“You have grown, my friend. You are almost thinking like an Arab. I think I can arrange for the needed funding, and I will also arrange for a generous stipend for you. Something in the eight-figure range I feel is in order. We’ll pay it over time for helping our firm to be contracted by the Starks campaign. Trust me, my old friend, you will be well compensated,” Hassan stated plainly.
“I can’t be paid directly by your firm, not as long as I work for the senator, or rather, the president. That would be considered a conflict of interest. Any commission would have to be paid on the sly,” Combs stated in a whisper as he looked around for anyone within earshot. “There can be no appearance of impropriety.”
“But of course, I’ll arrange for an account in the Caymans. I’ll use our old code word for nights when we got lucky in the dorm room for the name on the account,” Hassan stated. “But how do you feel about this?” he then asked.
“What, morally? I’m not so naive that I don’t realize this how it works. Everyone else is in it for themselves, so why not me? I’ll quietly, over time, invest some of it legitimately—only small amounts—and then I’ll be free to enjoy the fruits of my labor after Starks leaves office. By the way, what is the name of your PR firm? He’ll want to know,” Jason dismissed Hassan’s concerns.
“Solution Brothers Trust,” Hassan stated with a wide grin.
“That’s great, it sounds real American. We don’t want the public thinking that foreigners might have influence over the election or anything like that, though I’ve been told that the Red Chinese are funneling millions to the Republicans,” Jason stated conspiratorially.
“Say, can you help us with senate campaigns, as well?” Jason felt he may as well push it and see how far Hassan was willing to go. “It would go a long way towards providing Starks a controlling position in the Democratic Party for a long time to come, not to mention control of Congress.”
“I am positive that if you can assure us they will vote appropriately, it can be done,” Hassan smiled wolfishly as he tightened the noose around his desperate and greedy old friend’s neck, leading him into servitude for the Brotherhood.
“I’m sure we can. The Congress is no different than the American public. They are like a herd of sheep. Feed their need, whether it’s a beer and TV, sex, money or perceived power, and they will blissfully do whatever we tell them to.”
“Perhaps we will run you for president next.” Hassan only half jokingly quipped.
As Hassan walked Jason to his car, he stated that he would be in touch very soon. Then at the last second, he leaned in the open driver’s window and whispered, while grinning ear to ear, “Yes, more worldly means getting laid many, many more times.”
With the influx of cash, Combs and his senator slipped into the White House with just over two percentage points to spare. George W. would have been proud of the campaign. The underdog stole another election while Washington continued to play Russian roulette with the country and the citizens sat fat, dumb and happy in front of their big screen TVs, drinking lite beer and eating popcorn.
CHAPTER TWO
“Music, why is there music playing? I didn’t have the radio on.” Those were the first few confused thoughts of General Charles (Chip) Clarett as the sound startled him awake. “What song is that, America, the Beautiful? Yeah, that’s it. Wait, why would America the Beautiful be playing in my dreams? No, it’s way too loud to be a dream,” he thought as he struggled to open his eyes.
The first thing he saw was the television. On it was a picture of a golfer, standing in a sand trap, staring down at a ball half buried in the sand. The trap, Chip noticed, had a huge lip of turf overhanging the upper edge between the golfer and the pin. The music continued to play, rather loudly, as he focused on the television for the moment.
“I wasn’t watching golf. I was watching football,” he stated out loud to an empty office. “How did this crap get on? And what’s with the freaking music?” he mumbled as he looked about his office for the source of the sound, his face etched in puzzlement.
The golfer on the television took a swing, the sand exploded and the little white ball rose sharply for a brief moment. Then, striking the huge overhanging lip of turf, it fell back down into the trap, burying itself even deeper in the sand than before.
“You’re a popfart!” General Clarett grumbled at the figure on the screen. ‘Popfart’ had been a term he’d agreed to use as a compromise with his late wife, Peg. It had replaced a phrase filled with cuss words and derogatory slang reserved for any person who didn’t make what he considered to be an honest living. That category included anyone who wasn’t in the military or anyone who wasn’t gainfully employed in a job where someone’s life was on the line, or one that involved real manual labor. Peg had known instinctively without the general having to spell it out, that professional golfers were definitely popfarts. He had tried to convince her that the term really only applied to actors and politicians, but Peg never bought it. She knew all too well that her husband only had true respect for tough, principled men who weren’t afraid to get their hands dirty.
Chip understood that you had to have considerable skill to be a professional at anything; but to him, a pro athlete was just an overgrown kid who got paid to play games. If skill was the real level by which athletes were judged, then ping-pong players should make just as much money as baseball players or golfers. The real heroes of this world, as far as he was concerned, were firemen, policemen, teachers, soldiers and anyone else who put their life on the line to protect or help others. Not some spoiled jackass who got $1,000,000 to make the cut at a golf tournament or $50,000,000 because he can shoot a basketball.
He still couldn’t figure out where the music was coming from. It wasn’t until after he’d quickly surveyed the room that his memory was jogged, and he remembered the new cell phone that he had been issued yesterday. His hand slid to his belt on his right side and there he found his phone and the source of the music. He yanked the phone from its holster as he glanced at the wall clock. He’d been asleep for two hours, and he’d missed almost the entire second half of the football game, damn. That explained why he’d awakened to the golfer.
“Clarett,” he snapped loudly, answering the phone. He wasn’t a big fan of talking on the phone, so he didn’t believe he should waste time on pleasantries such as saying “hello.”
“Chip, how you doing today?” Steven Howard replied. Steven was one of only a very small handful of people that the general let address him in this familiar way. It just didn’t seem right to have friends address him as “General, Sir.”
“Hey, Steven, it’s been a typical day, one God almighty catastrophe after another. How’s yours?” Chip stated, embellishing his dull day, but only slightly.
“A real byte, if you know what I mean,” Steven retorted with a chuckle. Steven Howard was one of the richest men in the world on the scale of multiple tens of billions and growing daily. He’d earned it by developing ultra fast and ultra smart computers, plus a computer encryption code nicknamed The Mauna Loa Code, which for all intent and purposes was unbreakable. He had also developed a computer software company that was the sole provider of custom software for the U.S. military, FBI, CIA, DOD, NSA, DOJ and most of the police agencies across America. He sold a slightly less capable system to the industrial, commercial, and foreign national interests which really boasted his bottom line. If it had to do with super computers or computer security, it was likely a product of Steven Howard and his Kilauea Corp. The fact that he still acted like a kid in college, a little flaky and immature at times, is what made him so personable. The fact that he always treated people with polite respect and told clean, though corny jokes made him a friend of the general’s.
“You know, if you don’t get a new line soon, I’m going to stop taking your calls,” Chip replied.
“Oh sure, like I’d let that happen. I can find you anywhere, anytime, anyplace, remember?” Steven retorted.
“That’s just what
you tell the procurement committees, but I know you can’t find your way around town without your chauffeur,” Chip took a good natured swipe at Steven.
“Hey, that’s not funny! Don’t even start a rumor like that. Everyone will lose faith in me. I’ll have to get a real job or something,” Steven chuckled.
“No one is ever going to believe that you could actually work for living. You’re just a popfart in a suit,” Chip replied with a snicker.
“Ouch! Now you’re getting mean, just when I was going to invite you to dinner.”
“Who’s cooking?”
“Who’s cooking? What, you don’t like Mary’s cooking?” Steven asked, trying to sound duly insulted on his wife’s behalf.
“It’s not Mary’s cooking I have trouble with,” Chip responded coolly.
“What, you don’t like Maria’s?” Steven asked, sounding incredulous.
“No, Maria can cook for me, anytime.”
“Well that only leaves…me. So, you don’t like my steaks on the grill?” Steven sounded indignant.
“Are we having steaks on the grill?”
“Well…all right, so I can’t boil water, but you’ve got to admit, the steaks are fantastic,” Steven said though in reality, he hardly ever cooked, even on the grill.
“They’re edible but not fantastic, unless you consider that I don’t have to cook them, or pay for them,” Chip shot back.
“Oh, now I see what kind of friend you are. You’ll gladly come to dinner if someone other than me cooks, is that it?” Steven bemoaned.
“Yeah, that’s it. And by the way, I’m the best kind of friend to you, an honest one,” Chip stated flatly.
“Right, throw that in my face.”
“So, what time should I be there?”
“Don’t you want to know who’s doing the cooking?” Steven inquired sarcastically.
“I thought I made that clear. As long as you’re not cooking, I’m there,” Chip jabbed playfully at his friend again.
“Ouch! I should tell you the sixth Thursday of the thirteenth month of next year, but I guess about seven would be good. Is that going to work with your hectic schedule?” Steven asked, adding sarcasm of his own.
Looking around the office, Chip quickly decided that he could do it, even though it was four-thirty, and Steven lived about an hour or so outside of D.C. in the Virginia countryside. His desk was completely clear, his inbox was empty and the outbox was full. “Well, the staff will have to finish up for me. After all, there’s got to be some privileges of rank,” Chip embellished things just a bit.
“If I know your staff, they are all at home and haven’t been in all day. After all, it is Sunday. You went to the office because you’re afraid the world might go to hell in a hand basket and you’ll miss it. Everybody knows you couldn’t play golf or go fishing, even if your life depended on it,” Steven jabbed at Chip again.
“Now who’s getting mean? You know, I could go to dinner anywhere,” Chip threatened.
“Yeah, but who would you have to carry on such intellectually stimulating conversations with, if not me?”
“Well, I know this deaf, dumb and blind guy down on Constitution,” Chip stated, deadpan.
“That sounds about your speed, but Anne and James will be disappointed that Papa Chip doesn’t want to have dinner with them. I can break it to them gently, though,” Steven shot back, knowing that Chip loved his kids as if they were his own.
The general’s own grandchildren, Nicole, who was four, and Ryan, who was going to be six this coming January, lived in San Antonio, where his son and daughter-in-law were currently stationed at Lackland Air Force Base. He’d seen them only a couple of times around the holidays the last couple of years and was looking forward to this Christmas, when he was scheduled to visit for a whole month.
The general’s son, David, a major in the Marine Corps, was an instructor in the art of covert insertion and survival. He’d trained as a commando, a sniper and a SEAL. He was considered the best there was at working behind enemy lines, and by being so recognized, he became the inter-branch liaison officer, charged with conducting advanced training for all of the armed forces, plus FBI, CIA, NSA and a few more sets of letters no one cared to talk about. His duties currently included teaching the Air Force Search and Rescue teams all he knew about being stealthy. It was a job he loved, and it made his father proud.
“Now, wait a minute, if they’re going to be there, that changes everything, I don’t care who cooks! I’m leaving right now. You had better have decent bourbon for after dinner or there’s going to be trouble, out!” Chip blurted as he hung up. He knew it was stupid, how he and Steven would talk in circles and take verbal jabs at each other, but it was just some light hearted kids play that neither of them was allowed in everyday life, so what the “Hay.”
CHAPTER THREE
As he drove down I-95, General Clarett became lost in thought about his day and the alarming briefing he’d received that morning as part of the President’s Daily “Putter.” The “Putter,” (which was bureaucratic shorthand for the President’s Daily Threat Report) had included a report from Liaison Services—that is, intelligence services of friendly nations around the globe—an oxymoron as far as the general was concerned.
Liaison Services had reported there had been electronic intercepts which had dealt with what they believed were terrorists in the final stage of preparation for an attack on the United States. The intercepted message indicated it would be a “holiday spectacular.” This was very significant, because the words “holiday spectacular” were the very words used by the terrorists and not some analyst’s editorializing of the interpretation.
It wasn’t clear where the attack would take place or when, but with the Thanksgiving holiday only five days away, it was a cause for grave concern. Black Friday and the kick off of the Christmas shopping season were major economic forces in the American economy and any disruption made for frightening prospects. When Homeland Security tied together this bit of intelligence with other intelligence from six months ago concerning a meeting of high level Al Qaeda members in Bangladesh, they quickly sought permission to increase the country’s security threat level.
Indian intelligence had intercepted a satellite phone call a week prior to 9/11, which spoke about delivering a crushing blow to the infidel’s ability to trade, but we had failed to act upon it. So this new intercept sent every political hack scurrying in every direction at once. It came down to the Security Council to recommend what course of action the president should take.
Unfortunately, the only thing they could agree on was to raise the security threat level from elevated to high. The idea was to make the terrorists think twice about the attack and quite possibly, call it off. No one wanted to alarm the public needlessly, but to not warn them of a possible attack and then to have it happen would be political suicide. Raising the threat level was the least they could do and still cover their asses politically. So that was their choice. Do as little as possible.
The general had voted not to raise the level, as he felt it was foolish to let the terrorists know that we had any idea that they were up to something. It was better to keep quiet while setting a trap to capture or kill the sons of bitches, but that had never even been considered.
This new administration, ousting the previous administration with lots of anti-war rhetoric which served only to undermine our world credibility and the morale of our troops, had seen it differently. They felt the previous administration had been far too quick to go on the military offensive against the “supposed” terrorists. They felt that we should have tried to understand the reasons behind the attacks. By doing so, it might have led to a diplomatic solution to the problem rather than to creating yet another point of contention in the world.
The American public, confused and overwhelmed by the mixed messages from the politicians and the media, were scared. Many had been quick to buy into the left’s anti-war rhetoric, and the recent election had indicated that by e
lecting this group of over-educated popfarts. These inexperienced political hacks felt that by letting the “supposed” terrorists know that we knew that they had something planned, it would force them change their plans, thus eliminating the threat. Then, by back-tracking the intercepts, we’d catch them. They were convinced that our so-called allies would help us. We just had to play the diplomatic game correctly. Instead of acting alone, we needed to think about the other interests of the world community.
General Clarett couldn’t help but point out the oil for food scandal by the UN and France; the nuclear accord violations by Germany, France and Russia; the selling of nuclear secrets to Saddam, Iran, North Korea and who knew who else, making them all questionable allies at best. We had saved their souls in World Wars I and II, yet they continued to undermine our foreign policy at every turn. Hell, the French were selling guns and explosives to Iran, who in turn were giving or selling them to the terrorists and the Taliban, who used them against our troops in Iraq and Afghanistan. The French felt justified in their actions because it allowed them to purchase oil at hugely discounted prices, which allowed them to collect more taxes from their citizens at the gas pump. It was all about money.
The new American administration, in his opinion, was trying to placate a bully; when, in order to stop a bully, you have to stand toe-to-toe and knock him on his ass. Chip wouldn’t mind being the one to punch out the French president the next time he came to town. After all, he was lying to our faces about trading with the enemy and then had the audacity to ask us for handouts in the form of foreign aid. The general hadn’t used this point in the debate this morning because he felt it would only add fuel to the biased political wrangling that was already going on.
One of the many things that he felt this new administration failed to understand, was that the public didn’t understand or care about what the government thought the threat level was. Since it was instituted after 9/11, the level had never been lower than “elevated” or higher than “high.” It is just an ineffective public relations ploy, designed to boost the public’s faith in the politician’s efforts to protect them. Despite being right, he had been in the minority—the sole minority opinion, in fact—so the level was raised.
Reprisal!- The Eagle Rises Page 4