Chapter 1

The old ruins of New York were silhouetted against the rising sun, a remnant of an era long gone. A symbol of old American power now lay silently just kilometers away from the glistening new capital of the new American order.

The Bastion, the State's capital, stood silently like a lone guard, watching over what remained of the United States. Its walls were silent, except for a lone soldier patrolling along an ever-repeating trail.

The Bastion was not a beautiful city by any standard. Metal and concrete towers, many resembling the dreary apartment blocks of Soviet times, stood as the stark and unadorned centers of the State's government. There was no green space for miles. The surrounding forests had been burned to ash, cleared to give the guards an unobstructed view of their surroundings. Landing pads and massive concrete parking areas were packed with vehicles of all kinds—tanks, cars, airplanes. Soldiers in dark brown camouflage marched up and down the streets, while even more stood watch at checkpoints scattered throughout the city.

The citizens of Bastion were almost as dreary as its buildings. Their movements were slow and cautious, their eyes carefully avoiding contact with anyone passing by. In bars and pubs, the atmosphere was subdued, stifled by the ever-growing number of cameras mounted on the walls. Movies and theaters played only propaganda productions, their messages inescapable.

In the middle of Bastion stood a second wall, painted jet black, with mounted floodlights that turned night into day. At its three entry points, old American tanks stood guard—once-mighty M1 Abrams, now relics of a fallen empire. Anyone wishing to enter this inner circle, the Governance District, needed a brightly colored card embedded with a chip, marking them as one of the Privileged. But if a fake was presented, the soldiers executed the offender in cold blood.

President Dalton, the state's unelected leader, stood on a balcony overlooking the Governance District. The building itself, a defense ministry, was a skyscraper designed in the early 21st century style, with steel and glass walls. The skyscraper housed over 5,000 employees, ranging from bureaucrats to intelligence chiefs. On the top floor sat the lavish office of the Minister of Defense, a small man who saw himself as a modern Napoleon. The minister sat at his desk, patiently awaiting the president's return of attention.

The president turned around and glanced at his defense minister. "Who are we waiting for?" he demanded.

The minister laughed nervously. "Intelligence Chief, the Chairman, and General Auston," he replied. "They're never on time. I'll need to have a word with them. Can I offer you a drink?"

"That will not be necessary, Jake," the president said as he took a seat across from his minister and crossed his legs. He ignored the minister and picked up a file from the desk. "What's this?"

"Oh, that's nothing, sir, just a report on a patrol," Jake said with a smile, quickly reaching for the sheet of paper.

The president quickly pulled the file away and began to read. His eyes darted across the pages, his face set in stone. Finally, a thin smile formed on his lips. He put the sheet of paper down and looked at the minister, who seemed to shrink under his gaze.

"Ah, Minister, in our last briefing you told me that the rebellion was crushed," the president said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

"No, Mr. President. I definitely told you that we had a minor insurgent movement," the minister replied, a hint of fear creeping into his voice.

"Oh, so now I'm a liar, eh, Minister?" the president said in a dangerously low tone.

"You, Mr. President? No, no, no. Of course not. Wait until General Auston comes, he was at the briefing, he'll tell you," the minister said, chuckling nervously.

The president moved to the side of the room, where a bunch of boxes were stacked on a few tables. He looked at the first one and found an old revolver. The minister was a dedicated collector of antique American firearms, particularly revolvers, and owned many more at home. The president knew that the minister often siphoned funds from the state's army to purchase new, authentic, and rare pieces for his collection. He picked up the revolver and noted it was a beautifully maintained Smith & Wesson Model 19.

"This is a beautiful Model 19, Jake. Where did you get it?" the president asked, carefully checking that the gun wasn't empty.

"Oh, that one is a beautiful model indeed. I got it at an auction here in Bastion. Paid quite a hefty price," the minister said with pride, clearly pleased that the president had taken an interest in his collection.

"Beautiful, as I've said. You're lucky to own a piece like this," the president said, checking that the sight was aligned.

"If you'd like to shoot it, there's a shooting range down in the basement. I have a factory here in Bastion make ammunition for the Model 19," the minister grinned. "Might as well do something productive while we wait for the others to arrive."

The president smiled and gestured toward the door. "Lead the way, Jake."

The minister beamed and made his way to the door.

"If you'll just follow me..."

His last words died on his lips as a shot rang out, hitting him in the chest. He stumbled forward and collapsed, his vision blurring. Looking up, he saw the president standing over him, a revolver in his hands.

"Jake, I will admit that you have great taste. This revolver handles amazingly. I can't wait to see your other pieces," the president smiled, aiming for the middle of the poor man's forehead.

"Sir, please..." the minister said weakly, but was cut off by a violent fit of coughing. Blood trickled from his mouth, and he raised his hands as if they could shield him from the inevitable shot.

The president only smiled, raising the revolver higher.

"Thank you for your service."

Another shot rang out, hitting the minister square in the middle of his forehead. A second later, a group of agents charged through the doors, weapons at the ready. When they saw the president pointing the gun at the now-dead Minister of Defense, they quickly holstered their pistols and adopted neutral, disinterested expressions. Their captain looked at the president, waiting for his orders.

"The gun carries a little bit too much to the side," the president said, glancing at the captain. The captain simply nodded, his gaze shifting to the body. The president followed his look and smiled. "Get rid of him. I don't want him bothering us anymore."

"Yes, sir," the captain nodded and quickly gestured to the waiting agents, signaling them to pick up the body and carry it outside the office. Four agents stepped forward, grabbing him by the arms and legs, and swiftly carried the corpse out, leaving a trail of blood behind them. The remaining agents followed, the captain taking up the rear.

The president glanced through some of the other boxes. Most contained guns—some classic revolvers, others rumored to have been owned by famous people of the past. Not that he cared about the past. There was only the future. Weak people looked at the past, and frankly, the minister had been weak.

Soon, three people entered the room. Leading the group was the Chairman. He was tall and thin, his brown skin indicating Mexican ancestry, complemented by his black hair. The Chairman was one of the most important figures in Bastion, heading what was known as the "Parliament." But the president knew better—it was nothing more than a charade, a way to give the peasants a false sense of power to quell major unrest. It was the Chairman's job to control the representatives of the people. Behind him walked General Auston, the Commander-in-Chief of Bastion's military. The president had always liked Auston—he understood the true nature of power and war. An ex-Special Forces operative, Auston had enlisted in the military just before the bombs fell. Lucky not to be caught among the casualties, he had reorganized his unit and eventually formed Bastion's first defensive and Special Forces units. Bringing up the rear was the Director, the head of Bastion's intelligence agency. Though powerful, the Director was too brutal for the president's taste. He could spend hours torturing an insurgent for information without blinking. Ruthless, yes, but he lacked the delicate touch the president prided himself on. Still, the Director held the power and resources to erase anyone, including the president, if he so wished.

The President acknowledged the newcomers with a nod. They all nodded back and took their seats. The President quickly went over to the Minister's alcohol cabinet and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. He poured a healthy shot into four glasses and handed them around the room. He settled behind the desk and took a long sip of his drink. He raised his glass in a toast to his coworkers. They did the same and drank the remaining contents of their glasses.

"A good whiskey our Minister had. Very good," the President said, carefully leaning back in his seat.

"What happened to our good Minister?" the Chairman asked, shooting the President an accusing look.

"He gave me his resignation," the President shrugged.

"It's easy to accept a resignation, but harder to explain the reason to the representatives," the Chairman shook his head. "I just ask that you think carefully before accepting someone's resignation."

Auston quickly jumped in, "Let's not forget that the Minister was merely a scapegoat. I've got a few hundred young officers eager to prove themselves. They're easy enough to control and will do their job." He smiled at the President, who, after a brief pause, nodded.

"Great! I will choose one and send you his file once I've done so," the General replied.

"Gentlemen..." the Director's voice cut through the room, demanding attention. "Let's not forget why we met here today. Now, Auston and I already know, but I believe you would be interested to hear it."

"You have my attention, Director," the Chairman said, his voice steady as he looked at the Director. President, however, just closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair.

"Dalton? Are you still with us?" The Director's voice was sharp, his ice-cold stare fixed on the President.

President opened his eyes slowly, meeting the Director's gaze with a chilling calm. "Of course I am, Director," he said, his tone as frosty as the Director's. He made sure to emphasize the last word, allowing the weight of it to hang in the air.

A thin smile curled on the President's lips as he returned the Director's icy stare. The Director's grin faltered for a moment before he turned his gaze toward Auston. The tension in the room was palpable as the Director, clearly sensing the delicate balance of power, shifted his focus.

"Auston, could you tell the news to the President and Chairman?" Director quickly asked, his eyes darting between the two men in the room.

"Fine by me, Director." General Auston straightened up, his commanding presence filling the room. "So, as you all know, the Bastion is one of the last strongholds of civilization in the world. We have a few smaller semi-civilized nations left, but for the most part, we've believed that in other parts of the world, there were only scattered local communities, mostly incapable of posing a threat to us."

"General, I'm noticing that you used the past tense of 'believe.' What exactly are you trying to say?" Chairman quickly raised his hand and looked at the Director.

"Five days ago, one of our submarines went to the European west coast. They spotted shipping on their way, both military as well as civilian. They intercepted some SIGINT—that's how we called signal intelligence in the old American army—indicating that there was a prosperous and functional nation there," Auston explained.

The room was silent. Nobody dared to comment. The President remained calm and showed no sign of reacting to what had just been revealed. The Chairman was visibly shocked by the fact that they were not alone. The President looked at the General, and his eyes seemed worried.

"What are their capabilities? How did they survive the Armageddon? Are there others?" the President asked in a flat tone.

The Director picked up from here.

"I think the answer to your second question is perhaps the most important. There was no Armageddon. Only the USA was targeted. From the intelligence we managed to obtain, we have learned that the nuclear strike was specifically aimed at removing the USA. They didn't target Europe."

"From a strategic standpoint, this makes sense. The United States was much more dangerous to them than Europe, which would fracture as soon as the USA fell. The European economy and military were so dependent on the USA that by destroying the US military and economy, they would do the same with Europe. It's a good old 'Two birds, one stone' situation. They spent fewer nukes for the same result," Auston concluded.

The President remained silent. His mind was working a hundred miles an hour. There were too many questions, too many variables. The President was a man who had to control all the cards. If he didn't, he made it so.

"What are their capabilities, General?" the President insisted.

Auston looked unsettled and unsure.

"Mr. President, we are not sure. We don't know how big this nation is, its population, or its economic and military capabilities. The last time we heard from Europe was before the nukes began to fall. That was more than half a decade ago. Things have changed. We don't know what to expect."

The room remained silent for a long time. Each of them was lost in their own thoughts. The Chairman went to the liquor cabinet, poured himself another drink, and downed it in one motion. The Director looked like he was carved from stone, and the President seemed deep in thought.

The silence stretched for too long. The Chairman attempted to say something, but the President held up his hand. He made it clear that there would be no talking for some time. The Chairman awkwardly sat down and looked at Auston for help. Auston just slightly shook his head.

The President seemed deep in thought. He wasn't sure what to do next. Attack? Pretend that they didn't exist? Stay on the defensive? He was always a man with a clear sense of what he should do, but now, now he didn't know. This country was an enigma. An enigma that was very hard to solve.

He glanced at his advisors, the people who controlled the State. He was the glue that held them together; otherwise, they would descend into conflict. He knew that. He was the leader. And he had to continue acting like one, like those old-world Presidents. He had to show them the path forward.

"Gentlemen, this is what I think we should do. First," he held up one finger, "this stays between us for now. Chairman, keep your cool in the Parliament. If they ask, it was one of our ships. Second," he held up a second finger, "we will start with a massive espionage operation. We need to know their capabilities, their strengths, and their weaknesses. Director, I believe you are more than capable of pulling this off." The Director grinned and nodded. "And lastly," the President put up a third finger, "we will begin nothing less than the full mobilization of our forces. All of our factories are, from now on, to be on a war footing. We will mobilize personnel. I want extreme focus on the Navy. It will be crucial as our first line of either defense or offense."

Auston didn't look convinced.

"And with what reason will we begin mobilization?" he asked the President.

President just smiled. He looked around the room, his smile even wider now.

"Before the nuclear bombs existed, there was a nation, led by a man. Now, this man knew that he couldn't take control of the nation merely through a ballot box. He knew he would need more. So, he became a Chancellor. And prepared a show for his people. He burned the Parliament and blamed his political enemies. We..." President paused and looked around. Chairman's face looked pale, and Auston looked unsure of where this was going. The Director was the only one who appeared pleased. "We will burn down the Parliament, like Hitler burned the Reichstag. Chairman, you will set the fire to the building, maybe even during session."

Chairman looked even more pale. He shook his head violently. He backed away from the President and carefully sat down. He buried his head in his hands and began shaking.

"No, no, no... Dalton, you can't," Chairman said in a very weak voice.

"You're right, I can't. But you can," President grinned.

Chairman looked at Auston and Director for help. Director had an expression of complete indifference, while Auston looked at him with pity.

"And what? I will be yet another scapegoat? Another Minister of Defence?" Chairman asked, looking at the President, begging him to call the thing off. But deep down, he knew that wouldn't happen.

"That depends on you. If we can't blame you, we won't... so think about how to proceed," President replied.

Chairman didn't move. President indicated for Director and General to leave the building. Director strode out. President was right behind him. General stopped at the door and looked at the broken man behind him. He took one last look, knowing that Chairman was doomed. Then, he shut the door behind him.

***

President approached the motorcade that would take him back to his residence. As he was just about to step into his vehicle, he noticed the captain of his guard looking at him. He went toward him and saw the captain stiffen a little.

"Keep an eye on the Chairman. He is needed for now. When you see him doing anything suspicious, make sure you film it. You'll know when the time comes," President ordered the captain.

The captain nodded and said, "Yes, sir," then left toward his own vehicle, no doubt on his way to carry out his orders.

As President entered his vehicle, he couldn't shake the feeling of anxiety. He knew that conflict would come. He just hoped that it would be with the State positioned in power, in a position of victory.

The car's door slammed shut, and the convoy moved out in the direction of the President's residence.

***

The captain parked in a forgotten parking lot in the middle of the ruins of New York. The radiation had settled, and it wasn't necessary to wear any protective gear. However, he still had a suit in the back, ready to protect him if his Geiger counter detected an increased level of radiation.

He stepped out of the car, marveling for a second at New York's architecture, wondering how the city looked before the bombing. He could envision lively parks and bustling streets—something the Bastion lacked.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by a cough. He looked over his shoulder and saw an old man approaching him. The old man looked toward the Bastion.

"Any news?" the old man asked simply.

"Yeah, the Chairman could be useful to us. I'll meet you here when I know where and when he's on the road again," the captain replied.

The old man looked at him and then nodded.

"Very well. But you're still in debt," the old man said, turning around and walking toward the shadows.

"I know, and I always will be," the captain said quietly as he went to his car. He opened the door, started the engine, and drove off toward the Bastion.

The old man entered a building and sat down behind his cup of tea. He took a sip and looked in the direction of the departing car, a twinkle in his eyes.

"She would be proud..." he said to himself and took another sip of his drink.