The Final Proclamation (An America Reborn Thriller Book 2)

by Carlton James

  The Secretary of Defense’s statement was met by complete silence as each commander in the room contemplated what the Secretary of Defense, known as the ‘SecDef,’ really meant by the statement.

  “Now,” the SecDef continued, “there is a number on the folder in front of you. Locate the staff officer near the exit holding your corresponding number and follow him to a smaller meeting room for further instructions.”

  Questions began immediately from the group, but were cut off quickly by the SecDef shouting over the sound system, “No questions will be entertained at this time. You will learn everything you need to know when you get to your next briefing.”

  The SecDef quickly left the stage, disappearing out a side door. The Commanders were professionals and kept their outrage under control, but the mood was a barely contained boil. Each Commander left the room to follow the group guide as instructed. Even though each state had two Commanders, one for the Army and one for the Air Wing, no two from a state were assigned to the same briefing.

  . . .

  The White House

  2200 Hours EST

  Burt Combs met with Marc Baxter and Don Stetson at his office conference table. Things had quieted down now that it was after 10:00 p.m. The support staff had almost all gone home. The Chief of Staff couldn’t help but notice how much Marc Baxter had aged. Marc had joined Katherine Fontaine’s campaign in the press liaison area a year before her election and had worked closely with campaign manager Don Stetson. At Katherine’s insistence, Marc had been brought into the White House Press Secretary’s office. When the appointed Press Secretary was stricken with Lyme disease, her deputy, Towanda Jefferson, was called to replace her. Towanda turned out to be incompetent, overwhelmed, and constantly used the “race card” to cover for her inadequacies. Columbia University Journalism School grad Marc Baxter was called on to handle any special public relations campaigns desired by Katherine, as well as to sit in on all staff briefings.

  Don Stetson had been Katherine’s campaign manager and had literally disappeared right after the election. With difficulty, Marc had tracked him down and enticed him to return to Washington using gun control as bait. A stray bullet had killed Don’s daughter in Chicago years earlier, and this was the only project that could have brought him back.

  “How’s the campaign developing?” Burt asked the question knowing full well both men knew he really wanted to know about successes in the Administration’s march to a gun-free America.

  Don immediately responded, “Another two kids were killed outside of a high school in L.A. yesterday.” Saying this, his voice was mixed with disgust and excitement.

  Marc bit his tongue as he considered the incident Don mentioned involved a 16- and 17-year-old who had shot each other during a drug buy gone wrong. Both weapons involved had been obtained “on the street,” and no amount of gun control would have prevented their deaths.

  “So are you going to work that into the campaign?” Burt couldn’t help but show his interest and guarded happiness at something actually going his way.

  Don glanced at Marc before telling Burt, “Yeah, Marc has already written the press release showing the Administration’s concerns about the continued mounting gun violence throughout the country. Did you see his piece on all the gun deaths last year? He highlighted a dozen or so, but quoted Centers for Disease Control and Prevention statistics showing over thirty thousand deaths involving guns in this country!”

  Marc’s feelings of guilt continued to grow. Over twenty-one thousand of the gun deaths had involved suicide, making the number of non-suicide gun deaths miniscule compared to auto traffic deaths, smoking related deaths, and even accidental deaths.

  “Well, keep working on it, and keep me informed.” After a pause for thought, Burt continued in a softer voice, “Marc, do we actually know how many guns are currently in the hands of private citizens.”

  Marc looked at Burt sharply, but quickly covered the shock in his eyes. “Burt, according to CNN, the number of guns is a gross estimate at best, but the number significantly exceeds the entire population of the United States. During the former administration, the numbers of firearms sold was out of this world.”

  “Yeah,” Stetson said with disgust. “A huge reaction blossomed from the people that actually admired Charlton Heston when he said the government would have to pry his guns, ‘from my cold, dead fingers.’ People were so afraid the government would start confiscations that guns and ammunition were literally flying off the shelves. For a couple of years there was even a severe shortage on three-eight hundred ammunition…”

  “Three eighty,” Marc added helpfully.

  “OK, point three-eight-zero caliber ammunition,” Stetson said.

  “CNN also said the Northeast part of the U.S. had the lowest percentage of households owning guns at twenty-four percent.” Marc rattled off this and other statistics for Burt’s edification.

  Burt nodded his head and began to turn toward the door. Stopping, he said, “Katherine wants the vast majority of the public outraged at the carnage, with the prime focus being on the guns as the culprit. Assault weapons are at the top of the list, but be sure to keep drilling on how many people are killed by handguns as well. OK?”

  Stetson nodded enthusiastically while Marc just nodded and smiled, feeling the growing knot in his stomach.

  . . .

  The Mountains of Southeastern Afghanistan

  2200 Hours Local Time

  Ahmed was furious as he nearly beat his older, first wife into unconsciousness. She endured his wrath as only one who understands that he was the one thing standing between her and starvation. In disgust at her stoic, uncomplaining attitude, he left the tent and walked to the nearby cave where his second wife, Jasmine, was sleeping on a thin mat. She awakened to find her husband on top of her and striving to passionately enter her. She immediately opened her legs and accepted her husband, moving with fake passion until he shouted with joy at his climax. It was not her turn, but she took pride in her husband coming to her. Unlike with his other two wives, he began to talk to Jasmine as he lay panting next to her on the mat.

  “Two of the martyrs had to be disciplined when they broke orders and had their way with the aid girl.” Ahmed’s fighters kidnapped the aid girl bringing her to the mountains for the express purpose of training his twenty-four martyrs in how to travel successfully about the West. With Jasmine’s personal training, the aid girl had done well in teaching his martyrs English and teaching them how to move through Western airports and various Customs authorities. For several months they learned from this Western girl, who looked directly into the eyes of these men. She also managed to show ample breasts and shapely butt through her hajib. Two of the fighters couldn’t restrain themselves and had taken her by force. One at a time, Ahmed had been forced to get into their face, insult their families, and had slammed a knife into each man’s heart. They met Allah with at least some kind of honor.

  A week earlier, three of his martyrs had died in a tunnel cave-in. With the martyr that had died two months earlier, it left only eighteen to fulfill the mission set forth by Allah by way of the Chinese spy, Cho. A year earlier, after providing several truckloads of explosives and weapons, Cho had asked how many of the infidels Ahmed wanted to kill. He had replied passionately, “All of them.”

  Cho had nodded and described to him a plan involving a virus and the need for dedicated martyrs. Cho had asked for twelve, but Ahmed had chosen and trained twenty-four. Ahmed also arranged for Jasmine’s brother, Ali al-Hadiz to come to Afghanistan to set up a secret laboratory. Ali held a Ph.D. in pharmacy and claimed to be able to manipulate viruses by way of something called nanotechnology. Ahmed thought it likely that Cho’s virus would not affect the Chinese people, but Ali assured him that the
virus could be altered, allowing it to kill all the infidels, even if they were Chinese.

  Ahmed rose from Jasmine’s bed and called for Hadi, his chief lieutenant. He met Hadi just outside of the cave entrance.

  “Yes, great leader,” Hadi said breathlessly.

  “Tell me, Hadi, are the martyrs ready to travel in the West?”

  Hadi paused for several moments after hearing the question. He knew the success or failure of the entire plan might hinge on his answer.

  “Great leader,” Hadi finally responded, “they are ready, but untested. I think we should send a few to Europe for three days and if all goes well, the rest should be sent. Once they have all returned, they will be ready to do Allah’s work.”

  Ahmed contemplated his answer and said, “Send them to Macedonia in Greece, but only three at a time. Have each group spend two days there. Also, give them enough money to sample the infidel pleasures so that they will look forward to teaching their virgins when they have completed their task.”

  Ali’s smile could not have been bigger. “Of course, Great Leader. It will be done.”

  Chapter 4

  Christmas - Plus Three Days

  Beijing, China

  1030 Hours Local Time

  Chinese Premier and General Secretary of the Communist Party, Song Ren, practiced his meditation ritual after having just received a briefing from Minister Lao Tung of the Ministry of State Security (MSS). Lao was in charge of the Chinese equivalent of the CIA, FBI, and part of the NSA. One of his many responsibilities was to keep a close eye on the People’s Liberation Army (PLA), its leaders and capabilities. Song was annoyed. He had been forced to delay another important meeting with the lovely and exquisitely trained young woman from the MSS “Charm School” due to reports just given to him by Lao. Although Song had his own intelligence sources separate from the MSS, he had most recently learned to appreciate Lao’s abnormal ability to glean actual truth from all the information provided by the PLA, especially relating to their readiness and knowledge of the American military.

  Lao’s briefing had shown the PLA to be far from ready for a planned invasion of Formosa, known in the West as Taiwan. This contradicted the PLA’s own after-action reports of readiness. Song previously ordered his Secretary and de Facto Chief of Staff, Wong Jie, to warn the top PLA Generals and Admirals to provide only accurate information relating to readiness for the invasion of Formosa. PLA general’s lies almost resulted in Song reacting violently in Lao’s presence. Maximum restraint succeeded in stopping the outburst.

  Lao departed and Song’s rage continued to boil. With meditation, he would not shout or lose control. The meditation calmed him. He decided some rough, even brutal, sexual gratification with the Charm School girl would help to dispel his rage. Girls from that school had exquisite training, including how to placate a dominating master.

  Song called Wong into his office. “Wong,” Song said with no emotion in his voice. “You are to inform Lao that the three most expendable Generals involved with the PLA readiness exercises are to be arrested and charged with treason against the state. They are to be taken immediately to the special prison outside of Beijing and are to have no contact with anyone. You will next placate the three members of the Politburo, you know the ones, by moving an appropriate amount of financial resources to their favorite pet projects. They are, of course, to receive a greater than usual thirty percent for themselves. Also, have Lao let the word trickle out to the PLA commanders that the arrested generals have stolen money that was supposed to have gone to new equipment and that they have lied to their superiors concerning important tactical planning. I leave the details to you and Lao. Questions?”

  “None, General Secretary.” Wong bowed and began to leave the room. “Oh, and Wong? Have my car prepared to take me to my next meeting. Have the meeting after that rescheduled.”

  Wong responded with another bow. Song began to feel the stirrings of an erection as he contemplated which whips he would use on the china-like white skin of his Charm School girl.

  Chapter 5

  Christmas - Plus Three Days

  The Callahan Residence

  Outside of Cronin, Kentucky

  1100 Hours EST

  Sean Callahan was breathing deeply, but regularly after having just completed his fourth set of isometric exercises while lying in his bed. He was a light skinned black man with Asian features and green/hazel eyes like his Irish grandfather. His body may have been torn, but his spirit had developed even more resolve. Arriving at his childhood home in Kentucky a couple of months earlier, he had begun a modified work-out regimen, avoiding use of the leg he had lost to the improvised explosive device, or IED, on a covert mission in Afghanistan. This resulted in his being immediately chastised by both his local doctor and his physical therapist for busting out the sutures in three places. The doctor had inserted the sutures ahead of schedule after what they called “minor adjustment surgery” three days earlier. The ones on his stump he thought might give him trouble, but he hadn’t anticipated popping the ones holding the gash closed on his left triceps or the one across his stomach. Infections had delayed healing for both wounds. He was under orders not to try any form of exertion without the strict guidance of his physical therapist. The only problem was they thought an hour, three days per week was enough therapy. Out of frustration, his doctor enlisted help from his mom. It is said that an Asian mother has a will of iron when it comes to her children, and Mrs. Callahan proved this to be true. Doctor’s orders would be followed.

  Continuing to breathe deeply, he couldn’t help but both curse and thank “The Bitch in the White House.” This wasn’t the way a United States Army Major should think of his Commander in Chief. Almost everyone who had sworn to uphold the U.S. Constitution and having spent more than his fair share in harm’s way, known as combat, had less than fond things to say about President Katherine Fontaine. In addition to what she had done to the country, “The Bitch” had ordered, through the SecDef and the Inspector General, or IG all military units were to be assessed for their loyalty to the civilian chain of command. She apparently had less trust in the military than she did in her own Secret Service.

  When The Bitch ordered the reliability check, specific emphasis had been placed on the Special Operations Forces, for which Major Sean Callahan commanded a Green Beret company. Sean was ordered to accompany and observe one of his A-teams, or operations team, on a mission in Afghanistan searching for intelligence on a new terrorist group called the Jihadist of the Prophet (JOTP). The commander of the A-team was First Lieutenant Linda Sharpe, an Olympic caliber athlete who had gained respect from the tough bunch of operators making up her A-team.

  Had it not been for “The Bitch,” Sean thought with some bitterness, he wouldn’t have been in Afghanistan and wouldn’t have had his leg blown off by the IED. On the other hand, if he hadn’t been there, he might not have been able to save Linda Sharpe when a group of twenty terrorists captured her and another female operator. Both Green Berets had been successful in gathering significant intelligence from the wives and mothers of men recruited by the JOTP. During the last meeting they had been betrayed and captured. Sean had taken command of the A-team, called in armed Predator drone support, and had attacked and killed the JOTP terrorists before they could disappear into the mountains with their hostages. The female sergeant accompanying Lieutenant Sharpe had been killed during the operation along with another A-team member who had stepped on the IED during the team’s extraction. For his actions, Sean was proclaimed a hero.

  Sean had been quite impressed with not only Lieutenant Sharpe’s professionalism, but had also noticed she was very attractive, a trait she worked hard to mask. She had hardly left his side at Walter Reed Army Medical Center, where he received comprehensive medical treatment.
Her own injuries had mostly healed following the ordeal, but combining the bond of combat with knowing he had come for her seemed to have captured both her mind and her heart. To his surprise, the feeling was mutual. Two weeks earlier she had decided to begin out-processing from the Army to start a new chapter in her life, which included caring for him.

  Contemplating how a man with one leg could hope to be worthy of a quality lady like Linda, Sean heard the doorbell ring downstairs. His mom, Penny, answered the door. He could hear her slight Korean accent as she greeted the visitor. Unexpectedly, it was apparent the visitor was not someone she knew. In only a few seconds, she knocked on the frame of his open door and said, “Sean, someone with a great deal of fruit salad on his chest is here to see you.” Her smile was quizzical, but friendly, letting him know she approved of the man’s character. She was a very shrewd judge of character as shown by her marrying his dad. Her own father was a wealthy Republic of Korea investor and businessman who initially did not want to see his only daughter marry an American police officer, even if he had helped her with a stalker while she was in college in the United States. In the Korean culture, his father being black didn’t help, either. Fortunately, his grandfather had overcome his own racial prejudice and came to respect his son-in-law and deeply loved his grandson.

  Standing in the door in Class A uniform was Command Sergeant-Major (CSM) Harold Walker of the U.S. military’s Special Operations Command, or SOCOM. He was slender and just over six feet tall with close-cropped silver hair and a face with multiple scars haphazardly crisscrossing it. He came to attention and saluted Sean after stepping in the room. Seeing his mom beaming with pride, Sean returned the salute from his bed, dropped his voice into its command mode, and said, “At ease, Command Sergeant-Major. To what do I owe this great honor?”