by Peter Parkin
Right now, he needed a diversion. Needed to focus his brain on something else, anything else.
Sandy’s basement was huge. Totally unfinished, which was just the way he liked it. Perfect for storage and for experimenting with his various creations.
Most of the work he did at the Lincoln Laboratory was highly classified, and he really wasn’t supposed to have any data or re-creations in his home. But, he’d broken that rule a long time ago. The honor code only went so far. He’d learned that lesson the hard way.
He chuckled to himself as he pondered how ironic it was that he worked at a lab named Lincoln, the same name as his long-time nemesis. The man who might now become the next president of the United States.
Sandy enjoyed his work at Lincoln. It challenged his mind, even though the things they played with there were scary as hell and had a purpose far beyond what morality would dictate. That part always bothered him, but the work challenged his genius IQ and he needed that stimulation. Even if it caused conflicts from time to time in his brain—and in his soul.
The project that he was heading up right now, and the one that had occupied him and his team for the last several years, was a sub-category of Directed Energy Weapons. Those types of weapons had already been developed and he’d been involved in ironing out some of the faults since he joined the Lincoln Lab seven years ago. The weapons had proven to be troublesome, and, consequently, had been used only sparingly in conflicts so far.
He’d been developing a new version over the last couple of years. The large prototype was back at the Lincoln Lab, but, he had his own smaller prototype right there in his own basement. There weren’t enough hours in the day back at the lab to do things properly—he needed his spare time at home as well to move the project along.
So, he had a miniature version of his own. A miniature version of a Pulsed Energy Projectile, otherwise known as PEP. It was advanced weaponry of the highest order, and top secret. Which made it even riskier for him to have his own version at home. If it was ever discovered, he could only imagine what would happen to him.
Leavenworth, for the rest of his life. Or worse.
The basic principle of the PEP was the emittance of an infrared laser pulse, which created rapidly expanding plasma directed at the chosen target. It was a directed energy weapon in the extreme, because Sandy had perfected it to exceed the speed of light.
The weapon would fire a stream of plasma—basically an excited state of matter consisting of electrons and nuclei. Sandy had developed it to become most lethal at longer distances, because his engineering of the weapon allowed the plasma to expand to an unlimited mass the farther it traveled.
When it hit its target, the result was immediate. Immediate destruction, absolute collapse of whatever mass it collided with.
For objects with denser mass, it was desirable to fire the weapon from a farther distance. For lighter masses, short distance was fine.
What Sandy and his team were struggling with right now were the issues of sound and visibility. The Pentagon needed the weapon to be quiet and invisible, and they just weren’t there yet.
Which was one of the reasons why Sandy had a miniature working prototype right in his own basement. The challenges with the weapon needed more hours than he could devote at the Lincoln Lab. He needed the privacy of his own home, and his own thoughts, to perfect the weapon. He had a good team, but sometimes they just got in the way.
Sandy walked to the end of a long corridor and stacked a metal box on top of a storage rack. Then he walked back to his PEP device and activated the camera. He focused it on the metal box and took a photo.
Next, he pushed a button on the machine that instructed it to recognize the pixels of the object in the digital photo, search for it with its sensors, then simultaneously calculate and program the distance.
Then the PEP would automatically line it up.
Sandy didn’t even have to aim the damn thing.
Dr. Sandford Beech, PhD in experimental nuclear and particle physics, donned a pair of ear mufflers and took a deep breath.
He pictured his old friend Lincoln Berwick—and punched the little red button.
5
The esteemed senator from Dallas, Texas, sat at the head of the table as he normally did.
Which, in reality was more symbolic than anything else.
It just made him feel good. He didn’t really belong at the head.
He rubbed his distinctive cleft chin—the one that made him look somewhat like the iconic actor, Kirk Douglas—and looked around the table at his team.
Well, it wasn’t really his team, not people he chose himself—but they were at least all humming the same tune. If he’d tried to pick his own team, they would have just changed it on him before he’d even had the chance to host a welcome cocktail party.
Didn’t matter. They were good folks. Talented folks. Sharks. The type of people he would have hired himself.
He glanced at his campaign manager, Bob Stone.
“Well, where do we stand, Bob? Give us a status report.”
Bob smiled. “We’re looking good. Polling well, and the primary season hasn’t even started yet. You’re commanding good audiences at your rallies, and the media, so far, are giving you a wide berth.”
Lincoln Berwick nodded and gazed out the window at the Dallas skyline. He smiled inwardly when his eyes landed on the old Texas School Book Depository building.
“Now, there’s a piece of history.”
One of his team members, Meagan Whitfield, a shark in her own right, asked, “What piece of history are you talking about?”
“Well, the assassin’s nest, of course. I look at that building almost every day. It’s a cold reminder of what measures have to be taken from time to time. For the good of country.”
Meagan frowned. “That’s not a piece of history we should be talking about here, Linc. Not while we’re planning your presidential campaign.”
He glared at her and jabbed his index finger in her direction.
“You would be well served to remember it. That was the most momentous event in U.S. history, even more so than the American Revolution. I wasn’t even alive in 1963 when Kennedy was killed, but that day still shaped my life. And it will shape my future, too. November 22 will always be a day in my mind for celebration. It’s a symbol of the brave steps that Americans must take once in a while to protect the sanctity of this country.”
Meagan glared back. “He was a hero to most citizens and was loved almost universally. You would be wise to remember that as you campaign for the job he held for only a few short years. If you’re not careful, your career could also be short.”
Bob Stone jumped in. “Okay, okay, we’re getting a bit off topic here. Let’s all agree that Kennedy was loved, and let’s also agree that he needed to go. Fair?”
Linc wasn’t finished yet. He hadn’t had the last word.
“Yes, he was loved. But, that was just a smokescreen. He was weak, wanted to pull out of Viet Nam, planned to dismantle the CIA—and do I need to remind you, Meagan, what his plans were against the oil industry here in Texas? The state’s economy would have been decimated if that prick had been allowed to live. The brainpower and guts that it took by some of our bravest patriots to take that menace down, is worth remembering and worth celebrating.”
Meagan wasn’t going to let him have the last word.
“Think what you want, I’m not disagreeing with you. I’m just stating a fact. The fact is, he was a popular president, and if the American public ever finds out that his own country killed him, there’s no telling what might happen. The same is true about 9/11.
“You can pontificate all you want, Linc, but it would be wise for you to shut the hell up and concentrate on the task at hand. Watch your mouth, show the respect that the citizens expect you to show, and stick to the script. And the script on t
he Kennedy issue is that he was loved, admired, and, despite being a Democrat, we in the Republican Party loved him too. Got it, hotshot?”
Linc’s blood was boiling—he could feel it in his face, and with the blurriness in his eyes.
Through the film that was now covering his eyeballs, he studied Meagan Whitfield with disdain.
She was older, in her sixties, old enough to be his mother if she’d gotten knocked-up at a tender age. But, he couldn’t imagine who would ever want to fuck such a witch to begin with.
He knew her background well. A Wall Street lawyer, and one of the biggest corporate wheeler-dealers on the planet. Wealthy beyond anyone’s wildest dreams, she only served on his team out of dedication to the cause. She wasn’t paid for her time and neither were any of the other eight people sitting around the table.
Not even Bob Stone, industrialist, major shareholder of the nation’s largest defence contractor. He was the official campaign manager, but his role was more of trying to keep the peace between Linc and the other members of the team; particularly Meagan Whitfield.
Linc took a few deep breaths, and felt his adrenaline rush slowly drop off. This wasn’t the time for a fight, especially one he couldn’t win.
He mumbled, “Okay.”
She wasn’t finished yet. This time it was her finger jabbing in the air.
“You would be wise to remember some other history, Senator Berwick. Where you came from, what the Honor Guild meant and still means. What that program has cost most of us around this table, many more outside of this room, as well as the countless others who came before us.
“Your destiny was chosen for you over twenty years ago—you were bought and paid for. You wouldn’t have risen the way you did in your career without us, and you certainly wouldn’t be in this prestigious position you’re in right now if it wasn’t for us.
“You don’t get to think on your own—we tell you what to think. We can’t afford screw-ups, can’t afford to show our cards—and if you allow some of your radical thinking to become public, this will all have been for naught. We may all agree with your thinking, but sharing those thoughts with anyone outside this room, even with Republican Party officials, would result in disaster. It would be stupid. None of this should be a surprise to you.”
Linc felt his blood pressure rising again.
“Of course, I know what it all means. But I didn’t get this far just because of you and the Honor Guild. My genius IQ, good looks, and charisma, can captivate the country. Without me, you and your backers would be nothing. I have the talent to run this country and I probably would have made it to senator without your help. And maybe all the way to the White House, too, without your help. And, don’t pretend to be loyal Republican Party supporters. You could care less about the party. You’re just using it as the most desired vehicle for your agenda.”
Meagan smiled. “Yes, Senator, that’s right. They have no idea that we’ve hijacked their agenda and their platform. And you, Mr. Handsome Charismatic High IQ Man, are our way in. You’re our Trojan horse. The first wave of Honor Guild students are just now reaching electable age. And you’re part of that first wave. There will be a lot more behind you. And there are quite a few beside you as well, in other key roles in Congress and elsewhere.
“So, you’re not the only one we have at our fingertips to choose from. Get over yourself. And, we’ve infiltrated the Republican Party because their basic official platform is closest to the values we believe in. But, yes, they’d be horrified if they found out they’ve been hijacked by our special…group. Our role has to remain secret. Because, without a Party, we can’t attain power. And, power, after all, was the original purpose of the Honor Guild.”
Bob Stone got up from his seat and walked over to the coffee machine, poured himself a cup and returned to his seat.
“I think we’ve heard enough, Meagan. You’ve beat our boy up quite a bit for one day. Can we move on to campaign stuff?”
Meagan nodded and waved her hand in exasperation. “As long as he got my message loud and clear.”
Bob looked at Linc, and asked softly, “Senator? Are we good to move on?”
Linc folded his arms across his chest. “Message received. You don’t have to worry about me. This whole thing started off from my just expressing how I felt about that stupid Book Depository building. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Meagan leaned back in her seat and pointed out the window. “I agree with the symbolism of that building. But, some things we have to keep to ourselves. I worry about loose cannons like you—worry that you’ll express that view to others who don’t want to hear it. To reporters, on talk shows, at your rallies. I’m sorry if I was tough on you, but I prefer to nip things in the bud before they become uncontrollable public relations nightmares.”
Bob raised his hand. “Enough, Meagan. I think Linc understands. You’ve made your point.”
Linc leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “Yes, let’s move on. We’re here today to talk about my competition—within the party, and outside. What handle do you folks have on that?”
A youngish dotcom billionaire at the end of the table raised his hand. His name was Boris Malkin, and, while he was on the shy side, he always had important things to share. Linc liked him, mainly because boy wizard showed him respect. More than he could say for a few others around the table.
“Yes, Boris?”
“I’m in charge of that process, Senator. We have things covered pretty well. There are five other candidates who have declared so far for the Republicans. We think that will be the extent of it. The primary season starts in a couple of months, so it’s a bit late for anyone else to jump into the race now.
“Out of the five contenders, three of them are our folks—just token candidates that we’ve put into the race to give you some pretend competition, make it seem legit. Their orders are to do poorly in the debates and drop out after the first few primaries.
“The other two are wild cards—you know them. Governor Maitland of Florida and Senator Dixon of Ohio. Those two are your real competition, and we can’t do anything about them except hope that your charisma and intelligence carries the day.”
“You can dig up some dirt, can’t you?”
Boris nodded. “Of course, that goes without saying and we’re already digging. And, if we don’t find anything, we’ll just make it up and leak it through the usual channels. But, that may not work—they have some loyal followers. So, we still need you to shine, just in case.”
Bob was writing notes on his pad. He raised his head and looked in Boris’ direction. “How about the Democrats? We have to look ahead, past the primaries. What’s your assessment of their candidates, Boris?”
“We know most of them, of course. Popular, but not rocket scientists by any stretch of the imagination. Linc should make mincemeat out of them in the general election.”
Bob nodded in agreement. “Yeah, hopefully, but what I meant was—what can we do about them?”
Boris smiled. “Well, our plan is to destroy the strongest of their candidates during the primaries, to make sure the one Linc eventually runs against is the one we want him to run against. So, we’ll hold back our best dirt until that guy I’m thinking about gets the Democratic nomination. Then, we’ll take him out just a few weeks before the election with a shocking revelation that will make it impossible for them to defend against in the short time left.”
“What if you can’t find anything shocking enough to destroy him?”
Boris smiled again, more sinister this time. “Well, we can just create it out of thin air, or if all that fails, we do, of course, have other ways of taking people out.”
Linc rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Well done, Boris. We can always count on you to have your ducks in order.”
Bob nodded. “Yes, keep at it, Boris. We’ll look forward to updates as we move along.�
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He pointed at Linc.
“Now, we need to vet you in advance. If we’re able to find stuff out about you, you can bet the press will find it too. And, your competition will as well. So, I’d rather we know about it up front so we can deal with it, manage it, bury it.”
“We already know a lot about you, of course—you’ve been our boy for a long time. But, I try not to be naïve about these things—that Sarah Palin dingbat was a perfect example of how we can all be blindsided by style and bluster.”
Bob clasped his hands together. “So, cleanse your soul, Linc. Is there anything we need to know from your past that we don’t already know? Even as far back as your West Point days? The Honor Guild? Anything we don’t know that we should know?”
Linc felt a sudden pressure in his chest, as his heart began to race.
He scratched his head, feigning surprise at the question. “Well, no, Bob, nothing I can recall. At least nothing worth mentioning.”
6
“Isn’t there too much regulation right now, anyway? I mean, do we need the government interfering in every little aspect of our lives, Professor Beech?”
Sandy smiled at the curly-haired student. Kind of a nerd, one of those high-tech geniuses who would probably end up inventing video games one day. But, he was a good kid and Sandy liked him.
He couldn’t remember his name, nor any of the other half dozen students who were sipping coffee with him in MIT Lecture Hall 5K.
He’d just finished a lecture on aeronautical physics, with particular emphasis on the world’s latest innovation—and nuisance—known as Unmanned Aerial Vehicles. More popularly referred to as drones.
Even though Sandy’s primary work was at MIT’s Lincoln Laboratory, he still lectured once or twice a week at the main MIT campus in Cambridge.
He was a popular professor, probably because he got to pick the topics that he wanted to lecture on. His emeritus status gave him certain privileges and, as long as he lectured on topics that were related to the students’ general curriculum, he was as free as a bird.