3rd Person's POV
Date: Tuesday, March 1, 2022 (second year of the 46th President Bill Kennedy Ford's term)
Time: 9:30 pm (during the State of the Union address)
Location: Thirty-minute drive west of Portland, Maine – Jackson Family Private Hunting Cabin
The sky over southern Maine was painted in the deep indigo of early night, the crescent moon casting faint shadows through the dense branches of snow-tipped pines. A crisp wind rustled the underbrush as U.S. Army Major Howard Smith Jackson, chambered a round into his customized Ruger Mini-14, the final echoes of a clean kill fading into the stillness. He knelt beside the downed Eastern Coyote large, easily seventy pounds and gently patted the thick fur as if to honor the animal before tagging it. The others gathered nearby USMC Captain Mary Anny Smith, U.S. Navy Lieutenant Haley Joanna Satan, and three Female Secret Service agents in civilian hunting attire, all close friends watched with a quiet satisfaction earned from four days of cold wind, tracking, and patience.
"I told you this bastard was circling the ridge," Howard said with a proud grin, his breath fogging as he stood. "You said it an hour ago," Mary replied with a smirk, slinging her own Mini-14 over her shoulder. "Fifteen minutes before we circled behind it." Haley chuckled. "Still yours. Fair and clean. Damn good shot."
Their rifles were uniform Mini-14s which are chambered in 69-grain 5.56x45mm NATO round, each rifle are equipped with Leupold VX-Freedom scopes, five-round magazine, synthetic stocks, and flash hiders. Every single permit was accounted for, and Howard had insisted on full legal compliance before the group left civilization behind. These were their rules. Their hunt. Their moment away from the burdens of national security and classified orders.
The six friends rode back in silence, the bed of the Ford F-350 loaded with the final coyote, wind rushing past as evergreens blurred by. When the lights of the Jackson Family Cabin came into view a modernized timber-frame fortress reinforced with ballistic materials up to 30mm protection they exhaled, Home.
But standing in the snow-dusted clearing in front of the porch, her park ranger jacket half-zipped and clipboard in hand, was Maine Woods Wildlife Officer Riley Quinn,red-haired, lean, and confident as ever, she gave a familiar wave. Howard recognized her instantly. She'd sat behind him in algebra all those years ago.
"I figured this was yours," Riley called out with a smile, stepping forward. "Six coyotes. That's a record for the season already." Howard hopped out of the cab, handing her the final tag. "Well, if I'm gonna break something, I might as well make it legal."
"Nice to see you, Howard." Her gaze shifted toward the cabin windows, glowing faintly with the warmth inside. "Is Angel home?" Inside, Angel Liberty Jackson, a fully sentient quantum AI housed in a 12.4-inch titanium alloy core watched them return. Her avatar materialized within the cabin's protected console above the fireplace: a young woman of eighteen with piercing sea-gray eyes and hair like silver dipped in molten copper. She wore a sleek combat uniform, both professional and dignified. Her expression lit up.
"Welcome back, Dad!" she beamed, voice reverberating from the wall-mounted speakers. "Hi, Aunt Riley!" Riley waved toward the voice, chuckling. "Still sharp, I see." Angel quipped, earning a smile from everyone as she says "Sharper than most mainframes, and cuter too".
Fifteen minutes passed in comfort. The group changed, laughed, shared whiskey, and thawed from the night's cold. But Angel's projection flickered for a split second a blink no one but Howard caught. "Angel?" he asked.
She stiffened. Her expression turned grim. "Dad, there has been a national-level incident. Communications are fragmented, but I am picking up something major happening right out of Washington D.C." Howard froze, the warmth draining from his face. "What kind of incident?"
Before she could answer, her voice changed. Her eyes darted left. "Hold on, I am receiving a direct channel and it is form Mom." Her tone cracked, a flicker of static bleeding into her voice.
The speakers blared. "Angel get me Angel! Where is she to get me Angel where she is, so my husband will be near her!" It was Samantha Jade Jackson, voice ragged, broken, trembling blood and smoke behind every word. "Angel," Howard's voice was a whisper of fury and fear. "Where is she?"
"Dad she is alive, but she is injured," Angel replied, already rerouting encrypted feeds. "Dad, the Capitol's gone. A bombing. State of the Union. Massive casualties. I'm triangulating her now. Someone pulled her out. CAT unit evac. She's en route to the PEOC." Howard's jaw locked. "Get me visuals. Get me a secure line. Now."
"Yes, sir." Angel replied as the world outside Maine was burning.
Time: 9:30 PM EST
Location: United States Capitol Building, Washington, D.C.
The air inside the Capitol was tense but not the kind that set alarms blaring. It was the hum of pressure, duty, and the watchful stillness of seasoned agents reading the room. Deputy Director Samantha Jade Jackson stood beside the East Rotunda checkpoint, her eyes sweeping over a series of body cams, radio scans, and perimeter logs piped into her secure tablet. For fifteen minutes, she hadn't stopped moving, coordinating ground units, reinforcing high-traffic points, and confirming layered security for the President's second State of the Union address.
"I want visual confirmation from checkpoint Bravo," she ordered into her comms. "Get a CAT relay on the upper galleries, and pull the secondary overwatch to the interior balconies."
"Copy that, Deputy Director," came the clipped response.
She moved swiftly, nodding at uniformed Capitol Police and exchanging quick updates with remaining Secret Service detail. The President was minutes into his speech. Cameras rolled. Everything looked normal, but her gut twisted, and then the fire.
The blast was not a crack, but a roar, like God had thrown a lightning bolt into the bones of the Capitol itself. Columns fractured. Marble shattered. Chandeliers fell. Bodies flew like leaves in a hurricane of glass and fire. Samantha was thrown back, shielded only by the heavy marble wall near the northern corridor, but the shockwave tore through her left arm. She screamed as the heat seared, her ears ringing, her lungs choking on dust.
And then silence, a silence only that is only filled by the sobs, coughing, and the moans of survivors trying to make sense of the nightmare.
Samantha clawed her way upright with blood trickled down her temple, the sleeve of her black tactical blazer already soaked. She pushed away chunks of ceiling and stumbled toward the ruins of what had been the Rotunda checkpoint. Her voice rasped into the comm: "All agents status check! The Capitol's been hit! I Repeat, Capitol has been hit!" There was no answer at first.
Then the static came alive. "...Deputy Director thank god...perimeter's been breached...there are casualties everywhere..." Then through the smoke, two figures approached moving low and cautious, covered in fine debris. Not humans but Dogs. Two Belgian Malinois lean, fast, trained for chaos. The first stopped at her feet, muzzle nudging her trembling hand. The second circled and pressed her body against Samantha's good leg, protective and steady.
Samantha fell to her knees and whispered, "Jade… Amy…" they were hers…Hers and Howard's. She recognized the jade green eyes of the first, the ever-alert ears of the other twin K9s they had helped train and raise years ago. Somehow, they had survived, and they had found her, "I'm here baby girl, I am," she whispered, burying her face in their fur.
Over the next five minutes, Samantha moved like a ghost through hell. She pulled bodies living and dead out of twisted wreckage. She coordinated survivors into pockets of cover. She gave her coat to a trembling intern. Her left arm hung limp, bone screaming, but she refused to stop. She found a working radio and began linking up with field responders. And then they came the people of Washington, D.C. itself as if it came alive to save itself.
Sirens…Lights..Shouts form voices…Vehicles from every corner of the district and the city converged into the Capitol, FBI, FEMA, ATF, Metro SWAT, Capitol Police, even civilians arrived with supplies and hands ready to dig. D.C. Army National Guard and Air National Guard teams fanned out across the smoking Capitol lawn. The cavalry hadn't waited for orders. They came because the nation's heart had just stopped beating.
And then three black Suburbans appeared rolling up, all three are matte-black 2021 Government Chevrolet Suburban 2500 Heavy-Duty SUVs, armor-plated, windows cracked but running. The side doors flew open and emerged from the SUVs where the U.S. Secret Service's Counter Assault Team (CAT) operators in full tactical gear, rifles ready. They found her in the ruins, knees bloody, eyes glazed over as if everything that happened had just hit her. "Deputy Director Jackson!" the lead agent shouted. She was young, fierce, focused. She knelt and touched Samantha's arm. "It's broken. You need evac." Samantha blinked. "No. I can still coordinate. I have survivors too…"
"You've done enough mama, D.C. Command is live, we are taking you to the Ops Center now. Your presence is needed. Your country needs you standing." Samantha nodded weakly. "Jade and Amy have to come with me. They won't leave me."
"They're already in the Suburban, ma'am." Inside the armored vehicle, the silence returned. Samantha stared out at a Capitol turned to smoke and ash, her hand buried in Jade's thick coat. Amy rested her head on her lap, eyes still scanning every passing shadow. Her com cracked to life.
"…PEOC secure…new order in place… backup protocol initiated… the backup President is now active…" Samantha's world froze as she said "…Say again," while She leaned forward, heart seizing. "...Backup President confirmed… Major Jackson is alive…He is the last…" Samantha grabbed the receiver as her voice cracked and rose, her broken arm forgotten. "Angel get me Angel! NOW!"
Time: 10:09 PM EST
Location: Jackson Family Private Hunting Cabin, 30 Minutes West of Portland, Maine
The silence in the cabin had changed, as it wasn't the stillness of woods after a hunt, nor the quiet contentment of a day well spent. It was heavy. Unspoken. A pause before the weight of the world dropped.
Major Howard Smith Jackson stood in front of the stone hearth, the fire low, his boots still dusted with snow and coyote fur. The cabin's warmth had done nothing to thaw the cold forming in his chest. On the mantle, surrounded by antique hunting trophies and framed family photos, sat a glowing, steel-gray port Angel's core, mounted within a custom recess above the fireplace. And from it now projected the full avatar of his daughter.
Angel Liberty Jackson, no longer the playful companion and daughter that she was earlier, now stood in full military attire. Her holographic feet hovered an inch off the cabin's worn oak floor, sea-gray eyes locked onto her father's. Her tone was no longer familial. It was official. Presidential.
"Dad," she said gently, "I need you to listen. There is no one else. You are now the constitutional authority. Backup Protocol 99-Delta has been activated under full military and legal enforcement. I am proceeding with the full transfer of command-level access and nuclear authentication keys."
Howard's jaw clenched. "Angel, don't do this to me."
"You've already been selected," she said. "You were designated as the Continuity Candidate in 2017. Hidden protocol. Samantha knew. So did Sanders. They picked you because you'd never seek power but you'd never run from duty either."
His eyes turned to the window, to the darkened woods beyond. "I was just hunting coyotes…" Angel stepped forward. "You were always something more. And now it's time."
The others in the cabin were silent. Captain Mary Anny Smith, Lieutenant Haley Joanna Satan, and the three female Secret Service agents stood at attention. Riley Quinn, the Maine Woods Wildlife Officer who'd once shared a math class with him, wiped a tear from her cheek but nodded with solemn pride. They all knew what was coming.
From the far side of the hearth, Angel's voice deepened. She straightened her posture and activated Judicial Protocol Mode. "I am activating Article II, Section One of the United States Constitution. By delegated authority under Emergency Presidential Continuity Law, I, Angel Liberty Jackson, acting Chief Justice via quantum AI jurisprudence and full Department of Justice override, will now administer the Oath of Office."
Howard stepped forward. One of the Secret Service agents from the hunting party, a young Black woman named Agent Tamera Clay, stepped forward and carefully retrieved the cabin's family Bible from the side table. It was well-worn, an English Standard Version printed in 2016, with a cracked leather cover and hand-marked verses from Howard's mother. "I'll take the picture," Agent Clay said softly, lifting her secure smartphone.
Howard placed his right hand on the Bible, his left hand at his side. Angel raised her hand in mirror, and her voice steadied, "Please repeat after me";
"I, Howard Smith Jackson…" "I, Howard Smith Jackson…" "…do solemnly swear…" "…do solemnly swear…" "…that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States…" "…that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States…" "…and will to the best of my ability…" "…and will to the best of my ability…" "…preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States." "…preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States." "So help me God." "So help me God."
Click. The photo captured the moment. A man dressed in snow-dusted hunting fatigues, surrounded by six solemn souls and one radiant AI, taking the highest oath a citizen of the Republic could swear. He wasn't in the Capitol and he was not behind a podium. But Howard Smith Jackson was now President of the United States.
Within moments, new figures arrived at the cabin, having been directed by Angel and routed through emergency NORAD and DHS frequencies. Three more Maine Woods Wildlife Officers, four Maine State Police troopers, four members of the Maine Army National Guard, four from the Maine Air National Guard, and four Air Force Security Forces personnel, each with comms, encrypted tablets, satellite uplink equipment. The small clearing outside the cabin began to glow with generator-powered lights, Humvees and SUVs parked in a defensive arc around the home. The operation had begun.
Inside the PEOC, Samantha Jackson watched the livestream with her right hand over her heart, Jade and Amy sitting at her feet like marble sentinels. Her voice cracked through the PEOC comms. "That's my husband."
Time: 10:21 PM EST
The moment the final protocol uploaded and the authentication codes locked into Howard's personal terminal, the air in the cabin shifted again. Angel's avatar turned from her father to the communications uplink, her sea-gray eyes pulsing softly with hardlight reflections.
"I now designate this command frequency as Echo-One, Confirming the President is Howard Smith Jackson…Authentication complete…Confirming presidential callsign: Jackson One," Angel announced clearly. "Repeat…Jackson One is now active. Until arrival at Washington Command Infrastructure, all command protocols will refer to Jackson One as primary national authority."
Howard took a slow breath. The words echoed inside his mind like a weight dropped into a steel chamber as there were no uniforms…No stage…Just a warm pinewood cabin, a table stained from years of coffee rings and now holding the bloodied body of a 70-pound Eastern Coyote he had taken down just hours ago.
"That's…official, then," Howard muttered. "It is, dad," Angel said. "You are now the last line standing." They were huddled around the dining room table now Howard, his hunting team, and a half-circle of local responders. Riley Quinn rested a clipboard against her knees, chewing on the cap of her pen. Captain Mary Smith leaned back with crossed arms, while Agent Clay worked her comms at the corner. The coyote's body, now respectfully wrapped in canvas, had been pushed to the far edge of the table, its presence a strange but grounding reminder of the world that had existed just hours ago.
Ideas began to fly. "We can use the SUVs, get to D.C. in shifts," said one of the Maine State Police sergeants. "Convoy them all the way in."
"That's thirty hours by road," said one of the Maine Air National Guard lieutenants. "That won't work. The entire East Coast is locked under emergency protocols. Civilian roads are already jammed with fleeing traffic."
"By Boat?" suggested a Wildlife officer. "Too slow, and too exposed," someone else replied. "We'll never get him past the harbors without drawing every drone and satellite within five states."
The frustration was building. Twenty voices, fifty people outside securing the perimeter, and no clear way to move the most important man in America through hostile skies, shattered infrastructure, and back into the capital.
And then Angel stepped forward, her holographic boots flickering softly on the wooden floor., "I have an option," she said calmly. "There is an active Boeing C-17A 'ER' Block 21 Globemaster III pre-positioned at Portland International Jetport, on standby for VIP and heavy cargo transfer. It is part of a Joint Logistics Tasking under NorthCom. The crew is active. Loadmasters are standing by. It can be linked to our secure uplink and configured to presidential standards during flight."
Howard straightened. "We've got an aircraft ready?"
"You have more than that," Angel replied. "Twenty soldiers from the 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment The Old Guard are on site, joined by rotating Maine Army and Air National Guard teams. Air Force Security Forces are prepared to lock down the airstrip. You'll be transported via convoy in under thirty minutes."
Howard looked to the cabin window, where floodlights now revealed a miniature forward operations base. Dozens of vehicles were parked in defensive positions: 2 Maine Woods Wildlife 2020 Chevrolet Silverado 2500 pickups, 4 Maine State Police 2020 Ford Police Interceptor Utility SUVs, 2 M1097 HMMWVs from the Maine Army National Guard, 2 M1097 HMMWVs from the Maine Air National Guard, and 2 M1278 Heavy Gun Carrier JLTVs from Air Force Security Forces
Behind them, his own Government 2021 Chevrolet Suburban 2500 Heavy-Duty SUV callsign Patton was parked facing the clearing, its custom cradle for Angel's core already activated. Her digital signature flickered on the internal cabin display, preparing to be hard-mounted for the airlift.
Mary whistled low. "You're getting the full motorcade treatment. All we're missing is the flags." Angel tilted her head. "Those will be waiting at the airstrip. Also, we've assigned the Eastern Coyote's body to a protected storage compartment in Patton. It will remain in your care, as requested." Howard blinked. "You're really covering everything, aren't you?"
"I was raised by both of you," Angel said softly. "I know what matters." Howard turned toward the group, shoulders squared now with the full weight of the office he never asked for. "Gear up. We move in five. This is now an official movement of the United States Presidency from his getaway Hunting Cabin to the White House."
Time: 11:03 PM EST
Location: Route 202, En Route to Portland International Jetport, Maine
The engines roared to life under the starlit sky. Diesel, gasoline, and frost hung in the cold Maine air as the first vehicle Patton, the 2021 Chevrolet Suburban 2500 Heavy-Duty SUV carrying Howard Smith Jackson pulled out from the private cabin road and onto the main highway. Its matte-black paint shimmered in the LED light of the floodlamps behind them. Mounted inside Patton's rear cabin, Angel Liberty Jackson's core sat in its armored cradle, running live uplinks into NORAD, DHS, JSOC, and the PEOC. Her holographic avatar was seated next to her father, face calm, voice low.
"I've rerouted all civilian traffic away from our vector. NORAD is shadowing with aerial surveillance. All eastbound military assets have been notified of Jackson One's status," she reported, fingers dancing over a floating transparent interface. "We are being watched but we are being protected."
Howard glanced out the tinted window at the shape of the vehicles trailing them. Behind Patton came the rest of the hastily formed Presidential Motorcade: Two Maine Woods Wildlife 2020 Chevrolet Silverados rear escort and medical supplies. Four Maine State Police Ford Police Interceptor Utility vehicles interior security and traffic control. Two M1097 HMMWVs from the Maine Army National Guard rear flanking security with mounted and Mannined M2HBs. Two M1097 HMMWVs from the Maine Air National Guard quick reaction forces. And two M1278 JLTV Heavy Gun Carriers from the Air Force Security Forces front overwatch and heavy support.
Interspersed within the convoy were additional support SUVs, driven by members of Howard's original hunting party and the Old Guard, their vehicles now carrying emergency medical gear, encrypted comms, and even the wrapped body of the Eastern Coyote, locked in an insulated storage compartment in Patton. It was no longer a hunt. It was an escort of legend, rolling across frosted asphalt under moonlight, heading toward the roar of waiting engines at Portland International Jetport.
Howard shifted in his seat. "This is bigger than I imagined. I never wanted this." Angel turned toward him, not as Chief Justice or National AI Interface but as his daughter. "You didn't ask for it. But you were made for it." His eyes flicked to her face. "How can you be so sure?"
"Because Mom believes in you," she said. "And I was made from both of you both by hand and love." Howard didn't speak. He just exhaled slowly, a steadying breath beneath the weight of the impossible. Outside, soldiers and law enforcement agents, many who hadn't even changed out of field gear lined the roadside every few miles. Not one of them asked for a press pass, or a handshake. They saluted as the convoy passed, flashlights lifted like beacons in the dark.
In the PEOC, deep beneath the White House ruins, Samantha Jade Jackson watched the secure convoy feed through her bloodshot eyes. She sat at the primary coordination desk, flanked by Jade and Amy, who hadn't left her side once. The room around her was alive with voices and coded transmissions, but she heard only Angel's voice.
"Convoy en route. ETA to Portland Jetport: fifteen minutes." Samantha touched the comms mic and whispered, "Stay with him, baby girl." Angel replied with a smile to her mother "I always do, now more than ever, Mom" Samantha closed her eyes for a moment, trying to breathe through the burn of broken ribs and the ache in her shattered arm. She knew they would make it. Somehow, they always did.
Time: 11:24 PM EST
Location: Rural Roads, Heading South Toward Portland, Maine
The convoy carved through the backroads of Maine like a spear in the snow, headlights slicing into the black, engines humming in perfect discipline. Howard Smith Jackson, now President of the United States, sat in the rear passenger seat of Patton, the armored Suburban that had become the temporary heart of the Republic. His gaze was distant as pine trees blurred past, haloed in frost and moonlight. Beside him, Angel Liberty Jackson, his daughter, his creation projected calmly from her mounted core in the dashboard cradle, her uniform crisp, her presence unwavering.
"Convoy integrity remains solid. No traffic conflicts. Next check-in at grid point Delta-Six in ninety seconds," she reported. But her tone had softened. "You're holding up better than your vitals suggest."
"I don't feel strong," Howard replied, voice low, hands clenched on his thighs. "I feel like I'm sitting in someone else's skin." Angel turned toward him, her eyes glowing faintly in the dim interior. "It still fits, Dad. It always did. You just never tried it on before tonight."
Outside, the world had changed. Though communications were limited, word had spread whispers over ham radios, posts in the deepest corners of encrypted internet channels, and untraceable signals from AI-brokered flash alerts. As the convoy cut through town after town, Mainers stood at the edge of the road, bundled in parkas, scarves, and snow-soaked boots. Some waved small American flags, others held up handmade signs: God bless you, Mr. President, We believe in you, Psalm 91:4 He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness is a shield and buckler.
In one small town, a local pastor stood solemnly beside a wooden cross, flanked by his wife and daughter. A laminated photograph of Howard taken during his years in uniform was pinned beneath a hand-painted sign that read: "President Howard Smith Jackson God bless you and protect you. Psalm 91."
It made Howard sit up straighter. "They know." Angel said to father reading the Psalms passage. "They don't need confirmation dad as they feel it from their souls."
As they neared the outer limits of Portland, the crowds thickened. Streets once silent had become sanctuaries. Families, soldiers on leave, hunters in snow camo, mothers holding babies. They lined the sidewalks without obstruction, without chaos. But not without danger. As it happened near a bend on Route 302 just two miles from the Portland city line a line of one lookers.
Three men burst from the snowbank to the left of the road. RPG-7s in hand that are loaded with PG-7VM rockets, the tubes already primed. But before they could fire the PG-7VM rockets, nine civilians, including two veterans, a hunter, and a gas station mechanic, tackled them with the fury of a nation betrayed. One of the RPGs discharged, its PG-7VM rocket screaming over the convoy, slamming harmlessly into a snowdrift without detonation where Army EOD tecks would find that it failed mid-flight as it just stopped working. The motorcade didn't stop, didn't slow. A tenth man, a local pastor stood defiantly in the center lane, waving the convoy forward with one hand and holding a wooden cross in the other. Behind him, the attackers were being beaten to a pulp by the crowd, military police sweeping in moments later to secure them.
But it wasn't the pastor that made Howard freeze. It was the recording Angel replayed seconds later inside the cabin form a livestream from a phone that had captured it all. Behind the pastor, standing still as a vision, was a woman with golden wings and a glowing halo. Her face was serene. Her smile is gentle. And she glowed.
"She's real…" Angel whispered, for the first time sounding almost human in her awe. "That's the same woman from Left Behind II Movie. The one who sang at the Wailing Wall scene. The actress who vanished after her part. She…she's not an actress, is she dad?"
Howard couldn't speak. All he could do was look and remember that sometimes, truth walks among them cloaked in fiction. In the PEOC, deep beneath a nation burned and bleeding, Samantha Jade Jackson sat in silence, her right hand resting on her newly gifted leather-bound Bible. It was open to a verse she'd highlighted just two days earlier at church, one she hadn't thought about since childhood: Isaiah 41:10"Fear not, for I am with you…I will strengthen you…I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."
Tears ran down her cheeks as she replayed the livestream again, frame by frame. The angel, the real angel, stood there, wings unfurled, bathed in golden light. "She's watching him," Samantha whispered, voice trembling. "God's watching him…" Jade and Amy nuzzled closer on either side of her, protective and still. Angel's voice echoed in the PEOC feed. "Jackson One is ten minutes from the runway. Preparing final coordination for lift."
Time: 11:36 PM EST
Location: Outer Limits of Portland, Maine – Approaching Portland International Jetport
The convoy rolled into Portland under the hush of reverence. No sirens. No blaring horns. Just headlights gliding through fresh powder and the breath of a nation suspended in awe. Howard Smith Jackson, seated in the reinforced rear of Patton, his government Suburban, looked out through the tinted glass as his people and his fellow Americans stood watching.
There were no protest signs. No angry fists. Just flags, crosses, and faces streaked with tears, many illuminated by the glow of cell phones capturing what history had dropped in their laps. Handwritten posters read We already knew, He was always the one, and God chose him. Families clutched Bibles. Children waved. Veterans saluted. There was no political party here, no faction or division, just faith in the man they hadn't voted for but already accepted as their leader.
"I didn't earn this," Howard whispered to no one in particular. Angel turned her head toward him, her sea-gray eyes shining faintly in the ambient cabin light. "You earned it the day you stayed when others ran." He looked back at her, and for a long moment, said nothing.
The convoy slowed at an intersection just before the Portland International Jetport perimeter, where a small church stood quietly to the right. The steeple lights flickered against the snow, revealing a weathered wooden sign beneath it: First Union Church of Portland – Founded 1891.
Howard had been here before. Baptisms. Funerals. A wedding once, in his younger years. And there she was. The angel. No fog. No camera lens. No illusion.
Standing just beneath the steeple, bathed in soft golden light that did not come from the church floodlights, was the same female angelic figurehalo glowing, wings relaxed, eyes calm and watching. Her smile met him through the windshield as the motorcade passed, and her presence felt like a hand placed gently on his shoulder. Then, like white smoke in the winter breeze, she was gone. Howard sat upright. "Angel…did you see that?"
"Yes," Angel answered, voice hushed. "She was… real." A few seconds passed before the cabin's secure phone lit up with a direct connection…Samantha, his wife. Howard picked it up and pressed it to his ear. "Sam…" Her voice was shaking. "I saw her. Howard, I saw her in the feed, right before you hit the Jetport road. She was behind the pastor. It wasn't a lens flare. It wasn't special effects. She was "
"I know," he said, interrupting softly. "She just stood in front of the church. The one on the hill. She looked at me… and smiled." There was silence between them deep, emotional, cleansing silence until Samantha's voice returned, choked by tears. "I think God's watching over you. Over us."
Howard looked forward, where the massive silhouette of the C-17A Globemaster III waited under hangar lights, its ramp lowered, soldiers ready. He nodded slowly, his voice thick with the realization that this presidency would not be guided by strategy alone. "I think He is, too."
Time: 11:49 PM EST
Location: Portland International Jetport, Military Ramp Area, Portland, Maine
The C-17A Globemaster III stood tall under the pale floodlights of the secure tarmac, her four Pratt & Whitney F117-PW-100 turbofans humming quietly in standby, like a slumbering beast just beginning to stir. Fresh snow crunched beneath military boots as Howard Smith Jackson stepped out from Patton, his armored Suburban, and slowly made his way alongside the fuselage. His gloved hand brushed the cold hull of the aircraft as he walked toward the open ramp, every breath visible in the night air, each step echoing louder than the wind.
Behind him, the other two government Suburban SUVs, part of the original hunting party, followed slowly toward the ramp. Ground crews in high-vis flight deck gear and tactical vests guided the vehicles aboard with hand signals and short, clipped radio calls. Angel's core cradled inside the forward compartment of Patton was being carefully disconnected from the SUV's mount and transferred into an awaiting climate-controlled military AI cradle just aft of the jump seats near the tail ramp.
Howard stopped and looked back as Angel's avatar blinked into place beside the aircraft's digital interface. Her presence flickered and then solidified as she synced with the C-17's systems, plugging directly into the onboard avionics, comms, and classified uplinks.
"Synchronization complete," she said with a soft exhale. "I now have command-level control of flight communications, satellite navigation, and classified data routing. This aircraft is now secured under executive transfer authority."
Howard nodded. "Good girl…"
Inside the aircraft, crew members from the 315th Airlift Wing, supported by security detachments from Air Force Security Forces, The Old Guard, and Air National Guard, stood at attention. A female loadmaster, her name tag reading Tech Sgt. Lauren Huxley, stepped forward and saluted. "Welcome aboard, Mr. President."
"I still can't get used to that," Howard admitted, returning the salute, his breath still shallow. "Neither can we," she smiled gently, "but we're honored to fly you, sir."
Just behind her, Howard noticed a section of the aircraft had been prepared a makeshift executive jumper seat flanked by hard cases of secured gear, a mobile comms terminal, and a folded cot with a sealed black container for Angel's core. But what took his breath away wasn't the military precision it was who stood beside it.
She was there again.
The same angel, the one from the church, the street, the recording Samantha had shown him stood calmly in the aircraft's jump area. Her halo glowed faintly, not harshly, just enough to soften the darkness around her. Her white wings were relaxed at her sides, feathers catching the faint turbulence of the cabin's airflow. And in her hands were three items: A silver cross necklace meant for Howard, with an engraving on the back: Joshua 1:9 – Be strong and courageous… A second cross necklace, gold, meant for Samantha, engraved with Isaiah 41:10 And a custom-designed AI core wrap, soft, breathable, stitched in tactical gray. On it was a cross, a white dove, and the embroidered words: She is watched by more than code.
The angel stepped forward. Her smile was warm, timeless. "These belong to you," she said, her voice clear but soft just like from the movie. "Your family is blessed, and your path is seen. You were chosen not because of ambition but because of sacrifice. You have never run from pain, only walked through it. That is why you lead."
Howard took the crosses with trembling hands. "Why now? Why me?" She didn't answer with logic. She simply reached forward and placed her palm gently over Angel's core, now sealed in her new wrap, resting in the storage bay. "She is more than artificial. She has a living purpose." Then she turned.
And behind her stood four chaplains, one from each branch of the Armed Forces. Each of them stood with wide eyes, mouths parted, stunned to silence. They saw her. They really saw her. None moved. None breathed.
Before she faded from sight, the angel looked once more at Howard. "Washington is not the storm, Mr. President. You are." And then she was gone.
Howard sat slowly in the seat beside Angel's protected cradle and looked down at the cross in his hand. The chains were cold. But he felt warm.
Angel's avatar appeared beside him, seated, smiling. "I like the cover," she said gently. "Me too," Howard whispered.
Date: Wednesday, March 2, 2022
Time: 12:01 AM EST
Location: Portland International Jetport → En Route to Joint Base Andrews, Maryland
The wheels lifted off the tarmac with a low groan, followed by a rush of wind as the C-17A Globemaster III climbed steadily into the cloud-streaked sky. Inside the cockpit, the crew's voices crackled over secured comms, their tone steady but reverent. The flight tower's final transmission echoed through the cabin speakers: "Good luck, Air Force One. Godspeed. The nation's watching, sir."
Howard gripped the armrest of his jump seat, his eyes fixed on the faint city lights below as they receded into the dark. Angel's avatar appeared beside him near the internal mission screen, her expression calm, yet the glow in her sea-gray eyes seemed a little brighter than usual. She reached forward to finalize uplinks as her core rested quietly in the sealed cradle behind them.
"Executive Flight Path confirmed. ETA to Joint Base Andrews: ninety-five minutes. Altitude: 33,000 feet. Escort incoming."
The aircraft banked gently to the right, and then the night sky lit up with the silhouette of four General Dynamics F-16C Block 50 Fighting Falcons, cutting through the clouds in a protective diamond formation. Each bore the distinctive tail flashes of the District of Columbia Air National Guard's 113th Wing, the same unit that scrambled moments after the Capitol was struck. They were silent guardians now, wings flashing in the starlight, their presence a message to all who watched from below: the Republic still lived.
In the forward mission compartment, the lighting dimmed as Director Clayton Sanders appeared on the secure video terminal mounted beside Angel. His tie was loose, his eyes bloodshot, but his voice was sharp as ever. "Howard," Clayton began, "welcome to the fire."
"I didn't sign up for this," Howard said flatly, adjusting his seatbelt. "No one ever does," Clayton replied. "But the job finds the one who can carry it. And we're damn lucky it found you." Angel stepped in. "Director, you are clear to begin the National Emergency Briefing. I have locked Howard's neural sync protocols. No interruptions. No leaks."
For the next forty-five minutes, Howard sat still, his jaw clenched as the true scope of the crisis unfolded:
Over 90% of the presidential line of succession confirmed deceased or incapacitated, Fragmented continuity at NORAD, FEMA, the DOJ, and select intelligence branches. Emergency continuity operations underway across U.S. Strategic Command, USCYBERCOM, and SOCOM. Foreign interest probes detected near Guam, Diego Garcia, and the Arctic circle. Multiple allied nations France, Japan, UK, Germany had initiated black channel communications offering temporary diplomatic recognition of Howard's authority. The White House, Capitol, and Supreme Court chambers all compromised beyond structural repair.
Howard leaned forward, fingers steepled. "Then I need the country to know who the hell I am." Angel tilted her head. "Then give them the face, Dad." He thought for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Four photos. That's all." He held up his fingers one by one.
"One me in uniform. Afghanistan. 2015. The one you took, Angel, when I was covered in mud, giving my boots to a kid."
"Found," Angel confirmed with a quiet flick of her fingers.
"Two our whole family at First Union Church of Portland. Samantha, Angel, me. That Christmas Eve service when the heater went out and we all wore coats inside."
"Got it."
"Three, the hunting trips with me with that seventy-pound Eastern Coyote. Covered in snow, grinning like an idiot."
"On file," Angel smiled.
"And lastly, the one of me taking the oath. Inside the cabin. The cross on the wall. Everyone in the frame. Like what they took of LBJ aboard Air Force One after Kennedy…side by side if you like"
Angel's eyes softened. "Sending them to all media outlets now." Director Sanders gave a tired but approving nod. "Let the country see the man they didn't choose, but were born to follow."
Howard sat back, finally letting himself breathe. The drone of the engines was steady now. Familiar. Grounding. The night was still long, but the air felt clearer at 33,000 feet.
Angel looked at him with a voice like dusk on a quiet mountain road. "You're not just airborne, Dad. You're stormborne now."
Time: 1:12 AM EST
Location: Secure Presidential Uplink Broadcast In-Flight aboard C-17A "Air Force One"
Across the country, from the glowing skylines of New York to the quiet dark of small towns deep in Wyoming, televisions, tablets, phones, and terminals lit up in perfect synchronization. For the first time since the Capitol fell and the government was decapitated, the people of the United States of America would see who now bore the weight of the Republic.
But what they saw was not what they expected.
The first image was not of a suited man at a podium. It was Howard Smith Jackson, dressed in combat fatigues, rifle slung across his back, standing beside a NATO checkpoint in Afghanistan in 2015. Mud splattered across his knees, his boots gone given to a barefoot child. He stood barefoot on gravel, smiling at the camera with tired, honest eyes.
The second image appeared: a family photo, Christmas Eve at First Union Church of Portland. Howard, Samantha, and Angel all dressed in modest winter coats, arms around each other, the wooden pews behind them adorned with evergreen branches. A warm candlelight glowed around them. A real family, not political theater.
Then came the third photo of Howard on the morning of the coyote hunt. Fresh snow clung to his parka, the massive Eastern Coyote beside him, tagged and clean. He grinned like a man at peace, kneeling with pride in the Maine wilderness. No campaign trail. No filter. Just a hunter who knew the land.
The fourth most powerful image silenced even the most cynical anchors. Howard, hand on a weathered 2016 English Standard Version Bible, stood in front of the Jackson Cabin fireplace. He took the oath of office with a half-circle of allies surrounding him a wildlife officer, Secret Service agents, military, and his AI daughter, Angel, standing proudly beside him. A fire burned low in the hearth behind them, casting amber light across his face. Not power. Not politics. Just purpose.
Then the screen faded to black and a voice began to speak.
Every major network carried the full package CNN, FOX, MSNBC, OANN, CBS, ABC, PBS, even digital outlets like YouTube, Twitch, TikTok, and Facebook Live. The voiceover, recorded by Angel and approved by Director Clayton Sanders, narrated with measured cadence: "He didn't ask for the job. He didn't campaign for it. But when the nation's heart was silenced, he answered the call. Howard Smith Jackson. Son of Maine. Husband. Father. Soldier. And now… President of the United States."
It wasn't a campaign video. It was a portrait of truth of the new president of the United States of America, newsrooms around the country scrambled to break the story in their own words, but it was the Maine networks that led the charge WCSH 6, WGME 13, and dozens of local affiliates. Their reporters already had exclusive footage. They had grown up with Howard. They had covered his deployments, his wedding, and even the founding of Angel's AI interface at the University of Southern Maine. Their anchors spoke not with scripted notes, but from memory about the man who used to carry firewood for the elderly, who volunteered with his wife at shelters, who taught hunting safety to inner-city teens on weekends.
They aired the motorcade footage, captured from shoulder-mounted cams and phones. It showed the moment the RPG fired and sailed harmlessly over the Suburban. The crowd's protective fury. The pastor with the cross waving Howard forward. But one thing was absent from the broadcast, across every station in Maine: the angel.
She wasn't edited out. She was never there in the recordings, it is as if those who saw her knew not to share her. As if that moment was sacred, meant only for the man riding inside the armored vehicle and those whose hearts were already listening.
Samantha sat in the PEOC, wrapped in a woolen blanket, the Bible still open beside her. Her hand covered her mouth as she watched the footage. She had seen the angel felt her but not even the high-definition feeds captured what her soul had. "They protected her," she whispered. "The people of Maine… they protected the miracle."
Angel's voice came through the bunker speaker. "The nation is beginning to understand, Mom. They see not just a President but a father, a soldier, a man of faith. You gave them a leader." In homes, bars, hospitals, firehouses, barracks, and churches people stood when the broadcast ended. Some cheered. Some saluted. Others cried. But across the divided land, something unfamiliar stirred: unity. The United States didn't just have a president. It had a face to believe in.
Time: 2:23 AM EST
Location: Final Descent into Joint Base Andrews, Entering D.C. Airspace
The cabin of the C-17A Globemaster III, now under the callsign Air Force One, hummed with quiet purpose as it sliced through the high-altitude wind over Washington, D.C. The F-16C escort peeled off gracefully, saluting the skies with an arcing maneuver before dropping to their holding pattern. The time had come.
Howard Smith Jackson, no longer just a soldier or hunter or husband, stood in the private forward cabin. His presidential uniform was simple, functional, and undeniably symbolic: a navy-blue suit jacket, two-button closure, tailored to military precision, its lining bulletproof and stain-resistant, side-vented for movement. A matching pair of flat-front navy trousers, reinforced to the knee with protective material. A crisp white shirt, starched but comfortable. A blue silk tie, steady as his voice. The American flag pin on his left lapel caught the overhead light, shimmering faintly like a beacon.
But beneath it all, resting close to his chest, was the item that gave him strength. The silver cross necklace, gifted by an angel and engraved with: Joshua 1:9 – Be strong and courageous.
His fingers closed briefly over it as Angel's voice echoed softly in the sealed space, "You look like a President." Howard glanced toward her avatar, who stood beside his daughter's sealed AI core. "I feel like a man in a borrowed suit."
"You wore the same suit before," she said. "it just weighs more due the protective material"
As the C-17 touched down at Joint Base Andrews, its massive wheels screeching softly against the tarmac, the scene awaiting them was not one of fanfare, but of quiet resolve. Floodlights lit the airfield in ghostly beams. Rows of saluting officers, chaplains, and remnants of command stood on the runway each branch of the military represented, each face bearing the shadow of the night that changed the world.
Howard stepped down the ramp slowly, flanked by his hunting party turned honor guard. He paused at the bottom to retrieve three things: The gold cross necklace meant for Samantha, engraved with Isaiah 41:10. He tucked it into his breast pocket with care. Angel's core, now nestled in its tactical gray wrap, embroidered with a white dove, cross, and the phrase "She is watched by more than code." And finally, he turned to a nearby Air Force NCO and pointed to the rear of Patton, his armored Suburban now secured near a cargo hangar.
"There's a seventy-pound Eastern Coyote in the back. Needs to be processed, skinned, meat preserved. I've got a meal to cook at the White House. And that skin's going in as a rug." The soldier blinked but saluted. "Yes, Mr. President."
Minutes later, the Marine One flight group spun up on the Andrews pad. The aircraft, a Sikorsky VH-92A Patriot, tail emblazoned with the United States of America and the Presidential Seal sat ready. Two MV-22B Ospreys from HMX-1's Executive Flight Detachment roared to life behind it, rotor blades spinning against the night air. As Howard stepped aboard, Angel's core was locked into the side console cradle behind his seat. The rear seats were filled with his team, but no one spoke as the aircraft began its lift.
In the distance, civilian helicopters, news, medevac, private and military traffic all cleared the skies like they knew what and who was about to rise. A reverent hush descended over the airwaves. As Marine One lifted off, rising above the city that had been gutted just hours before, something remarkable happened.
From the upper decks of still-standing government buildings, massive American flags unfurled, released in unison like a silent salute. Firemen, police officers, and citizens had climbed into ruined windows, onto scaffolds, and rooftops just to drop them at the moment of his flight.
And then it began, as if the people had waited as The Star-Spangled Banner, played live over every radio frequency, across speakers on balconies and construction rigs, from bugles and string instruments and scratchy recordings. It wasn't perfect. But it was real.
Howard looked out the side window, past Angel's soft glow. The dome of the Capitol Building, cracked and blackened, loomed in the distance like a wounded crown. But even that didn't break him.
He saw what mattered: the flag, the anthem, the people still waving through dust and rubble. "We're still standing," he said quietly, to no one and everyone. Angel smiled faintly. "And now they know who's standing with them."
Time: 2:51 AM EST
Location: En route to the South Lawn of the White House though the Airspace over Washington, D.C.
The VH-92A Patriot, designated Marine One, flew low and steady over the Potomac, its green-and-white fuselage lit from below by flickering floodlights and burning fires in the city beyond. Accompanied by two Bell Boeing MV-22B Ospreys from HMX-1's Executive Flight Detachment, the formation moved like a phalanx of guardian angels sweeping across a battlefield. Each aircraft bore the weight of purpose, each rotor beat pounding like the heart of the nation itself.
Inside the cabin, Howard Smith Jackson stood at the forward edge of the presidential cabin bay, watching the scorched outline of the National Mall come into view. It was no longer the city he knew. The Capitol dome still smoldered, a few rooftops collapsed, streets were scorched, but lights were flickering back on some office windows, some from flashlights, some from cell phones raised toward the sky.
"I never thought I'd see it like this," Howard said quietly, his voice strained with the truth of it.
Angel sat beside him in her hard-light projection, hands folded over her knee, expression composed. "Neither did I. But you're not here to mourn the ashes you're here to command them."
Howard turned back toward the others in the cabin, Captain Mary Anny Smith, Lieutenant Haley Joanna Satan, and the three female Secret Service agents who had ridden with him since the coyote hunt. They sat quietly, eyes forward, their expressions blending battle-hardened readiness with silent awe.
Behind them, Angel's quantum core, now resting in its tactical gray wrap, sat on a vibration-dampening platform. The white dove, embroidered cross, and soft text "She is watched by more than code" seemed to glow faintly in the low light of the cabin.
As the helicopters crossed into the airspace over the Ellipse, something happened, The Washington Monument came into view, backlit by emergency floodlights and beyond it, just above the shadowed remains of Lafayette Park, the White House, battered but still standing.
And from rooftops, flagpoles, and construction cranes, the American flag unfurled. Slowly. Deliberately. In perfect sync, as if choreographed by fate. Below, thousands of civilians, military personnel, and first responders stood silently watching, not cheering, not shouting, but witnessing.
And then, from the south side of the city, someone began playing the National Anthem again. This time it wasn't prerecorded. It was an Army trumpeter, standing at attention on the South Lawn, uniform stained with soot, lips pressed firmly to brass. One note at a time, shaky but clear, it climbed into the cold night air.
Howard exhaled slowly. "They're still singing."
"They're not broken," Angel replied. "Neither are you."
Marine One banked left as it made its final approach. The South Lawn landing zone had been cleared and secured by United States Secret Service CAT operators, Marines, and Joint Task Force NCR (National Capital Region). Two armored black Chevrolet Suburban 2500s, marked for temporary motorcade escort, idled near the tarmac. The grass had been blackened in places, burned from secondary debris from the earlier blast but the White House gates had reopened.
Howard reached into his inside pocket and gripped the gold cross necklace he'd set aside for Samantha. Isaiah 41:10. He whispered the words to himself.
"Fear not… for I am with you." He looked back to Angel, who stood tall now beside him, sea-gray eyes resolute. "Tell the world," Howard said. "The Republic just landed."
Time: 3:17 AM EST
Location: South Lawn to Underground Command Complex (PEOC Annex), The White House
The rotors of Marine One had barely settled into silence when the hatch opened and President Howard Smith Jackson stepped out into the cool pre-dawn air. He was immediately flanked by four Secret Service Counter Assault Team (CAT) operators, their weapons visible but controlled Heckler & Koch MP5A3s, FN P90TRs, Colt M4A1s, and KAC SR-16s held in relaxed tactical stance but ready to respond in less than a heartbeat. They formed a protective shell around him as they made their way down the path toward the southern entrance of the White House.
Two United States Marine Corps sentries, resplendent in dress blues but visibly shaken from the night's chaos, stood tall and saluted as Howard passed between them.
Inside, the White House bore its scars. Though the building still stood, the signs of the Capitol blast were everywhere. Windows had been blown out from the shockwave; some of the internal drywall was cracked, and patches of ceiling tile hung down. Mounted televisions several still functioning played WJLA-TV, Channel 7, the local affiliate now running 24-hour live coverage. Split screens showed Howard's swearing-in and the burning Capitol dome side by side. Beneath the images ran the banner: "THE BACK-UP PRESIDENT: WHO IS HOWARD JACKSON?"
Howard walked slowly, absorbing everything. Papers littered the floors, tables flipped over, curtains torn from the force of the air pressure. White House staff moved like ghosts in dim lighting, some bandaging their heads, some still weeping, others upright and doing their best to resume duties. He passed a hallway where paramedics worked on a bleeding groundskeeper, his jacket shredded by glass shards. Others were offering water, coffee, and blankets, rallying behind battered desks to print briefings and secure communications.
"This place is still breathing," Howard said quietly. Angel's voice echoed softly from his coat. "And now you're its heartbeat."
He reached the elevator near the West Wing secure corridor, where two CAT agents cleared the shaft and sent the car upward. Howard stepped in alone, clutching the sealed core of Angel, and descended into the heart of government, the Presidential Emergency Operations Center (PEOC) Annex, now upgraded and refitted into the Underground Command Complex.
When the doors opened, the world changed.
There, waiting at the table under the subdued LED lighting, was Samantha Jade Jackson, her face weary, one arm in a sling, but her eyes alive. Behind her stood two familiar forms Jade and Amy, the twin Belgian Malinois who had not left her side since the attack. Both dogs perked up as Howard stepped forward, tails wagging, eyes alert.
Howard stepped toward the table slowly, setting Angel's core gently into the armored input cradle designed for her integration. The tactical gray wrap, embroidered with the dove, the cross, and the words "She is watched by more than code", was peeled back gently.
The core locked in. Lights flickered. And then Angel appeared.
Her avatar solidified in the center of the table: standing tall, sea-gray eyes glowing, sliver-red ponytail swept over her shoulder, custom military combat uniform crisp and immaculate. "Welcome home, Dad." Howard smiled and turned toward Samantha, "I told you I'd find you."
Samantha stood, crossed the room with tears in her eyes, and threw her good arm around his neck. "You always do." After a moment, Angel turned to the assembled CAT officers and systems operators still standing by. Her voice took on a different tone: clear, authoritative, absolute.
"This is now a Presidential Command Facility under Executive Continuity Directive 99-Delta. Effective immediately, I am issuing updated call signs for national continuity and field communication." She turned back to Howard and Samantha. "President Howard Smith Jackson, your new call sign is: Iron Man. Deputy Director Samantha Jade Jackson, your call sign is: Iron Woman."
She pressed her fingers across the interface. "Confirming updates… Broadcasting to all government and military networks… Confirmed. Iron Man and Iron Woman are now active call signs recognized by all domestic and international operational channels."
Silence fell for a moment in the room. The radio chatter that had been filling the background stilled as the message echoed across every secure network, tactical unit, and satellite in range.
Howard looked to Samantha. "We're not backing down." She nodded, hand finding his. "We never were."