Eagle Sauce: The 055 destroyer was launched into the sea just after the founding of the country?

[Time]: Autumn 1956, five days after the Great Turmoil in the United States

Location: Washington, D.C., White House

The heavy curtains were drawn tightly shut, and although it was two o'clock in the afternoon, only a few dim wall lamps were lit in the room.

The air purifier hummed, trying to filter out the tear gas and burning rubber smells that permeated the streets outside, but it still left behind a nauseating, disinfectant-like odor.

That sturdy desk, used for three centuries, is now piled high with messy documents, unfinished sandwiches, and several ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts.

The President of the United States—that middle-aged man who always loved to show off his perfect hairstyle and straight teeth in front of the camera—now looks like a homeless man who hasn't showered in a week.

His slicked-back hair was now disheveled, his tie was askew on his chest, and his eyes were bloodshot.

He held the phone receiver, but hadn't spoken for several minutes, simply listening to the constant stream of bad news reports coming from the other end.

"...Pennsylvania State Police in complete retreat? What firepower do those miners have?"

"They have tanks? You're kidding... Damn... Okay, those are mining demolition vehicles..."

"What? Detroit... a power outage? The union cut off our backup generator?! Damn it..."

He abruptly hung up the phone, grabbed the crystal paperweight from the table, and slammed it hard onto the expensive wool carpet opposite him.

"This is your emergency plan?!"

He roared at the group of people standing in the room, his voice hoarse like a broken bellows.

"Seventy-two hours have passed! There are more people outside the White House than rats inside! And we can't even find a single working TV station?!"

No one in the room dared to speak.

The newly appointed Secretary of Defense was constantly wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. He had been flown in by helicopter from the top of the Pentagon—because the entrance had been completely blocked.

“Sir,” his voice was barely audible, “our soldiers… I mean, many soldiers… refused to carry out the cleanup mission.”

“Just now, a battalion commander from the 3rd Armored Division even openly refused to get on the vehicle, because his brother was in the parade outside…”

"Then execute that battalion commander!" The commander-in-chief waved his arms, spitting everywhere. "This is treason! This is a mutiny!"

"I'm afraid we don't have enough execution squads to execute an armored battalion commander, Mr. President."

In the corner, Allen Dulles, the CIA director with the skull face, who hadn't said a word, was meticulously trimming the hangnails on his nails.

“And,” he didn’t even look up at the president, but simply blew away the nail clippings, “if we really did that, your office might be razed to the ground by a bunch of rampaging armored soldiers driving tanks tomorrow.”

"Then what's your plan? You! It's you again!"

The president seemed to have finally found an outlet for his anger, pointing his finger at Dulles.

"If it weren't for your damned, flawed Atlas Project... and that terrible secrecy that could be filmed and broadcast live! How would we be sitting in this muddy mess right now?!"

"Correction."

Dulles finally raised his head, his gray, lifeless eyes completely devoid of emotion.

"That was a decision agreed upon by all parties. The signed documents are still lying in my safe."

"If you'd like to recall who first proposed signing that document, could we read out the name of that general or...minister?"

He looked around, and all the high-ranking officials whose gaze swept over him lowered their heads like a flock of chicks fleeing from an eagle.

No one is clean.

In this high-stakes gamble, each of them bet their last chip, hoping that the alchemy could turn stones into gold.

As a result, the stone turned into excrement.

"Alright, there's no point in blaming each other at a time like this."

The Secretary of State stood up. He was the only person in the room, besides Dulles, who could still maintain some semblance of composure.

But his usually well-maintained face was now clouded with gloom, and his lips were twitching with an almost insane, neurotic twitch.

He paced back and forth in the room a few times.

With each step, the floorboards emitted a dull creak.

"The situation is simple now. Public opinion has completely collapsed. These ignorant and unruly people..."

He squeezed out the word through gritted teeth.

“They wouldn’t listen to any explanation. They were convinced that we had killed those 30,000 people.”

“Explanations are never important,” Dulles interjected. “What matters is how to shut them up.”

"Some people suggested that we find a few 'scapegoats' to go out with."

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff said cautiously.

"For example... getting General Smith to admit that he accepted bribes privately, or that he was mentally unstable?"

"too late."

The Secretary of State interrupted him abruptly, his voice as cold as ice.

"Do you think those crazy women who came all the way from Pennsylvania with shotguns would believe that?"

“They want our heads, every single one of them. They won’t stop until they’ve decimated Washington.”

The president plopped down in a chair, holding his head in his hands.

"What should we do? Wait to die? Or should I go out now and kneel before that country woman named Kowalski?!"

No. Absolutely not.

The Secretary of State walked to the window. Although the curtains were drawn, he still stood cautiously in the shadows.

He could faintly hear the orderly yet suppressed chanting coming from outside.

His gaze became somewhat unfocused, as if he could see through the thick brick walls and into the crowd outside, which resembled a black tide.

“We can’t go out. But we can let them…go back on their own.”

He turned around, a very strange smile on his face.

"Nature always has many ways to regulate overpopulation, doesn't it?"

The president and several ministers looked at each other in bewilderment.

"You mean... like when you suppressed the union, using water cannons and batons? But that's too large a scale; we don't have that many people..."

"No, no, no. That's too primitive. Too crude."

The Secretary of State walked to the table, picked up an unopened bottle of mineral water, and gently unscrewed the cap.

Do you know what the flu is?

he asked.

“Every time the seasons change, some people get sick because they are physically weak or don’t pay attention to hygiene.”

"That's a natural thing, isn't it?"

He tilted the water bottle and poured a little bit onto the table.

The water droplets quickly seeped onto the pavement, turning into a dark, wet patch.

"If this were a protest site where people were densely packed, the sanitation was extremely poor, and everyone was exposed to the sun and rain..."

"If a very serious flu suddenly breaks out. A flu that causes high fever, cough, and even... a very small chance, say, a 5% fatality rate."

His voice softened, as if he were telling a bedtime story to a child, but the content was enough to send chills down the spines of everyone present.

"When people around me started falling ill in droves, when hospitals were filled with people who were only breathing and not breathing..."

"I think those heads that are boiling with passion for so-called 'justice' will soon cool down."

"Fear. Fear is a more effective weapon than bullets."

"At that time, we won't need to fire a single shot."

The Secretary of State spread his hands, making a "disperse" gesture.

“They would beg us. They would beg us to send them home, to provide them with medicine and isolation areas. They would even fight each other over a hospital bed that we provided.”

"As for those who are truly fearless and still stubbornly stand in the street?"

He sneered.

“That’s even simpler. We’ll use the excuse of ‘mandatory medical isolation’ to take them to a specially prepared place, like one of those empty military camps.”

"This is for public health and safety. Who can object? Who dares to object?"

The only sound in the entire room was the faint hum of the air conditioner vents.

Everyone is still processing this crazy proposal.

This is not just suppression, this is a war—

A bacteriological war waged by a government against its own people.

The reason given was simply to... preserve these dozens of still-comfortable leather swivel chairs in the office.

The defense minister's Adam's apple bobbed, and his face was filled with terror.

"But...this is insane. God, we're going to hell."

"Besides, what if the virus gets out of control? It's a real virus, unlike those monsters in Cuba, which can spread through the air..."

“We have a vaccine,” Dulles suddenly said, startling everyone.

"In Laboratory B-7 of Area 51."

As he spoke, he looked at the Secretary of State with an eye that resembled that of someone appreciating a work of art.

"They've been researching this for years. It's based on a variant of the 1918 influenza virus called 'Silent One.' Vaccines and treatments already have readily available formulas."

Dulles nodded to the Secretary of State.

"I think what this gentleman means is... if we have control over this virus and also the only antidote, then this panic is completely under control."

“And,” the Secretary of State continued, his eyes gleaming with the kind of fanaticism only a gambling addict would have, “we can claim that it’s because there are some unknown carriers returning from Cuba mixed in with the crowd. And then we can… reverse the situation a little.”

"Keep them busy. Let this society get sick. Make it really sick."

"Only those who are terminally ill will rely on doctors unconditionally."

"And we are now the only doctors."

The president's mouth was agape, and the instinctive urge to say "no" flashed through his mind.

But it was immediately overshadowed by the angry sea of ​​flags he glimpsed outside through the gap in the curtains.

He knew he had no way out.

He looked down at the table, the resolute table that had once signed countless laws that changed history.

His hands were trembling, but he still slowly pulled the Montblanc gold-plated fountain pen from the pen holder.

“If we do this…” the president’s voice was almost a groan, “can you guarantee that we’ll be supplied with vaccines first?”

The Secretary of State smiled.

It was the smile of a victor, but it looked more like a hand reaching out from the mire to drag others down with it.

"Of course, Mr. President."

"This is for...national security."