Experience

by Brandt Legg

  Enjoying the quiet of the Oval Office before the day began, Hudson sat at the Resolute Desk, thinking about the MONSTERs. He checked his watch: 6:10 a.m. He knew Fonda put up her daily post every morning at six. Hudson walked over to his study and navigated his web browser to the Raton Report to check her coverage of the latest from NorthBridge.

  He’d found that Fonda often had better intelligence than he got in the President’s Daily Briefing, which was no surprise, since the PDB was prepared by Covington’s office. The Raton Report had wide coverage of the NorthBridge attacks against the 3D system, including a post by Fonda herself citing several sources with knowledge that the 3D system had recently expanded to include the use of drones.

  “Thousands of small, unmanned aerial vehicles, as well as dozens of full-sized UAVs, are being utilized,” the report said. She questioned whether the original Deter and Detect Domestic Terrorism Act allowed for drones to be used in that way.

  Even before AKA Hancock claimed responsibility for the strikes against the 3D surveillance system, privacy rights groups had been clamoring for the network of cameras to be dismantled, but now, with Fonda’s reporting, even those who hadn’t been bothered by the loss of privacy might take issue with drones constantly monitoring their lives.

  “It’s a slippery slope,” AKA Hancock had warned in his statement. “They keep taking more and more, until they have it all.”

  Yet many in the media, as well as the majority of public officials, believed that the need for 3D was mostly due to NorthBridge and other criminal threats. “We’re only trading a little privacy for security,” the Senate Majority Leader had said. “What good is privacy if you’re not alive to enjoy it?”

  Fonda’s story went on to reveal that the 3D system now included advanced recognition technology that could put names to faces even when they were obscured. But even more frightening was the system’s ability to identify people by their clothing and posture. 3D could also determine a potential threat based on facial expressions, and in certain situations, 3D cameras, when placed near video or poster displays, were able to “read” a person’s thoughts by analyzing his or her expressions after viewing certain content.

  “An image of President Pound might illicit a negative emotion from a Democrat, and 3D would pick that up and feed the data base. It’s not about security, it’s about feeding the data base. He who controls the data controls us all,” the report concluded.

  Hudson’s thoughts were interrupted by an urgent message from the Wizard. He shoved the SonicBlock drive into his laptop, and twenty seconds later was looking at the tense face of his oldest friend.

  “Crane just called. Gypsy picked up that FaST is going after Fonda and Thorne,” the Wizard blurted. “The squads are out now. Both are to be arrested and detained.”

  “Damn Covington,” Hudson said. “It must be her story about Three-D.”

  “I haven’t seen the story,” the Wizard said, “but, Dawg, I’m betting it’s Cherry Tree. Thorne’s only connection to Fonda is that they both speak out against Covington and FaST. I think this is Covington making a preemptive strike for his REMie masters to shut down Cherry Tree before you launch.”

  “Two can play at this game,” Hudson said. “It’s time to get rid of Covington.”

  “Just make sure you announce it publicly first,” the Wizard said. “I’ve been applying fractal mathematics to the stuff from Crane, the patterns Gypsy has found, and it seems to indicate a fluctuation in the electromagnetic field. I think we’re about to get buried in trouble. The negatives are . . . are you following me?”

  “No, I never do.”

  “How could our universe be random? It could not.”

  “Can you get messages to Fonda and Thorne anonymously?” Hudson asked, ignoring the Wizard’s ramblings. “To tip them off?”

  The Wizard’s face fell. “I think we can manage that. I’ll do it now.”

  “Maybe they can hide out until I can get rid of Covington and terminate the FaST squads.”

  “And, Dawg, while you’re at it, I talked to Gouge last night. He and his dad are still holed up in some old trailer, a shack really, out in the sticks, and he’s scared.”

  “Okay, I’ll think of something,” Hudson said, realizing that he knew too many people—the Wizard, Gouge, and now Thorne and Fonda—who were in hiding. Maybe he was next. “Send those warnings out right now!”

  Chapter Fifty

  Covington walked into the Oval Office and exaggeratedly checked his watch. “National security?” he asked sarcastically after seeing no one else in the room. The president had had an aide summon the DNI to the White House immediately, citing a national security emergency. “What’s the crisis?”

  “You’re the crisis,” the president said. “FaST is out of control.”

  Covington smiled smugly, as if he’d already guessed the true reason for the “urgent” meeting.

  “Mr. President, you are the one confused.” Covington walked over to a chair opposite the Resolute Desk, sat down, and pulled a green Necco wafer from his jacket pocket. “You mean NorthBridge is out of control. The nation is under attack from within, and FaST is the only thing standing in the way of total anarchy.” He held the candy in his hand.

  “You've gone way beyond the original scope of FaST,” the president said, trying to control his anger. “This isn’t about NorthBridge anymore, this is about your personal political enemies.”

  Covington squinted at the president, trying to ascertain if Hudson could somehow know about the pending arrests of Fonda Raton and Thorne. “I’m in charge of FaST,” Covington said. “I’ll decide what's enough.”

  “No, you won't. That's not how it works.”

  “Oh really?” Covington smirked. “Why don't you tell me how it works, then.”

  “I guess I'll have to, since you don't seem to understand that the President of the United States is in charge. I’m your boss, David, at least for a few more minutes.”

  “You?” Covington scoffed, disgusted. “You’re just a figurehead, a paid actor . . . I control the government, you idiot!”

  Hudson stared disbelievingly at Covington. He'd suspected it, deep down probably actually knew it, but to hear Covington so blatantly claim a greater authority than the president’s was still shocking and disarming. Yet it only took Hudson a second to gather himself and his seething anger and respond. “Then tell me, David, which REMie do you answer to?”

  It was Covington's turn to be surprised. “So, you’ve figured that much out, have you? Maybe a bit smarter than I thought, but not smart enough to know how to do your job. Does Vonner know you know?”

  Hudson could see the DNI tactics—answer a question with a question—but he had to push. This would be his last chance to get a clue as to which REMie controlled Covington. It could have been dozens of people, but Hudson was betting it was either Bastendorff, Booker, or Vonner. Obviously if it was Vonner, then Hudson had bigger problems than just challenging the DNI.

  “Do you think Vonner can save your job?” the president asked. “Or will you call Bastendorff?”

  Covington shook his head, clearly startled to hear Bastendorff’s name. “Busy boy, aren’t you, Hudson?” It was the first time the DNI hadn’t addressed him as “Mr. President.” Hudson noticed.

  “I might not have you charged with treason if you tell me which one gives you your orders.”

  “Why do you want to change things, you fool?” Covington growled. “You see this piece of candy?” He held up the green Necco wafer. “This company has been making these wonderful little sweets since 1847. Union soldiers carried them during the Civil war. And then, in 2009, some knucklehead decided to change the formula and replace the artificial sweeteners and colors with natural equivalents to appeal to the health-conscious consumer. Only they weren’t exact equivalents, so they tasted different. In fact, they dropped the green color all together.”

  “Your point?” Hudson asked, annoyed and a bit baffled at the odd timing of the ir
relevant story.

  “My point is that the company received thousands of complaints, and sales of Necco Wafers plummeted thirty-five percent. Two years later, they reverted to the original formula, flavors, and ingredients.” He popped the green candy into his mouth. “You see what I’m saying, Hudson? Don’t change something that’s working.”

  The president stared incredulously at Covington, and then walked over to him. “Either way, David, you are no longer the Director of National Intelligence. In fact,” Hudson checked the time, “the news of your dismissal has just been released to all the major news organizations, including the Raton Report. Thank you for your service.”

  The president held out his hand to shake his adversary’s. Covington, ignoring the gesture, gave Hudson a contemptuous look, shaking his head slowly, as if disgusted.

  “My service has only just begun,” Covington said before turning and walking out of the Oval Office, as if leaving a party that had run out of alcohol.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  From his car, Covington called the one man in the world who could solve this problem; his true superior, not some silly shopkeeper who thought the presidency still meant anything.

  “Pound has to go,” Covington said as soon as the man answered. “He thinks he’s just fired me.”

  “Surely you can handle him. He’s just a schoolteacher, after all. A couple of years ago the man was selling screws for a living.”

  “I agree the president is an idiot, but he’s a smart idiot,” Covington said. “He’s figured things out.”

  “So what? Presidents have put the pieces together before,” the man replied, sounding almost amused. “And if they’re clever enough to get that far, they’re also bright enough to know they have to cooperate with us. They always have. Well, aside from a few glitches . . . but we dealt with those.” The man grunted, as if the thought of those situations was uncomfortable.

  “I'm telling you, Pound is different. He hasn't accidentally stumbled into the reality—he's gone looking for it.” Covington paused, before raising his voice. “The guy is hunting REMies.”

  “Hunting us? What does that even mean?”

  “He's trying to bring down the whole system,” Covington said. “Pound aims to stop the REMies.”

  The man laughed.

  “Seriously, he seems to think the people can do a better job running the world than we can.”

  “Don't be ridiculous, he knows better than that.”

  “I’m the one charged with managing the US government. Listen to me, he’s a real threat.”

  “It’s tricky,” the man said. “Apparently the president announced publicly that you were ‘dismissed.’ Interesting choice of words. In either case, you’re on all the news channels right now. We can hardly get you back into your old job, but we’ll get someone. Don’t worry.”

  “I want to take this to the council.”

  “No, no, no,” the man said irritably. “You know with this CapWar raging, the council is no longer relevant.”

  “They can still be called together.”

  “No, I think not.”

  “I’m calling them. Everyone needs to know the threat.”

  “Bad timing, David. Lay low for a while. Write a book. We’ll get you something.”

  “I’m not laying low. I’m going to bring the president down.”

  “Pound is nothing,” the man said as ice clinked in his glass.

  “You’re wrong. He's taking advantage of the CapWar. He knows the REMies are divided right now, more than ever before, and that the system is strained.”

  The man on the other end of the phone whistled. “Strained? That's a nice way to put it, but we've got contingency plans—six different ones. If the economy collapses, there are even those who think it would be the best thing. I can think of one individual that believes a complete economic implosion would give him the CapStone.”

  “I can guess who that is, but it may happen,” Covington said as his driver turned onto Constitution Avenue. “Then tell me this: what is a victory in the CapWar if the world is reduced to chaos?”

  “REMies thrive on chaos,” the man said. “There is no real advantage to Pound, whatever he may be doing. However, if you're so certain he’s a threat, send me a report. If I agree, I’ll see to it that the president is brought down.”

  “You don’t need a report,” Covington said, breaking a stack of pink Necco wafers into tiny pieces.

  “I'll have to think of something interesting,” the man mused. “The people are pretty bored with sex scandals and the like, unless maybe we did something with him and young boys?”

  “I'm not talking about removing him through some scandal,” Covington said tersely. “Pound has to be killed, and soon.”

  “I'm not sure that is the wisest course, and anyway, Pound has proven himself almost invincible.”

  “But he’s not,” Covington said, wishing he was a billionaire so he could compete with the man to win the CapWar. He knew he was smarter than most of the super-rich “frat boys.” He unwrapped a new package of Necco wafers and began extracting the pink intruders. “You know we could have Pound dead tonight if you authorized it. It can look like anything we want. He could choke on something, have a heart attack, a brain aneurysm, maybe even kill himself. How about that?” Covington asked. “We’ve never had a president commit suicide. Everyone knows he’s been unstable since the Air Force One attack, those nine minutes weighing on him. He could leave a note. The public would eat it up. Everything he saw during the near-death experience made him want to go back.”

  “I must admit, I do kind of like it,” the man said.

  “The president is under a lot of pressure, the poor man wanted to die again, that could be really entertaining for the public, something new and different.” Covington gave up on the pink candies and pushed a handful of his favorite orange ones into his mouth. “It could be fun. How about the president offs himself in some spectacular way? Give me a few minutes, I’ll come up with a list of exciting ways. Hey, what if he jumps off the White House roof? We could even have some grainy footage of it released. Maybe he—”

  “You might be getting a little too theatrical—”

  “Theatrics are what sell,” Covington said, as his car passed the Washington Monument. “Or didn’t you pay attention to Trump’s election and presidency? Ratings were through the roof.”

  “Let's just bring him down in a quick scandal,” the man said again, losing interest in the flashy suicide.

  “A quick scandal was the plan to finish Bill Clinton. That guy was an easy set up, but there was nothing quick about the scandal, and it never brought him down.”

  “Okay, David. Put together a proposal, something solid, and nothing too flamboyant. I'll take a look at it and make a final decision, but tell me this; are you really ready to deal with a President Brown?”

  “Absolutely. That woman will make any deal to avoid war.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The next day, Thorne did his radio show from an undisclosed location. Although Covington was officially out as DNI, FaST remained operational, and still had active warrants for the shock-jock, as well as Fonda Raton. The latter was also “at large,” but that was nothing new for the reclusive journalist who never seemed to be home. This had long frustrated Vonner, who had ordered Rex, on numerous occasions, to find out who was protecting her. Rex had also picked up the advance plan by FaST, and Vonner had been hoping she might finally be removed from his “most wanted” list.

  Schueller stopped by the Oval Office, where Secret Service Agent Bond was standing guard at the door.

  “Hey, 007,” Schueller said, not surprised to see him there. Schueller knew his dad was being extra careful after firing Covington. It was very possible that the REMies would retaliate. NorthBridge, through AKA Franklin, had issued a statement applauding the action as the second decent thing President Pound had done. The first had been announcing his opposition to the war in China. Hudson did not welco
me the endorsements from the hated terror group. “They said I could go in,” Schueller said.

  Bond nodded.

  Hudson barely looked up as his son entered the room. “Come look at this,” he said, staring at his computer screen. “We’re so close to being able to go forward with Cherry Tree.”

  Schueller looked at the latest data from Crane and started to laugh. “We’re going to get them!”

  “I think so.”

  “What’s going to happen when their system all comes crashing down?” Schueller asked. “Couldn’t it be an epic disaster?”

  “I’ve got a small team of economists working on just that,” Hudson said, “but there’s no question that it may not be pretty. The 2008 financial crisis gives us a clue, or the 1930’s worldwide depression, but those were actually carefully controlled chaos.”

  “Right, the REMies were locked in CapWars, but they were still pulling the strings.”

  “The trick to all of this will be taking the REMies out of the equation. We need to be sure they cannot impact the economy.”

  “How?”

  “I’m hoping the economists can do that.”

  “Can you trust them?”

  Hudson raised an eyebrow. “Hard question these days, but I went to school with one of them, and he brought in two others that he trusts.”

  “What’s that?” Schueller asked, pointing to a small icon on the screen.

  “Crane sent a little video of Oliver Stone at an awards show some years back.” He clicked on it, and the famous movie director spoke.

  “It’s fashionable now to take shots at Republicans and Trump and avoid the Obamas and Clintons. But remember this: In the thirteen wars we’ve started over the last thirty years and the $14 trillion we’ve spent, and the hundreds of thousands of lives that have perished from this earth, remember that it wasn’t one leader, but a system, both Republican and Democrat. Call it what you will: the military industrial money media security complex. It’s a system that has been perpetuated under the guise that these are just wars justifiable in the name of our flag that flies so proudly.”