by Brandt Legg
“Not by blowing people up,” Pound protested.
“Ha! You gave them the idea! You started their revolution with your empty rhetoric,” Thorne said. “Even if you don’t believe the BS you spew, those patriots do.”
“Are you suggesting Mr. Pound is somehow supporting NorthBridge?” the moderator asked. “Need I remind you they have on more than one occasion attempted to assassinate him?”
“Allegedly,” Thorne replied tersely. “For all I know, the media made it all up.”
“Are you serious?” Pound asked.
“You may pretend to be anti-establishment,” Thorne said, raising his voice, “and maybe you even think you are, but Vonner is the establishment, and you’re his boy. He owns you. That’s why the mainstream media loves you. That’s why I don’t have a chance. They’re using you to fool the voters into thinking it’s going to be different this time, but it won’t be, because there is only one true anti-establishment candidate in the race, and that’s me.”
“Yet isn’t it true that you work for Arlin Vonner?” the moderator asked Thorne.
“I’m on the radio, part of the media,” Thorne said. “The elites control the media just like they do everything else. I’ve never met Vonner, and he’s not involved in my show in any way.”
“He just owns it,” Hudson said.
“He may own my show,” Thorne shot back, “but he doesn’t own me, which we’ve already determined is something you damn sure can’t say.”
“I want to return to the subject of NorthBridge,” the moderator said.
“Vonner does not own me,” Hudson interrupted, with less conviction than he would have liked.
“We’re moving on,” the moderator said.
“That’s what you think, Pound!” Thorne shouted. “I just hope you find out the truth before you’re sitting in the Oval Office.”
“The truth?” Hudson asked.
“That you should have voted for me. I’m real. Pound is fake news!”
“Gentlemen . . . ” the moderator said firmly. “NorthBridge has become the number one issue voters are concerned about in this election. The country has never experienced anything close to this level of domestic terrorism. And Thorne, I have to ask you this because throughout the campaign you have refused to condemn the terrorist organization. Would you explain that position? And are you prepared to denounce NorthBridge and their violent methods here today?”
“One, I think it is unfair to brand them as terrorists,” Thorne began.
“Unbelievable,” Hudson muttered, still reeling from Thorne’s “fake news” statement, feeling a little too much truth in it.
“Two,” Thorne continued. “NorthBridge may be no different from our own Founding Fathers. Would you call George Washington a terrorist?”
“They’re murdering innocent people,” the moderator said incredulously.
“So did George Washington—”
The moderator cut him off. “Washington’s army killed other soldiers.”
“Not exclusively,” Thorne said. “Check your history. Civilians were killed.”
“We were at war,” the moderator said, incensed.
“So is NorthBridge,” Thorne replied. “I suggest that NorthBridge sees their cause as no less important than the signers of the Declaration. They’re fighting a revolution against a corrupt government which benefits only the elite ruling class while the majority of the population suffers . . . sounds like 1776 to me.”
“Just to be clear then,” the moderator said. “You are refusing to condemn NorthBridge?”
“I do not condemn them. I am fighting a similar revolution. However, I prefer peaceful means, but I certainly understand NorthBridge’s frustration.”
Hudson shook his head. “He is not fit to serve.”
Thorne stuck out his tongue at Hudson, then laughed raucously. He smoothed his shiny, clean-shaven head as if looking in a mirror, then eyed the moderator while rubbing his nose with his middle finger. “Got any donuts in craft services?”
Chapter Fifty
Only one person seemed surprised when Hudson won Iowa—the candidate himself. The victory suddenly made it real. All the polls and pundits had been predicting it for weeks, but until the voters actually spoke . . . now it was history.
The results hadn’t even been close. Hudson won the Iowa caucus by the widest margin ever. Before Hudson could begin his victory speech, it took seven full minutes for the crowd to stop chanting “WE. ARE. THE. CHANGE.” The media had expected a win, but nothing like the trouncing he’d given his rivals.
General Hightower, who’d been hoping to do well with his “law and order” message and tough talk against NorthBridge, came in last, and formally withdrew his candidacy for the Republican presidential nomination. Fitz had already been talking to the general about endorsing Pound, dangling but not promising the position of Secretary of Defense.
“Your boy sure is confident,” Hightower had said gruffly, but that was just posturing. The endorsement would come a few days later.
The Democrats had their own Iowa surprise when Dan Neuman edged out the three frontrunners—the governors of New York and California and Senator Packard—in a tight, four-way race. Hudson recalled the Wizard’s then-insane prediction that Neuman would win New Hampshire. Suddenly the impossible looked possible, and the consequences meant that not just the past was a lie, but also the future.
“Hudson Pound, you’re on your way,” Melissa told him between kisses as he sat dazed in their hotel room. “Do you believe it now?”
“Barely,” he said, almost giddy.
“Get used to it, baby. You’re going to be the next president.”
“Plenty of people have won Iowa and gone on to not even be their party’s nominee,” Hudson cautioned.
“You’re all optimistic and rosy when you’re out there giving speeches, but in private—”
Hudson cut her off. “My speeches are about the country’s future, not mine.”
“Silly man, when will you realize that the country’s future and your future are the same thing?”
Three days later in New Hampshire, Schueller acknowledged the Secret Service agent posted at Hudson’s hotel room door.
“He’s expecting you at this hour?” the agent asked. “It’s four-thirty a.m.”
Schueller nodded, and the agent reluctantly knocked. Hudson answered, hugged his son, and ushered him inside. Hudson had just finished breakfast—doughnuts and a banana. Schueller had not been asleep yet.
“You look like hell,” Hudson said, concerned.
“Don’t worry, I feel much worse than I look,” Schueller replied with only a quick half-smile. “How much time do we have?”
“Thirty minutes, unless Fitz gets up early, and since that’s never happened, we might be safe.”
“Good. We should go outside.”
Hudson looked apprehensive.
“We have to,” Schueller said impatiently.
“I know, but it’s minus eight degrees out there.”
“Better get coffee.”
“Better get a campfire,” Hudson said as he bundled up and pointed to a donut he’d saved for his son. Schueller nodded.
A couple of minutes later, the two, trailed by a couple of tired Secret Service agents, were trudging through a few inches of crunchy snow as they walked down an alley and into an open area between a gas station and a diner. Neither one was open, although the early shift inside the diner could be seen starting their jobs.
Schueller lit a cigarette. “It’s not good, Dad. Like I told you before, all I found was theories and circumstantial stuff that showed Vonner might be a jerk, might be affiliated with the corrupt corporations, banksters, defense contractors, criminal cartels, dictators—lots of unpleasant characters.”
“Might be,” Hudson repeated.
“Yeah, but there’s lots of stuff, reams of it, connecting the dots,” Schueller said, exhaling a line of smoke, exaggerated in size as it mixed with his warm breath i
n the frigid air. “But it would take a full-time staff weeks and weeks to sift through, and it wouldn’t be worth it because it doesn’t really prove anything except, like you said, rich men are always the targets of conspiracy theory nuts.”
“But?” Hudson asked, knowing his son had more.
“Zackers,” Schueller said, bouncing on his feet, trying to stay warm. “Zackers doesn’t drive the same roads on the information superhighway.”
“Tell me more about him.”
“His name is Zack, and you know he went to school with Florence,” Schueller began. “Back in college, he hacked into the school’s servers, but not for why’d you think; not to give himself a four-point-oh GPA, or to rearrange his class schedule, not even to see what his professors were earning. Instead, he went for donors, the endowment—”
“Wait, he embezzled funds?” Hudson asked, alarmed.
“No, nothing like that. He wanted to know where the money came from and where it was going. Investments, connections, research grants, corporate ties, the whole shooting match. Remember when the university financial scandal broke?”
“Of course. It was huge. And you’re telling me this guy, Zackers, was the source?”
“Yeah. Seventeen schools implicated.”
“But no one ever knew where the media got their information.”
“No, but now you know. ‘Zack the hacker,’ also known as ‘Zackers’.”
“So what did he find on Vonner?”
“A lot,” Schueller said. “So much, in fact, that he’s scared to death.”
Hudson went through the day on muscle memory—the speech he’d given hundreds of times, the smile, handshakes—all of it choreographed and led by Fitz. No one could have noticed that with each breath, he heard his heart beating, and felt as if he were trying to run uphill through an avalanche. Doubts stabbed at him as he uttered mantras on policy and made promises he was no longer even sure he could deliver.
Questions choked him: Are the CapWars real? Is Vonner involved? Why did he choose me? Who is behind NorthBridge? Why haven’t they been caught?
The last two mysteries also echoed across the Internet and cable news. Many Americans wanted answers about the greatest terrorist threat in the nation’s history. With each passing day, more conspiracy theories surfaced—the most popular being that someone in the government, most likely the NSA, was behind the attacks in order to advance an agenda meant to seriously restrict civil liberties. Others believed it was a CIA plot to swing the election so the current president could declare martial law and remain in power.
Several websites claimed to have evidence that the Chinese were funding and controlling NorthBridge, which fueled still more sites to suggest that was part of a greater conspiracy attempting to bring about war, or at least the cause for a massive military build-up. Underlying all the fear-mongering and far-out ideas was a simple truth that could not be denied: the government had not made a single arrest, or even identified one suspect. In eight months, there had been dozens of leaks and attacks attributed to NorthBridge, yet the authorities appeared no closer to stopping them.
With all of that, and the added pressure of trying to get the nomination, it was the CapWars that robbed Hudson of desperately needed sleep. The possibility that the precious history which held his world together was wrong, terrified him. It would mean that if truth is the first casualty of war, then the last century of civilization had existed as a lie.
Yet even the CapWars and those NorthBridge monsters paled next to the demon that tormented him most—Rochelle, and the thought that Fonda Raton would somehow put the pieces together.
Chapter Fifty-One
The New Hampshire primary wasn’t the blowout that Iowa had been, but Hudson still won by eight points. Professor Wiseman was a surprise second place finisher. Cash came in third. Thorne impressed with a solid fourth place showing.
However, the real stunner, at least to everyone other than the Wizard, had been on the Democrat’s side. Newsman Dan—the Oregon governor—not only defeated Governor Kelleher again, but also beat New Hampshire’s own senator, Cindy Packard. His win had been by less than eleven thousand votes, but it was enough to end Packard’s once-promising campaign.
The Oklahoma governor and two others dropped out of the Republican race, leaving Hudson with five challengers: Cash, Wiseman, Thorne, Brown, and the Congressman from Florida. The results meant Hudson Pound was for real, and some pundits even mentioned the possibility of the race being decided on Super Tuesday, the day when twelve states would vote and approximately twenty-five percent of the Republican delegates would be awarded.
Hudson didn’t care what the political talking heads had to say about his victory. It was Newsman Dan’s New Hampshire win that mattered. It meant the Wizard knew things, dangerous things, and that Hudson had to talk to his old friend immediately.
As urgent as he considered the need to reach the Wizard, Hudson couldn’t make it happen right away. A candidate’s life is not his own, Hudson thought, not when he had just won Iowa and New Hampshire.
It took two days before he could be alone long enough to initiate contact. Hudson was finally able to lock himself in a Las Vegas hotel suite just after two a.m. A full day of rallies loomed after what would already be not enough sleep. Fitz had just left. Melissa was in South Carolina (they’d talked earlier, but likely wouldn’t be together again until Super Tuesday). While eating crackers and guzzling a ginger ale, Hudson glanced at the schedule. In five hours, he’d be at a morning prayer breakfast. He needed to get to bed, but this might be his last chance for several more days. He’d sleep on the plane tomorrow night.
Hudson shoved the flash drive into his laptop as if he were pushing a knife into an attacker and wondered if the Wizard was awake. Less than a minute later he had his answer when the matrix cleared from the screen and his childhood friend’s words typed across a small window.
New Hampshire, new problem, huh?
More like a new nightmare. Hudson typed back first their code question, and then what he really wanted to know. What year was the “rustang” we never finished? And How did you know about Neuman?
Nineteen sixty-seven primer gray Ford Mustang, the Wizard typed. Because Bastendorff is backing Neuman.
With the help of Schueller and Zackers, Hudson had learned a little more about Bastendorff, but the guy was still like a ghost. His wealth, referenced in only non-official fringe sites, was estimated to be in the hundreds of billions, making him the world’s wealthiest man, depending on what one believed about Booker Lipton.
Who is Bastendorff? How come he’s not listed on Forbes Four Hundred Wealthiest list? How come Bloomberg has nothing on him? How does someone hide a couple of hundred billion?
Have you been looking into this?
Of course I have!
Don’t do that, Dawg! It’s too dangerous.
More dangerous than Colorado? This is all dangerous! I need to know what’s going on.
I’m serious. They’ll know you’ve been looking.
Who? Vonner? Bastendorff? Who cares? Hudson rubbed his eyes.
They do. They care about everything. These guys are into control.
I get that, at least if all that stuff in the CapWar file is for real. Where’d you get your information?
They can’t do what they do without leaving a trail, even if it’s a small one. Over the decades, little shreds of evidence get dropped, leaked, mislaid, stolen, whatever. It’s a war, Dawg. Wars are messy. And in this one, there are many, many sides.
How many?
It fluctuates.
How many currently?
Six? Maybe more. We don’t know for sure.
Who is ‘we’ Wizard? Who do YOU work for?
Look, man. I’m trying to help you. I’m in a thousand things, quantifying the edge aspect of protons, gravity control, infinite energy, artificial intelligence, infinite vibration . . . are you aware that every point contains the whole? Do you get that? What I’m saying is that w
hat’s going on can be corrected, or not, in many different ways. This is huge. You have no idea.
No idea? They have me on track to become the next President of the United States. I’d say I have some idea of the scale of what’s going on.
No, you don’t. This is much bigger than the presidency. And with Bastendorff backing Neuman, your road to the White House just got a lot tougher.
Again . . . who do you work for?
That’s a lot to type, the Wizard replied. Richard Feynman points out that, “It does no harm to the mystery to know a little about it.” Particles are not isolated, Dawg, the particles are related. See?
How hard could it be to type a name? Or just initials? CIA? A foreign government? Exxon? Who? WHO?
Dawg, you think I’m out there? Man, you’re waaay out there. Look, when this all began for me, I had not the least interest in politics. I was looking for the unifying theory of everything. You know, physics, metaphysics, quantum physics, space time, life, death, everything. I got deep and heavy into it, and eventually found UQP, Booker Lipton’s scientific foundation. He’s into the same stuff I was trying to link together.
So, you’re working for Booker Lipton. That makes sense.
No, it doesn’t, Dawg. I’m not working for Booker, but that’s when I began to find out more about Booker and why such a rich dude would be into all the wild esoteric stuff I am. THAT made no sense. And the more I looked into him, the more I found. And it wasn’t just his interest in quantum. I came across conspiracies within conspiracies. About that same time, I first discovered Bastendorff, and that’s when it all got really weird. That’s when I went down the rabbit hole.
You haven’t answered my question.
What do you want me to say? That I work for the anti-CapStone league? That there’s some group out there trying to right the wrongs and take back the world from these freakin’ parasites? I can’t say that, Dawg. I wish I could, but the truth is that no organization like that exists. I’m afraid the sad fact is that I just work for you.