The Brad West Files

by Fritz Galt

  It was like watching someone with an MP3 player and earphones. She squeezed her hands together unselfconsciously. This pressed her breasts into full orbs that were visible between the lapels of her blouse. She squeezed her shoulders tight, shut her eyes, and lifted her face to the sunlight. Her pouting lips parted to drink in the sensations that she was experiencing.

  She reached down between her thighs. This was better than sex! If only he could get Jade, the other great sexual conquest of his life, to pair up with her. On stage. Instantly, a plan formed in his mind. He had to share his trophy with others. And he would use her to lure Bradley out into the open.

  He was drunk with lust as he watched her. Never in all their years together had he seen her like that. “We’re taking your show on the road.”

  He scrambled to his feet and staggered over to the kiva.

  “Hey, old man,” he called down.

  Yu finished a conversation he was having in his head and looked up from the bottom of the pit.

  “Old man, tell Jade’s spirit to take her to Las Vegas.” The thought of the two girls on stage was irresistible. It was the culmination of a desire he had long nursed ever since knowing the two women, each in a different but intimate way.

  Still, he had to stay focused. He buckled his belt emphatically. He was going to Las Vegas to smoke out Bradley West.

  But how would he get there?

  Chapter 33

  A Secret Service agent detailed to protect President Nelson Burrows stood waiting by the door. “The camera is ready, sir.”

  Burrows sat slouched in the Presidential Emergency Operations Center, a hardened bunker beneath the residential wing of the White House.

  He no longer felt like Charlie Chaplin in The Great Dictator, balancing a huge globe on his index finger. He didn’t enjoy running the government any longer. In reality, the government had become so fragmented that he didn’t feel like he was running anything at all, with the possible but untested exception of the military.

  He had just said goodbye to his Cabinet after a boisterous meeting. His secretaries had all had a chance to vent their frustrations. All that that had given him was a crude form of damage assessment of a situation that was eroding by the minute.

  The West Coast had lost power and communications. The Midwest was undergoing mass evacuation toward limited resources. Blackouts and fuel shortages were also affecting the region. The Northeast was sitting tensely on the verge of total financial collapse. The New York Stock Exchange had opened for a half hour on Monday and the DOW had fallen a thousand points before computers could suspend trading for the day. Wall Street was due to reopen and face equally staggering losses that morning. And the Southeast would go on playing the mambo into oblivion.

  He had heard no suggestions from his Cabinet that could dispel the fear that had spread across the nation like wildfire. All levels and organs of government had disintegrated in its swath.

  In fact, the White House was under immediate threat from protestors, combined with desperate souls seeking food and shelter. They had already breached the perimeter fence and were swarming over the grounds.

  The Secret Service agent was exhibiting signs of physical distress. “The nation is waiting for you, sir.”

  Burrows nodded, but didn’t move. Was this what incapacitating depression felt like? He had always believed that he was a strong man. But perhaps even he couldn’t lift the tremendous burden of a dying land.

  He had ordered the governmental emergency evacuation plan into effect. His FEMA director had hustled most of those in the line of succession including the Vice President, Speaker of the House and President Pro Tempore of the Senate by helicopter off to Mt. Weather in western Virginia. That was a 600,000-square-foot underground complex that could house several thousand people. He understood that it contained a hospital, a recreation center, sleeping quarters, an underground water reservoir, a television studio and a crematorium.

  But according to the plan, he was to take a different route. He would travel out to western Maryland, where he could stay in communication with the military from Camp David.

  But what role was left for the military? He was going to have to do what he dreaded most. It was something that signified a failed government and hadn’t been imposed by a President of the United States since the Civil War. He was going to have to impose martial law.

  “Here’s your speech, sir.” The agent nudged the pages closer to him.

  Burrows eyed the speech. It was like bitter medicine being forced down his throat. And it would have no effect. What could the military do to an internal foe? How could it conquer fear, override the decisions of all fifty governors, secure the banks, fix the power outages, stop the hoarding and looting, and bring food to the hungry that were spread throughout the land?

  Declaring martial law would not reverse the terrible course of events. It would only show the public that he, too, had panicked.

  Finally, Burrows rocked himself to his feet. “I won’t be needing that speech.”

  He followed the agent to a makeshift studio, took a seat in an overstuffed chair, and blew out his cheeks several times. The room was set up to resemble a comfortable living room, complete with a rug, a plant, and Gilbert Stuart's idealized portrait of George Washington standing in a welcoming pose.

  Then he heard the clunk of an electrical switch, and a hot blast of white light washed out the room.

  “On in five seconds, four, three…”

  Burrows looked up from his hands that were clasped in his lap. “My fellow Americans,” he extemporized. “We are facing dark times. But I am reminded of times that have tested our nation in the past, from the cold days of the Revolution onward. And I think of something my little old grandmother once told me as we rationed items and grew victory gardens during the Second World War. ‘Carrots will grow from this earth whether we are at war or not.’”

  He smiled at the memory of her eyes, dulled by glaucoma, but fiercely determined. “And as we seek out solutions to today’s problems, I want you to remember those reassuring words. The carrots will grow here tomorrow. And we will be here to enjoy them.”

  He sat back with an expansive sweep of his hands.

  “I urge all Americans to take a longer term view of our current situation and decide for ourselves whether we can band together to overcome our problems, or if we will run away from them. As Franklin Delano Roosevelt said at his inaugural address three-quarters of a century ago, ‘The only thing we have to fear…is fear itself.’”

  He knew it was trite, but a direct quote reinforced his point.

  “The same is true today. The enemy gnaws at each of us from the inside. And I ask you all to be soldiers, to beat back this apprehension, and to help us right the overturned boat of our nation. Thank you.”

  He let the camera fade out and the lights dim.

  “Inspiring words, sir,” the special agent said. “Your transportation is ready.”

  With that, Burrows followed a second special agent out the door and down a dark passageway deep under the city of Washington. It wasn’t the same tunnel that he had been shown leading to the Treasury Building. Instead, this one led northeast, a route he had only been told about and never seen.

  There he was flanked by ten more secret servicemen, each fully armed with drawn guns. He stumbled through the dark for what had to be two city blocks. At last they came to a door that was bolted from the inside. The lead agent punched a combination into the cipher lock and the door clicked open. In came a whoosh of damp air.

  Beyond that, he saw the open door of a subway car. He stepped into the dark train and looked for a secure area away from windows.

  “You’ll have to lie down, sir,” the lead agent said. “I’m sorry about the trash.”

  Burrows hunkered down on the floor and rolled under a seat. The carpet was not littered except for what felt like several pairs of children’s slippers.

  Within a minute, the train was rushing through the tunnels and sta
tions of the Washington Metrorail System. He lifted his head from under the seat and stared through the shaded windows. He could see people packing the platforms. Their faces were a blur and all were turned away as they waited for the next train.

  Huddled under the seat, he felt more like a fugitive or the victim of a kidnapping than the Head of State. Had it really come to this? He had literally become hostage to the crisis.

  The train bumped along the subterranean system for over a quarter of an hour before it pulled to an abrupt halt in a dark tunnel between two stations.

  “It’s time to get off, sir,” he was told.

  “Thank God for that.” He rose to a kneeling position and wiped particles of dirt off his tie and pants. At last he stood up and someone helped him to the door. Out the door and across a wide gap, he was led into another unlit tunnel.

  When the doorway at the end opened, he was hit by the glare of daylight. The reassuring sound of helicopter blades beat the air. He shielded his eyes and stepped outside. Where was he? The neighborhood consisted of a strip of car dealerships and school buildings along a highway. And the white chopper wasn’t his normal Marine One.

  Was someone abducting him?

  Then a marine stepped out of the helicopter and saluted him. That was a relief. The commercial chopper must be part of the escape plan, and the secret service and military were still on his side. He climbed aboard. The marine followed and pulled the door shut.

  It took a minute for the helicopter blades to rev up to full speed. Out the window, the secret service detail dispersed like freed prisoners. They headed off to awaiting station wagons and minivans. And then where did their loyalties lie?

  As the helicopter lifted and turned away, he watched the vehicles turn northward and head out of the city.

  The presidential helicopter slowed its forward movement over the flatlands seventy miles northwest of the nation’s capital. Burrows stared down at the eerily empty streets of Thurmont, Maryland.

  The town could be representative of any rural hamlet. Secret Service agents and marine personnel frequently showed up there for a bite to eat. He had even taken the Sultan of Brunei on a tour of the quaint covered bridges that spanned nearby streams. But there were no cars driving around in the unusually clear afternoon.

  Then he saw why. Hundreds of people were gathered at the local church. Residents were holding some sort of religious revival, most likely in support of Reverend Smith. And someone had set a nearby field on fire. The resulting black plume of smoke forced the pilot to make a slight detour. Perhaps someone was sending him a message.

  The countryside turned forested and mountainous as they passed over the boundaries of Catoctin Mountain Park. They swung into view of the shiny white boulders of Castle Rock Mountain. Then he saw the sharply defined ridges of Blue Ridge Summit.

  The tall hardwood trees were already beginning to unfurl their foliage. The forest had once been extensively logged to support agriculture and produce charcoal for ironwork furnaces. Would the nation have to chop them down again?

  The helicopter angled toward a stand of poplar trees, and Burrows could clearly see the landing pad. After several careful maneuvers, Marine One set down at Camp David.

  Secret Service vans were lined up waiting to transport him over the short distance to Aspen Lodge, his weekend retreat.

  Franklin Delano Roosevelt had chosen the location for the presidential getaway, dubbing it Shangri-la. And Burrows could see why. Tucked away in the Blue Ridge Province with its steep slopes and frolicking streams, it offered a return to the bucolic life. The cooler temperature of the mountain air was a relief from the blast furnace of Washington. It was also an escape from the political firestorms of the capital for every president since FDR. Dwight D. Eisenhower had even renamed the camp after his grandson, David. Such was the fondness that first families felt for the rustic retreat.

  Yet Burrows had never seen it so busy.

  Pathways teemed with people. Uniformed guards jogged from post to post while members of his staff squirreled away classified documents from the West Wing. The staffers and interns already occupied various cabins, such as Dogwood, Maple, Holly, Birch and Rosebud. The kidney-shaped swimming pool was not yet prepared for swimming that early in the season. He headed up the steps to Aspen Lodge and ran a hand over a rough-hewn Adirondack chair. Then he entered the wood-scented interior of his home away from home.

  His Chief of Staff Erwin Bell was waiting for him, the curls of his black hair combed neatly in place.

  “Nice speech,” Bell said. “Reminded me of the Fireside Chats.”

  Burrows grunted. “I was aiming more for a Checkers speech.”

  “Yeah, that came across, too.”

  Burrows threw himself into a couch along the window-lined wall. “Aw, c’mon. You and I both know it was damned inconsequential. Who even has electricity to run a television?”

  Bell nodded. “I understand that a number of television relay stations are out, as well.”

  Burrows looked around the room at the low-lying ceiling, the odd assortment of bric-a-brac, armchairs, glass-topped side tables, the oval dining table, and the floor lamps glowing warmly around the room. It was a place that brought him down to earth when he needed to feel a connection with nature and the common man. But today he couldn’t help but feel that the common man, severed from his life’s savings and searching for food, had little time for such cheery thoughts.

  “I can’t clobber the enemy with bombs,” he said slowly. “I can’t reopen ports by force. I can’t get gas to the pumps. People have lost all their investments and savings. Foreign investors have pulled the rug out from under us, so there is no money in the Treasury to dole out. There are no jobs for people to return to.” He dabbed at the tears that blotted out his vision. “There is absolutely nothing that I can do.”

  Bell pulled a folding chair up and straddled it backwards. He rested his chin on his fists. “We have only one weapon left.”

  Burrows blinked. “What?”

  Bell waited for him to lift his gaze, and their eyes met. “The truth.”

  Burrows let out a laugh. “Could someone please tell me what the truth is?”

  “Okay, bear with me here.” Bell ran his fingers through his hair. “Who or what is behind all this?”

  Burrows shrugged. “The threat of terrorism.”

  “Is that so?” Bell pointed to a report on the table behind him. “The CIA has been looking into the causes, and they can’t find a single institution or company or foreign power that stands to benefit from this crisis. In the long run, they all stand to lose.”

  “That’s right. I said it’s the threat of terrorism.”

  “But who stands to gain from planting that threat?”

  “The terrorists themselves.” Burrows didn’t see where Bell was going with that line of reasoning. “That’s why they call it terrorism.”

  “How could they instill so much fear? Do terrorists have that kind of clout?” Bell touched his temples in a gesture of remembering. “Take this whole thing back a few days. What precipitated this crisis?”

  “Governors Stokes and Walsh.” Burrows was aware of the bitterness in his voice.

  Bell gave a toothy smile. “Set aside the idea of terrorism. Who controlled the governors’ actions?”

  Burrows shrugged. “Assuming that anyone can control someone else’s behavior, it would have to be someone who stood to gain from this whole mess.”

  Bell stood up and thumbed through the report on the table. “The CIA says no. No one entity stood to benefit except…”

  “Except whom?” Burrows frowned. Enough with the drama already.

  “Except the political opposition.”

  “Spencer Hawthorn?”

  “No. Smith. The Reverend Terry Smith.”

  Burrows considered the possibility. He had met the reverend several times. He didn’t seem like a Rapture kook.

  “Think about how Smith has capitalized on this setback.”
/>   Burrows had been well aware of how the silver-haired and silver-tongued preacher had jumped all over the disaster and even proclaimed it good. But that didn’t prove that he was behind it. “Just what are you driving at?”

  Bell smiled again. “Access,” he said simply. “Smith had access to the governors. The same CIA agent who researched the data on who stood to benefit from the downturn also compared the itineraries of Smith and Stokes and Smith and Walsh.”

  “And?”

  “And they match perfectly. Smith visited each man the day they announced their embargos.”

  “Okay, so he had access. I have access. But did he have influence?”

  Bell circled behind the president and prodded him to his feet. “That’s what I’m prepared to show you. You’re going to get a little lesson in psychological operations.”

  “Where are you taking me?” He had already grown irritated by his all-knowing chief of staff.

  “We’re going to Site R.”

  Chapter 34

  Liang could watch May dancing all day in the sun-drenched canyon, but he had work to do. He had to find a way to get May and her father across Utah to Las Vegas. Fuel was the problem. The car was full of gas, but they had another thousand kilometers to go. He doubted the Escort could make it any more than half the distance.

  He approached May carefully. Her gyrations continued uninterrupted. Holding her arms high overhead, she swung her silky hair from side to side.

  “May, listen to me. I need to get us to Las Vegas. Do you have a car?”

  May’s eyes remained closed, her face turned up to the sun. “No,” she said, apparently between lyrics of a song.

  “Do you know where we can get one?”

  “…Yes…”

  “Can you hear me? This is important.”

  She nodded.

  “Get me another car.”

  With some ingenuity, they could hitch a car to the back of the Escort. The Escort could then pull the other car until it ran out of gas, whereupon they could ditch the Escort for the second half of the journey.