THE CRYSTAL EMPIRE

PROLOGUE________________________________________________

CHESAPEAKE BAY, MARYLAND

YEAR 2039

      From his place in the sky, the lone pilot could see the rural Maryland landscape scarred by the ravages of war. Small towns sat destroyed and abandoned, roads, bridges, and vehicles ruined, farm homes and outbuildings burned. Then an oddity appeared. Where once large machines used to work the soil and produce crops, a lone farmer was now turning over a small patch of land using only a single mule pulling an antique plow.

   We’ve done it again, thought the pilot as he looked about, then looked ahead to see the waters of the Chesapeake Bay in the distance. We’ve thrown ourselves back into a primitive existence, into a third world existence. How do we explain this to our grandchildren?

   The man behind the plow was probably having similar thoughts about the antique aircraft overhead. He looked up briefly, his eyes following the old yellow biplane through a bright clear sky until he lost it in the glaring sun, then turned his attention back to his mule and the task at hand.

   The old 1932 Stearman biplane was the only aircraft left in Boxer Bernhardt’s grandfather’s collection, the only one still in existence after the others were confiscated and shot down while being used as spotters and observation craft during the latter days of the war. Those planes, along with most anything else that could fly, were utilized by the military to compensate for the loss of satellite capabilities and the eventual shortage of unmanned drones and other military aircraft.

   The war had drained the resources and used up the equipment on both sides and had destroyed the industrial base necessary for replenishment. This resulted in most private aircraft being confiscated for the cause, including his grandfather’s old classic plane collection. It was throwback technology necessary in a modern bloody conflict that had degenerated into a defensive war of will and survival; a conflict of attrition rather than aggression with battle lines eventually settling along a narrow zone that crawled up the Chesapeake Bay extending west along the old Mason Dixon line through the Appalachian Mountains to the great Mississippi via the Ohio River. From there it followed the waterways to what was left of Chicago, one of the first cities to be nearly destroyed completely by the pre-war riots. South and west of there the country was up for grabs and though the lines west of the Mississippi had been redrawn numerous times, they were now settling uneasily between land claimed by a Cuban led Hispanic alliance and a British backed Canada that was part of a Northern U.S. alliance. But then the battle lines were actually more wishful thinking than reality because most of the claimed ground was determined by its character, be it urban, suburban or rural and how badly the opposing factors desired it at the time.

   The first time Boxer Bernhardt, the Stearman pilot, had ever flown he was as eight-year-old boy. It was just before the turn of the century when his grandfather, the U.S. Senator from Pennsylvania and Korean War hero Navy fighter pilot, took him up in this very same aircraft. That first experience with his flying ace grandfather introduced him to the lure and wonder of open cockpit flight that impressed him so much that two years later the talented twelve year old Boxer was a certified licensed pilot who gained notoriety while flying solo across the continent. Soon after, as a teen out of high school, he carried on the family tradition and entered the United States Naval Academy where he graduated with honors, shipped off to flight school, and was on his way to becoming a top notch aviator and an exceptional achiever in phenomenal aircraft such as the F-18 Super Hornet and F-35 Joint Strike Fighter.

   Now, many years later as the war was winding down, he and the rest of a battle weary world began to settle in behind newly drawn blood stained geographic borders, to lick their wounds and contemplate the results of their insanity. At his war’s end Boxer retreated to the family’s ancestral two-hundred-fifty year old Pennsylvania farm. There he resolved to spend his final days mourning the loss of his friends, his loved ones, his son, and the loss of his country as he had always known it. It was to the family farm he brought two now fatherless children and their mother to begin what he hoped to be a safe new life. And it was there soon after retiring with them to the farm he discovered his treasured old Stearman biplane hidden in the barn, covered with canvas and hay behind a wall of old milking machines and other rusty equipment.

   Boxer was thrilled. He saw and accepted the plane as a welcomed old constant in a new world where so many people had lost all forms of their past, lost those things that gave them any sense of security; a world that left them with little faith in the future.

   On the side of the fuselage of the faded yellow plane, just below and to the rear of the open cockpit was the crest of a pair of boxing gloves over a pale blue circle bordered with the words Boxer’s Baby. He had painted the art there himself the day after the Senator had given him the plane to celebrate his acceptance into the Naval Academy.

   Now shortly after discovering the hidden plane, he replaced a few struts and wires, spent a few hard days breathing life back into the old bird’s engine, then flew a few successful short test flights. At present the current older Boxer Bernhardt found himself flying low over the countryside along the Susquehanna River, following it until he reached the upper Chesapeake Bay. The water below glistened from the glare of the sun as he hugged the Chesapeake’s eastern shore, heading south. Hearing and feeling only the strong throated vibration of the old engine, he looked down on a shoreline littered with the scars of conflict and remnants of war. He viewed the rusting ruins of destroyed and sunken military craft protruding from the water. As he continued along the bay, he could see destroyed landing craft, and on land, various disabled or mangled military vehicles sitting lifeless among bomb craters that littered the Kent County shoreline.

   In some areas the battlefield extended as far as a mile or more inland of the peninsula to where the fighting had stalled, becoming too costly for both sides to continue. At some locations amidst the scarred battleground, the tools and machines of war sat as burned out useless monuments surrounding open fields full of white crosses where those who died opposing each other in battle were paradoxically buried together as brothers of the same nation. Boxer knew there were similar sights further south along the bay, including the location of the huge battle of Dorchester, but he didn’t intend to venture that far. These places, he recalled, were evidence of how the war had regressed from high-tech battles in the sky and strategic sophisticated strikes on land to old war tactics full of not much more than men, desire, and wishful thinking. The opposition fighting with men who were beginning to doubt their convictions and on his side, men like him, who were just tired of the fight and heartbreak.

   He continued until he came upon the skeletal remnants of the nearly four-and-a-half mile long Chesapeake Bay Bridge. Though current rules of a cease-fire treaty forbade it, he turned his plane west, flying just under the radar a few meters above the surface of the water alongside the broken twisted half-submerged steel and concrete of the bridge, then south until he reached the mouth of the Severn River. There on the river’s southern shore where it met the bay stood his beloved Naval Academy and the city of Annapolis, most all of which now serving as a rapid response military base. If any of the occupying personnel there saw him they must not have cared enough to report it. Seeing a group of curious soldiers looking up he simply tipped his wings and they smiled and waved in return. After all, they probably thought it was just some joy rider in an old antique plane and why not, except for a few occasional light skirmishes the war had pretty much ended nearly two years prior.

   He was surprised to see the Academy was for the most part still intact, the chapel dome still prominent above its skyline as was the Maryland State Capitol building. Apparently, the academy’s alumni who served on the wrong side had enough respect and fond memories to avoid its destruction. Along with the naval air station across the river, the Academy now served as a military base and domicile.

   He turned southwest; flying until he reached the Potomac River then banked and followed it with the intended destination being Washington. Whenever he came upon a military unit or populated area he would throw the Stearman into a barrel roll or some other acrobatic maneuver, leading them to view him as entertainment rather than a possible threat. Then Washington finally appeared on the horizon and though most of it still lay destroyed just as it had been at the start of the current cease-fire, he could see that portions of the once abandoned city were now occupied and under repair and reconstruction. Still neglected were mostly the residential areas, much of them burned out during the pre-war riots. They were now a massive dark charred grave of a former civilization.

   In the distance could be seen additional residential areas destroyed during the close-in urban combat that led to losing the Capital altogether. They sat as endless empty shells and carcasses of anonymous homes and townhouses, lost along with their many decades of family history and memories. The work now taking place was selective, demonstrating the priorities of the new government that claimed it. They wanted to bring back the landmarks and show the world who occupied the prize. Boxer had trouble dealing with the fact that the Capitol was now occupied by people who claimed to be another country altogether; becoming their paraded center of power. Their actual Capital, was the city of Atlanta not Washington. Washington was now only a trophy. He also had difficulty accepting that the new center of power of what was left of the original United States was now, as it had been when it was newly formed, in Philadelphia.

   He climbed slightly, banked the Stearman away from the river to the heart of the city below and throttled back. He saw the Lincoln Memorial had been completely restored. In addition, it sported large multiple flags of its new owners, the now familiar red flag featuring a clenched fist over a broad rainbow. The grassy park area surrounding the reflecting pool in front of the Memorial was now a graveyard with each of the thousands of graves marked with a one-foot square cut granite block. The blocks lay flat on the ground engraved with only a number, each designating the remains of a civilian or soldier. They now lay anonymous as individuals destined to be remembered only as a group involved in a movement that led to their death but not the side on which they fought.

   Boxer continued flying in a wide arc that brought him over the reflecting pool and then leveled off and headed for Capitol Hill. His old plane buzzed over what was left of the great obelisk of the Washington Monument; much of its original 555 feet lying in fractured sections, its large blocks sprawled over the grassy downgrade toward the heavily battle-damaged World War II memorial. Immediately to his left sat the charred destroyed remains of the White House, hardly recognizable as the once grand mansion and world famous seat of power of the United States Presidency. To his right across the tidal pond, the Jefferson Memorial remained intact, but serving as a base for the radar ears of a nearby abandoned STA missile battery, abandoned because there were no longer any missiles to launch, the supply having been long ago depleted.

   Flying toward the Capitol on the hill, he could see many of the buildings behind and along the National Mall sat severely damaged, pocked and shattered by small arms fire, glaring evidence of how they had been used as opposing fortresses rather than offices or museums. It was there across the mall and around all of the Capital city where the urban battle had ended, where the last of the civilian patriots and a hand full of remaining U.S. military heroically held out in defense of their national city and it’s treasures; fighting, falling back, and dying to preserve the Capital and symbol of U.S. power, to defend their republic. In the end they lost the city and their lives.

   As he skimmed above what was left of the old trees along the grassy mall he viewed a cluster of construction equipment and what appeared to be makeshift barracks. Workers on the ground looked up and waved, others just stared at the old yellow biplane, not sure what to make of it. The sight of all this tore at Boxer’s emotions when he flew low over what was left of the Capitol building, seeing one entire wing of the building no more than a pile of rubble, and a full half of its majestic dome and main structure destroyed and gaping open like some great suffering beast. Boxer, the hard core fighter jock and retired Admiral, came to tears. He pushed up the old goggles, wiped his eyes clear and circled the hill for another pass. A few men on the steps of the Supreme Court building paused and looked up. The scene reminded him of a time years ago. Looking down on the Capitol steps, he remembered the time as a young boy when he spent an entire workday with his grandfather the Senator. Standing with him and looking about on those same steps the young Boxer expressed his first impression of what he saw. “It looks like Rome. It’s like the Roman empire,” observed the young boy, impressed by the grandeur of the buildings and the architecture with its many columns.

   “No, not an empire,” he remembered his grandfather saying. “A republic. The people’s republic. By definition an empire has an emperor, king or queen. However, if an empire can be defined by size and might then I suppose you might be correct. In this day and age it’s a hazy gray line that separates the two. You might say our Republic, or empire as some may see it, being as great and mighty as it is, is like a fine crystal chalice. It’s strong enough to hold much more than its own weight in balance but will easily shatter if tapped or tipped on its side. Don’t ever let these huge columns and great noble buildings or the might of our nation fool you. It’s a fragile crystal empire that’s only as strong as its people. And if there’s anything more threatening to a great nation it is its own people, the loss of faith of its people and the loss of direction by its leaders.”

   “I don’t understand,” the young Boxer replied.

   “It’s the nature of the beast,” said the Senator. “Greed, ignorance, misguided values, complacency, dependency, a lust for power; these are the recurring characteristics of the human race that have brought down empires great and small. That’s why some of us come and serve here in this place, not to rule and regulate but to preserve the republic, to act as the finger in the dike, sort of speak, and prevent a flood of self-destruction. Unfortunately, there are also those here who have less noble ideas. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

   “I’m not sure,” Boxer remembered saying to his grandfather. “What kind of other ideas?”

   “No time to explain now. Got to get to a meeting but we’ll talk about this again some time. You’ll understand then and if not I’m sure you’ll understand eventually,” concluded the Senator with a smile.

   The Senator was always the patient teacher, always the leader. That was a good day, Boxer remembered, thinking it was as though it were just yesterday; a cool sunny spring day much like the one he was flying in now and a day that ended with a ride in this same old Stearman. Piloting the plane now, he was so occupied with his memories and disturbed by what he was seeing that he neglected to notice the American Socialist Union Blackhawk helicopter that had popped up behind him.

   Boxer’s old biplane had no national markings, only its original old registration numbers. Nor did it have any communications gear and so the ASU chopper pilot could not raise him on the radio for identification and to order and escort him out of their no fly zone. Therefore, according to ASU defense protocol the assumption was made it was a U.S. North Country spy craft. As a consequence the ASU Blackhawk’s pilot fired a rocket to bring it down. At that same moment however Boxer happened to bank for his return to the bay. The rocket closely missed and careened into the remnants of the Capitol dome, adding additional damage and insult to what the national landmark had already suffered in the war. The sound of the explosion was enhanced as it echoed through the smoke off the huge shell, off what was left of the gaping bell shaped dome.

   The near miss and explosion snapped Boxer back to the reality of the moment and he reacted quickly, immediately taking evasive action. He flew wildly, knowing the old aircraft could not avoid for long the armaments of the ASU chopper. Like an air show flyer with extraordinary skills, the experienced old fighter pilot flew through, in, and out of canyons of office buildings, low along tree-lined avenues, and under freeway overpasses, outrunning and hiding in motion at speed, finally losing the chopper.

   Temporarily free of his pursuer, he quickly decided to head for an old familiar refuge in Maryland located midway between Annapolis and DC. As he would do when he was a boy, he found the narrow winding Patuxent River and followed it for a few miles then cut away for a brief distance until he reached an old familiar sight, his grandfather’s small private airstrip next to the old Senator’s estate home. It was where Boxer first learned to fly. He carefully put the plane down on the neglected runway, avoiding some debris and trash as he taxied until arriving at a dilapidated tin hangar. The hanger’s roof was partially collapsed but with just enough room to stash the Stearman underneath. In he went, parking the aircraft and quickly covering it with old tarps and fallen pieces of the tin wreckage. In the distance he could hear what he was sure were now two ASU choppers cruising along the river. He listened to make sure they were not coming in his direction and after assuring himself they had passed; he rushed off to a nearby narrow gravel road that led into a growth of trees. The short narrow road brought him to the rear of what was left of a large barn.

   A few minutes later Boxer stood on the porch of the large old federal style house. It was the house that was purchased by his grandfather not long after his election and arrival in Washington. Such was the old man’s confidence that his first term as senator was just the beginning. Boxer passed over an open threshold, the door long since gone, entering to discover a wrecked empty shell. Most everything of value that survived the fighting had been looted. Lying on the floor near the fireplace hearth was a charred family group photo in a broken frame taken during one of their gatherings on a Christmas day or was it a wedding. Boxer wasn’t quite sure. It was discolored and faded by years of exposure to the weather. He picked it up and set it on the mantel where it belonged, where it had sat for so many years. Then as a second thought, decided to keep it and stuffed it in his jacket.

   The grand house was the main building of the estate that became the family hub and the boyhood home of Boxer’s father. It now sat destroyed beyond recovery, the majority of its upper level gone, ravaged by ground combat during the war. Most of the out buildings were destroyed as well but the smaller original farm dwelling built of stone that later became a guesthouse, except for being scarred by bullets and having most of the windows shattered, was still intact. Boxer often thought of the old guesthouse as his own private domain, gifted to him by the Senator whenever he was visiting. “Off to your castle,” the old man would say to the small boy, “and ply your dreams and schemes.”

   It was in that guesthouse Boxer would read and relish the stories of the great aviators of the past, where he would watch and watch again all the great movies that featured aviation, and where he would impatiently plan his own future. In fact, it was even there in the guesthouse that Boxer lost his virginity to the daughter of a French diplomat he met at a reception. She was a few years older than he and the more experienced aggressor in the affair which of course raised no exceptions from Boxer. The rendezvous was a milestone in his life that took place during one of the many summers he spent there with his grandparents, the same summer he served as a young Congressional Page. A few years later it was there he would spend occasional weekends to relax and shed the cumulative stress serving as a midshipman while attending the Naval Academy in nearby Annapolis.

   Boxer walked about, looking at the destroyed main house and deserted estate and remembered that it was here during one of those festive Christmas holidays many years ago that he first learned of the events that would send the world into disorder and chaos.

   The sun began to set and an older, worn and tired Boxer Bernhardt had made his way to sit in the shadow of a large oak tree recalling what he had seen that day while flying over Washington. Intermingled were the many memories he had of the same city as a boy when he would spend entire days in the Air and Space Museum, those times and events in the city as a young man, and later as a senior Naval Officer. Then there came the very harshest recollection of all, the memory of the day his grandfather, the wise old fox and eventual majority leader of the United States Senate, was killed; of that day 19 years ago when the war began. As he remembered these things he felt the weight of his age and the accumulation of the years of conflict and grief. Could so much have taken place during such a short time in the life of mankind, he wondered? Could the world have changed so quickly and irrevocably? He leaned back against the tree, listening to the choppers that searched for him in the far distance and reflected on his life, trying to make sense of it all, recalling the nightmare back in 2019, the politics and the national dilemma that led to riots, and then a revolt which escalated into a domestic war that subsequently led to the demise of his country with consequences that changed the world. He closed his eyes and asked of himself only one simple question – why?

   His eyes closed in an effort to find those pleasant memories of family, of a less complicated time, a time of peace. But with those memories came the reality of the nightmare.

- end prologue -

The Crystal Empire continues in

Chapter 1 ______________________

20 YEARS EARLIER

BERNHARDT ESTATE – DEC. 22, 2018

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