“The Federal Reserve System lives to fight another day,” said Julia.
“Maybe. Maybe not. They still have another opportunity to hang themselves. Interest rates have risen dramatically in the last several months. A year ago, the Congressional Budget Office projected interest rates would reach four percent by 2020. According to the CBO, every one percent increase in interest rates would raise our annual deficit by over two hundred billion.”
“Two weeks ago, during an editorial meeting, we discussed the volatility of rates. At the time, rates had just been raised a half percent to three points,” said Julia. “Rates have risen in the last two weeks by another half point. Is four percent just wishful thinking?”
“I hope not. The rapid interest rate increase has not reached the point of hyperinflation, but if the Fed continues to artificially inflate the money supply by printing it, we’re in for a rough ride,” said Sarge. “I think we already owe enough money to China.”
“What would happen if China stopped buying our debt?” asked Julia.
Sarge wanted to believe China had nothing to gain by collapsing the United States economy. They held large amounts of our debt, and we were the largest importer of their goods.
“The Chinese have chastised us for our runaway deficits and overspending,” said Sarge. “And they’ve already begun to diversify their holdings—away from U.S.-dollar-dominated debt. My bet is that China has plans for a new world currency.”
“I saw an image come across the AP wire the other day,” said Julia. “It was a picture of a billboard in Bangkok, purchased by the Bank of China. It read RMC: The Right Choice for the New World Currency. The Bank of China is owned by the PRC.”
“That is significant,” said Sarge. “This means China is advertising the renminbi overseas at one of the busiest airports in the world.”
“Why haven’t the Chinese dumped our dollar?” asked Julia.
Sarge reached forward to finish his drink.
“The U.S. would experience a tremendous amount of short-term pain,” said Sarge. “But the world markets would stabilize, and we would call on our allies in the emerging markets to pick up the slack. Simply put, we would replace the Chinese with new creditors. Believe it or not, there are many who believe that would be a good thing. It could certainly give the U.S. more leverage during trade negotiations. It’s difficult to negotiate with your bank when you owe them money—with no repayment in sight.”
“Do you think we’re facing an imminent collapse?” asked Julia.
“I don’t know. We live in a dangerous and complicated world,” said Sarge. “There have been times when I felt our preparations were unnecessary. This isn’t one of them.”
PART FIVE
Chapter 48
April 8, 2016
Equinox Sports Club
Boston, Massachusetts
“So then I knocked him out,” said Donald.
Sarge stared at him, smiling and shaking his head.
“Well, aren’t you the badass?” said Sarge.
His friend impressed him sometimes. Donald had relayed his experience at the Chestnut Hill Mall, with Susan and the girls. They had locked themselves in the store for hours, waiting for police to escort them to their car. The man Donald hit was arrested, leaving Sarge to wonder if any of the thousands of protestors who invaded the mall that night had been arrested.
“Last set, buddy,” said Donald.
“Let me do some negatives while I have you spotting me,” said Sarge. “Add a plate on each side and I’ll drop it down slow.”
Sarge and Donald Quinn were finishing up a workout at the Equinox Sports Club downtown. The Equinox was an upscale exercise club featuring a basketball court, an indoor swimming pool, a boxing studio and an internationally renowned squash program. The location was convenient for Sarge, who lived less than a mile away, across Boston Common. For Donald, who had become a more frequent guest at 73 Tremont Street, the Equinox represented a chance to decompress after meeting with their benefactor, and spend time with other friends caught in 73 Tremont’s gravity.
Sarge and Donald worked out together frequently. They tried to stay in good shape, although their aging bodies objected more often than not. In addition to the weight-lifting regimen favored by Sarge, Donald stressed the importance of cardiovascular health. You never know when you might have to bug out—on foot. The two friends complemented each other, pushing their limits and keeping them in shape for the inevitable.
“Let’s walk the track and cool down,” said Sarge. “I need to run some things by you.”
For the next thirty minutes, Sarge and Donald discussed the impact of current events on their work and lives. Donald brought Sarge up to speed on a few preparedness ideas he had recently implemented, and Sarge talked about his book and the surprising impact that it had on the presidential campaign. America’s sovereignty had become a hot-button issue for many, and attack ads against both the Republican and Democrat front-runners frequently featured a variation of the words or theme—Choose Freedom.
“Let’s get everyone together soon,” said Sarge. “We’ll make it a social gathering of sorts. I was thinking about having a get-together on the eighteenth.”
“The Boston Marathon is on that Monday. Are we all going to run around the Great Hall until we hit twenty-six point two miles?” asked Donald.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I thought it would be a nice day to enjoy some good food and drink while watching the marathon on TV,” said Sarge. “That Monday is Patriots’ Day, so nobody should be tied up with business. I’ll coordinate with anyone out of town right now. You and Susan should come over with the girls the night before. It’ll be difficult to get around the city that morning. There’s plenty of room.”
“I’ll talk to Susan about it,” said Donald. “She might like the idea of walking the Common early with the girls.”
“Perfect,” said Sarge. “Let me make some calls and I’ll let you know. I have a feeling we may be getting together more frequently.”
Sarge hoped he was wrong, but his gut instincts were usually dead-on. Donald checked his watch.
“Hey, I better get a shower,” said Donald. “The boss insists upon punctuality.”
“Indeed he does,” said Sarge.
They shared a laugh as they made their way to the locker room. Sarge enjoyed the relationship he had developed with Donald. Sometimes unusual circumstances resulted in lifelong friendships.
Chapter 49
April 8, 2016
Boston Common
Boston, Massachusetts
Sarge stepped into the crisp spring air with Donald. Office dwellers and business types scrambled in all directions on Avery Street. Too many people. With the domestic situation deteriorating, he’d started to give more and more thought to the high population density of his beloved city. Logically, putting a little space between him and the masses made a lot of sense, but he simply hadn’t reached the point where he could envision living in the country. Rural areas didn’t offer him the amenities of the city. Amenities he had grown accustomed to. But there is security in the country and clean air. Almost on cue, an MBTA bus roared past, leaving behind an invisible cloud of noxious fumes. Hadn’t they replaced all of the diesels with natural gas? Of course not. The money for the upgrades had been siphoned off somehow. He took a shallow breath and shook his head, meeting Donald’s glance.
“Good luck up there,” said Sarge.
He genuinely meant it. Accountants have been routinely referred to as pencil pushers. Donald’s duties fell more in line with the position of envelope pusher. He didn’t seem stressed about it. Maybe he held a Get Out of Jail Free Card.
“Thanks, Sarge,” said Donald. “Are you walking home? Do we need to work out a little harder next time?”
“Always on my case about the cardio,” said Sarge, grinning.
“I consider keeping you healthy part of my job,” replied Donald, patting him on the shoulder.
“It’s a
nice day, and I could use a walk,” said Sarge. “I need to clear my head anyway.”
“We can add a run along the river to our regimen if our Equinox routine isn’t hard enough,” pressed Donald.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Catch you later, Sarge. Business awaits—impatiently.”
“I don’t want to hold you up,” said Sarge, nodding as Donald turned away.
The two men went in opposite directions. Sarge started down Avery and crossed Tremont Street onto Boston Common. He continued his casual walk deeper into the park. Boston Common, known as the Common by many Bostonians, was the oldest city park in the country. Dating back to the early 1600s, the Common was part of a series of parks that stretched through Jamaica Plain and ended in Roxbury. Originally, the land was used by the locals to graze their cattle. Over the years, its uses changed, but the city planners maintained the boundaries of all the parks. They became known as the Emerald Necklace and were a destination for people to escape the ever-expanding Boston skyline.
Sarge walked past the tennis courts, eyeing a pair of spiffily dressed retirees volleying back and forth. As he passed the baseball field, the thought of Pumpsie Jones crossed his mind. Images of baseball would always remind him of Pumpsie’s pointless death. He carefully navigated the crosswalk at Charles Street, avoiding the traffic turning off Boylston Street. Toward the northwest, the top of his building at 100 Beacon appeared above the brown apartments on the corner of Arlington Street.
At the statue of Wendell Phillips, he took a right on a sidewalk that weaved through the more heavily wooded side of the swan lake. Phillips, a native Bostonian and Harvard graduate, became known for his work in the early 1800s as a staunch abolitionist. He was so committed to the anti-slavery cause that he took great pains to avoid cane sugar and wore no cotton clothing—both having been produced primarily by Southern slaves. Phillips maintained that racial injustice was the source of the perceived social problems plaguing America at the time. Phillips had no idea how bad it could get.
Sarge wound his way through the tree-covered sidewalks and crossed the walkway leading to the lagoon bridge. His peaceful stroll was interrupted by a sudden scream, followed by pleading. He glanced around to look for the source, finding no one else nearby. A female voice yelled, “Please, not my baby!” Sarge ran towards the lake, nearly tripping on a portion of broken asphalt in the sidewalk.
An overturned red baby stroller lie beneath a large tree with twisted, exposed roots. Tiny hands waved from the stroller as a man rifled through the back pouches—throwing diapers, bottles and baby clothing onto the ground. Another man straddled a young woman, who thrashed desperately underneath him as he ripped at her clothing. Sarge stood momentarily paralyzed. Save the baby or the woman? No time to analyze the decision.
Sarge rushed the man digging through the stroller, tackling him to the ground. They rolled over a bed of twisted, exposed tree roots and landed on the moist dirt near the pond. The man quickly recovered, rising to his feet in front of Sarge. As the man charged forward, Sarge pulled both knees towards his chest and mule-kicked the man in the ribs—knocking him several feet into the lake. A paddling of ducks flapped their wings when the man splashed into the water, skimming the surface and hiding under weeping willow branches along the water’s edge.
The other man abandoned his prey and jumped on Sarge’s back, putting him in a chokehold. Sarge pulled desperately at his assailant’s arm, knowing he didn’t have much time before he blacked out. Realizing the futility of the move, his mind instinctively recalled a Krav Maga technique. Sarge quickly turned his chin towards the attacker’s hands—away from his elbow. This created a little space between the man’s muscular arms and Sarge’s windpipe. Before he could take advantage of the space, the man slammed Sarge’s head against a tree root, spilling blood down his face. Out of the corner of his right eye, he saw the other assailant crawling out of the lake. If he didn’t get loose in the next second or two, the situation would turn lethal for him. The man breathed into Sarge’s ear.
“I’m gonna fuck you up, mutherfucker!”
I need a weapon. He felt around for a rock or a twig, but came up with nothing. Sarge was getting weaker—his breathing labored. He’d lose consciousness soon and would be lucky to wake up. The man shifted his weight, jamming Sarge’s chest harder against the ground—grinding against the weapon he had forgotten.
Sarge reached into his shirt pocket and removed his Mont Blanc fountain pen, popping the cap with his thumb. Gripping the barrel and sharp nib tightly, he rammed the pen into the attacker’s forearm. The man screamed and released the pressure on his arm, giving Sarge the opportunity to escape the grip. With a primal scream Sarge rolled the man onto his side and stabbed him near the collarbone, just missing his target—the carotid artery. He retracted the pen and kicked the man in the solar plexus, crashing him against the tree trunk and dropping him to the ground.
Through his blood-obscured vision, Sarge caught a glimpse of the other man charging toward him. Sarge stepped between the soaking assailant and the baby carriage, assuming a forward fighting stance. The man stopped momentarily before grabbing the other attacker and escaping south along the lake. Sarge stumbled backward, falling to one knee—still holding the bloodied broken pen like a knife. As his breathing slowed and eyes came into focus, the young mother approached him with her now calm baby on her hips. With her free hand she wiped the blood off Sarge’s face with a cloth diaper.
“My God, thank you,” said the young woman. “You saved our lives, mister. Thank God you came to help us.”
She gave him a kiss on the cheek and let her baby touch Sarge’s face. All lives matter.
Chapter 50
April 11, 2016
1st Battalion , 25th Marines HQ
Fort Devens, Massachusetts
“Colonel Bradlee, your visitors are here,” said Brad’s headquarters sergeant. “May I show them in?”
He was in his fatigues and did not see the need to dress up for his uninvited guests from Homeland Security. Brad wouldn’t want to meet with them under normal circumstances, but he received a heads-up from Division Headquarters. These two were making the rounds, and it was best to play nice. He knew why they were there, but Brad had no intention of making their visit an easy one. Brad stood up from his chair to greet them.
“Good afternoon, Colonel Bradlee,” said one of the gentlemen from Homeland Security. “My name is Joe Pearson and this is fellow agent David Nemechek. We are with the Federal Protective Services—a division of the Department of Homeland Security.” They say it so proudly.
“Nice to meet you, gentlemen,” said Brad. “How can I help you fellows today?”
Brad accepted their business cards, placing them on his desk without examining them.
“Colonel, we have been dispatched by FPS to discuss your role in the event of an attack on our nation’s infrastructure or a related insurrection,” said Pearson. How do you define insurrection?
“Have a seat, gentlemen,” said Brad. “I am more familiar with the customs and border protection arm of the DHS law enforcement function. Tell me a little bit about FPS.” These people love to talk about how important they are.
Brad’s friends at the 4th Marine Division gave him the impression the FPS agents were interviewing base commanders to assess their “attitude.” When Brad pressed his friends about this, he was told they wanted to insure commanders would take orders when necessary. Brad knew what that meant.
“The FPS provides security and law enforcement functions at federal government facilities,” said Nemechek. “There are ten thousand federal facilities nationwide, providing the backbone to our nation’s critical infrastructure. It is our job to ensure a safe and secure working environment for our federal workers who conduct the important business of the country.” Just fire half of them and your workload will be cut dramatically.
“Of course,” said Brad.
“At FPS, we conduct comprehensive se
curity assessments of vulnerabilities at governmental facilities,” said Pearson. “This includes monitoring systems at all federal facilities for proper performance and security breaches. That is part of the reason David and I are here.” Snoops.
Brad, like any other paid government employee, didn’t like another government employee looking over his shoulder.
“The military has its own set of systems and procedures. We take great pride in maintaining compliance with our military’s standards,” said Brad. “Is DHS saying the military standards are inadequate?”
Brad was warned not to challenge these two. He was advised to go along to get along, but he couldn’t help himself.
“No, Colonel, not in the least,” said Nemechek. “DHS admires the role of our military and certainly respects the fact that all base commanders such as you run a tight ship. DHS is constantly developing and implementing new protective countermeasures based upon the latest risk assessments. As new threats emerge, both foreign and domestic, DHS will be there to assist all reserve units in the new roles assigned them.”
Certain words rang alarm bells—threats, domestic, new roles. Brad sat up in his chair. He was not ready to play the game.
“I see,” said Brad. “Well, that certainly makes sense. How can I help?”
“Sometime in the next several months, either David or myself will bring an assessment and training team to Fort Devens,” said Pearson. “The purpose will be to provide you and key base personnel with orientation materials. Then we will work with you to conduct a facilities-wide assessment of any security vulnerabilities. As part of this assessment, we will determine your capabilities in the event of a crisis and to assess your readiness. Lastly, we will establish a joint monitoring system to ensure proper performance—pursuant to guidelines specifically tailored to Fort Devens.” Fuck me.
The Loyal Nine Page 22