The Doomsday Series Box Set | Books 1-5

by Akart, Bobby

  “Daddy suggested this?” Meredith asked.

  “Yes. You’ve seen how the country seems to be descending into the abyss. We may not see it as much here in Mobile as in other parts of the country, but it’s only getting worse.”

  “I know. Do you think these attacks are going to make it worse?”

  “Very much so. Meredith, I have to make some calls and see what the intelligence agencies are saying. You know, the stuff that doesn’t make it to the news. If I’m right, and you know I hate when I am, then we have to go.”

  “Go where? This Haven place? I don’t even know where it is. And for how long? Hannah starts back to school a week from Monday.”

  Cort decided to avoid the second part of her questions. He didn’t know how long either. It could just be a week, or it could be several months, or longer. He’d learn more after a couple of calls.

  He stood and walked around the desk. He leaned against it and took Meredith by the hands, who had begun to cry. Despite the pain screaming through his chest, he assisted her out of the chair to hug her as she began to sob.

  “This is not my world, Cort. This is yours and Daddy’s. I live in Mobile, Alabama, with our gorgeous daughter. I teach third graders and Sunday school. I don’t want any part of, um, whatever all of this is.”

  Cort felt bad for his wife for two reasons. While he had almost lost his life, she had gone through the trauma of uncertainty because of it. Her life had been on the brink of being shattered, and by God’s miracle, Cort had survived the crash.

  Also, he chastised himself. By insulating her from the real threats the nation faced from terrorist attacks and political unrest, he’d treated her like a porcelain doll that could easily be broken. Her father was guilty of that as well. As a result, Meredith was not fully prepared for a future that could include fighting for their lives.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Cortland Residence

  Carlen-Midtown Neighborhood

  Mobile, Alabama

  A scratching at the door caused Cort and Meredith to break their embrace and burst out laughing. She wiped the tears off her face and gave her husband a kiss on the cheek. Without saying another word, her smiling eyes told him she’d support whatever decision he thought was best for the family.

  “That’s your son,” Meredith said with a chuckle as she gently ran her hands down his chest.

  “Good thing. If it was Hannah, I’d think we’d have bigger problems than the apocalypse.”

  Meredith slowly opened the door, allowing Cort plenty of time to brace for the impact. If he thought getting body-slammed by the Gulf of Mexico at a couple of hundred miles an hour hurt, wait’ll he got a load of the bruising English bulldog affectionately known as Handsome Dan.

  The door had barely cracked when the big guy stuck his nose in and bulled past her, his four legs grabbing the area rug, propelling his seventy-pound frame toward Cort. With his tongue flopping from side to side and drool splattering in all directions, Handsome Dan greeted his favorite parent by virtue of gender.

  It was a guy thing, Cort had surmised after the puppy had entered the Cortland home for the first time. A direct descendent of Handsome Dan XVII bred by Diane Judy of Johnson City, Tennessee, Cort, through contacts he had at Yale, had purchased the stout pup for Hannah when she was four years old. His sire, whose original name was Sherman, as in the Sherman tank, assumed the Yale mascot position in late 2006. English bulldogs had excellent dispositions with children and were sturdy enough to handle a child’s roughhousing.

  “Come here, Handsome,” said Cort as he knelt down to the dog’s level. They had taught Handsome, his shortened name, not to jump on people a long time ago as he continued to grow. By some standards, he was considered to be a dozen pounds overweight. However, his veterinarian gave him clean bills of health twice a year, so the Cortlands did their best to keep him around seventy pounds.

  The wet, sloppy kisses covered Cort and he loved it. It helped him relieve the stress from the conversation with Meredith and allowed him to transition from loving husband back to being the chief of staff to a powerful senator.

  “I’m gonna leave you boys alone,” said Meredith as she admired the reunion. “I’ll keep Hannah out of your hair while you make your calls.”

  “I love you, honey!” said Cort while he scruffed on Handsome’s backside.

  “I love you back, Cort.” She playfully waved her fingers at him and then slowly closed the door. Cort exhaled. It was gonna be okay. Now he had to get to work.

  The first call he placed was to his boss, Alabama Senator Hugh McNeil. When the voicemail picked up, he remembered that he wasn’t using his regular phone. He left a detailed message. “Senator, this is Cort. You probably don’t recognize this number, but it’s a backup phone I have. You’re also probably not aware of the fact that I was on Delta Flight 322 out of Atlanta. Sir, Congressman Pratt is dead. I don’t think that is public knowledge. In any event, please call me back at this number.”

  Cort left the time and phone number. Within minutes, the senator had called back and expressed his shock that Cort had been on the flight. Then the two men talked about Congressman Pratt, shared a couple of stories, and naturally, the conversation turned to the political void left by his departure.

  “Michael,” said the senator, who always referred to Cort by his given name out of habit, “I don’t know if Pratt’s death will change the trajectory of the hearings regarding the president and any possible impeachment trial. I will say this, the woman who’s next in line to Pratt on the House Judiciary Committee is from a red state. She’s consistently in a reelection battle, especially after the Texas legislature redrew their districts. She doesn’t have the same hankering for kicking the president out of office as most in her party.”

  “Sir, she has to know the trial would go nowhere in the senate,” added Cort.

  “That’s right, young man. So why bother, in my opinion. They lost the election. They’ve got these traitorous RINOs running point on this Twenty-Fifth Amendment mess. She might just allow us to eat our own.” There was no love lost between the senator and the Republicans In Name Only—RINOs.

  Cort chuckled. “Sir, Ronald Reagan would be rolling over in his grave if he were around to see this.”

  “He sure would, Michael. Before we hang up, let me mention something to you by way of a heads-up. Because of my status as ranking member on the Senate Intelligence Committee, I am on the short list of those who will be afforded protection by the Secret Service and the military in the event the president invokes the continuity-of-government provisions put into effect years ago.”

  “Do you think the president plans on declaring martial law?” asked Cort.

  The senator paused before responding. He was a heavy breather, so Cort knew he was still on the line. “It’s too early to tell, but I will say this. From what I’ve seen and, knowing the political advantage the president will enjoy if the government is shut down due to this terrorist crisis, I’d expect a declaration sooner rather than later.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Again, I’m telling you this for a reason,” the senator continued. “My wife and I will be moved to an undisclosed secure location like Raven Rock, Greenbrier, or Mount Weather. As much as I’m in disagreement with this policy, you do realize these protections aren’t afforded to my staff, right?”

  “Yes, sir. I understand. We’ve made our own arrangements.”

  “Good to know, Michael. Be safe, and I will contact you on this number once I know more.”

  The two men disconnected the call, and Cort leaned back in his chair. Handsome was sprawled out on the wood floor in front of the fireplace. Like the others in the home, they had been retrofitted to allow for natural gas burners and logs. The old chimneys and flues of the pre–Civil War home weren’t considered safe for roaring wood-burning fires. He pulled the remote out of his desk drawer and turned the burners on low. Handsome enjoyed the heat on his back legs as arthritis began to take its
toll on him.

  Cort’s next call was to Meredith’s father, George Trowbridge. His bedroom had been transformed into a high-end hospital room with the finest equipment, and highly trained medical staff lived on the premises to help him cope with his failing kidneys.

  It was hard for Cort to fathom that just yesterday morning, he’d been standing at the old man’s bedside, discussing their favorite topic—Washington politics. It wasn’t that his father-in-law didn’t love his daughter and Hannah, but politics was his passion, and Washington was his playing field.

  On this call, Cort intended to lead the conversation with a simple question, and he wanted a straightforward answer from the most powerful nonpolitician in Washington.

  What did you mean when you said either you control your destiny, or destiny controls you?

  He never got the chance to ask.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  George Trowbridge’s Residence

  Near Pine Orchard, Connecticut

  Once they were dropped off at the bus station, shuttle buses were made available to take the refugees to the airport and hotels within walking distance of restaurants. Tom chose to hire an Uber driver to take him to the home of George Trowbridge. He didn’t know the address, but he remembered how to get there from the Connecticut Turnpike. He directed the driver to the Leetes Island Road exit, and they headed due south toward Long Island Sound. Twenty minutes later, they approached the security gate manned by two armed guards at the Trowbridge Estate.

  Tom got out of the vehicle and approached the guards, who quickly closed ranks and slowly raised their weapons, causing Tom to hesitate. He began to question his decision, but since they’d made their way out here, he followed through with his plan.

  “State your business,” the lead guard demanded.

  “My name is Commander Thomas Shelton, Joint Base Charleston. My wife and I would like a moment to speak with Mr. Trowbridge if he’s in residence.”

  Tom was intentionally formal in an effort to exude some form of authority and importance. At least, he hoped it would encourage the guards to call the house, with the possibility of gaining entry. It worked, as the lead guard immediately placed a call.

  He stood there for ten minutes, aimlessly kicking at a few loose stones on the concrete driveway. The guards remained stoic as they awaited their orders. Tom noticed that two security cameras had adjusted their position to focus on him. One zoomed in several times before returning to its original line of sight surveilling the driveway and the open lawn.

  A phone rang in the guardhouse and a third guard emerged. “Sir, you and your wife may enter. We’ll send the car on its way.”

  “Thank you. Let me retrieve my wife and our things.”

  Tom quickly turned and helped Donna out of the backseat. She was able to walk on her bad ankle by placing her hand on his shoulder. The guards swiftly grabbed their bags and placed them on a stone ledge near the iron gate.

  “Sir, with apologies,” the lead guard began, “we need to search your things and perform a pat-down search. Ma’am, we’ll call for a female—”

  “That’s quite all right, young man,” Donna interrupted. “If it’s okay with the commander, I’ll allow one of you handsome gentlemen to do the honor.”

  The guards managed a smile and Tom laughed. “By all means, but don’t get too frisky with my wife. I can still pack a punch.”

  “Understood, sir,” the young man said with a smile.

  Moments later, a black Cadillac Escalade approached the gate. The driver helped the Sheltons into the car, stowed their gear in the back, and roared up the driveway to the entrance of the stately home. With her husband’s assistance, Donna was helped up the marble entry steps, where a female member of the Trowbridge staff welcomed them into the foyer.

  “May I get you something to drink while you wait?” the young woman with a British accent politely asked.

  “Miss, we would love something warm to drink, perhaps some tea,” replied Donna.

  “I’ll have it brought to you.” The young woman left them standing alone in the foyer as they took in the grandeur of the Trowbridge home.

  “Was it like this the first time you came here?” Donna asked.

  “I never got inside. Back then, there were no security guards at the front. The driver took us around the side of the house, where Mr. Trowbridge was sitting by his pool with a couple of his assistants. The meeting was short, and then we were on our way.”

  Donna turned to her husband and asked, “What makes you think he’ll remember you from such a short meeting?”

  “Oh, he remembers. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be standing here.”

  “Commander Shelton,” a voice echoed through the marble entry. A man stood at the top of the wide, sweeping staircase against a large, fifteen-foot-tall window. “Please come with me. Mrs. Shelton, I presume?”

  “Yes, Donna.”

  “I understand you have an injury,” the man who was about their age began. “We have an elevator used by the staff if you’d prefer.”

  Donna smiled. “Thank you. I can make it with the assistance of Tom and the handrail. Besides, I’m dying to take in the view of the water.”

  The aide chuckled and turned around. “Oh, it is breathtaking. Sadly, over time, one takes it for granted. Please, we’ll be seeing Mr. Trowbridge in his master suite, unfortunately.”

  Tom and Donna gave each other a puzzled look before starting up the stairs. She was hobbling slightly but moved significantly better than just a few hours ago. They were fortunate the ankle wasn’t broken, or even more seriously sprained.

  At the top of the stairs, the hallway revealed several bedroom doors, although the ornate double entry doors at the east end of the home obviously led to the master suite. They followed the aide into George Trowbridge’s master bedroom and were astonished at what they saw.

  The room was the size of a small home, with multiple sitting areas, a study complete with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and furniture purchased from the finest antique stores in the world. The furnishings, however, stood in stark contrast to the myriad of modern medical equipment surrounding Trowbridge’s bed. It resembled the equipment Donna had grown accustomed to while she was taking chemotherapy and recovering from her surgeries.

  Tom immediately stopped and pulled on Donna’s hand to halt her progress. He whispered to the aide, “I have to apologize. I had no idea Mr. Trowbridge was ill. This was a terrible mistake, and we shouldn’t have intruded.”

  “Commander,” Trowbridge’s voice boomed across the room, “my kidneys may be failing me, but my hearing is just fine. Please come in.”

  Tom shrugged and followed the older man’s instructions. He glanced over at the massive fireplace. The flames danced up and down, warming the room with both its heat and the orangish-yellow glow. His eyes followed the flames upward, where they became fixed on an astounding carving in the granite fascia. A skull and bones protruded out of the stone, in addition to the numbers 3-2-2 carved beneath. Tom was staring when Trowbridge interrupted his examination of the sculpture.

  “May we have some privacy?” asked Trowbridge, and the medical staff quickly exited the bedroom. His aide remained, taking a seat on a settee near the fire.

  “Sir, I sincerely apologize for the intrusion,” began Tom as he slowly approached the bed. “I don’t know if you recall when we met—”

  Trowbridge waved his arm to dismiss the question. “Commander, I remember everybody I’ve met as well as the circumstances surrounding our relationship. My body may be failing me, but my mind is as good as it was decades ago when I graduated from Yale.”

  Tom smiled and reached for his wife’s hand, encouraging her to stand by his side as he spoke. “Donna and I were in Times Square last night when the attacks occurred, and have been evacuated here until we can find a way home to Charleston. She sprained her ankle during the melee and is having some difficulty walking.”

  Trowbridge closed his eyes and grimaced as if a jolt of pain
had gone through his body. Donna shot Tom a glance, as she knew he was aware that her ankle had become measurably better. She recognized her husband was seeking the old man’s sympathy.

  Tom continued. “I really need to get her home to Charleston, and I wondered if you might have a suggestion as to how we could do that?”

  Trowbridge leaned forward in the bed and hollered for his aide. “Harris!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Check on any available means of transport that will hasten my friend’s trip to Charleston, or as close thereto as possible,” ordered Trowbridge. Then he turned his attention back to Tom. “I assume if we can’t deliver you to your front door, a nearby location would suffice.”

  “Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

  Harris left the room to make inquiries, allowing Trowbridge to explain his illness to Tom and Donna. Donna carried the conversation, telling the sickly man about her experiences with breast cancer and how it had changed her outlook on life. He, too, was philosophical.

  “I’ve devoted my life to making our great nation a better place. Naturally, there are those who disagree with my devotion to the Constitution and the methods I employ to preserve America’s ideals. Quite frankly, in this day and age, we can’t even agree as to how those ideals should be defined.”

  Trowbridge paused and pointed toward a crystal glass of water with an ordinary plastic bendy straw. The contradiction was not lost on Donna, who retrieved the glass and assisted him as he took several sips of water.

  Then he continued. “I’ve seen the political divide grow wider in our nation to the point it appears to be irreparable. You know, Tom, countries come and go. There’s never been a nation-state or empire that hasn’t collapsed. I fear America is doomed to that same fate.”