Colonel Victor King had raced through the ranks, many suggested on the shirttails of his cousin and the current president, Jack King. However, nothing could have been further from the truth. Victor King had risen through the ranks despite his overachieving second cousin. It was following a conversation with Jack that had led to his court-martial. Victor had advised Jack on how to smuggle a few fully automatic weapons back to the US from Iraq, which he assured Jack would come in handy when the Russkies finally came calling. Jack had listened with interest before promptly reporting the activity to the authorities. It was only by luck that Victor had avoided a custodial sentence and certainly not as a result of any leniency or help from Jack.
“Looks like your cousin has finally truly fucked us.”
As far as Victor was concerned, Jack King was dead. He’d died the day the military police had arrested Victor in front of his wife and daughters. Not that his wife was any better; she had abandoned him the same day, praising the Lord from delivering her from her captor. That had been the last day he had touched a drop of liquor and was the day that put him on his path to find God. In the fifteen years since, he had helped save many lost souls like himself; souls with a kindred belief that America was on a one-way ticket to damnation. The world he could see was quickly losing control. God was sending more and more warnings of a coming Armageddon, and Victor had to do something. The souls he had saved could not be wasted. God had helped him save them. God must have wanted them saved for a reason.
The Patriotic Guard of America had been a moment of clarity, unlike any he had experienced before. It offered structure and hope for the men and families that were the future of mankind. His message hit home and found an audience desperate for a new beginning, a new hope. A monthly radio broadcast quickly became weekly, then twice weekly, and finally daily. The number of listeners increased, as did the callers, all keen to understand what they needed, what they could do to help. The store and the website fulfilling the requests for what was needed to survive were a natural progression. Orders flooded in and much to Victor’s surprise, so did donations. The Patriotic Guard of America began to build the future it preached. Locations across the Midwest, far from major metropolises and prying eyes, were secured through a number of blind trusts and corporations. The Guard had many expert members to call on for any eventuality. Tax lawyers and accountants ensured nobody would ever know what the Guard had or owned. Architects and builders ensured the camps for the future would never be found unless you knew exactly where to look. And the Guard’s police force ensured that even if you did, you would never live to tell anyone you had.
Victor King was a king within his group and ruled it only as a true dictator knew how - ruthlessly.
Victor ignored the sergeant’s reference to the president. “Ready?”
“Yes, sir. The forward team are securing the fuel trucks as we speak,” replied the sergeant, instantly back to business. Victor had that affect on people.
No matter how they had planned their Code Red, one thing always came up short. Fuel. Power, heat, trucks, they all needed gas. They had looked into every other option possible but it always came back to one thing, they needed gas and a lot of it.
Victor grabbed his CB handset and, thanks to an extremely powerful antenna and a number of strategically positioned boosters, Victor hit the broadcast button and knew his voice would be audible across two thirds of the continental US. The earlier tweet would have his patriots listening intently to their CBs. Of course, you would have needed to have known the correct frequency and been tuned into a CB set from the dark ages of personal communication to hear him. However, as Victor had explained to his fold, it may have been from the past but was impossible to track in the future and in the aftermath of Armageddon, the only surefire way they would be able to keep in touch with the other groups. The likely electromagnetic pulse from the nuclear detonations would fry modern microchips. Their archaic CBs had no such newfangled modernity. Tubes and wires powered the patriots’ comms systems. They were future-proof, as Victor called them, although ironically only because they were so old.
Victor had initially planned one large camp to house his patriots. The benefits were significant both economically and militarily. However, if, as he believed, his patriots were the future of the American way of life, it was imperative that a lucky strike did not end that goal in one fell swoop. Therefore, three camps were planned but then, as the number of true patriots boomed, two additional ones were added. Scattered across the Midwest and Pacific Northwest, each camp had been carefully placed as far from any potential strike zones and civilization centers as possible. The actual locations were controlled on a strict need-to-know basis and a number of checkpoints were in place that would ultimately direct the patriots to their new homes throughout the day.
“Patriots, the day has come. We may be all that this country has to hope for in the future. What we do now, we do for greater America. Code Red, Phase Two!”
The CB crackled in response, something that was not supposed to have happened. A radio silence was in place to ensure the band was free for Victor to communicate with all his patriots. “EP, we’re coming under fire!”
EP was the Elk Point team, just twenty miles away. Victor hit the gas and raced towards the fight. The operation was simple. Twenty heavily armed men would approach the refinery and with only an elderly minimum-wage security guard at the gate, securing the four trucks would be simple. Victor shook his head. The thought of the old guy going up against twenty heavily armed ex-soldiers just didn’t seem right.
“From who?” he asked, grabbing the CB.
“FBI, Robert Hughes was an impostor!”
Robert was one of their own, or at least had claimed to be. He was an ex-Delta Force Commando. He had been welcomed with open arms into the Patriots. Men with his skills were powerful additions to the fold.
“There are another four agents that have joined him, what should we do?” asked his fuel team leader.
“Have you secured the trucks?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Drive them out of there, they won’t shoot the trucks!”
“They’re shooting everything Goddamned else!” replied a somewhat flustered battle-hardened veteran.
Victor shook his head in disbelief. His men were heavily armed but had one absolute line not to cross. Under no circumstances were they to fire their weapons within the refinery’s confines. Victor hadn’t even bothered to confirm they had not returned fire. His orders would be followed to the letter. They always were.
As Victor pushed his foot harder to the floor, the first signs of the refinery came into view - the wisps of smoke that fluttered up high into the clear blue sky. The radio had been silent for over five minutes when it burst back into life.
“We ran through their cars on the way out of there,” came the team leader’s triumphant voice, although heavily muffled by a high-pitched screech in the background. A high-pitched screech that was not only coming from the radio.
“I can hardly hear you!”
“The sirens, they’ve gone crazy back at the refinery. I think it maybe going to blow, they must have shot up some important equipment!”
Victor’s foot rose from the accelerator and the truck’s race towards the time bomb ahead reduced. A further look across at his sergeant had them wordlessly communicating and turning a sharp one-eighty. Next stop would be the camp, with four nine-thousand gallon tankers to keep them powered and ready for the new dawn.
Chapter 15
His decision was made for him. The helicopters had, as one, turned, their mission abandoned. There was to be no mass exodus of the government. Butler’s time pressure had been relaxed. Swanson was no longer a threat to his target. He relaxed his arms, although outwardly, Swanson would not have noticed any difference. They remained raised as they had been.
“So, what now? You take me in again?” asked Butler.
Swanson hadn’t really thought through what she was going to do. She
just needed to stop Butler from getting to the president, at least until she knew he was on the right side.
“You know they’ll try and kill me again, you can’t stop them,” he reasoned as the sirens grew closer.
Swanson looked at him closely. She prided herself on being an excellent judge of character, able to read people inside out. She looked at him and saw a blank sheet of paper. Not a clue, she thought. Something she had never experienced before. The sirens were around the corner. Her gun was still leveled at Butler’s head.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck it!” she screamed. “Put your hands down,” she said, holstering her pistol and raising her FBI badge high in the air. She walked towards the siren and met the car in the road as it screamed around the corner.
“FBI, it’s fine! FBI!” she repeated over and over.
The police car drew to a stop, two officers exited and, with their hands on their holsters, walked carefully and slowly towards Swanson. She kept her hands in the air with her badge clearly showing.
“Were you involved with the shooting over at the Diner on 18th as well?” asked the older of the two officers, taking her badge and checking it.
Swanson shook her head. “No but I thought I saw one of the suspects and fired a couple of warning shots.”
The officer was too long on the job to fall for such blatant bullshit. He eyed Butler closely over her shoulder.
“Who’s he?” He motioned with his chin towards Butler.
Swanson turned to look at Butler and wondered the exact same question.
“Is there a problem?” the officer asked when Swanson failed to answer. The officer once again placed his hand on his holster, focusing on Butler, while awaiting her response.
“No, sorry,” Swanson shook her head and turned back to face the officer. “Just a bit out of it, it’s not often I have to use my weapon,” she replied, sounding flustered.
The officers both smiled sarcastically. Swanson knew the reference to using her weapon infrequently would raise a reaction and divert their attention.
“I’m surprised she knew which end to use,” she heard one officer mumble to the other under his breath, before both burst into laughter.
God they were so predictable, she thought, eyeing them both with contempt while outwardly smiling. She turned and grabbed Butler by the arm, walking away from the highly amused and so easily distracted cops.
“Let’s get out of here,” she whispered. “Before they start asking questions we really can’t answer.”
Butler did not need to be asked twice and followed without complaint. His most pressing concern was getting access to the president before it was too late. As the last sounds of the helicopters faded into the distance, he grew increasingly concerned. What they had witnessed was the initiation of a mass exodus plan for the continuity of government. He caught sight of the TV as they walked past the diner. A swarm of helicopters filled the screen, a ticker underneath explaining ‘early morning emergency drill wakes thousands.’
“Drill, my ass!” scoffed Butler.
“For all we know that’s exactly what it was,” replied Swanson.
“How many drills do you know that stop partway through?” He looked her deep in the eyes. He could see she was struggling with his question. “What we just witnessed was a full-scale plan in action, being averted at the last minute.”
Swanson thought back to the sight of the helicopters. None had actually reached central DC. They had all simply turned back, as if on cue.
“We don’t know what the drill may have been,” she argued weakly.
“What were they checking? That fifty helicopters could fly in one direction and then turn away again?” Butler smiled cynically. There was no doubt in his mind that what they had witnessed was no drill, and only at the last second had it been cancelled. Something very serious had just happened and he couldn’t help but think it was linked to the American Airlines crash and the death of the ambassador.
He paused as the implications of a number of scenarios began to unfold in his mind. On a scale of bad to worst, all hovered around catastrophic.
“We really should get out of here,” advised Swanson, gently pushing Butler further down the sidewalk. The cops, she noticed, had begun to take a renewed interest in them.
“Yes, I need to get to my papers,” agreed Butler, disregarding the cops. In the bigger picture, killing two cops to save the country was of little concern.
Luckily for the cops, they didn’t follow, and were content to merely watch Swanson and Butler leave the scene.
“So, where to?” asked Swanson, as they rounded the corner and lost sight of their watchers.
“I need to get to my papers,” he said again, raising his hand in the air to hail a taxi.
Chapter 16
Jack King fell into his seat behind the Resolute desk and surveyed the office of the President of the United States. He was the most powerful man in the world. For the previous three years, he had never once felt the real power of the office. What he had just experienced was one of the biggest wake-up calls of his life. He and he alone held the fate of the world in his hands. The decisions he made could end life as they knew it. He had been a military man his entire working life. Sending men into battle was not an issue. Sending men into battle when it was his ultimate order bore a weight he had never felt.
He closed his eyes and for the first time in two hours, the dull thud returned, the hangover. The memories of the freedom of sitting sharing a drink in a bar came flooding back. A small smile cracked his lips. The headache was an almost pleasant reminder of an easier life beyond the confines of the office. The image of James Marshall flashed into his mind and the smile dissipated instantly. He began to rein in his thoughts, and a new image flashed into his mind - the man being arrested in front of the Dana Center the night before, his silent recognition of who Jack was, and the note: Beware the Trust.
“Mr. President?”
When he did not respond, Joan, his PA, repeated it a little louder, her voice emitting from his telephone. “Mr. President?”
He pressed the button to communicate with her. “Yes?”
“I have Mr. Young for--”
“Put him through,” interrupted Jack. Roger Young was the CEO of America’s Trust, the single largest investor in America. When he called, Jack answered.
“Sorry, Mr. President, he’s here, in the office,” Joan said.
“Here, as in, here?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Send him in,” instructed Jack immediately.
Jack stood up to greet the CEO of America’s most influential business. In the three years since his inauguration, America’s Trust had become the single largest employer in the US and some would say even more important than the government itself. To list the industries it didn’t top would have been easier than to list those it did. The CEO had pulled a number of blinders over the years and gained control of companies that would have otherwise been unobtainable. As far as the American public was concerned, there wasn’t a single company more concerned with the welfare of their country than America’s Trust. After all, that was exactly its point.
As such, any acquisition was fully supported by American citizens and any attempt by private owners or institutional shareholders to block it had been quashed by the masses. If America’s Trust wanted a corporation, it was in the interests of the country and any decent patriotic American would do all in their power to make it happen. America’s Trust bridged the political divide. Republicans, Tea Party members, Democrats and Socialists alike could do nothing but sing the Trust’s praises.
In its three years spearheading the rebuilding of America and its economy, the Trust had created more American jobs than all other American employers combined, including the government. They had shut down vast overseas contact centers and brought hundreds of thousands of jobs back to the US. Unemployment had fallen dramatically and with no national debt, the economy was once again striving forward. The rich were getting r
icher but the poor were less poor and much to the delight of the rich, not at their expense. If an American wanted a job, the Trust went out of its way to get them one.
The Trust had one goal - to make America the greatest nation on Earth, a goal that very few Americans could argue with. Particularly, as ‘the greatest’ wasn’t just from an economic perspective. Military spending and acquisition by the Trust was perfectly within the Trust’s remit. In fact, America’s military had never before seen such a surge in spending, particularly in peace time. The Trust was buying out contractors and suppliers and within three years had become the largest military supplier in the US and the world. Investments in new equipment and upgrading current equipment was being undertaken at unprecedented levels and speed.
This meant there wasn’t a single more influential person in the modern history of the US than Mr. Roger Young.
“Roger, so good to see you again,” greeted Jack warmly, showing the younger man to the sofas.
Roger returned the handshake with a tight smile and, following the president’s lead, sat down.
“Coffee?” offered Jack standing by the coffee machine.
“No thank you, Mr. President.”
Jack poured himself a coffee and took a seat opposite Roger. He was always amazed at just how young Roger looked, thirty-five tops, and certainly the most unlikely head of what had become America’s largest and most influential company in history. Although it wasn’t that he had spent much time with Roger. In fact, it was only the third time he had met him and the first time in Washington. The CEO of America’s Trust was almost a recluse, seldom leaving the America’s Trust headquarters in New York where his apartment sat on the top floor. In the three years since the Trust had raised its head, Roger had never featured in any magazine or given any interviews. The Trust was slick. In fact, it had perhaps the slickest PR machine ever assembled. Its recognition blew Coca Cola and Google out of the water, while its approval ratings were off the chart. You had to travel far and wide to find anyone who had anything other than positive things to say about the Trust. It certainly helped that every senior executive who ever appeared in public looked as though they had come straight from a Vogue or GQ photo shoot.
ALL ACTION THRILLER BOXSET: THREE MURRAY MCDONALD STANDALONE THRILLERS Page 8