Two Americas

By Robin Chalkley

The First Lady of the Confederate States of America is assassinated as she dedicates a new warship at the Hampton Roads Shipyard. A tragedy, but not unexpected between enemies.

Except the Confederate vessel is an aircraft carrier. The year is 2013.

And the assassin is a U.S. terrorist.

By taking advantage of its early motivation and superior organization, the South won the Civil War in 1862. Today, the two Americas – the United States and the Confederate States – coexist uneasily. The United States has never recognized the sovereignty of the Confederacy, and still claims the South as its territory. Many people in both countries still carry hate and bitterness from what has become a century and a half of violence. America vs. America begins with the murder of the First Lady of the Confederacy, a much-beloved figure. War fever spreads quickly through a stunned and grieving Confederacy.

Chase Randolph is the Director of the Confederate Bureau of Investigation. He is in a race against time to find the killers and quell a political uprising at home before the continent becomes embroiled in a devastating war.

Two Americas is a fast-paced, thriller packed with tense action. It will appeal to readers of such authors as Vince Flynn, Harlan Coben, and David Baldacci.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robin Chalkley
• Release date: Aug 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476248967

Robin Chalkley

Robin Chalkley has been writing copy for more than 30 years, having worked in a number of regional advertising agencies as well as currently in his own freelance business. In 2003 he was honored by the Advertising Federation of the Roanoke Valley with its prestigious Silver Medal. Robin is the creator and primary writer for two websites: http://www.GreatAmericanThings.net and http://CaribbeanHoneymoonTravel.com. He has completed one novel, and is now working on Torch, a new novel about an ex-con who tries to clear his former cellmate. In 2011, he earned first place in the Winston-Salem Writers Flash Fiction Contest; in 2012 he again won first place in Flash Fiction and second place in the Short Story category. A native of Newport News, Virginia, he is a 1973 graduate of Virginia Tech. After living in Roanoke, Virginia for most of his adult life, he moved to his current home near Winston-Salem, North Carolina in 2002. He has two wonderful sons, and is very happily married to his wife, Jeannie.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Wednesday April 23, 9:03 a.m.

A security guard named Dwayne Chappel came closest to saving the life of the First Lady of the Confederate States of America. He had been adamant. See the speakers? See the microphone? See all these wires running everywhere like snakes? Listen to me, your sound crew’s already been here and gone.

The slight man with Tom embroidered on the pocket of his coveralls stared at his clipboard. Can’t be. We were supposed to be here at nine. It’s nine now. He tapped his watch as if this fact were in question.

Chappel didn’t want to hear it. As a shipyard security guard, he was on edge about the First Lady’s visit. The whole security staff had worked overtime for seven straight days preparing for this occasion, and tempers were growing short.

With Chappel, it was difficult to notice a difference. His wife once said, Dwayne, you’ll be in line at the gates of hell itself bitching about how long it’s taking to get in.

He just wanted this whole day to be over. He spread his legs apart, put his hands on his meaty hips, and stared over the top of his wire-framed glasses. "I said the sound is ready. Now why don’t you go somewhere and get a cup of coffee and a doughnut and send us a bill for your time?"

Tom appeared to relent. Okay, okay. But at least let me take a good look at the connections. I’ll be canned in a heartbeat if anything goes wrong.

Oh, all right. Just make it quick. The beefy guard relaxed his defensive pose.

The soundman stepped up on the stage that the shipyard’s public relations people positioned perfectly. It provided the TV networks a backdrop of the giant carrier and the historic James River, which they would optically filter to an almost Montego Bay shade of blue.

Tom’s real name was Frank Drewery, and he wasn’t a soundman. As he knelt under the podium he attached a packet of C-4 plastic explosive out of sight directly below the microphone cord. He was completing his assignment uncomfortably late, but had to wait until the dogs brought in to sniff for explosives finished their assignment.

Some guys froze when challenged during their mission; Frank relished playing the part. He sometimes thought if he’d been blessed with a leading man’s face, he might have tried his luck in the movies. But his was a character actor’s mug, lacking the angles and planes the camera adored. For now, he was happy to remain anonymous, knowing his work would soon be featured on a much larger stage.

*

An hour later, Mary Alice Huffman gazed wearily out the tinted window of her limousine at the eager local dignitaries, at the jackals holding microphones, at the fawning masses who couldn’t get enough of her, and again wondered how she could endure two more years as First Lady.

She had no choice but to follow through with her public schedule, which on this cloudy April morning brought her to the Newport News Shipyard. It was 10:45, and in a half hour she would christen the latest aircraft carrier to join the Confederacy’s impressive fleet.

Mary Alice had already begged out of a scheduled interview on Morning Tidewater, bringing a call of rebuke from her husband’s press secretary. Mary Alice didn’t care. How many more clear-skinned, capped-teeth blondes could she be chummy with before eight in the morning?

She didn’t like feeling this way. She loved public life, perhaps because she had the remarkable gift of remembering the names of people she met, even briefly. Her aides loved to tell the story of a woman at a campaign rally in Gastonia, North Carolina who mentioned in passing that she was learning sign language. Two years later, at a Dixie White House luncheon to honor those who worked with the handicapped, Mary Alice recognized her and signed, Hi Carolyn. It’s good to see you again.

But she’d grown weary of not having time to herself, and of scheduling what little she had with her secretary. She relished this moment to compose herself before she had to stop being Mary Alice and once again become The First Lady. She reached a gloved hand into her purse and pulled out a compact to make a quick appraisal of her appearance. As she examined her face, she remembered an unflattering article in The South magazine, which called her a handsome woman. That phrase stung the belle who had caused men to swoon and women to swear when she was selected Miss Mississippi in 1974.

Her auburn hair was expertly tinted, but not so long ago its natural fire lit up the glamorous debutante balls of Jackson and Natchez. Her once fetching dimples were now lines and soon would be wrinkles. Mary Alice longed for a cosmetic lift, knowing it would raise her spirits as well. Yet she knew jealous tongues would wag, and she couldn’t abide the thought of being talked about in that way. She replaced the compact and nodded that she was ready.

The head of her State Security detail opened her car door as a fusillade of flashes from the many press cameras gave a surreal brightness to the morning. He helped her from the car, all the while scanning the crowds and surrounding areas for anyone or anything that looked suspicious. Mary Alice never felt at risk, but she took her security seriously. She never worried that the occasion might come when she didn’t take it seriously enough.

*

Press Secretary Garland Quoit approached the end of his morning news roundup for the President. "The Greensboro Daily Record editorial says you have no commitment to human rights because you’ll never sign a hate crimes bill."

Jackson Huffman laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling in characteristic good humor. Old Elmer Duncan would say my piss is pink if it would make his wife happy, he joked. Elmer Duncan was the paper’s editor, and his wife Clarissa was not only its owner but also a C.S. Senator from North Carolina - the body’s only woman.

From the moment the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that those who committed crimes against minorities could be prosecuted separately for a hate crime, liberals in the Dixie Congress pushed for similar legislation for the Confederacy. It was a hopeless cause. The South was more conservative than its northern neighbors, and damn proud of it.

Nor was this an isolated case. Every decision of the Yankee Court seemed to energize one end or the other of the Southern political spectrum. Seldom did a Dixie Supreme Court decision have the same effect up north.

Is that it? the President asked. I’m meeting with senators from the Armed Services Committee about Afghanistan in - he checked his watch - five minutes.

The remark annoyed Don Traylor, the Chief of Staff. Traylor always resented any suggestion he wasn’t in control of the President’s schedule, one of his primary jobs. Garland, he said quietly, did you tell the President about Mary Alice?

What about Mary Alice? Huffman’s tone changed. Everyone knew how crazy he was about his wife, and how protective. You criticized the First Lady in his presence at your own peril.

Quoit tried to express his exasperation without crossing the line. She cancelled an appearance on a local morning show in Hampton Roads. I tried to get her to go, but - well, you know...

The president’s staff had often commented on the change in his demeanor when his wife was the subject of discussion. They were often startled by his instant transformation from leader of one of the world’s greatest powers to concerned husband. They knew he worried whether the stress of public life had crushed the spirit of the woman he loved unconditionally.

I knew I shouldn’t have let her go to that shipyard thing, Huffman said, the concern as evident in his eyes as in his voice. I should have sent Richardson. I know they wanted Mary Alice, but I should have put my foot down.

Traylor tried to reassure his old friend. She’ll be fine. But I’ll pass the word that this is it for public events. From now on she either goes with you or she doesn’t go at all.

The President nodded, relieved that someone else had made the decision. This is the last one, then, he said.

*

The first lady took a surreptitious look at her watch as she sat on the impromptu dais at the dry dock. 11:05.

The representative from the First District of Virginia asked the crowd, Do you remember where you were twenty-five years ago? During that time our shipyard has contributed seven major vessels to the Confederate fleet.

Mary Alice’s realized it had been exactly twenty-five years since she’d met her husband. It had been her one and only blind date. Normally, boys waited in line for her company, and she turned down more than she accepted. She never dated one person very long, thanks to catching her boyfriend in the eleventh grade cheating on her with Cindy Jo Pressey, the head majorette and her chief rival.

But her college roommate kept talking about her older brother Jackson, a junior at Vanderbilt. Mary Alice, who loved her two brothers but knew their many flaws, was impressed by the girl’s devotion to her sibling. As a result, it didn’t take a great deal of prodding before she agreed to go out with the political science major when he came to Ole Miss for a visit.

She never believed in love at first sight - but oh, how wrong she’d been. When she saw him standing in the ornate parlor that served as a meeting place for gentlemen callers, and he smiled at her with those penetrating azure eyes, she was his. They dated until he graduated, and were married a week later. She never regretted it, not for a moment.

Slowly she came back to the present, realizing it was almost time for her to speak. She held a prepared address, but had always been a natural public speaker. She joked that she had been born without the stage fright gene, a considerable asset during her pageant days and most welcome in her role as political wife.

As the mayor of Hampton Roads concluded his introduction, the big clock near the shipyard entrance - the one employees relied on for shift changes - read 11:15. Things were right on schedule.

*

Frank Drewery reached the same conclusion as he watched the event with the ten thousand people who had come to see the big ship up close and to catch a glimpse of their First Lady. He stood near enough not to call attention to himself, yet far enough away to make a private call.

He looked at his watch. Thirty seconds left. He took the cell phone out of his jacket pocket and called the number he had memorized. The phone rang only once. The party on the other end expected the call.

It’s me, Frank said. We’ve got about twenty seconds. I thought you’d like to hear it live.

Everything go okay?

Drewery could hear the apprehension in the voice. Yeah, no problem at all. I put a second one down at the far end of the Yard, about a quarter-mile from the ceremony. So after the first one goes off, you might hear another a few seconds later.

Good. Is it time?

About five seconds. Here goes.

Drewery focused on the First Lady, at that moment telling the mayor and guests how much she loved Hampton Roads and always looked forward to her visits. In mid-sentence, her radiant smile charming the multitude, she ceased to exist. The podium and the stage splintered, raining debris and body parts for a hundred yards in every direction. From Drewery’s distant observation point, he saw a crimson mist that lingered in the air like a film image going into slow dissolve. Huffman was already a memory by the time the explosion reached his ears.

Shock swept through onlookers who were unable to grasp what had happened before their eyes. Then the second bomb detonated, and the panicked throng ran shrieking to the closest exit they could find. Police officials later recovered the body of a five-year-old girl who’d been trampled in the pandemonium.

Drewery disconnected the call and walked out the shipyard gate unnoticed in the melee.

A few minutes later, safely in his car waiting for police to clear the traffic snarl, he again called his contact.

Could you hear it? Drewery asked.

Loud and clear. You, my friend, are a genius.

It was your plan. I just carried it out. Now I guess we have to wait and see if they react the way we hope.

Don’t worry, they will. The whole damn South is gonna rally around Huffman and come after us. And they’re playing right into our hands.

CHAPTER TWO

Saturday April 26, 12:15 p.m.

Days like this were suited for nothing but funerals. The warmth of spring had been chased away by mourning clouds, and weeping winds swept across the suddenly bleak countryside. The caliginous skies reflected the spirit of a somber, despondent people. The thunder echoed their anger.

Dixie Air Force CS1, the President’s plane, returned the First Lady’s remains to Atlanta. Hundreds of thousands lined up to view the closed vault lying in state in the capitol rotunda, a steady stream of sorrow that continued all day and all night.

Now, shortly after noon three days later, her Stars-and-Bars-draped casket rode on a caisson pulled by a pure white horse down rain-dampened Peachtree Street. Millions throughout the country watched the televised funeral procession. President Jackson Huffman rode in a carriage following his wife’s body. His protocol director told him it was proper for him to precede the casket, but he insisted he would not have walked in front of her in life, and would not dishonor her in death.

In the midst of the grieving throng, security held primary importance. Uniformed officers lined the streets, while others in plain clothes mingled with the crowd, paying particular attention to the areas along the President’s immediate path. Huffman insisted he not be shielded in a closed, bulletproof vehicle, and while his accessibility endeared him to the people, the Division of State Security and the Confederate Bureau of Investigation (CBI) were unhappy with his decision. Despite the extreme risk, no one was going to tell President Huffman he couldn’t follow his heart as he paid final tribute to his wife. Not even his best friend Chase Randolph, whom he had appointed as Director of the CBI.

Chase had worked sixteen-hour days since the bombing. Previously, in spite of mounting evidence to the contrary, people of good will believed that terrorist activity between Northern and Southern factions might somehow be controlled. In fact, Chase had been meeting with his staff discussing the escalating intensity of the attacks both by the United States and by his own countrymen when an assistant burst into the room with the news.

Chase immediately flew to the shipyard, personally taking charge of the crime scene. He wanted to be certain no evidence was tainted, no clues missed, no possible witnesses overlooked. After spending forty-eight hours on site, he left the Bureau’s Virginia Section Chief in charge of the locale, and returned to Atlanta.

*

Chase went directly to the Confederate White House following the funeral. The presidential home was modeled after its counterpart in the U.S., designed as half residence and half office. From the front, in the typical photograph, it looked no larger than the homes of Atlanta’s corporate leaders. But an additional fifty thousand square feet of office space had been added in the back connected by an overhead walkway.

Upon arriving, Chase found the President already meeting with Don Traylor and Attorney General Eugene Via. Huffman slumped in the burgundy leather wing chair that anchored the informal side of his executive office, his legs stretched straight out, and one hand covered his face as if he were praying. He looked up when he heard his old friend enter, and a frail smile came to his face. Chase, he said, how could they have done this? She loved Yanks, she loved everyone.

The weakness of the President’s voice surprised Chase. Normally, it was so strong and clear that more than once his staff was alarmed when an aside he’d meant to whisper found its way onto the evening news.

Chase walked to his friend’s side and placed a hand on his shoulder. I’m so sorry, Jackson. I wish I could...I mean, you know how I feel about... Why did he get so tongue-tied at these moments? "What I’m trying to say is that everyone who knew Mary Alice loved her. But I will find whoever did this. And God have mercy on them when I do."

Amen to that, Via said, but it’s part of a bigger problem right now. He looked at the President, resuming the conversation that had been in progress when Chase arrived. Sir, this thing has really stirred up anti-Yankee sentiment, and not just among the usual suspects. The speeches on the floor of the Senate are split, about half eulogizing Mary Alice and half seeking vengeance on the U.S. for its role in the bombing. Some are even calling it our Pearl Harbor.

They don’t really think the U.S. Government is behind this? Chase asked. We all know there are those who want conflict to settle our differences once and for all, but--

Traylor interrupted him. "Conflict? You don’t have to beat around the bush here, Chase. There are people in both the North and South who are spoiling for a fight. Maybe if the U.S. had ever officially relinquished its claim on us, and formally recognized our sovereignty, things would be different. Maybe we wouldn’t hate the Yankees for their smugness, for their holier-than-thou attitudes on everything from race to religion. But after this, we can forget trying to get along. Now people on both sides would love nothing better than to put all states from coast to coast under the same flag. Of course, we don’t agree on which flag. We’re concerned someone planned this attack to inflame that sentiment so we’d be the ones to declare war."

I don’t doubt that, replied Chase, who had taken a seat directly opposite the President. He loosened his tie and tried to get comfortable. I called all the state bureau chiefs today and told them I wanted to roust every snitch, every informant we have and see if they’ve heard anything that might help us out. Even the wild stuff we wouldn’t ordinarily take seriously.

Chase looked at the President, who paid no attention to the conversation. Everyone knew his job continued every minute of the day and night, but even a man as great as Jackson Huffman could be forgiven if he didn’t give it his full concentration at a time like this. His eyes drifted to the framed picture of his wife, the solitary item on the wall above the fireplace. It was her wedding portrait, and Chase remembered how beautiful she was that day. He’d been best man, and knew better than most how much in love they were.

Gene, you didn’t answer my question. Chase tried to refocus on the matters at hand. Surely you don’t think the U.S. Government is behind this?

The Attorney General removed his horn-rimmed glasses and brushed the lint off the lenses with his tie, a habit Chase knew from working side-by-side for three years meant he was buying time. His response was indeed cautious and measured. Personally, no. It has to be the work of one of the fringe groups. But we need to know who did this, and we need to know fast. When people are furious like this, a fringe group could start a fire we can’t control. That’s your assignment, Chase. Find these bastards and bring them back for trial. Or else – God have mercy on us -

He didn’t have to finish the sentence. Chase knew the unspoken words were ...we will have another War Between the States.

CHAPTER THREE

Saturday April 26, 3:55 p.m.

The CBI had its headquarters in a thirty-five-story glass tower, one of eight new buildings recently constructed to modernize the operations of the Confederate Government. Chase Randolph quietly preferred the American Government’s Federal-style buildings, believing their sheer mass communicated the weighty matters being dealt with inside.

But the Confederacy’s campus had been proposed by President Strom Thurmond in 1982, and was instantly popular with the people. Its many conveniences, including extensive underground parking, subway stations, and shopping, also made it a hit with government workers. Constructed during the decade of the nineties, it provided a distinctive skyline to the Buckhead section of Atlanta, long the location of the capitol and the Confederate White House. Four memorials had been erected at the corners of the campus, honoring Robert E. Lee, Jefferson Davis, Confederate veterans, and the Unknown Soldier.

Chase had called a three o’clock meeting of his top staff to discuss status and direction of the investigation. As he walked from his office toward the secure conference room, Riley Benning fell in step beside him. You’ve seen the President? How’s he doing?

Not too well, Chase admitted. In fact, I think everyone is running on autopilot. If we stop to grieve, this situation could get out of hand in no time.

Might happen anyway, she said, stepping behind Chase momentarily to let a coffee cart pass.

Well, let’s see how bad it is, he replied as they approached the conference room door.

Conversation in the room died as the two entered, indicating the seriousness of the meeting. Normally, this group of Chase’s eight top-ranking aides was boisterous with good-natured kidding about college rivalries or the successes and failures in their love lives. But today they were uncharacteristically somber. They all knew and greatly admired Mary Alice Huffman, and they understood what was now at stake.

Chase started the meeting by giving a recap of his visit with the President and his charge to find the killers before war fever became an epidemic. But I’ve been somewhat sheltered from public opinion the last few days, he admitted. What are we up against?

Jacob Zodda spoke first. Everyone who knew him called him Mr. Z - many wouldn’t know him any other way. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. The closest thing is how Great Britain reacted to the loss of Princess Diana. But the Brits had no one to blame except the paparazzi, and you can’t go to war against a bunch of photographers. Well, you could, but who would take the pictures?

Chase gave him a look that said, Not now, and Mr. Z stopped his attempt at humor. Our people are approaching genuine hysteria. And they know very well who to blame – the entire United States. They want revenge. Blood for blood.

I spoke with a friend in the FBI, Riley said. A guy I’ve known since college, and he’s always been honest with me. He wants us to know that the hawks aren’t in control up there - she motioned toward the U.S. on the map on the wall - but they do have a lot of influence, and it’s growing. They’re mad because we’re blaming them. Strange as it may seem, the more they’re vilified down here, the stronger their position becomes up there.

Does your friend have any idea who’s behind these bombings? Chase asked.

Would he tell us if he did? Mr. Z had never met a Yankee he trusted.

He’d tell us, I’m sure. But he doesn’t know. Riley placed a dangling strand of blond hair behind her ear. No one has come forward to claim responsibility. And we could probably make a list of the suspect groups as well as he could.

I have that list, actually Mr. Z said, jumping up from his seat to pass around a neatly word-processed document containing the names, locations, and leaders of the six most prominent Northern terrorist groups. I have to tell you, though, my gut says it may not be any of these guys, he said, taking his seat again. This attack has a different feeling to it, and I can’t put my finger on it. Plus, none of these groups is usually shy about going public with their actions. There’s one other group - calls itself The Circle - that could be responsible. It’s so secret, though, not much is known about them. I’m working all my sources to get something solid on them.

Riley nodded. "Do whatever it takes. We need that info."

Not only was she the Assistant Director of the CBI, she was its leading expert on the United States. Having snubbed Vanderbilt for Harvard, she was often kidded and occasionally reviled, but that experience