Experience

by Brandt Legg

  “I wish I led it, but I’m just another pawn.” Hudson thought of Fonda and all her warnings about the REMies. “Maybe the most important pawn, but a pawn nonetheless.”

  Dranick nodded. “What can I do?”

  “I’m going to appoint you to head the Brickman Effort.”

  “You want me to find and stop NorthBridge?” Dranick smiled. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

  “I always liked your optimism, Enapay,” Hudson said. “But I’m not sure you’ll feel the same in a few months. I believe the REMies don’t want us to get NorthBridge, or they already would have stopped them.”

  “You think the REMies are behind NorthBridge?” Dranick asked.

  “The REMies are behind everything.”

  “Even if they aren’t specifically sponsoring the terrorists, these REMies seem to be masters at manipulating events to fit their agenda. As you pointed out, whoever controls the media controls the minds of the masses.”

  Hudson stopped and looked at his friend. “I probably don’t need to tell you, but I’m going to anyway. Somebody is trying to kill me. As we go against the most powerful people in the world, it’s only going to get more dangerous. Accepting my offer could cost you your life.”

  “You know you’re welcome to my life,” Dranick said. “It’s a good day to die.”

  “Then you’ll start tomorrow, right after I fire the FBI director.”

  Dranick raised an eyebrow. “Will they let you get away with that?”

  “I wasn’t going to ask permission.”

  “Who are we going to get as a replacement?”

  Hudson smiled at how easily and quickly Enapay had said “we.” It reinforced his instincts that bringing him to Washington was the right decision. “I’m not sure yet, but I have a meeting with the vice president later. I’m hoping she’ll have an idea.”

  “Can you trust her?”

  “I think so,” Hudson said as they turned to head back toward the White House. “They didn’t want me to choose her.”

  Dranick nodded. On the way back, Hudson told him that in addition to running the anti-NorthBridge Brickman Effort, he was to look in all directions for corruption.

  “A tall order,” Dranick said. “Very tall.”

  “We’ll get more budget,” Hudson replied. “You and I may be the only ones who know it, but I just expanded the charge of the Brickman Effort not only to root out NorthBridge, but to get the REMies as well.”

  Vonner, wearing a black jogging outfit, paced in front of the large window overlooking the Potomac River. He had just acquired the relatively modest estate for seventeen million dollars, and had converted most of the fifteen bedrooms to offices. He didn’t like traditional office buildings. One of the two dining rooms had been transformed into a workout area. Rex glanced up from his bank of computers with a questioning look on his face.

  “The way they’re planning to serve up this war with China is going to take a lot of selling,” Vonner said while pouring himself a drink.

  Rex, as usual, took advantage of the scotch distraction to roll seven blue dice. He studied the numbers quickly before collecting the dice and shoving them back in his pocket.

  “Bastendorff wants the war,” Vonner continued. “Rothschild wants it, the Koch brothers . . . By my last survey, thirty-seven of the top forty-eight REMies want it.”

  “Booker Lipton?”

  “Hard to say,” Vonner said, swirling the contents of his glass. “You know he’s always a tough read.”

  “I don’t think he wants the war,” Rex said, his fingers flying across the keys.

  “But he would profit handsomely. With his holdings, he would make billions.”

  “Does he need more money?”

  “Do any of us?” Vonner retorted. “Why do you believe Booker is against the war?”

  “He hasn’t made any moves.” Rex checked another screen to verify his claim. REMies didn’t act as one organization. They were individuals, each with their own ideas, plans, and agendas, yet they all adhered to the same grand strategy, having usually agreed on it well in advance. “Moves” were what each did to progress toward the main objective for the collective goal. This almost always resulted in a consolidation of wealth and power for all of the REMies. Sometimes an individual would make an error, but there were enough of them to cover for, correct, or even turn the mistake into something beneficial toward their ends.

  War was ultimately good for the elites. That was the key reason the world had been in a perpetual state of war through all of recorded history. The wealthy always profit from war, and conflict was the best way to keep populations in line, afraid, and distracted. In the chaos, the elites continued to consolidate their power.

  “Is that correct?” Vonner asked.

  “I can’t find any moves Booker has made toward bringing the war with China,” Rex said.

  “But that doesn’t mean he’s against it. We’re still early into this, so maybe he still will. His moves might take longer to put into place, or perhaps they’re for a later phase.”

  “Okay, do you want to know who else hasn’t made a single move?” Rex asked while searching the data, clicking keys, scanning the different monitors. He found a few of the minor players who hadn’t done anything, but they had previously expressed support for war between the US and China. “You should expect Booker to be a problem.”

  “Booker is always a problem!” Vonner snapped while stepping onto a mini trampoline.

  “However, in this case, if he’s on the opposite side, as Bastendorff is, then my enemy’s enemy is my friend.”

  Vonner allowed a small smile as he jogged in place. “The CapWars have led us to this fractured world where a man like Bastendorff could become king, and a man like Booker is all that can stop him. Strange days.”

  Rex thought about the pair of twenty-sided orange dice in his pocket, but they would have to wait. “Strange indeed, when a man like you might just win the final CapWar.”

  Vonner took Rex’s words as a compliment, but knew the fixer laced most of his statements with a heavy dose of irony. “I might just take the prize, but that depends on our president and the answer to the question keeping Hudson up at night: where is Rochelle Rogers?”

  Chapter Eleven

  David Covington was a tall and imposing man, his thick black hair showing only a slight hint of gray, and at six-foot-four, even without his title (Director of National Intelligence) he cast an intimidating air.

  Hudson didn’t like him, nor did he trust him, but coming into the federal government with no experience meant he had to take a lot of people’s advice for appointments to the more than 1,300 positions he was responsible for filling. In fact, Vonner and Fitz had chosen most of the key cabinet positions, including Covington as DNI. Hudson knew Vonner’s behind-the-scene involvement was going to make it more difficult for him to control things, or even know who was really in charge, but he had no choice; positions had to be filled, the government had to run.

  Covington had requested an immediate meeting with President Pound as soon as news broke that the FBI director had been fired.

  “Mr. President, I wish you had consulted me about your decision to terminate the director,” Covington said as the two men sat alone in the Oval Office.

  “David, I’m sure as DNI, you might have expected to be notified prior to a public announcement.” Hudson leaned back in his leather chair. “However, as you know, I’m new to this, and there’s a lot to learn. The American people wanted it this way, one of their own in here figuring it out as he goes. But at the same time, I brought in experts like yourself to help out, and to make sure we don’t get in any real trouble. So, if I botched the protocol here, that’s too bad. Don’t let it hurt your feelings.” Hudson smiled. “It’s likely to happen again.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. President, it’s not the notifying me that’s the problem, it’s that I don’t think it was a good idea,” Covington said sharply.

  “Perhaps that’s why I d
idn’t consult with you, David,” Hudson replied, still smiling. “The director has had nearly a year and a half to find and stop NorthBridge. He hasn’t even made a single arrest. That is unprecedented, and inexcusable. The American people expect more from their top law enforcement official, and I tend to agree with that. Frankly, I’m not sure how you can possibly defend him.”

  “I simply don’t think this is the time to change horses.” Covington shifted uneasily. “Remember what happened when Trump fired his FBI Director?”

  “Of course I do, but I don’t see the connection.” Hudson ignored what he knew was a veiled threat. Trump firing Director Comey gave his opposition a whole new platform to wage war against him. “David, you’re wasting my time. The director has already been fired. Is there something else I can help you with?”

  “I’d like to suggest a replacement.” Covington took out a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to the president. “Any of these candidates would be excellent.”

  Hudson looked at the list of five names, only three of which he recognized, and none of whom he was considering. “Excellent, David. I appreciate your input. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m running behind.” Hudson stood.

  Covington also rose. “My apologies, Mr. President, if I fouled up your schedule, but I didn’t think this could wait.”

  At that moment, responding to a button the president had pushed under his desk, an assistant walked into the Oval Office and escorted Covington out.

  Once in the back of his car, seated next to an aide, David Covington fumed. He ranted as his driver drove them back to the office. “Who does Pound think he is?”

  “President of the United States?” the aide offered, smiling.

  “I’m in no mood for jokes,” Covington said. “Get Vonner on the line.”

  Covington unwrapped a package of Necco wafers—chalky, colored sugar candies about the size of a US quarter—gave a revolted look at a pink one before quickly tossing it out the window like a dead spider, and then popped two green ones into his mouth. After several minutes, the aide reported Vonner could not be reached.

  “NorthBridge is a national security issue,” Covington said. “How dare he not clear this with me!”

  “But the president is correct; the FBI hasn’t delivered. The public is rightfully outraged.”

  Covington glared at his assistant. “Are you citing structure and law to me? Maybe you should go work for Pound!”

  “Maybe,” the aide said, unworried. He had worked for Covington for more than eighteen years, first in the Pentagon, then for five years in the private sector, and now continuing in his new role as head of the intelligence community.

  Normally Covington might have laughed, but he could tell Pound was going to be a headache, and he didn’t like headaches. In Covington’s mind, he outranked the president, and, in fact, he did. Covington, along with the director of the NSA, the director of the CIA, the chairman of the Federal Reserve Board, and the handful of other prominent people, created policy. “Pound is unaware of how the world works. Apparently no one told him how the government is set up. Vonner better get his boy in line, because it’ll be a lot easier for things to work out right if the president is on board.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “I don’t have the patience to go four years holding Pound’s hand. It’s enough that we have to create believable situations and scenarios for the American people, but if we’re also going to have to convince the figurehead that our version of the truth is the real one, then our progress is going to be greatly slowed.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Surprisingly, the former president refused several requests to meet with Hudson.

  Actually, that wasn’t completely unexpected. The shocking thing was that his predecessor wouldn’t even take a phone call. This worried Hudson, because the ex-president was clearly scared. Hudson knew he should also be afraid, but he didn’t have time, or enough information, to worry about that. He thought back to his first day in the Oval Office, when he’d read the letter from the former president, and about how George Washington had given him the idea that might perhaps be the only way to topple the REMies. He’d been formulating the specifics ever since.

  Washington had faced a choice on the eve of the American Revolution between liberty, or the colonies remaining in slavery to the king; virtue or corruption, honor or disgrace, courage or cowardice. Hudson saw the same choices in front of him, but on a grander scale. The REMies had ruled for so long, their corruption so deep, it might not even be possible to beat them.

  NorthBridge had already started their own revolution which seemed to be targeting the government, but for those in the know, the REMies were really railing against the REMies. Hudson believed the terrorist group was using the wrong methods in challenging the elites, yet he wasn’t sure his own plan would be strong enough. He was only certain that he couldn’t fight NorthBridge and the REMies at the same time.

  Then he had an awful thought.

  What if the REMies are using NorthBridge to distract us from their most recent attempts at consolidating their power?

  Hudson took time out from his official duties to lead a private tour of the White House for his family, which ended in the Oval Office. All four of his brothers and sisters—including Dwayne, who still preferred living on the street, even though they had rented him an apartment in his small Ohio hometown—were present with their families.

  His sister, Jenna, a widow, and his brother, Ace, both had adult children around the same age as Schueller and Florence. The cousins had shared regular visits while growing up, and the reunion of the younger generation of Pounds added to the excitement of the White House gathering.

  Ace, a pilot, cheerfully reminded Hudson of his promise that if he won the election, he’d take Ace onboard Air Force One sometime.

  “Don’t worry, big brother,” Hudson said as the group checked out the bowling alley installed at President Nixon’s request. “There’ll be plenty of chances to get you a ride on the plane.”

  “How about The Beast?” Ace’s twenty-year-old son asked. The President’s limousine had been built to withstand a roadside bomb, and an onboard oxygen system meant the president would be safe during a chemical attack. But the Secret Service had been adding features since the rise of NorthBridge—laser shielding, weaponized micro-drones, satellite stealth cloaking, and, of course, always carried current bags of the president’s blood type.

  “The Beast is the coolest,” Schueller answered his cousin. “Tear gas and grenade launchers, Kevlar-reinforced tires—shred and puncture proof—night vision cameras, totally bulletproof, the fuel tank is even encased in foam so it won’t explode, and—”

  “And the rest is classified,” the president interrupted. “Sorry. But we’ll see about getting you a ride in The Beast some time.”

  Schueller was about to apologize for getting carried away, but at that moment, he got a text from Crane. Reading it, he whispered quickly to his father. “Trouble.”

  In the months since Rochelle had disappeared, Hudson had come to believe she was probably dead, and that the most likely suspect was Vonner. If Bastendorff or NorthBridge had taken her, certainly she would have surfaced by now with her damning story about the president of the United States being a coward, an accessory to murder, a facilitator to rape, and the orchestrator of a decades-long cover-up. Of course, it was possible they were saving her to be used at just the right moment, a time to blackmail the most powerful man on the planet—perhaps when the nation was waffling toward war.

  Dranick had a small team of investigators looking, but the leads were virtually nonexistent. The Wizard and Crane were scouring the DarkNet for any mention or trace. Nothing. Hudson’s far-flung hope that Linh would provide an answer had, thus far, proved empty.

  Meanwhile, the drumbeats of war grew louder, as each week there seemed to be another incident—Chinese hacking of US government agencies, China encroaching on territorial waters of US-Asian allie
s, China executing dissidents, imprisoning suspected US spies, building more artificial islands to expand their military reach into the South China sea, provocative troop movements, and the big one, increasing rhetoric toward Taiwan.

  Hudson was beginning to believe he would be the first US president to engage in war with a major country since the end of World War II, and more than that, he’d have to figure out how to win a conventional war against a nuclear power. He’d ordered his defense secretary to present a plan for containment, but no one had any idea how a government with nuclear capabilities would react in the face of losing a conventional war. Even that victory was not assured, given that China’s military was the fastest growing in the world, and had about a million more personnel than the US, but those numbers weren’t the most worrisome. The nuclear stockpiles were the real threat, and although the US clearly dominated that category, possessing nearly seven thousand nuclear weapons to China’s two hundred and sixty, even a few nukes were enough to devastate humanity.

  The Wizard claimed it was the REMies pushing the world’s two wealthiest countries to the brink of armed conflict, but Hudson couldn’t see the angle. Sure, minor skirmishes and invading third world nations was extremely profitable. However, a direct clash between the US and China could not be good for business. International trade would collapse, Asia would be devastated and destabilized, and potentially millions would die. Surely the REMies didn’t manipulate every event in the world? They could not, Hudson believed, control all the major governments and corporations around the globe. Constantly, he reminded himself that he had to believe that premise.

  The president had also ordered his Secretary of State to do everything to find a peaceful solution to the growing crisis. “I’m still the Commander in Chief,” Hudson told Melissa. “There isn’t going to be a war without my signature.”