Leaders of the Free World

[Markus Wilding]

"I'm sorry, he fucking did what?"

Vice President Rutger van Baarle furrowed his brow, rubbing his forehead as he sat in his office in the Capital Building in Atlanta, trying to comprehend how on Earth Peter thought walking out of a meeting with Queen fucking Catharine was a good idea. In front of him, Secretary of State Colin Sharp was shaking, but was he afraid of Queen Catharine's wrath, or afraid of him? Rutger wasn't sure. He sighed, stuffing a cigarette into his mouth and lighting it.

"Well, it's... exactly like I said, sir. Uh, he said had a meeting with Secretary Garver and left. Queen Catharine was...displeased."

"Oh, dis-fucking-pleased. I wonder why."

"Sir, you know what they say about smo-"

Rutger waved him off. "Do I really look like I give a damn about lung cancer right now, Colin? Jesus fucking Christ, he walks out on Queen Catharine and has the gall to tell me I'm naive."

Colin pursed his lips, trying to find his voice through the smoke that began to fill the room. "Well, sir, what do we do now?"

"I'll tell you this much, Peter's making a stupid choice. Man thinks we can go back to the 1800s, pretend like we're so far away nobody can hurt us. He's made enemies with someone who'll burn her own goddamn countrymen alive for not voting with her, what the hell do you think she'll do to us if we defy her? Queen Catharine is not our friend, but I'll be damned if she'll be our enemy." Rutger sighed, putting out the cigarette. "I'm going to go talk to him. See if I can't convince him to pass the deal anyway."

[Markus Wilding]

President Marsden's office, now that it had been cleared of Secretary Sharp and Queen Catharine, looked almost peaceful.

Almost.

Rutger knew far too well that Peter was the sort of man who was never at ease. His career partyman methods to rise to the top had surely won him the presidency and therefore the trust of the people, but it left him with a sense of wariness that Rutger could tell always haunted him. The marks of worry were in his face, seeped into his food, tainted every drink he took. At least, that's what Rutger figured. Any man who had made his name on politics alone when there was a war that could have been fought was a man who could barely be trusted as far as you could throw him. Perhaps thankfully, Rutger could throw very far, having been a semi-professional shot put thrower back in the day.

Peter was not a shot though. Not the sort he often wanted to tangle with. As Rutger headed toward's Peter's desk, dominating the square room, he could already see the man was on his second or third shot of whiskey. Secretly, Rutger hoped it was at least Tennessee whiskey, and not that foreign junk.

"Ah, Mr. van Baarle," Peter said, nodding. "I didn't expect to see you today. You weren't on my list today."

"I understand you walked out of the meeting with Queen Catharine, do I have that right?"

Peter glanced up, almost surprised. "Well, yes, I had the meeting with Mr. Garver to attend to, and I thought Mr. Sharp could-"

"Yes, I know of your reasons. Do you have any idea what you've done, Comrade President?"

"Mr. van Baarle, if I didn't know any better I would almost say you're accusing me of something. Need I remind you our platform was inward development and a restraint against entangling alliances?"

Rutger sighed, shaking his head as he took a seat opposite of Peter. "Comrade President, respectfully, what fucking year do you think this is? Do you honestly believe that we can sit in our corner of the world and twiddle our thumbs? After all the American people have done in Europe and Asia?"

"Precisely. That sort of interference in Asia and Europe is what brought the German Flu upon us. If we hadn't stuck our noses in the Pacific-"

"If we hadn't done a damn thing, there would be Nazis all over Europe right now! They should consider it a miracle their own bioweapon killed half of them off for us! You walked out on Queen Catharine, the Inferno Queen! You didn't even bother to arrange a full meeting with her, do you have any idea what sort of damage you've caused?"

Peter's face twisted, and he furrowed his brow as he leaned forward. "Comrade Vice President, mark my words, I will not tie this nation to tyrants and-"

"We're beyond that! Victorian troops demolished the United States Army for us! We are indebted to them now, whether you like it or not. They have offered us the very generous kindness of not watching Atlanta burn again on the off-chance they decide we are no longer useful to them. Your policy has put this nation in danger, Peter, and if you believe I am going to stand by and watch, then you are sorely mistaken."

Silence fell upon the Square Office, as Peter silently poured himself a shot of whiskey. His hands shaking, the President downed it without a second thought, slamming the glass down on his desk. "So. For all the help I have given you."

"You're a career partyman, Peter. You sat on the sidelines while men like myself fought a true war. You may not recognize the danger inherent to someone as highly motivated as Queen Catharine, but I do."

"I see," he said flatly. "The difference here, Mr. van Baarle, is that in the halls of Atlanta, we fight with words, not bullets. You have entered my domain now, Comrade Vice President. There are things in politics that are more dangerous than a bullet."

[Markus Wilding]

Keeping the message concerning the Romanian Civil War from the President wasn't difficult - after all, he had no interest in the affairs of the world unless it concerned the well-being of American citizens, and even then that interest was middling unless something was going wrong.

However, the reports on Victorian aircraft and ships spotted in the Atlantic by the returning Expeditionary Fleet were impossible to censure. Congress erupted at the mere mention of it, demanding alternatively a declaration of war and immediate cessation of anything that could potentially trigger a Victorian judgment. While Secretary Garver argued with Army high brass to release planes to at least attempt to survey the area and figure out the disposition of the Victorians, Rugter had a more simplistic approach in mind.

He needed allies, first and foremost, to usurp President Marsden's power. Rutger knew he could rely on Secretary Garver. The old warhound would be more than on-board to help get rid of a president who proclaimed himself to be anti-war. Sharp was a wildcard, but it depended on who got to him first. The majority of Congress, in truth, supported the alliance with Victoria, recognizing the value in their continued good relationship. He could rely on several other secretaries.

The biggest problem he saw was that Secretary of Justice Oscar Mac Giolla Eoin stood in his way, staunchly opposed to such an act.

He had declared it his sole intention to protect the Constitution, through any means necessary, and this made him an issue. He knew full well what Rutger planned on doing, and had allied himself with Secretary of the Interior Maurice Starek. Nominally, Starek's duties related to the actual land of the Socialist Republics, but he had taken it upon himself to expand the nation's police not just to provide security for the nation's parks and historic battlefields, but also to spy on people.

It just so happened Rutger was one of those people who was being watched.

The spies were not subtle. A man in a trenchcoat on the corner. Unscheduled cleanings in his office. Old soldiers that lingered just a little too long at the bar. New neighbors that were more interested in what was in Rutger's garage than his actual car. He knew that Marsden had ordered them to watch him, keep tabs on who he spoke to and when. Hell, some of them even read his mail. Was nothing sacred?

They had always said Marsden had powerful friends, but Rutger knew of someone who had even more powerful friends.

General Arnold Harrison.

[Markus Wilding]

General Harrison's office was filled with smoke, mostly from his own chainsmoking habit. Rutger imagined this was a consequence of the scare from last year, when the Socialist Republics Army had failed to take Columbia and implied threats of retribution came down from Army high command and then-President Wood, demanding an explanation for this massive failure. Thankfully, for General Harrison, the only result had been an unofficial reprimand and the dispatching of his prize assistant, General Linus Carson, to Romania.

"So, let me see if I have this right," Harrison said, tapping away ashes. "You need somebody to help you... do what, exactly? Make sure the President can't do his job anymore?"

"More than that," Rutger said, glancing out the window if only to make sure Washington was actually still there and hadn't been hit by a Victorian "Judgment." He sighed, wincing. "General, I don't think I have to explain to you how President Marsden's policies will lead to a decrease in military funding. This can have disastrous consequences should we continue on our planned campaigns."

Harrison nodded, thoughtfully puffing on his cigarette. For a second, he pulled it out, looking at it as if he were having an unspoken debate with his poison of choice. "Comrade Vice President, I understand political men play different games from men such as I, but I fail to see how I fit into your plans here."

"General, we're both military men. The difference here is that I've since put up my uniform following the Revolution. I need men loyal to ensuring we can unite all of America, not men that think pretending it's 1870 is alright."

"What exactly are you suggesting?"

"You've heard the reports of the Victorian patrols. Their bombers circle the Atlantic daily. It's just a matter of time before they unleash hell, and I for one do not intend to see Atlanta burn a second time."

Harrison drew a sharp breath, snubbing out his cigarette. "You realize I could have you shot for this. Nobody will give a damn if you're the Vice President."

"Then I suppose I'm very lucky that this room is not bugged."

"There's one issue I have with your little idea. There is absolutely no way that President Marsden will ever let you wield enough power to silence him, much less prevent him from enforcing his will." Harrison sighed, writing down a name on a piece of paper. "You're being watched, right? Secretary Starek had me brief my men on the measure. I'll send some of my best to run interference on your shadows. Visit this man, and he can help you more than I can."

[Markus Wilding]

Oddly enough, Rutger had lived in Georgia all his life, and yet he didn't quite recall ever having seen this part of it. General Harrison had given him an address for a Sergeant Thomas Schmidt, deep in southeastern Georgia and only a handful of miles away from Fort Stewart. The nearby town of Hinesville was one of many across Georgia, having been ravaged by the German Flu in the intervening years. Once-vibrant streets were now empty as shops stood neglected, a reminder of what had once been here. The scene seemed more befitting of a Western movie than a modern city of Socialist progress. Alas, there was little progress to be had here.

Rutger found himself pulling into a dusty old driveway to what must have been a farm at one point. These days, the crops were dry, long since out of harvest. The house that stood at the top of the hill was painted almost an eggshell white, but Rutger believed that it had not always been that color. Light blue trim lined the edges of the porch and every windowsill, a worn-out "Welcome" mat sitting on a simple screen door. He sighed as he headed in, the door screeching and protesting with every movement.

In the kitchen he found what had to have been Sergeant Schmidt. He sat at a table, a standard-issue M1903 Springfield partially disassembled on a mat that lay on the table. As he expected any proper soldier to do, the Sergeant was carefully and meticulously cleaning his weapon. Was he even aware Rutger had entered? "I suppose you're Sergeant Thomas Schmidt?"

Off in the distance, Rutger heard a train blowing its horn. "I am," the Sergeant said in a deep bass, slowly reassembling the rifle's bolt. "So. What's the job?"

"General Harrison told me you could help."

Sergeant Schmidt moved so slowly, Rutger wasn't sure he ever actually did at all. But, he could definitely see the rifle's bolt being slid back into place with a satisfying metal click. "Comrade Vice President, you sound unsure about what you intend to do."

"I'm trying to save our nation from being destroyed by a naive idiot," Rutger snapped.

"And you understand that violence prompts violence?"

"I do not need a lecture in morality from a soldier -"

Impossibly quick, Sergeant Schmidt whipped around, standing tall with the rifle clutched in his hands as he stared at Rutger with a pair of intense, almost hollow hazel eyes. It was like he was searching Rutger for something. "A soldier of your Republic, your ideology. Not my own. You want to get rid of a problem, Comrade Vice President. I get rid of problems. You went to General Harrison, so that means you're considering a military response. I'm not a fool, Comrade. I can see the plan you're going for, even if you don't dare to speak it."

"Fine, then," Rutger muttered. "What do you need from me?"

Sergeant Schmidt did not smile, nor show any emotion beyond cold indifference. "I will need three things. I need a way to watch my target, to learn his patterns. When I know how he moves, I need a place to shoot. And when it's all done? I need a guarantee."

"A guarantee of what?"

"That I won't be shot for treason."

[Markus Wilding]

A long time ago, before the wars, before the Flu, Thomas had not been a violent man. Far from it, really, he was far more mild-mannered than his disposition and appearance would have led one to believe.

But, that was then. Before everything. Before the Revolution.

Thomas did not consider himself a friend to the communist ideals the Socialist Republics had been founded upon, but he had considered it his duty to do everything possible to serve. After all, he had been kept stateside during the war, unable to participate in any sort of campaign or battle until the revolution came. Therefore, he had a lot of time to himself. Time to reflect. Hone skills. After all, they said idle hands were the devil's plaything. Far be it a devout Baptist, but he wasn't inclined to let any sort of evil into his house.

In the end, Thomas considered the job he ultimately ended up doing sort of a service like any other. His commanders had problems, they sent him in to get rid of them, usually with the precise application of a .30-06 round to the head. He always took his time with it, was never flashy like the other sharpshooters he heard about. Track the target, find them, get rid of them. Easy. Hunting a human was like hunting any other kind of animal.

President Marsden was one such animal to be hunted. He had his habits, much like a bear has a favorite stream to feed from. For instance, the President, despite his recent and very public anti-smoking campaign, frequently left his comfortable office to puff away on Pall Malls seven times a day. He always ate lunch with his chair facing the window. He had a penchant for speeding. More than once, Thomas spotted him brazenly slacking off. What good was it to promote the fruits of Socialist labor when the President himself didn't give a damn about his job?

A routine fell into place, for both Thomas and his prey. The President always woke up at 5:45 AM. He left for work at 6:30, arrived at 7. First smoke break at 8:27, or at least close to it. Lunch always came early at 11:54, and ended late. Fifth smoke break was almost always at 3:22. Whether he was aware of it or not, President Marsden was a creature of habit, and he did not often stray from those habits.

Thomas took a break of his own from watching, to conduct a venture of his own. Atlanta had plenty of tall buildings, some in use, others unoccupied. Any number of them along his route to the Capital Building would be excellent to shoot from. He judged the wind from each location, performed trig in his head, speculated on where a potential bullet would go. He had debated whether the better hour was in the morning, as President Marsden would be on his way to work, or after the day was done when he'd least expect it.

There was always a certain intimacy in hunting another human, that the target was never aware of. If Thomas still had any shreds of emotion left to him, he almost would have felt bad for the President. After all, he hadn't run for office just to get himself shot. He had run for office to make the country better. At least, that's what the campaign posters had all said. Thomas never much paid attention to politics.

His realm was much more concerned with who to point the gun at.

[Markus Wilding]

Two hundred and eighteen yards.

That was how far 200 meters was, after he dialed in the range on his scope. Although officially, the Army provided a sniper variant of the old M1 Garand, Thomas much preferred the M1903A4 Springfield. Could never go wrong with a bolt-action rifle, after all, and the offset scope of the M1C always bothered him. The inline scope of the M1903, though far narrower,was easier for him to see through and afforded good peripheral vision. He had calculated this shot ten times, knew exactly the sort of variables which could throw off his shot. Wind was minimal in this part of Atlanta. Not far enough to worry about the Coriolis effect. Drop would be manageable at this range.

All he had to do was wait.

As predicted, President Marsden drove his 1955 Chevrolet 150 down Peachtree Avenue, at precisely 6:55 PM. Red light. Good. That would make this easier. The sun was already beginning to set, ordinarily a concern but Thomas had thought of this already. There was no way a stray hint of sunlight could betray his position. The range was perfectly dialed. He could see Marsden's head outlined in the front windshield.

Thomas took a deep breath, holding it in to slow his heartrate. Time itself seemed to pause as he slowly applied pressure, squeezing the trigger so as not to throw his aim off. At this range, even a slight movement could throw his shot wide. He felt the shock of recoil hit his arm, then an instant later, the bullet smashed through the windshield and then into President Marsden's head. His car's once-white interior was stained with blood.

His deed done, Thomas stood up, making his escape. He heard a distant scream. No doubt someone had already found the body. He lit a cigarette as he headed out onto the street, delicately placing his rifle in the trunk of his car. The next step was to drive to an isolated payphone, well on the outskirts of Atlanta. Thomas put his five cents into the machine, watching the ambulances and police cars zoom by.

"It's done."