Chapter 6: Countdown to Exodus

In the mansion’s training ground, I gather the agents, hold up three fingers, and get to the point.

“For the next three months, give it all you’ve got! Train like your life depends on it!”

The agents are unmoved.

“After three months, I’ll pick a hundred of you to be team leaders.”

“Another thirty as full squad captains.”

The agents erupt.

“Ten as deputy division chiefs, five as full division chiefs.”

The agents are in chaos.

“Top three: one full regional commander, two deputy regional commanders.”

Before I finish, the agents go wild. I pull out a yellow executive order, hold it high: “I have the President’s order! Whether you get wealth and titles depends on whether you’ll risk your lives for me and the President!”

Big rewards bring brave men. And what I offer is a ladder to the top.

“Willing to die for the Deputy Director!”

“Willing to die for the President!”

Thousands shout to the sky. No one doesn’t want a future. They were once lowly agents; even a team leader was a peak. Now, with effort, even a regional command is possible—one step to the top.

From then, they train like mad. My words are law. I’ve never trained troops, but I’ve had ROTC and seen the most disciplined, united teams. Even if I copy, I believe I can make a strong force for this era. They train by day, and with my night drills and city-wide marches, DC is noisy day and night—complaints about me flood John’s desk. He can’t take it, summons me.

“I know disturbing the peace is bad, but it’s necessary.”

As for why, I play coy. I don’t trust those around John. He stares at me, then sighs: “Fine, I said I’d trust you, so I won’t go back on it. Do as you wish.”

For the first time, I smile sincerely at my brother-in-law.

“Thank you for trusting me.”

[John, I really hope you’re not remembered as a failed leader.]

[I hope you can lead America to resist the outsiders and raise our prestige.]

Seeing me smile, John smiles too.

Time flies, and 2025 arrives. As in history, the populist army advances rapidly; by March, Pittsburgh and Cleveland are lost. DC is about to fall. Brother-in-law’s calls for aid are ignored. General Grant drags his feet. General Lee claims a broken leg and refuses. General Harris and General Brooks even march south, looting as they go. General White is too far; unless he flies, he can’t make it. Only General Foster, the Earl of Savannah, answers the call.

With my family fortune, unlike the stingy John in my memory who scraped together only a few thousand, this time he lavishly gives a million to reward the troops. By custom, generals going to war should have a supervising official. I hear brother-in-law chose Deputy Chief Baker. I rush to dissuade him. I don’t remember most, but Baker I know is a traitor.

“Who else then?” John looks at me. With the populists nearing, brother-in-law relies on me more. I’m at a loss: “Except Chief of Staff Williams, no one is trustworthy.” Too many traitors; I can’t remember all. The loyal, I only remember Williams, who resigned with John. Williams gives me a complicated look, then kneels, hugging John’s leg and wailing: “I only want to serve you, Mr. President, don’t send me!”

Fine, he doesn’t want to go either. With the populists so strong, I wouldn’t go either.

“Fine! You always say, trust those you use. This time, I won’t send a supervisor. If Foster wants to surrender, a supervisor can’t stop him.”

I sigh.

[This guy surrendered to the populists, then to the foreign powers. He says he had no choice, but who knows.]

“Loyalty or not, depends on his actions.” John sighs. We have no choice. No supervisor is sent. Without restraint, Foster swears to stop the populists at the Appalachian Line. Watching the army leave, John says: “If this time, we stop the populists...”

Then we won’t need to move. I understand the rest.

“Let’s hope.” I have no confidence.

[Whether Foster betrays or not, prepare for the worst.]

The move is still hotly debated, John never gives a direct answer, letting the Cabinet gossip. Those with assets, hearing the populists are coming and the President might move, flee south. The poor don’t care. Whoever comes, doesn’t matter.

The confiscations, since I took over Homeland Security, are carried out vigorously. These new agents aren’t good at external intelligence yet, but in DC, they know everything, matching my vague memories. Every powerful family has secrets. Before, no one checked, to avoid shaking the system. Now the system is almost gone, who cares. Check! Check hard!

First cut, my boss Director Langley! After him, the politicians, then the elites, from small to large, easy to hard, even the Speaker of the House—if they’re rich and exploiters, none are spared. I don’t kill or torture; as a modern American, I can’t stand blood. But, with evidence, I take everything—money, land, mansions. As a modern youth, I’m practical: even money hidden in underwear and shoe soles is dug out. I get a tenth. With mountains of cash and jewelry sent home, my dad is overjoyed, almost calling me dad.

As for the confiscated land, John decrees it be given to poor locals who didn’t move south—just as I wanted. These poor, the populists won’t trouble, nor will the foreign powers, but they’ll suffer for a while. The land is America’s compensation for not protecting them.

The confiscations grow fiercer. A storm rises in DC—a category five hurricane. At first, just complaints. Then, boycotts. Then, a thousand protest at the White House gate, demanding my head, a huge uproar. Activists throw rotten eggs, leaves, trash at my door, cursing me as a traitor; even now, the mansion stinks, so I have masks made for everyone. Assassins come in waves; if not for guards, I’d be dead. My dad doesn’t care, spends his days counting cash—checks and coins he now despises.

John finally stands up for me. After dropping the wise leader act, he seems enlightened; to the Cabinet’s calls to fire me, he ignores them. Let them protest, let them boycott. Call him a fool, let them. Seeing my daily reports, he’s first furious—before, he begged politicians to donate, and only got a few hundred thousand, mostly from aides. Now, with a few confiscations, over seventy million in cash and assets! Countless treasures!

After anger comes joy. With this money, if used well, America still has hope!

Following my advice, John publishes the crimes of the confiscated politicians, printing tens of thousands of copies for free distribution. I hire storytellers to spread their “glorious deeds” in bars and coffee shops. You want a public opinion war? I played with social media, have you? I’ll have someone write dozens of exposés, maybe make a Netflix docuseries. Make a record of corrupt politicians, add it to American history. At worst, we’ll all be listed as traitors in a few centuries.

With the confiscations done, I go to John: all ready, we can move south. If we don’t go now, we won’t be able to.

“Wait a bit more?” John hesitates. He still hopes for Foster. I feel restless, shake my head: no, whether Foster holds or not, we must go. If he holds, we can return, just lose face. If not, we’ll be trapped.

[The situation is already in the populists’ favor.]

[The tide of history can’t be reversed so easily.]

“Fine! Let’s go.” John looks around the room, sighs, changes his mind. I breathe a sigh of relief. After discussing, we set the move—or escape—for three days later. As expected, the unexpected happens.