National Burden

by C. G. Cooper

  But that wasn’t his secret. The key to everything he did, and this included the companies he’d built with his own two hands, was the use of tools available to everyone. He’d learned the lesson from his grandfather, a first generation immigrant from Poland. He used to tell young Jonas that if he couldn’t build a house with simple tools, it wasn’t worth building. It was a philosophy built on simplicity and the thought that a community could band together and do most anything. The old Jews all had that mentality, many of whom, just like his grandfather, had been through the most harrowing trials during their Nazi concentration camp incarcerations. They’d learned to make tools out of wire, wood and bone. They’d taught each other how to make bread out of scraps, always putting together enough to celebrate the Sabbath.

  And so, when it came time for Jonas to go out into the world, he was better equipped than his peers. He learned how to use public information to determine the success of a company or predict the outcome of a marketing campaign. Instead of looking at the face value of something, he would look deeper and find the meaning behind the action.

  When asked, Layton always explained his general method, and yet, no one seemed to believe him, still betting on the fact that he had something up his sleeve, like a practiced fortune teller flipping Tarot cards. One time, when presenting in front of a skeptical group of MIT students, a student had raised his hand and asked him point blank how he did it.

  Layton had smiled, knowing the kid wouldn’t like his answer. “You know what I’ve said before, many times, in fact. But the truth is, it’s like having my hand on the pulse of every human being on earth. By studying that pulse, by empathizing with their emotions, needs and actions, I’m able to make my predictions.” He could tell by the disappointed look on the student’s face that it hadn’t been what he’d wanted to hear, hoping that he’d have something more concrete to walk away with. But the answer had been the truth. Even now, as he sat scrolling through website after website, he felt the pulse throbbing, telling him something. So close, yet still not there. Just a little more time.

  +++

  The White House

  8:40 p.m., March 8th

  President Zimmer stood in the Oval Office, staring off into the peacefully clear night, watching the slowly blinking lights of aircraft waiting for final clearance, or flying to destinations unknown. With the weather having subsided, it seemed as though the airlines and airports all along the east coast were double-loading the number of flights coming in and out.

  Zimmer was dressed down, wearing now dry workout pants and a T-shirt, having hit the small gym thinking that any sweating could help purge his body of the lingering effects of Lockwood’s potion. The Secret Service was still working on the Russian scientist lead. Initial inquiries pointed to a possible working relationship with the Russian government.

  There was a knock at the door and Travis stepped in, followed by a slightly disheveled Geoffrey Dryburgh. “I’m sorry for my appearance, Mr. President.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Thanks for coming. Can I have the staff bring up some coffee?”

  “If it’s all the same, I think I’ll hold off. I’d like to get a couple hours of sleep tonight.”

  The President nodded and ushered his guests to the couches in front of the dwindling fire. “Anything more from the Russians?” Dryburgh, or one of his staff, had spent the afternoon sending updates to the President. The Russians were playing hardball, calling their actions an economic play, saying that the U.S. dollar wasn’t what it used to be and suggesting that an alternative currency be used as a global standard. It was the same rhetoric they’d been spouting since dragging their communist asses out of their post-Gorbachev downward spiral.

  “They’re still putting us off. I haven’t been able to get one damn person on the phone that wasn’t some assistant.”

  “What’s their play, Geoff? Why the sudden revelation and how the hell did they get the other countries on board?” It had quickly come to light that Russia had somehow convinced Brazil, Belgium and Luxembourg to cash-in their U.S. debt as well. The fourth country was still unidentified.

  Dryburgh shrugged, exhaustion clear in his body language. “If you’ll excuse the language, these Russians are fucking crazy. They’ve got a little bit of money again and they think they can start pushing people around. It’s like a bully who just got released from the hospital; he’s got all this pent up aggression and energy and he’s ready to use it.”

  “Come on, Mr. Secretary,” said Travis, “This one came way out of left field. We’ve known for years they had their eyes on Ukraine and the Baltic. In my opinion, it was only a matter of time. But this? They’re shooting themselves in the foot by devaluing our currency.”

  Dryburgh didn’t disagree. “There’s more.”

  The president scowled. “Now what?”

  Dryburgh exhaled. “As I pulled up, I got a call from a highly placed contact in the Chinese government. It looks like they may be jumping in with the Russians.”

  +++

  Jonas Layton knew he was taking a chance, but he had to try. His efforts had been fruitless so far, nothing linking the stock drops to the federal government or Dryburgh personally. After consulting his laptop contacts, he slipped out the fourth new phone of the day and dialed the number.

  He’d known the guy for a few years, the number of tech geeks, especially those in the higher echelons of corporations, limited to a handful. They had much in common, often sharing the stage at various speaking engagements. Up until this point they’d never collaborated professionally. Layton knew he was going out on a limb, but his options were limited. There weren’t many people he trusted in the intelligence business or in the federal government. He suspected that his acquaintance had learned to bridge that gap, although he never advertised it.

  It took three rings for the man to pick up. “Neil Patel.”

  +++

  If the president thought the idea of the Russians and their small entourage calling for their U.S. debt was bad, the addition of the Chinese was crippling. As the largest single foreign holder of U.S. debt, China made up approximately eleven percent, or nearly $1.3-trillion, of the stakeholders. Comparatively, Russia owned not even two-percent of U.S. debt. If the Chinese were in bed with the Russians, the U.S. economy would head south quickly.

  “Do you really think the Chinese are in play? I know they’re communist too, but they hate the Russians,” said Zimmer.

  “For the most part, they do, but don’t forget that either one of them would love to have us out of the way. With one less superpower, they can duke it out in Asia.”

  “Travis, what do you think?”

  The former CEO felt more than out of his league. These men were talking about world domination, and only weeks earlier he’d been worried about his small company in Tennessee. Despite that feeling, he knew wrong from right, and that America should stand as a beacon of hope and prosperity. “I wouldn’t put it past the Chinese. We look at things two, maybe five years down the road. These guys are thinking two hundred years into the future. I don’t like it one bit, but I think they’re just reckless enough to do it.”

  “So what do we do? Do I need to start throwing threats?” asked the President, the no-win feeling taking hold in the room.

  “I think it may still be premature for that, Mr. President,” answered Dryburgh.

  Zimmer’s mood darkened. “Geoff, give me one fucking reason this isn’t an act of war.”

  Dryburgh hesitated. Something about Zimmer’s resolve had changed. There was a subtle shift from indecisiveness. He didn’t want to push the President too far. He needed him to get there on his own. “Let me get on the phone and start beating the bushes.”

  The President shook his head. “Not good enough. I want options now.”

  He’d played right into Dryburgh’s hand. The Secretary of State looked uncomfortable for a moment, shifting in his seat, running a hand through his red hair, his gaze on the floor. “It’s not much, but I may ha
ve one idea.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “I’m not sure how much you’ll like it…”

  “I said, let’s hear it.”

  Dryburgh resisted the urge to lash out, knowing he had to play the part of humbled servant. “One of my staff heard about some councilman in Connecticut. Apparently the guy came up with a way for us to pay off all our foreign debt in less than six months. I know it sounds crazy…”

  “And how does he propose we do that?”

  Once again the almost sheepish frown from Dryburgh. “Again, I don’t know the particulars, but I think it has something to do with American retirement plans. I overheard my people laughing about it a couple weeks ago.”

  “How exactly would that work?” Zimmer’s patience was running razor thin.

  “I’m not sure, Mr. President. I can have--”

  Zimmer pounded the heel of his balled fist on the arm of his seat. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Put the word out quietly. I want any and all suggestions on how we’re going to respond to this threat, including this guy in Connecticut. Fly people in, conference them in if they can’t get here in time, but I want all my options on the table by nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter 41

  Hartford, Connecticut

  11:37 p.m., March 8th

  Councilman Jasper Tollis tried not to wake his wife as he snuck into bed, lifting the handmade white and coral patterned quilt his mother-in-law had made them for their wedding twenty years earlier. He hated the thing, and not just because it was pink, but because it reminded him of his lowly station and of his mother-in-law. It seemed like every night he crawled into bed, exhausted, having just spent the entire day fighting for change, but nine times out of ten losing the fight.

  Their modest two bedroom home was once owned by the councilman Tollis had beat in his third try, and then only because the ninety-year-old bastard had croaked on the way to the ballot box. Some days Jasper Tollis swore he could hear the old man’s ghost walking around the creaky second level, watching and waiting for him in the afterlife.

  At first it had been a badge of honor to buy the house for close to nothing, but now it felt like more of a lead weight around his neck, holding him down from ever moving up in life. He was only thirty-seven for Christ’s sake! He’d been in office for four years and hadn’t made a dent, let alone gotten an offer for any higher office.

  He huffed in frustration as he lay back, staring at the popcorn ceiling, yet another project they couldn’t afford to do. Just as he closed his eyes, the phone on the bedside table rang. He rushed to stop the clanging of the antique phone, a hand-me-down from Delia’s grandparents.

  “Hello?”

  “Councilman Tollis, please,” said a serious voice on the other end of the line.

  “This is he.”

  “Sir, I have the Secretary of State for you.”

  Tollis went to object, confused, thinking that maybe it was the Secretary of the State of Connecticut, when a familiar voice came through. “Councilman Tollis?”

  “Yes…I mean, yes, sir.”

  “Councilman, I’m calling to inform you that there will be a vehicle coming to get you in less than ten minutes. From your home--”

  “Wait, what?” Tollis glanced at his wife, who surprisingly hadn’t yet stirred.

  “From your home you’ll be taken to the airport and flown here.”

  “Where’s here?”

  “Washington, D.C. Pack enough for a day or two. I look forward to meeting you in the morning.”

  The call ended, leaving Jasper Tollis staring at the phone, mouth open, mind whirling.

  What the hell was going on?

  +++

  Similar calls were placed to individuals across the country, the staff of the president’s cabinet members doing the legwork, none knowing what it was all about, only that it had all come from the president.

  A mix of private charters and military aircraft left locales all bound for the same destination: Washington, D.C.

  Chapter 42

  The White House

  4:28 a.m., March 9th

  The White House staff was used to large events, but the last minute notice sent them scrambling. Guests arrived in spurts starting at four in the morning, most looking confused and bleary-eyed. They were ushered in different waiting areas after being told not to talk to one another. Two Secret Service agents stood in each assembly area, ready to pounce on anyone who didn’t follow the simple instructions.

  President Zimmer was impressed by the showing, and the quick work of his cabinet. But possibly the biggest surprise of all came from the person who’d devised the process by which attendees would arrive, be categorized and presented. After a quick briefing late the night before, it had been Vice President Milton Southgate who volunteered to organize the effort. Zimmer marveled at the precise execution, every member with their marching orders, led by the conductor of the orchestra, Southgate himself.

  “Sir, we have twenty of the forty-odd guests already here,” reported the Vice President, referring to a printout he had just received from an aide. “As discussed, myself, Mr. Haden, General McMillan and the cabinet members you selected will sort through the proposals. I’ve allotted no more than fifteen-minutes per. As long as we don’t have more than a couple stragglers, that should put us to lunchtime. We’ll break for lunch and then reconvene in the Situation Room with you included. I don’t think we’ll have more than a handful by then, so you can take as long as you’d like to question the guests.”

  Zimmer was impressed again. The old senator knew what he was doing. He shouldn’t be surprised. Southgate knew how to run the show. He was glad he hadn’t asked for his resignation. “Thank you for putting this together, Milt. Travis, what do you think?”

  Travis nodded his head in agreement. “I’ve gotta say, Mr. Vice President, you sure as hell know what you’re doing.”

  Southgate nodded. No smile. All business. “By early evening we should have a measure of where we stand. Those with ideas still in the running will be sequestered until I give the word either for them to return home or stay and help with further planning.”

  “How’s morale? Do you think they have any idea why they’re here?” asked Zimmer.

  Southgate shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “All they need to know is that you requested they be here. Apart from that, I’ve given instructions to keep information to a minimum.”

  “Good. Let me know how things progress.”

  +++

  The morning went smoothly, thanks to the constant monitoring of Vice President Southgate. If an attendee, or even a cabinet member, got off topic in even the slightest way, Southgate was there to turn the conversation back to where it needed to be. There had been the young gun from Silicon Valley, obviously full of himself and caffeine, who hadn’t taken the hint. After politely asking the man to leave two times, Southgate calmly nodded to the security standing in the recesses of the Situation Room, and the upstart was swiftly escorted away.

  By nine o’clock they’d heard a wide variety of concepts. They fell broadly in three categories: military action, rhetoric and economic. Those proposing some kind of military action ranged anywhere from nuclear strikes to assassinating the Russian president. The rhetoric group rode the spectrum anywhere between calling the Russians out on their own economic woes to concocting what really would be called a multi-leveled smear campaign against the Russian government. The economic experts suggested everything from retaliatory tariffs to varying taxation schemes.

  By the time they’d adjourned for lunch, Southgate, Travis and the cabinet had whittled the group of forty down to nine.

  “So what do you think?” the president asked his Chief of Staff as they each enjoyed a BLT with what must have been half-inch-thick bacon and fried green tomatoes instead of your run-of-the-mill red variety.

  “We definitely had some crazies in there. My favorite was the guy who wanted us to send SEALs in to capture the heads of the Rus
sian government and hold them until they said Uncle.”

  Zimmer chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ll bet you would love to be on that mission.”

  “Sounds good for the movies, but in real life that’s just suicide. I’m sure whoever invited that guy felt like an idiot after we grilled him. I mean, the guy didn’t even have a way for the SEALs to get out with the hostages. Stupid.”

  “Well, I did say any and all ideas.”

  Travis shrugged. “I know, but come on, use your brain, people!”

  Zimmer shook his head, smiling. It was good to have Travis in his corner. The former SEAL didn’t bow down to him or his office. He gave it to the President from the hip, just like his cousin Cal. “How’s the Vice President doing?”

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Southgate has got his stuff together. I wish you could’ve seen the cowering after he gave a couple people his death stare. He really puts people in their place.”

  “Politics and agenda aside, that’s why he was so good leading the Senate. My dad used to call him The Iron Fist.”

  “I see why.” Travis placed his plate on the side table and stood up to stretch. “I think we’ve got a couple good ideas. They may seem out in left field, but given the time constraints and the need for secrecy, I don’t see how we could’ve done much better.”

  “I can’t wait.” The President popped the last bite of the BLT in his mouth, knowing that it would probably be the last enjoyable part of his day.

  +++

  Cal was about to snap. They’d been over the same information time and time again. No leads. No anything.

  Martindale had left the night before, but kept in touch throughout the morning.

  To make matters worse, Travis called just after midnight, waking Cal with the news of the new Russian threat. They’d batted ideas back and forth, both fearing the worst. The Russians had gotten cocky ever since they’d regained a toehold on the world stage. They weren’t content with being in anything but first place. Cal had seen firsthand what Russian intelligence agencies were doing in the Middle East. Without much effort to conceal themselves, they casually interacted with countless individuals high on the U.S. target list, terrorists who were deemed too dangerous to do anything but put a bullet between their eyes or a Tomahawk down their chimney.