White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia
The President of the United States, an office whose holders had once held the unofficial title of "Leader of the Free World", had entered the fourth mouth of hiding from his own people. He'd not been President for very long either, his predecessors term cut short by the assassins bullet, and he as Vice President had taken up the solum duty of leading America out of crisis. He'd failed.
It had all started out so well. The victory in the Presidential campaign, while not necessarily a landslide, had been a terrific political upset, defying conventional political wisdom and a sometimes sneering, sometimes hysterical Press to take a stand against the radicals who sought to undermine American political life. Everyone had said they'd lose, but by hell they'd fought that election campaign and won it. He was almost as proud of that memory as fighting the Japs. They'd stolen votes from right under Goldwater's nose, they smeared the Democrats and pulled no punches against that pinko third party candidate who was splitting the left vote. They'd flanked Goldwater from the right on the racial question, and the Democrats from the left on economics. They'd been called racialists, nut jobs, Fascists and warmongers - but they'd taken their message to the decent people of America and been listened to. People who were tired of Washington pussyfooting around the Soviets and Red China, fed up of Negro agitators and hippie students causing rouble, of crime and public disorder, of drugs and pornography corrupting the youth. People who demanded the war in Vietnam be won, that the economy be put back on track, that law and order reign once more. Reluctantly perhaps, maybe even with guilt in their hearts, those people had swept their new political movement to victory in 1968 as a last resort, as an act of desperate outrage against the crowds. It had been a grand gesture, a defiant stand against the tide, America going right when the whole world seemed unable to halt the march of the radical left. Paris and West Berlin burning, strikes and protests bringing great Western cities to their knees while across Africa and Asia Marxism advanced bloody handed beneath the banner of "Third World Liberation" and "anti-Colonialism" openly challenging American military power upon the battlefield. The fell hand of the Kremlin clearly behind it all. He'd stood by his President in the internal and external war against international communism, and they'd gone further than any of the Democrats and Republicans before them in displaying what they were willing to do to save the Free World from the Soviet conspiracy. They'd been ready. Ready to crack down on the radicals, ready to bomb Vietnam and anyone else who dared stand with them to the stone age, ready to stand by any leader with the same vision and strength of will necessary to keep the Communists and their allies out of government, no matter what their crimes.
But it hadn't worked, they'd failed. They'd probably only made things worse. Now he was here, hidden underground in a secret bunker that lay underneath Greenbrier Resort, waiting for the Communists to find him and what remained of Congress. This was technically the Congressional Bunker, not the Presidential one that lay under the White House, but it's location was too obvious. And we could all thank Hollywood movies for making Offutt Air Force Base the first place they'd look for a cooked up President and what remained of his administration awaiting armageddon. No, this place wouldn't be found for a while, but eventually it would.
He'd nearly be ready to unleash nuclear hell on the Reds for what they'd done, brainwashing and subverting the American youth, riling up the Negros against the government, sabotaging the world economy. Surely it must have all been their plan. But in the end he didn't have the stomach. Maybe the spirit of the America he grew up, believed in and had served in wartime would be reborn one day. The hippies and their Soviet and Red Chinese puppet masters would surely only last for a few generations. Blowing everything up merely took away that chance.
Better dead and than red, what a hollow slogan that had always been.
President Curtis Emerson LeMay, formerly Vice President to President George Wallace, was the 38th President of the United States of America. 38th, and the last. He informed one the last of his loyal staffers to inform the last of Congress of his resignation. Resignation, without a successor. A solider knew defeat when perhaps a politician wouldn't. Wallace might have never given up, but he'd died, the first US President since William McKinley to die at an assassins hands, and the first whose death had been so openly celebrated by the enemy within. No, it was over.
The America they'd tired to protect was dead.