Join the new world

[This except from the forthcoming What A Guy memoir, I, WAG is reprinted here courtesy of the Charles H. Kerr Publishing Company.]

As I gingerly made my way to the gatehouse, work crews of rattled soldiers were carting off debris from the most recent shelling of the Ministry of Defense. A tough ground pounder stepped into my path.

"State your business," he rasped, hand on his holster.

I patted my jacket for documentation. "I'm the Minister of Defense," I told him, pulling out an illuminated scroll that President Vootsman had produced that morning with his special colored Sharpies. The guard looked it over, frowning. He looked it over again. And then again.

"You had better come this way," he said, just as another attack began. He broke into a sprint across the open ground between the gatehouse and the cellar door which was currently serving as the entrance to the Ministry.

I did my best to keep up with him as bombs burst all around us. We dove into the cellar door as it was momentarily opened by a grimacing recruit with one arm in a sling.

While panting in a heap, my eyes became accustomed to the dingy light coming from one filament bulb swinging from the wood and dirt ceiling. It shook as the ground above was pelted with mortar shells, casting wild shadows of my own profile. The guard's silhouette beckoned to me from further down the tunnel.

Crouching, I followed him down hastily-dug burrows below the remains of the Ministry into a stainless steel corridor which must have been part of the original substructure. He pushed open a hollow core Masonite door on which "M o D" had been scratched in special colored Sharpies. I passed through, and he pulled the door shut behind me.

I found myself alone in a small but well-appointed office. Built-in shelves bulged with leather-bound volumes on statecraft and military history, plus several decades of The Atlantic, Dissent, The Crisis, and Weight Watchers. An overlarge, filigreed rainforest wood desk was wedged in the corner, paired with a Breuer Cesca chair, neither matching nor all that comfortable, but still a valuable collector's item.

A welcome fire burned in the grate, and I went to warm myself by it. As I reached out my hands in their fingerless woolen gloves, a gruff voice behind me barked, "Now that you are in the fire of the cabinet, be careful that you don't get burned, my friend." Familiar clipped laughter filled my ears.

I turned to see the barrel-chested, battle-scarred visage of an old colleague from the times before. For just a moment, I relaxed. "It is good to see you --" I began, but he interrupted before I could speak his name.

"Call me Ivan," he laughed. "It is old custom to make our own change when times are of great change. But you! You are as handsome as ever." What he said was true. I bowed slightly and smiled.

"Thank you for answering the call to duty that our great president has issued," the man who called himself Ivan said. "Across the alliance, all wishes are for the eUSA to survive in one way or another. Perhaps we will all laugh about this one day in a fine Croatian-Hungarian restaurant on Lexington Avenue in your glorious Manhattan. But for now, I must return to my dacha near Varna and wait for orders or death."

"Thank you for welcoming me," I said. "A friendly face is appreciated in all this chaos."

"Chaos," he said, as a smile broke through his dark-thatched beard. "It is just another day in the office!" He barked his laughter again, throwing his enormous head back with glee. "Please, your illustrious predecessor has left a note for you, left drawer. Now, I will leave you to your great responsibilities. Long live Asteria, long live United States!" We embraced and he withdrew through the door from Home Depot.

I edged my way through the narrow gap between the desk and the wall and settled in the creaky Cesca chair. The left drawer stuck a bit on the way out, and in it was a wax-sealed square of parchment which I dropped onto the desk's richly polished surface.

Cracking the square, blue seal, I smoothed the page out on the desktop. Its message was relayed in a beautiful, calligraphic hand.

Dear new guy,

If you are reading this then I am already gone. In this time of existential war, I must pursue a top secret project in deep cover overseas. I may be gone for some time. All that I do is for the preservation of our great nation, so that its children may sleep unafraid.

I leave that nation in your trust. These are trying times, the kind of history that university departments are founded upon. Many have been unequal to the tasks before the eUSA now. The President and I know you are of a different sort. You will achieve all that I could not. I retire to my field mission comforted by the knowledge that you may be the greatest defense minister anyone could ever conceive of, even if they were trying really hard, even after a few drinks.

Defend our nation from the unpleasant barbarians and earn your place in the golden myths of our people. Say nice things about me when I'm gone.

Much love,

At the bottom was scrawled a huge capital "G" in a brown smear. I sniffed it. Was it human excrement? No, it was more subtle. Like poutine gravy.

I sat in silence, reflecting on the words of this great patriot. Then I noticed a more hastily added postscript:

In the end, there is always the right drawer

I pulled open the other drawer, revealing a small chamois leather bundle with scant oil stains. Prying an edge back revealed a Walther PPK pistol within. As I suspected, the magazine held one bullet.

There was a brisk knock on the door. Immediately, a slim, uniformed woman entered balancing a three-foot stack of folders. "If you're ready, sir," she said haltingly, "there is much to review."

I replaced the magazine and slid the drawer shut. I nodded to the unsteady stack. "Let's begin."