Election

by Brandt Legg

Chapter Twenty-One

  Back in the SUV, the communicator and phone were both still going off. Hudson decided to take the biggest hit first and opened the connection to Vonner.

  “Walking around Golden Gate Park? What were you thinking!?” Vonner blasted.

  “I needed some time to myself.”

  “Do you want to die?”

  “No one knows I’m here.”

  “Really? Hasn’t NorthBridge proven they know everything? They can find everyone. Do I need to remind you that it’s NorthBridge no one can find?”

  “Well, congratulations to me, I survived a walk in the park.”

  “Who did you meet?”

  “It was a personal thing.”

  “Personal?” Vonner scoffed. “You don’t have personal anymore!”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Hudson, you knew damned well what you signed up for.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Tell me then, do I have anything to worry about?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Back on the trail in the morning, debates, Iowa—one, two, three. We’re just getting started.”

  After he finished with Vonner, Hudson directed the driver to an address on Mission Street and then took a call from Fitz.

  “You had us scared,” the campaign manager began. “How about letting me know when you’re going AWOL so I can get ready for the media circus after NorthBridge kills you.”

  Hudson took the lecture that followed good-naturedly, then reviewed the plan for the coming days, including the first Republican debate. Afterwards, he checked in with Melissa, and by the time that call ended, the driver told him they’d arrived at the destination.

  Hudson, who had ditched his wig and changed into jeans, stepped out onto the street and briskly entered the building. Two agents escorted him inside while two others remained out on the sidewalk.

  A large curved teakwood reception desk occupied the center of the lobby. Five-inch white letters spelling out “THE INNER MOVEMENT” seemed to float in the air above, the “magic” momentarily distracting him, but then he saw the fishing line that held them. Hudson strode across the polished marble floor. An attractive woman sat typing rapidly into a transparent keyboard, but stopped as he approached.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Pound.” She smiled. He guessed she might be his daughter’s age. Her big brown eyes made him feel comfortable. “How may I help?”

  Hudson, still not used to being recognized by strangers, felt startled, but he’d received almost nonstop media attention for weeks, and even more since the NorthBridge threat, plus the obvious Secret Service presence. Still, the woman didn’t seem the least bit surprised by his presence, almost as though she’d been expecting him.

  “I don’t have an appointment, but I wonder if it would be possible to see Linh.”

  The woman eyed him carefully, as if waiting for something more. “I’m not sure she’s here today. Please have a seat and I’ll see if I can find her.” She pointed to a strange array of what looked like stretched sheets of linen off to one side. It turned out that they were hemp. A little sign announced they were also organic, and although the crisscrossing fabrics looked rigid, they contoured nicely to his frame. He found them quite relaxing.

  For the next six minutes, he waited, during which time the Secret Service agents seemed to grow increasingly agitated. Finally, she called him back over.

  “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting needlessly, but Linh is not here.”

  “Okay,” he said, disappointed. He took out a card and scribbled his private cell phone number along with the note “Please call” and handed it to her.

  She smiled. “I’ll see that she gets this.”

  He thanked her and left.

  On the top floor, watching him exit the building on security monitors, Linh closed her eyes and offered a mental wish for Hudson’s well-being.

  “Are you sure you shouldn’t have seen him?” another woman asked. “He’s in a very difficult situation. He may not survive until the election.”

  “I know,” Linh said quietly.

  “He came here today. He must want our help.”

  “Yes, he does,” Linh said introspectively. She walked to the window, looked down to the busy street far below, and watched his SUV drive away.

  “Are you sure there will be another chance?” the woman asked.

  “No, I am not,” Linh said. “But today . . . this was not the time.”

  “Then let’s hope he makes it to whenever the time is right.”

  Linh nodded, then picked up a phone and dialed the number of the one person who could help make that happen.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The debate stage at the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library in California had that made-for-TV glow—all red, white, and blue shine. Each of the twelve Republican candidates stood behind a clear lectern. The politicians, stretched in a wide semi-circle, looked the part; modern day gunslingers ready to spew endless promises and double-talk. The two women, including Senator Celia Brown of Illinois, the only African-American in a sea of white, seemed to be doing their best to fit in with their male counterparts—dark suits with scarves to match the men’s red or blue ties. All except Thorne, who, wearing black jeans, a dark gray shirt, long black trench coat, and a black leather tie, could have passed for a cowboy.

  As the frontrunner, Texas Governor Bill Cash took center stage, flanked by Hudson, Thorne, and Brown.

  The audience, crew, and staff had been subjected to vigorous background checks, searches, and scans. Along with the Secret Service, state and local police, the California Governor, himself a candidate for the Democratic nomination, had assigned dozens of National Guard troops to secure the building. In a national sigh of relief, it turned out that all the action was among the candidates.

  After the first few questions, the moderator had difficulty maintaining control. The Congressman from Florida made fun of Thorne’s attire, who in turn ripped the others for bowing to outdated conventions.

  “I prefer to be comfortable. I’m not here to fit some image. The voters need to see who I am and hear my ideas.”

  It continued like that, bickering back and forth, personal attacks, exceeding time limits. The banter grew particularly heated after it became obvious to everyone that Hudson was running away with the debate. The others stumbled over at least a few questions, or gave answers that were nothing more than fluff or didn’t relate to the original question. Hudson’s responses, heavy on substance and fact, continuously received loud applause. Several of his opponents were clearly impressed, but not Thorne. He went on the offensive.

  “You’re supposed to be some kind of ‘regular Joe’ who’s somehow going to save the country from itself,” Thorne sneered. “But Pound, you’re nothing more than Arlin Vonner’s latest lap dog.”

  “That’s ironic coming from somebody who can only reach the voters through a radio show, since your campaign hasn’t raised enough money to compete in the larger markets,” Hudson responded. “Instead, you incite your listeners and the media with attention-grabbing remarks with no substance.”

  “Gentleman, please,” the moderator said.

  “Are they really gentlemen?” General Hightower asked, to light laughter.

  “I built my following one listener at a time,” Thorne continued, “by covering issues with truth instead of political correctness.”

  “Like you’re covering the NorthBridgers?” Hudson shot back. “You’re encouraging the terrorists.”

  “Gentleman, you must yield,” the moderator said, raising his voice.

  “NorthBridge may be going about it the wrong way, but they’re right on a lot of the issues,” Thorne said.

  “See, there you go again. You should be brought up on charges for aiding and abetting. “

  “What about you, Pound? You keep saying we need to return to the values and systems the Founding Fathers envisioned. That’s code for NorthBridge’s agenda.”

  “No. It is
not,” Hudson snapped.

  As Thorne began a tirade of additional accusations about Hudson, Vonner, Booker Lipton, and large banks, the producers interrupted the debate, and both candidates were warned that they would be ejected from the remainder of the event should they ignore the rules again. The moderator managed to rein things in, and several rounds occurred with no major trouble.

  Hudson received another raucous ovation when he answered a question about one of his favorite subjects, specifically what role the federal government should play in education.

  “Why are the best teachers confined to teaching a relative handful of children each year?” Hudson asked rhetorically. “Why not use technology and have those teachers, who breathe excitement and relevance into subjects, teach more, so that the drive and imagination of students is ignited? The best we have could teach tens of thousands every day. Their lectures and Q&A sessions can be broadcast over the internet around the nation to as many homes as needed. And yes, I said homes.”

  Fitz, watching with another staff member, cursed and then muttered under his breath, “I guess Hudson doesn’t care about the teachers’ union endorsement that was all but a lock for us.”

  “The students would receive the instruction and multimedia presentations at home or at central learning centers, manned by quality counselors,” Hudson continued. “And then the next day, they’d go to school where educators would work with them on assignments based on what they’d seen. It will save money, broaden the subjects they will learn, and, most importantly, it will work.”

  The audience was clapping as he finished. “Just because we’ve always done something a certain way doesn’t mean we should keep doing it. In response to Gandhi’s advice about being the change you wish to see in the world, I say this: We are the Change!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Vonner watched the debate from his Washington, DC, hotel suite as if it were an NFL playoff game—his team’s quarterback on an unstoppable march to the end zone with a Super Bowl appearance imminent. A knock at the door caused him to check the time. He smiled. As usual, Rex was never late.

  “Have you been listening to our boy?” the billionaire asked.

  Rex, who looked like a former football player himself, strolled inside, bringing the presence of a bull. “I caught most of it,” he said, pulling a digital tablet out and handing it to his boss. The fixer eyed the door to the balcony. He wanted to smoke, even though he’d just finished a cigarette in the car. Instead, he fidgeted with a pair of black dice in his pocket.

  “Is this it?” Vonner asked.

  The big man nodded, then turned toward the TV. Thorne was blasting Hudson again. Rex wanted to comment, but knew Vonner wouldn’t want to be interrupted while he was reading the report.

  “This is nothing,” Vonner finally said, obviously disgusted.

  Rex shrugged, mindlessly moving his thumb as if flicking a lighter. “Should we invent something?”

  “Not yet, too risky.”

  Rex wasn’t surprised at his boss’s answer. Fonda Raton was not a normal target. She was not only clean, as the report Vonner had just read showed, but she was also very powerful. That alone had never stopped them before. Beyond being a media mogul in her own right, Fonda was also protected. The problem that had befuddled them for weeks was that they didn’t know who was protecting her. Once upon a time, they would have guessed Booker Lipton, but she’d been on a warpath against him of late.

  They couldn’t actually verify she was protected, but they knew. Everything about her screamed it. Rex had said, on earlier occasions, that it was as if the woman had been invented out of thin air. They had addresses, known associates, employment history, school records going back to kindergarten, even childhood photos, but it was all “too perfect.”

  Rex repeated his frustrated claim. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Something’s there.”

  “Then we’ve got to find it.”

  “I’ve had people watching her house,” Rex said. “She’s never there.”

  “She travels a lot.”

  “No. I mean she is never there.”

  “She has to sleep somewhere.”

  “With someone,” Rex added.

  “Don’t let up,” Vonner ordered. “Put more people on it, but make sure we don’t show.”

  “Right,” Rex said. He knew at some point his boss might well order Fonda Raton eliminated altogether, and should that day come, there could be no prior links to Vonner’s organization. “What about Thorne?”

  “There’s an aptly named s.o.b. if I’ve ever known one,” Vonner said, switching to the shock-jock’s file on the tablet. “This clod thinks he’s going to win the nomination.”

  “Maybe he did before the debate. Hudson’s mopping the floor with him.”

  “With everyone,” Vonner corrected.

  “Brown is holding her own, and last I checked, Professor Wiseman is giving a nice performance.” Rex tinkered with tech gear assembled on a glass table in a corner of the suite. Vonner typically travelled with enough equipment to launch a satellite into orbit.

  “The Professor is going nowhere, and Brown is anti-war. Who ever heard of an anti-war Republican getting the Republican nomination?” Vonner said. “Why, that’s unpatriotic, that’s what it is.”

  “These are strange times,” Rex said, nodding to the tablet. “Thorne’s popularity is growing faster than Hudson’s.”

  “Before tonight, maybe.”

  “Before tonight, definitely. And the youth vote may think he won the debate.”

  “Hudson’s kids are going on the trail with him starting tomorrow,” Vonner said confidently. “They’ll help.” He stood, and walked over to several fruit platters on a large dining table, grabbing some grapes. “Want some melon?”

  Rex shook his head. “No thanks, you know my stomach can’t handle fruit.”

  “Right,” Vonner said. “Not good for your joints, either.”

  “Don’t bring up my knees,” Rex said, moving back to the three laptops he’d left earlier. “Even Schueller is going out with them? Do you think that’s wise?”

  “The kid will fall into line,” Vonner said, noticing Rex’s limp and thinking it had gotten worse in the past year.

  “I’m not so sure about Schueller anymore.”

  Vonner nodded, suddenly lost in a fog of thought. “If not, then we get to play the sympathy card. The campaign trail can be a dangerous place.”

  “Especially this year.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Until the final minutes of the debate, Thorne had remained on his best behavior, which meant he pushed the producers to the line several times, but managed to stop just short of crossing it. Then, prior to closing statements, Thorne raged again.

  “Just look at him, folks.” He motioned across to Hudson. “He looks exactly like a presidential candidate is supposed to look. He was chosen for the part. The banksters knew the voters wanted a non-career politician, someone we could all identify with, so they groomed this momma’s boy and pushed him out here like a big, fluffy piece of cake that we all want to eat. Speaking of which, have you noticed his wife? Even she’s picture perfect, another piece of . . . something!”

  The producers cut to commercial, and when they came back, Thorne had been removed. After watching the downward spiral of American politics in recent years, Hudson suspected that Thorne’s becoming the first candidate ever removed from a presidential debate stage would make him a hero in many circles. No doubt the shock-jock had planned the whole thing.

  It didn’t matter; Hudson knew he’d won the night. He confidently began his closing remarks. “I’ve never held political office, and many have called this a liability, but I believe it is an asset. This is how it was meant to be—how it used to be—but let me assure you of this.” He stared straight into the camera. “I have served my country in other ways. I have seen combat, and I will not allow aggression against our nation to stand, be it foreign or domestic. A Pound administratio
n will act swiftly and resolutely to see that order is maintained.”

  He had originally intended to end with the line from his stump speech: I have the audacity to think I can be a good president because I am a student of history. I have studied the great leaders who came before us, and by understanding the past, we can recognize the future. THE FUTURE IS NOW! But Vonner had specifically requested he come out strong against NorthBridge and foreign terrorists.

  “Trouble’s brewing in the world,” Vonner had told him. “NorthBridge is getting all the attention, but the United States is facing increasingly complex dangers around the globe.”

  During the many hours of debate prep, Hudson had noticed a heavy emphasis on obscure foreign policy issues which might entangle the country into another war. If he won, he prayed it wouldn’t happen on his watch, but Vonner and his advisers repeatedly stressed, “We must be ready for war.”

  The following morning, Hudson ate breakfast with Melissa and his children in their hotel suite. It was the first time they’d all been together since the family meeting, and the wedding, when he told them he intended to run. The television in the background echoed the near unanimous opinion that Hudson had easily won the debate.

  “What’s with all the talk of war, Dad?” Schueller asked after a former member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff told a morning show host that he believed a Pound administration would be strong against our enemies.

  “To win a war requires more than military supremacy,” the Admiral said in an interview. “It takes smarts, a strong sense of history, and a cool head, and Hudson Pound has all three.”

  Hudson wondered if it was an unsolicited endorsement, or if Fitz had arranged it. Either way, he knew it would help.

  “Schueller, there are those who believe NorthBridge is being funded and even directed by rogue states hostile to us. If that’s true, then we must be prepared to take action.”

  “Come on, Dad, it’s all part of the ruse. There’s always an excuse for war. Bush taking us into Iraq for weapons of mass destruction, oil, or some other business interest of the big corporations.”