In his office, President Conner flapped his hand at the agent standing guard, gesturing him out of the room. He wanted privacy, and it was one of the few places on Earth where he could get it, so the man obeyed.

He sat down behind the large walnut desk and pulled a writing pad from one of the drawers. Real paper, not a computer tablet, and then picked up an obscenely expensive pen from where it rested to his right hand. Strictly speaking, he didn’t know if what he was writing would be necessary, but better to have done it and be done with it than otherwise.

He kept his letter straight and to the point. His speechwriter was responsible for most of his silver-tongued moments. Conner was more the straightforward type by nature, a disadvantage he’d worked hard to overcome through the years. As he finished it up, signing with a flourish he’d practiced for literally months, he wondered if anyone would ever read it.

I suppose I’ll find out, one way or the other.

Unlike many of his predecessors in their later years, he wasn’t a religious man. He supposed that was a good thing, because he didn’t need that on his mind at the moment in addition to his own regrets. One man’s burdens were hard enough to carry, but they were his and his alone. He preferred no help in the task.

He folded the letter and set his pen beside it, getting up from the desk as he walked back out to the door and nodded to the agent again.

“I want to see my family.”

“Yes sir.”

President and agent left the facsimile of the Oval Office and the handwritten letter behind as they headed down the hall away from the war room. He had no more strategic decisions to make, and would not allow himself further action. Not after giving the order he had.

It might have been necessary, but no man had a right to sit in that chair for longer than it took to write his resignation after ordering the use of nuclear weapons. Particularly not when that use was going to be on home soil.

No, his day was over.

If they survived, the Confederation would have a new leader come morning.

The skies were clear over New Mexico as the Cherokees took off, turbines screaming as the CM aircraft leapt into the sky with full loads of armaments, soldiers, and supplies. They’d received the go order just seconds earlier, but everyone had been leaning on the sticks in anticipation.

“Be advised, Operation Fire Bath has been greenlit. I say again,” the dispatcher announced, “Operation Fire Bath has been greenlit.”

Eric hung his head for a moment, though it was far from unexpected. Finally, he just opened the channel. “Understood.”