blueteamnovel Chapter 66 America is sick!
Chapter 66 America is sick!
Chapter 66 America is sick!
At 5:40 p.m., Air Force One landed at Andrews Air Force Base.
Nail Dragon chose to travel to the White House aboard Marine One.
The helicopter flew low over the Potomac River, cut in from behind the Lincoln Memorial, and landed on the South Lawn.
The gusts of wind whipped up by the rotor blades bent the freshly trimmed blades of grass at the edge of the lawn.
He did not disembark immediately.
Looking out the porthole.
About eight thousand supporters had gathered on the lawn, fewer than he had expected.
Partly due to the last-minute notice, and partly due to the recent situation that has led many people to choose to stay home.
The crowd was confined to an area 80 yards away from the podium, separated by two rows of metal fences and Secret Service agents in plainclothes.
Unfasten your seatbelt and push open the hatch.
The wind blew the hem of the suit jacket up.
He didn't wave or give a thumbs-up; he simply lowered his head and strode quickly toward the podium.
The leather shoes left shallow indentations on the lawn.
The chief of staff jogged up to catch up and whispered something in his ear, but he shook his head.
The podium was temporary and was 30 centimeters lower than the one we usually use.
This height allows the camera to shoot at a slightly upward angle, while also making his figure stand out more against the backdrop of the White House.
He climbed the steps and stood still.
The crowd began chanting his name.
The sounds were uneven and lacked the usual frenetic rhythm.
Because of the haste and anxiety this time, as well as people's doubts and confusion.
He did not respond, his hands hanging at his sides, his gaze fixed straight ahead.
Instead of looking at the crowd, look at the bare oak branches behind it.
I waited for fifteen seconds.
The shouts gradually subsided, turning into an uneasy buzzing sound.
He then leaned forward slightly, bringing his lips close to the microphone.
"Our country," he said, his voice steady and flat, "is experiencing a high fever."
He raised his left hand, palm facing up, as if holding something.
Someone is sick.
He flipped his palm, making a downward pressing gesture. "They are very ill. They cry out the name of God, yet they do the works of the devil."
Extend your right index finger and point it at your temple.
"They've got something in their heads."
He drew a circle with his finger. "A voice was telling them: Go burn, go kill, go destroy everything that looks normal."
He lowered his hand and pressed it against the edge of the podium again.
I don't blame these people.
"6
His voice was low, as if sharing a secret, "They were just—infected. Infected by a virus from outside, an evil that wants to watch us perish."
The crowd quieted down.
Only the sound of the wind.
He turned his body 45 degrees to the left, exposing his profile to the camera.
This angle allows you to capture both his face and the South Portico of the White House.
"And I know the origin of the virus."
He said.
Pause. Inhale.
"south."
He raised his right hand again, this time pointing due south. "Those corrupt regimes, those drug lords and murderers' paradise. Every year they smuggle tons of poison across our border, poisoning our children and corrupting our communities."
"Now, they're starting to output something even more terrifying, insane."
He turned back to face the camera, clasped his hands together in front of his chest, and then suddenly pulled them apart.
"They poisoned our water supply. Not just chemically, but spiritually. They wanted this country to rot from within, to turn honest people into beasts, to make fathers attack sons and neighbors attack neighbors."
The voice began to rise, but was kept on the verge of becoming hoarse.
"I will not allow it."
He slammed his right fist on the podium, making a dull thud from the wooden structure. "As president, as the last line of defense on this land, I declare: Enough is enough."
1
He took half a step back, exposing himself completely to the center of the searchlight beam.
"The cleanup operation will begin at dawn tomorrow."
He enunciated each word clearly: "We will go straight to the source. Not border patrols, not economic sanctions. It's surgical, thorough surgery."
Raise your left hand and make a cutting gesture.
"We need to remove the malignant tumor."
He cleaved his hand into a knife, making a horizontal cut, "burning the infected soil. Let those criminals hiding in the palace know: when you try to destroy America, America will return with its wrath."
He then clenched his fist and raised it above his head, as if saluting the American flag fluttering behind him.
"America! Forever and ever!"
He shouted it out loud.
At the same time, the speakers behind them started playing.
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The crowd finally erupted in a roar.
This time, there was rhythm and power.
"America! Forever and ever!"
"America! Forever and ever!"
"America! Forever and ever!"
Milk Dragon let the sound waves continue for twenty seconds.
During this time, he remained motionless, simply standing there, staring blankly into the distance, as if examining some scene that only he could see.
Then he lowered his right hand.
Silence returns.
"This operation,"
He said, his voice regaining its initial calm, "It's not just military. It's moral. It's spiritual. We want to prove to the world, to those who are trying to tear us apart from within—"
He paused and took a deep breath.
"A true American does not succumb to madness. A true American knows who the enemy is."
"God is protecting America!"
-
He stopped talking, turned around and walked off the podium.
He walked quickly, without even glancing at the chief of staff waiting by the steps.
Secret Service agents quickly surrounded him and escorted him across the lawn toward the White House entrance.
The instant he turned around, a bolt of lightning ripped across the western sky.
The clouds were iron-gray, foreshadowing a night of heavy rain.
After entering the west wing corridor, he slowed his pace and unconsciously placed his right hand on his abdomen.
Beneath the fabric of the suit, the familiar burning sensation emanated from the location of the cross-shaped scar, more intense than before, like a small piece of slowly burning charcoal buried under the skin.
He didn't go to the Oval Office, but went directly to the residential area.
After entering his private study, he closed the door and unbuttoned his shirt.
The scar gleamed with a dark reddish sheen in the dim indoor light, the skin around its edges slightly raised, as if something were pulsating beneath.
Thunder rumbled outside the window.
He walked to the mirror and looked at himself.
There was no sweat on his forehead, and his breathing was steady.
His lips twitched upwards, and his tense face instantly relaxed. "Hehehe, just a little redneck."
"No one understands Amei better than me!"
He said this to himself in the mirror.
Then he buttoned up his shirt and put his tie back on.
He returned to the Oval Office.
The operation schedule sent by the Department of Defense was already on the table: at four o'clock in the morning, the first batch of fighter jets would take off from the base in Florida.
He sat down, picked up a pen, and signed his name at the bottom of the document.
The sound of the pen nib gliding across the paper was very soft, completely swallowed up by the sound of rain outside the window.