by J W Brazier
“Pfff. Yeah, well, liberal media outlets will clamp a lid on what went down here, boss. They’ll put their own brand of PC spin on it before the dust ever settles.”
“They already are, my friend, they already are.”
“So … Glenn, what did you think about my article … honestly?”
Glenn stepped away and swirled his coffee around, then turned and faced Dean. “You wrote an exceptional piece, without a doubt. ‘Seeds of Tyranny’ was a good headline. I liked your use of various contrasts and backdrops using history lessons. The UN operations in White River and our government’s blatant sidestep of the American Constitution will be thought provoking. And using famous quotes from America’s Founding Fathers and past presidents drove your points home.”
Dean nodded and Glenn went on.
“Your detailed comparisons using the French and American revolutions and their results came as a surprise. An ‘In God We Trust’ republic with government checks and balances, compared to socialism and humanism in the French revolution was eye opening. You correlated America now with World War II Germany, China, and Russia, as in falling prey to the same ideologies and fanaticism cocooned in political correctness. The analogy was something I hadn’t considered. The way you said, ‘Forget history lessons and the ugly consequences of tyranny will be inevitable,’ brought it home.
“I hadn’t considered White River’s Operation Chameleon quite the way you described, but I have to say, the similarities are uncanny. You used relevant historic analogies. The modernized parallels make sense, and give one pause to think.” Glenn shrugged. “What else can I say? All your comparisons worked well. You nailed it.”
“I appreciate your affirmation, Glenn … and you say the executives at American Republic liked the article?”
Glenn nodded. “Yes, and your videotaped evidence of UN involvement was the real kicker that solidified the story as a US sovereignty issue.”
Dean couldn’t hide his satisfied grin.
“Now, if your narcissistic moment is over, Cohen, we’ve got business to tend and a meeting at the mayor’s home, so let’s get cracking. I’ll drive.”
Soon enough, as Glenn stopped for a red light, Dean noticed his boss smiling. A military vehicle held up traffic while a convoy of armed troops rolled through the intersection.
“I have to admit, Dean, I’ve missed the fieldwork. Since joining you in White River, I feel that same old adrenaline surging again. I’m as energized as when I chased down leads twenty years ago. It goes to show that I need to get out of that office more.”
“Heh. I’m glad to hear that, boss. I’ve enjoyed having you here with me.”
“Okay, Cohen, I like you, but not enough to start sharing an apartment.”
Glenn took off with the green light. A mile down the road, he pulled into a service station for gas. Dean got out and stood by the passenger’s door while Glenn filled the tank.
“Uhh, boss … Ann will be at the Austin home, you know,” Dean said.
Glenn raised his eyes for just a moment, then kept pumping gas. “I’d be surprised if she weren’t, and as you’ve guessed, I’ve avoided that meeting thus far on purpose,” he said without looking at Dean.
“You’ve made that clear—and Ann’s noticed. She’s wondered why my editor, who knew her mother and sent me here to investigate her story, wouldn’t want to meet the daughter.”
“I have my reasons, Cohen, and they’re personal.”
“This woman you’re avoiding could be my future wife if things keep going the way they are, you know?”
Glenn sighed, then smiled and secured the hose on the pump. “Well, then, I guess I’d better meet the woman who’s stealing away one of my best reporters. I need to give her my blessings—and say ‘thank you’ at the same time.”
Chapter 32
Ambassador Gordon Adderley kicked his shoes off, reclined with a groan, and wilted into his soft leather couch, exhausted. A persistent dull ache in his chest had plagued him since landing at JFK from Washington. He’d endured a heated tongue-lashing in the Oval Office by the president over the White River debacle. The president’s bruised ego wasn’t a concern; Gordon had endured similar episodes from other egocentric political power players. But his consistent and throbbing chest pains did worry him; they weren’t going away. He thought about calling his doctor.
Still, eyes glued to the ceiling, Gordon couldn’t shake the imagery of the harsh berating he’d received in the Oval Office. The president, without so much as a “Thank you” for Gordon’s years of self-sacrificing service, accused him of bungling Operation Chameleon and hindering his administration. In those degrading moments, Gordon imagined his entire career laid waste by the narcissistic arrogance of an unpopular and inept president. Gordon had sacrificed his marriage, family, and country for position and power, and he wouldn’t go down without a fight now. But he needed a lifeline.
Gordon struggled to sit upright and managed to shuffle from the couch to his desk for his medication. Beads of perspiration trickled down his temples, and his breathing felt labored. He placed a nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue and picked up the phone to reach out for that one lifeline he had in mind. Someone answered on the fourth ring—Abram’s butler, from the sound of it.
“May I speak with Abram Solomon, please? This is Ambassador Gordon Adderley.”
“Please hold, sir,” Abram’s butler said. “Mr. Solomon, a call for you, sir. Ambassador Gordon Adderley.”
Gordon heard Abram pick up the call, and then, “Ambassador Adderley, hello again. How may I be of service?”
“Abram, we’re in grave trouble. I need your help. I’ve received a senate subcommittee summons yesterday. Somehow, my name is associated with Operation Chameleon. They want explanations—and trust me … the atmosphere is hostile. They’re talking treason and constitutional breaches in US sovereignty. What are we going to do?”
“You’re ill advised, Ambassador. I intend to do nothing. In fact, I have plans for an extended visit in Europe. I won’t be available.”
Adderley gasped and grabbed at his chest. Another sharp, throbbing pain struck. His left arm started to tingle, as if going numb.
“Ambassador, are you well? You sound awful.”
Gordon grabbed his medication bottle, shook out another nitroglycerin tablet, and put it under his tongue.
“I’ll be fine, but do what you do best. Call the president, anyone you need to, but get us out of this mess or we’re in serious jeopardy of imprisonment.”
“Ambassador, you keep saying ‘we’ as if you’re implicating others in your unfortunate situation. You are mistaken, sir. Both you and your president’s names and signatures, not mine, are on the general’s orders. I’m sorry for your troubles, but do keep me informed through my European office. Oh, yes, if perhaps you lose your current UN position, I might be able to find a place for you among my kitchen staff. I must go. I’m on a tight flight schedule. Good-bye, Ambassador Adderley.”
“Abram! Abram, you—” Gordon shouted into the void. “Ahhhh!”
A sharp pain slammed his chest. He jerked backward in his chair, clutching his breast, letting the phone drop from his hand. He rubbed his chest and arm, dazed and nauseous. The room was spinning. Dizzy, he struggled to stand.
“Help! Someone … help me!” he cried.
*
Ambassador Adderley’s personal assistant, Ellen, heard him shout for help and ran to his office. The sound of a loud thud resonated from inside. Ellen flung open the office door. Gordon lay on his back on the floor, gasping for air and holding his chest. She ran straight for her boss and knelt beside him, then removed his necktie and unbuttoned his shirt.
“Ambassador, hold on, sir, please! I’m calling for help!”
She stood and ran to his desk to call 9-1-1.
“Oh, Lord, please help him. Please, let him live.”
“Ellen, it’s too late, child. He made his choice. They’re coming.”
Ellen gasped and
turned around, looking for the source of the deep voice that she could have sworn she’d audibly heard. She saw no one.
A 9-1-1 operator answered the phone on its second ring. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”
“This is US Ambassador Adderley’s office at the UN building. He’s having a heart attack, I think. Please send an ambulance!”
“Paramedics are on their way, ma’am. What’s your name? Miss? Hello? Miss?”
Ellen, though, couldn’t wait to answer more questions. She threw the phone down and ran over to help the ambassador. She halted midway, though, when she saw that Gordon was writhing on the floor, with his arms flailing against the air as if fighting off assailants.
“No! No! Get away from me!” Gordon wailed.
Ellen’s body felt petrified; she couldn’t move. Her mind numbed, not knowing how she could help him.
“Oh, God—Oh, God, no!” Gordon shrieked.
“They’re here, Ellen. It’s too late.”
Ellen squealed and whirled around at hearing the voice a second time—the same commanding, yet deep, calm voice as before—but again, she saw no one. She took a step toward the ambassador, but hit an invisible wall. She felt something solid in the air, but couldn’t push through the barrier. She wanted to go to the ambassador and help him, but she simply couldn’t. An impenetrable force had risen between them, a barricade she couldn’t breach.
“Oh my …” she gasped.
She held her hand over her mouth and nose. The room had filled with an overpowering stench, followed by an icy chill. She could see the fog of her breath.
The ambassador looked like he fought with some savage, invisible force. The assault appeared vicious at times. Something unseen tore at his body like wild starving dogs devouring a carcass, yet no blood splashed and no flesh tore.
Gordon’s mouth was now full of horrible obscenities, cursing God. His efforts to fight off what tormented and assailed him seemed useless, as if he was fighting with air.
“My dear Lord,” Ellen whispered, again unable to move.
She then saw the unbelievable. Ambassador Adderley had ceased struggling with his tormentors. His body arched and bowed as it lifted inches off the floor, suspended in the air. Then his arms and legs fell limp. In those few seconds, his chest and torso heaved. It appeared to Ellen that something was tearing at his body and trying to rip out his soul. She tried again to break through that unseen barrier and run to the ambassador’s aid. The unyielding obstruction wouldn’t lower its defense and held her back; she could do nothing but watch.
Ambassador Adderley cried out with another dreadful wail. Ellen knew she would never forget the image of terror on his face. His screams and cursing sounded as if he were falling down a deep well. Then the shell of Ambassador Adderley’s lifeless body fell to the floor. His mouth gaped, eyes fixed. His death mask was one of contorted, stark terror.
The dreadful episode was over, the room temperature returned to normal, and the invisible barrier had vanished.
“Ellen, do not be afraid.”
Ellen gasped again and turned around.
This time, a tall, muscular man stood behind her. She stepped backward, eyes wide. His face, though, looked radiant … almost captivating, but his ocean-blue eyes reflected an air of utter sorrow as he stared down at the lifeless body of Ambassador Adderley.
“I’m here because of your prayers, Ellen. Gordon refused to ask for my help. I begged him, and still he ignored my pleas. He rejected me, and now he’s paid the ultimate price. His choice is eternal.”
Transfixed on his face, Ellen had listened, unable to speak. Her deep sorrow and the haunting imagery of Ambassador Adderley struggling on the floor seemed to melt away. Her anxieties disappeared, replaced with a soothing, genuine sense of calm and peace. The stranger bowed his head low and closed his eyes.
In spite of the strangeness of the moment, Ellen turned away from the mysterious man, then walked toward the ambassador and knelt beside him. She looked down into his tortured face, remembering his last words in life had cursed God.
The emergency paramedics burst into the office. Ellen stood to her feet and moved out of their way. The medics began to work on Adderley’s lifeless body. She turned again to speak with the tall individual … but he’d disappeared.
The paramedics strapped the ambassador onto their gurney and continued to try to revive him as they wheeled him out of the office.
Ellen spoke to one medic as the ambassador’s body passed her: “Where did the other man go?”
“What man, ma’am? We didn’t see anyone coming or going—just the two of you.”
Ellen stood there until everyone had cleared out, then she walked back to her desk, sat down, and wept. One immutable fact was clear in her mind, evidenced by all that she’d seen and witnessed: Ambassador Adderley had lost his immortal soul. No one was to blame but Gordon Adderley, and his choice had been eternal.
*
“General Phillips, go right in, sir. The governor is expecting you.”
In her three terms as personal secretary to the governor, Nancy had developed a knack for sensing a developing bad situation. Whatever the governor’s actions had stirred up, and judging by the past week’s activities, the state of affairs were worse than she’d ever seen. She reasoned that maybe she should dust off her resume and update it, just in case.
“Thank you, Nancy,” the general said.
*
General Phillips marched into Jim Clayton’s private study, washboard straight with his hat under his arm, coming to attention in front of the governor’s desk. Clayton didn’t look up, but continued to write.
“Have a seat, General.”
Jim knew that the General didn’t like him—at best, he tolerated him. Jim stopped writing, stood, and walked straight to his liquor cabinet.
“Drink, General?”
“Nothing for me, thank you. Too early in the day, Governor.”
“Trust me, General, you’ll need one after I tell you the bad news. Scotch or vodka?”
“Make it Kentucky bourbon, neat, if you have it.”
“Good choice, General. I’ll have the same.”
“Bad news, you say?”
“Yes, real bad. You and I need to get our ducks in a row. That’s why I’ve called you down here.”
Jim handed the general his drink and sat opposite him.
“I’m calling my National Guard units off the exercise, effective today,” Jim said. “In fact, they’re already on their way back to their home bases. Operation Chameleon is closing up shop in Arkansas.”
General Phillips stiffened. “Explain, Governor.”
“It’s obvious you haven’t heard the news, General.”
“No, I’ve been out of town for a bit … on business.”
Jim knew about the general’s “business.” Phillips had been partying with a few of his male playmates from a known homosexual escort service in White River. The general had cloistered his entourage at a lakeside cabin in Heber Springs, well away from prying eyes.
“Well … I hope your boyfriends were worth it, General.”
“What? Oh … I … Well … Harrumph,” Phillips said.
Jim waved him off. “Now focus, General. It’s crucial we get our stories straight. Listen up and I’ll fill you in on what you’ve missed because of your … business.”
Phillips downed his whiskey without stopping.
“General, news of our little stab at a one-world government with the UN leaked out. Congress got wind of our White River experiment, including film footage, and they’re ticked off, to put it mildly. Mayor Austin, our preverbal thorn in the side, has somehow got press coverage. An independent journalist from New York wrote an article despite our best efforts at controlling the media.
“The president’s played footloose with executive orders. He’d planned to circumvent the Constitution. His likeminded bunch of revolutionary progressive buds borrowed a page from our Operation Chameleon. The terrorist strike o
n the Ohio River was to be their justification to carry out martial law nationwide. Well, General, in their arrogance, they jumped the gun. It’s all backfired and put unwanted light on our covert ops. Their agenda’s going down the toilet, and they’re throwing everyone under the bus.”
The general shook his head. “He could’ve ruled America by fiat if they’d stuck to our plans. Maybe they assumed imposing martial law was the best way to suspend the elections and the Constitution.”
Now Jim finished his whiskey in one gulp. “Well, he’s not going to do either … and might be impeached. Congress is looking for people to hang. Trust me, those self-righteous snake-oil politicians aren’t happy campers. The crap’s flowing downhill, fast, and it’s not looking good for any of us. I have my own attorney general breathing down my neck. He smells blood in the water—and he’s Republican, for God’s sake.”
“Governor, how—I mean, what went wrong? Our exercise was a flawless execution of a preemptive military occupation.”
“Listen, General, no time for an analysis. We have to distance ourselves from any associations with Operation Chameleon and deny everything. Remember, we all knew the risks and the rewards. Well, guess what?”
“I was acting under orders of the president.”
“Are you serious? You think that scoundrel will own up to anything. He’ll blame everyone else, like he’s always done. Besides, he’s too busy protecting his own backside, as is everyone down the line who participated. ‘There never was an Operation Chameleon,’ is my statement. Our state held National Guard training. ‘UN members were our guests,’ is what I’ll swear. You need to come up with a good story. Because, if the real news of our little debacle leaks out, there’ll be a national outcry. I’ve been at this game a long time and, believe you me, the White House and Congress will play dodge ball, but someone is going to pay. Somebody’s got to go to prison, General.”
“The evidence will clear us.”
“Evidence, General? Are you insane, man? Why, that alone will hang us! We participated with the United Nations in a subversive act on the sovereignty of the United States. That’s treason, General. We trampled on the US Constitution and the Bill of Rights of our citizens. Wake up, General! We’re in hot water.”