“Senator, I’m sorry, but your time is up.” Grayson Taylor, the moderator for the evening’s debate, cut the senator off, then felt the scornful glare of a woman interrupted. “President Tenor,” he continued, “the next question goes to you.”
“I’m sorry too, Grayson, but I need to finish my point about the president’s lack of—”
“Senator, if you please! You agreed to the terms of this debate. You need to wait your turn.”
“I think we’ve all waited long enough, don’t you?” She looked directly into the camera. “Don’t you? The country belongs to us, people. Let me…let us take it back!”
The studio audience erupted, rising to their feet with loud cheers, yells, and thunderous applause. It drowned out the moderator’s attempt at asking the next question. For those keeping score, this was the winning play of the game. Karlson smiled with smug confidence. She was no longer the welterweight contender fighting against an incumbent president. This night had given rise to a new Goliath.
“You handled him brilliantly!” Gene Lawton, Karlson’s campaign manager, congratulated her. He pressed the pause button on the remote, halting the replay of the presidential debate from the night earlier. “Listen to those cheers! You had him against the ropes right from the beginning. Of course, it helped that we seeded the crowd a little bit.”
“A little bit?” she chuckled. “May I remind you, Gene, that seventy percent of that audience were our people! Tenor stood there, staring like a deer in the headlights. He never knew what hit him.”
Karlson swiveled her stool around and reached for her drink. She took a long, satisfying swallow, crunching on ice chips. She smiled, remembering the blank expression on the popular incumbent president’s face.
This was the first of three scheduled presidential debates for the first-term California senator. More than that, it was the first long stride toward taking the White House. Karlson turned back toward the television. Her likeness was frozen in a defiant grin. For a moment, she saw a woman from a different time. Her chestnut brown hair required coloring and highlights more often these days. Her face revealed the creeping lines of age despite the Botox injections and skin tighteners. But the high cheekbones and mesmerizing green eyes were as stunning today as when she had been a Hollywood heartthrob.
When she’d first met her husband, Clifford West, Karlson was a popular actress. He was the California Attorney General. Her most recent movie, “Undertow,” was the top box office draw, and he was the rising star in politics. Their torrid love affair kept the tabloid photographers busy chasing after that elusive and steamy photo of the couple caught in a compromising position.
By the time West was elected governor, Karlson’s acting career had begun a slow downward spiral. Taking a backseat to her husband’s success was painful. She spent years nursing her ego with Johnny, Jack, and Jim. Some old friends persuaded her to indulge in her political passions, and she jumped in with both feet, taking up every cause that came her way. Save the Whales and Seals, PETA, Earth First, and Greenpeace. The birth of their daughter, Jordan, kept her home just long enough to realize how much she still craved the spotlight, whether it was on the big screen or in politics.
She spent the next fifteen years speaking on varied subjects. Ban the internal combustion engine. Eliminate red meat consumption for all Americans. Piping the water from the Great Lakes to irrigate drought-ridden Iowa farms. It all came so naturally that she decided acting had been a mere stepping stone in preparation for her political calling.
With the support of her well-connected Hollywood friends and her husband, Karlson ran for the California senate. She took the office in a near landslide. Now, two years later, she was dead even in the polls with Davis Tenor, the current POTUS.
Tenor enjoyed broad support among business leaders and foreign governments, relationships he’d forged while in the private sector. He was well respected, accomplished, and loved by millions. And he was in the way.
Gene Lawton sat near the television with a yellow legal pad, analyzing the replayed debate while making a list of issues requiring attention. Lawton’s prowess at creating political giants while tearing down opponents was legendary. He was considered one of the greatest in the business.
“Katherine,” he said, “we need to adjust our position on a few points.” He tapped his pen on the notepad. “Tenor claimed that tax revenues increased last year when the small business credit went into effect. We can play this as a tax break for business on the backs of the middle class. You can drum up support to overturn it once you’re in office.”
Karlson turned from her frozen image on the screen. “That’s an easy one,” she nodded. “Get Jenny and David to write some sample spins on it. We’ll pick the best one for a new ad.”
Jennifer Griffon and David Marsden were the brilliant writers of the hottest drama on television, Capitol Beat. Their passion was politics, and their candidate was Ms. Karlson. They had the literary prowess to turn a mouthwatering slice of cherry pie into a writhing plate of maggots. With a few skillfully crafted lines, they could make this tax credit look and feel like the black plague.
Karlson swirled the ice cubes in her near-empty drink and added, “Tell them it only helps the wealthiest three percent. A little shot of class envy should knock that piece of shit back down the sewer.”
Lawton smiled and continued. “Tenor was also correct when he spoke of the military seeking a more high-tech approach to the war. On his last trip to Camp David, he was briefed on some new battlefield innovations. It gave him a moment of being on top in the debate while making you appear out of the loop. You need to pick some brains in the military oversight committee. Find out how far along these new war toys have progressed. I hate to say it, but progress and victory in this war do not bode well for your campaign platform.”
In a mocking southern accent, Karlson said, “I’ll have lunch with the distinguished old fart from Louisiana. A couple of shots of bourbon, and he can’t take his eyes off my cleavage. He’s pathetic but amusing. I’m sure we’ll get what we need. Any other issues?”
Lawton ambled over and kissed the back of her neck. “The last issue is how much time do we have left tonight?”
The Senator turned and looked up into his hazel eyes. “Enough…let me freshen my drink. I’ll meet you in the bedroom.”
5
At precisely 9:45 pm on February tenth, a large safe was opened in the executive office of Malcolm LeClair. A controversial memory stick that had helped further divide an already polarized nation was removed and placed in a briefcase. This was handed to one of the corporation’s attorneys, a rugged-looking courtroom warrior who wore his $1600 Armani suit like a coat of armor. Escorted by four armed guards and a second attorney, the case was carried through the reception area to the main elevator and down to the third floor.
The procession threaded its way through the building. All motion and sound ceased throughout the cubicle labyrinths as its occupants stood peering over their enclosures to witness the progress.
They exited the elevator at the Global Access television studio entrance and were routed to the control room.
The lead attorney entered and was directed to a USB patch bay mounted above a rack of computers. As per his instructions, the attorney removed the odd-shaped red memory stick, slid it out of its clear plastic cover, and plugged it into the slot marked USB-two. He stepped back as a studio technician visually inspected the connection, then took a seat at the massive audio-visual console. His fingers danced on a computer keyboard as he opened the device file and verified its contents. When he had located the video file, he hit play and then pause. The system was now ready to reveal its message to the world.
Two of the guards took up posts outside the control room. The remaining pair covered the entrance of the studio, barring access to anyone without special clearance.
The attorneys were shown to seats they would occupy until the video had been played and recorded. The original was to be hand-de
livered to FBI agents waiting less than patiently in the main lobby. The government had been informed of the existence of the device and threatened to lock down the network and confiscate the drive. The argument was made that revealing its contents posed a potential risk to national security. In a stunning defeat, a federal judge blocked the government’s action. He ruled in favor of LeClair, stating that freedom of speech took precedence over their claim. They would be allowed access to the memory stick only after its broadcast.
The studio technician switched two of the eight monitors to display the controversial file. He pushed play again, and the first image flashed on the screens. “We’re all set here, Mort,” he said to the man seated to his left.
Mort Hastings, network news director, responded with a nod as he scanned the monitors and control settings. He sipped cold coffee, memorizing every displayed image. He noted the time on a digital clock above the large window that looked out over the television studio. He watched the newscaster below, listening to his dialogue through headphones while matching it with the teleprompter monitor.
“He’s going off script again,” he complained to anyone listening. “Six minutes to go, and the famous Burt Ledger still won’t follow his lines.” He glanced to his left and said, “Mandy, bump him back on track, please.”
Mandy Geraldo, the dialogue editor, nodded and waited for the news anchor to take a breath. She then queued up her microphone. “Time is tight, Burt. Stay on script.”
Without so much as a blink of acknowledgment, Burt Ledger redirected his discussion back to what was being displayed on the scrolling prompter. Say what you would about his attitude; the man was smooth, professional, and always an asset on the airways.
Ledger would soon deliver the blockbuster story that every other network anchor would die for. It was history in the making that the American public would forever remember, like the first walk on the moon or the assassination of John Kennedy. For better or worse, it would be the face and voice of Burt Ledger that would be recalled whenever this story was discussed.
“The images and sounds about to be played have not been viewed by anyone before this moment as per the explicit demands made upon its receipt,” Ledger began. “We do know that it is a message from the reclusive leader of OASIS, the radical Islamic terror organization behind most of the suicide bombings and attacks throughout the Middle East and the rest of the world. We have never seen this man’s face and don’t know whether he will expose himself now. We do anticipate the possibility of graphic images and language. Therefore, we strongly advise viewer discretion, at least for this first viewing. Again, we remind you this is a dangerous extremist organization with thousands of deaths attributed to their fight.
“Their violence knows no bounds, and we here at Global Access Media mourn the loss of one of our own. Derek Waltstein disappeared shortly after delivering the message you are about to see. Derek spoke of his chilling encounter with a mysterious courier. He would say only that he feared for his life if he revealed details about that meeting. To our knowledge, he never did, but his home was found ransacked with signs of a violent struggle. Derek has not been heard from since. We fear the worst and ask for your prayers for our missing comrade.”
“And now, please join us in viewing for the first time the personal message to the world from the leader of OASIS. Ladies and gentlemen, Sirhan Abbas…”
“Switch to computer one,” Hastings directed, his eyes locked on the monitors and clock. “USB input two, and cue playback in three, two, one…”
The flag of OASIS, a blood-red fist over a bright yellow sun on a black background, was displayed against an eerie melody played by a Middle Eastern Ensemble. Nothing changed. Nothing moved for what felt like an eternity.
He stepped into view. His appearance itself was like a shock to the senses. He stood, glaring into the camera. Not moving, not speaking. His entire demeanor screamed defiance, as though daring the viewer to look away.
No one did. No one could.
He had chosen not to mask his face. His dark, chiseled features and short facial hair appeared divergent from every other Middle Eastern leader preceding him. His eyes appeared completely black beneath his thick eyebrows and bright blue turban. He was dressed in desert military camos with a splattering of color across the left of his chest, presumably medals of rank and distinction. He appeared young for such a position of power. But the youthful face was in stark contrast to those dark orbs that projected the image of a nomadic warrior. It was easy to imagine this man crossing the threshold of time and riding from a thousand years past to once again repel the invaders. His sinister expression left no doubt as to his intentions. He stared forward, his long, sculpted nose pointing downward. Lips pursed in what appeared to be a permanent scowl.
He began speaking in refined English. Slowly at first, his voice flowing along with the accompaniment of a strange flute melody. He spoke in rhythm with the music in a way that seemed to grip the listener and pull them in. His volume increased with the intensity of the instruments, and his tone became sharper as the words came faster. The overall effect was strangely hypnotic and most powerful.
“Citizens of the Great Satan, hear me. Your moment of power on this earth has come to an end. There will be no sanctuary. There will be no quarter. You shall burn in the eternal fire as we, the true believers, take what is rightfully ours. And what is rightfully ours is all that you see. It is the very ground you stand upon and the air you breathe. It is the world, and we are here to claim it all in the name of Allah.
“You shall watch helplessly as we begin our attacks. And how shall the battle start? With warships? With bombers? No! You are already defeated. For your enemy is not at the door. He is already within the gates. We stand among you! And it was you who let us in. You watched, you even helped us, and now your foolish good nature will be your undoing. We are your neighbors, we are your co-workers, we are your friends, and we are your executioners! Do not waste your time searching for a way to defeat us. Use the days you have remaining to prepare to meet your fate.”
He paused and stared straight ahead. The background music changed to a trilling violin that mimicked the human voice. An up-tempo rhythm played as he continued. The second verse to a captivating yet terrifying song that listeners were powerless to ignore.
“The path to life within the new empire is straight and true. Every boy and man among you must accept our teachings without exception. When you have found favor in our eyes, then and only then shall you be allowed to live among us. Your daughters and your wives shall bear our children so that our numbers grow even greater. This world will be united under one power, under the only true religion. Until that day, the blood will flow like a river.
“The time of the great holy war is upon you. The true followers shall soon return this world to paradise. You will know this to be so when the attacks begin. The first four fires shall burn like torches for the world to see that the Great Satan can and will be defeated. It will be destroyed by stopping the mighty gears of your economy. Once the machine is broken, the walls of your kingdom will come crashing down. We will open the gates from within, and our freedom fighters will flood through and finish what we have begun today. The smoke shall rise above the rubble of your automobiles, computers, jet planes, and oil fields.
“I have a warning for the Muslims among you that have accepted the western lifestyle of the infidel and do not stand with us now; you shall be the first to die. You have turned your back on your brothers and have chosen only those sections of the Koran that are convenient for you to follow. Foolish, ignorant people! An urn does not hold water if there are pieces of it missing. Your crimes are far greater than those of the infidels. For you have been shown the truth and have chosen to ignore our teachings. For this, there is no mercy. Your heads shall be severed from your bodies with dull swords. You will feel every chop of the blade and beg for death.
“People of America, your day of judgment is upon you. Make your choice, or it will be
made for you.”
The message ended as it had started.
Burt Ledger sat at the news desk staring at the playback monitors. The man whose mouth was always in motion sat in stunned silence, a tear streaking down his cheek. The words and imagery of the video were still impacting him like a head-on crash. He struggled to find the words to calm and reassure the American public that what they had just witnessed could not come to pass here. But he couldn’t. It would be a lie. Dark days lay ahead. He could sense it now.
Mandy Geraldo blinked herself back to the moment and began typing messages into the teleprompter. Ledger took no notice, still staring ahead blankly. She clicked her microphone and spoke into his earpiece, “Burt, start reading. Just start reading.”
Ledger broke his gaze and looked up to the control room window with an expression of a lost child. It took another moment before his mind rebooted. He began speaking, though not yet reading the scripted words. “That was, ah, oh my God, that was the most frightening speech I’ve heard, ever.” His eyes wandered as though deep in his own thoughts and memories. He shook his head, squeezed the bridge of his nose, then blinked. He focused on the teleprompter, and the professional within clicked back online. He began reading fluidly, relaxing with each sentence. Good old Burt Ledger was back in stride.
The lead tech was the first to notice. “What is that weird smell?” he asked, scanning the control room for a burning cable or an overheating transformer. The air quickly filled with the nauseating odor of sizzling electronic components. The other tech jumped up and began ripping through the bundles of cables that connected the racks of audio and video equipment, searching frantically for the cause of the pungent stench. Others in the room glanced about uncomfortably, coughing as the fumes grew stronger. The lead tech came upon it, not comprehending what he was witnessing. He had never seen anything like it before. The odd memory stick protruding from USB port two was increasing in size, as though someone had connected it to a compressor and was inflating it with air. It had grown twice its original size and was still swelling.
ENEMY WITHIN THE GATES Page 4