Viktor would be even more vulnerable. He was not known for entertaining media, even within his own country. Seeing a young forty-something American, while his own wife was struggling with cancer? And neither president could conceal private meetings from their own staff.
Culture. Responsibility. Perhaps in that capacity? Bridge the two cultures, emphasizing freedom and responsibility? Could it work?
Juan only had moments before his next crisis. His time in office had taught him to expect at least one crisis before lunch. And while he didn’t micro-manage, neither did he live on the golf course or go on multiple vacations at taxpayer expense, then deny knowledge of major executive branch meltdowns. Juan made sure that each member of his staff knew three things about their particular jobs:
Here are the areas where you make the decisions and don’t bother telling me.
Here are the areas where you make the decisions but be sure to inform me. Juan would give them examples of whether to tell him within the day, the week, or at the next scheduled staff meeting.
And finally, here are the specific areas of crisis that I’m to be made aware of immediately, which I’ll handle personally.
All part of Total Quality Management, which he’d implemented as a senior hospital administrator, then demanded at the White House.
Not surprisingly, he usually had an unscheduled “Hey, Boss” several times a day. So, he quickly formulated a plan. He didn’t always agree with Fox News. But while their personnel and analysts were tough, they had also been respectful. And he knew that given the pressure their personnel received from the “other” news organizations, he suspected that anyone working there for awhile must have a tough skin and a lot of integrity.
He’d talk to Priscilla tonight.
Might eventually send her to Moscow. She loves to travel, and wouldn’t that blow everybody’s minds? Clandestine communications in plain sight while making the world a better place.
Juan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was always amazed how subtle, how simple, and how profound God’s answers could be. Like using Queen Esther to save the Jewish race and lineage of the Messiah.
“Thank you, Lord,” he quietly whispered.
And his phone chirped.
OK. What now?
43. A PAWN IS LOST
Juan’s humble attitude was in stark contrast to that displayed by his former political opponent that evening.
As he disconnected from Tamika’s weekly call, Jason’s practiced calm, quiet composure quickly morphed into fury and then overwhelming rage. He wished, for the first time in his life, that he had a puppy, or even a kitten. How he would have loved to take the filthy creature, hold it at arm’s length and look deep into its sad little eyes. He would slowly choke the life out of it then slam it into the far wall of his condominium.
Jason hated animals. He hated God. And he hated Christians.
And Tamika had just told him that Justin had become a…a Christian!
“So damn unpredictable!” He shouted in his soundproof condo. And so hard to manipulate, he thought.
She said that Justin had even turned down a night in bed with her! That he cared for her so much, he wanted them to date and wait until their wedding night if their relationship continued to grow!
What’s with that trash? They should be living together by now! How pathetic.
And…was there a touch, ever so slight, of waiver in Tamika’s loyalty? Did she somehow actually respect the profound idiot for turning down her availability?
An outside observer would marvel at Jason’s sudden transformation over what seemed so trivial. But all the thoughts of losing the presidency to the Christian Juan Garcia slammed over him like an avalanche. His meticulous self-control in public shattered in the privacy of his condo, as he realized he had just lost one of his key pawns.
Why did it even matter? Jason always played many steps ahead. He didn’t have a plan. He never had a plan. He always had dozens! Jason would have laughed at the grandiose schemes Cliff was formulating for Guardian System Two, had Jason known them. He was already several steps beyond what Cliff still hadn’t fully worked out in his own mind. And frankly, Jason was already well beyond Cliff. The man would soon end up as the victim of an unexplainable accident once he moved beyond his usefulness.
But no. This was an overwhelming anger that possessed Jason like an obsession. Uncharacteristically, he had even cut the call short with Tamika, failing to complete his typical objectives when talking to his sources: Encourage her loyalty. Remind her she owes you.
Furious, he cursed loudly. How could he have missed something so simple, so standard?
If an outsider really knew Jason well—and nobody did—and if that person also knew about his SORDAMN philosophy, they may have told the senator that he was slipping a little. Specifically, his “self-control in all things at all times” plank was picking up a few splinters. But if that person really did know Jason well? He also would have known better than to say a word. Especially right now.
Jason poured his first drink and brooded over it. He considered the options within his power. And his power extended very far indeed.
I can send some thugs to threaten him and beat him within an inch of his life.
I can shut down DPI.
I can kidnap Tamika and demand Justin reprogram Guardian if he ever wants to see her alive again.
Jason wasn’t thinking clearly. He knew it. He poured his second drink.
He had planned to manipulate Justin to program Guardian System One, the trans-dimensional one or whatever they called it, for remote control. It would take off without Roger and trigger the start of the one world reorganization, since the ICBM had failed. Roger would painfully die away from the aircraft. That thought alone delighted the senator. It was a shame the plane couldn’t land itself. It would have been an excellent asset for One World Peace Now, even better than Jason’s original plan for the “unconverted” Guardian aircraft. Still, after the incredible results from a single ten-pound slug slamming into a satellite or barge, he could just imagine the entire multi-ton aircraft slamming into Moscow…! Everyone would suspect a nuke. Best of all, no radioactive fallout. Easy for the new Russian Premier to rebuild.
Cliff had faithfully reported Roger’s speculation about the slug’s impact. It was a reasonable theory; it made sense. An unknown amount of energy was absorbed in the trans-dimensional conversion of Guardian. That energy was then transferred to gasses, liquids, and solids as Roger had learned after landing. The time it took for the transformation depended on the substances’ density. Conversely, the transformation back would take longer for a high-density solid. Normally. But if all that latent energy of transformation was instantly released, as when a high-density slug impacted another solid object at hypersonic speeds…
Calm slowly returned as Jason got out of the moment and planned forward.
“We will win this thing. We will be in power!” He started to pour a third drink, just this once, then stopped himself. “I will be in power!”
He told his multimedia system to play “normal.” His seven-channel, high-def multimedia surround system responded with loud acid rock and a kaleidoscope of flashes, explosions, lightning, and chaos.
He sat back in his recliner, taking it all in. The tension slowly melted away.
Well, if I can’t manipulate Justin to program System One, I’ll just have the hangar torn down with the plane and Roger in it. Make sure Roger doesn’t pull some more heroics and get in my way again. I’ll send my errand boy Cliff out in System Two to stir up trouble as soon as it’s ready. Not as spectacular, but it should work.
If only “Five Score and Ten” had worked out. I’d have another forty-five years to do everything I want to get done. Hmm. We will find her. I will get that formula.
Jason checked his Multiphone calendar. He didn’t have any urgent plans for the morning. He could afford to stay up late.
Time to enjoy some of the finer things in life.
> He muted his multimedia system and called a special number from his untraceable phone. He identified himself by a secure code.
“Yes, Sir? What’s your pleasure tonight?” a personable female voice responded.
“Female. Fifteen or sixteen. Hmm…don’t care about the race. At my place in an hour; pick her up at 9 a.m.”
It was time to play. The sex slave would be delighted to give him anything he desired, as often as he desired, for another hit of the designer narcotic the team had addicted her to. With his special access code, he could even take out some of his anger on her, no questions asked. He’d call back and ask for a “cleanup crew” instead of the pickup.
No one would miss her. There were plenty more where she came from, and there will be even more, at least for him, when he becomes America’s Premier.
Jason turned the noise back up, even louder.
Who knows? Maybe this time we’ll even get our hands back on Karen.
+ + +
Ellen’s cruise was nothing short of divine. Was it somehow too good to be true?
She carefully—but discretely—checked all her surroundings as she disembarked from the cruise ship, fully expecting uniformed police or plainclothes personnel to be waiting for her. Or for that matter, a fully deployed SWAT team. Or even worse, some of Jason’s henchmen, who wouldn’t care about who they injured or how many, so long as they captured her. Or recovered her body.
It was mid-morning. A cold, damp wind threatened rain from low, heavy clouds. Ellen followed the crowd, careful to stay close and tight, and not to draw any undue attention. Within thirty minutes, she was through customs, outside the cruise facility, and in a cab.
Just like that.
“Mornin’, Ma’am. Where to?” the driver asked.
Ellen had considered calling for an Uber pickup, or maybe trying one of the new fully automated cabs, but instead she chose to simply hail a traditional taxi and quickly be on her way.
“Tanger Outlet, please.”
Another twenty minutes and she was there.
A quick lunch and short walk, and she was at her intended destination; a sports center she’d looked up on the internet. One that had a good selection of motorcycles.
Ellen really enjoyed the Chevy Ultra Volt and hated that she had to give it up with her latest change of identities. It had served her especially well in her unplanned assignment to get across town through heavy traffic in time to stop the vulgar terrorist attack against the school. So…? Ellen would further break all old patterns. She really wanted a new hybrid touring cycle, but she settled for a 2020 Yamaha V Star 1300.
By five o’clock that afternoon, Ellen, her new helmet, gloves, riding gear, and her ever-present backpack were at a Hampton Inn on the outskirts of Columbia, South Carolina. More specifically, she was in a hot tub of water in a comfortable room, grateful for a pleasant and surprisingly uneventful week.
She wouldn’t keep the motorcycle long; it was too much of an attention-getter. But that was the exact motive for the moment; leave Charleston using the most unlikely mode possible.
Ellen O’Brien had to admit, it sure was fun!
44. A DEEPENING DARKNESS
Roger awoke to a sudden pain and pressure in his upper right abdomen. As he stood to his feet, a wave of nausea swept over him and he threw up.
Great. America’s ultimate secret weapon, piloted by an old man with a bad gallbladder.
He steadied himself against the landing gear strut. He knew from experience that the pain would likely last several hours, followed by a mild ache for a day.
Depression gnawed at him again. It was more than just the loneliness. Several things hung heavily over him.
For one thing, Roger wasn’t a warrior. Sure, he would defend the United States to save American lives as he’d already done. But his recent test flight showed that his unique trans-dimensional aircraft could carry out devastating offensive attacks. He had already done the math and realized that he was able to wipe out any dam in the world with two, or at the most, three slugs. Entire cities could be destroyed. Hundreds of thousands killed within minutes. And no one could stop him, or even prove who did it or how. The ultimate counter-value targeting. Would he be willing to do so if ordered? He trusted President Garcia; he was the first person Roger ever campaigned for. But who would be the next Commander-in-Chief?
And there was the bad gallbladder. The attacks were getting worse. Strange. His once-paralyzed legs were now completely functional. But his gallbladder was giving him fits. The Atrial Fibrillation came and went as before, neither better nor worse.
And how long would he and the aircraft be trans-dimensional? He had taken up the habit of measuring the “deadline,” how close flies, rodents, cockroaches, and other unfortunates would get to the aircraft before dying. He couldn’t tell that they were able to get any closer or that they were dying farther away. Nor could he discern any change in the time it took for various substances, like his water and food, to convert so he could hold on to it. But would the effect last forever? It didn’t seem to be extending out farther; that was good. His existence in the hangar didn’t appear to be putting anyone at Grand Fork Air Force Base at risk.
Not yet. But what about when he died? Would the hangar become the world’s most secret and dangerous superfund site? Would they have to encase the whole thing in concrete, like the ten nuclear reactors that had melted down over the years?
Roger thought about how close he’d come to ending it all before choosing to land at Robins Air Force Base. He’d had every intention of nosing the aircraft into the Okefenokee Swamp in southern Georgia, or into a foothill in the northern part of the state. A chill ran through him and he shuddered. If a ten-pound slug had impacted a barge with such transformational force that it registered on seismometers, the instant conversion of a nineteen-ton aircraft would be like, what? A small nuke? All the energy that had gone into converting Guardian and Roger would be instantly released…
Roger feared that every time he flew over land, he put cities at risk. If he ditched over water, he could set off a massive tsunami that would also kill thousands.
Good grief. Would I even set off a reaction with a hard landing?!
So many questions. So many risks.
The dark thoughts swirled. Nevada? Arizona? Alaska? Sahara Desert? Would he be asked to make that final flight after Systems Two and Three were on alert? Or should he go ahead and do it on his own?
And where in the world did that warhead come from? Just how close are we to World War III?
In a mass attack, what could he do? Twelve “slugs” meant up to twelve intercepts if the recent test had completed the gun’s boresighting for “one shot, one kill” accuracy. How many more warheads would he not be able to stop while he returned, reloaded, refueled, and mounted two fresh SRBs? The interceptor program was meant to protect the country from rogues like North Korea and Iran. It wasn’t designed to counter a full-scale nuclear attack.
Roger slowly got up and gingerly walked to the bathroom to relieve himself, then back to the table where “converted” water and paper towels were there for his convenience. He grabbed several towels and cleaned up his vomit. About the time he threw the towels away he became sick again.
No food today.
It was great seeing Justin the day before, but even that was depressing. Justin had flown to Grand Forks to bring Roger a few personal belongings from his apartment. He stepped into the hangar from a side door, turned on the lights, and just stared into what must have appeared to be a hangar with tables to the side of…nothing. Justin was careful not come closer than the duct tape Roger had placed on the hangar floor. Roger could tell that the young man was tearing up and trying to communicate, but to no avail. Justin’s words…too slow to lip read, even if he knew how…were subsonic to Roger. Likewise, Roger’s words would be ultrasonic to Justin, and delivered at a micro-burst rate much faster than he could comprehend.
Roger longed to reach out to his friend, and now hi
s new brother in Christ, and hug him. But he was not about to put the young man at risk. Matter could transform back and forth, but not even so-called nuclear-survivable roaches could get closer than five yards and live.
After what to Roger was several minutes, Justin brought in the cases, set them down, waved into the empty hangar, turned out the lights, and left. Roger stood there for several more minutes, overwhelmed by crushing loneliness, before slowly walking over to retrieve his few belongings.
Yesterday. Roger sighed. He looked again at what Justin had brought. To protect his secret existence, Roger didn’t want any pictures or items that would disclose his identity if he had to abandon them. So, most of what Justin brought were books. The greatest treasure was the brand new, non-magnetic solid state, ten terabyte memory drive with a full dump off his home computer. Roger would be able to plug it into Guardian and enjoy his family videos, pictures, favorite music, and everything else he’d electronically collected over the decades.
For that, Roger was grateful. But he just didn’t feel up to climbing into the cockpit until his gallbladder attack subsided.
As if on cue, another wave of nausea hit. Almost as painful, Roger suddenly remembered that tornados were not unheard of in North Dakota. Just a year earlier, a massive EF-4 tornado had leveled a fracking facility in the western part of the state, with winds over 180 miles per hour. Roger shuddered again, both from the physical pain and from the realization that destruction could come not only from Guardian slamming into something solid. It could also occur from something solid slamming into the aircraft. All of Grand Forks Air Force Base could become a crater, dozens of feet deep.
Well, at least we’re still a few months away from tornado season. I hope…
There was a small, ragged cardboard box he’d asked Justin to bring out of his garage. It had some of his old favorite books. Roger found it in the second crate he opened. He removed the Bubble Wrap packing material and stood speechless, staring at the last thing he imaged he would ever see again.
The Guardian Collection (End of the Sixth Age Book 2) Page 22