This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by Live Oak Book Company
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Copyright ©2012 John Michael Sweeney, Jr.
All rights reserved.
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Ebook ISBN: 978-1-936909-29-2
Ebook Edition
Acknowledgments
To my wife, Pat: Without her this book would never have happened.
To Jack, Janci, and Spencer: Thanks for being who you are and keeping me on my toes.
To Jacque, Rosanne, Catherine, and Doug: Thanks for helping me get this thing done.
To the rest of my family, friends, and colleagues: Thanks for being part of what makes life meaningful.
To everyone else: Be kind, be gracious, be peaceful.
A Note to the Reader
The contents and characters in this book are purely fiction. The journey of creating The Labyrinth Campaign began in 1997, long before our most recent president from Texas announced his intentions to run for office and also well before the events of 9/11 forever changed our view of terrorism as tragedies that happened “somewhere else.”
If any of the characters or events in this novel are offensive to you, please accept my sincere apology. The intention of this book was to create a suspenseful plot that allowed a moment of “suspended belief,” not a story that reminded us of our current reality.
Hope you enjoy.
one
It was evening in London, a time when the city should have been filled with the masses of humanity who had gotten off of work a few hours earlier. But the streets were nearly deserted. The driving rain that had continued throughout the day had either sent the Londoners home for the evening or into one of the local pubs where they could dry off with a nice pint. But on St. Martens Lane, two young men seemed oblivious to the persistent downpour. Walking with purpose, Don Juan and Billy the Kid—as their Oxford schoolmates called them—were looking for their next stop on a daylong pub crawl. It wasn’t that they actually needed more to drink, but it was their last night in London before returning home after graduation from university. They were on a mission to find The Standard, an establishment highly recommended by Keith, the bartender at their last stop. As the two rounded the corner near Trafalgar Square, they spotted the pub across the street. Last chance to meet some girls before the night got away from them.
When they opened the front door, the sounds and smells of the densely packed bar greeted them. They looked at each other happily and entered. The Standard was a typical London pub. The smoke-filled air, dark mahogany bar to the right, and tables and chairs against the wall to the left made this place feel like every other pub they had been to. The only difference was the crowd. The two young men headed straight for the far end of the bar, set on ordering quickly and efficiently. When they got there, they saw two stools that had just been vacated. They settled in, determined to make their last night in London a memorable one.
Typical for two young men who had just graduated from university, their conversation volleyed between girls and career aspirations. As the career discussion evolved, the American turned to his Mexican friend and said, “I don’t know why I sit here and speculate about my career options. My dad already has it all planned out: a couple of years networking in the Texas oil business just to get the right contacts, then straight into politics. I’ve already been told in no uncertain terms that I will be the president of the United States.”
“Well,” the young Mexican responded, “you never know when knowing the president of the United States might come in handy.” They both laughed.
As the discussion continued, the young man from Mexico City outlined his own career direction. He explained, “My father has not determined such a defined career track for me, but he is a structured man and expects me to have goals, and I have one. I will one day be the richest man in Mexico, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get there. Starting tomorrow.” They both laughed again.
“The crazy thing is,” the American said, “my family is viewed as one of the most influential, upstanding families in our entire country. What a crock of shit. Our wealth and power have come at the conscious expense of others. My father has lied, cheated, coerced, blackmailed, and philandered to get his way. He is truly Machiavellian; in his mind, the end does justify the means.” The young American shook his head, took a long pull at his pint, then continued. “It’s funny; while I’m fully aware of my father’s shortcomings, I’m somehow driven to be just like him. The only difference is that he is hell-bent on insulating me from the family’s underhanded dealings so I can one day be the most powerful man in the world.”
The young Mexican aristocrat nodded in understanding. “My family truly was the most influential, upstanding family in all of Mexico. Our financial and political influence was unprecedented. But when you wield that much power, there is always someone gunning for you. Unfortunately, in my father’s case, it was the brother of our current president.” The young man paused as he took a big swig of ale. “Slowly, but surely, this jealous, untalented, but well-connected man chipped away at our family’s business. A condemned warehouse here, a denied radio-license renewal there, coupled with the insatiable spending habits of my father, and the next thing you know, we’re strapped for cash.”
A crash behind the two young men interrupted their conversation as they turned to see two young Brits standing toe to toe, slugging it out. They watched as a brawny bartender casually stepped in to break up the fight, then turned back to their pints.
“So, all of a sudden my family is right in the middle of a significant financial crisis,” the young Mexican continued. “My father soon realized he was not going to weather the storm on his own, so he turned to a friend from his hometown of Saltillo. His old friend, however, had made his fortune trafficking drugs. The deal was simple. If my father provided use of his legitimate trucking company for moving drugs to northern Mexico storage facilities, his friend would provide the cash infusion necessary to restore my family’s wealth.” The young Mexican sighed, “So my family is back on its feet, but when I return to Mexico City, I will inherit a diverse, thriving conglomerate with a significant drug business as its foundation.” The two silently sipped their pints, each of them pondering the future.
Staring into his glass, the young American felt the buzz between his eyes intensifying. The thick, dark English beer they had been drinking really packed a punch. At that moment, a female voice asked, “Is this stool taken?” He looked around, realizing his friend must have gone to the loo. As he looked up at the girl to tell her it was taken, he was face-to-face with the prettiest girl he had seen in England. And her friend looked pretty good, too.
He immediately stood and said, “We would be more than happy to give up our seats for two beautiful girls such as yourselves. That is, if you don’t mind two average Joes like us standing nearby trying to figure out how to talk to you.”
The girls laughed, and th
e first one said, “You’re more than welcome to stay, but your invisible friend seems rather the bore.”
It was then that he realized they hadn’t seen his Mexican friend. “Oh, I’m here with a buddy. I’m sure he’ll be right back.”
As if on cue, his companion returned. “Bueno, bueno, my good friend,” he said, smiling. “You have been busy while I’ve been gone.” As he extended his hand to introduce himself, he quickly scanned two of the most attractive girls he’d seen since he’d been in England. This night was turning out to have all the potential that seemed lost just a few short minutes ago.
As the four new acquaintances exchanged small talk, the two young men failed to notice a couple of British military types come in the front door. As the new arrivals stepped up to the bar and ordered, one of the men with hair cropped unstylishly short gave his companion a sideways nod, gesturing toward the two girls. The girls had not noticed them, however, and seemed to hang on every word from the recent Oxford graduates. This went on for nearly twenty minutes until finally, the two observers had had enough. They approached the four, who were laughing at some joke. One of the girls looked up and said, “There you two are! We’ve been wondering where you’ve been.”
The older of the two soldiers said, “Really? We’ve been watching you for nearly half an hour and didn’t notice you look to the door even once.” The two girls looked shocked and a little uneasy. The soldiers looked angry, not at the girls, but at the intruders. The graduates knew it was time to make a graceful exit or have a messy confrontation on their hands.
The young American made the first move. “Well, now that your friends are here, I guess we’ll be going.”
The stockier of the two soldiers said, “No, wait; we were interested in what was so funny when we walked up.”
“I honestly don’t remember; it must have been nothing.”
“Nothing?” the younger soldier said. “Two asshole foreigners hitting on our girlfriends, I don’t call that nothing.”
With that, the young Mexican stood; he was a pretty good-sized man but didn’t have nearly the athletic physique of his American friend. He said, “Hey, we didn’t know they were your girlfriends, nor were we hitting on them, so fuck off. We said we were leaving.”
The two young men quickly said their goodbyes and headed for the side exit. When they entered the alley outside of the bar, they were both angry, not only at the confrontation, but also at the prospect of going home alone—again.
Just then, the door opened behind them, and the two soldiers stepped into the dank, dark alley. The older soldier snarled, “Did we tell you two you were dismissed?”
“Dismissed?” the young Mexican yelled, his fists balling up. “We don’t need your permission for shit.”
The American stepped forward. “Hey, we don’t want any trouble, and we said we were leaving.”
The stockier soldier responded, “Well, you got trouble,” and hit the young American in the face with the force of an experienced heavyweight. Surprisingly, the American did not go down; he stood there shocked and silent for what seemed an eternity. Then, like a predator, he pounced. The surprise of suddenly not having the upper hand slowed the soldier’s response. In an instant, he was down with the American on top of him. At the same time, the Mexican and the younger soldier leapt at each other with a force that toppled them both to the ground.
The American was easily winning his end of the confrontation. The element of surprise, coupled with his raw athletic ability, had him on top of the older soldier repeatedly driving his fist into the already bloodied face. He struck again and again until he realized his foe was unconscious.
In an instant he was up looking to help his friend, who was not faring as well as he had. The Mexican was curled up in a fetal position, covering his head as best he could, while the young soldier stood over him, kicking him mercilessly. The American quickly looked around and picked a large piece of wood, broken off of an old crate, and took a full baseball swing at the head of the assailant. The soldier fell to the alley, and the enraged American struck him again and again.
The Mexican yelled, “Stop, you’re going to kill him!”
The American stopped and gazed down at the motionless soldier. The adrenaline rush he felt at that moment told him that he would never again hesitate to do whatever it took to achieve his objectives.
two
It was Indian summer in Boulder, Colorado. The warm September sun was shining down on the University of Colorado faithful who were hoping to see their Buffaloes win for the second time in as many weeks at Folsom Field, undoubtedly one of the most scenic college stadiums in the country. The Buffs had just scored the go-ahead touchdown with less than three minutes left in the game. If the defense could just hang on, the half-filled stadium would go nuts as the formidable University of Wisconsin Badgers were sent packing back to Madison.
It was third down and ten yards to go, and the ball was on Wisconsin’s thirty-nine. The Badger quarterback took the snap and dropped back to pass as his tight end ran a delay from the right. He was wide open over the middle for what appeared to be an easy first down. A couple more of these and the Badgers would be in position to kick the winning field goal. The Wisconsin quarterback, under pressure, released the pass. The crowd was silent. From the booth, radio announcer Larry Zimmer had already counted first down in his own mind. Then, out of nowhere, junior linebacker Jack McCarthy streaked in front of the pass, diving for the game-clinching interception. When he snagged the ball, the crowd went crazy. The Buffs ran out the clock and won 21–19. News in all of Colorado, and big news in the small college town of Boulder.
Later that evening, as Jack drove down College Avenue in his turquoise 1976 Datsun B-210, he and his girlfriend, Shea Bennet, relived the afternoon’s excitement. Since he had left the locker room, all of Jack’s activities had included consumption of beer. First, he went to the Harvest House beer garden, where he and 3,000 of his closest friends celebrated CU’s big win. Then, at home, he and his roommates sat around the kitchen table playing their favorite drinking game, Liar’s Dice. Then after a quick shower, he was off to pick up Shea so they could hit his Delta Phi fraternity party on The Hill. As they expected, when they pulled up near the Delta Phi house, the party was already rocking.
As Shea and Jack fought their way to the front door, the crowd started to chant, “Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack.” He was the celebrity for the evening. Before they even got to the front staircase, Jack and Shea were chugging beers, hugging drunken fraternity brothers, and smoking a joint of some of the best Thai stick they’d had in a while. Jack was enjoying the attention, but he was feeling the need for a breather from the crowd and the nearly forced beer consumption.
Just then, Charlie Hall, one of Jack’s best friends from high school, grabbed Jack in a headlock and yelled, “Noogie!” as he viciously rubbed Jack’s head.
Jack pushed Charlie away but then, when he realized who it was, said, “You asshole, are you ever going to grow up?”
“I hope not,” Charlie responded. “Let’s go upstairs, I’ve got some great blow.”
“Oh, that’s a shock,” Jack retorted. “Let me get Shea, and I’ll meet you in your room.”
Twenty minutes later, after each had had three rails (a term Charlie claimed he invented), Jack said, “Hey, let’s go back to the party.”
“What are you talking about? We’re just getting started,” Charlie mumbled through coke-numbed lips.
“Don’t you ever get enough?” Jack said. “I’m already flying.”
“You sure are a pussy for such a big stud football player, Jack.”
“Fuck you, Charlie. You’re nothing more than a second-rate frat boy with a first-rate drug problem.”
“I’m okay ’til you get your buzz, and then I’m a fuck-up, is that it?” Charlie fired back. Then, without warning, he threw a beer bottle that caught Jack right in the chest. Without hesitation, Jack threw Charlie to the ground and pulled back his right fist, ready to
pummel Charlie’s face.
Shea grabbed Jack’s arm and screamed, “What the hell are you guys doing? I thought you were friends!” Then she spun on her heel and said, “I’m outta here.”
Jack and Charlie stared at each other silently. Then they both started to laugh. Charlie said, “Sorry about the bottle, man.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about what I said, too. I’m just worried about you. You’re doing too much shit.”
“Don’t worry about me, man. I got it under control.”
“I hope so, dude, but I gotta catch Shea. She’s pissed.”
“Go ahead,” Charlie said as Jack raced from the room. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
As Jack caught Shea at the front door of the frat house, she yanked her arm away. “Shea, I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me. Actually, that’s not true, I do know what got into me: that goddamned cocaine.”
“You always want more, and it makes you do some crazy things.”
“Shea, I swear to you, I’ll never do that shit again. It screws up people’s lives.”
“I agree. I won’t do it anymore if you won’t.”
They silently embraced on the front steps of the Delta Phi house, smiled at each other, and walked toward the car hand in hand as the chants of “Jack, Jack, Jack,” echoed down the tree-lined residential street.
As Jack and Shea drove back to his house, Jack observed, “I can name five guys in our house who are doing too much coke. The stuff is so easy to get, these guys are doing it every day. Now Charlie is getting an ounce at a time, dealing enough to pay the tab, and snorting the rest.”
“Jack, you can’t live their lives for them; all you can do is tell your real friends how you feel.”
“I know, but what’s this world coming to? Drugs on every street corner in every neighborhood in America, air pollution choking the environment. The people of the world better wake up soon, or we’re all fucked.”
The Labyrinth Campaign Page 1