Diminished Capacity Pt. 01

by G. Lawrence

The cover-up

This is a crime novel originally published in 2017 and is now being revised. The story ultimately turns into a romance of sorts, but there are strange plots and fantastic adventures before it gets there. Though portions of the book do cross into nudity and sex, this is not intended as an erotic novel. If someone compares this to pulp fiction stories, they are not wrong. All characters are over 18 years old.

* * * * * *

Mr. Daniel Palmer

Palmer Publishing

New York, NY

Dear Mr. Palmer,

Enclosed is the manuscript we spoke of. I appreciate you giving it your full consideration. I think we owe it to Jack. Very sincerely yours, Patricia Blair

* * * * * *

Chapter One

THE COVER-UP

I woke up on the cold floor of an interrogation room. Handcuffed. Wearing a bright red jumpsuit. There was no memory of how long I'd been there. Or how I got there. I heard voices from the hall, beyond an open door. Someone was saying I shot the President of the United States. I considered that unlikely.

"He's awake again," a man in a gray flannel suit said, his black beady eyes peering through the half-open door.

Three burly Baltimore police officers entered, lifted me into a steel chair, and handcuffed me to a table. They left, replaced by two men in dark blue suits. I guessed them as government agents, perhaps FBI. They looked tired, frustrated, and angry with me. I had never seen either of them before.

"Ready to talk now?" said the older of the two, a heavyset man in his fifties with bulging blue eyes and thinning hair.

"Talk about what, sir?" I replied.

I still felt sleepy. My mind fogged. I had no peripheral vision.

"Why did you shoot the President?" he asked.

"And who are you? Who helped you? Are you part of a terrorist plot?" the other agent eagerly inquired, a dark, slender bureaucrat with an ambitious gaze.

All good questions.

I leaned back as far as the restraints would let me, studying the situation. I'd been in enough trouble over the years to avoid speaking rashly. I wondered if the blackouts I'd been having for the last month had caused me to do something unfortunate. Or was I being framed? Had they found me passed out somewhere and assumed I shoot presidents?

"Is the President alive?" I inquired.

"We'll ask the questions," the older agent said, his puffy white face and scraggily gray beard reminding me of an Ohio farmer. The only color he had was in his cheeks, which were much too red.

"Then you can also answer them, too," I responded, looking away.

"The President is in critical condition. The doctors aren't sure if he'll make it," the younger agent said, his Boston accent educated. Harvard?

"Why do you think I shot the President?" I asked.

"Having the gun in your hand was a clue," Harvard answered.

"I'd like my phone call now," I calmly said.

"And what if we say no?" the gray-beard threatened.

"Have I been read my rights?" I asked.

"You know you have. More than once," the older guy said, staring at me with impatience.

I didn't remember.

"My phone call," I insisted.

They left the room, leaving the door open. There were at least a dozen anxious officials milling around in the police station corridor. I noticed a young woman with long brown hair and big brown eyes wearing a Secret Service badge. She was whispering with a tall young FBI agent with a flattop haircut. A moment later, a female police sergeant brought in an old-fashioned push button phone, put it on the table with a disinterested grunt, and closed the door as she left. I assumed I was being watched through the mirrored wall. That's how it always works on TV.

It took me a moment to recall the number. It had been two years since I'd left the service, and it wasn't a time I wanted to go back to. The connection was instant, the exchange reading my passcode. A recorded voice asked for the purpose of the call.

"Lawrence, John H. 029. Requesting Mr. Jennings," I slowly said.

"Jack?" a voice said a moment later.

"Yes, Colonel," I replied. "There is a problem."

"So we've heard," Colonel Collin Fowler said, his Midwestern accent gruff.

"Initiate the protocol," I requested.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm sorry about this, sir."

"Good luck, son."

I hung up. If the investigators redialed the number, all they would get is a disconnected line. It would create suspicions, but suspicions are not evidence.

Only the older FBI agent reentered the room, closing the door. His name tag read Andrew Tustin. I wondered if he expected to beat a confession out of me. It wouldn't work. I'd been beaten before.

"You're out of time. Start talking or it will go bad for you," Agent Tustin said, taking the seat across from me.

It was possibly the most absurd thing anyone had ever said to me, and it didn't go over well.

"It will go bad for me?" I asked.

"Very bad," Tustin insisted.

"Let me get this straight," I said, leaning close. "I'm being held for shooting the President of the United States. You seem confident I'm guilty. If he dies, it will be a death penalty offense. Some would think that already puts me in a lot of trouble. But if I don't talk to you now, I'll be in more trouble?"

"That's right," he answered, staring at me with expectation.

"I think you need to leave before I get mad."

"Yeah? And what will happen if you get mad?" he said, mocking me.

"I'll burn this government to the ground," I replied.

Austin grinned, at first. I wasn't smiling. I looked up at the big mirror, knowing others were listening.

"Let's be clear," I said, gazing at my unseen audience. "If I did this, I acted alone. Why is none of your goddamn business. But I could say it's a conspiracy. I could say the Secret Service gave me access to the President. I could say the FBI blackmailed me into committing the assassination. I could say the Vice President knows the truth and is covering it up. Once I start making accusations, the truth won't matter. The country will believe everything and nothing. I have the power here, not you. So, get this fucking idiot out of my face and send in those two kids I saw in the hall."

The door opened and a grim-visaged supervisor waved the chagrined agent out of the room. I put my head down on the table to rest and was soon fast asleep.

They woke me again. I was lying on the floor of the interrogation room, curled in the corner. I had no sense of time but guessed it had been about an hour. The two youngsters I'd requested had arrived, which surprised me, for I had not expected the veteran agents to permit it. I slowly got back into the chair. My hands were cuffed in front of me, but they did not shackle me to the table as they had before. That was a mistake, for if I really was the criminal they thought me to be, I could have hurt them both.

"Mr. Lawrence?" the female agent said.

They had made progress by discovering my name. Hopefully not too much progress.

"Miss McGuire," I replied, seeing the name on her Secret Service badge.

She was white, young, and in her early twenties. About 5'6" with dark brown hair. Probably fresh from Rowley. Her charcoal gray business suit was crisp and professional. Her FBI companion was Hispanic, six feet tall, and about twenty-five years old. The flattop haircut didn't quite suit him. He had probably graduated from Quantico a few years before, though it was only a guess. His rumpled brown suit needed dry cleaning.

"Agent Alberto Ruiz," he introduced, reaching to shake hands before catching himself.

"How may I help you?" I said.

"You can tell us about shooting the President," McGuire replied, her eyes searching. These kids were under great pressure to get results, though I would be forced to disappoint them.

"Am I the type who shoots presidents?" I asked.

McGuire put her tablet on the table, reading an update.

"John Henry Lawrence, age twenty-seven. Goes by Jack. Caucasian, 6'1, 180 pounds. Brown hair, brown eyes. Attended Farragut High School in Philadelphia. Middling grades before dropping out. There are no records for you before age fourteen, and your birth certificate is fake. Served four years in the Army. Georgia, South Carolina, Texas. Mostly in supply. Given a general discharge. For the last two years, you've worked for National First Responders. Your NFR records indicate a reckless personality. You have a reputation as a loner and complainer. You resent authority."

I breathed a sigh of relief. The cover story had made it into the system before my real military record became known. It would not do to reveal I'd fought in the Second Afghan War and later served in military intelligence. Better to have them think me a disgruntled file clerk. And somehow, Colonel Fowler had changed my high school GPA from 4.0 to 2.0, which would help the deception. As for a lack of records before turning fourteen and the fake birth certificate, that was true.

"You seem to have discovered my secrets, Miss McGuire," I said. "May I call you Alex?"

"If you must," Alexandra said, seeking to establish trust. As she'd been trained.

"Thank you, Missy," I said, making her frown. "And you, Mr. Ruiz? Should I call you Al?"

"I think you are messing with us, Mr. Lawrence," Ruiz said.

He did not have a Hispanic accent. More Chicago. I had lived there for a time, when I was eight, while working my way to New York City.

"What scenario leads you to believe me guilty of this crime?" I said, for I had little to go on.

"You should be telling us," Ruiz said.

"Please indulge me," I replied.

McGuire turned her tablet around so I could see the screen. Their information was spotty, at best. If my intelligence reports during the war had been so incomplete, they'd have withdrawn my security clearance. I noticed the time on her watch. It was 4:30, presumably in the afternoon.

"You were stalking President Blair when he arrived at Jackson Park this morning," McGuire recounted.

I remembered Jackson Park, though I hadn't been there since Francie died. Lots of trees. A large grass lawn used for public events. Not far from Chesapeake Bay. They had an image of me standing in the crowd near the rope line as the President and First Lady walked by. My hair was uncombed. There was a two-day-old beard. I rubbed my chin, discovering I hadn't shaved recently.

"For some reason, you let the President pass by even though you were only a few feet away," McGuire continued. "The President gave his speech, and while returning to the limo, you shot him at a distance of sixty feet. The bullet hit him in the neck, severing his spinal column."

The story was a bit incredible. My marksman skills in the Army had been fair, with a rifle. As a medic who had skipped basic training, I had rarely touched a handgun. I'd be lucky to hit a barn at sixty feet, let alone a moving target.

I spent a moment watching the video. It had been an informal rally, about a thousand spectators in the park as the President spoke from a low stage. Not everyone in the audience was enthusiastic, for Blair's plan to resume combat operations in Afghanistan was meeting with resistance. There was no footage of me actually firing a gun; only a restless crowd.

"The weapon?" I asked.

McGuire brought up a new image on her tablet, causing me to catch my breath. I recognized the gun, a Smith & Wesson.38 Special. I'd last seen it in a shoebox on the top shelf of my hall closet.

"We've traced the gun to Dr. Francis Norton, deceased," Ruiz said. "How did you acquire it?"

"His daughter gave it to me," I answered.

"Yes, Francie Norton. Registered nurse, also deceased. She and her father were killed in an auto accident two months ago," Ruiz said.

It wasn't an accident, though I declined to explain.

"How did you know Francie Norton?" McGuire asked.

"We were engaged," I whispered. I did not tell them she was carrying my child.

"Is that why you shot the President? Lashing out at the world?" Ruiz asked.

"It's a good theory," I replied. "I'm tired now. Do you have a cell for me to rest in?"

"We still have more questions," Ruiz insisted.

"And I can invoke my 5th Amendment privilege if you make me," I replied.

The agents nodded. They had established my connection to the alleged murder weapon. It was a victory for them. I needed time to think.

* * * * * *

I woke up in a cold sweat. It was the strangest dream. I was standing in a restless mob under a cloudy sky. There was yelling, but I couldn't tell what anyone was saying. People were crowding me. Pushing. Shoving. A loud noise. A moving figure in the distance disappeared. There was a gun lying at my feet. Someone knocked me down. Then I was suddenly back in my cell, on the floor, huddled under the cot. I got up to wash my face in the sink. My hands were trembling.

Every few minutes, Baltimore police officers walked by checking in on me. I began watching them, looking for a particular type of personality, and finally found my mark.

"Sir, may we speak?" I asked a portly officer on the graveyard shift.

"What do you need?" he said, sounding like he was from New Jersey.

The name tag read Officer William Boyd. He looked to be in his late forties, the thin black hair tinging gray on the sides. His uniform was old, meaning his career had stalled. He was bored. Probably cheating on his wife. He'd be hungry for recognition.

"Following the investigation?" I asked.

"Whole damn world is following the investigation."

"Not me," I mentioned.

"Can't give you a TV set," he said.

"Don't want one. But if the Feds are closing in on me, I'd like to know what they've got. Interested in an arrangement?"

"Such as?"

"Let me know what they've gathered. Places, names, timetables. I'm pretty sure I'll get away with this, but if it looks like they've got me dead to rights, I'll confess. And give you the credit."

"Why would you do that?" he wisely asked.

"I hate the Feds," I answered.

Boyd nodded. I was sure the FBI was throwing their weight around, and local cops are never happy about that. He probably hated them, too.

"I'll see what I can do," Boyd agreed.

* * * * * *

"Your lawyer is here," my regular guard said, opening the holding cell door.

A squat, bald Jewish man in his early seventies entered, followed by a lanky soldier with piercing gray eyes and a hawk nose. I'd never seen the lawyer before, but I recognized Colonel Collin Fowler, dressed as a civilian, who was my former contact with Army intelligence. Fowler was cleverly using the lawyer as a cover, even going so far as to wear a blue suit with a black tie.

"Mr. Lawrence, I am Aaron Baer of Farnsworth, Baer and Schmeling. This is my associate, Mr. Fowler," the lawyer said, reaching to shake my hand. "We have been appointed to represent you."

"Glad to meet you, sir. And you, Mr. Fowler," I said, indicating for them to sit.

The small room, painted in a pale green, had an aluminum table and three chairs. There was no mirrored wall. Mr. Baer carried a thick leather briefcase.

"As your lawyers, anything you say is protected by lawyer-client privilege. Is there anything you wish to tell us?" Mr. Baer said.

"I am anxious for the process to proceed expeditiously," I answered.

"What does that mean?" Mr. Baer asked.

"I appreciate your efforts, sir. And I apologize if I prove to be a poor client," I replied, for I really had no use for him.

"The FBI claims to be compiling a convincing case. If you're guilty, there may still be time to negotiate a plea bargain," Mr. Baer said. "If the President dies, they will likely seek the death penalty."

"May I speak with Mr. Fowler alone?" I requested.

"Sir?" Mr. Baer sputtered.

"It's okay, Aaron. Maybe the young man is afraid of old barristers," Fowler suggested, leading Baer to the door and pushing him out.

Fowler hadn't changed since our first meeting in Afghanistan five years before. Now middle-aged, he was my height, lean, with slick black hair and squinty hazel eyes. He returned to the table and activated an app on his cell phone.

"The room is screened. No one can eavesdrop," he confirmed. "What's this all about, Jack?"

"The cover story?" I asked.

"We've got the important parts in place, but it's going to take a lot of hard work to cover all your tracks. And there's going to be questions."

I stood up and shook the red cotton jumpsuit to hang better. My hands were cuffed in front of me, but I could still stretch my shoulders.

"Sir, the President may die. If he does, will Vice President Markham stop the deployment?"

"You shot Blair to stop the deployment? Look, son, I know the Remobilization is a mistake. Hell, everyone does, but --"

"Colonel, that's not what this is about. But with my background in intelligence, everyone is going to think I killed Blair on the Army's orders. It will look like a coup d'état. Do you remember my record before entering your service?"

"I didn't need a refresher course. You were a medic with the 144th Infantry. Field promotion to sergeant. Transferred to the 104th Rangers. Retired as first sergeant. And we wanted you to stay."

"You know why I couldn't."

"I know your reasons. Can't say I agree with them."

"The 104th should be remembered for taking the fight where no one else could go. For honorable service. For filling up hillsides at Arlington. They shouldn't be remembered as the guys who shot the President."

"Until the 104th's missions are declassified, no one can remember you at all," Fowler pointed out. "Those escapades are still off the books."

"That should make keeping a lid on this easier."

"Don't fool yourself. None of this is going to be easy."

"Sir, I don't want what I've done to disgrace the Army. It will cause chaos. Spawn endless conspiracy theories. The country doesn't need that. This protocol, painting me as a disaffected loner, is the only way to limit the damage."

Fowler took a moment to pace the room. He knew I was right.

"What about you?" he asked.

"I have no family. Only a few close friends. I've burned my bridges with National First Responders. If someone has to take the fall, I'm the perfect candidate."

"The fall?"

"Poor choice of words, sir," I corrected. "If I'm guilty of the crime, I acted alone. The responsibility is mine. There's no reason to take anyone else down with me."

"But why did you do it? Why in the hell would you shoot Blair?"

"That's not something I'm willing to discuss. Are you going to support me?"

"The protocols are going into place. Certain persons will be advised to remain quiet for national security reasons. Our hackers are altering records. But Jack, something this big won't stay secret forever. Even we don't have that kind of power."

"It doesn't need to be forever, sir. Just long enough," I replied.

"It's your game. We'll back you as long as we can."

"Thank you, sir," I said. "You can fire that lawyer now."

* * * * * *

Three days after the shooting in Jackson Park, a group of FBI agents brought me into the interrogation room. Though I had not listened to any media reports, I knew what they were going to say.

"Let the record show that on this day, May 23rd, the President died at 4:34 a.m. of a brain hemorrhage. You will be charged with his murder," the lead agent said, an older man in a wrinkled suit.

I didn't blame them for being angry. A president had been lost on their watch, and why was still a mystery. I hoped it would remain a mystery for a long time.

"Will I finally be indicted, or does Homeland Security get to have me?" I asked.

"Even a malcontent like you knows the Constitution forbids detaining a citizen indefinitely," a younger FBI agent said. She wore thick glasses, had her pale blonde hair cut short, and looked like a bookworm.

"I would like to speak with the prosecutors before the hearing," I requested.

"And tell them what?" the old guy said.

"I'll tell them they'll never get a conviction," I replied.

"And why is that?" bookworm girl asked.

"That's for them to hear. I have no time for minions."

"Give me five minutes with this guy. I'll wipe that smirk off his face," another agent said, a chiseled youngster with wide shoulders and big fists.

"Take these cuffs off, loudmouth. The five minutes will belong to me," I answered.

I was not making friends. I had no need for them now.

The next morning, I was driven to the Baltimore Federal Courthouse in an armored truck, shackled hand and foot in red coveralls and wearing a black baseball cap. Twenty U.S. Marshals in flak jackets surrounded me. Reporters lined the sidewalk, trying to take photos and shouting questions. It was all quite a fuss. After a few minutes in a holding cell, I was led to a conference room on the second floor and seated alone at an oak table. The walls were filled with old law books.

A television monitor was showing the excitement in the street out front. Angry crowds were waving signs, many calling for my execution. Others, who had not cared for President Blair, were protesting in my favor. Which I found inappropriate. It was bad enough the man was dead without insulting him further. When the video started showing scenes from Jackson Park, I looked away. With my mind a blank on that day, I didn't want my missing memories filled with random images.

"Mr. Lawrence," an overweight middle-aged lawyer said, wearing a light gray suit and pale red tie. His shaggy gray hair curled on the sides, and his double chin was covered in stubble.

Accompanying him was a tall, thin female in a black business dress, who I assumed was also a lawyer. She was about forty years old with streaky auburn hair hanging down to her slim shoulders. Two burly bailiffs in blue uniforms guarded the door. Both looked like hockey players.

"Mr. and Mrs. Prosecutor, I presume?"

"We've heard you like to joke," the fat man said, tossing a large file folder on the table bursting with legal documents.

"And that you're not very funny," the woman added. "My name is Sheila Rosenberg. This is Samuel Hemmings. We'll be representing the People. Where's your lawyer?"

"Yom Kippur," I said.

"Yom Kippur isn't until September," Rosenberg responded.

"My mistake."

"Mr. Lawrence, for someone looking at the death penalty, you seem to have a very cavalier attitude," Hemmings remarked.

"Death penalty? You won't even get a conviction," I said. "Six months from now, I'll walk out of this building a free man."

"How do you figure?" Hemmings asked.

"You've seen that mob out in front. Blair was hated. Once I list his war crimes in open court, you'll never find a jury to say I'm guilty. Try for the death penalty, and they won't even take you seriously."

"Do you think we're a couple of wimpy liberals? Afraid to prosecute you to the full extent of the law?" Rosenberg said, rising out of her chair. Her brown eyes were angry, the posture filled with insult.

"I think you're lawyers, which means cowards in my book," I replied. "You'll take the easy way out rather than embarrass yourselves. Your kind always does."

Hemmings leaned forward, waving a pudgy finger at me.

"We've got the murder weapon with your fingerprints on it," he said. "We have gunshot residue from your hand and sleeve. Witnesses saw you dropping the gun into the grass after the shot."

"And you've given us plenty of motive," Rosenberg chimed in. "You're going down for this. You're a fool if you think otherwise."

"All you've got is a theory, so save the theatrics. I'm not impressed," I said, turning to glance out the window.

They seemed like decent people. Sincere in wanting a fair trial. I did not enjoy badgering them. But if they suspected what I already knew, they'd ship me off to a psychiatric hospital and I'd spend the next fifty years in a straitjacket. And the country needed resolution for President Blair's death. His family needed closure. Delaying the trial while a bunch of eggheads debated criminal intent would serve no one.

"Mr. Hemmings, Miss Rosenberg, we seem to understand each other," I said. "Let the best argument win."

They packed up their legal briefs, one of which I guessed had been a plea offer, and scurried from the room, leaving the bailiffs to watch over me. I glanced around for something to read, passed on the Baltimore Sun, and found a copy of Sports Illustrated. The only magazine in the room without my picture or President Blair on the cover.

They didn't get me down to the large oak-paneled courtroom for another hour, a zoo of a place with two hundred onlookers, cable news reporters, and enough U.S. Marshals to attack the city. I was seated at a long table before the judge's bench, next to my new court-appointed attorney whose name I didn't know. The prosecutors were seated to my right, glaring at me from time to time.

"This court will come to order, the Honorable Miranda Smart presiding," the thick, bald bailiff announced.

Everybody stood up, though the shackles made it difficult for me. I heard whispering from the rows of seats behind me and was not surprised by the curiosity. This was, after all, my first public appearance. I was tempted to look back but didn't want to showboat.

The judge entered, an older overweight black lady with a wide face and maroon tinted hair. She took her seat, waited for the courtroom to settle down, and waved to the bailiffs to maintain order.

"Mr. Hemmings, are the People ready?" the judge asked, aware the entire country was watching.

"Yes, your Honor," Hemmings said.

"Is the defendant prepared?" Judge Smart inquired.

"Your Honor, if I may have a moment with my client," my new lawyer said.

"Granted," the judge agreed.

"I'm Wallace Bloom," he said, turning to look me in the eye. "Don't worry, this is just the arraignment. After you plead not guilty, we'll have time to discuss your case and come up with a strategy."

He was another traditional Jewish lawyer, with a sharp gaze and courteous manners. I supposed him to be a sixty-year-old New Yorker, modestly chubby, and finely dressed in a dapper brown suit. He had a habit of playing with his wire rim glasses.

"Thank you, sir," I said, declining to shake hands because of the handcuffs.

Mrs. Rosenberg came over with the official copy of the indictment. Mr. Bloom waved to a U.S. Marshal, who unlocked the cuffs from my belt so I could read it. Technically, I could have requested more time, for it was several pages long, but I didn't want the delay. I have never been good in crowds, and this one felt like it was closing in around me. My breath was growing short. I'd been brave up until then. The last thing I wanted was to lose my nerve in front of so many spectators.

Mr. Hemmings read the indictment to the court, reciting the evidence he'd mentioned in our meeting and some of the lesser details Officer Boyd had been feeding me. I found their case convincing. Hemmings waited until the end to announce the charge was first degree murder with special circumstances. The government was seeking the death penalty.

Mr. Bloom stirred next to me. Death penalty cases are big deals for lawyers, and this one would get plenty of attention. He may have felt overmatched. I noticed him beginning to twitch.

"Mr. Lawrence, how do you plead?" Judge Smart asked, looking down from her high bench.

Mr. Bloom started to stand. Was he going to answer on my behalf? I put out my hand to keep him seated and slowly rose to my feet, letting the jumpsuit settle on my shoulders, and glanced around the tiniest bit, seeing several FBI agents behind me in the front row. I took a deep breath, knowing this was the inevitable moment. I was scared but couldn't afford to show it.

"Your Honor, do I understand the government seeks to implement the death penalty for the President's murder?" I asked.

"That is their position, Mr. Lawrence," Judge Smart answered.

"On that basis, and that basis only, I plead guilty and request immediate sentencing," I said.

I sat down quickly. My knees were buckling. I put my hands in my lap, feeling my heart racing. The courtroom behind me exploded in surprise. I heard people jumping up. Someone was yelling. The bailiffs were running back and forth. To my right, I saw Rosenberg and Hemmings staring at me in wonderment. Sheila shook her head, saying, "What the fuck?"

I mouthed the words, "I'm sorry." Mr. Bloom looked like he was going to have a heart attack.

"Order! Order!" Judge Smart shouted, pounding her gavel.

It took several minutes to get everyone back in their seats. A few agitators had to be removed from the court. I did my best to shut the surroundings out. I was losing my ability to function as I needed to, and desperately began to fear they'd see through me. I reached into my past, living as an orphan on the streets, where keeping up a front was necessary to survive. I recalled crawling over Afghan battlefields with my medical kit, where only a calm focus could save those who could be saved. I needed that now. This wasn't about me; it was about what needed to be done.

"Mr. Lawrence, let me be clear about this," Judge Smart finally said. "You are pleading guilty to first degree murder on the condition that the death penalty be applied?"

"Yes, your Honor," I replied in hardly more than a whisper.

"And you expect me to issue an immediate sentence?" she asked.

I actually knew nothing about civilian courts, having the good fortune to avoid any serious encounters. In a military court, asking the judge for a quick decision wasn't unusual. It suddenly occurred to me I might be on weak ground. The courtroom was growing rowdy again. Mr. Bloom went up to the judge's bench, arguing something and waving his hands.

"That's enough," Judge Smart finally said. "Mr. Lawrence, would you please stand?"

I braced myself against the table and stood up. The courtroom suddenly went silent except for some newsperson in the back whispering to an assistant. A bailiff shut them up.

The judge rose to her feet, the gavel in her hand. All it would take was for her to confirm the sentence, and that would be it. A death sentence was nothing to cheer about, but at least there would be no trial. No extra questions. The country would move on, and I would have closure on my own terms. I could not read the judge's thoughts, though she seemed displeased with me.

"The court has received your plea and will take it under advisement," Judge Smart ruled, tapping the gavel and instantly leaving the court. With the judge gone, the gallery burst into another round of chaotic behavior.

I dropped back into my seat, lowering my head. I felt dizzy.

"You okay, Mr. Lawrence?" a bailiff asked.

His name was Mike, about thirty years old and built like a linebacker. When we had been in the conference room with the prosecutors, he hadn't been particularly friendly. He sounded more generous now.

"I need a favor," I whispered.

"What do you need?"

"Help me up. Get me out of here as if I'm doing it on my own power."

"Can't you walk?" he asked.

"I'm not sure."

Mike waved to somebody, and they took my arms, leading me from the court. The rear corridor was largely empty except for a few clerks. The bailiffs found an empty meeting room and struggled to put me in a chair. Hampered by the shackles on my ankles, I almost fell on the floor.

"You took those guys to the cleaners," Mike said, finding me a glass of water.

His buddy was the other bailiff from the conference room. Raul, I think. They both seemed to be enjoying a joke.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"We saw what you did. Pissing off those prosecutors so they'd give you the death penalty," Mike explained. "They were going to offer life in prison, and you obviously didn't want that. You played them like a couple of chumps."

"Why did you do it?" Raul asked.

I didn't want to start blabbing, but they had seen more than I intended. Sometimes a little honesty is necessary.

"The country needs time to heal," I said. "Criminals who kill presidents shouldn't get free room and board the rest of their lives. It sets a bad example."

"I understand," Mike said. And I think he did.

A moment later, Sheila Rosenberg burst into the room, ordered the bailiffs out, and slammed the door behind them. Then she took a sip of water from my glass and started yelling at me.

"What the hell was that all about? Were you screwing with us the whole time?"

"Mrs. Rosenberg, we're on the same page here. Can you help me with the judge?" I asked.

"Oh, before I was cowardly lawyer slime, and now you want my help?"

"I apologize for my behavior. I was afraid you would insist on a life sentence."

"And what's so wrong with that?"

"Because there are crazy idiots out there who idealize assassins," I replied. "There may be some who will romanticize what I did. I don't want that. I don't want the blood of the next president on my conscience. Maybe dying with a needle in my arm will make me look less romantic."

"There are a lot of unanswered questions here," Rosenberg said. "I'm wondering if we shouldn't send you to a shrink."

"I have this for you," I said, struggling to reach into my jumpsuit. Handcuffs can be a bitch. It was a page of yellow legal paper filled out in pencil.

"A confession?" she said, studying the document. It was clearly written. My spelling was good.

"Officer William Boyd of the Baltimore Police Department convinced me to write it," I lied. "I acted alone when I shot the president. I traveled by bus to the park, went in through the south gate, and waited for a good opportunity. No one encouraged me to do it. It's all there."

"But why did you do it?" she asked.

"I've said enough. I've pleaded guilty. You have the confession. Let's move on," I replied. It would be my reply for a long time.

* * * * * *

Judge Smart was not kind to me. Rather than come back with a decision the next day, or the day after, no decision seemed forthcoming. I was housed in a private cell in the county jail. The guards offered me newspapers and magazines, but I didn't want to read anything about the assassination, so I requested books instead. Usually history books, for they would pose the least trouble. I preferred the American Revolution or the Civil War, but would settle for anything. As I spoke Dari fairly well from my years in Afghanistan, I almost asked for Persian literature to practice my languages but was concerned some hotshot conspiracy theorist would brand me a Muslim terrorist. During the war, I'd spent a good deal of time in Afghan villages and even prayed in their mosques, but I was still a Catholic.

The boredom of sitting in a cell all day was not good for me. With National First Responders, I had sought out hurricanes, typhoons, and tornadoes. Hanging off the side of a helicopter, I had retrieved victims from floods, pulled stranded people off breakwaters, and kept the injured alive until ambulances could arrive. As I had in the war, I often lived moment to moment rather than day to day or week to week. After Francie's death, I had grown even more reckless, which led to my suspension.

But I still yearned for the excitement. The exhilaration of putting it all on the line. The last time Dr. Waller had me in for counseling, she suggested that the abuse I'd suffered as a child, and the dangers of my life growing up on the streets, had instilled in me a gloomy fatalism. I disagreed. I had always fought for life. My own, and the lives of others. And when I failed, it wasn't something I easily accepted.

I was having trouble sleeping one night, as I often did, rolling off the cot to lay on the floor. It was a familiar nightmare, the skirmish at Point Cinco that had turned bloody. We had a dozen down, including Cynthia, who I'd grown fond of. Shrapnel raked my right side from thigh to armpit. I was still mobile, but not with the speed I needed. My First Aid kit was empty, forcing me to tie off injuries with strips of torn clothing. The concussion from a mortar blast knocked me down, and I knew there were soldiers dying because I wasn't getting to them. The enemy stormed over the ridgeline, killing the wounded, and I didn't even have a rifle.

"Jack? Jack?" someone said, shaking my shoulder.

I rolled out from under my cot, pushed my assailant against the wall, and closed my hands around his throat. He struggled. He was a big man. Strong, but not strong enough. I considered killing him. I had wounded to care for. I couldn't afford to bleed out. Light crept in from the corridor.

It wasn't the enemy. I wasn't at Point Cinco. It was Joe Connolly, one of my guards on the nightshift.

"My God, Joe. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," I said, scooting backward on my knees. Joe sat against the wall, rubbing his neck. Though 6'3 and two hundred pounds, he was no match for me. Especially when taken by surprise.

Alerted by the commotion, a skinny beanpole of a guard named Lukas Rawlings ran into my cell, swinging a nightstick. He whacked me across the head. I fended off the first two blows. A third blow knocked me over.

"No, stop," Joe croaked, intervening. "It's a mistake. He didn't know it was me."

Generous of him, considering he could barely talk.

Joe crawled forward to check my forehead. It was a bruise; nothing to get excited about.

"I'm sorry, Joe. I really am," I repeated, for he was a good man. Always fair and willing to bring me books. I crawled back against my cot. Another guard arrived, Marla Peeples. The only woman on my detail, Marla was short, stout, and the acting supervisor. She soaked a cloth in the sink and put it against the swelling.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Jack was having another nightmare. I tried to wake him up," Joe explained.

"And he tried to strangle you?" Marla said.

"I don't think it was me he was strangling," Joe replied.

"You might want to cuff me to the bed," I suggested, for attacking my guards was not high on my priority list.

"We might want to be more careful," Marla said, glancing at Lukas.

Lukas was still standing in the middle of the cell, holding the club. Striking me had been rash. The overreaction wouldn't look good on his record.

"I think we should all forget this happened," I recommended. "It was just a misunderstanding."

"Yes, a misunderstanding," Joe agreed.

Marla nodded. Lukas let out his breath. They left the cell while Joe helped me back on the cot. He had wide shoulders, having played football in college, and I enjoyed discussing sports with him.

"I heard what you were saying," Joe whispered.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I served in the war. 9th Mountain Division. You think I never heard of Point Cinco?"

"It's not the most famous battle," I said.

"Exactly. So why is a Fort Bragg file clerk having nightmares about it?"

"It's best we let it drop."

Joe shrugged, but he wasn't a dumb guy. I could only hope he wasn't a talkative one.

* * * * * *

It wasn't true that my jailers were trying to kill me, but an unfortunate incident soon had the conspiracy theorists in an uproar. I had been brought to the Federal courthouse for another hearing, hoping Judge Smart would finally hand down a favorable decision. Or unfavorable, depending on how one chose to look at it. But it was just a procedural meeting to select a new lawyer for me after I fired Mr. Bloom.

I reluctantly agreed to let Harlan & Mathers be my new attorneys, for the process wasn't going forward until the court believed my rights were protected. The U.S. Marshals weren't using an armored car anymore. There was no army of sharpshooters in flak jackets. Just four guards in an SUV. My hands were kept cuffed in front of me, and a loose chain around my ankles stopped me from running off, but the situation was not tense. I was always polite, cooperative, and when not being moved, I'd sit quietly and read my book. As famous criminals go, I could be very dull.

After the hearing, they drove me back to the county jail. While the U.S. Marshals were filling out the transfer paperwork, I sat on a bench, waiting to be returned to my cell. I noticed Lukas and Marla bringing a prisoner from the west wing, a seven-foot tattooed giant with a shaved head and missing front teeth. He was a surly brute struggling against his handcuffs. I went back to my book. The library had run out of history, so I'd switched to fantasy, catching up on the Martin books that seemed so popular. Suddenly, there was a loud noise and muffled scream.

I looked up. Lukas was lying on the floor, groaning, blood leaking from his scalp. Their prisoner, Klondike Jones, had gotten out of his handcuffs and had Marla by the throat, her feet dangling off the ground. She was struggling to breathe. The big prisoner's fingers clutched her windpipe like a vise grip. Joe came around the corner and charged. Klondike held Marla in his right hand and launched a left jab to Joe's nose, knocking him flat.

There was no time to call for help. I rushed forward as fast as the chain around my ankles would permit, raised my hands high over my head, and jumped on the monster's back, wrapping my handcuffs around his thick neck. He dropped Marla, as I hoped, and grabbed my arms, swinging back and forth. It wasn't a matter of me hanging on. I was chained to him, and without being able to use my feet, I had no leverage. He twisted left, then right, and finally thrust backward, crushing me into the wall. He leaned forward and crashed back again. I lost my breath. My wrists were in agony. He pounded my head into the wall, blurring my vision. Every instinct urged me to fight, but I began to lose consciousness.

I woke up in the infirmary. One wrist was tightly wrapped, the other in a cast. There was a bandage around my head, and I felt wraps around my ribs. There was no pain. Morphine can do that. It was the first fight I'd lost in thirteen years.

"He's awake," an attractive Puerto Rican nurse said.

Two doctors rushed up, shining flashlights in my eyes. It was something I'd done to others a thousand times, so I tried to be patient. It wasn't the first time I'd regained consciousness in a hospital, either. It can be a tiresome experience.

"How are you feeling? How's your vision?" a young red-headed doctor asked, her expression worried.

"Fair enough. Anything broken?" I inquired.

"Broken ulna in your right wrist. Left wrist may be sprained. Mild concussion," a middle-aged male doctor said. "Which guard beat you up?"

"Which what?" I said.

"We know what happened," a nurse said, a short Asian woman in her late forties with a tiny nose and harsh demeanor.

"No, I don't think you do," I responded.

"We've got extra guards on your door, Mr. Lawrence," she assured me.

The nurse turned on a television as they left the room. Cable news, which I always made a point of avoiding. The sound was down, but I could still read the headlines. Lawrence attacked by guards in prison. Beaten near death. ACLU calls for investigation. I sighed and shut my eyes.

"Hey, Jack," a nasally voice said. I looked up to see I had a visitor.

"Hi, Joe. Are they letting you murderous guards roam around free?" I asked.

"They've got their eyes on Lukas," he explained.

"How's the nose?"

"Son of a bitch broke it," Joe complained.

He sat in a chair next to the bed, his large nose with a bandage across the bridge. The squinty eyes were blackened. He set the book I'd been reading in the holding area on the nightstand.

"Klondike claims Lukas and Marla were beating you when he stopped them. He wants a medal," Joe said.

"He's certainly got a set. Will they give him a pardon, too?"

"If the press has anything to say about it, they probably will."

"I'll need to make a statement."

"You will?"

"Of course. Who should I talk to?"

"Let me check," Joe said, jumping up.

He left just as Marla entered while a suspicious U.S. Marshal watched from the hall. I really didn't care for the extra scrutiny. I pointed to the TV and asked Marla to turn it off.

"Jack, I ..." she started to say, parking her wide bottom on a stool.

Her neck was bruised but fortunately didn't require a brace. If I'd been her doctor, I'd have it in a brace anyway just to be safe. But the guys in Company B often called me a mother hen.

"I'm sorry they got this backwards," I said. "Joe is finding someone. We'll straighten it out."

"You have nothing to be sorry for. You saved my life. Maybe Lukas', too."

"Anyone would have helped."

"Klondike scares the shit out of people. I don't know anyone who would have tackled him wearing handcuffs," she protested.

"That did make it a little harder," I replied

She laughed, her green eyes twinkling. It made me feel good for the first time in weeks.

"Wow, you smiled. Jack, you smiled," she said, scooting closer.

"Even I can't stay grim all the time."

"Not that you don't try."

Joe came back with a supervisor. He was a skinny bureaucrat named Silas Hobart. His bedraggled secretary was clutching a leather briefcase to her chest. A mousey kid in a bob cut who looked afraid to be in the same room with me.

"Is your treatment satisfactory, Mr. Lawrence?" Hobart inquired.

"Yes, sir. About this altercation ..." I began.

"It's being investigated," he said.

"I don't see how it can be investigated without speaking to me. You, young lady. Come here," I said, pointing to the frightened secretary.

She took several hesitant steps forward, adjusting her mid-length skirt. Her dark blue eyes were big and wide.

"Yes, Mr. Lawrence?" she said.

"Take a statement," I requested. "To Judge Miranda Smart, Federal Courthouse. Dear Judge Smart."

The secretary set down her briefcase, picked up a notebook, and sat in a chair waiting for me to continue. I gave her a moment.

"Dear Judge Smart. I was recently involved in an altercation with another prisoner at the Baltimore County Jail. I wish to recommend to you the officers of this facility who intervened on my behalf, saving me from serious harm. I wish to particularly bring to your attention officers Marla Peeples and Joe Connolly, who have demonstrated great professionalism and courtesy. Very sincerely yours, John Henry Lawrence. Do you have all that?"

"Yes, sir. I do," the secretary said, still holding her breath.

"Good. Now I want you to go downstairs, find a group of reporters, and read it to them exactly as dictated. Can you do that?"

The secretary looked to her boss, who nodded. They left the room, much to my relief. Joe sat down next to Marla.

"That's nice of you, but it's not true," Joe said.

"What's not true?" I asked.

"You saved us from Klondike, not the other way around," Marla said.

"Mrs. Peeples, my statement is completely accurate," I insisted. "I was involved in an altercation. If guards hadn't come to my rescue, I wouldn't be here now in this hospital bed. You and Mike have been very professional."

"But your press release doesn't say what really happened," Marla denied.

"It says as much as people need to know," I answered.

* * * * * *

At last, the big day came. Judge Smart was going to hand down her decision. I requested a morning shower, scrubbed extra hard, and shaved as close as the old electric razor would allow. My curly brown hair had grown shaggy, but that was okay as long as it was clean. I had unexpected guests.

"What are you doing here?" I said as Joe and Marla entered my shower room. There is no privacy in prison. I was naked but quickly grabbed a towel. They were in sharply pressed blue uniforms with gold badges and silver braids. Their black shoes were polished.

I smiled to see them. They had witnessed many of my eccentricities over the previous weeks, none of which had appeared in the newspapers. They had proven to be good companions, under the circumstances.

"We requested special assignment today," Joe said. "The U.S. Marshals are in charge of security, but we're in charge of you."

"And we brought you a present," Marla added.

It was a light gray business suit with a striped red tie and new shirt. I would be able to attend court without looking like a stale joke from a TV show. I stripped off the towel, ignoring my modesty in front of Marla. She was married, after all. She wouldn't see anything she couldn't see at home. She did notice the scars, about two dozen of them scattered from my shoulders to my knees, but most were pinpricks. Only the bullet wounds had left significant marks, particularly the one from Sirputa, where the round had hit me in the back of the shoulder and shattered my collarbone on the way out. That had left a large red swirl.

"Car accident?" Joe said, mocking me. He was a combat veteran. He knew better.

"Helicopter crash," I fibbed.

I had been in a helicopter crash. Two, in fact, but had escaped without breaking any bones. Others were not so lucky. I tried the suit on, sliding the right sleeve over my cast, and gave it a few tugs.

"Feels good," I said.

"The sleeves are a little short," Marla observed, pulling them down.

"Seems nice to me. Maybe they'll bury me in it," I remarked.

I heard Marla gasp. I turned to see tears in her eyes. It had been a thoughtless joke.

"Please don't worry, Officer Peeples," I said, taking her in my arms. "You know how these cases go. The appeals drag on for years. Sometimes decades. And then the sentences get thrown out. New facts come to light. Most inmates die of old age."

"You have no intention of dying of old age, and we all know it," Marla said, hugging me tighter.

"I'll be okay," I assured her. "Guys, really. If you knew what I've been through, this is the last thing you'd worry about."

We were met in the transfer area by the U.S. Marshals and driven the ten-minute ride to the courthouse in a black SUV. The press was crowding the sidewalks as always, hoping for a view of the infamous assassin, but security was tight. We parked in an underground garage, taking an elevator to the second floor. My security detail stayed close, and to the surprise of the bailiffs, no handcuffs were involved. Joe said it was because of the cast, but they could have compensated for that if they'd wanted to.

The Federal prosecutors intercepted us outside the courtroom. Hemmings and Rosenberg did not look nervous, but something about the proceeding was bothering them. My latest lawyer, Martin Harlan, quickly joined us. The old man was thin, with eighty years of wrinkles and a stringy goatee.

"Life is still on the table," Mrs. Rosenberg said.

Officially, I don't remember a life sentence ever being offered, but she seemed sincere. I suppressed an urge to say something inappropriate.

"Mr. Lawrence, we should consider this," Mr. Harlan said, taking me aside.

"Please, sir. I've made myself clear," I replied.

"Yes, I know what you told Wally Bloom. The country needs closure. The President's family needs resolution. But John, it's not true. The country will do fine without you dying. This crusade of yours, it's an illusion."

I wondered for a moment if that was true, but quickly dismissed the thought. If I had committed a serious crime, as seemed likely, it needed to be answered for. Everything else was semantics.

The courtroom had no large audience on this occasion. A few bailiffs, the court clerk. Several FBI and Secret Service agents. No one from the press, which I was thankful for. I could have invited family, if I'd had any. I certainly didn't want my old war buddies attending. The entire process was humiliating enough already.

The judge entered without ceremony, her expression inscrutable. She sat down on her high bench and gaveled the hearing to order.

"Mr. Hemmings, Mrs. Rosenberg, Mr. Lawrence, thank you for your patience," Judge Smart said. "This case has provided an unusual element. We have no record of a defendant ever requesting the death penalty at the arraignment, and it has required extra study. I have consulted with Justice Wilson, the senior member of the Fourth District Superior Court, and Justice Roberts of the Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals. They agree that a case of this magnitude may not proceed without due process. Therefore, the defendant's plea of guilty is rejected. This case will proceed to trial."

"Your Honor, I must protest," I said, leaping out of my chair. "The government has a confession. Overwhelming evidence. The prosecution and defense agree on the sentence. There is nothing left for a trial to resolve."

I walked around the edge of the table, which made the bailiffs nervous, but not enough to interfere. In the front row were several FBI agents, including one I'd seen at every hearing. A robust man about fifty years old with thinning gray hair. I went up to him.

"Please, sir. Your name?" I requested.

"Harold Rasmussen, deputy FBI director for this district," he replied, studying me with insightful blue eyes. He was thickset, probably about my height, and had the knowing gaze of a veteran agent.

"May I assume you are familiar with this case?" I asked.

"Of course," Rasmussen confirmed.

"Good, the perfect witness. Will you please inform the court that we should proceed to sentencing?"

"Well, actually, there are a number of questions," Rasmussen said, standing up with his hands on the wood railing. He wore an expensive dark brown suit with a gold silk tie. "The defendant's fingerprints are on the murder weapon, but only Dr. Norton's prints are on the shell casing. And there was only one bullet in the gun. It's virtually unknown for a culprit to attempt an assassination with only one bullet. As for the confession, there are a number of discrepancies. It has the wrong bus route. The number of Secret Service agents at the south gate is inaccurate. And --"

"Thank you, Mr. Rasmussen," I interrupted. "See, Your Honor? My fingerprints are on the gun. Witnesses saw me shoot the President. Except for a mistake on the bus schedule, all of the questions have been answered."

"That's not what I said," Rasmussen grumpily protested.

"Mr. Lawrence, your point is taken, but it doesn't alter my ruling," Judge Smart said. "I'm scheduling this case to appear before Superior Court Justice Bartholomew Jenkins beginning December 15th."

I walked back to my table, too agitated to sit down. I looked to Mr. Harlan, but lawyers are never any help in these situations.

"Your Honor, I request permission to dismiss my lawyers and represent myself," I said, straightening my shoulders.

Hemmings and Rosenberg looked unhappy. Prosecutors don't like dealing with amateurs, especially ones with as little grasp of procedure as I had.

"You may participate in your defense, Mr. Lawrence. But this is a capital offense. You must have competent counsel," Judge Smart said.

"May I have access to a law library?" I asked.

"That is granted," she agreed.

She pounded the gavel and exited the court. The U.S. Marshals herded the spectators out. All except Rasmussen, who shook them off. I ignored my attorney and went to sit with Hemmings and Rosenberg.

"Can we appeal?" I asked.

"Appeal what?" Rosenberg said.

"Having a trial. It's a useless exercise," I clarified.

"The judge doesn't think so," Mr. Hemmings explained.

"And maybe she has a point," Rosenberg agreed.

"Perhaps I can help," a voice from the past offered.

I turned around to find Father Sebastian standing at the railing. I'd not seen him since leaving for the Army eight years before. He was looking old, bent over, and very gray. I worried for his health.

"Who are you?" Hemmings asked.

"I am Father Sebastian Fernández Velazquez, formally of St. Mary's in Philadelphia, now prior of Porta Coeli in San Germán. I was once Jack's legal guardian," Father Sebastian said, the Dominican accent still strong. "And I do not believe him guilty of this crime."

"We have his confession," Hemmings said, holding up my handwritten document.

"It is the confession I have come about. I am of the Franciscan Order. We know much of confessions," Father Sebastian said, approaching our table.

Never a tall man, he seemed even shorter now. He wobbled, reaching to brace himself on his ivory cane. I saw Rasmussen rush from the aisle to help the old friar find a chair and then stand behind him. I didn't remember anyone inviting the district FBI director in on our conversation, but getting rid of him would be too much effort.

"How can you help us, Father?" Rosenberg asked.

"If my son is truly guilty of this crime, then let us have him swear to it," Father Sebastian said.

Father Sebastian motioned to the court clerk, who seemed part of the conspiracy. She came over with a bible and notary book. Father Sebastian took the confession from Hemmings and held it out to me.

"Prove it to me, John. Allow yourself to be sworn in, and then testify under oath that this confession is the truth," Father Sebastian challenged.

The rascal was up to his old tricks. It reminded me of that day when I was a fourteen-year-old thug, found beaten half to death in a gutter and taken in by the Catholic brothers. I lived with them for four years. They saved my life and gave me a soul.

At first no one was impressed by Father Sebastian's suggestion. Lawyers and FBI agents are accustomed to perjurers, but I was speechless. The more I hesitated, the more curious the others became. Father Sebastian knew me well enough to know I would tell a white lie but never bear false witness under oath. Given the evidence, there seemed a good probability that I had shot the President, though I could not swear to it. I had no personal knowledge of the crime. It warmed my heart that Father Sebastian thought me innocent, though it put me in a difficult position.

I did consider taking the oath. It would be easy to put my hand on the Bible, confirm the confession, and make the problem go away. But I couldn't bring myself to do it.

"Mr. Hemmings, you have my confession," I decided. "I'm under no obligation to provide more."

"Why not take the oath, Mr. Lawrence?" Mrs. Rosenberg said.

"No, I've given enough already. I'm not giving anything more," I replied.

I drew Father Sebastian from the chair and huddled with him in the corner. It was so very good to see him again, though probably for the last time. I asked about life at Porta Coeli and if he was still coaching baseball. We laughed when recalling Sister Agatha's fondness for smacking unruly students with her ruler, but I did not mention the confession. At one point, I glanced back to see Rasmussen watching me with more than casual interest.

* * * * * *

This story takes a big turn when John escapes.

* * * * * *

Notes for the readers; the title pages of Diminished Capacity include a synopsis of the Second Afghan War, which is referred to throughout this novel. The synopsis is provided here for reference.

THE SECOND AFGHAN WAR

January, 2020 -- The Surge

President Jonathan Sterling announces a new drive by U.S. forces to expel rebel militia from northern Afghanistan.

April, 2020 -- The Second Afghan War

American troops are struck by a surprise attack of allied armies from Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, and Tajikistan. President Sterling escalates the war.

June, 2020 -- The Fallback

As defensive positions crumble, American troops fallback to Kabul. When renegade Pakistani militias attack from the east, surviving units make a fighting retreat to Kandahar.

August, 2020 - The Entrenchment

American troops make a final stand at Kandahar. To reduce pressure on the besieged city, U.S. Special Forces begin operating behind enemy lines.

February, 2022 - The White Mountain War

New fronts are opened to cut enemy supply lines. The bloodiest fighting is in the White Mountain border region with no quarter asked or given.

October, 2024 - The Second Afghan War ends

Hostilities are halted with an uneasy truce recognizing spheres of influence in a divided Afghanistan. Presidential candidate Edward Blair declares the truce a national disgrace.

November, 2024

Senator Edward Blair of Connecticut wins the presidential election by a narrow margin. Known as a war hawk, he is married with two teenage children.