Date: June 19, 2089
Location: National Mall, Washington DC — in front of Washington Monument
Transcript: President Jimenez Guerrero
“Juneteenth. A day of resounding importance—not only for our black brethren, but for us as Americans. ‘No one is free until we are all free.’ Martin Luther King Jr said that… at a time the United States was still waging war against the impacts of slavery. He always looked towards a future where men and women would be equal and free, regardless of class or race. Unfortunately, we were all still slaves at the end of the day. We were slaves until the very moment the war broke out. We were slaves during the war. However,” I started, my voice rising with zeal, “today we are free. It is a shame that our ancestors cannot reap the fruits of their descendants, because they would be filled with joy at this moment.”
Cheers filled the air as the thousands before me flailed around. While Juneteenth hadn’t been celebrated in decades by the masses, this was the first debut of the holiday under a stable, liberal government. It was the debut of the holiday under the flag of the United States for the first time in decades.
I waited for the cheers to begin dying down before continuing, “Never forget this moment. This is the moment the United States returns. The moment where we come back to the world stage. The moment where we have to live in fear, NO LONGER!”
More cheers filled the humid air of the National Mall as I observed Secret Service snipers all over the rooves of nearby buildings. Security had to be amped up for this event as there were credible threats from remnant nationalist militias. I was never worried about them, they were a relic of America’s past. America was moving into the future, and the future had no place for ignorance and protectionists.
Beginning my walk off the stage, I waved to the crowd as Secret Service began to accompany me down the steps. A warm breeze blew on my face as one of my staffers brought my phone.
“Mr. President, the British Chancellor is calling,” he said, handing me the phone. I grabbed it and put it to my ear.
“Mr. Chancellor, what can I do for you?” I queried.
“Mr. President, I know you’re busy. However, I just received news that French mariners hijacked a food aid ship in the North Atlantic.”
I sighed, looking for a chair nearby, with one of my staffers quickly grabbing and unfolding one of those aluminum chairs you’d find in an AA meeting. I took a seat as I contemplated the news.
“Well, Chancellor, I don’t know what to say. It’s not exactly like I can get the French to release the ship. You already know about the new protection plan we’re working to implement so this doesn’t happen anymore.”
“It’s not happening fast enough. Hundreds of my people are dying daily from starvation-”
“Mr. Chancellor. I know. We’re building the ships as fast as we can. The first fleet will be ready a few months from now,” I explained. It was always one thing after another. I suppose it is the cross to bear when bringing back the free world.
“With all due respect, Mr. President, we don’t have months. My people are telling me that London is at a breaking point. There’s already riots brewing… I know what has happened to my predecessors from the Conservative Party. I don’t want my head lopped off. I don’t want my INTENSINES strung out along the inner walls of my Congress.”
Fucking hell. “Mr. Chancellor. We’re working as fast as we can.” I flipped the phone closed and put it in the chest pocket of my shirt.
Looking around, I realized I had tuned out my environment. I could hear speeches being given from other activists on the loudspeakers and my staffers were bustling around, doing who knows what. I put my head in my hands, bent over, like some depressed burnout.
“Jeffrey,” I slightly turned my head towards my Chief of Staff, who was standing damn near next to me, “I need briefings of the English food situation and our shipments on my desk by the time we get back. I also want our military options with France prepped in the situation room.”
“Of course, Mr. President. But do you really think we can provoke the French like this?” He asked.
I looked up at him, his glasses glinting in the summer sun and his gray hair flowing in the breeze. “What choice do we have? This is the third ship the French have hijacked this month.”
The heat had begun to take a toll as I felt the full force of the sun bear down on me. I sat up, telling Jeffrey and Agent Sampson that it was time to go.
As we packed into the presidential escort, I swiftly grabbed my book from the limo wall. Meditations, by Marcus Aurelius. Of course, what a country in crisis needs is a philosopher king. I flipped it open to the bookmark and began reading as Jeffrey hopped into the seat adjacent. He had just finished making calls and now the convoy was ready to move. I took the brisk moment to look out the window towards the Washington Monument, the crowd of my supporters were in the thousands, jubilant as ever. I built this. I worked harder than anyone else in the country had. And I still barely managed to win this domestic game of chess. Now I had an even harder game to play, against others who had won their games. The sad part was, a lot of them took a different approach than I did. They brutally slaughtered their enemies. Their allies. Anyone in their way. It was the antithesis of what I was working to build.
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We started to move, the short drive to the White House gave me time to read a little. As we zig zagged around the streets of my capital, I took the time to read. To absorb. If I were to win this game of chess, I would need to learn how to. That started with internal fortitude. The stress was beginning to get to me when I asked Jeffrey to get the book for me.
It has helped a lot. Just like me, the most powerful man in the world struggling with everyday issues. It was relatable on a level I didn’t imagine. My favorite part of understanding this book was that Aurelius had never intended for anyone to read it. This was his private, unnamed journal that he kept to himself—which historians would later name Meditations when they discovered it. Aurelius was a man I wanted to learn from. A man who had been dead for thousands of years, yet still managed to insert himself into contemporary politics. A man that I strived to be like.
By the time we reached the White House, Jeffrey alerted me that the situation room was ready and that the briefings were being brought to the room.
“Why are we instantly moving to the situation room, Jeffrey?” I asked as I stepped out of the car and swiftly straightened out and buttoned my suit jacket.
“There’s a situation,” Jeffrey said, catching up next to me. He lowered his voice, almost to a whisper, “Apparently the French massacred the entire crew… including the daughter of Sanders.”
I whipped my head to face Jeffrey and brought my voice to a sharp whisper as we walked up the steps to the front door, “Sanders’ daughter was on the damn boat?”
Jeffrey just nodded his head as we entered the White House and began racing down the halls to the situation room. I passed dozens of staffers who swiftly paid their respects to me, however they were busy with their own itineraries as well. So was I.
We reached the door of the situation room and a Marine opened it for my entourage. I was greeted by the sleek, black-walled room, with the presidential insignias on the opposite ends of the wide walls. A screen was placed on the front end of the room and a long table ran through the room.
As I walked in, the entire room stood up and I did a mental head count.
Naomi Kirnov, my Secretary of the Navy.
Joaquin Malas, my Admiral of the Navy.
Lachlan Powers, my National Security Advisor.
Pogorov Pumstedt, my Director of the CIA.
Silvius Shelton, my Secretary of State.
And my tear-stained Secretary of Defense. Adam Sanders.
I waved for them to sit back down and I took a seat at the Presidential chair, with Jeffrey pulling a seat next to me. Sanders was sitting diagonal to me, so I took the opportunity to rest my hand on his folded arms placed on the table.
He glanced at me, his eyes full of unrelenting and unbearing anguish, it was almost enough to make me look away—but I met his eyes and nodded. He gave a small nod of affirmation.
The briefings were placed in front of me as I grabbed the various papers. Graphs of French ships, information about our food shipments. Timelines of the hijackings and how they were hijacked.
“What are the military options?” I asked, looking up at the room.
Sanders spoke up, “Well, Mr. President, we have a few,” he shifted around some papers he had in front of him, glancing at them, “The first option is a very limited strike, where we only target the ship involved in the operation. We have the 2nd Missile Brigade in England, they can begin strikes immediately.”
“The second option?”
“A broader strike, but still limited. We have two destroyers in the region, along with a nuclear submarine. We also have the 2nd Missile Brigade, the 9th Missile Brigade, and 3rd Naval Air Wing in England. They can all begin preparations to strike by tomorrow. This strike would hit three French corvettes and one destroyer in the North Sea, along with another two destroyers and three frigates in the English Channel.”
The room became silent as I contemplated my options. The tension was so great, I almost mistook it for humidity in the room. I puffed my collar in and out as I felt warm and tried to relieve my body from the heat. Everyone was looking at me expectantly. They were waiting for an answer. I looked up and observed everyone. My eyes met Secretary Sanders’ and I saw his gaze filled with determination and anger.
I finally spoke, a decision that could affect the future of the country at the tip of my tongue. “We’ve dealt with these types of people on our very shores, people. We’ve dealt with these warmongering asswipes before. The only thing they understand is force…” I said, pausing for a moment. “History has shown us that we cannot just use force to retaliate. However, we can use it to stave them off. For now. Gentlemen, ladies…”
The anticipation in the room grew as I gave the order, “We are committing to option two.” Even in silence, I could see in Sanders' eyes that he believed I made the right choice. He was celebrating in his head at the chance to return payback to the French.
“Yes sir! We’ll give the order right away,” Sanders said, triumphantly. I noticed Kirnov and Malas nervously watched as Sanders picked up the landline in front of him.
“Secretary Kirnov, Admiral Malas. Do you protest this?” I asked, focusing my attention on them and stopping Sanders dead in his tracks.
“Well, Mr. President,” Malas started, “We’re just worried about the current state of our Navy and our ability to defend England if hostilities were to flare up after this strike. We only have five destroyers, fourteen frigates, and four nuclear submarines in the Atlantic. Yes, we do have more being produced in Norfolk, but it will be too little too late, we fear.”
“I hear you, but the British Chancellor was telling me they don’t even have a month left if we can’t get food to them consistently and safely. We have to do this,” I said firmly, motioning for Sanders to make the call.
Malas looked a little calmer, but Kirnov was visibly upset.
“Mr. President, what happens if we lose our naval assets in the region, what’s next? The French naval industrial capacity is, frankly, much larger than ours in its current state.”
“This is a gamble I’m willing to make, Kirnov. We have to believe in ourselves here, even when faced with numbers against our odds.”
The tension in the room slowly disseminated as the decision was made final and Sanders dialed the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs to alert him of the move.
The screen in front of the room whirred to life as it pulled up maps of Western Europe, highlighting where American units were and where French units were presumed to be. I watched the symbols on the screen, fully understanding that these symbols represented hundreds, if not thousands of lives.
This country, however, had lost too much to give up now. This ideal had to be strived for. It had to be fought for. People are counting on me. I will not let them down.