Constitution
of the United States of America, and, at the same time, had proclaimed his
office temporary dictator.
In the still of the moment Scott
Lawrence stood, and simply asked, “Who make you king?”
The rest of the press corps looked
nervously at The New York Times
reporter who faced down Gordon Robestone, the most powerful man on the face of
the earth.
“I repeat, who made you our king?”
President Robestone looked the courageously
defiant reporter’s way without flinching, without trepidation. With a turn and
a nod of the President’s head, security forces took Scott Lawrence by each of
his arms and escorted him out of the Rose Garden. Scott Lawrence glared at the
President in passing. “Who made you king, Mr. President?”
“Until this country has been brought
back to the tenets of our founding fathers, the media will act as the information
service to my administration.” He cast his view directly at the press corps. “There
will be no grandstanding or speculative journalism, as so many of you are prone
to write. My Press Secretary, Royal Roundtree, is your contact for all
information coming from this office.”
Fear now reigned as the press corps
tried to grasp this exacting, new reality. From fear this group turned to tepid
anger.
Sam Steed of The San Francisco Examiner stood in protest.
“Mr. Robestone, you are our President, not our king. You are not our dictator! What gives you the
right to sequester innocent civilians? You do not have the right to hold members of the press hostage!”
The President looked at him steadfastly.
“But I do.” He looked over the small sea of select reporters. “As Commander in
Chief I have all rights under martial law, and until this country has returned
to the tenets of the founding fathers, I will enforce those rights by any and
all means made available to me.” He paused a moment. “Then and only then will I
return our Congress and judiciary to the people.”
Gordon Robestone then stepped away from
the podium. He quietly let out a sigh, turned, and began his short sojourn back
into the White House, out of sight of the bewildered group that was gathered in
the beautiful garden setting.
“Mr. President,
when will martial law be lifted?” several reporters shouted.
Copyright
© 2014 by Darian Land. All rights reserved.
About
the e-Book cover
This e-Book cover is the artistic creation of Darian Land. It consists
of six photos that were graciously allowed for free download royalty free. They
are as follows:
Background. View
of the ceiling and cove of the Great Hall. Library of Congress Thomas
Jefferson Building. Washington, DC. http://hdl.loc.gov/loc.pnp/highsm.02000
The
Money Photo – from Free Digital Photo ID-100194169-Freedigitalphoto.net
Thomas
Jefferson – Official Presidential Portrait
The
White House – from Stock.exchng
The
Jefferson Memorial – from the National Park Service
George
Washington – Official Presidential Portrait
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