The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  “My name is James Davies. I am the Director of the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation. For the past two weeks, since just before the EMP attack against the United States, I have been working closely with Brucius Marino, the Secretary of Defense. Because of this, I have firsthand and intimate knowledge of what Secretary Marino intends to do, should he attain the presidency of the United States, a goal he is intent on accomplishing.

  “First, and most dangerously, should Brucius Marino be sworn in as the president of the United States, he would order an immediate and massive retaliatory nuclear strike against the twenty largest Muslim cities in the world. Even now, he is working with military strategic forces, through the Strategic Command Center at Offutt Air Force Base, so as to implement this strike within a day of his being sworn in.

  “Second, if Secretary Brucius Marino is sworn in as the president of the United States, he intends to sever all alliances, treaties, military agreements, and diplomatic accords with any allies who may have had knowledge of or a hand in the nuclear attack upon D.C., the EMP attack upon the United States, or the nuclear strike against Israel, this last despite the fact that Israel was the first to strike using nuclear weapons. The severing of these relationships and agreements will include but not be limited to expelling the United Nations from U.S. soil, severing all military agreements presently in place through NATO, as well as other agreements with our allies across Eastern Europe and the Pacific Rim.

  “Further, Secretary Marino and his staff are drawing up plans to target those nations that may have assisted any of our enemies in the development of their nuclear programs, including Russia, North Korea, Saudi Arabia, and France. These retaliatory plans include severe sanctions, sea and aerial blockades, support of opposition parties within these governments, pro-insurgency operations, destabilizing propaganda, and, in some cases, covert military operations, including assassination of key leadership positions.

  “Should Secretary Marino be sworn in as president of the United States, he will order our military forces to take the oil fields of the Middle East, including those in the allied nations of Saudi Arabia and Iraq. This will be the largest military operation since the invasion of Europe during World War II. But he will not stop there. He intends to occupy, using massive ground forces, the entire region, from Iran across the Persian Gulf to the Red Sea, including Bahrain, Qatar, and the UAE. If it is a Muslim country with significant oil reserves, he will invade it, claiming it for his own.

  “Finally, you should know that even as I speak here, the Secretary is putting his plans in place to assume his rightful place as the president of the United States. And yes, it is his rightful place, for as outlined in the Constitution, he is next in line to become the president of the United States. Yet knowing what he and his supporters intend to do—and I speak now as one of his dearest friends and most intimate professional advisers—I beg the Congress not to let this happen. They must take action. If Brucius Marino is allowed to ascend to the presidency at this severe time of crisis, he will take a most desperate situation and make it infinitely worse. He will cause war to fall upon one point five billion innocent Muslim people, raining nuclear death upon their cities, all for no other reason than revenge. He will destroy every conceivable friendship or alliance that our country desperately needs in order to survive. Winter is coming on and we can’t clothe, house, or provide heat and living accommodations for our own people. Our hospitals, police, and other emergency services are completely overwhelmed. Right now, we have no choice but to rely upon our friends and allies. Secretary Marino is going to make it impossible for them to help us. Worse, with the plans he and his military advisers have devised to launch a massive and incredibly deadly ground war throughout the entire Middle East, we won’t have the resources we need to feed ourselves. We need these troops at home now, helping us to rebuild this great nation. Without them, we don’t have the manpower, we don’t have the resources, we don’t have the international goodwill to rebuild. Without our military resources, we can’t provide for the welfare, safety, or well-being of our own people. To launch a massive ground war now would be national suicide.”

  Here James Davies stopped, still staring directly into the television cameras. His dark eyes were filled with powerful emotions, his face now strained as if he were in great pain, the treachery of betraying his friend only slightly less powerful than the real fear he felt for his country. He wet his lips and concluded in a raspy voice: “I have known Secretary Marino for many, many years. He is a good man. I love him like a brother. But he is the last man on earth who should lead our nation right now. He is the last man who should be the president during the most critical crisis we have ever faced. Valley Forge, Gettysburg, the D-Day invasion of France, none of those turning points in history were as critical or dangerous as the crisis we face right now. Brucius Marino, in his single-minded lust for revenge upon our enemies and in his unwavering resolve for the continued domination of U.S. power, will end up destroying our nation, or what little nation we have left.

  “I ask the remaining members of the Congress that are gathered here in Raven Rock not to let him do this. You have to save our country. You simply have to act.

  “Do your duty. Save our country. God bless the USA.”

  * * *

  James Davies finished speaking and the television cut to a government public service announcer.

  Sara and her children stood in silence. No one spoke. The air was heavy. They weren’t listening to the announcer any longer.

  Sara stumbled backward, feeling for the seat behind her, and fell into the leather couch.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Raven Rock (Site R), Underground Military Complex

  Southern Pennsylvania

  James Davies was hauled away, his feet dragging across the floor, leaving a thin trail of red blood across the dark blue carpet from the powerful dart that had pierced his neck.

  The first order of business out of the way, the real meeting was finally able to begin. It lasted for almost five hours before food was brought in; then the lunch was quickly eaten and the men went back to work.

  At three in the morning, they had their final agreement. They signed it, some of them smiling, some frowning, though in truth most of them were relieved.

  It had gone better than any of them could have dreamed.

  The world’s spheres of influence divided and allocated, the meeting was adjourned.

  * * *

  The old man met the king at the back of the room and pulled him aside. “This is the last time you will come here,” the old man said. He glanced behind him after speaking, shooting a nasty look toward the president of the United States. “It makes it difficult for the others. You are far too recognizable.”

  The king of the House of Saud stared at the old man, his eyes cold. Their relationship was strained now, tight and accusing and barely even civil. There was no balance any longer. The old man had delivered everything that he had promised the king: his brothers, the weapons he had used to destroy America, the kingdom with its uncounted wealth and pride and unfathomable power. Everything they’d ever talked about, the old man had delivered, leaving King Abdullah to stand beside Nebuchadnezzar in the historic halls of power. But what the old man could build, he could destroy; what he had given, he could take back. Worse, the king had little purpose now, and the old man was through with him. He didn’t want to kill him—he wouldn’t need to, the king would kill himself soon enough—but he certainly wanted him dead.

  Like an infected wound, the king’s heart was fully putrid now. Everything that he was, he owed to the old man, which made him hateful and resentful and ripe with pride, a deadly combination for any king, but especially for a king of Saudi Arabia descended from a long line of proud and powerful men.

  The king didn’t answer for a moment.

  “You have everything you’ve asked for. I gave it all to you. Now I need for you to listen. You must stay away. Stay away from Fuentes. Stay out of th
e country. There is nothing for you to do here. No good can come from it. If you’re invited, decline politely, but do not come. It will make our work much more difficult if you are identified at this critical juncture. I know you’ll understand.”

  The king cocked his head, tempted to rebut him, but the red smolder in the old man’s eyes seemed to tame him, turning his wrath aside. “Agreed,” he answered simply, a dog before his master, his tail between his knees.

  The old man watched and smiled, laughing inside himself. None of them were equal to him. None of them. They all wore down, some of them more quickly, some of them more stubbornly, but all of them would fall. Once he started talking to them, once they looked him in the eye, they would fall. Their defense against him would have been so simple: All they had to do was walk away. But as long as they listened to him, then all of them would fall. He could wear them down eventually if they listened to his words.

  The old man leaned toward Abdullah and lowered his voice to plant the seed. “The child-king is still alive, you know.”

  Abdullah stared at him.

  “I’ve told you before, it is a problem. You’ve got to take care of him. He will grow, and when he does, he’ll come to kill you. Do you think he won’t come for his kingdom? Do you think the men who have him now won’t prepare him for that day? He is the only son of the oldest son. He should be king. He has been taken and hidden for a purpose. Every day you let him linger, they grow bolder, thinking you have forgotten the bloodline that survives.”

  Abdullah turned his eyes away, looking past the old man. “I have time . . .”

  “You will lose your kingdom then, you fool. Everything that we have worked for, everything that we have killed and died for, all of it will be gone. You risk your own good, but you risk mine as well. Mine and that of all your Brothers. We will not endure your foolishness. You must act—or we will.”

  Abdullah moved his shoulders slightly. His breath smelled like Arab chai and cigarettes, his armpits like sweat.

  The old man knew that the king was hesitant and he pressed the seed a little deeper, pushing into more fertile mental soil. “Think back over time,” he whispered now. “How many empires, how many kings have been brought down by a child who had claim upon a throne? I can name you at least a dozen, including the greatest kings. And whether you like it or not, King Abdullah, this young prince has claim on you. You killed his father. You killed his brothers and their children. You killed his grandfather, the real king,” the old man emphasized the word, digging into Abdullah’s soul. “You stole it from him, Abdullah. He knows it. Those around him know what happened, which is why they risk their lives to save him. But I’ve told you all this before.” The old man let his voice drift away now. He had him; he could tell that from the agitation in his eyes.

  “I’ll do it,” King Abdullah said.

  The old man frowned and leaned toward him. “Do it now,” he sneered.

  “I’ll do it . . .”

  “You know where he is. I’ve already shown you. The Persian mountains are his hiding place, but they build strength and power there. Don’t give them time to build an army around this young prince. Do it now and you will fight a dozen others; wait ten years and fight an army. The choice is up to you. No! That isn’t right. We will not let you choose if you choose wrongly. You will do what we tell you now.”

  Abdullah pressed his lips. “I agree with you,” he said.

  “I knew you would.” The old man smiled.

  * * *

  Twelve feet to their right and ten feet up on the wall, nearly completely hidden in the corner where the wall and ceiling met, the Dragonfly caught the last of the conversation and broadcasted the grainy images and barely understandable audio signal back to the relay still hidden in the bathroom down the hall.

  Twelve minutes after the conversation between the old man and King Abdullah ended, the batteries on the tiny drone reached the end of their useful power. The minuscule drone sent out its final signal. Then, using the last of its battery power, it dug its tiny, hooked appendages deeper into the corner of the wall, ensuring that it would cling there even after all of its power was depleted, the design engineers knowing it would be much more difficult to locate and identify the drone up in the corner than if it had fallen onto the floor.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Offutt Air Force Base

  Headquarters, U.S. Strategic Command

  Eight Miles South of Omaha, Nebraska

  Seven stories below Sara and her family, Brucius Marino sat in the underground command center watching the last of the proceedings that were being broadcast from the assembly room in Raven Rock. Sometimes he paced. Frequently he swore. Once or twice he slammed a fist on the conference table. Through it all, his eyes never left the television screen.

  When it was over, his staff sat in stunned and unbelieving silence until Brucius glanced down at his watch. “Got to be a record,” he said, his voice so sarcastic he was almost laughing. “I was the president for what . . . less than ten minutes? Going to make some history there.”

  His staff stared at him, too dumbfounded to reply.

  Brucius snorted again. “You’ve got to admit, it was brilliant. Brilliant and effective. As a means of making it impossible for me to make any claim upon the presidency, this was it. Think of what we just witnessed here: In just under four hours, the only remaining member of the Supreme Court swears me in in absentia, making me the president of the United States. The House of Representatives immediately begins impeachment proceedings against me, presents testimony—with my good friend James Davies as the star witness—then votes for impeachment. The House sends its impeachment to the Senate, which convicts me, and bam, that’s it, I’m out of office the same day. No appeal. No legal grounds to take it to the American people. Swear me in. Impeach me out. Put their guy back in place.” He shook his head in disbelief. “It’s beyond amazing. It really is. I tell you what, none of us saw this coming. It was brilliant—inspired, really—you’ve got to give them that. I was afraid they were going to try to kill me, but hey,” he laughed sarcastically again, “this was a much, much better plan than that. The entire country knows now. There is nothing we can do. Yeah, it was a much better way of getting rid of me than putting a gun to my head.” He sat back, suddenly exhausted. “James, oh, James . . .” he muttered to himself.

  His chief of staff leaned forward. “Sir, you know that he was drugged. You must know he didn’t have a choice.”

  Brucius only shook his head. Maybe that was true, maybe it wasn’t. Either way, James should have done something to stop it, even if it meant taking his own life. There was just too much at stake, millions of lives, the entire future of their country, everything that mattered. And it all turned on just one man. He shook his head again.

  His COS watched him, recognizing the signs of building rage. Like most powerful men, Brucius had a temper to match his ego, ambition, and intellect. The COS added quietly, “He was drugged, sir. We all know that. He can’t be held accountable. We don’t know what they did to him.”

  Brucius bit his lower lip so hard the COS thought he might draw blood and stared down at his hands.

  It was like a dream, bizarre and surreal. He reviewed the proceedings in his mind, unable to force the images from his mind: being sworn in as president via proxy; James Davies

  testifying against him, his voice as heavy as leaded weight; additional testimonies from a couple of other witnesses; the short debate; the findings from the assembled members of the United States House of Representatives; a single article of impeachment approved; the trial in the Senate, presided over by the only surviving member of the Supreme Court. The final vote: thirty for conviction, four against.

  A Senate vote of conviction was final. Once a president was convicted and impeached, there was no appeal.

  “It’s over, then?” he asked his staff, his eyes smoldering with building rage. His voice was heavy but determined, his hands moving constantly on the table. “You�
�re telling me I can’t fight it? There’s nothing I can do?”

  No one wanted to say the words. Military and civilian advisers flanked him on both sides of the enormous conference table, but Brucius Marino kept his eyes on the group of three attorneys who sat packed together opposite him. There were two United States Attorneys from the Justice Department in Washington, D.C. (two of the few who had survived from their entire office) and a third man who was the general counsel of the navy, a politically appointed civilian who’d been serving in the Pentagon for almost four years. He was the one who finally spoke. “Sir, it was extremely clever—”

  “Clever!” Brucius almost screamed. “I don’t want to hear that it was clever! I don’t want to hear that, you understand me!” The Secretary swore, his rage and frustration rolling up like a volcano that couldn’t hold back the pressure anymore. He’d been simmering for weeks, building smoke and ash for days, splashing hot licks of lava and fire now for hours as he forced himself to remain calm. The forced calmness was over. He was about to blow. “I don’t want to hear how we’ve been politically outmaneuvered or legally outfoxed. This isn’t a game or competition! This isn’t a battle of legal wills! We don’t congratulate the winners, shake their hands, and go home.” He swore again, his voice still rising. “You call them clever. Yeah, they’re clever traitors! They don’t deserve our respect or admiration. You understand me? I don’t give a flying load of crap how legally clever they are! I want to know how to defeat them. I want to bring them down!” The Secretary slammed his fist on the table, spit and fury flying from him. “I want to crush them! We’re going to crush them. We will not let this stand!”

  The room was heavy with silence, awkward and full of pain. Some of the men, the brave ones, stared at Brucius Marino. Most looked down, unable to meet his eyes or his rage. Everyone could hear his heavy breathing as he stared back at the men. “Okay,” he said again, only a little more in control. “Tell me. Is what they’ve done legal? Can they swear me in by proxy? Can they impeach and convict me the same way, leaving me no ability to defend myself, no opportunity to face my accusers? And I don’t want to hear you say you’ve got to study it. I don’t have time. None of us have time. We’ve got to act. I’ve got to know!” He jammed an angry finger to his right. “Think about what we know now, gentlemen. Think about what the Dragonfly has shown us! Think of the video footage we have from the drone. Think of the foreign leaders we know are in Raven Rock right now, King Abdullah not least among them, and tell me there’s nothing we can do.