Nations Divided

 

NATIONS DIVIDED

chapter1

In the not-too-distant future, the world teetered on the brink of collapse. Industrial pollution choked the air, droughts and famines ravaged lands, and the melting polar ice caps sent starving polar bears into the ocean to drown. Natural disasters became the norm: floods, earthquakes, tsunamis, tornadoes, and hurricanes tore through the landscape, leaving devastation in their wake. Riots broke out across cities, ships clashed in open seas, and bombers unleashed nuclear devastation on unsuspecting metropolises.

Outside the United Nations Building, a swarm of press from around the globe gathered, their cameras flashing and microphones thrust forward in anticipation. Inside, the lobby buzzed with a cacophony of languages as presidents, prime ministers, heads of state, dignitaries, and politicians mingled. The opulence of their expensive suits and native attire stood in stark contrast to the deteriorating world they governed.

In the General Assembly Hall, every seat was occupied. World leaders donned headphones as the echoing voice of the President of the United States, Jack Simmons, was translated into their native languages. Jack, an African American in his late forties, stood at the podium, his posture rigid, his tone devoid of any political correctness. His speech was firm, the cadence of a coach seeking to inspire a losing team.

"We have accused each other. We have fought each other. We have gone to war, murdered, bombed, gassed, invaded, spied on, and assassinated. We have lied to each other and to each other. We’ve lied to ourselves and to the citizens of our individual nations. Above all these things, we have abused our mother...Earth. Now, she is dying. When the Earth dies, it dies not for the United States of America, or for the People’s Republic of China, or for Japan, or Africa or South America. It dies for all of us."

Jack paused, his frustration evident as he scanned the room. "I am forty-eight years old, and I’ve already fought in two wars. I’ve got the shrapnel in my shoulder to prove it. As President of the United States, I’ve sent tens of thousands of this nation’s children to war." His voice softened, tinged with sorrow. "I lost my only son, James, to war. This madness must stop. As of right now, for the United States, war is no longer an option. I know many of you feel the same way. That’s why the Oval Office is open to everyone who has any idea how to end this perpetual nation-against-nation mentality. It’s time we joined forces and stopped punishing each other and the Earth with our greed and thirst for power."

As Jack stepped off the podium, Secret Service agents flanked him, guiding him through the hall. He moved with purpose, the weight of his speech still lingering in the air. As he neared the exit, the computer screens of the senior politicians in the assembly hall began to blink. The titles of Prime Minister and President flashed on the screens, accompanied by an unreadable text message that left several leaders reacting with surprise.

Outside, the presidential motorcade, a fleet of limousines bearing the American flag, sped away from the underground parking lot of the U.N. Building. Inside the president’s limo, Jack sat with his Press Secretary, Sheldon, a sharply dressed seventy-year-old metrosexual, and Cindy Milanowski, the sophisticated Secretary of State, who was often dubbed a cougar for her striking appearance. Their body language spoke volumes of their mutual dislike.

"Skip the snow job. How did I do?" Jack asked, breaking the silence.

Cindy replied first, her tone measured. "I liked everything...except the mention of James."

Sheldon scoffed, unable to contain his irritation. "It shows compassion and empathy. A man who lost his son to an act of aggression by a competing nation understands the ravages of war. It makes him just like John Q. Public out there in middle America."

Cindy’s eyes narrowed as she shot an unflattering look at Sheldon. "It also creates a pivot point for the media to turn this back onto us. No disrespect, Mr. President, but you created the incident that took your son’s life. You sent men into a disputed and hostile territory."

Jack's eyes flashed with anger. "Based on intel from your department."

Cindy’s voice remained steady. "I went on record saying what we found was inconclusive. I advised against any and all military action."

Sheldon, growing furious, pointed a finger dangerously close to Cindy's eyes. "Maybe if you had the balls to stand behind your findings—"

Cindy laughed condescendingly. "Balls? Really? Is this another sexist attempt to belittle me and push your geriatric old-boys-network agenda on the President?"

Sheldon’s fury intensified. "Don’t you dare laugh at me, or speak to me like that!" His finger jabbed closer.

Cindy slapped his finger away, her movements swift and sharp. Jack, sensing the escalation, intervened. "That’s enough! As far as I’m concerned, we were successful today. We weren’t on the schedule but the Secretary-General gave us the floor. Now the world knows our position." He turned to Sheldon, his tone softening. "As always, great job on the speech."

Sheldon, still fuming, managed a tight smile. "They’re just words, Mr. President. You give them life."

Cindy's phone rang, cutting through the tension. She answered, her expression shifting from annoyance to curiosity. "This is U.S. Secretary of State, Cindy Milanowski for Deputy Prime Minister Kelso. I have the President on the line."

As she handed the phone to Jack, Sheldon muttered, "L’aventure commence."

Jack took the phone, his face a mask of concern. "Lichelli, how are you?"

Three sleek white SUVs–part of the administration’s motorcade–each bearing the British flag sped along the freeway, a symbol of power and prestige slicing through ordinary traffic.

Inside one of the SUVs, Lichelli Kelso, a woman of forty-four years with striking red hair and the air of blue-blood aristocracy, held a phone to her ear. Her tone was playful yet laced with an underlying seriousness.

"Jack, how are you, sweetheart? That was a rousing speech you gave today."

Jack's brow furrowed slightly as he responded, "Thanks, Lichelli. I was wondering if you could put me in touch with Gregory."

Lichelli's expression turned more serious, though her voice maintained its lightness. "I wish I could help, Jack, but Martinson is off the grid. Has been for seventy-two hours."

Jack's grip tightened on the phone. "That’s odd, don’t you think? Especially considering the communique Brangman delivered to the UN delegates."

A shadow crossed Lichelli's face. "I guess we’ll soon find out. I received his message as well. I’m on my way to the airport."

Jack turned slightly, covering the phone and whispering urgently to Milanowski. "How long from JFK to Bermuda?"

Milanowski glanced at Sheldon, who replied without missing a beat, "Two and a half hours. Why?"

"Get the Air Force One pilot on the phone," Jack ordered. "We’re making a pit stop in Bermuda before we return to Washington."

Milanowski's eyes widened in concern. "Mr. President, we haven’t vetted security in Bermuda."

Jack shook his head, his decision firm. "That’s fine. No one knows I’m coming."

Back to the phone, he spoke with resolution. "Lichelli, I’ll see you there."

The grand facade of the Waldorf Astoria, New York City's finest hotel, loomed majestically. Multiple three-car motorcades lined the street, a testament to the high-profile guests within.

Hiroto Mori, a fit and refined forty-seven-year-old Japanese man, sat on the edge of the bed in a hotel room. His assistant, dressed in a traditional kimono, knelt at his feet, carefully sliding Gucci shoes onto him. The serene ritual was interrupted by another secretary entering with a phone.

"Honorable Prime Minister, the Emperor wishes to speak with you."

Hiroto took the phone reluctantly. "Yes, Emperor."

The Emperor's voice, calm yet authoritative, came through the line. "Hiroto Mori, Honorable Prime Minister. The people are pleased that you are taking this journey. Western lifestyles are intoxicating. I’ve given your secretary a gift for you so you do not forget... you are a direct descendant of the Samurais who fought for our nation. May our ancestors be with you."

The call ended with a decisive click. The secretary knelt again, presenting Hiroto with a shiny black wooden case. As Hiroto opened it, his breath caught. Inside were two hand-made 42-inch katana swords and scabbards, a tangible link to his warrior ancestry.

In another suite, Jiaoji, the 340-pound Tongan Prime Minister, adjusted his traditional Tupenu garment. His wife entered, her eyes filled with concern as she helped him wrap the garment properly.

"In Tongan," she murmured, "I feel a strangeness in the sky."

Switching to English, Jiaoji tried to reassure her. "There is nothing in the sky, my love. You’ve always been afraid of flying."

Her worry did not abate. "Promise me you will be careful."

He took her hands, looking into her eyes with deep affection. "In Tongan," he vowed, "I will. I love you."

They embraced, holding onto each other as if the moment could last forever, while outside, the world continued its inexorable march toward an uncertain future.

The Italian flag waved gently inside the small jet, its colors starkly contrasting to the somber atmosphere. Antonio Galla, the sprightly forty-six-year-old Prime Minister of Italy, finished his prayer and crossed himself. With a determined look, he turned to his secretary, who handed him a phone.

“Is this the Minister of Defense? Hello? Tell me everything,” Antonio demanded, his voice tense with anticipation.

“Our satellites were picking up a tremendous amount of activity in that area the Americans call The Bermuda Triangle. Now there’s nothing. No ships. No planes. Nothing. But we still show traces of an immense energy source,” the Minister’s voice crackled through the phone.

Antonio's face tightened with concern. “I have the prototype satellite phone with me. Keep me informed,” he instructed, his mind racing with the implications of this mysterious energy source.