“Right,” Jackson said. “Now, let's look at how you can target a certain group or groups and limit the collateral damage. By the way, for something like this to work, the traitorous bastards are okay with some collateral damage. But what is the best way to minimize it?”
“Looking at it that way, Jack, you cannot control a virus or disease, once they get out of control. They see no color. Same with poisonous gas. I also am skeptical about putting anything toxic in the air. Hard to target.”
Both men went quiet. Jackson spoke next. “Water?”
“We have to consider it. Look at what happened in Flint, Michigan in 2016. Let's say you pick the water supply for the twenty-five or fifty most populous black cities. That could be devastating.”
“Alright,” Jackson said. “So how do you do it? Especially for quick maximum effect. Flint was about lead poisoning. The results were tragic, but it just feels like these guys are looking to have folks drop dead.”
Ronnie was nodding. Both men had left the table by now. Ronnie was sitting in the chair and Jackson was back on the couch. They were looking at each other.
“Food,” Jackson said.
“Yep, it's gotta be,” Ronnie agreed. “So, we are knocking down your list of questions. Who, what...” Jackson cut him off.
“Wait, Ronnie. Hold it a minute. If it’s definitely the food, let's look at the food sources in the hood. Plus remember what Amy said, 'able to exterminate a generation of black and brown babies'. Outside of church, where are we the most segregated?”
Ronnie didn't hesitate. “Schools,” he said.
Jackson snapped his fingers. “That's right! And intensely so. Not long ago, I heard a speech at AU by a former D.C. Councilman, who has since gotten into the education reform movement. He shared a statistic that shocked me. Did you know that there are over 13,000 school districts in America?”
Ronnie kind of twisted his face. “I really never thought about it.”
“I know, right? But hear me out. The Councilman was making one point of how segregated our schools were, but he was making another point that because so many black and brown kids are highly concentrated in the same school districts, we should be able to target them and fix them. Guess how many of the 13,000 school districts host most of our kids of color? 500! Most black and brown kids in America - well over 50% he said - are found in just 500 school districts. What if you controlled that food supply?”
Jackson was flush with excitement.
Ronnie, understanding the logic, confirmed Jackson's excitement. “You know, you may be onto something, Jack. That would be such a sick but brilliant plan. We need to keep brainstorming this.”
Just then a faint warning siren came from Ronnie's long work table to the right of his televisions. Ronnie was on full alert. “Damn it! We have been compromised, Jack! They are on to us. Shit, I knew those guys on the boat weren't from around here. I should have caught on when they never said a word to each other.”
“How do you know they’re after me?”
“Ronnie pointed to a computer screen on the table, pushed a couple of buttons on a keypad, which converted the screen to a satellite imaging map. Pointing to one part of the screen, he said, “There are the two guys I am betting were on the boat near me. They docked their boat near mine and are headed near my door. See up top here?” he said, pointing to the far end of the screen. “There are two, no three cars headed down the road near where I let you in. They waited until I was comfortable, thinking they would catch me with the element of surprise. What they don't know, what I didn't tell you is that there is a third way out. Grab your things, I have a bag all ready to go. Looks like going on offense is going to have to wait. We are playing total defense right now, Jack!”
FOUR
General Michael Brock felt bad. Just horrible. How could this have happened? His best friend's daughter is dead and somehow he played a role in her death? He did not know Steve Mills well, but had heard about his ego. Brock was glad that Roger Tyler was stepping in to manage things. A steady hand was what was needed most at this time.
But Brock's thoughts kept going back to Rex and Reba. When he spoke to his old friend, he could hear the faraway pain in his voice. They had met at Harvard, two mountain state conservative eighteen year olds among a sea of liberal egotists. Both were raised on large, successful farms owned and managed by their fathers. They bonded quickly. As the Harvard years passed, they grew closer and closer. Brock smiled at the memory of some of their debating team successes. Some of those damned east coast liberals had no idea that an Idahoan and a Montanan could out-compete them.
As both men continued to matriculate, it became clear that Brock‘s views became far more strident. He came to believe that power surpasses all, so the end game was to be in charge. But there was another, darker side to Brock's political philosophy, one he never discussed openly. Brock had a fixated hierarchical view of society. According to that view, whites were superior to other races in every way and were more equipped to lead the nation and the world. Brock recognized the political incorrectness of his thinking, but his review of history only reinforced his views. Many of his initial thoughts came from his father, a Montana farmer who did not believe in race-mixing of any kind. Brock grew up hearing legendary tales about his own grandfather's westward expansion journey. Fixated between his father and grandfather's stories was a John Wayne cowboy image that was unshakeable in the Brock household. Indians, Mexicans, and Blacks were all subservient to whites. As unpopular as that belief sounds, Brock believed it to his core.
Brock's military experience only served to deepen his views. Yes, the military is known for its diversity, but again, from Brock's vantage point the strategic and critical thinking needed during a time of crisis was always found among the white men in leadership. Sadly, however, America's desire to please everyone politically has gotten in the way of its effectiveness. Diversity has lowered all of the standards that had made us great, according to Brock's way of thinking. Unless we radically changed our direction as a nation, he believed, we would perish.
As he grew in rank and prestige, Brock was able to disguise his radical views on race. It helped that his best friend was the compassionate conservative, Rex Duncan. Brock's conversations with Rex on this issue were far more open than they were with his late wife. Bless her heart. Maggie was the love of his life until cancer took her from him five years ago. As much as they loved each other, however, he could never get her to his side on matters of race. She had been hog-washed by that damn Lutheran preacher father of hers. Despite it all, he still loved her.
Fortunately, near the time of her death, Brock met Roger Tyler at a dinner. After several after-dinner scotches, Brock saw that his views were not as isolated as he thought. Brock learned about Tyler's history. It was well known that he came from wealth. But most people did not know that much of that wealth started on the southern plantations owned by his mother's ancestors. Tyler's great-great grandfather served as a Confederate general under Stonewall Jackson during the Civil War. Tyler grew up believing that people of color were inferior to whites and it galled him to see the demographic population shifts in America. These shifts were first brought to his attention by his mother, who was a teacher. One day, she came home from a teachers’ meeting complaining about the population growth in the colored schools. “The way those negroes keep having babies,” she said at the dinner table, “one day there will be more of them in this county than there are of us.”
Tyler told Brock that he was reminded of his mother's words when his company's marketing team once told him that within twenty years, whites would be a distinct minority. They had said that people of color would be in the majority by 2044. Then, Tyler saw demographers on a PBS program say that people of color would be in the majority by 2025. American schools were already majority minority.
Tyler could not stomach the thought of white people holding a subservient role in America. The only way to stop these trends was
to radically stem the rapid reproduction of black and brown kids. Tyler told Brock that something bold and unthinkable had to be done to help save America.
Tyler introduced him to others who thought like him: prominent, well-respected figures who passionately believed in the separation of the races, but had no solid idea on how to reverse the current trends. That is, until they all got together. Before long, the plan emerged. Diabolical yet ingenious at the same time, once implemented, a rightful pecking order would return to America. We are at the dawn of a new day in America, Brock believed.
I will go see Rex and Reba tonight, he thought. Brock knew all too well that Amy Duncan could not be brought back. Brock also knew, however, that the plan would not be derailed and that Rex was key to the plan, an unwitting pawn in the plan to save America. “We all have to get past this,” he muttered to himself. Brock would support his friend, and then get him refocused. For our future. He then grabbed the phone to inform his staff that he would be visiting Senator Duncan that night.
__________
While he had made meticulous and diligent plans for any eventuality, Ronnie was caught off guard by the quick discovery of his hideaway. These can't be the same guys who had been chasing Jackson, he thought. No way these guys would have let him get out of D.C., much less Maryland or beyond.
Ronnie put these thoughts aside as he grabbed two big duffel bags from behind the shelving holding the computer equipment, tossing one bag to Jackson. He then grabbed a smaller duffel, unzipped it a bit, reached in and then tossed a gun to Jackson. “Still know how to use these things, Jack?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Ronnie then went down the hall past the kitchen, motioning for Jackson to follow him. He opened the first door to the left, giving way to a small bedroom containing a twin bed and small dresser. Ronnie pushed the dresser aside, reached down and pulled up a trap door. “Go down first, Jack. Toss the duffel bag and hold your arms in tight like a downhill skier. You will break an arm if you extend it too much. As soon as you hit the bottom, open the duffel bag and grab the black jumpsuit. Put it on. It will block the heat from your body from giving up satellite images. Hear me?”
Jackson nodded and looked down the trap door. He saw a cylinder slide similar to those seen at amusement parks, which plop their riders into the water below. Strangely, Jackson was not nervous. He was in his own form of game mode.
Ronnie acknowledged Jackson's nod. “Good. I am right behind you,” Ronnie said.
Jackson threw in the duffel bag first, then followed feet first, hugging himself with his arms. It felt as though he went steeply downhill at first, then it mostly straightened out laterally near the end. When he stopped, he quickly followed Ronnie's instructions and climbed into the jump suit.
Ronnie's duffel bags followed a few seconds later, then Ronnie. Ronnie put on his suit, reached into the small duffel and pulled out a phone.
Jackson had been so focused on following orders that he did not pay as much attention to his environment. They were clearly outside, but in the thick of the forest. It was a bright, sunny, cool fall day. He could hear the mighty Ohio River not far ahead. If his bearings were right, he and Ronnie probably slid to the left of and slightly underneath the two fisherman who were approaching form the river side.
Ronnie held up a finger to his lips and led Jackson toward the left. Jackson could tell that they were headed just beyond the shoreline parallel to the river. After about one hundred yards, Ronnie stopped, walked to a certain spot and removed some foliage, revealing a plastic tarp cover. He quickly pulled it apart. Jackson could see the shape of a small motorcycle. Ronnie climbed on, while Jackson climbed on in back of him.
Before starting it up, Ronnie made a call. Jackson could only hear Ronnie's end of the call.
“You where I need you? Good. How is traffic? Okay. Will have to do. Be there in seven minutes for the switch.”
Ronnie then started the motorcycle and shot off. Almost immediately after the motorcycle started, shooting came in their direction. Ronnie, while navigating on the narrow pathway, pushed in a few numbers on his phone and the next thing Ronnie heard was a loud explosion coming from a direction behind the hideaway. He then heard a man howl in pain.
The gunfire got more and more distant. If it were the guys in the boat from earlier today, Jackson thought, they were on foot. No way they could catch us. Jackson then heard another explosion. He knew then that the hideaway was destroyed.
Ronnie kept his pedal to the metal and a few minutes later they were approaching a bridge underpass. There seemed to be a fair amount of traffic on the bridge heading it both directions: West Virginia and Ohio. Then the beauty of the escape hit Jackson. Just before the bridge underpass, there was what appeared to be a motorcycle/dirt bike riding area. Several bikers were doing jumps and stunt moves. As they were nearing the stunt area, four bikers raced toward them and turned their bikes around so that they all could approach the bridge together. Ronnie had slowed down considerably to allow them to all be in sync. Just as they got to the underpass, the five bikers, including Ronnie, all weaved back and forth between each other. At the underpass, each bike stopped. They were under the bridge, hidden from the cars or foot traffic above. It was at that time that Jackson noticed one other biker had a passenger. That passenger got off of the bike it was on and ran to the one that contained Ronnie and Jackson. Ronnie jumped off, holding the handlebars for the passenger from the other bike. Jackson had already gotten off the bike and was waiting to follow Ronnie's lead. Ronnie gave Jackson a quick, approving look, then walked away from the bridge, along the shoreline, close to the woods. Jackson followed, but also turned to see all the bikers maneuver the five bikes onto the bridge, whereupon, they scattered in different directions.
Ronnie slipped into the woods and after they had walked another couple of miles or so - this time away from the river - Jackson saw an old farmhouse. By now, the duffel bag was weighing Jackson down some, but he did not dare complain. Next to the house was a dark blue Ford Explorer. The house appeared to be empty, but Ronnie showed no hesitation as he pointed to the passenger side of the car while entering on the driver's side himself, throwing his gear in the back. He then started the car, put it in drive and took off. When they turned onto the main road, Ronnie turned to Jackson and said, “You did damn good, Jack. Would've loved to have had you in my unit. Let's go play some offense.”
He then plunged the Explorer deeper into the state of West Virginia.
__________
Like most Americans, the news about Senator Rex Duncan's daughter hit Joe Charles pretty hard, both personally and professionally. Personally, he had, over time and quite unexpectedly, developed a friendship with the senator, socializing with him on many occasions. As a result, he had seen the young and beautiful Amy Duncan quite often. Shaking his head and thinking about it all, Charles could not help but focus on one of the saddest aspects of this tragedy: the once troubled Amy had turned her life around, personally and between herself and her parents. How sad. With two daughters of his own, he could only imagine what the senator and his wife, Reba are going through. When he got the news about Amy, Joe Charles was unsure about what to do. He wanted to call his friend, but that did not feel right to him. Instead, he called Rex's chief of staff to offer his condolences, who promised Charles that she would deliver the message.
A media darling, Joe Charles is a prominent figure in a new wave of Black businessmen and entrepreneurs. He is the CEO of Bartlett Foods, a food service company based in Chicago. Joe’s grandfather founded the company and he is very proud of his family roots. Originally a small catering company on Chicago's south side, Charles began expanding the company's services ten years ago to provide breakfast and lunch services to school districts. His biggest boost was in winning the highly lucrative Chicago Public Schools lunch services contract. He then won six more urban school district contracts before his progress stalled. A big believer in minority empowe
rment, Charles has made it known that he wants to be the face of food in underserved communities. His innovative and creative approach includes offering cooking classes for parents and students as well as job opportunities for folks in the neighborhood. In every school where he has contracts, he has an unlimited amount of fruit, vegetables and juices available for kids to snack on throughout the day. There are no sodas or candy bars given to kids who receive food from Bartlett Foods.
Finally, as a way to further encourage sound, smart, and nutritious eating, Bartlett Foods also supports and oversees the implementation of community gardens for students and nearby residents to maintain. Joe Charles has made sure that his company takes a whole different approach to the food delivery business. In doing so, he has directly challenged the food service big boys, who control most of the food service contracts in school districts across America.
Charles’ main competitors are the three other companies who have controlled the major food service contracts in school districts across America. These companies operate in essentially the same way they have for the last forty to fifty years. In reality, the nutritional needs of the students take a back seat to cheap, mass production food processing that can be delivered quickly and efficiently. Charles naively believed that his innovative and caring approach would allow him to cut more deeply into the big boys’ footprint. Instead, each of the big three doubled down by investing more in their infrastructure. Hedge funds were willing to invest in these large food corporations because they had come to believe that food service contracts were a secure and lucrative option.
Charles, however, struggled to keep pace with competitive bids as new opportunities popped up. Plus, Charles had also begun to get death threats as his profile had grown. All the threats were overtly racist, but they did not deter Charles' efforts. His vision included bidding to provide lunch and meals on wheels type services in a handful of Native American nations in Arizona, New Mexico, and the Dakotas. His future plans included expanding further and bidding on small community college and historically black college and university food service contracts. For any of this to occur, however, he needed more political support. Yes, minority policies had been helpful. But, Charles believed that his friendship with the powerful Rex Duncan had helped him more. He knew, however, that the hedge funds were trying to leverage their various access points to the senator and push him away from Charles.
The Plan (The Jackson Lowery Trilogy Book 1) Page 8