The President

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by Parker Hudson




  The President

  A novel

  Parker Hudson

  Copyright

  The President

  Copyright © 2013 by: Parker Hudson

  Edited by Rodney L. Morris

  and Danelle McCafferty

  Cover Design by Kirk DouPonce

  International Standard Book Number:

  978-0-9666614-8-4

  Previously published in 1995 by

  Multnomah Publishers, Inc.

  ISBN 1-57673-457-9

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission.

  For information:

  www.parkerhudson.com

  FOR OUR CHILDREN

  Chanler, Parker, Marshall, William, and Michael

  That we Americans may reverse our ways and

  pass on to the next generation a nation

  better than our parents gave us.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Foreword

  Prologue: The Present

  BOOK ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  BOOK TWO

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  BOOK THREE

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Afterword

  Foreword

  Like most authors who have found themselves immersed in such a project, I could write a short book about writing this book. Instead I’ll summarize the process by stating that watching this manuscript evolve has been one of the most uplifting experiences of my life.

  Acknowledging the critical technical help on this novel is best saved for the end, where the final word can be of thanks to those who helped so much. I do want to acknowledge that the historical quotations cited herein are found in the works of Dave Barton (The Myth of Separation) and Gary DeMar (American Christian History: The Untold Story and You’ve Heard It Said), both of whom helped me greatly.

  I also want to thank Michael Youssef, Gene and Ruth Williams, Bill Roper, Bradley and Susan Fulkerson, John and Laura Wise, Van Hudson, Roy and Nell Ludwig, Jim and Sally Wilson, Gil and BonnieMeredith, Mike McDevitt, Roy Jones, Page Aiken, Mark Stiles, Sergey Riabokobylko, Terry Parker, Chip Traynor, Bick Cardwell, Currell and Margot Berry, Charles Wilmer, Hank McCammish, and Lori Wells, all of whom made significant contributions to the final text or gave crucial encouragement. Their prayers, and those of many others, are particularly appreciated. Special thanks goes to Jan Dennis for his constructive criticism and to Ted Baehr for his prayers, suggestions, and encouragement. Of course any mistakes or oversights are my responsibility alone.

  It’s hard to imagine a better editor than Rod Morris or a more encouraging publishing team than the good people with Don Jacobson at Questar. And a last special thank you is saved for Danelle McCafferty, who showed me how to write ten words in only eight.

  This is a novel begun and ended with thanks for all those who added so much to what you now hold in your hands. I sincerely hope it touches, entertains, and challenges you as much as it did me in writing it.

  Prologue

  The Present

  UKRAINE—On a windy and unseasonably cold late October evening, Yuri Kazminov drove his small Lada automobile along the nearly deserted highway, leaving behind the relative brightness of downtown Kiev and heading south into the dark Ukrainian countryside. Soon he would meet the truck at the appointed crossroad and lead it to the location that only he and his best friend, Peter, had known about for several years.

  Unlike most Ukrainians, Yuri hated all Russians. Ever since Chernobyl had opened his eyes to the truth, he had been consumed with seeking revenge on their “fraternal brothers” to the north. And he thanked God, if there was a God, that he and Peter had been given this chance to avenge the death and destruction the Russians had inflicted on his people. As he sped along the highway, he thought about the circumstances that had led to this night’s meeting...

  When the Soviet Union split apart in the last months of 1991, after the August coup in Moscow, Yuri’s position in the Soviet Missile Force stationed in his native Ukraine had given him a unique opportunity. During those months of confusion, Russia and Ukraine were disputing control of the Black Sea Fleet and all other Soviet military assets in the second largest republic.

  Yuri Kazminov was a nuclear transport sergeant stationed in southern Ukraine, near Perzomaisk. While many of their friends had mixed loyalties, Yuri and Peter knew they were Ukrainians first and Soviets last. That belief had grown stronger when they read the first clandestine pamphlets about the horrors of the Red Army’s expulsion of Poles and White Russians from Ukraine in 1921 and of the forced collectivization of the rich Ukrainian farms that followed. That process, culminating in the man-made “famine” of 1933 ordered by Stalin, resulted in the death or departure of virtually everyone who owned land, who was educated, or who understood simple commerce.

  Then came Chernobyl in 1986. In Yuri’s mind it was a terrible tragedy made worse by Russia’s callous disregard for human life: they built unsafe nuclear plants in Ukraine and elsewhere to provide electricity for themselves.

  In November 1991, on what would turn out to be one of their last missions in the Soviet Missile Force, Yuri and Peter by a stroke of luck drew an assignment together transporting nine nuclear warheads for their SS-19 missiles from the division’s train depot to its hardened storage site, located thirty kilometers away for protection from missile attack. It was normal to make such moves at night to avoid the American satellites overhead Usually a three-man team was assigned to the task, but the Russian sergeant who normally accompanied them was ill, and as the Soviet system ground on by inertia, it was not out of the ordinary for the job to be done by two. That meant, however, that in this case two Ukrainian nationalists were alone with nine Soviet warheads.

  Using the excuse of changing a tire to explain the time delay and altering the nine on the transport manifest to an eight, Yuri and Peter executed their well-thought-out plan of stealing a warhead. They spent two hours burying it in a location concealed from the main military road by a small hill, an equipment shed, and trees—a place they had chosen for just such an opportunity two months earlier.

  As Yuri had expected, the Soviet Missile Force split the following week, and he was dumped onto the streets of Kiev without a job. He and Peter waited for the opportunity to sell their “Russian gift” to someone who would help make the Russians pay for all they had done, in Yuri’s and Peter’s minds, to their native land.

  Eventually they were hired as drivers for one of the newly privatized trucking firms. But the trucking business and the open markets attracted the “mafia.” In the vacuum created by the turmoil in their society, when making a profit was still technically a crime and laws were only partially enforced, various groups “protected” those in legitimate enterprises for a “fee,” with true criminals focusing on the trades with the greatest cash turnover.

  One dark morning while he was waiting for his truck to be loaded in Kiev, Yu
ri overheard two drivers who were apparently from a small republic still trying to break away from Russia’s domination. They were talking about a rumored offer of $1 million in cash for a nuclear warhead to be used in threatening the destruction of a Russian city, thereby either forcing independence or creating a large number of dead Russians.

  Yuri had joined in the conversation, encouraging the men in their hope for independence and eventually asking them about the rumor. One of the drivers replied he had heard it the day before in the Kiev market, reportedly from a mafia type named Poznikov.

  A few days of listening and asking questions had finally culminated in a meeting with Poznikov at the back of Yuri’s truck. An obtuse question brought confirmation of what Yuri had heard from the drivers, including the $1 million reward, and the intended use of the warhead for independence from Russia. Yuri said he might know of someone who could help, and he asked for a meeting with whomever would be providing the reward.

  It had taken two weeks, but eventually Yuri and Peter were invited to dinner in a quiet corner of the Castle Restaurant, located in the Passage off Kreshatik in downtown Kiev. It was a feast like neither of them had seen in many years. Their host, who appeared to be a leader in one branch of the Ukrainian mafia, paid with hard currency.

  By the end of that evening a deal had been struck. Yuri would meet a truck with the necessary equipment for loading a heavy crate and be shown two suitcases with $500,000 each. If he was satisfied, he would then lead the truck to a site in southern Ukraine, where Peter would be waiting with a nuclear device that the two partners guaranteed would meet their host’s requirements. Their host, plus an expert to verify their claim, were invited to come on the appointed night.

  That dinner had been three nights before, and now Yuri glanced in his rear-view mirror at the lights from the Mercedes and the truck that followed his humble Lada to the spot where the warhead was buried. An hour before, when they had met at the appointed crossroad, he had run his hands across the American $100 bills in the two large briefcases, satisfied after a quick inspection that the bills were real and that they were all there. His mind raced, imagining what he and his wife could do with so much money. Those images made the long trip seem much shorter.

  It was a little after one in the morning when the three vehicles turned into the same dirt road that Yuri and Peter had traversed in late 1991. Soon they pulled up next to the equipment shed where Peter was waiting, shovel in hand, having unearthed the crate and also dug channels around its sides.

  From the Mercedes three men emerged. The shortest one headed for the hole next to Peter, where Yuri joined them. The other two stayed by the car. Yuri recognized their host from the dinner. He assumed the other, darker man was the mafia’s client from the breakaway republic, although it was hard to distinguish his features in the dark. There were also three large men who had driven in the truck. They stood off to the side in respectful silence while the small man and Peter pried off the top of the crate.

  Once the contents were revealed, the visitor knelt down and worked for about ten minutes with some special tools he had brought. When finished he returned to the Mercedes, nodded, and spoke softly to the two men standing in the cold. Then their dinner host advanced, smiling, shook Yuri’s and Peter’s hands, and motioned for the three large men to finish dislodging the crate and load it onto the truck.

  Peter and Yuri stood watching as the three men did as directed. Once the crate was hoisted onto the truckbed and covered with a tarp, the guest by the car nodded his approval to the mafia host. He opened the door of the Mercedes, extracted the two briefcases, then walked over to Peter and Yuri, who were smiling nervously.

  He placed both briefcases on the ground in front of him, knelt down and opened the latches on one. The top popped open, hiding its contents from the two friends. The mafia boss reached inside and pulled out a large automatic pistol with a silencer already attached. Yuri just had time to raise one hand in stunned disbelief before the bullet split his head; Peter’s futile attempt to turn and run only meant it took two shots to end his life instead of one.

  The briefcases were retrieved, and the three large men silently set about burying the two bodies in the grave Peter had unknowingly dug for Yuri and himself. Soon the convoy departed with one of the large men driving each of the two cars. Hours later these were dumped into deep lakes more than a hundred kilometers apart.

  The Mercedes headed back toward Kiev, following the truck with its prize. The short nuclear weapons expert rode in the front seat of the Mercedes with the driver, while the mafia boss and his guest exchanged pleasantries in the back. Anyone hearing the accent of the guest would have known that he was not from any small Soviet republic, but rather from the Middle East.

  For one rule the Ukrainian mafia had already learned about their nation’s emerging free enterprise system: the finest goods go to the highest bidder.

  BOOK ONE

  1

  I have lived, Sir, a long time, and the longer I live, the more convincing proofs I see of this truth—that God Governs in the affairs of men. And if a sparrow cannot fall to the ground without his notice, is it probable that an empire can rise without his aid? We have been assured, Sir, in the sacred writings, that “except the Lord build the House, they labor in vain that build it.” I firmly believe this; and I also believe that without his concurring aid we shall succeed in this political building no better, than the Builders of Babel: We shall be divided by our partial local interests; our projects will be confounded, and we ourselves shall become a reproach and bye word down to future ages. And what is worse, mankind may hereafter from this unfortunate instance, despair of establishing Governments by Human wisdom and leave it to chance, war and conquest.

  I therefore beg leave to move—that henceforth prayers imploring the assistance of Heaven, and its blessings on our deliberations, be held in this Assembly every morning before we proceed to business, and that one or more of the clergy of this city be requested to officiate in that service.

  BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

  THE CONSTITUTIONAL CONVENTION, JUNE 28, 1787

  Several Years from Now

  Tuesday, April 3

  WASHINGTON—It was six o’clock and still dark that early April morning when the Secret Service agent made his quick call on the telephone outside the living quarters in the White House. He then opened the door for the National Security briefing officer who had arrived minutes before, and escorted him into the living room. In the bedroom, President William Harrison, who had just received the call, turned on the bedside lamp and said to his half-sleeping wife, “I’ll be right back.” He got out of bed, put on his robe, then walked out into the living room.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the officer said, always a little embarrassed, despite the nature of his job. “This is not all that momentous, but it is unusual. And we knew it was almost time for you to wake up.”

  The president replied, “That’s fine. Whenever you folks think I should know something, by all means bring it on.”

  The officer handed the president a summary page and waited respectfully for a few moments while he read it. Then the younger man added, “The unusual thing, besides the note on his body, is that nothing like this has happened since the end of the cold war. Thompson was one of our best agents. He was working in Odessa with the Ukrainian government’s approval, following up on the longstanding rumor about the missing warhead. He was too good and too experienced to have been killed by one man. And, as you can read, he had been dead for only a few hours when he was found in that deserted warehouse. At the regular intelligence briefing this morning CIA will ask for permission to flood the area with agents and cash to pick up useful information before the trail goes cold. We thought you might want to get a jump on the situation early, since you will probably want to call the Ukrainian president, if the CIA’s request is granted.”

  “Yes, yes. Thanks a lot,” the president said, reading again the last paragraph which described the note found on Thomps
ons corpse. The note read, “The first of millions of Americans who will die by our hands. The Council.” He did not recognize the organization or even its country of origin. The president frowned and returned the briefing paper to the officer, who turned and left.

  The president returned to his bedroom, took off his robe, and got back into bed. He put his arm loosely around the waist of his wife, who was lying on her side, with her back to him. He sighed into her hair.

  Carrie Harrison half-turned and asked sleepily, “What was that about?”

  After William had explained the situation, Carrie asked, “Do you think there could really be any connection with that missing warhead? Or was that just a coincidence?”

  “I wish I could tell you. I wish I could tell them.” He sighed again. “A junior year abroad at a German University and I’m supposed to be a foreign policy expert!”

  “Well, you’ve learned a lot about it already during these first months. After all, it’s quite a jump from the governor of North Carolina to the White House.”

  He paused in the semidarkness as he considered her encouragement. “But I told them during the campaign that I’m a foreign policy expert,” he whispered, “so I can’t very well go back now and say, ‘Stop the world for six months while I catch up and figure out what’s really going on.’”

  “Well,” she said, rolling on her side again and taking his hand in hers, “all of the men who’ve lived here have had to learn a lot. You’ll do just fine. You’re already doing just fine.”

 

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