National Burden

by C. G. Cooper

  “What can I say, cuz? She’s just a better boss than you.”

  “Fuck you, Cal,” Travis answered with a laugh. “Have a good trip. I’ll call with any new developments.”

  “Cool. Watch your six, Trav.”

  +++

  En-Route to Paris, France

  The customized Boeing 737 was Secretary of State Dryburgh’s usual mode of travel when going overseas. Outfitted to his standards, high polish yet low-key, the seats rearranged at his own expense to look more like the small groupings of collaborative pods one might see in a tech company’s headquarters, Dryburgh sat hunched over a table talking to a man roughly ten years younger, and a full head shorter with a mop of thinning hair. The man sipped his champagne thoughtfully, mulling over Dryburgh’s offer.

  “I thought you just wanted me along for the ride, Geoff. You know, to see Paris and all.”

  Dryburgh laughed at his friend’s disarming way of downplaying his importance. Jonas Layton had been a billionaire since the age of thirty. He’d been one of the cocky young guns to take Silicon Valley by storm. They’d met five years earlier when Layton swept into New York to buy Dryburgh’s booming brewery business. It hadn’t panned out, with Dryburgh wisely holding on to his asset that was now worth almost double what it had been at the time, but the two had struck up a casual friendship. What started as a mutual admiration based on business savvy, soon turned into a bond built over trips to Vail, sails to Bermuda and jaunts to Southern Italy.

  Both men had come from nothing, and now ruled their hard-earned empires with pride.

  “Do you really think that’s possible?” asked Layton.

  “I’m not sure. That’s why I’m asking you.”

  Layton closed his eyes, running a finger along his lower lip. “Do you know what that would do to the markets?”

  “In the short term, yes.”

  “I don’t understand. Why are you looking at this?”

  Dryburgh shrugged, taking a pull from his always stocked stash of Dryburgh Beer. “I won’t always be secretary of state.”

  Layton leaned forward, quickly glancing over his shoulder at the staffers across the row. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  Another shrug and another swig from Dryburgh. “I’m not sure if Zimmer will make it.”

  “And why would you say that? I hear his approval ratings are going up every week. Hell, I think I even like the guy.”

  “I’m not saying I don’t like him…but there are others who don’t think he should be sitting in the Oval Office.”

  Jonas Layton sat back against the white leather, staring at his friend. He wasn’t stupid. With an IQ somewhere over 200, how could he be? There was something Dryburgh wasn’t telling him. It was like getting a nibble of the carrot and not getting to see who was holding it. “Then why are you telling me? Shouldn’t you be telling the president?”

  “He knows. Hell, it was a shitty position to be thrown into. The poor guy probably wants to quit!”

  “Now you’re fucking with me.”

  Dryburgh smiled. “Sure. What politician in their right mind wouldn’t hang on to the presidency for dear life? I know I would.”

  Layton tipped his glass toward Dryburgh. “So why the first question? What does it have to do with me?”

  “I just thought that with your connections in the financial markets…”

  “Geoff, I only dabble, I don’t--”

  “Don’t give me that, Jonas. You probably understand it better than the guy that invented the market. Weren’t you the man who developed the software that predicted what consumers would do based on a given advertisement?”

  “Sure, but--”

  “And aren’t you the guy who’s picked every congressional and presidential election correctly for the last four years, just for fun?”

  “But--”

  “Come on, Jonas. If there’s anyone that can predict public sentiment, it’s you.”

  Layton nodded. Of course he was the best. He didn’t go around bragging about it, but Dryburgh was right, Jonas Layton was the master of predictions, so much so that many in the tech world had taken to calling him “The Fortuneteller.” Time magazine had even done a recent article on Layton’s second rising, from businessman to prognosticator. Companies were clamoring for his insight, often paying millions for him to run his analysis, knowing that the fee was a small price to pay in order to avoid failure.

  He’d slowly made his way into the government, helped in no small way by Geoffrey Dryburgh, who’d introduced him to key contractors around the globe. He was a handy tool for politicians judging the landscape for an upcoming election or a parliament looking to craft the perfect piece of legislation the public could embrace. Then there were the highly classified consultations with intelligence agencies that were increasingly using artificial intelligence, much of it being developed by Layton’s company, to automate the tracking of terrorists and criminals. If someone wanted a crystal ball, Jonas Layton was the closest they’d get to holding one in their hands.

  The trip to Paris included three such introductions to European conglomerates looking to have just five minutes with the famous American. Layton didn’t like being in anyone’s debt, but considered Dryburgh to be one of the few exceptions. They were close, and as far as he knew, the politician was more than clean; he was sterling. An anomaly in the political game.

  “I still don’t understand why you need me for this. You know what’ll happen if what you say will happen actually does.”

  Dryburgh downed the rest of his beer and set it on the side table, grabbing another from the ice bucket near the window. “Imagine what we could do if we did make it happen.”

  Chapter 26

  La Guardia, New York City, New York

  6:24 p.m., March 6th

  The Gulfstream lurched to a halt, throwing the three companions forward in their seats. A moment later the co-pilot walked back into the wood-paneled cabin. “Sorry about that landing, gentlemen. Some idiot thought it would be funny to taxi before the tower gave them permission. We wanted to let you know that we do actually know how to fly.”

  The crew had been more than accommodating, each taking the time to walk back to the cabin and introduce themselves. It turned out that the lead pilot was a former Navy helicopter pilot, and he’d been delighted to have Marines onboard.

  “Don’t worry about it. Us Marines have been through our share of shitty take-offs and landings,” said Cal, unstrapping himself from the oversized leather seat.

  The co-pilot chuckled. “I’ll bet you have. Oh, almost forgot, Mr. Martindale’s assistant said there will be a car waiting for you at the terminal. They’ll take you to the hotel.”

  Trent stood, stretching his huge frame, having to slouch to keep from hitting his head on the ceiling. “You mind if I ask where we’re staying?”

  “Mr. Martindale puts all his VIP guests at The Peninsula.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  The co-pilot grinned. “Trust me, you’ll like it.”

  Cal was still admiring the inside of the black armored Bentley that picked them up from the airport when they pulled up to the gold tassel-encrusted awnings framing the entrance to The Peninsula New York. Inside the Bentley it smelled like fresh hundred dollar bills, along with a hint of buffed cow hide. It was also probably one of the only cars in the world that MSgt Trent could fit in comfortably. “I wouldn’t get used to riding back here, Top.”

  Trent had his hands clasped behind his head, a contented smile displaying his mood. “Maybe I should ask for one of these during our next contract negotiation.”

  Cal laughed. SSI was frugal by nature, opting for high tech weaponry over exorbitant luxury. It was a throwback to his father’s days in the Corps; Spartan, yet the tip of the spear. That wasn’t to say SSI employees weren’t paid well. They were. Compensation was above the industry average, and a healthy housing/living allowance was given to employees who opted to not live on one of the two company campuses
.

  “If you can convince The Hammer to buy you one, I’ll drive you around, Master Sergeant of Marines,” said Cal.

  Trent’s eyes popped open, a child-like excitement glinting playfully, adding to the ear-to-ear grin. “You’re on, Mr. Stokes.”

  An Asian valet, dressed in a white high-collared uniform along with a matching pillbox cap, went to grab their bags, but each man insisted on carrying their own. Regardless, Cal tipped the man handsomely, having learned early on the importance of taking care of those who were caring for you.

  “Thank you, sir. If there’s anything you need during your stay, feel free to ask for Lin.” The valet tucked the large bill in his pocket smoothly, bowing in the process.

  “Thanks,” said Cal, leading the way into the opulent entryway.

  After a seamless check-in, they were escorted to their room, The Peninsula Suite. Normally a 3,300 square foot two-bedroom penthouse, graced with Murano glass chandeliers, the suite had been converted at the last minute to include one extra king-sized bed in the space usually reserved for the dining room.

  “As per Mr. Martindale’s request,” said the bell-hop who’d given them a quick tour of the rooms, which included not only a colorful splash of tasteful art-deco inspired decor, but also a grand piano in the corner of the living room. Muted rugs covered marble floors, reflections cast up as they walked. A fully stocked kitchen invited perusal with the clear glass front refrigerator neatly arranged with colorful vessels and food stuffs. There were huge crystal vases bursting with fresh cut flowers in each room, mounds of tropical fruit held in silver bowls on tables and two enormous metal bins filled with ice and overflowing with expensive bottled beer and liters of Tennessee whiskey.

  The three Marines tried to appear nonplussed, but the sheer elegance of the suite was overwhelming to men who were more experienced in the art of rolling up a shirt for a pillow and using a poncho-cover as a blanket.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” asked their guide.

  “No thanks.” Cal ran his hand along the window sill, admiring the view of downtown New York City, red and white lights streaming far below.

  Daniel handed the man a tip and escorted him out, locking the door once he’d left. “What do we do now?”

  “Martindale should be calling soon.”

  As if on command, the room phone rang. Cal answered it. “Stokes.”

  “Mr. Stokes, this is Leo Martindale.”

  “Hello.”

  “I hope your flight was okay?”

  “It was. Thanks.”

  “Good. I know we weren’t supposed to meet until tomorrow, but I’m right down the road. Would it be okay if I stopped by?”

  Cal almost said, “You’re the one paying for this, dude,” but held his tongue. Instead he said, “Sure. You don’t mind if we order some food while we wait?”

  “How about I do one better? Let me bring dinner.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Cal replaced the receiver and looked up at his friends. “Wash your hands and wipe your asses boys, we’re about to be served by a billionaire.”

  Leo Martindale arrived twenty minutes later, handling two large plastic bags laden with pizza boxes wrapped in brown paper. “I hope you guys are hungry,” Martindale said with a smile that seemed more genuine than Cal would have thought. Maybe this guy isn’t a schmuck, thought Cal.

  It turned out that the gregarious billionaire had stopped to get four different kinds of pizza from four different restaurants. “I figured three Marines would rather eat some authentic New York pizza than some foo foo shit from Swankytown.”

  The three SSI men looked up, Cal almost choking on the huge bite of pizza in his mouth. Martindale laughed at the bewilderment on their faces. “Semper Fi, boys. Staff Sergeant Leo Martindale at your service.”

  It turned out that Leo had done a six-year stint in the early ‘80s in intelligence. As they ate the greasy oversized slices of mouthwatering pie, Martindale told them about how he’d left the Corps, gone back to school to get his degree, and then worked his way up the slippery Wall Street slope. He regaled them with stories from his early days as a stock broker, going from cold-calling, to networking, to landing his first big deals. In a community full of greed, where one broker would gladly backstab another if it meant a chance at a commission, Martindale had earned a reputation as one of the good guys. An honest broker. An anomaly.

  “I won’t lie. The crash of ’87 almost bankrupted me. Luckily, I had a handful of clients that stuck with me. All but one still have.”

  “So when did you open your own place?” Cal asked, picking a hockey-puck-sized piece of pepperoni off one of the pizzas and folding it into his mouth.

  “1990. I’d learned my lesson in ’87. While I liked my broker, I thought there were things the company was doing that were a bit too risky for my taste. Funny thing is, well, maybe not so funny, but they invested heavily in the first tech bubble after 2000 and ended up closing shop. They should’ve been more careful, but by then they were getting desperate for returns. That guy ended up killing himself.”

  There was silence for a moment while they each digested Martindale’s words and the last of their meals. Trent said, “I’ve gotta say, Leo, it makes us all proud to see a down and dirty Staff Sergeant make it to the top. Hell, Cal told us you were gonna be some corn-cob-up-the-ass kinda guy.”

  “Fuck you, Top,” Cal said, slightly embarrassed, but still smiling. “It’s true. Marge should have told me.”

  Leo was smiling too. A Marine never misses the chance to fuck with a fellow Marine, especially one that he likes. “I told Marge not to say anything. Figured it would be better if I handled that part. She said you weren’t jumping up and down to come up here.”

  Cal shrugged. “I’m just a dumb grunt, Leo. Never been one for rubbing elbows with wealthy Wall Street types.”

  “Just know that I’m not one of those, what did you call them, Top?”

  “Corn-cob-up-the-ass kinda guy.”

  “Right. I’m not one of those. I may have a lot of money, but I don’t think I’m the only one in the room with that problem.”

  Cal adjusted himself in his chair. He wasn’t comfortable talking about his money. In his mind, he hadn’t earned it, his father had. Not a day went by that he wouldn’t give up all his millions for more time with his mother and father.

  “I can see by the look on your face that you don’t like to talk about your checkbook,” Leo continued, not swayed by Cal’s frown. “But I don’t believe for a second that you’re just a dumb grunt. Five bucks says your two brothers here would say different.”

  Daniel and Trent nodded.

  Cal threw his hands in the air. “Okay, okay. Let’s stop talking about me. Leo, tell us why you wanted us to come.”

  Martindale’s smile disappeared, his face serious. It reminded Cal of the look on his platoon sergeant’s face the first time he’d gone out on patrol. “I think someone’s planning on collapsing the U.S. stock market.”

  Chapter 27

  The Peninsula New York

  8:15 p.m., March 6th

  The room was quiet except for the muted sounds of traffic from the street below, honks and the occasional screech. It was like Martindale had laid a grenade with no pin in the middle of the oriental carpet under their feet. No one wanted to touch it.

  “What do you mean someone’s trying to collapse the stock market?” Cal asked. “How is that even possible?”

  Martindale threw his crumpled napkin into one of the empty pizza boxes. “I’m not sure it is, but I’m pretty sure someone’s trying to see if they can do it.”

  Trent leaned forward, his shifting weight making the couch squeak. “I’m not a stock broker like you, Leo. I mean, I have a few bonds and whatnot, but I seem to remember certain safeguards being in place that wouldn’t allow that to happen.”

  “Let me see if I can explain it in a way you’ll understand.” Martindale paused to gather his thoughts. The other waited patiently
. “Okay, what happens after someone, say, loses a toe? Do they go on walking like before, or do they compensate with the rest of their foot?”

  “They compensate,” said Trent.

  “Right. So that’s kind of what I’ve noticed. Certain stocks have taken inexplicable dives. I’ve had my people do the research. These are reputable stocks. Nothing anywhere gives any indication of why their stocks went down.”

  “But isn’t the market like the lottery? Crazy stuff we don’t even know can affect it, right?”

  “Yes, but to a point. Typically, if, as you said, crazy stuff happens, it doesn’t affect just that one stock. Large scale ups and downs are just that, large scale. They affect many stocks.”

  Cal wasn’t sure he understood where Martindale was going. “So you’re saying someone is manipulating these stocks?”

  “I can’t prove it, but I think so. It’s not unheard of. In fact, a book recently came out talking about something us veterans have known for a long time. Have you ever heard of high-frequency trading?”

  All three men shook their heads.

  “In a nutshell, there are companies that use highly sophisticated computer systems to move in and out of stock positions in a fraction of a second. They’re capitalizing on minute changes that can drastically affect a stock’s price by the time a traditional trading firm puts in their order,” explained Martindale.

  “So you’re saying that between the time my day-trading account order is placed and when the purchase is actually made, these other guys are in and out selling for what could be a small increase, but I’m the one who ends up paying more?” asked Cal.

  Martindale nodded, impressed. “Dumb grunt my ass. High-frequency trading’s been around long enough that it’s not a secret, at least to insiders. This new thing doesn’t feel like that. This is more like someone’s rigging the system.”

  “Have you told anyone?” Cal asked, still not sure why the billionaire had called SSI. Maybe Marge was a super stock whiz kid on the side.