Election

by Brandt Legg

  “I guess that’s why they want him.”

  “They didn’t say. But remember, through their shaving scam and digiGOLD, they could bring down the world’s economy anytime. What would that do to you?”

  “I’m not going to do it.” Vonner pounded the glossy wood table. “Hudson already has this thing won. Thorne would be a disaster.” He looked out the round window at clouds tinged gold with sunlight. “Don’t worry about me. If NorthBridge wants an economic war, they’re in over their heads.”

  “NorthBridge has people running wild on DarkNet. People I can’t keep up with, doing things I can’t even understand yet,” Rex said, as if admitting this caused him physical pain. “They’re self-funding, heavily armed, and seem intent on not just having a revolution, but winning it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  During the next six weeks, the multiple investigations into Vonner’s Stronet bank holding company and Booker’s corporate structure stalled. The two powerful men employed armies of attorneys and lobbyists. They’d made enough contributions to the campaigns of those in authority so that without a “smoking gun,” not much appetite existed to pursue them. Even SkyNok, the maker of Gruell-75—the military grade explosive used in the Kansas City Federal Reserve bombing—managed to get “closed-door” Congressional hearings.

  Since the attack, SkyNok, a company allegedly owned by Booker, had become the target of five separate government investigations. However, citing national security issues—as SkyNok’s largest customer of top-secret high-tech weaponry and explosive devices happened to be the US military and seventeen intelligence agencies—the inquiries were combined into a single probe under the jurisdiction of the US Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Even Fonda Raton failed to get any progress after posting several follow up pieces. One commentator noted that “Those issues seem to have fallen into the bureaucratic morass of Washington, and subsequently disappeared from the public’s consciousness.”

  Thorne’s relentless harassment of Hudson continued, resulting in a slight dip in the frontrunner’s numbers. Surprisingly, even Thorne’s constant attempts to raise the issue of Vonner’s and Booker’s questionable dealings fell flat when no other media outlets picked up the ball. Still, beyond those issues, across the rest of the political field, the rhetoric heated up. Heading into the holiday season, it seemed to be a three-way race for the Republican nomination among Hudson, Cash, and Thorne, while the Democrats were divided among Governor Kelleher of New York, Governor Morningstar of California, and Senator Packard from New Hampshire. Newsman Dan Neuman remained in fourth, but had been steadily edging higher in the polls.

  After the Colorado attack, NorthBridge had gone eerily silent. The loss of so many Secret Service agents had so stunned the nation that security had been drastically increased everywhere. NorthBridge’s wake of violence and the lack of leads had everyone on edge. Major shopping malls installed metal detectors, security companies went on hiring sprees, as did nearly every law enforcement agency in the country. Billions of dollars of emergency funding spilled into local police departments and the National Guard. Citizen groups formed to monitor areas wherever governmental presence was thin.

  But the biggest casualty of NorthBridge’s reign of terror was the absolute destruction of what remained of American’s privacy.

  Within days of the Colorado attack, Congress passed the Deter and Detect Domestic Terrorism Act, which became known simply as “3D”. On the day the president signed the bill into law, cameras were installed everywhere. The idea was to create grids of cameras so that virtually all population centers could be monitored in real time by artificial intelligence algorithms. The ACLU and other privacy advocates screamed about the middle of the night passage and the president’s quick signing, but the public was scared, and the 3D system was welcomed by the majority of citizens as the best way to keep safe and find the NorthBridgers.

  Fonda Raton posted that a highly placed source had claimed yet another Booker Lipton company had received the contract to install and operate 3D. She went after the story hard, but couldn’t find enough evidence to actually verify the allegation.

  “There’s another war coming,” she told her best three reporters as she assigned them the 3D story, “but this one is going to be against the American people . . . and they don’t even seem to notice that it’s already begun.”

  “What are we supposed to do?” one of the reporters asked her.

  “Same as always,” she said wearily. “Expose the truth, before it’s too late.”

  The secret backing of Newsman Dan Neuman by Bastendorff, the mysterious billionaire, had thus far gone undetected, but some political insiders were starting to notice that the two small political action committees supporting the Oregon Governor seemed to have a steady and never-ending stream of donors. Fonda had people checking out those PACs as well, but in her twenty-three years of investigative reporting, she’d never been so frustrated.

  “Something’s different about this one, something very wrong,” she said to an assistant, trying not to sound as fearful as she’d become. “There’s no doubt this election is going to change everything.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Hudson and his family arrived back in Ohio to celebrate Thanksgiving. They’d moved into Melissa’s home not long before Hudson’s old house had been firebombed. It had since been turned into an armed camp. Only weeks before, Vonner had acquired the two adjacent properties to create a buffer zone. The additional space also housed Vonner’s security team, campaign staff, and Secret Service agents whenever the candidate was in town.

  The last time Hudson, his four siblings, and their extended families had been together was their mother’s funeral years earlier. This time it was a festive gathering with lively conversation, laughter, and reminiscing. The Pounds had a lot to be thankful for; Hudson was the frontrunner for the Republican nomination, people had started to believe he could be the next president, but most of all because Florence and Hudson had survived the Colorado attacks. The drama had drawn his extended family closer than they’d been since Hudson’s parents had died.

  His top position in nearly every poll made his friends and family giddy. The country was scared. NorthBridge’s reputation as “phantom terrorists” seemed able to strike anyone, anywhere, anytime. People had stopped believing that the government could protect them, but Hudson had personally beaten back a major attack from NorthBridge. His outsider status and “everyman” persona offered fresh hope to a weary electorate. Many voters believed he might really be the one, that his words ‘We are the change,’ might really be true.

  Trixie, who ran Hudson’s hardware stores, was everyone’s favorite, even though she was the only liberal in the Pound clan.

  Jenna, the oldest Pound sister, had followed the family tradition and served in the military, where she met her husband, a Special Ops soldier who had been killed on a covert mission in the Middle East. She’d returned home after her husband’s death and started an army surplus store in a neighboring county, which had grown to two locations and made her a comfortable living. She had encouraged Hudson to join up after he became reckless and withdrawn for a period following high school. She didn’t know what had caused the change in her younger brother, but she had believed a stint in the military could straighten him up.

  Adam “Ace” Pound was perhaps the greatest success in the family. He had also done time in the military, learning to fly in the Air Force and later becoming a commercial airline pilot for United. He’d flown all over the globe, never married, but seemed to have no shortage of girlfriends in many cities. Although aloof and somewhat self-centered, Ace’s sense of humor and world travels made him hard to dislike. Ace was also even better looking than Hudson. Jenna called them her movie star brothers.

  Then there was Dwayne, who showed up for the free meal and some laughs, but didn’t have much to say. Dwayne was essentially homeless, but with the Pound’s deep roots in the area, he often landed on someone’s couch
or spare room for a few days at a time—at least until his drug and alcohol problems flared and he found himself back on the streets. Dwayne called himself “the lost Pound.”

  They were a proud family. Their father and both grandfathers had served in the military, and their tough, hardworking mother had cleaned houses when she had time. Respect for their parents and country was a common trait, but with their parents gone, the siblings, other than Trixie and Hudson, saw each other less and less.

  Hudson finished a toast by raising a Samuel Adams beer. “I look forward to the Pounds’ spending more time together.”

  “At the White House,” Ace added, to cheers.

  After the big meal, everyone lounged around in small groups talking and finishing up the family favorite dessert—a triple layer German chocolate cake with extra pecans on top. Schueller, who’d been skimming his email, called across to Hudson, “Dad, do you know what this means? I just got an email from someone called ‘Athens28.’ All it says is, ‘Tell your father to follow the yellow brick road.’”

  Hudson nodded. “Uh, yeah . . . thanks. Go ahead and delete that.”

  Schueller gave his dad a puzzled look, but caught the “don’t ask questions” expression on his face before shooting one back meaning “tell me later,” then did as he was told.

  Hudson, with the song “I’m off to see the wizard” irritatingly playing in his head, grabbed his laptop and slipped into an upstairs bathroom. After locking the door, he took the flash drive out of his pocket and pushed it into the USB port. The screen went into “matrix-mode” and, after a painfully slow minute, a chat windowed opened.

  Hey, Dawg!

  New test – Who was Smedley?

  Ha! I have missed you, old friend . . . Smedley wasn’t a who, rather a what. It was our code name for those deadly and dangerous things called cigarettes.

  Good, Hudson replied, unable to suppress a smile as he typed. I can’t be gone long, so why don’t you tell me what’s so important that you needed to interrupt my Thanksgiving.

  First, on a quantum level, I’m glad you survived the trip to Colorado. Do you know they don’t know where the seat of memory is held? And that time is dependent on memory—at least linear time? It’s how it’s embedded on space.

  What are you talking about? As before, as soon as Hudson typed a reply, the Wizard’s words disappeared.

  What you went through, Dawg, it’s all part of spacetime now, somewhere between here and the Pleiades. The agony of your screams is part of the infinite signal. So you survived, but it’s never over, you know? And part of that circle is this possibility. Have you ever heard of a man named Karl Bastendorff?

  No. Hudson shook his head, knowing the Wizard didn’t do drugs, but wondering if he felt as stoned as he sounded all the time.

  Any guess who you’ll be facing in the general election?

  Probably Governor Kelleher of New York.

  How about the governor of Oregon?

  No way. But very possibly the governor of California?

  No, not Morningstar, not Kelleher. It’ll be Governor Neuman from Oregon.

  Newsman Dan may be stirring a bit, but he’ll never go the distance. He’ll drop out after New Hampshire. It’ll be Kelleher, maybe Morningstar.

  Do you believe me about Vonner? Have you looked into it?

  Why would I? Vonner believes in me. And I believe in him.

  The man is bad news. You don’t get it. In an esoteric sense, this can’t be resolved, but you’ve got to see the connection in the quantum trajectory.

  I’m done here. Bye.

  No, Dawg, wait. I’ll make you a deal. If Newsman Dan Neuman drops out after New Hampshire, I’ll never say another bad thing about Vonner again.

  Nice of you.

  But if Newsman Dan wins New Hampshire, then you agree to make me Secretary of State.

  Joking. All I really want is to be Ambassador to South Korea.

  I have to go. Hudson couldn’t believe he was wasting time with his old spaced-out ex-best friend, who had obviously read too many books on physics, or quantum physics, or metaphysics, or something.

  Okay, seriously, when did you lose your sense of humor?

  You know when.

  Hudson felt bad, knowing his comment would hit the Wizard like a blow to his gut. When Newsman Dan wins New Hampshire, you agree to open up that great big mind of yours and listen to me.

  He’s never going to win.

  Then you agree?

  Sure, Hudson typed. The bet intrigued him. Sure, anything could happen in the ten weeks before New Hampshire, but there were three political superstars ahead of Newsman Dan Neuman, including New York’s powerhouse Governor Andrew Kelleher, California’s popular and charismatic governor Hap Morningstar, and Cindy Packard, the senior senator from New Hampshire. Even in this wild year, he could never imagine Packard losing her home state and either Kelleher or Morningstar not coming in a close second.

  Cool. One last thing. Find a way to see Gouge while you’re home.

  I can’t.

  You have to.

  Why?

  You know why.

  Does he want something?

  He wants to see his oldest friend. Understand the wavelength.

  It’s impossible. I could never get away. And I can’t be seen with him.

  Find a way.

  Or what?

  Find. A. Way.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Vonner was in the Washington area for a rare personal meeting with a secret, high-level government contact. Vonner’s holdings meant that he had offices in more than a hundred cities around the world, but he did most of his work from either his Carmel or Miami estates, and occasionally the Manhattan penthouse atop his tower in the financial district. But there was something about this Rosslyn, Virginia skyscraper with its panoramic view of the nation’s capital that he especially liked, as if seeing the power made it more in his control.

  His appointment was at nine, but Vonner had been in the office since four a.m. The seventy-two-year-old usually had the stamina of a fifty-year-old; however, this campaign had already taken a lot out of him, and he was tired. The billionaire had been born into money; his father had paved his way and taught him how to manipulate the strings of power. He’d spent his life behind the scenes in a dozen presidential contests and hundreds of senate races, but he knew this one was different. Not just because of NorthBridge and the stakes, which increased every year.

  This one meant everything because it would be the last one.

  Vonner read reports on all the regular staff who were close to Hudson. A large percentage of them were Vonner’s own operatives, planted at all levels of the campaign. These moles, and more just like them in the organizations of every other candidate in the race, answered to one of Vonner’s lieutenants.

  The excitement around Hudson had grown to the point where he attracted plenty of organic and enthusiastic supporters. One such person was Hamilton, a “kid” fresh out of college. He’d impressed enough top people in Hudson’s Iowa headquarters that he got some face time with the candidate on a recent swing through the important caucus state. Hudson liked Hamilton, and invited him to join the national team.

  Hamilton, who coincidently worked at a hardware store in Ames, Iowa, had to give two-weeks’ notice, and it would likely be another week until Hudson rolled back through when Hamilton could jump on. In the meantime, Vonner had to decide whether they should try to convert the “kid” or let him go.

  “What do you think of this kid?” Vonner asked a severe looking woman dressed in a dark suit who ran his covert political personnel operation.

  “He’s one of those idealistic youths. Republican family, but his girlfriend is a screaming liberal. He seems to think Pound is going to change the world.”

  “Then you don’t think he’ll play ball with us?” Vonner asked while looking out the window, across the wide and gentle Potomac River, at the Washington monument.

  “Too risky. My bet is that if we
approach him, he goes to Pound with it. Why do you care? He’s a kid. A nobody.”

  “I don’t want anyone even running errands for Hudson that we don’t control.” Hudson Pound’s national headquarters occupied three floors of the very building they were in. Vonner had left nothing to chance. Every day, trusted staff reviewed transcripts of every word said in every campaign office, emails, phone calls, all of it.

  “You don’t know if Pound is going to give this kid the time of day. They’ve moved plenty of other people to national, and he hardly notices. Every campaign does it with good and enthusiastic people. We’re trying to win, right?”

  “Those others were different,” Vonner said, ignoring the woman’s quip. “Pound is going to see himself in this kid.”

  “Because of the hardware store connection?”

  “Not just that. Military family. Five kids. Raised poor in the Midwest—”

  “Damn!” the woman said, jumping to her feet and moving to a large touch screen. “We’ve got bigger problems than your dumb Iowa kid.”

  “What?”

  “NorthBridge just went insane.”

  Vonner clicked a few buttons and what appeared to be a ten-foot wide seascape oil painting transformed into a high definition screen showing cable news. The scene of smoke, ash-covered cars, mangled steel, and the burnt-out lobby of a skyscraper could have been footage of the September 11, 2001 World Trade Center attacks, but the images were being broadcast live. They showed 200 West Street in lower Manhattan, a building Vonner knew well—the forty-four-story Goldman Sachs Tower.

  “Now they’ve done it,” Vonner sneered.

  “It’s one thing to go after presidential candidates,” the woman added, “even the Federal Reserve, but Goldman Sachs? I’d say NorthBridge has taken things nuclear.”

  Vonner pushed a button on his communicator. Rex answered a few seconds later.

  “Have you seen the latest handiwork from those idiots?” Vonner asked.