The Submarine
The President of the USA had never felt so frightened in his life; well, other than the time he'd realized that he was being whisked back to Nazi Germany every night. He'd never been a fan of diving, and just when he'd started to warm up to it in the Bahamas with his ex-wife, he'd witnessed something some divers would either recount with joy or with horror. A big shark had snuck up right behind him and gotten so close it had brushed right past him. The incident had left him unharmed physically, but he'd never gone scuba-diving again, no matter how many times Monica had begged.
He shook the officers hand with a smile on his face. It would only be several minutes in the submarine. An hour and twenty-five minutes in total. That was fine, he could deal with it. He certainly didn't feel like he could deal with it but he pushed those thoughts away. It was important for him to show that he still trusted the naval fleet. It was vital in a fast-paced world.
"Welcome aboard Mr. President, sir!" The man with the funny tophat exclaimed. "We're very please to have you here sir!"
"Thank you. I must admit I'm afraid of submarines, but well, here goes." He was honest, as he liked to be. The officer smiled.
"Don't worry Mr. President sir, you're in good hands." So he lead the shaky president over the pier and down to the Submarine. Alistair closed his eyes for a second.
Just remembering it made him shudder. He sat down behind his desk. The approval ratings had shot into the air though. He'd been praised highly by the media, somewhere along the lines of; 'President Bowmore is the kind of man to get into a submarine himself, this surprised the whole nation including me' and 'he takes it into his own hands of showing us that our military is still capable' and 'our President shows that he trusts our navy, even with his life'. Doing it had been his idea and in no way did he regret it, he'd been able to come in touch with the Navy, had even warmed up to the whole submarine concept as everything had worked perfectly. The officers on board had been friendly and polite, as they had to be, but towards the end some of them had allowed themselves to be funny. Alistair was the type of man people felt comftorable around and even after being elected President he always told people to call him Alistair. At the Navy he hadn't done so, these men were not civillians, but he'd still allowed himself to reach out to them in a more friendly way.
He mused over the past as he thought about the future. He'd take the pills tonight that was certain. He couldn't deal with going to Dachau. And he'd also be able to confirm that these trips to Nazi Germany were interwined with his dreams, if he wouldn't be taken back it would show that he'd need some type of conscious brain function to take him there. All of it was inexplicable but true.
"Thank you for coming Mr. President, sir! You're one of the first presidents to get onto our submarines and stay for so long. Perhaps you'd like to join us for a military excercize in the pacific one day?" To this Alistair had shaken his head but laughed; he'd answered; "I don't think I've warmed up to the ocean that much yet. But I'll think about it and get back to you if I change my mind." The naval officer had saluted him and he'd-.
Alistair replayed the scene in his head. His memory had began to play with him. For some reason as he'd played through the memories he'd seen himself raising his arm in the Hitler salute instead of glueing it to his forhead in the military one. He shook his head and forced the thoughts out of his head. No, that hadn't happened. But it could, couldn't it? A small voice in his head said. Maybe one day you'll do it, accidentally of course, but one day... No, that was just ridicoulous. Something like that wouldn't happen.
Vice-President Lottie Gibson entered the room interrupting his thoughts. "Alistair, can I speak with you for a minute?"
"Sure, sit down, Lottie." He said. He stood up to get the seat from the corner and place it in front of his desk. He'd grown up a gentleman. His father had taught him to always help a woman when possible. Lottie thanked him and took a seat.
"You know this reminds me of when we first met when you were governor of florida." She said with a smile. "You did the same thing for me then."
"I haven't changed." Alistair replied with a smile of his own.
"We could argue that," she answered, "but thank you. Anyways I wanted to talk to you about the G20 summit that's scheduled to take place next week on saturday."
"Yes?"
"It's in Germany." She said. He shrugged.
"So?"
"So, you're going to have to be okay with that."
"Why wouldn't I be okay with that? I love Germany-." And then he realized that she was playing on his dreams. He'd told her about them several times, but he hadn't thought she'd taken him seriously. "I'm fine with it, Lottie. They're just dreams, and I don't even have them anymore." He told the white lie confidently. He didn't want Lottie to worry, there was no good in that.
"Alright, I just wanted to make sure."
"Thank you, I appreciate the concern, Lottie." He said with a forced smile. She nodded and got up to go. "Wait, there was something else I wanted to ask you, Lottie." When he called her back he noticed something for the first time; she turned to fast, her eyes were open a bit too wide as she listened, and she listened a little bit too intently. He waved her off telling her it could wait and sunk back into his chair in thought. Lottie had always cared about him more than she should have. Was she married? He didn't know, didn't remember, she'd probably told him once.
Alas there were more serious things to worry about. So he snatched the first file on the stack on his desk and opened it. He always requested copies because he liked to take notes or highlight passages and he didn't want the originals covered in his chicken-scratch.
Alistair was not a forgetfull man, so he did take the sleeping pills that night, hoping - and even praying - that he would not wake up until the morning and that his sleep would be free of dreaming.