Season 1, Episode 4 - The Microwave Postscript 1 - "The Surrender Program"
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Thousands of feet above New York-administered Puerto Rico.
Aboard the bridge of the airship Mantle, General Asenov stood with his arms crossed against his chest, observing the island below him through large glass windows. The Mantle passed over rolling hills and mountains covered in green. In the centuries following the Unleashing, nature reclaimed most of the island, but a few human holdouts still remained. Most of the island's population could be found in the capital on the west side of the island, but only a particular group in a particular village concerned Asenov today.
Asenov, like most of the other crew members of the airship, wore the usual gray New York military uniform, the muted kkahi jacket and trousers. The one thing that set Asenov apart from his peers – well, besides the rank – was his bushy brown mustache and the ambition in his eyes.
Much like his airship, New York cast Asenov off as a old relic from a forgotten time. Asenov’s victories in the First American War were only sixteen years ago! To think he was now stationed in the occupied territories of the Caribbean, bombing rebels to hell and back.
Standing high above the rest of the bridge on his command platform, Asenov smiled to himself confidently. Contrary to what the Department of War thought back home, the Second American War would be coming. Asenov spent the last ten years bringing order to New York's Caribbean Mandates. Just when he thought the job was about done, the revolutionary wave from South America reached the Mandates, and Asenov now had to deal with guerillas in the hills and mountains of his islands. But Asenov was a fighter. He would defeat these rebels, securing Brazil’s northern flank, and in the event of war, the Brazilians could immediately move north and neutralize the Gulf States Confederation or whomever New England brought on its side.
To Asenov’s mind, the Treaty of Rochester that ended the First American War was not a peace treaty at all; it was just an armistice for twenty years. And he wanted to be back on the frontlines when the Second American War inevitably arrived.
The voice of Lieutenant Fitzpatrick brought Asenov out of his thoughts. His tall adjutant saluted the general. “Sir, we’re approaching the target.”
“Good,” Asenov said. “Launch the parasites.”
Fitzpatrick nodded and turned back to his control station. He barked Asenov’s orders into a voice tube that carried the command all the way down to the hangar.
Five minutes later, through the glass windows, Asenov watched them go; ten Javits-class parasite fighters flew off over the hills, towards the rebel village. Again, relics from an older age, but Asenov felt proud of them all the same. Painted blue to match the sky, these old planes, slightly more advanced than the rudimentary biplanes of the First American War, soared daintily in the sky, bringing a promise of death with them as they flew.
The Mantle continued forward after its parasite fighters; the airship was only needed to transport the majority of New York’s planes in the Caribbean to their target, so with that job finished, it could have stuck around in place, but Asenov wanted to see the results first hand.
As they approached the village, Asenov saw that it was a small little thing; even on the ground it would appear that way. According to local intelligence, the village was filled with mud-hut guerillas, the bane of any occupying foreign power for centuries. The only way to break an enemy that could blend into the forests and hills would be to break them entirely. And that’s what Azenov intended to do.
By the time those on the airship could see the target, several fighters had already made their strafing runs. Raging infernos covered most of the village; return fire via small-arms on the ground failed to strike any the planes that circled around in the sky. An antique Soviet 76 mm anti-aircraft gun at the back of the village soon joined in; despite being over two hundred years old, it still could send shells upwards, which exploded into black clouds near several planes. One of the Javits swooped downwards and strafed at the battery with its machine guns; the 76 mm did not fire again.
Asenov wondered if the sight of the Mantle broke the moral of the rebels down below. Could ideology withstand the sight of overwhelming power in the form of an airship? If not, could it withstand the sight of overwhelming power in the form of Lewisite?
While nominally fighters, several of the Javits had been modified by Asenov's engineers to carry with them several gravity bombs containing chemical weapons purchased from renegade Mexican generals. Those modified fighters, having awaited their turn, now roared over the village, dropping their payloads.
Multiple explosions shook the ground; already on fire, already under machine gun fire courtesy of the planes, the village now had to withstand bombing runs. Asenov imagined the rebels, clutching their Doctrine of the Coming Centripetalist World Order close their chests, hunkering down to avoid all the attacks, only to now realize they had no chance of escape.
A cloud of musty-looking yellow gas soon blanketed the village. The planes all returned to the mothership, their job well done.
Fitzpatrick observed the same sight through a window. “Think there were any civilian casualties?”
Fitzpatrick and Asenov looked at each other, then broke into rare smiles.
Several planes flew past the windows of the bridge. Asenov nodded at the pilots, who flew by in a blur.
“Once they’re back inside, rearm the planes,” Asenov commanded. “Conventional weapons only.” He looked over at several other crewmen on the bridge. “Set a course for Humaka on the eastern end of the island. Get the paratroopers ready.”
The bridge men nodded and got to work.
Asenov smiled. “Once we seize Humaka, we can start rebuilding the airfield there. Then we can work our way down the island chain all the way to South America. The Caribbean is ours! Autonomous rule for our islands? A logistical nightmare for when the Second American War breaks out!”
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The general gripped the railings of his platform tightly. “And just think! A New York colonial empire! A true place in the sun for us. And when we’ve finally succeeded, all of us outcasts, we’ll return as heroes!”
The bridge members raised their hands and cheered at the impromptu speech.
The Mantle lumbered onwards across a gray sky.
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Sitting behind his desk on the bridge, Asenov looked through the windows. Down below, he saw a sea of white parachutes, his paratroopers descending into the thoroughly-destroyed village of Humaka. Once landed, they would seize the nearby ridge line and make quick work of any remaining resistance in the area.
And once he secured Puerto Rico...Asenov leaned back in his seat, thinking of home, thinking of the events of the last few years. The first cracks that ever appeared in the friendship between Asenov the general and Murphy the politician appeared in the days following New England’s agreement to an armistice that ended the First American War.
In a tree-lined avenue on the suburban side of New York that hadn’t been exposed to the Edward Winslow Gun, aerial bombardment, or chemical weaponry during the war, the houses and mansions still looked quite nice. Old brick structures seemed rather idyllic considering the three years of warfare.
A black car, a well-maintained Moses Model - the pride and joy of the New York automotive industry - stopped in front of the home of Undersecretary for War Seamus Murphy, second-in-command of the New York government's Department of War. The chauffer put the car in park and Asenov stepped out, ready to hear Murphy’s agreement to his postwar plan for New England.
The complete disarmament of New England and destruction of its ability to wage war. The complete destruction of its ability to industrialize. The permanent dissolution of New England into its six states, with their economies and foreign affairs controlled by the Unified Pact in general and New York in particular.
No more wars would ever threaten New York. Never again.
After Asenov rang the doorbell, a butler greeted him and allowed him inside. Asenov himself had a spartan apartment down in the district of Manhattoe, but Murphy evidently enjoyed living in luxury. Both old and new paintings decorated fresh white walls, fire crackled in a well-kept fireplace, and Asenov passed under a large chandelier as he followed the butler to Murphy’s office.
Asenov narrowed his eyes. He knew Murphy held large investments in several munitions companies, but out of courtesy to their friendship that began in their university days, he let the matter pass.
The butler knocked on a closed door; Murphy called them inside. The butler let the general in, then shut the door, leaving the two men alone.
Murphy rose from his desk. He was of medium height and a stocky built, his brown hair neat and combed, framed spectacles over his eyes. “Donovan,” he greeted Asenov informally, shaking his hand.
He sat back down and gestured to an empty chair. “Please, take a seat. Make yourself at home.”
Asenov put his arms behind his back. “With all due respect, this is a serious matter. I’d rather stand.”
An awkward silence hung in the room for a moment. Murphy ran a hand through his hair. “As you wish. This serious matter...I’m assuming it’s about the Surrender Program you proposed?”
“Have you brought it up to the President?”
Murphy exhaled. “Briefly. But...he shared my concerns with it.”
Asenov raised an eyebrow. “Concerns?”
Murphy nodded. “Donovan...your plan...you’d enslave an entire people.”
“Yes,” Asenov simply confirmed. “That’s the purpose of the Surrender Program. The complete eradication of New England as an independent state and their elimination to wage war.”
“That’s far out there as it is, but your plan goes even beyond that.” Murphy looked through the papers on his desk. “Your plans calls for the complete removal of all heavy and light industry from New England. You’d destroy their mines and factories and force all engineers and anyone with industrial knowledge to leave the country.”
“Yes," Asenov repeated.
“Donovan...” Murphy sighed. “You’d only leave them the land. New England’s agriculture can’t support its entire population. You’re looking at the deaths of tens of millions. We’d starve an entire people.”
“Some will survive,” Asenov countered, anger growing in his voice.
“Yes...to serve as serfs for your New York homesteaders and settlers. Donovan...to put this frankly, this is insane. Eradicate all New England culture? The elimination of all of their schools, with only select, talented individuals taken from their families and allowed to be educated and work back in New York? That would render your serfs illiterate, which I suppose is your point.”
“New England poses far too much of a danger for us to allow them any sort of power,” Asenov explained. “Keeping them as our peasants and servants is the only method that will ensure a permanent peace.”
“Donovan...they’re still our countrymen.” Murphy smiled. “We’re both still Americans. We need to work on turning them into our friends. We can’t do that if we implement your program.”
“Seamus...to put this frankly, you’re naïve.” Asenov took a step closer to Murphy and looked down upon him. “It’s been nearly two hundred years since America collapsed. We are no longer countrymen in any sense of the word. There’s only us and them. We need to destroy them before they destroy us.” He lowered his head towards Murphy’s. “Twenty years. If we don’t implement this program, they will destroy us in twenty years.”
Murphy looked back at his desk. “I appreciate the historical parallels. If you can understand that, then you should understand your program is nothing more than a nightmare mixture out of the 1940s.”
Asenov kept his composure as Murphy's face turned red. The general spoke clearly and firmly. “This is for the sake of our democracy and people.”
Murphy slammed his fist on the desk. “Democracies don’t exterminate people! We’re better than that. I know New England threw some unconventional attacks at us during the war, but we decimated Narragansett by the end as well. And besides, we do have alternatives for finding the peace we all want to find.”
He pointed at another stack of papers on his desk. “The new Quinetucket government has been most cooperative so far. New England will hold its first democratic elections in history next year, and we already have observers and officials in place to make sure the process goes smoothly. And beyond that, we have the Unified Pact.”
He looked out the window. “The world’s powers, all allied to uphold the democratic world order. New York, Carolina, the Midwest, Mexico, Brazil, England, Germany, and Italy, bound together to activate in the defense of democracy when it's threatened anywhere on earth.”
Asenov narrowed his eyes. “The Unified Pact isn’t worth more than the paper it was printed on. The Remnant States rejected the offer to join, and can you really expect nations on other continents to go to war if, for example, Michigan tries to reclaim the Upper Peninsula, or the Gulf States try to reclaim Oklahoma? Would New York really go to war to defend Europe from the Triple Kingdom or France? And if I recall correctly, over a billion people are ruled by the dictatorships of Pan-Asia and East Africa. What if they provide a threat to democracy elsewhere?”
Murphy sighed. “It’s true. The plan isn’t perfect. But no plan is. But it’s not a plan that calls for the extermination of millions, and that automatically makes it a better plan.”
Asenov grunted. “Your plans will fail, Murphy. I knew you were soft. I knew you and all the other politicians were soft. You all sat back here, while us soldiers actually fought the war. The soldiers won you your peace, and now you’ll deny them the right to organize the world order they died for?”
“It was us politicians who got you your supplies, got that English blockade, and got those German expeditionary forces when New York City was close to falling!” Murphy shook his head. “Get out, Donovan. Clear your head. Take some time to settle down and see things more clearly. If you keep acting like this, no matter how good your intentions may be, you’ll lose that peace you fought so hard for.”
Asenov let out a long, restrained sigh. “Twenty years, Seamus. If we fail to act now while we have the complete upper hand, the City will be in ruins.”
The general left, leaving Murphy and the politicians to set up the post-war order in North America.