You have to password protect the document itself that you're linking to. There's a link to Primo PDF in the FAQ linked in the OP, it's a pretty handy program if you don't have Acrobat Pro
Now I feel really stupid because I can't find a FAQ in the OP.
Fuck it. This isn't something I'm particularly proud of and it's not really publishable.
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The World Turned Upside Down --
1,200 words
The President of The United States of America wakes up to a banging at the first bedroom’s door. His wife stops snoring and turns in her sleep, murmuring. The knock persists, “Mr. President! Mr. President!”
John Rawlings, the 49th Commander in Chief, rolls out of bed and makes his way to the door; half asleep, he opens it and finds himself staring down at his chief of staff. “This better be good, Kwiatkowski.”
“Sir, there’s been a setback,” Kwiatkowski says. “You need to come to the War Room with me immediately.”
The President, now fully awake, studies his subordinate for a long second before nodding his head.
They make their way through the White House, passing through corridors off limits to tourists and most staff. They twist and turn their way down awkwardly placed staircases until they reach a misplaced pantry in the lowest of the basement levels. Kwiatkowski stops. “Mr. President, your key?”
The President pulls out a chain that is permanently affixed to his neck and sifts through the contents. He studies the collection for a moment before picking out an odd cylindrical construct which resembles anything but a key. Nodding, Kwiatkowski pulls open the pantry to reveal a wall of metal, its smooth surface marred only by a single hole. The President slides the key into the opening and twists; the single sheet of metal reveals itself to have been two, sliding open. Kwiatkowski remains in place, holding his boss’ gaze as the President steps in and presses the button for the lowest floor.
At the bottom, the President is met by the Secretaries of Defense and of State, a battalion of armed guards standing beside them. “Sir,” the two say in unison
“What’s happened?” the President asks as he begins marching down the long fluorescent corridor.
“We’re not clear on all of the details yet, but the Atlantic fleet has been lost,” says the Secretary of Defense, trying to keep pace alongside the President. She pauses for a moment, “All ten of our carriers have been sunk. We’re unclear on how many battleships we have remaining but most of our submarines managed to disengage and are currently scattered across the Northern Atlantic.”
As the President digests the news in silence, they continue down the corridor, the distance interminable. After some time, the three of them and their escorts arrive at a massive door, constructed out of some exotic hybrid metal. A lone guard stands outside; he carefully examines their credentials until satisfied. The guard withdraws another cylindrical key and uses it to open a hidden panel behind which lies a single red button. A gentle push causes the metal door to slide open. The President enters and then, just past the threshold, he pauses and studies the collection of seated senior military officials, few of whom are able to meet his gaze. The President narrows in on three figures: The General of the Army, the General of the Air Force, and the Fleet Admiral. All three are sweating.
He finds his seat and closes his eyes for a minute before beginning, “Admiral, please explain to me how the hell the Atlantic fleet, which, according to you, was supposed to be able to hold firm for at least another year, was wiped out in a single night.”
Admiral Eisenstein visibly deflates before the eyes of the room. “Sir, it was the Mexicans. They've joined the Coalition.”
“The Mexicans? Do they even have a navy?”
“Five battleships they bought from us,” Eisenstein says. “The European Union advanced their fleet to engage us after sunset. The Mexican navy came up from behind our lines and punched through an isolated quadrant. The EU was ready to take advantage of the hole and sailed through, then enveloped our fleet.”
“Our allies have turned on us,” the President says with disbelief. “Has their ambassador reported in?”
The Secretary of State joins the conversation. “He delivered their official declaration of war an hour after the attack began. They view our position as hopeless and have decided to join the UN.”
“What about the Beavers?” the President asks.
“They switched sides as soon as news of the loss in the Atlantic reached them,” The Director of the Central Intelligence Agency says. “Troops are disembarking in Halifax and Vancouver as we speak.”
“The whole world against us,” the President says to himself. “Just what the fucking Japs wanted when they took their case to the U.N.” He sits in his chair for some time, slumped in his presidential pyjamas, a ghost of the charismatic, unifying figure that had mesmerized the nation three years prior, sweeping the country with an unprecedented margin of victory to unseat the incumbent Republican. He had proclaimed the previous two and a half centuries to have been nothing more than a prelude to the true fulfillment of Manifest Destiny and the masses had eaten it up, pleading for war.
They began with the Philippines, bringing it into the fold with rigged elections and using it as a base to expand outward. North Korea fell first, with little international complaint. Afterward, the march south was accomplished with relative ease, but required far more diplomatic wrangling. China, which had funded both Korean regimes to their very last day, declared war but found that its millions of soldiers were useless against the might of the American Air Force once all of their copycat fighters were swept out of the sky. Scholars and humanitarian organizations were still arguing about the exact number of millions of Chinese that died in the bombing deluge that rained down on the country before their leadership finally capitulated.
Understanding that they were next in line, the Japanese had made an impassioned argument for war against the U.S. in front of the United Nations, by now relocated to Zurich. The Americans had been certain that enough of the world’s middling nations, uninvolved in the conflicts to date, had been strong armed or paid off, underestimating the strength of the cold terror that had gripped the world. The vote had been almost unanimously in favour of war. That had been just over a year ago and the stunning reversal of fortunes in battle had shell shocked the American people. The President had not made a public appearance in three months. The last speech he gave ended in a riot that left over one thousand people dead after the National Guard was forced to open fire in order to open a corridor through which the President could flee.
The Secretary of Defense coughs, drawing back the President’s attention. “Sir, we have to decide what to do and we have to do it quickly.”
The President closes his eyes and remains still for some time until everyone in the room begins to feel that perhaps he has lost control. His eyes snap open and he scans each and every face in the room before speaking. “Where is the briefcase?”
“Sir!” objects the Secretary of State. “You can’t!”
“I want the Fucking launch codes and I want them right Fucking now!”
Behind him, the door slides open to permit entry to one final visitor.
