The President's study was filled with cigar smoke and the stench of whiskey.
Outside, Washington clung to a wet, gray afternoon; inside, the room thrummed with the kind of panic that could not be disguised by protocol.
Projected across the mahogany-paneled wall, European footage played in a silent loop:
smoke-choked skylines, armored columns pouring through ruined streets, men marching with methodical precision past charred cafés and bullet-riddled statues.
The English Channel was now a graveyard, its waters bloated with the hulks of escorts and transports, shattered cruisers, and what remained of Britain's attempt to resupply her former ally.
Even with soundproofing, the hum of machinery and faint radio static bled through.
Franklin Delano Roosevelt sat forward in his leather-backed chair, the glow of the projector casting long shadows across his sunken face.
This was not the smiling figure of public address, but a man who had stopped pretending the world was reasonable.
