“Good,” I said. “The Wall Street crowd is on board.”
Sec. Winters replied, “For now, yes. But you know that can change in an instant. President Trump worked on the tax policy before you arrived, and Wall Street feels you are accomplishing some great things, but too much change too quickly could upset the apple cart.”
“I understand,” I replied. “Just tell them to trust me and all will be fine.”
“I will, Commander Marsh, and I wish you the best of luck and Merry Christmas,” he said. I wished him the same for him and his family as he left the oval office.
I worked alone for a couple of hours making plans for my next goal. It was not time to reveal it to the military just yet. I needed more time to evaluate the changes made so far. I had to get some feedback and some numbers to go on before making my next move. So, I found Cindy and Natalie and took them to the White House dining room.
“I’m taking you to a great place to eat for supper.”
“Great,” Cindy said. “Where are we going?”
“You’re already here,” I laughed. “I have my own chef right here. Out of the White House kitchen steps my chef, Marco Koperini. He is a big fellow who looks more like my bodyguard than my chef. He sees that I have guests, and waits for me to introduce them.
“Chef Marco,” I said, “this is my wife Cindy and my daughter Natalie.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you Mrs. Marsh and Natalie.”
“Are you too busy to fix us some supper?” I asked.
“Not at all,” answers Marco, “I was just reading about the baseball winter meetings hoping my Nationals would make some personnel changes.”
“So you’re a big Washington Nationals baseball fan?” I asked.
“Yes,” answers Marco, “I go to every game I can.”
“That’s great,” I say, “I’m an American League guy and root for the Detroit Tigers. Maybe they will play each other someday, and we can go watch a game together. But right now, these gals are hungry and we need to get them fed.”
I turn to Cindy and say, “You can order anything you like. I’m having lasagna, a salad and Italian cream cake for dessert. You and Natalie can have supper and you don’t even have to clean up the mess afterwards.”
“How nice of you, dear,” Cindy said in her most sarcastic tone.
Natalie laughed at me and teased her mother.
“I’ll have the same thing as my husband,” answered Cindy.
“How about you, Natalie?” I asked.
Of course I get the typical teenage answer. “A cheeseburger and french-fries, please,” came from Natalie.
“I’ll get right on that,” said Marco.
We had a nice supper together for the first time in what seemed like forever. After a couple of TV shows, Natalie was tired and Cindy put her to bed in the White House guest room right across from our bedroom. Cindy and I follow soon after.
We crawled into bed and I asked, “Sweetheart, do you remember the scene in the Game of Thrones, set on the night before Tyrian Lanister is to go into battle for the first time? He tells Shae something in the scene that—“
“I know what you’re talking about; and yes, I will,” she answered with a wry smile. It had been a great day and it was a great night.
Chapter 13
THINGS ARE HEATING UP
About two months into the takeover, things were really heating up. The procrastinators and non-believers were in for a rude awakening. I was expecting this to happen and I wanted to share some of the reports I received. I had the military personnel on the streets secretly film some of the interactions in government offices around the country. A transcript from one of those occurrences read . . .
Unemployment Office
An overweight man stepped up to a window and passed a slip of paper to the female clerk behind the glass. The clerk studies the paper, then passes it back to the man.
Clerk: Sorry, sir; your benefits have been discontinued.
The man’s eyebrows almost crawl atop his head.
Man: Come again? I got three more months.
But the clerk shook her head.
Clerk: I’m afraid not. You recently cashed your final check. So, your long-term unemployment benefits have been discontinued as of this point.
Man: That can’t be so! I’ve been collecting those for years!
Now it’s the clerk who lets her eyebrows rise.
Clerk: Excuse me, sir? Years?!
Man: No, no, no. I mean—well, um—do you have any other kinds of benefits?
Clerk: I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.
Man: I need to survive. How am I gonna survive?
Clerk: Maybe get a job?
Man: A job? A job? Where have you been? Nobody has a job these days! You don’t understand.
The clerk just gave him a look.
Clerk: I’m pretty sure I do. Next.
A young man stepped up to the glass and slid a slip of paper to the mustached male clerk. The clerk studied the paper, then looked at the young man.
Clerk: Form’s not complete.
The clerk slid it back toward the man.
Man: What—you—mean?
Clerk: What I mean is there’s a section not marked.
They stared at each other for a moment. The young man’s face just said, “Huh?”
Clerk: (impatient; “duh”) Look here at the drug test section. That must be filled out. You have to do that in Room 6 before you come to me.
Man: Oh, I know; never passed one of those things.
Now it was the clerk’s turn to lean in close.
Clerk: Then you can’t get one of these things.
The clerk tore up the slip of paper. The young man stood there, shaking
Clerk: Next!
Outside the Capital Building:
A group of minimum wage advocates marched outside the capitol building, holding signs in support of their cause. Suddenly, a single chirp was heard from a police siren, as a police car pulled up to the protestors and two cops stepped out.
Cop 1: You can’t assemble here.
Protestor 1: Why not? We’re being peaceful!
The cop shook his head.
Cop 1: This was covered by Commander Marsh on day one under martial law. The right to peaceful assembly has been suspended until martial law is lifted. Come on. Either you leave or we take you.
Protestor 1: Are you kidding me?
Cop 1: (sternly) Sir, I do not have time to argue with you. There’s a change a’comin’ in this nation. Don’t resist it.
Gulping, the protestor lowered his sign.
Protestor 1: (looking around) Come on, guys. Time to go home.
Those were a few examples of what was happening all over the nation. I thought I was getting the point across—we meant business! The number of those receiving food stamps, government housing, welfare checks, and unemployment checks had been cut drastically. People were scrambling for work for the first time in years. The mandatory drug tests were working, and we were discovering that what I feared was true about where the money was going was right on. The drug dealers’ customer base was shrinking. Nixon declared a war on drugs in 1971. He didn’t know how to fight it, but I do.
I sat behind my desk, speaking with Drew on the phone, “Oh, really? You did that? A- in Algebra? You really are some fine student. You make your daddy proud.” In walked General St. Claire, out of breath.
“I’ll call you back, kiddo; keep up the good work.” I hung up and turned toward the General. “Everything okay?”
The General needed to collect himself before sitting down. Even after he did, his breathing was still heavy.
“Hey! You’re making me nervous.”
General St. Claire spoke, “Sorry, sir; it’s just . . . your policies.”
“I know, General. A little more extreme than we expected, right?”
“No. It’s not that. What I came into say is: This is working!”
Then I kind of shook my he
ad and said, “I don’t follow—how exactly have you come to that conclusion after only a couple of months?”
“We’ve conducted our first public research poll. I’ve got to admit, I was against it at first, but the boys convinced me that getting an approval rating on you was a good way to let the public know we’re on their side.”
“Okay. Good idea. Wish I had known, but – what if the numbers are bad?”
“Oh, you’ll be happy.” The General gave a great big smile. “Fifty-six percent.”
“Fifty . . . wait, what?!”
St. Claire nodded and said, “I thought it was inaccurate, so I had another group do an independent study. Their number was 56.5, and their averages are quite reliable.”
“My goodness!” I was incredulous.
General St. Claire looked at me in agreement and responded, “I know.”
I stood up, walked along the wall behind my desk, turned and spouted, “You realize what this means, don’t you, General?”
The General, smiling, gave a playful shrug and asked, “Now we can pursue more aggressive policies?”
“That, too. No question. But what I’m thinking is . . .” I stopped walking and locked eyes with the General. I continued, “The approval rating isn’t an approval of me. Or us. It just means that the people have always wanted these things. It proves that most people in this country are sick and tired of freeloaders living off the tax money they are paying to the government. The resentment has always been there. The political correctness police deemed it inhumane to not take care of the poor. I agree, if they are unable to work because of a physical disability, or if they run into some bad luck, I don’t mind to give them a leg up for a while. But ‘a while’ became ‘forever,’ even when they could have gone back to work and taken care of themselves and their families. This is wonderful.”
The General left and I found Jerry and told him to get me the Secretary of Homeland Security. In walked Leslie Bullock, our Secretary of Homeland Security. She had been fighting a losing battle for a long time. Our southern border had been experiencing a full-fledged invasion for years, but it had gotten much worse in the last year. She was in high heels and a nice blue dress today, but I’ve seen her at the border in her boots and jeans gathering information to bring back to our do-nothing Congress. Well, I’ve fired Congress, and things can change more swiftly with martial law. I greeted her and asked her to take a seat.
“What can I do for you, Commander Marsh?”
“I would like to know if your people are keeping up with the numbers of illegals we are seeing exiting the country?”
“Yes, we are,” she claimed, “and it has been quite an exodus, to the extent we can count them. Only the hard-nosed gang members seem to be staying behind, but they are scared.”
“I have heard the same thing, but I wanted to hear it from you,” I said, “and I appreciate the men and women in your department and the job they do. You run a tight ship.”
“Thank you, Commander; that means a lot coming from you,” she said. “I know the safety of our citizens is of the utmost importance to you.” She produced a report from her briefcase. It was from a raid conducted on illegals hiding from law enforcement. I looked over it:
Two sheriff’s deputies, guns in hand, walked toward the front door of a rural home at night.
Deputy 1: Is this the right address?
Deputy 2: it better be. Checked it three times.
They stepped up onto the porch.
Deputy 1: You like these assignments, Ray?
Deputy 2: (shrugs) The job’s the job. We administer the law.
They knocked on the door and wait. No one answered.
Deputy 1: Mr. Gonzales! It’s the Sheriff’s Department . . .
A barely [audible] sound was heard. They knocked again.
Deputy 1: Mr. Gonzales, you had federal orders to deport yourself and your family 24 hours ago.
A bullet shredded the front door. The two deputies spread out to either side. Two more bullets broke the door open.
Deputy 1: (screaming into his radio) Station, we’re gonna need back up at our stop on Apple Barrel Road.
Deputy 2: (jumping through the door) To hell with waitin’ for back up, buddy. These guys weren’t waiting.
Deputy 1: (running inside) Ray!
A gang of illegals was in the front room of the house. Gunfire erupts. Five illegals were killed and one deputy was slightly bruised from taking a bullet in his vest.
The sun was down when backup arrived. The house was crawling with cops, paramedics, reporters, and some neighbors. A female reporter addressed a camera.
Reporter: People around the neighborhood have complained about this local gang for the past 18 months. I’m here now with one of the deputies on the scene, Deputy Ray Manuel, who’s rightfully being labeled as a “hero.”
Deputy Manuel stepped forward.
Reporter: Deputy Manuel, you personally took down three of the armed men today.
Manuel nods.
Reporter: Any statement you’d care to make about the incident?
Manuel: (bleary eyed) Seems to me the government had made its position clear: If you didn’t get out yesterday, we were coming for you. And, well . . . (shrugs) . . . we came.
“Secretary Bullock,” I said, “I want to pin medals on these two deputies. Bring them to me when you get a chance.”
She agreed and I ended the meeting. Jerry returned for new orders. I sent him to ask General St. Claire, to tell me who is in charge of our prison operation. Jerry returned and informed me that Colonel Jared Stollings was at the Pentagon and could be there in an hour.
I said, “Let’s go eat while I have a chance.”
An hour later Colonel Stollings sat in front of me and I asked, “How are we coming along?”
“Commander,” the Colonel started, “we identified the clientele you were targeting in about 100 prisons and began transporting them to secure medical facilities. It was easy at first, but the inmates were spreading wild stories inside the prison, making it harder to take them away peacefully.”
“Here’s the answer,” I said. “Have the warden pick the least violent inmate that we could release, one close to finishing his or her sentence and release the inmate back into the prison population. Turn him loose the next day. All of them will think they have hope of a like result. They will return to an orderly exit.”
The colonel said, “I consider the percentage of completion at 70.”
“That’s great,” I answered. “The organs are in good shape, I presume?”
Colonel Stollings concurred, “Yes. Most of the time.”
“How about the wardens?” I asked. “Are they causing any problem?”
He indicated that almost all the wardens were on board. He assured me there would be no problems going forward. I told him to continue to take care of this and to look into any individual cases involving non-violent crimes that received too harsh a sentence.
“Bring them to me for evaluation; some of them may be candidates for release. This will cover our tracks,” I said.
This was a tricky operation. I hoped the wardens were taking extra precautions and keeping them in their cells most of the time. Any riots would bring instant death to all inmates. Colonel Stollings told me there were at least two prisons cleaned out
“Have you started moving in addicts and homeless yet?” I asked.
“Yes, we have,” he answered, “and it’s working perfectly. The guards love it and believe in what we are doing.” The colonel left the oval office.
General St. Claire showed up and asked, “Did you get a good report from Colonel Stollings?”
“Yes,” I answered, “but I’m uneasy with the situation. The inmates are asking questions. They may riot at any time. The wardens need to keep them in their cells as much as possible. We’re going to release a couple of non-violent prisoners close to reaching parole. This will spread through the prison and calm things down. We will try to speed up the process t
o a successful conclusion.”
“I have to admit, Commander, you think of everything; that is a great idea; I will make it so,” he said.
“I would like to go to the southern border, General; is that possible? I want to see the land on which we are building this wall.” I added.
“You getting stir crazy here in the White House?”
“Maybe a little, but I’m needing to head that way anyway.”
“Uh-oh,” he said; “That sounds like another operation beginning to hatch.”
“Let’s meet tonight at 1900,” I said, “Get everyone together.”
The General agreed and left to set the meeting.
The 1900 hour meeting came sooner than I expected. I got sidetracked by a couple of phone calls from government officials thanking me for reducing the number of deadbeats they were dealing with on a daily basis. I do love to hear good news, but I needed to have my notes prepared for this most important presentation. This was the crown jewel of my plan. And I was about to reveal it.
I walked into the conference room to some polite applause. General St. Claire smiled and I figured he had told the group about the 56% approval rating. I acknowledged them and took my seat. “Thank you for all the applause, but do you realize that 44% of the people despise me? I said. They laughed, but would they be laughing in a few minutes? “I called this meeting to talk about our next operation. In 1971, President Nixon announced his war on drugs. We have been losing this war since that day. I intend to win it in less than a week. We will invade Mexico and take out the drug cartels. We will divide any money confiscated with the Mexican government. This money should pay for our wall.”
“Wait a minute,” General St. Claire said with a furled brow. “Taking care of business here at home is one thing, but invading another country is another.”
“Let me finish before you criticize,” I said. I let the idea sink in for a moment. “Here is the plan: One, I will travel to the southern border to be seen checking out the landscape. The TV stations will cover my every move. When I leave, I will fly to Mexico City for a pre-arranged meeting with the President of Mexico. I will need complete secrecy and security. We will land late at night and meet at a secure location that will be pre-approved by some of our people. Two, at the meeting I will explain to the President what we intend to do. He will be warned not to tip the cartels that we are coming. This will benefit his people and ours. Half the money we confiscate will go to his administration. There will be no negotiation. If he does not cooperate, all foreign aid to his country will come to a halt. If our countries are to remain friendly, the flow of drugs northward must stop. If he fights me on this we may make Mexico the 51st state. I will not give in. This will happen.”
The (New) American Way Page 8