by Brandt Legg
“No. As far as we can tell, Brown is still clean.” The Wizard shifted in his seat, pulled his ponytail out, and narrowed his eyes. “This is about Rochelle.”
“Have we found her?” Hudson asked, afraid the answer might be that they had found her body.
“I wish,” the wizard said. “The week before Air Force One was attacked, Ross Corbett was killed.”
“Too bad,” Hudson said, recalling his uncle’s friend, who'd been there the night Rochelle had been raped. “Can't say I'm sorry. Never did like the old cuss. But what happened?”
“It's not that simple, Dawg. It's not just Corbett. Hundley was found dead the week after you were shot, and then Marco's body turned up in Lake Erie twelve days after that. Last week, it was Bowers.”
“Damn.” Hudson felt his stomach tighten. All four of those men had sexually assaulted Rochelle and taken part in the killing of her brother. “Someone knows.”
“Yeah,” the Wizard said. “And they know who was there that night. Which means . . . they also know what happened.”
“What if Rochelle’s doing it? Finishing what she started with the governor? What if she really did escape, and now she's finally getting her revenge?”
“Do you really believe that?” the Wizard asked.
“No, I guess not.”
“Gouge said someone followed him one night, two weeks ago, and took shots at him.”
“You talked to my uncle?”
“I’m not talking about old man Gouge. They tried to kill Tommy Gouge!”
“Oh, no . . . ” Hudson closed his eyes, trying not to think back on that awful night. Rochelle’s rape, and the murder of her brother, had taken place in Tommy Gouge’s father’s tire shop. Gouge’s father was also Hudson’s uncle. Whoever was going after the people who were there could easily destroy his presidency. But, as he recalled the face of each person who was in the tire shop during those horrific hours, he suddenly wondered if justice wasn’t finally being done.
The Wizard’s eyes went wide. “That's right. You, Gouge . . . It ain’t just about the guys that did it, it’s about us, too. The guys who saw it. The guys who didn’t stop it.”
“The guys who didn’t report it,” Hudson added. “Who didn’t say a damn thing.”
“Yeah, so maybe the Air Force One attack was part of this. The timing is crazy coincidental.”
“The attack on Air Force One was a military operation, not the work of a bitter victim, some other vigilante, or a common blackmailer.”
“That's my point,” the Wizard said. “Corbett, Hundley, Marco, and Bowers were professional hits. If it was NorthBridge, or a REMie like Bastendorff, or any REMie . . . I think it’s a good bet that whoever tried to kill you also has Rochelle.”
Hudson and Celia Brown walked the manicured trails through the woods at Camp David. He purposely kept the conversation on light issues until they were a sufficient distance from any structure from which they could be monitored. However, the Wizard had warned him that even in nature, the NSA could hear him. Satellites, drones, telescopic microphones, camouflaged surveillance stations, surveillance drones disguised as birds and insects, and a myriad of other high-tech devices were at their disposal, and certainly deployed against the president.
There really hadn’t been time to form a personal relationship with his vice president. Hudson had to trust his instincts more than ever, as he knew an enemy from within was trying to stop his efforts. He and Celia Brown were in a life raft together, whether they liked it or not.
He knew she was married to the CEO of a $30 million construction company, and had three grown children. She’d been a doctor before the politicization and soaring costs of healthcare drove her into politics; first to the House, and then the Senate. He’d always considered her an inspired speaker, with a voice like a gospel singer. A woman of conviction. Hudson believed that if not for the REMie control over the elections, she might have made it to the presidency instead of him.
He looked over at her and saw the small, heart-shaped, amethyst brooch she always wore, every day without fail. Someday he would ask her about it.
Someday . . . would they even have a someday?
“Celia, I invited you here today because I wanted to ask you something.”
“Something you can’t ask me at the White House?”
He stopped to look at her and nodded. It was apparent in her knowing expression that she understood. “You’re an African-American, yet against affirmative action. You’re a woman, yet pro-life. You’re a Republican, yet you are one of the most outspoken antiwar activists in the nation. How do you reconcile these views?”
“Shouldn’t you have asked me all this before you chose me as your running mate? Before we won the election?” She smiled. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for one who applies stereotypes.”
“Maybe those are stereotypes,” the president said, “but the majority of women are pro-choice, the majority of African-Americans are for affirmative action, and the majority of Republicans are not antiwar.”
“I suspect it’s the ‘antiwar’ part you’re most interested in,” she said with no trace of drama in her voice. “Seeing how the media and their corporate masters seem intent on pushing us toward war with China.”
“They make a compelling case. The latest polls show the majority of Americans now see war as necessary.”
“The late Howard Zinn once said, ‘We need to decide that we will not go to war, whatever reason is conjured up by the politicians or the media, because war in our time is always indiscriminate, a war against innocence, a war against children.’ He could’ve been talking about this war, but, of course, he was talking about every war. They are all the same.” Her voice had a soothing tone to it, even when talking about catastrophes.
“As you know, I’ve been to war, and I believe there are times when it is necessary. I just don’t think this is one of those times.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. President. But . . . ”
“What?”
“Can I speak candidly?”
“Of course.”
“Although you are the Commander in Chief, I’m afraid it isn’t entirely up to you.”
Hudson wondered if she knew about the REMies. He wasn’t sure if he trusted his vice president enough yet to bring them up. “What do you mean?”
“With all due respect, Mr. President, you must be aware that there are those within the Pentagon and the intelligence community who wield more power than you.”
He stared at her, surprised at the matter-of-fact tone in which she summarized his dilemma. “I plan to oppose this war.”
Her expression wasn’t what he expected. Instead of a satisfied smile, she looked suddenly worried, even a little scared. “Are you sure? I believe that position invites great risk to you personally. It reminds me of what happened to Donald Trump, who, as a candidate, had a long list of maverick ideas and aimed to drain the Washington swamp. Like him or not, once he got into office, many of his radical ideas mysteriously and suddenly changed to be much more mainstream. At the time, I recall former ultraliberal Congressman Dennis Kucinich, from your state of Ohio, warning us against the deep state, the pure permanent bureaucrats who comprise the intelligence community and the Pentagon. He said they were out to destroy the Trump presidency, and he went on to say that our country itself is under attack from within, saying that those in the deep state with their leaks to, and manipulation of, the media, represent a clear and present danger to our country.”
“I remember when Kucinich came out with all that. It was surprising that more people didn’t heed his advice, especially since he was no fan of Donald Trump.”
“Kucinich is a patriot, a defender of the Constitution. The deep state has long been after him. In 2011, the Obama administration wiretapped his Congressional office. Kucinich also stated that the intelligence community was trying to re-ignite the Cold War between Russia and the United States. That’s why the media continues to marginalize him.”
/> “Then how do you get away with being an anti-war Republican?” Hudson asked.
“I choose my battles carefully. I absolutely oppose all war. I believe there’s always another way to resolve differences. A peaceful way. Otherwise, I try to avoid controversy.”
Hudson nodded. Some might consider the vice president’s method to be cowardly, but standing next to this woman and staring into her fiery eyes, he knew she was no coward.
“What did you want to ask me today, Mr. President?”
“For your help.”
She stared at him for a long moment. “What would you like me to do?”
“Figure out a way we can stop this war.” He paused, found her eyes again. “And still live to get reelected for a second term.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Vonner and Rex were at the estate on the Potomac River, monitoring what had become an increasingly volatile situation. While his boss was on a conference call with several other REMies, Rex had forty-two tiny dice of various colors spread across his desk. He rolled them in groups of three and memorized the results. In between rolls, he checked the monitors that surrounded him.
A few days earlier, he'd spotted Crane on the DarkNet. He didn't know who he was yet, but he knew that he was working on behalf of the president. Rex could tell by where he was going, what he was looking at, and the trails he followed and left. Even more than the surprise that Hudson had a DarkNet expert helping him was the program they were utilizing. Rex didn't know it was called Gypsy, didn't even know much about it, but he was impressed, and extremely curious. He'd been able to see it in action quite a few times as it vacuumed and filtered normally un-processable data. Rex had not been able to pinpoint where Crane was operating from, and probably never would, but now that he knew the person was out there, he would follow him—at least the virtual him—and learn what Crane was learning. Rex had immediately written his own program to watch and track Crane, and to mirror and record everything he did.
Vonner, who had taken his conference call outside, stormed into the grand room and caught Rex scooping up his dice. “What is it with you and those dice? A man with so much intelligence, someone who looks at everything so precisely, with such an appreciation of facts . . . what in fangdangle do you get out of these damn dice?”
“Numbers.” Rex said the word as if it were a prayer. “The universe is made of numbers. All of the answers can be found in the numbers.”
“But rolling dice is nothing but chance.”
“I don't believe in chance,” Rex said, emphasizing the word chance as if it were a profanity. “What may appear as random to you is actually part of a greater pattern. Numbers always form patterns. If you see the patterns, the right ones, you can notice, trace, and anticipate things. The patterns form on top of each other, around each other, over, under, through, again and—”
“Oh, shut up!” Vonner snapped. “We've got real stuff to deal with. Hudson is about to come out in opposition to the war.”
Rex already knew this, he'd seen it in the patterns, but he didn't say that to Vonner. He did, however, add another problem. “It's not just his opposition to the war. It seems the president’s near-death experience had quite an effect on him.”
Vonner poured himself a drink and glared at Rex with a confused expression. It was the confusion that irritated him more than another potential problem.
“We picked up some conversations the president's been having during the last few days,” Rex said. “The president wants to push for term limits for Congress. He's looking at a massive tax reform that would essentially eliminate the IRS by taxing on consumption rather than income. Your boy Hudson even wants to abolish fossil fuels. And the kicker, wait for it . . . he plans to propose slashing military spending.”
“What the hell?” Vonner said, adding more alcohol to his drink. “Is he a damn Democrat now?”
“I guess he died and saw the light,” Rex said with a smirk.
“If that's the case, the next time he gets assassinated, he might as well stay dead.”
Rex raised an eyebrow. “There's going to be a next time?”
It was no secret that David Covington didn’t have much respect for Hudson Pound. He did, however, believe the office of the president was, if not sacred, at least critical to the security of the world. He argued that the FBI had wasted nearly two years on the NorthBridge investigation, and that the Brickman Effort, led by Colonel Dranick, had fared no better.
“Unprecedented events call for unprecedented actions,” Covington said, testifying before Congress. “We cannot let these terrorists get away with this. Their attack on President Pound and Air Force One was an attack on our very way of life, on freedom itself.”
He was seeking authority to assemble a team to go after NorthBridge, similar to the team of US law-enforcement agents Eliot Ness formed in 1929 to bring down legendary gangster Al Capone. The team of nine agents became known as “The Untouchables” because they were incorruptible, aggressive, fearless, and smart. Covington told an aide in private, “I plan on liking the next president, and I want a country left for him to lead.”
Congress granted broad authority to Covington under Article I, Section 8, Clause 15, of the Constitution, and the Intelligence Reform and Terrorism Prevention Act. The new authority for the Director of National Intelligence meant that Covington’s Find and Stop Terrorist squad, his “FaST” agents, would now lead the hunt for NorthBridge. It also meant Covington would have a nearly unlimited budget and unrestrained power to do whatever he deemed necessary to stop any threat to the United States.
It seemed that the president would not be leaving the White House for a while, which temporarily freed Tarka from her dangerous and covert mission of keeping him alive. But when Rex gave her a new assignment, she realized that saving Hudson Pound came in many forms. There wasn’t much to go on, but Rex explained that finding the woman no one else had been able to find might be a tougher job than keeping a president alive.
Yet Tarka had resources that others didn’t.
The operative, a classic Greek beauty, was as tough as she was smart, possessing the useful ability of obsessive precision. Everything had to be checked, and considered. An avid chess player, Tarka hadn’t lost a game since age nine. Another asset she held was a list of contacts which included some of the world’s most powerful people, as well as many two-bit criminals, and everyone in between. She was particularly well connected in the seedy underworld of hackers, blackmailers, smugglers, and spies.
When Tarka’s regular network of rogues came up empty, she wasn’t surprised. If Rex hadn’t been able to locate Rochelle Rogers, she must be either dead, or else nearly everyone who knew her location was dead. There was only one person who could help her, perhaps the last person Vonner would ever want her to contact.
The enemy—Booker Lipton.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Melissa stared a little longer than usual at her husband as he dressed. He was thinner and scarred, his hair grayer, with a lame arm, and a permanent limp—a soldier back from the crusades. It had only been a year since he took office, yet he seemed a different man. Indeed, he was a different man, not just from the batterings, the pressure, or the brutal wounds. It was because of those nine minutes. She knew it, but he’d refused to speak about it, even to her. He’d journeyed to the dark side of the moon and been altered by the experience.
Melissa had been reluctant to press in those early weeks, but his silence on the topic hadn’t just fueled frenzied worldwide speculation. It had also stolen something from their marriage—a bond of trust, “for better or worse, ‘til death do us part.”
“I’m sorry, Melissa, I’m just not ready to talk about it,” Hudson said, buttoning his white cotton shirt.
“Why?” she asked, teary-eyed. “You’re not too fragile to lead the free world, you aren’t too weak to reshape the entire government, to defy the REMies, to push peace with all the force of war. Why can’t you trust me with what happened in those
nine minutes? Tell me what you saw.”
“I can’t,” Hudson said.
“I don’t understand why you want to keep something like that secret from me. Was it so terrible?”
“Try to understand . . . it may look like I’ve healed, you may think I’m no longer fragile or weak, but it’s only those nine minutes that are holding me together.”
She stared at him, confused, then full of caring concern. “That’s exactly why you should share it with me.”
“If I share it, even with you, it will be gone.”
“What will?”
“Everything.”
Melissa wiped her eyes, gave him one last pleading look, then turned away. Hudson reached for the back of her shoulder, as if to pull her into his arms, but then dropped his hand before she saw.
She handed him a bright blue tie.
“You know I don’t wear those anymore.”
“You’re about to give your first State of the Union address,” Melissa said. “Wear one tonight.”
He shook his head.
She sighed quietly. He wouldn’t tell her about the nine minutes, but she had seen plenty of its results. He wouldn’t wear ties anymore, had become a vegan, refused to kill bugs, and the greatest secret of all was his stance against war.
How could the president of the United States be unwilling to engage in war? How was he going to stop NorthBridge? What about the ever-looming war with China? What if that news got out that the president had become a committed pacifist? Melissa shuddered.
Suddenly, she whirled around. “Damn it, I’m your wife!” she said, grabbing his hand. “Talk to me. Tell me what happened!”
Hudson pulled her into a hug, but shook his head.
Melissa pulled away. “I don’t understand why you can’t talk to me.”
“I know you don’t, honey,” Hudson said. “And I’m not sure how to explain it.”