The Doomsday Series Box Set | Books 1-5

by Akart, Bobby

  Drawing upon his vast experience in European economic affairs, Schwartz moved to New York and began his financial career on Wall Street. By age forty, he’d established his own hedge fund with a quarter of a million dollars, which grew to four hundred million in just ten years.

  Today, through speculative currency trading and keen stock trading, Schwartz had amassed a fortune in the billions and, through his philanthropy, had created dozens of organizations with a singular goal—achieving human equality and a New World Order.

  His hedge funds had generated profits considered to be extraordinary by any definition. His foundations had spent billions around the world assisting the plight of the poor. However, the end game for Schwartz and his family, led by his son, Jonathan, was a world without borders. Their prerogatives in the U.S. centered around reducing inmate populations, increasing government assistance to those in need, creating a pathway to citizenship for migrant workers, and taxing the wealthy entities, individuals and corporations alike, in order to lift people out of poverty.

  His organizations were extremely complex by design. Transparency was their enemy, as many eyes, public and private, watched their every move. Despite this, Schwartz had learned as a young boy how to move through the shadows and how to survive.

  With his vast financial resources, a loyal group of like-minded individuals, and an uncanny knack for reading political tea leaves, he was able to effectuate change by destabilizing nation-states, financial markets, and the psyches of the citizenry. He was only one man, but he commanded an army of political agitators.

  “May I have the staff bring you some tea and biscuits?” Jonathan was concerned for his father, who’d aged considerably over the last several years. A joint DOJ and SEC investigation into the financial dealings of several of his organizations had made for several tirades and restless nights. The Department of Justice was focused on their funding of splinter groups around the country that were part of a newly created hate-group list by the president. In his opinion, the Securities and Exchange Commission inquiries were purely vindictive and retaliatory. Schwartz employed hundreds of attorneys and compliance auditors to ensure they didn’t run afoul of the law. As far as he was concerned, the investigation was nothing more than political payback by the occupant of the White House.

  “Yes, son, thank you,” the old man said as he settled in his leather office chair. He pulled out a writing pad and began to scribble some notes.

  His son made the request of the staff and took a seat in a Queen Anne chair situated on the other side of his father’s desk. As his father appeared deep in thought, Jonathan politely sat quietly, allowing the brilliant analytical mind to work.

  While he waited for his tea, he twirled his pen around on top of the notepad as if it were a compass looking for magnetic north, or pointing him in the direction to obtain answers.

  After a few moments in which the two men sat across from one another in silence, Schwartz spoke. “Son, this is not the work of terrorists, at least not as they are defined by Washington. This is far more nefarious. It is a form of genocide I have not seen since my days in Budapest. It cannot continue.”

  “Father, the news media is already pointing fingers of blame at the Russians, who are ostensibly retaliating for the U.S. bombing raids of Tehran as this administration tries to spark a revolution. The other theory is China, partly because of the technology used in the attacks and also due to the escalating trade war initiated by the president.”

  “It is neither,” said Schwartz. “The technology is irrelevant. The weapons of choice were ideal because of the lack of attribution. The perpetrators of these attacks knew this. They are also adept at media manipulation, as are we.”

  “Then who, Father, and why?”

  “Specifically, I don’t know, although I can speculate. The why is a matter of connecting the dots. Son, we have an opportunity that should not be squandered. I know this president as well as he thinks he knows me. He is about self-preservation. He knows how to swim with the sharks.”

  “What are you suggesting, Father?” his loyal son asked.

  “I am suggesting the election is over. He believes he has won if he can just overcome this last hurdle before the Supreme Court.”

  “Do you believe the president is behind the attacks simply to avoid his potential ouster?”

  “I believe that a delay benefits him. I don’t know if he orchestrated the attacks. Regardless, a vacuum of power will be created when he invokes martial law. I intend to fill the void.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Schwartz Estate

  Katonah, New York

  Schwartz paused the conversation with his son while their tea was served. After a brief conversation, he lay down to rest until lunchtime. His meals were carefully planned by an on-staff nutritionist. For health reasons, a general practitioner lived on the estate and was charged with the responsibility of extending the man’s life. Money can buy influence, the best in medical care, and an estate protected by high-tech security, but it cannot buy you immortality. Schwartz knew this when he began grooming his son to take the reins, and the events of New Year’s Eve presented a scenario in which he could accelerate his goals of destabilizing the U.S. dollar and the institutions of government that kept a thumb on its citizens.

  “Son, have you reached out to our contacts?”

  Jonathan wandered about the spacious private dining room while his father finished a simple lunch of organic field greens, a steamed vegetable medley, and a steaming bowl of quinoa splashed with a couple of tablespoons of vegetable broth for flavor. Quinoa, pronounced keen-wah, was a grain crop somewhat related to spinach, but was often ground into flour to be used as a rice and pasta substitute.

  “Yes, sir, I have. Over the years, we have effectively diminished the argument of the right that claims Washington is full of deep-state boogeymen. Our sources in the media debunked the notion that there is some type of shadowy cabal of unelected bureaucrats that secretly runs the government. Little do they know, right, Father?”

  Schwartz grinned and waggled his right index finger at his son while he ate. “Make no mistake, they have their own deep-state operatives.”

  “To be sure, sir, but not as many or as dedicated as ours.”

  “What do you have for me, son?” Schwartz was in no mood for an ideological conversation. Decisions had to be made. He carefully guided another spoonful of quinoa into his mouth.

  “Sir, our sources in the White House tell me that the president had nothing to do with this. In fact, he was outraged that the intelligence community had no inkling of what happened.”

  His father interrupted him. “Which goes to my point from this morning. The bumbling fools in the Middle East, or even the Chinese or Russians, would not be able to keep an operation such as this one completely under wraps. Too many leaks. Too much incompetence.”

  “And the threat of retaliation, Father. Have you considered the possibility the president has orchestrated a false flag?”

  A false-flag event occurred when a government undertook a secret operation in which it appeared to be attacked by a foreign enemy in order to justify going to war. It had been a favorite tool of government propagandists for centuries, primarily as an ideological weapon to control the citizenry with the fear of a manufactured enemy.

  “Ah, a tool used by the greatest tyrants in our history,” began Schwartz, suddenly becoming philosophical. “Herr Goebbels once said, the bigger the lie, the more it will be believed.” Schwartz was referring to Nazi General Paul Joseph Goebbels, one of Chancellor Adolf Hitler’s top advisors.

  “Yes, sir. Stalin, too,” added Jonathan.

  “Oh my, yes. Josef Stalin. For him, the easiest way to gain control of a population was to carry out acts of terror. As he proved during his reign, the public clamored for laws because they feared for their safety from a foreign enemy.”

  “Not unlike this country after 9/11,” interjected Jonathan. “If it is a false flag, what is their ang
le? Who is their boogeyman?”

  Schwartz pushed his plate away, carefully dabbed the corners of his mouth with a white cloth napkin, and managed a chuckle. “Why, I am, of course, son.”

  “Father, you believe all of this has been planned and coordinated in an effort to come after you?”

  “No, son, not me per se. But rather causes and ideals that I hold dear. Consider this. The president will have the opportunity to invoke provisions to ensure the continuity of his government. By declaring martial law, he will be able to postpone the Supreme Court proceedings indefinitely, or at least beyond his inauguration. In addition, in times of war, and arguably, the United States is at war with someone, the people rally around their leaders. They become very patriotic and nationalist-thinking.”

  “The opposite of our goals,” added his son.

  “Precisely. They are counting on the public to fall into line. Whether some type of extraordinary legislation comes out of this, or perhaps executive orders advancing the president’s agenda, remains to be seen. My point is this. These attacks appear to be targeted, with a specific purpose of causing maximum damage to regions where the population consists of those who stand in opposition to the president and his political positions.”

  Jonathan stopped pacing the floor and sat down at the dining table on the opposite end from his father. He paused as a member of the staff gently knocked to announce her presence. While she cleared the dishes and offered the two men coffee, Jonathan scrolled through his iPad.

  “The attacks are targeting the resistance movement,” he said after they were alone again.

  “Except for San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle,” added Schwartz.

  “I wonder why those areas were spared.”

  “They’re waiting for a reaction, son. This is going to be a carefully played game of chess in which the winner will control the soul of America.”

  Jonathan nodded and then furrowed his brow. “How do you play a game, or fight a war, when you cannot identify your opponent?”

  His father quickly answered, “You draw them out into the open. Make them reveal themselves.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Son, heretofore, we have fought the battle on our own turf. We can no longer be satisfied with organized marches in Washington or occupations of Wall Street or even simple acts of defiance by blocking interstate highways. The broken windows and skirmishes of Portland must be expanded to America’s heartland.”

  “The suburbs that are considered immune from activity,” added Jonathan.

  “Yes. In this ideological war, one that is now fought with advanced weaponry, we should expand the battlefield. I am tired of the inner cities burning in angst while suburban America sleeps safely in their four-bedroom home with two cars in the garage and a swing set in the backyard. They do not understand the plight of their fellow Americans because it doesn’t directly affect their lives.”

  “We should encourage the resistance to rise up everywhere, not just in our typical, targeted enclaves.”

  Schwartz smiled. “Yes. The American South, for example. Midsize cities like Richmond, Charlotte, and Charleston. First, they must be made uncomfortable; then their eyes will be opened. While we destabilize society, I can finish my task of weakening the U.S. stranglehold on financial markets.”

  “Father, we have to work diligently to discover who initiated these attacks. If our theories are correct, the course of this nation will change drastically.”

  “Yes, son. I am tasking you with drawing upon all of our resources. Take the fight to the streets. I will expedite my financial activities, and if successful, it will cause an economic catastrophe that will turn everyone against this president.”

  “Unleash the hounds,” said Jonathan matter-of-factly.

  His father smiled and repeated his words. “Unleash the hounds with a storm never before seen on American soil.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Cortland Residence

  Carlen-Midtown Neighborhood

  Mobile, Alabama

  “Oh, I didn’t hear you come in,” he said nervously. He pushed off the arms of his chair and stood to face his bewildered wife.

  “Obviously not,” she said in a soft voice. “What’s this all about, Michael?”

  Ugh. She only called him by his given name when she was truly upset.

  Cort fidgeted with his hands and then finally spread them out in defeat. “Honey, I can explain. Will you please sit down?”

  She handed him his iPad and set the cup of tea that was still steeping between the two weapons. “Let me close the door. I don’t want to frighten Hannah.”

  Cort was somewhat taken aback by her insinuation that the presence of the cash and weapons on his desk would frighten his daughter. The family had discussed the purpose of weapons many times, and Hannah appeared totally comfortable with them. Cort even took her to the gun range from time to time when he practiced.

  He took a sip of tea and carefully sat back in his chair. He was beginning to regret rejecting the doctor’s offer of pain medication. At the time, he was feeling okay because he was under the influence of the intravenous analgesics administered during his recovery. Cort didn’t take any prescription drugs, and he was concerned pain medications might alter his state of mind during a time that required clear thinking.

  She sat down, her gaze alternating between Cort’s eyes and the contents spilled out on his desk. Just as he was about to speak, a short tone sounded on the cell phone, indicating it had powered up.

  “What was that?” Meredith immediately asked.

  “Um, it’s a backup cell phone,” he replied as he gestured over his shoulder. “I’m charging it because I need to place some calls.”

  “Why can’t you use our phone? Or my cell?” she asked. Her hands had retreated inside her sweater sleeves, and her arms were folded in front of her, subconsciously wrapping her body as a protective mechanism.

  “This phone is encrypted. When I make calls on it, nobody can listen in or trace its origin.”

  “And the guns? I didn’t know you had them in the house. I thought we agreed that your weapons should be stored in the gun locker at the range.”

  Cort closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes, we did, and I’m sorry for not telling you about these two. I assure you, they’ve been kept locked in the safe until now.”

  Meredith leaned back in her chair and exhaled. She shook her head. “What safe? Cort, I don’t understand any of this.”

  He pointed over her right shoulder toward the top of his ceiling-to-floor bookcases. She noticed the empty space and the wall safe door half open.

  “How long has that been there?” she asked.

  “I had it included when they installed my built-ins. I should’ve told you, but honestly, I thought I’d never have to open it under circumstances like these.”

  She reached forward and picked up a bundle of hundred-dollar bills. She used her thumb to flip through the cash to see if it was real. She set it down gently, as if it might explode if it wasn’t handled properly.

  “Cort, I hope you know how this looks. It looks sketchy, illegal, and more than anything, a lie. I don’t know who you are. Are you a spy? A drug dealer? What?”

  At first, Cort was apologetic for hiding this from his wife. He realized his job to sell her on the Haven would be that much more difficult now. He also knew what was best for his family. He might have gone about it the wrong way, but he had good intentions.

  Like a Good Samaritan who almost died?

  “Honey, let me explain this part, and then we have more important decisions to make,” Cort began.

  Meredith relaxed in her chair somewhat and listened intently to Cort as he told her about the safe, its contents, and how it was there in case of emergencies.

  “Cort, I know you’ve been through a lot, and I empathize with how you feel. Hannah almost lost her daddy, and I love you more than life. Is it the plane crash or what’s happening in the news that prompted you to ru
n in here first thing, shut the door, and empty your emergency safe?”

  “All of the above,” replied Cort. He had to decide whether it was necessary to reveal his theories about the connection between the plane crash and the terrorist attacks around the country. He held that close to his vest, for now. “Something is happening, honey, and I believe last night’s attacks were only the start.”

  “It’s terrorists,” she interjected. “It’s always terrorists. You of all people should know that because of what you’re privy to.”

  “That’s true, but trust me when I say the Islamist groups aren’t capable of what I’ve seen reported. There was advanced weaponry involved, including the possible use of dirty-bomb materials like uranium, strontium-90, or cobalt-60.”

  “I teach Sunday school and third graders, not high school science.”

  “Those are radioactive materials that, when coupled with conventional explosives, can disperse deadly radiation over a large area. That’s what happened in New York and Detroit. I believe the mid-Atlantic states were hit with an EMP and …” Cort’s voice trailed off before he posited his theory that his aircraft was struck with a radio frequency weapon. It was the only explanation he had that would result in a total blackout of the plane, and it had been planned to occur at the same time as the other incidents.

  “I get it. We live in a dangerous world.” Meredith spoke after Cort stopped. She was being very patient with him. “I still don’t understand. You’re home and safe. Are you just making sure this stuff is still here?”

  Cort took a deep breath. It was time to drop the next hidden bombshell. He had so many, he wasn’t sure where to start. “Let me tell you about the Haven.”

  “Yes, please do,” she said with a hint of snark.

  “A year or so ago, your father suggested that we have a place to go to, other than here in Mobile, in the event of a national emergency. You know, a safe place far away from population centers and where we could have others to help protect Hannah.” Cort played the protect-the-child card and the daddy-said card in the same hand. It was if he held the ace through ten of spades in his bridge hand.