When Rome Stumbles

by David Kershner

  She requested that the doctors harvest her eggs prior to the surgery in case Gregg made it home alive. Emily then authorized the operation.

  Her mother opened the door as the two rounded the top step of the front porch. The parents had seen to the total clean-up of the blood from the miscarriage when she fainted.

  “I’m going to take a shower and get this hospital funk off of me. Can you make us some tea?” she asked.

  “Sure, Em. Be glad too,” he said quickly. “Let me know if I need to send your mother up to —“

  “Dad,” she admonished him.

  “Oh, right. Sorry. Making tea,” he sheepishly answered and hurriedly made his way to the back of the house and into the kitchen.

  * * *

  “What do you mean he missed!” Edward Tomason hissed into his phone. “I watched the video feed. He was just standing there! How could he have missed?”

  Mr. Toombs answered Edward by stating, “It was the girl, sir. According to her police statement, she saw the laser sight on his back and screamed. That’s when the Secretary moved and the bullet lodged itself in the wall. It couldn’t be helped. These things happen in wet work.”

  “This is a disaster. A certifiable disaster,” Edward said before changing the subject and asking, “Anything from the NTSB on their recovery efforts?”

  “Not much yet. The aircraft drove straight into the ground from approximately fifteen thousand feet so there is next to nothing left of it. The black box didn’t even survive the impact.”

  “No information about passenger count? There’s gotta be a few body parts laying around, right?”

  “No, sir. They are working on the kidnapping premise that we gave them. They think there were at least five people on board between the two pilots, the Senator, Ms. Jameson, and one, maybe more, armed kidnapper. We have not provided any details, as of yet, to dissuade them from this line of thinking.”

  “So what do they know, Mr. Toombs? This is what I pay you for.”

  “Like I said, sir. They don’t have anything to go on except our fictional account of the action at the airstrip and what they can discern from the wreckage, which is pretty much non-existent.”

  “Fine. Fine! Where are you now?” Edward asked.

  “We are about three hours from D.C. and should be on the ground by noon local time,” he answered.

  “Good. Keep me posted Mr. Toombs,” Edward said before changing his mind. “Mr. Toombs?

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Why don’t you re-route and head over to that berg, Athens, Ohio was it? Go and see exactly what the NTSB is up to.”

  “Affirmative. Changing course now.”

  * * *

  Samantha emerged from the shower with a plastic bag wrapped around the cast on her leg. She remembered the plane, the jump, and Josh finding her in the tree. Everything after he placed her on the kitchen table was missing though.

  As she donned her towel, a tall stunning raven-haired Latin woman appeared in the doorway. Startled, she began to reach for the edge of the door in an attempt to slam it shut.

  “And how is my patient this morning?” the lady asked in accented English as she placed a hand up to prevent its closure.

  “Patient?”

  “Yes, Josh won’t tell me your name so all I have to go on is that. Do you have a name? I suppose I could use Jane Doe, if you prefer.”

  Samantha was caught off guard by the question. Using my real name is only going to cause these people more problems.

  The first thing she thought to say was, “Joyce. My name is Joyce Pater.”

  “No, no, no. That doesn’t work,” the doctor intoned as she began looking her over and stepping towards her. “You look more like a Samantha than a Joyce.”

  Samantha’s eyes grew large and she began to back pedal to put more distance between them.

  “Relax, Samantha. Your secret is safe. The Señor may not have a television, but I do. You, my dear, are all over it. My name is Basilia Martinez and I am your doctor. Here, drink this,” she said as she handed her a glass of what looked like red wine.

  Josh had told her the doctor’s name. That she remembered. Damn adrenaline.

  Adrenaline always did weird things to Samantha. The first time she jumped from an airplane, she was sixteen years old. Her father had finally relented to her endless begging. He had surprised her on her birthday and drove her to a little airstrip in Raeford, North Carolina that was home to a local skydiving school. The family had made a vacation out of the executive’s business trip down south to inspect new drought and stress resistant strains of Hyloset’s latest GMO seed. The Sandhills area of North Carolina was an excellent laboratory for any tests or experiments associated with heat and decreased water table conditions. The plethora of sand in the make-up of the soil essentially turned the entire region in to hell’s kitchen during the summer months.

  After the father and daughter had performed a static line jump from five thousand feet, the rush of chemicals in Sam’s teenage body was so great that it shut down. She crashed in the corner of the hangar for six hours. Her father, more accustomed to handling adrenaline rushes from his years in the Air Force, jumped two more times while she slept it off.

  “He told me that name,” Samantha said, almost in a whisper.

  “That’s good. What else do you remember?” Basilia asked.

  Bracing herself on the counter for balance she replied, “Everything up to laying on the kitchen table waiting for you.”

  “Excellent! Now drink.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a homemade medicinal wine. It’s apple flavored.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Señorita, it will keep the infection away.”

  Skeptical and looking for a way to forestall the inevitable, Samantha asked, “What’s in it?”

  She mumbled something about a child, or childish behavior, Samantha couldn’t tell. Basilia finally answered by listing the ingredients, “Apples, borage, garlic, rose hips, thyme, lemon balm, and ginger mixed together in spring water with cane sugar and yeast. Satisfied? Now drink,” she ordered.

  Samantha began to relax at the thought of actually being treated by a physician. The homemade medicinal wine made her question the doctor’s credentials though.

  Continuing to stall, Samantha asked, “Why’s it good that I remember?”

  “It just means that your trauma didn’t affect your mental acuity. You had a nice bump on your head in addition to the shoulder wound and broken leg. That was quite an ordeal you went through. Who told you that it was okay to take a shower?”

  “Um, Basilia, do you mind?” and gestured to herself in the towel soaking wet and trying to balance on one foot.

  “That you are in a towel? I’m a doctor. I’ve got the same parts you do, darling. But you should sit down to make it easier on yourself.”

  Samantha rolled her eyes and placed herself on the closed toilet seat. Basilia walked over and began examining her shoulder.

  “There was a note on the nightstand from Josh along with this trash bag,” she said as she held up her foot.

  “I see. And what did it say?” she questioned not taking her attention off of the examination.

  “It said ‘Take a shower. You smell’,” she replied.

  The two shared a laugh at the comment then Basilia remarked, “That man can be funny when he wants to be.” As she began peeling back the waterproof bandage, Basilia asked, “How does your shoulder feel?”

  “It’s sore, but I’ll manage.”

  “Of course it is. You had a piece of searing hot steel pass through your body,” Basilia said as she began running her fingers over the sutures. “Amazingly,” she said as she switched her attention to the exit wound on her back, “All it hit was muscle. Fortunately, whatever it was, shrapnel I assume, cauterized most of the tissue as it passed through. You’ll have a nice scar to show the boys at home and some physical therapy to go through, but that’s all. I want you to use a sling to hel
p keep it stabilized and out of the way. How’s the leg?”

  “Throbbing. I think I broke it landing in the trees. I don’t remember hurting it on the plane. How long do I have to wear this cast?” Samantha asked.

  “It was a pretty clean break so you should only need that for five or six weeks. Try not to put any weight on it until it comes off though. I put some crutches in your room as well.”

  “Basilia?”

  “Yes, darling?” she replied with her slight Spanish accent.

  “Where am I? What day is it?”

  “Oh,” she remarked and laughed. “I’m sorry. What was I thinking? Well, you are on a farm and this home belongs to Señor Simmons. I’m married to the farm’s manager, Juan Martinez. We live on the other side of the property. My sons, Jesus and Abelardo, work for Josh as well.”

  “Abelardo?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Means, noble... no. Darn. I wish I’d paid more attention in class.”

  “It means noble strength. You were close.”

  “And how long was I out?”

  “Three days.”

  “Oh my God,” Samantha said as she began to try and stand up.

  “Here, let me help you. What do you need?” Basilia asked.

  “I really have to make a call.”

  “Relax, Samantha,” Basilia said as she placed her hands gently on Samantha’s shoulders to stop her progress. “Señor Simmons has made your phone call.”

  “What? How could he?” she asked desperately wanting to know.

  “He never left your side, not for three days. After a day or so you started talking in your sleep. Only numbers. He figured it out and called.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Only that you were safe and recuperating.”

  “He didn’t tell them where we are did he?” Samantha asked in a very frantic voice

  “No, no. He was very secretive. They asked and he refused,” Basilia answered. “It’s okay, Samantha. You won’t be harmed here. Señor Simmons is very awakened since your arrival.”

  “Awakened?”

  “No, not awakened—“

  “Awakened is a good word,” Josh said as he turned the corner and stood in the doorframe, startling the two women. “Get dressed and come down to the kitchen. I’ll fix you something to eat and bring you up to speed.”

  * * *

  Prime Minister Harold Goodspeed had been appointed by His Royal Highness, King George VII, in May of 2020. By all accounts, he had inherited a financial disaster. Protracted wars and skirmishes throughout the Middle East had pushed England closer to financial ruin with each passing day. He and the Chancellor for His Majesty’s Treasury had run every scenario and scheme they could think of on the British finances. Privately, the two had concluded that in order to meet national and international financial obligations, one of two things needed to happen. Unfortunately, both involved the United States.

  The Prime Minister had presented the options to King George and His Majesty’s Privy Council earlier in the week. Everything they came up with was explained and mapped out, but the pair withheld their opinions throughout the discussion. His Majesty and the assembled group of advisors needed to come to the same conclusions that the Prime Minister and Chancellor had on their own. They did not place any special emphasis on any particular scenario except to explain that if some course of action weren’t decided, His Majesty’s Treasury would soon be in default of either its domestic or international financial obligations, or both.

  Once His Majesty made the decision, both discreetly boarded a red eye British Airways flight from London’s Heathrow Airport bound for Washington D.C. Plain clothed members of the Prime Minister’s security detail were placed throughout the Airbus A380. The PM was more recognizable in the general public due to his larger frame and height. Great pains were taken to try and minimize each. The last thing the Prime Minister needed was to be recognized boarding a commercial jet to the U.S..

  Relations between the two countries had become strained during the eight years Sarkes was in office. They had not improved much under President Rayburn. This was especially true since the United Kingdom was the deciding vote that kept the United States from returning to its permanent seat on the UN Security Council.

  The Prime Minister and the Chancellor were making an unofficial visit to the former colony. They were scheduled to have an 8:15 AM meeting with Rayburn, the Chairman of the Federal Reserve, and the Secretary of the Treasury. The meeting was to take place, face-to-face, at the Treasury Building. White House protocols required all visitors be logged. This was especially true for anyone headed to the Oval Office. As a result, the King’s errand would need to occur elsewhere in D.C., away from prying eyes and ears.

  It would have been far easier to have a conference or video call to discuss the King’s proposal. However, the prevalence of ECHELON electronic surveillance monitoring installations in the U.S., U.K., and Canada rendered that option moot.

  Additionally, there was no telling what the North Koreans, Chinese, or former Soviet Union had at their disposal in terms of tech. The rest of the world had, more or less, become accustomed to the NSA sniffer programs. The ECHELON apparatus, however, was relatively unknown to the general public. As a result, the only way this meeting was going to take place was covertly, and in person.

  Chapter 9

  February 4th, 2022

  Mr. Toombs landed at Snyder Field just south of Athens at precisely 10:00 AM. If there was one thing he abhorred, it was being late. A car was waiting to transport him to the other side of the abandoned airfield where the NTSB was trying to reassemble the plane wreckage in a long forgotten hangar. This was the fate of most hangars in the United States when the cost of jet fuel spiked for several years after the start of the Israel Iran war.

  Mr. Donald Toombs spent twenty years as an Army Ranger during the 1980’s and 90’s before retiring and taking the job with Tomason Industries. With his experience and background, just about any Head of Security position would have been offered to him, had he asked. The opportunity intrigued him due to the personal security nature of the work as well as the international travel. After spending years in hard metal military transports, flying on corporate jets with plush leather seats to exotic locales was more than appealing. He could always get a gig at a casino with their banks of video surveillance monitors when he was too old for anything else. Besides, he figured, given the industry, the only people that would come after Edward Tomason were angry farmers. It should have been a cushy assignment.

  However, during the course of his twenty years with the company, Mr. Toombs had used bullying and strong arm tactics to assist Edward in the assembly of a multi-billion dollar a year conglomerate. At times, he felt like an enforcer for the mob. Now, though, he was graying and balding and coming up on sixty years of age. Many of the additional security team members had been trained by him. Therefore, he was comfortable delegating the bulk of the clandestine assignments to subordinates. The biggest exception to this was ‘wet work’. Whenever Edward, and the rest of the GMO consortium, decided that this was the only means to an end for a particular problem, he usually did it himself. The attempted assassination of Secretary McInerney was the first time he had delegated such a task.

  Fortunately, this type of endeavor was not very frequent. However, given the high profile death of Senator Hightower and Samantha Jameson, not to mention the farcical kidnapping story to stay ahead of, life was getting pretty interesting around the office again.

  As Toombs entered the hangar, he could see the security guard signing someone in as no less than three NTSB Inspectors accompanied the visitor. I wonder what this is all about. Probably just some expert they brought in from outside the agency to assist.

  As he neared, he heard one of the inspectors say, “Well, now that that is finished, Mr. Simmons, if you could put these booties on we’ll head on over and take a look.”

  Mr. Toombs was greeted by the security guard as he approach
ed. “This is a restricted area, sir. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “It’s okay, son. My name is Donald Toombs and I’m the head of security for Tomason Industries. If you’ll check, I believe you’ll find me on your list.”

  The guard picked up the authorized personnel roster and began reviewing the document. At the bottom of the page he found ‘Toombs, Donald’.

  “Very good, sir. I’ll just need to see some identification. Please sign in here,” the guard replied as he handed him the registration clipboard.

  Once he was finished processing the visitor, the guard said, “Here are your protective booties. We need to preserve the crime scene.”

  “Crime scene?” Toombs intoned.

  “Yes, sir. That is what this is. Also, a local witness has come forward. He’s right over there speaking with the investigators, a Mr. Josh Simmons,” the man replied as he pointed in the direction of the inspectors accompanying the visitor.

  This guy clearly hasn’t been briefed. Toombs clipped the temporary visitors ID to the breast pocket of his blazer and said, “This should be interesting.” He then took the booties from the security guard.

  Toombs slid his feet into the protective coverings and began making his way over to the inspectors. When he was finally noticed by one of them, they motioned for him to come over. Not wanting to arouse suspicion, he began walking toward the group.

  “Josh Simmons, this is Mr. Donald Toombs. He’s the head of security for Tomason Industries. He was there when the Senator and Ms. Jameson were kidnapped.”

  The two extended their hands as Toombs said, “Mr. Simmons,” as the two shook hands. “I’m sorry, but have we met? You look strangely familiar. Did you ever serve?”