Doomsday Anarchy

by Bobby Akart

  “You have a wall, right?” asked Ethan.

  “True, but not along the river,” replied Alpha. “Boats, rafts, and swimmers could cross and make their way inside the Haven. One of your primary duties will be to patrol the shoreline until we get our own boats ready for deployment.”

  “We’ve got a navy?” asked Delta, who was unaware of the boats.

  “We have boats,” replied Delta. “We’d prefer not to use them to patrol because of the anticipated shortage of fuel, and the noise will attract curious neighbors. They’ll be deployed as a reactionary force. That’s why the drone patrols are so important. A quadcopter can buzz up and down the riverbanks and search for intruders much faster than a boat can.”

  “I like it,” said Ethan. “You can count me in, sir.”

  Delta couldn’t suppress the grin on his face.

  Chapter 30

  Schwartz Estate

  Katonah, New York

  “The sell-off started with a mysterious plunge that immediately caused the exchange to halt trading. Foreign exchange markets intervened with multiple ten-second pauses to prevent steeper declines in the U.S. dollar. Abroad, futures trading was halted within minutes thereafter.”

  CNBC’s morning market-analysis program, Squawk Box, was playing on one of the television monitors in the Schwartz conference room. Jonathan Schwartz had rejoined his father to watch the aftermath of their currency manipulations. Joe Kernen, reporting from NBC’s London offices due to the evacuation of Midtown New York, appeared disheveled as he caught his breath and continued.

  “Traders also speculated that the selling could be attributed to a large fund, or group of funds, liquidating its position in the dollar. The dollar index has fallen to a level well below its lows of 2008, and it appears that there is no end in sight. With Washington in disarray due to the terrorist attacks of New Year’s Eve and speculation running rampant that the president will be announcing the implementation of the U.S. continuity-of-government contingencies, there is little to soften the blow of this free fall as investors are more than jittery. They are downright terrorized at the prospects of a collapsing dollar.”

  Schwartz chuckled as he lowered the volume on the set. “As well they should be. After the forex markets halted trading on the dollar around the world, they will test the waters by reopening the futures market. At first, there will be nervous investors looking to buy in at the bottom of the decline. Others will continue to dump the dollar before it crashes further.”

  Jonathan pulled up a chair next to his father and sat down. “In the meantime, we’ll step back in. There will be a whipsaw effect in dollar futures that will cause a wild market swing upward. We will profit from that, and then in the morning, the Treasury Secretary will announce that all is right with the world as the mighty dollar regains strength and—”

  His father finished the sentence. “We’ll crash it all over again. Son, markets like stability. There’s a reason we developed the concept of velocity logic. Our computer programs can instantaneously detect market movement over time in relation to all indices. As a result, we can overcome the built-in safeguards by Wall Street and London. Our trades happen much faster than their reactions.”

  “It’s ingenious and nearly undetectable,” his son added.

  “That’s why we use it sparingly. Some have weapons of mass destruction. We have weapons of financial devastation. We can destroy businesses, banks, and now, my son, empires, using the power our wealth affords us.”

  The two men sipped their tea in silence as they monitored the frenzied trading activity shown on the various news programs. Live feeds from around the globe—including London, Chicago, Tokyo, and Hong Kong—revealed the same images.

  Schwartz finished his tea before pushing his cup and saucer to the side. He leaned forward on the conference table and folded his hands in front of him. “Son, this president has always had tyrannical tendencies, in my opinion,” he began.

  Jonathan nodded his agreement.

  “Our actions will hasten his incentive to declare martial law. I believe despite his physical stature, he has a bit of a Napoleon complex. His overly aggressive, domineering behavior on social media and in his approach to the news media compensates for his inadequacies as a leader. I believe he relishes the opportunity to wield power through the military. He has probably dreamt of the opportunity to consolidate control over the government within the executive branch.”

  “My sources tell me that will happen today,” interjected Jonathan.

  Schwartz continued. “Yes. I bring this up for a reason. The president has longed for an attorney general within his control and loyal only to him. One that is not accountable to the Congress or the media. By declaring martial law, his Department of Justice will have unfettered powers to investigate, arrest, and stall prosecutions.”

  “Undoubtedly, habeas corpus will be suspended.”

  “Those placed under arrest can potentially be held indefinitely without any rights to protest their detention.”

  “Dad, why are you bringing this up now?”

  Schwartz took a deep breath and pushed his tired body out of his chair. He wandered around the conference room, pausing to look at each of the monitors. He stopped at the screen that displayed the CNBC reporting. He tapped on it with his knuckles before turning back to his son.

  “They all know who’s responsible for this. Every one of these so-called experts are whispering around their respective water coolers. As I close my eyes, I can hear the Schwartz name being bantered about.”

  Jonathan tried to reassure his father. “It’s a natural assumption, but it cannot be proven. Frankly, there are any number of world financiers who could’ve pulled this off.”

  “Son, not true, and you know it. Plus, we’ve accomplished this before. To be sure, we’ve been caught, as in 2018 when the Hong Kong exchange fined one of our funds for compliance failures during the series of shorting trades on Great Wall Motors. The fine was miniscule compared to the profits gained, and in China’s autonomous region, there were no criminal charges to be filed. The U.S. is different.”

  “Yes, I understand. Still, Father, there would have to be investigations, court hearings, SEC and Treasury hearings. The process is long and drawn out. The Hong Kong matter took nearly four years to come to a conclusion.”

  Schwartz began to wander the room. He looked down at the elaborately designed Persian rug and raised his arm, finger waggling as he walked. “Ahh, but therein lies the rub, as Hamlet said. The declaration of martial law and the corresponding suspension of habeas corpus sets aside the normal rules. Americans love to lie to themselves with their often-used phrase innocent until proven guilty. That is an absolute farce. In this country, a seasoned federal prosecutor can indict a ham sandwich, as they say, and under martial law, said ham sandwich can be arrested and detained indefinitely.”

  “In other words, trumped-up charges,” said Jonathan, grinning at his intentional play on words.

  Schwartz smiled and shrugged. “Taŭga.” He used the Esperanto term for appropriate.

  “What do you suggest?” his son asked.

  “Perhaps it would be an appropriate time for a trip to our New Zealand home. The weather is much more favorable this time of year.”

  “As is the jurisdiction,” added Jonathan as he rose from his chair to make the arrangements.

  Chapter 31

  VCU Medical Center

  Critical Care Hospital

  Richmond, Virginia

  It had been a trying morning for Angela, beginning with her usual trek near the grounds of the Virginia State Capitol, which lay between their house on one end of Clay Street and the VCU Medical Center Critical Care Hospital on the other. As she made her way past the Richmond Coliseum, she began to notice a crowd of fifty or more people walking from the VCU campus toward the capitol building. They seemed to be on a mission, not interacting with onlookers, but clearly moving toward the antebellum building with a purpose.

  Angela
had experienced something similar just a couple of years prior. Hundreds of protestors had descended upon the state capitol building one day in November, carrying signs and chanting down with hate. The focus of their anger was the state attorney general’s opinion that Virginia’s colleges could not include sexual orientation as part of its discrimination policies.

  The protest was intended to be peaceful. Nonetheless, a police escort, including horse-mounted officers, escorted the group to the capitol so they could yell at a building that was largely empty at the time.

  However, that night, things began to turn ugly as the protestors, frustrated that they weren’t getting a response or any form of interaction with state officials, began to cause damage to storefronts and offices along East Broad Street. Reports indicated that the VCU students were joined by outsider groups who were largely responsible for the destruction and near-riot conditions. Angela recalled how they could hear the ruckus that evening from their home eight blocks away.

  The scene this morning was reminiscent of that protest, only this time, there was no police escort, and instead of holding signs, the protestors were carrying clubs and rocks.

  Angela paused and found a side street to further her progress to the Critical Care Hospital without running head-on into the mob. She was shaken at first, and then her resolve strengthened as she became more convinced that she and Tyler were making the smart move.

  Cornering the administrator of the residency program was a more difficult task than avoiding the angry mob. The night before, while the Rankins were trying to survive the attack in the tunnel, parts of Richmond exploded into what the media was calling anarchy. Neighborhoods and businesses were under siege from hoodlums and vandals.

  People were randomly attacked walking down sidewalks or were pulled from their cars while stopped at intersections. Flash mobs stormed convenience stores and small businesses, ransacking shelves and robbing employees. Fires were randomly set throughout the town, and not in the usual neighborhoods associated with social unrest. Rather, the affluent seemed to be the brunt of the attacks, with one neighborhood being evacuated as the SWAT team was called in to restore order.

  Dr. Jennifer Mason, the administrator, spent her days managing the program and creating the daily schedules of those under her wing, but she was still a highly skilled doctor. Pinning her down that morning was near impossible, and Angela, despite the fact she was not supposed to be on the schedule for several more days, pitched in to help.

  The Critical Care Hospital at VCU housed many intensive care units for patients who were critically injured or ill. Trauma patients ranging from gunshot victims to burn patients were constantly being treated at the hospital on East Clay Street. However, Angela had never experienced anything like the chaos in the emergency room this morning.

  She’d been a fan of television shows like Grey’s Anatomy and ER when she was growing up, getting a thrill and an adrenaline rush when the emergency rooms portrayed on television dealt with a mass casualty event. Whether it be a plane crash or a building collapse, the television doctors and nurses sprang into action to save the day.

  In reality, however, the mad rush and a chaotic ER rarely occurred. At least not in Angela’s experience, until today. This moment was what she dreamed of. The opportunity to bounce from gurney to gurney, assessing a patient’s condition and then diving in to save lives and limbs.

  Angela had donned a set of scrubs from her locker and got to work. Patients had been arriving throughout the night from the relentless beatings being administered around the city. Burn victims had pushed the hospital to the brink, with some minor cases being sent to other hospitals in the area.

  She’d just finished treating one of the burn victims when Dr. Mason grabbed her attention. “Rankin! Get over here!”

  Angela joined her administrator’s side as the women stood out of the way to allow a gurney to be pushed into the room. Two uniformed officers of the Richmond Police Department accompanied the patient, who was handcuffed to the rails of the bed.

  “What’ve we got?” asked Dr. Mason. An EMT from the ambulance service that accompanied the patient provided her the vitals.

  “The patient was transported from I-95 after being taken into custody. He was involved in an armed assault of motorists when one of them fought back.”

  “How long has he been unconscious?” asked Dr. Mason.

  The EMT replied, “He was in and out when we loaded him into the wagon. After he was cuffed to the gurney, he became violent and began thrashing around. Per the RPD policy, because he was officially in custody, we sedated him.”

  Following the Freddie Gray incident in Baltimore years ago in which a young man taken into custody flailed about in the back of a police paddy wagon, resulting in his death, the Richmond Police Department authorized emergency medical technicians to sedate injured patients taken into custody to avoid further complications from their injuries.

  Angela carefully examined the unconscious man’s face. It had been horribly mangled, and a gauze patch was strapped to one of the man’s eyes.

  “What did this?” she asked.

  The EMT shrugged. “We really don’t know. It had to be a bobcat or something like that. His eyeball was hanging out of the socket by the optic nerve. After he was sedated and calmed down, we held open his eyelid and gently replaced it into the socket.”

  Angela carefully removed the bandaging and pulled her flashlight from her jacket pocket. She pried the patient’s eyelids open and ran a beam of light over them. The patient was still unresponsive, but his pupils instinctively reacted to the bright light.

  “Well, good work,” she began. “His pupils responded, so you most likely saved his eye. His face is another matter. We’re gonna need plastics paged on this one.”

  A nurse acknowledged Angela’s request and picked up the phone near the door to page a plastic surgeon.

  Dr. Mason examined the man’s hand and forearm. “There are tire marks embedded in his skin. Who ran over him?” She glanced over at the police officers.

  “Have no idea. Probably the same person who clawed his face off. This guy was one of a dozen who attacked motorists from an overpass. Once we arrived on the scene, they’d beaten most everybody they could get their hands on.”

  Dr. Mason continued to study the patient’s face. “Start him on fluids. Rankin, let’s clean up the wound and—wait. Forceps!”

  A nurse scrambled to her side and slapped the scissorlike tool with pincers at the end into her gloved hand.

  Angela leaned in to get a better look. “I see it.”

  Dr. Mason carefully spread the gash in the man’s jaw open and expertly inserted the forceps into the wound. “Got it. It was embedded in the jawbone.”

  Angela leaned back to provide Dr. Mason additional light. “That’s a deep gash.”

  “It’s a cat claw. Look, it’s not broken off. It pulled out of the animal’s phalanges and even brought some of the elastic ligaments.”

  Angela took a closer look. “That cat must have been enraged to do this. And look how big the claw is. I had a cat as a kid and it looked nothing like this.”

  Dr. Mason shook her head in amazement. She instructed one of the nurses to preserve the claw in case it was needed for medical study or evidence. She stepped aside, allowing the nurses to clean the man’s wounds and watch over him until the plastic surgeon arrived.

  Angela broke out in a nervous sweat, as she finally had Dr. Mason alone. They stood in the hallway watching the activity for a moment, and then she broached the subject of leaving. She’d barely gotten started into the conversation when Dr. Mason stopped her.

  Another ambulance had arrived, and two stabbing victims were being unloaded into the ER. The conversation would have to wait, much to the chagrin of Angela.

  Chapter 32

  Cortlands’ Cabin

  The Haven

  “Daddy, somebody’s here,” shouted Hannah from the front porch of the Cortlands’ cabin. She was enjoying the
light snow that had fallen overnight. It was only the second time she’d seen measurable snowfall, the first being on her one and only visit to meet her grandfather in Connecticut.

  Cort emerged from the cabin and immediately recognized Ryan as he emerged from his heated four-wheeler. Cort shook his head and laughed as he pointed toward the Ranger. “Nice ride,” he quipped as he shook Ryan’s hand.

  “Good to see ya, Cort,” said Ryan before turning his attention to Hannah, who was standing as tall as she could to get noticed by the two men, who stood six feet three and six feet five, respectively. “You must be Hannah.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, extending her arm to shake hands.

  Ryan laughed and gave her a hearty shake. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Hannah.” Ryan paused as he noticed Meredith emerge from the cabin as well. He smiled and waved. “Hi, I’m Ryan.”

  “I’m Meredith, one of your new schoolteachers.”

  “So I hear. I also understand you wanna get started right away?”

  “If it’s okay.”

  “Well, the doors to the Little Red Schoolhouse are always open, and we’ve just hung the sign to finish off the construction. Any time you want to have a look, by all means.”

  Hannah waved to Ryan and then joined her mother on the porch.

  Cort turned to the founder of the Haven. “We have a lot to discuss, not only about what’s happened, but what comes next.”

  “I agree, Cort. I’m really glad you’re here. Now that the purpose for which Blair and I designed the Haven has come to pass, I need a right arm, somebody with good organizational skills and, more importantly, somebody I can trust with my inner thoughts. The security team is set as soon as one other person arrives. There’s somebody else supposedly due to arrive later who will help you and me as well.”

  “I’m glad to do anything you need, Ryan.”