by Wid Bastian
“Well now,” the guard hesitated. “I don’t think I can do that, sir. I know you’re the boss and all, but I would be violating … ”
“Mr. Ames, isn’t it?” Martz asked, interrupting.
“Yes, that’s right. William K. Ames, Mr. Martz.”
“Okay, Mr. William K. Ames, I’ll give you a choice. Fire that gun at the monitor or pack your stuff and leave.”
“You’d sack me over this, sir?”
“Damn right. Consider it done.”
Ames did not waiver further. He pointed the pistol at the monitor and pulled the trigger.
Click, click. Nothing happened.
Ames was perturbed. He removed the weapon’s six shells and replaced them with new rounds. He pulled the trigger again.
Click, click.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” Ames said regretfully. “I guess you’ll have to pink slip me. I don’t understand it, I keep my sidearm in good condition at all times, I take my duties here most seriously, Mr. Martz, I … ”
“Ames!” Martz yelled.
“ … don’t understand how this could have … ”
“Ames!” Martz screamed again.
“Sir, yes sir.”
“It’s alright, Ames. You’re not fired. Carry on.”
“Sir, yes sir!” the old guard repeated and then immediately left to try and figure out what was wrong with his pistol.
Dave Martz, like millions of others, was simply stunned. Already he’d been told from his news staff that similar instant experiments with guns had yielded the same results. He wondered how far the phenomenon extended. Were people now incapable of stabbing each other, using clubs, or even landing a good left jab? He found it extremely difficult to grasp the possibility of the concept.
Then he looked over at one of the twenty or so monitors in the studio. The screen displayed a still shot of Alex Anderson’s face from the broadcast.
“Alex, my old friend,” Dave Martz said. “We really need to talk.”
Eighteen
Peter was wrong. The American authorities, in the form of the United States Marshal Service, did not arrest or seize anyone at Parkersboro. Shortly after they breached the flaming bus barrier, but before they made it into the camp proper, their authorization to take any further action was revoked.
Per the direct orders of the President of the United States, Peter Carson, Alex Anderson, Warden McCorkle, and the six disciples were “asked to attend an urgent meeting with the President and his senior staff in Washington at their earliest convenience.”
This Presidential invitation was delivered by the ranking officer of a company of Marines who arrived about half an hour after the Marshals were instructed to hold in place around the camp. The soldiers descended on Parkersboro in three separate helicopters, one of which was Marine Corps One, the President’s own ship. Initially at least, rather than the stick, the government was offering the carrot.
Peter immediately agreed to the President’s “request” and thanked the Marines for their courtesy. The soldiers deferred to Peter and, whether by order or of their own inclination, he was allowed to organize and time their departure. It was just after midnight when Peter told his escorts that they were ready to leave.
Julie made something of a scene after the broadcast. She begged Peter to allow her to go with him to Washington. He denied her as lovingly and as gently as he knew how, but for awhile it seemed as if she was refusing to take no for an answer. Julie was desperate to be by Peter’s side, to protect him, to prevent what her husband had told her was inevitable.
“What happens in three days, Peter?” she kept asking him. “Do you think they’ll still be so nice to you once God gives them their guns back?”
Julie Carson, Peter had given her permission to take back his name, did not accept the prophecy that Peter was predestined to be a martyr. She had been in a constant state of prayer since the night before on the beach, pleading with God to spare her husband’s life, or at least to be kind enough to take her also when He called for Peter.
Knowing that it wouldn’t satisfy her at the moment, but hoping that it would provide inspiration later, Peter reminded Julie that it was her first duty to be a mother to Kevin, to raise him up to be a man of God. “More than anything else, this is what the Lord wants you to do with your life,” he told her.
Peter’s tender counseling increased Julie’s inner conflict. She loved her son and knew that her role as his mother was a holy commission, but so also, she believed, was her love and duty to Peter.
In the end, she deferred to her husband’s wishes, quit arguing, and kissed him goodbye. What else could she do? Defy the man whom God so highly favored? As she watched the helicopters disappear into the northern night sky, Julie begged the Lord to return Peter to her, safe and sound. She couldn’t help but wonder if her last image of him would be of Peter standing in the entrance of the chopper mouthing, “I love you, Jules” as the soldiers folded up the stairs. She prayed for God’s comfort and mercy, but for now she was overwhelmed by sadness and fear.
“That is a fair statement,” the President’s first senior advisor agreed. “Without exception, weapons in any form in armed forces everywhere have simply ceased to be operative.”
“So, you would agree that our threat assessment is valid?” the National Security Advisor asked.
“Yes, for the moment. But only for the moment.”
“Elaborate, please,” the President said.
“As of this minute, roughly one a.m. eastern time, on June twenty, the United States faces no external threats. Our ability to make war and the ability of any of our potential adversaries to do so has been, uh, suspended for lack of a better term,” the first senior advisor explained.
“And?” the President prodded.
“Well, sir, when this restriction or paralysis is over, what then? Will everything be just as it was before it started? Our command and control functions are highly integrated, ultra sophisticated computer systems. Conceivably, there could be a significant delay window between when the switch, if you will, is thrown and when we are able to bring our strategic nuclear and non-nuclear weapons back on-line.”
“So what? Isn’t everyone else facing the same problem?” the President asked.
“They are, Mr. President,” the first senior advisor continued, “but not all weapons systems are alike. For example, the typical Russian or Chinese ICBM is far less complex in terms of electronic guidance and computer technology than our own. Given this fact, they may recover their ability to launch quicker than we can.”
“How much quicker?” the President needed to know.
“We estimate that the Russians might be able to launch a full, or nearly full, nuclear first strike anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour before we could respond, sir. As for the Chinese, we don’t have enough information to make an educated prediction.”
“And this analysis is based upon?”
“It is based upon the time required to power up our systems versus theirs, to reboot and reconfigure digital files, to reestablish command and control capabilities, to … ”
“Wait a minute,” the President said, breaking in.
“Sir,” the first senior advisor asked.
“Didn’t you just tell me a few minutes ago that lack of power was not a problem?”
“I did sir, that appears to be true Mr … ”
“In fact, as far as our experts, or anyone else’s I’m willing to bet, can tell there is absolutely nothing wrong with any of our weapons or command systems. Isn’t that true?”
“Yes sir.”
“And let’s not forget how far this suspension, as you call it, extends. Still no reports of any homicides or assaults or any type of violence anywhere?”
“No sir, Mr. President,” the National Security Advisor confirmed. “We are monitoring a large sampling of police bands from across the globe. Since Mr. Carson’s pronouncement, not a single incident of violence has been reported anywhere.”
> “I still find it impossible to get my mind around that,” the President admitted, as he stood and began to slowly pace around his couches, “but I’d be a fool to ignore the facts. And gentlemen, as my pappy always said, I might be a fool, but I’m not a damned fool.”
“Call the list,” the President ordered his National Security Advisor.
“All of them, sir?”
“Yes, all of them! They’re up and about anyway doing what we are, trying to make some sense of this. I want the Russians, the Chinese, the Brits, the Indians, hell I want the Prince of Monaco to know that the United States of America is in the same boat as they are and that we intend to fully report any change in our defense status the instant it occurs. I want commitments from all of them to do the same.”
“Forget healings or visions, that right there is absolute proof of the existence of the Living God,” Saul Cohen said, as he smiled and pointed at Malik Graham. “I was certain we’d never be able to get him in here.”
It took ten minutes of prayer and fifteen more of persuasion by Saul and Peter to get Malik to step into the helicopter. He had never flown on a commercial aircraft, much less agreed to ride in some contraption that looked to him like a flying deathtrap. Malik was in the very same position he assumed when they departed Parkersboro; double strapped in his seat, muscles flexed, eyes closed, his huge hands squeezing a Bible so hard it seemed certain to be flattened by the time they reached Washington.
“Panos,” General Vargas said. “Mr. Austin and I would like to speak with you, sir. Alone.”
Peter walked to the back of the spacious Marine Corps One cabin with Vargas and Austin after strongly advising Saul against his prankster inclination to undue Malik’s seat belt “just to see what happens.”
“Both Tim and I know the President,” Enrique Vargas told Peter, “at least to some degree. I’ve been in several top military conferences with him. Austin was part of the prosecution team that briefed him on some sensitive matters in Texas.”
“And?” Peter asked.
“He’s a good man,” Tim told Peter, “and I believe he fears God. He’s highly intelligent, both street smart and book wise. As politicians go, he’s basically honest.”
“The Lord has allowed him to be President right now for a reason, I’m sure,” Peter added. “What you’re telling me is reassuring.”
“The issue isn’t the President,” Enrique Vargas said, lowering his voice as he spoke. “It’s some of the men he keeps close, Panos. Two in particular concern us.”
“Go on.”
“The President’s two most senior advisors are ruthless men, Peter,” the General said. “Evil. Rotten to the core.”
“You’re sure of this?” Peter asked.
“One hundred percent,” Tim Austin corroborated. “In the Bureau we’ve known for years that both of these guys have and would do anything required to advance their own interest.”
“Such as?”
“Such as destroying good men and their careers on a whim, fabricating evidence in criminal trials, finding ways to funnel billions in inflated government contract money to their cronies, and committing murder. And that’s just for starters.”
“Murder?” Peter wasn’t shocked by corruption, but accusing two of the most powerful men in the government of such a high crime seemed extreme.
“I’m absolutely sure of it,” Tim said unflinchingly, “but I cannot prove it in a court of law. These men are very clever and experienced, the best of the best. And know this, Peter, they haven’t killed once or twice, it’s a routine tool for them, part of their everyday arsenal.”
“Does the President know?” Peter wondered.
“We don’t think so,” Enrique Vargas guessed. “At least, all the evidence would suggest otherwise. To protect themselves they keep everything away from the President. To them he is just someone else they need to manipulate. Very few people know what we’ve just told you, Panos, less than twenty men total that we’re aware of, and none of us felt it was prudent to challenge these bastards without having the kind of evidence that would stand up in court.”
“Forgive me, brothers, but this sounds farfetched. I mean, even I know that the worst possible place to try and keep any secret is Washington, D.C. Sooner or later it would … ” Peter stopped talking because the answer to his question at once became obvious.
“Panos?” Tim asked.
“Of course, it must be.”
“What?” Vargas said, confused.
“Legion and his friends. These two advisors are his servants, they’re under his protection.”
Tim Austin and Enrique Vargas looked at each other. At the same time, each wondered, is it really that simple?
“Are you telling us, Panos, that these men are demons?” Tim asked.
“No, probably not. They’re almost surely flesh and blood. I’ll bet they don’t have a clue that Satan is running their lives. Remember that the devil feeds off of our own desires and our willingness to break God’s commandments in order to get what we want. I doubt very seriously that either one of these gentlemen has a Satanic chapel in his basement or draws pentagrams. Unless they can be made to see the Light before they die, they’d undoubtedly be quite shocked to pass on and wake up in hell. They probably don’t believe that anything greater than their own egos exists in the universe.”
“Hmm. I always thought … ”
“Always thought what, Tim?” Peter asked.
“I always thought those two jokers needed to be prosecuted and jailed, but it turns out what they really needed was an exorcism.”
Even in the low moonlight the crew and passengers of Marine Corps One could tell something unusual was going on at the White House. At least five hundred soldiers were busying themselves around the President’s residence. They were putting into place a large concrete barrier topped with razor wire as fast as they were able. This makeshift fence was nearly complete by the time Peter’s helicopter arrived shortly after two a.m.
“Could have sworn we just left a prison,” Gail said. “Looks like we’re flying into another one.”
“What they’re up to isn’t hard to figure out,” Alex said, as he continued to gather and organize his equipment.
“Okay, Alex, then explain it to me because I find it more than a bit odd, and unnerving,” Kenny said, looking out across the White House lawn which was now a small army base.
“They are erecting a static defense,” Alex explained. ‘None of their weapons work and by now they’ve figured out that even punching someone in the nose is impossible. So … ”
“So you put up a fence, as large and nasty as possible, to keep any enemies or uninvited guests away from the President and our seat of power,” General Vargas said, finishing Alex’s sentence for him.
“Exactly,” Alex concurred. “What else can they do? God took away their power to hurt each other, but paranoia remains. They are afraid.”
“Scared crapless,” Vargas said. “I would be positively manic, trying to run every possible scenario through my mind, planning for all possible contingencies.”
“That’s what they’re doing in there right now, General?” Peter asked. “Trying to figure out what to do next?”
“What should they be doing, Panos?”
“Praying, of course. They have been called to account by God. They need to seek His mercy.”
Alex shook his head in disbelief. What a totally preposterous situation, he thought to himself; the President of the United States of America, the most powerful man on earth, humbled by a lowly prisoner. Many times during the past few months, Alex was forced to stop, take a deep breath, and get a grip, but this scene was over any imaginable top. Despite the rational part of his brain telling him that none of this could possibly be happening, Alex was compelled to accept that it was. The power of God cannot be denied, he reminded himself, and it seemed that no longer would He allow it to be ignored.
“Gentlemen and Miss McCorkle,” the President said, as he stood and
affably greeted his guests. “Welcome to the White House. It is an honor to meet all of you. Thank you for coming on such short notice and without complaint.”
“Does he have to kiss their a** like that?” the first senior advisor whispered to his chief aide.
“It’s degrading,” the aide agreed, being careful to cover his mouth so that no one could read his lips.
“Sir, all of us are Americans. While my brothers and I serve God above all else, there should be no conflict between God’s will and our country’s best interest. We are humbled and honored to be here, Mr. President.”
What is it about this man? the President asked himself silently as Peter spoke. Is it his look? His manner of speech? In a way that was impossible to articulate, the President found Peter not only to be credible, but also fascinating. Routinely in the presence of great men and women, the President was not easily impressed or awed, but Peter Carson had done both to him within seconds of entering the room.
“I really don’t know where to begin, Mr. Carson. To say that you have us all at something of a loss would be the understatement of all time.” The President was trying his best to be completely open and honest, to avoid all pretense and deception.
“You may, Mr. President, take us in all matters at our word, sir. None of us would ever try and lie to you, or to anyone else. We are messengers of God, appointed by Him for His purpose.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Carson, for putting it so bluntly; is this real? I mean, I don’t see how it couldn’t be, or a coincidence either, as has been suggested. But Mr. Carson … ”
“Please. Mr. Carson was my father. Call me Peter.”
“Very well, Peter. Then I ask you straight out, man to man, is God really working through you as you say?”
“What do you think, sir?”
The President was afraid of this question, but not at all surprised that it was asked.
“I think nothing else could possibly explain what’s happened over the past few hours. The other theories make even less sense.”
“The other theories, sir?” Peter asked.