Chapter 4: Media Blitz and Muzzle
Felix Archer adjusted his earpiece and flashed a practiced smile at the camera as the studio countdown reached zero. "Good evening, patriots," he boomed into the lens. "Tonight, we cut through the noise and tell you what the mainstream media won't."
The opening graphics of Archer's Edge swirled on the giant screen behind him—an American flag morphing into an eagle's eye. Felix sat at his glass desk under bright lights, exuding confidence. This was his domain: prime-time cable news on the fiercely pro-Trumbull National News Network, where he commanded an audience of millions.
It had been a dizzying few weeks for Felix. The President's return and aggressive moves had sent ratings soaring. Every night, Felix dutifully echoed the White House's triumphs: purging the "Deep State," launching the election commission, "restoring law and order" by cracking down on leaks. He spun it all as the dawn of a new patriotic era.
"First up," Felix said, "let's talk about the Election Integrity Commission. You might have seen some snark from the liberal media about it today." A box popped up showing a screenshot of Marcia Davenport's Chronicle article with the headline: "Critics Slam Election Commission as Partisan Theater."
Felix let a sarcastic laugh ripple in his throat. "The failing Columbian Chronicle—once again carrying water for the corrupt establishment. They're attacking a commission that's simply trying to ensure our votes count." He leaned forward, blue eyes glinting. "Ask yourself: why are they so scared? What are they afraid this commission will find?"
He paused for effect. On his monitor he saw the feed cut to a close-up of his face—sincere, slightly outraged. He had honed that expression to an art.
"I'll tell you why they're scared," Felix continued. "Because they know something was rotten in the last election. And they know President Trumbull is about to expose it."
He launched into a monologue blending real reports with insinuations: irregularities that the commission would supposedly uncover, rumors of ballot mishandling (never mind they were debunked, Felix didn't mention that). In the control room, producers fed him bullet points via teleprompter, many supplied by White House communications staff earlier in the day. It didn't bother Felix; he was a true believer or at least played the part convincingly.
As he spoke, there was a flicker of movement off-camera. One of his producers, Jan, was hovering just out of frame, holding a sheet of paper and gesturing urgently. Felix knew that sign: breaking news.
He pressed a finger to his earpiece, listening as the control room buzzed in his ear. Then he interrupted himself on-air. "Hold on, I'm getting something…" He turned slightly. "This just in: a journalist has been arrested tonight by the Department of Justice."
He scanned the bulletin Jan handed him, making sure to keep his face composed. "According to the DOJ, reporter Simon Brooks of the independent site Capitol Voice was taken into custody under suspicion of violating the Espionage Act by possessing classified materials." Felix arched an eyebrow, injecting doubt. "Classified materials… Huh. Folks, that means he likely had something he wasn't supposed to—maybe leaked intel. We'll learn more in a moment."
Inside, Felix felt a tiny jolt. This was the first open arrest of a journalist in this administration, possibly the first of any in a long time for such charges. The White House had signaled a tough stance on leaks and "fake news," but to see it happen… it made Felix's mouth go dry for an instant.
He took a beat, glanced to the side as if gathering his thoughts, then looked straight into the camera. "Now, predictably, the left-wing press will scream about 'freedom of the press' and 'authoritarianism.'" He shook his head. "Let's be clear: no one is above the law. If a reporter broke the law by disseminating classified secrets that could harm our country, being a so-called journalist doesn't shield him."
While he spoke the words confidently, a subtle unease tugged at Felix's gut. He knew of Simon Brooks in passing—a scrappy online reporter who'd been a thorn in the side of the administration with some recent scoop. Felix wasn't sure of the details, but he recalled Brooks had published leaked emails about the Trumbull team's purge plans. That must be it, he thought. They're charging him over that leak.
Felix continued, hitting the talking points now populating his teleprompter. "This arrest is part of restoring accountability. For too long, unscrupulous actors in media felt entitled to publish whatever they want, even state secrets, with impunity. President Trumbull said enough." He looked into the camera with righteous indignation. "If Mr. Brooks committed a crime, he'll have his day in court like anyone else."
As he segued to a correspondent outside the federal courthouse, Felix's mind strayed for a split second. He imagined being in Brooks' shoes at that moment—likely in cuffs, facing potential years in prison. A flicker of discomfort threatened to surface. But Felix was a professional. He shoved the thought aside and focused.
The correspondent delivered a straight report: FBI agents had arrested Brooks at home; the DOJ alleged he illegally retained and transmitted classified documents related to national security. Marcia Davenport from the Chronicle was quoted in a quick clip outside DOJ, decrying this as "an assault on press freedom." Felix felt a flash of annoyance seeing Marcia on-screen, rallying to the cause.
When the show returned to Felix in studio, he countered smoothly: "Of course the mainstream media elites are closing ranks, crying 'press freedom' as if that covers stealing classified files." He tapped his pen on the desk. "Ask yourselves, if a government official leaked top secret information that jeopardized our troops or citizens, and a reporter knowingly published it, is that patriotism or sabotage? The law is the law."
He went to a commercial break. The second the camera's tally light went off, Felix exhaled and removed his earpiece. "What the hell?" he muttered to Jan, who hustled over with water. "They really arrested him."
Jan gave a thin, uncertain smile. "It's happening, Felix." She didn't elaborate. They both knew what "it" was—a new era where even journalists could be hauled off if they crossed certain lines.
Felix took a sip of water, aware of a slight tremor in his hand. He glanced around the set. The crew was calm, performing routine tasks. Through the control room glass, producers gave him a thumbs-up on the segment. Everyone was treating this as just another news event to spin.
He put the earpiece back in and forced another smile as they returned from break. The rest of the show he kept on message: praising the administration's boldness for finally "holding corrupt media to account," then pivoting to a segment on social media "antifa" threats that may or may not have been real.
By the time the hour was up, Felix had hit every note the White House could have wanted. His final line sent viewers off with a chilling suggestion: "This is just the beginning of cleaning up a media that for too long was untouchable. No more double standards—if you break the law, even with a press pass, there are consequences."
The red camera light went off for the final time. "And we're clear," said the director in his ear.
Felix Archer leaned back in his chair as the stagehands moved in. "Great show, Felix," a makeup assistant chirped while retrieving his discarded suit jacket. "Really powerful tonight."
Felix mustered a winning grin. "Thanks. Team effort."
Inside, though, a hollowness nagged at him. He had felt a surge of triumph at delivering those lines, but also something unsettling. Perhaps it was the fleeting memory of Simon Brooks—a colleague of sorts, now in a cell. Felix had privately dismissed Brooks as a leftist hack in the past. Still, the image of FBI agents knocking down a journalist's door… it had implications.
Felix shook off the thought and stood, buttoning his jacket. He reminded himself that Brooks wasn't a saintly truth-teller. If he had classified material, maybe he really crossed a line. And anyway, Felix's job wasn't to sympathy-check every story; it was to articulate the narrative. He had done that exceedingly well tonight.
As he walked out of the studio, phone in hand, a text from a White House aide popped up: "POTUS watched your segment—excellent. 'Finally someone telling the real story,' he said."
Felix inhaled and felt a swell of pride chase away the unease. Approval from the top—nothing was sweeter in his line of work.
Pocketing his phone, he headed into the fluorescent-lit corridor. The network halls were buzzing—other shows were covering the Brooks arrest as breaking news, each with their own partisan spin. Felix had set the tone early; others on his network would follow his lead and go even harder. By tomorrow, a good portion of the country would likely believe that Simon Brooks was a criminal, not a reporter.
And perhaps that was for the best, Felix told himself as he pushed open the door to his office. This was the new reality. Those in the media who played ball would thrive. Those who didn't… well, they'd be dealt with. He had chosen his side long ago.
He loosened his tie and settled into his desk chair. There was a brief lull between the show and his late-evening meeting with producers to plan tomorrow's script. Felix flicked on the small TV on his wall, curious how other channels were covering the story.
On one competitor network, a sober host was calling the arrest "a dark turn for American press freedom." On another, they were debating the legal merits with a former prosecutor. Boring, Felix thought. They missed the gut-level angle.
He flipped to the state news channel. A stern anchor reported the facts blandly, as if this were just any other case. It struck Felix then: in President Trumbull's new order, this might become normalized. Perhaps a year from now, arrests of troublemaking journalists would hardly merit a mention outside some outraged op-eds.
Felix switched off the TV. He preferred not to dwell on that. He had a career to maintain and a movement to champion. Simon Brooks and his ilk had made their choices, and now were paying for them. Felix had made his, too, and so far that ledger was only bringing him success.
Still, as he pulled out a notepad to jot ideas for tomorrow's show ("Is the Press Above the Law?" as a segment title, perhaps), Felix realized he was tapping the pen harder than usual. He flexed his fingers and forced them to relax.
No time for second-guessing. He would ride this wave wherever it led, and push aside any stray pangs along the way.
Marcia Davenport stood on the rain-slick steps of the Barrett Federal Courthouse, a knot of anxiety tightening in her chest. Red and blue lights strobed against the building's facade as a police van idled nearby. A few dozen reporters and camera crews clustered around, their breath fogging in the chilly night air. Marcia clutched her phone with one hand and a soggy notebook with the other, trying to process what was happening.
Less than an hour ago, one of her colleagues had called her with urgent news: Simon Brooks had been arrested. Marcia had nearly dropped her phone in shock. She knew Simon—mostly via Twitter and a few press conferences. He was relentless and sometimes brash, but a solid reporter. His independent outlet, Capitol Voice, had broken big stories, including leaked emails about the Trumbull team's purge plans.
Now he was in custody, reportedly taken in a surprise evening raid on his apartment. The charge was something vague like "unauthorized retention of classified material." It sounded absurd, but terrifyingly real. Marcia had grabbed her coat and headed straight to the courthouse where word was Simon would be brought for an initial hearing.
She had arrived to find a scene of confusion and outrage. Journalists from across the spectrum were milling about, some furiously recording stand-up pieces, others huddled in groups whispering. Marcia had given a quick, impromptu comment to any camera that would hear: calling this arrest an assault on the First Amendment and warning that no journalist was safe if it stood. She hadn't even planned the words—they poured out between clenched teeth.
Now, she watched as two U.S. Marshals emerged from a side door escorting a figure in handcuffs. Gasps rippled through the crowd as they recognized Simon: head down, hair plastered by rain, his glasses slightly askew. Cameras flashed wildly.
"Simon! Simon!" a few reporters shouted. "Why are they arresting you? What did you do?"
The marshals barked at the press to stay back. In the chaos, Marcia caught Simon's eye for the briefest moment. His expression was a mix of anger and fear—and defiance. He tried to speak over the din: "They're arresting me for doing my job!" he yelled, voice hoarse, before a marshal firmly guided him into the van.
Marcia felt a surge of rage and helplessness. She had covered crackdowns on press abroad, always thinking such scenes wouldn't happen on American soil. And yet here she was.
Next to her, a veteran photographer cursed under his breath. "Goddamn. I never thought I'd see this day here," he said, rain dripping off the brim of his cap.
Marcia pressed her pen to paper and scribbled every detail: Simon's exact words, the look on his face, the time of arrest, the number of agents around him. Facts were her weapon, and she intended to wield them even as the rules changed.
Within minutes, the police van pulled away, taking Simon to some federal detention center for the night. The crowd of journalists seemed stunned. Some were shouting questions at the DOJ spokesperson who had come outside, demanding more information on charges, on evidence. The spokesperson, flanked by security, read a bland statement: "Mr. Brooks was found in possession of classified national defense information. The Department of Justice upholds the rule of law and supports the First Amendment, but it is not a license to break the law…" The statement might as well have been written by Felix Archer, Marcia thought bitterly.
She looked around at her peers. Some were red-faced with anger, others white with shock. This cut across media rivalries; even reporters from networks usually friendly to Trumbull looked uneasy.
A younger reporter from a local paper approached Marcia, voice trembling. "Ms. Davenport, do you think they'll come for others? For us?"
Marcia put a hand on the woman's shoulder, hoping to steady them both. "I…I don't know," she answered honestly. "But we can't be cowed. We have to keep reporting."
Even as she said it, a chill ran through her. She thought of her own recent work: the exposés, the commission story just published, the scathing interviews she'd given. Would that make her a target? She pushed the thought aside. If she started self-censoring out of fear, they'd already won.
Her phone buzzed—her editor calling again. She stepped under an overhang to answer. He wanted a first-person piece on the scene at the courthouse and a sharp column by morning about what this meant for press freedom.
"Marcia, take care how you word it," he cautioned, his tone somber. "This is unprecedented territory. We'll back you, but we also don't want to paint a target on you unnecessarily."
She understood his concern, but it ignited her indignation further. "They've already put a target on all of us, Lou," she replied quietly. "Tiptoeing now won't save anyone."
After hanging up, she wiped the raindrops from her phone screen and looked out at the dwindling press gathering. Some were leaving to file stories. Others stayed, maybe hoping a DOJ official might answer more questions (none did). The solidarity she saw on these faces—a usually competitive, jaded bunch now united in common alarm—gave Marcia a small measure of hope.
But as she made her way to the subway, hood pulled up against the dreary weather, that hope felt awfully fragile. In her mind she replayed Felix Archer's voice from earlier: she'd caught a snippet of his show on someone's car radio on the way over. He was already smearing Simon as a criminal, not a journalist. Tomorrow, that narrative would further harden among Trumbull's supporters.
Marcia descended the steps into the metro, her shoes squeaking on the tiles. She realized her hands were shaking—from cold, anger, or fear, she wasn't sure. Perhaps all three.
On the train ride home, she typed furiously on her phone, drafting her column. The words poured out raw: "Tonight, for the first time in modern American history, a journalist was arrested for doing his job. I watched it happen in the rain, in the nation's capital. This is not a story from Ankara or Moscow. This is here, and now." She recounted Simon's shout — doing my job! — and called it what it was: an act of intimidation against every reporter.
Her finger hovered over the send button, a brief flicker of caution sparking. Was she painting a target on herself, as her editor warned? Possibly. Likely, even. Marcia imagined how Trumbull's allies might respond: dredging up any error in her past reporting, accusing her of bias, maybe suggesting she too had leaked secrets (she hadn't, but truth hardly mattered in smear campaigns).
She lifted her head and noticed a few fellow passengers stealing glances at her. They likely recognized her from TV or by the press badge still hanging around her neck. One middle-aged man met her eyes and gave a tiny nod of encouragement. That small gesture fortified her resolve.
Marcia pressed "send." The column whooshed off to her editor. Come what may, her voice would not be silenced tonight.
As the train rattled through the dark tunnel, she allowed herself a moment to close her eyes. She thought of Simon spending the night in a cell and felt tears of frustration prick at her lids. But she would not cry—she would fight.
Her phone buzzed almost immediately. It was a text from Karen Li, whom she'd messaged earlier about the arrest. Karen's text read: "Stay strong. Let me know if I can help. This cannot stand."
Marcia managed a faint smile. Allies were emerging in unlikely places — a former congresswoman, rival reporters, maybe even some judges behind the scenes. The authoritarian playbook thrived on isolation, making people feel alone and helpless. But if they all stood together…
The train emerged from the tunnel, and Marcia saw the lights of the city streak past the window. Despite everything, she felt a spark of determination flare within her. They could try to muzzle one journalist or a dozen. But there were others ready to raise their voices. She intended to be one of them, louder than ever.
"Not so easily," she whispered under her breath, uncertain whether she was addressing the administration or bolstering her own courage. "You won't silence us so easily."
Outside, the somber night pressed on, but Marcia Davenport kept her head high. The truth was under assault — but it was not defeated. Not yet.
Chapter 5: The First Challenge
Congresswoman Sofia Perez gripped the microphone at the House lectern, her heart hammering against her ribcage. All around her, the chamber buzzed with confusion and rising anger. This was not how a routine Thursday afternoon in the House was supposed to go.
"Mr. Speaker, I am objecting—" she tried to say over the din.
Before her on the dais, Speaker Reginald Mills banged his gavel repeatedly. "The gentlewoman will suspend!" he barked.
Sofia's pulse raced, but she forced herself to continue. "I rise today to protest the unconstitutional actions of this administration—"
The Republican (National Party) majority groaned and jeered. Some shouted "Order!" Others simply laughed. It was unheard of to hijack House proceedings in this manner, but Sofia felt desperation outweighing decorum. She was one of the newer members, a Democratic Union representative from California, and at 35 years old possibly the youngest woman in the chamber. She had never imagined her first term would involve witnessing democratic norms crumble. Today, she'd decided, she had to take a stand, even if it was symbolic.
It had all come to a head with Simon Brooks' arrest the night before. That, on top of purges and sham commissions, had convinced Sofia that normal legislative business was untenable. She'd worked with a handful of colleagues to draft a resolution condemning the administration's authoritarian tactics. But the Speaker's office had blocked it from the floor.
So Sofia took matters into her own hands. During what was supposed to be a mundane general debate, she seized the mic to read her resolution aloud — violating House rules, technically, but rules seemed trivial in the face of what was happening to the country.
Now chaos was unfolding. Speaker Mills, red-faced, pointed at her. "Sergeant-at-Arms, restore order!" he commanded.
Two uniformed House sergeants stepped forward from the side aisle. Sofia's throat went dry. Were they actually going to remove her from the floor? She heard shouting from the Democratic side—her allies protesting, telling the Speaker to let her speak.
A crackle came from above: the Speaker had cut off her microphone. But Sofia refused to be silenced. She raised her voice, reading from her trembling paper so that at least the gallery could hear: "—the President's actions represent a clear and present danger to our democracy, and we hereby censure and condemn—"
Suddenly, one of the sergeants was beside her, his hand hovering near her elbow. "Ma'am, please," he said under his breath, a note of apology there.
Around the chamber, pandemonium reigned. Several Democratic members were on their feet yelling at the majority, while Republican members shouted back or simply watched with folded arms and icy glares. Sofia glimpsed Congressman Alan Ross—a hardline Trumbull ally—smirking at her from his seat. He made a little faux crying gesture with his hands as if to mock her "tantrum."
It fueled her. Sofia pulled away from the sergeant's gentle tug and took a few steps forward, projecting her voice. "—we censure and condemn these abuses of power!" she shouted. "We urge the House to stand up for the Constitution—"
Her words were drowned by a roar of disapproval from the majority side. The Speaker's gavel thundered. "The gentlewoman is out of order! Remove her from the well!"
The sergeants now each took one of her arms. Sofia's instincts screamed at her to resist, but she understood the optics: she had made her point, and outright struggling would devolve into a spectacle that could be used against her. With as much dignity as she could muster, she allowed them to escort her away from the lectern.
As she was led down the aisle, a few Democratic colleagues began clapping in support. That triggered more derision from the other side. Sofia held her chin high, though tears of frustration pricked her eyes. She caught sight of the public gallery—there, a small figure pressed against the glass, looking down at her with open concern. It was Karen Li. Sofia hadn't known Karen was here today, but seeing the former congresswoman's face gave her a jolt of comfort. Karen placed a hand on the glass, as if in solidarity.
They directed Sofia to the cloakroom. Behind her, on the floor, the Speaker declared a recess amid the uproar. She heard him angrily ranting about "deplorable breaches of decorum" and threatening disciplinary action.
In the cloakroom, a couple of older Democratic representatives rushed to her side. "Damn brave, Sofia," murmured Congressman Himes, patting her shoulder. "You said what we've all been thinking."
"They'll move to censure you, you know," warned Representative Lang, her eyes worried. "Possibly worse."
Sofia nodded, chest tight. She knew the risks. Censure, loss of committee assignments—maybe even expulsion if the majority really wanted to make an example. Trumbull's loyalists controlled the votes; they could do it.
But thinking of Simon Brooks behind bars, or the civil servants purged, or that sham commission poised to rewrite the next election's rules—Sofia felt no regret. If a price had to be paid, so be it.
She took a shaky breath. "It needed to be said on the record," she replied quietly.
Lang squeezed her hand. "We'll defend you. Don't worry."
Outside in the hall, a crush of reporters awaited—word of the floor drama had spread fast. As Sofia stepped out, flashes erupted and microphones were thrust toward her.
A cacophony of questions: "Congresswoman, why did you disrupt proceedings?""Are you concerned about being disciplined?""Do you think your protest will change anything?"
Sofia steadied herself. "I took a stand because silence in the face of creeping authoritarianism is not an option," she said, voice remarkably firm. "History will judge what we all did at this moment."
That line, she hoped, would make the evening news. Even if the formal record struck her words, the public would hear them.
As security led her and a few colleagues through the throng, she spotted Karen Li off to the side, waiting anxiously. Sofia veered in her direction. Karen met her with arms open, and they embraced tightly amid the chaos of press and staff.
"You did the right thing," Karen whispered in her ear. "I am so proud of you."
Sofia exhaled, letting the tension of the moment release slightly in Karen's hug. "Thank you. I'm… I was shaking up there."
Karen pulled back and gave her a warm, sad smile. "You were brilliant. They'll try to punish you, but you're not alone."
Security gently prodded Sofia to keep moving, so she gave Karen's hand a final squeeze and continued toward the elevators, reporters still trailing. Her heart was still pounding, but in that moment, bolstered by Karen's support and her colleagues' praise, Sofia felt something like hope. At least the dissent was now visible; a light had been shone, however briefly, in that chamber of polished wood and tarnished principles.
She had no illusions that Speaker Mills and the National Party would back down. They might indeed make her life hell in Congress after this. But if her solitary act of defiance could galvanize more people—inside the Capitol or outside—to realize the urgency, it was worth it.
As she was whisked toward what would surely be a long meeting with House minority leadership and potentially a formal reprimand, Sofia allowed one small, determined smile. The guardrails may have collapsed, but some of them were still willing to stand in the breach, bodies and voices on the line for democracy. For as long as she had a platform—be it a microphone on the House floor or the cluster of cameras in this hallway—she would use it.
High above the House floor in the Speaker's private office, Lawrence Rhodes watched the aftermath on a muted TV screen. Though a Senator, he had strolled over from the other side of the Capitol when he heard about the commotion—drawn partly by curiosity, partly by concern. Now he stood with Speaker Mills and a couple of Mills' aides, observing the feed from C-SPAN that showed representatives milling about, buzzing with what had just occurred.
Speaker Mills was still simmering. A portly man with a shock of white hair, he fumed as an aide handed him a copy of Sofia Perez's attempted resolution. He read a few lines and scoffed. "'Clear and present danger to our democracy'—give me a break. Such melodrama," he spat.
Rhodes offered a thin smile but said little. Internally, he was rattled. Perez's words, though out of order, hit uncomfortably close to truths he'd been denying to himself. Hearing "clear and present danger" uttered on the House floor, even briefly, had made his stomach clench.
"We need to nip this in the bud, Larry," Mills continued, pacing behind his desk. "If they think they can grandstand like this, we'll have chaos. I'm going to move to censure her first thing tomorrow."
"Likely necessary," Rhodes murmured. His eyes remained on the screen. He saw the feed cut to Perez being escorted out, saw her brief interchange with Karen Li in the hall. Karen's presence struck him—she really was everywhere these days, a gadfly to their conscience.
Mills grumbled agreement. "We can't have this… insurgency on the floor." He caught the irony of his word choice and chuckled darkly. "Funny, isn't it? The real insurrectionists are these holier-than-thou types now."
Rhodes forced a chuckle to match. But his mind wandered to January 6th again, that day he tried so hard to compartmentalize. He remembered the genuine fear in that chamber as a mob tried to overturn a valid election. Perez's disruption today was nothing of the sort—she'd used words, not violence. Yet here they were, likening it to chaos.
One of Mills' aides handed Rhodes a copy of the offending resolution as well. Rhodes adjusted his reading glasses and scanned it. Words like "abuses of power," "violation of First Amendment," "demand accountability" jumped out. He felt a queasy mix of annoyance and begrudging admiration for the young congresswoman who dared introduce it.
"She'll be isolated," Mills was saying. "Her own party might not strip her, but we control the Rules. We'll ensure any of her bills are DOA. Maybe boot her off committees."
Rhodes nodded absently. "Make an example," he said.
Mills sighed, some of the anger turning to weariness. "These Democrats think they're heroes in a novel. They don't get it—we're doing what needs to be done to save the country. The election stuff, the press stuff, it's all legal. We won, we have the mandate."
Rhodes pursed his lips. He had told himself the same a hundred times. They had the majority, the presidency—they could rewrite the rules if they chose. But he was self-aware enough to notice the slight tremor in his hands as he folded the resolution. Perhaps it was Perez's invocation of "history's judgment" that unsettled him. Rhodes had long prided himself on caring for legacy, history, institutions. Now he was party to things he once publicly condemned when done by adversaries abroad.
"I'll return to the Senate," he said, tucking the paper into his suit jacket. "Keep me informed, Reggie."
They shook hands. "Will do. And thanks for coming by."
Rhodes left the Speaker's office and walked through the Capitol's ornate halls towards the Senate side. The building was quieter here—news of the House drama hadn't disrupted the Senate's schedule much. Still, a couple of Rhodes' colleagues gave him quizzical looks as he passed, perhaps wondering why he'd bothered to witness the uproar at all.
He wasn't entirely sure himself. Some part of him felt drawn to see how far the dissenters might go, and to gauge how much force he'd need to apply to quash it. Another part—one he barely admitted—felt a pang of guilt that such a protest was necessary, and that he wasn't among those raising the alarm.
Back in his office, Rhodes closed the door and retrieved the crumpled resolution from his jacket. He smoothed it on his desk and read it fully this time, in the privacy of his quiet sanctum. Perez's words were passionate, hyperbolic in parts, but largely grounded in reality. He winced at a line accusing Congress—meaning leaders like him—of "moral cowardice in failing to check executive overreach." Direct hit.
With a heavy sigh, Rhodes sat and clicked on a small television on his bookshelf. It was tuned to a news channel covering the incident. Pundits were already debating Perez's stunt—some calling her brave, others calling her reckless. Rhodes recognized Felix Archer's voice on one network, lambasting Perez as "part of the radical left disruptors." On another station, a commentator worried this showed how desperate the opposition had become.
Rhodes turned it off again. He'd have to give a comment to the press at some point, something perfunctory about maintaining order. Then he'd focus on pressing through the next pieces of the Trumbull agenda—a voting reform bill from the commission's recommendations was rumored to be coming soon. The irony that he would champion such a bill after witnessing today's spectacle did not escape him.
He opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of antacid, popping a couple of tablets into his mouth. The familiar chalky taste calmed his uneasy stomach a bit.
There was a timid knock at his office door. His chief of staff peered in. "Leader Rhodes, reporters are asking if you'll comment on the House incident. We can send a statement if you prefer."
Rhodes thought for a moment. "Draft something short. Emphasize that Congress will not tolerate disruptions and that issues should be handled through proper channels." He paused, then added, "And note that while passions run high, we all respect the Constitution."
The last phrase felt hollow given context, but he wanted it on record at least. His chief nodded and closed the door.
Alone again, Rhodes gazed at the grand portrait of a 19th-century Senator on his wall. That man likely faced his own tests of principle, Rhodes mused. History had judged him kindly enough to warrant a portrait here. What would history say of Lawrence Rhodes, he wondered bleakly? That he enabled a slow-motion unraveling out of political calculation and fear of his own base?
He folded Sofia Perez's resolution into a neat square. For an instant, he considered saving it as a memento, a warning. But then he shook his head and dropped the paper into his shredder. The machine whirred, slicing the words into confetti.
Rhodes stood and straightened his jacket. There was work to do—the show had to go on. He would meet with a committee chair in a few minutes to discuss accelerating judicial confirmations. Normal business, as if nothing extraordinary was happening beyond these walls.
As he left his office, he caught his reflection in the glass of a framed Constitution print he kept by the door. The man looking back at him appeared older than his 68 years, burdened by unseen weights. Lawrence Rhodes squared his shoulders and turned away from the reflection. Whatever personal turmoil churned inside, he would not show it publicly. Not now.
He strode down the corridor, footsteps echoing on marble, determined to carry on with the role he had chosen. In the grand chessboard of power, he reminded himself, sacrifices had to be made. If his conscience was one of them, so be it. History's judgment would come later—if there was anyone left to write it.
Chapter 6: Purging the Military
General Walter Sturgis stood ramrod straight at the head of the long conference table in the Pentagon's secure briefing room, hands clasped behind his back. Around him sat the six members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, their faces etched in a mix of disbelief and simmering anger. The atmosphere felt like a funeral.
At the front of the room, the newly appointed Acting Secretary of Defense—a civilian businessman with little military experience but fierce loyalty to President Trumbull—cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, I appreciate your coming on short notice," he began, voice tight. "I'll be brief. The President has determined that a number of senior officers are not aligned with his vision and policies. As of oh-nine-hundred this morning, 27 generals and flag officers have been relieved of their commands."
A heavy silence followed his words. Sturgis's jaw tightened. Even though he'd anticipated this, hearing it stated so baldly made his stomach drop. Twenty-seven careers, effectively ended in one sweep. Among them were the Army Vice Chief, the commanders of Central Command and Pacific Command, and numerous two-star generals across the services. The official reason given in the letters was "loss of confidence" or "retirement for the good of the service." Everyone in this room knew the real reason: perceived disloyalty or insufficient enthusiasm for the new regime's directives.
Sturgis, as the highest-ranking officer present (he was Chairman of the Joint Chiefs now, after his predecessor's sudden early retirement two weeks ago), felt his temples pounding. He glanced around. Admiral Lewis, the Navy Chief, looked positively ill. General Collins of the Air Force was clenching a pen so hard his knuckles were white.
General Sturgis drew a breath. "Mr. Secretary," he said evenly, "I'd like to formally register that many of these officers have decades of honorable service. This action—"
The Acting Secretary held up a hand. "General Sturgis, I understand your perspective. But the Commander-in-Chief's decision is made. We are restructuring to ensure an agile force ready to carry out the President's orders."
Sturgis bit back what he really wanted to say — that this wasn't restructuring, it was a political purge. Instead, he asked, "Will their replacements be announced today?" His voice was steady, betraying none of the anger churning inside.
"Yes," the Acting SecDef replied. "Mostly promotions of officers who have shown, ah, exemplary commitment to the administration's priorities." That phrasing landed with a sour thud. Everyone understood it meant officers with known loyalty to Trumbull.
Admiral Lewis spoke up, his tone measured but pointed. "Sir, has there been any allegation of misconduct against these relieved officers? If not, this will be extremely hard on morale."
The Secretary pursed his lips. "No misconduct. It's about having the right team for new priorities. Morale issues will be managed."
Sturgis felt a flash of heat. "Managed" – as if morale were a PR problem, not a fundamental pillar of an effective military. He saw General Collins shaking his head slightly, and across from him, the Marine Commandant stared at the table, jaw clenched.
The Acting Secretary gathered his papers, signaling the discussion was over. "I trust I can count on each of you to facilitate a smooth transition in your branches. Any sign of insubordination down the ranks will be dealt with swiftly. This is a necessary reset."
Necessary for what? Sturgis wondered bitterly. To ensure no one in uniform would question illegal orders? To bend the military wholly to one man's will? But he maintained his poker face. "We will carry out lawful orders, as always," he replied, the emphasis on "lawful" subtle but there.
If the Secretary caught it, he didn't show it. He nodded curtly and left the room, a phalanx of aides trailing him out. The heavy door thudded shut behind them.
For a moment, the generals left in the room sat in stunned silence. It was General Abrams, the Army Chief, who spoke first, voice low: "This is… unprecedented." The word hung in the air.
Admiral Lewis removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I never thought I'd see something like this in the United States military," he murmured.
Sturgis felt an acute pang of responsibility. As Chairman, he had to steady the ship. He straightened. "Gentlemen, our duty remains to the Constitution and the country," he said quietly. "We have to keep our forces stable and ready. We'll get through this." He wasn't sure he believed his own words, but he needed his comrades to hear them.
General Collins let out a humorless chuckle. "Get through it… until we're all replaced by lackeys too, perhaps."
No one answered that. It was a fear they all shared. Each of them had privately wondered if their heads were next on the chopping block should they show any dissent.
Sturgis looked at each man in turn. "I know this is difficult. Some of those relieved today were our friends." He paused, swallowing a lump in his throat as he thought of General Whittaker of CENTCOM, a mentor to him, who had just been summarily dismissed via a phone call that morning. "But we have thousands of troops looking to us for leadership. We maintain discipline, focus on the mission, and try to prevent any… misuses of the military in the days ahead."
He saw understanding in their eyes. Misuse – a euphemism for any orders that might come that violate their oath. They all dreaded that scenario, yet it felt closer than ever.
The Marine Commandant, General Harlan, a grizzled veteran near retirement, cleared his throat. "If such an order comes, we stand together, yes?" He looked around. It was as close as anyone would come to openly acknowledging the unthinkable.
Sturgis met his gaze firmly. "Yes. We do." Around the table, the others nodded somberly.
A few minutes later, the Joint Chiefs filed out of the room, forced stoicism on their faces. They had troops to inform, farewell ceremonies to arrange (quiet ones, presumably, since public fanfare for the fired might be frowned upon), and a facade of normalcy to maintain.
General Sturgis returned to his own office. On his desk sat two stacks of documents: one, routine military business; the other, a list of names — colonels and majors to be elevated swiftly to fill the gaps. He picked up that second list and scanned it. Many he knew only by personnel file notes. Some had decent records; others were undistinguished but had connections to Trumbull's circle. Not the way promotions were usually done.
His aide, Colonel Diaz, hovered at the door. "Sir, the conference call with forward commanders is in five minutes."
Sturgis pinched the bridge of his nose. He had almost forgotten — he'd called a secure video meeting with all major combatant commanders to reassure them and emphasize continuity. Of course, two of those faces would be absent now — CENTCOM and PACOM, both relieved of duty. Their deputies would likely be on the call instead, confused and anxious.
"Thank you, Diaz," he said tiredly. "I'll be there shortly."
Diaz lingered, an uneasy look on his face. Sturgis gave him a questioning look.
"Permission to speak freely, sir?" Diaz asked.
Sturgis nodded.
The colonel stepped in and quietly shut the door. "Sir, some of us on your staff… we're worried. Not just for those officers who were fired, but for you. For all of us."
Sturgis managed a small, rueful smile. "I appreciate that, Walt." He used the colonel's first name, a rare familiarity acknowledging the gravity of the moment. "I won't pretend things aren't bad. But we have to keep this institution intact."
Diaz hesitated, then spoke with a candor born of long trust. "If they come for you, sir — if they demand your resignation because you won't go along with something — I want you to know, a lot of the rank and file will back you."
Emotion tightened Sturgis's throat unexpectedly. He had led men in war and never flinched, but this quiet affirmation of loyalty nearly undid him. He placed a hand on Diaz's shoulder. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that. But thank you."
After Diaz left, Sturgis took a moment to gather himself. He looked at the framed photo on his wall: him and a squad of young soldiers in Afghanistan years ago, dusty and tired but proud after a hard mission. He thought of those young faces — some now officers themselves — and wondered what they made of this day. How could he explain that the greatest threat to the military's honor had come not from a foreign enemy, but from within their own government?
The intercom buzzed. The secure video call was ready. Sturgis straightened his uniform jacket and went to fulfill his duty — trying to project confidence he did not feel.
For the next hour, he spoke to generals around the world. He gave them the official lines about "retirements" and "new leadership," and answered their careful questions with as much honesty as he dared. Yes, things were changing rapidly. No, operational readiness would not be compromised (he prayed that was true). Yes, the chain of command remained clear.
Some of the commanders looked reassured. Others looked like they wanted to ask more but knew better.
After the call, as evening settled, General Sturgis finally had a few minutes to himself. He stood by his window overlooking the Potomac, watching the dusk deepen. In one day, decades of combined military experience had been shown the door because they were inconvenient to those in power. The Pentagon itself felt like it was under occupation — a silent coup of obedience.
He thought of calling his wife, but he knew she'd hear the strain in his voice and worry even more. Instead, he reached into his desk and drew out a small booklet he kept there: a copy of the oath of enlistment and the officer's oath. He read the familiar words silently: "support and defend the Constitution... bear true faith and allegiance..."
He had lived those words for 35 years. Today, they felt simultaneously more urgent and more at risk than ever before.
A knock at the door jolted him. It was Admiral Lewis again, poking his head in. "Walt, we're heading to that farewell for Whittaker in the executive dining room. Coming?" The small, hurried send-off for the fired CENTCOM commander.
Sturgis nodded, placing the oath booklet back in his drawer. "Yes. Be right there."
As he followed Lewis down the hallway, he steeled himself. He would give a damn proper goodbye to his colleagues who'd been cast out. He'd tell them in private that their service was valued and would be remembered, no matter what official narrative was spun. And he'd promise them that he'd hold the line here as long as he could.
Walking down the polished corridor, General Walter Sturgis felt the weight of every star on his shoulders. He did not know what the next days would bring — only that he would meet them head-on. If the guardrails were collapsing, he and others like him would stand in those gaps as living guardrails if necessary.
They might well be removed like the others. But until that moment came, Sturgis resolved, he would uphold his oath in both letter and spirit. The military's honor, and the nation's, demanded nothing less.
He straightened his posture and stepped through the door to join the subdued gathering, determined to do what he had always done: lead by example, and fight to protect those under his care — this time, not on some distant battlefield, but within the halls of his own institution.