by Brandt Legg
Me?
You. As soon as I found out you were running on Vonner’s dime, I knew you were in trouble. So, I dove deeper than ever into CapStone. Before that, it had just been a frightening hobby, like a drug habit. Like, I knew I shouldn’t shoot up, shouldn’t do another line, but I couldn’t resist the danger, the overwhelming weight of it. Their power is like . . . these guys are like GODS. Do you get that?
Hudson had trouble sleeping after the chat with the Wizard. At one point he paced to the window and stared out at the Vegas strip, still glittering with brightly lit neon. The surreal, futuristic backdrop juxtaposed against the reality that for more than a century a secret group—or several groups—had been fighting for control of the United States and, ultimately, the world.
No one knew exactly when the CapStone conspiracy had begun or how many CapWars there had been, but Hudson could see the origins of the Illuminati and Free Mason legends in the CapStone story. The people vying for total control over a world were referred to as REMies, the origin of the name as murky as that of the groups they represented. Their efforts to manipulate the masses were seen as the symbolic building of a pyramid—each level built upon the one beneath it, always trying to reach the top: the CapStone. The competing groups struggling to get to the top first turned on each other, and the CapWars ignited. Yet even while fighting among themselves, they continued to use and deceive the unsuspecting populations.
Hudson reviewed the list of CapWars in his head; events he knew well from history, but now believed had been artificially created by the CapStone conspirators or REMies.
1913 – US Federal Income Tax begins and Federal Reserve Bank System established, creating the authority of the private bankers to issue Federal Reserve notes (known as US Dollars today).
1929-1935 – US Stock market crash and worldwide depression. After which, the pyramid with the all-seeing eye in the capstone first appeared on the back of the US dollar bill.
1939 – World War II begins.
1963 – US president John F. Kennedy assassinated for refusing to cooperate with the REMies.
1976 – US president Jimmy Carter elected – REMies involvement unclear.
1987 – US and world stock markets crash.
2001 – Terrorist attacks of September 11th.
2008 – Financial crisis and great recession which followed.
Today – Current presidential election allegedly caught up in the CapWars.
Those were the events that the Wizard and others had thus far linked to the CapStone conspiracies and thought to be CapWars, but many others—including most wars and US presidential elections—were suspected. Hudson couldn’t shake the sick feeling that it was too big to take on. Even if, by some miracle, he became president, he knew he wasn’t as smart or brave as JFK. How could he hope to bring down the richest and most powerful people in the world? These people that had been working together for decades, and generations before that, in the greatest conspiracy the world had ever known?
The Wizard’s words pounded in his head, like the glare of the blinking lights from the casinos below.
“They control EVERYTHING and EVERYONE!”
Somewhere in the hours before dawn, Hudson managed a few hours of sleep. He snuck in a quick call to Melissa while shaving. Grateful for her grounding, he wished they could be together more.
Fitz greeted him early with two cold Cokes. “No thanks,” Hudson said. “I’ll get coffee downstairs.”
“Suit yourself,” Fitz said. “I wanted to drink them both anyway.”
Later, after two quick appearances and three cups of coffee, Hudson excused himself on the way to his motorcade. Two Secret Service agents accompanied him to the men’s room. One of the agents swept the restroom.
“All clear, sir,” he said to Hudson, joining the other agent guarding the door outside.
While Hudson washed his hands, a man exited one of the stalls. The room was supposed to have been empty. Hudson’s first instinct was to yell, but then he recognized the man. Booker Lipton stepped up to the sink next to him and rinsed his hands.
“Hudson, good to see you again.”
“How did the Secret Service agent miss you?” Hudson looked around, alarmed, but the polished black marble and gold didn’t seem to be hiding anyone else.
“He didn’t.”
“He didn’t miss you? He let you stay?”
“Agent Pearce works for me . . . on the side.”
“I don’t think that’s allowed.”
Booker raised an eyebrow. “Since when do the rules matter?”
“Okay, whatever,” Hudson said, still thinking about yelling for his security detail. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble. You must have something to say to me.”
“I do,” Booker said, drying his hands and then tossing the paper towel in the trash can. “You need to be careful of Bastendorff.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
Booker frowned. “Let’s not waste each other’s time. You know exactly who I’m talking about.”
Hudson nodded apologetically, angry at the same time. “You mean your fellow REMie?”
“Bastendorff doesn’t want you to win under any circumstances,” Booker began, ignoring Hudson’s comment. “He’s backing Governor Cash and Governor Neuman—”
“Wait, Newsman Dan and Cash?”
Booker nodded.
“Why would he support a Democrat and a Republican?”
Booker smiled and cocked his head. “You don’t really still believe there’s a difference, do you?”
“I’m different,” Hudson said.
Booker smiled. “Bastendorff will do anything. This is the first time a presidential candidate has been assassinated since Bobby Kennedy, and they’ve killed two already.” Booker paused and stared at Hudson, making sure he had his attention. “There will be more.”
“But that’s NorthBridge, not Bastendorff.”
Booker gave Hudson an incredulous look. “Let’s say I wanted to meet you for a private conversation and I ask a Secret Service agent to arrange it. Now, I’m the one who wanted the meeting to happen, but the Secret Service agent is the one who made it happen. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“NorthBridge works for Bastendorff?”
“We live on a round planet spinning through space. Sometimes up is really down and vice versa, we have no way to ever be sure. Bastendorff and NorthBridge may want the same thing today. Tomorrow, they may not. You’re a history teacher. Remember, Stalin and the Soviets were our allies during World War II, then we spent the next forty-five years fighting them in a so-called Cold War. We trained and funded Osama Bin Laden, used to be pals with Saddam Hussein—get my meaning?”
“Okay, so you’re supporting me now?”
“Let’s just say that you’re no good to me dead, and no good to me if you lose.”
Hudson smiled uneasily. “I definitely also prefer to live through this.”
“There is no guarantee, and even less of a sure thing is your victory. Bastendorff is a formidable foe, and a bastard. Now, I’m sure you’ll get the nomination. Vonner, who’s another type of bastard altogether, ought to be able to pull that off. But the presidency is a different matter. Rigging the general election may sound easy, but believe me, it’s not.”
“Does Vonner know you’re helping us?”
“No. Vonner doesn’t like me much.”
“It’s mutual, isn’t it?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Suffice it to say, we need Vonner for the time being.”
“Donations from you could cause trouble. Fonda Raton, Thorne, others think—”
“You don’t need my money,” Booker said. “I’ll be assisting behind the scenes.”
“There’s a lot going on behind the scenes already.”
“You have no idea,” Booker said, looking toward the door. “Just remember that no matter what cable news says, what Fitz and Vonner claim, your rise is not a foregone conclusion . . . But
it has to happen. Bastendorff must be stopped.”
“I need to know more.”
“You will. I’ll be in touch,” Booker said, shaking Hudson’s hand. “Now, you’d better go.”
Hudson turned back when he reached the door. “Hey, Booker, how’d you know I’d come in here?”
“I didn’t.”
“What if I hadn’t?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“Because you did.”
Hudson just shook his head.
“And, Hudson? Let’s keep Agent Pearce’s moonlighting just between us. Never know when you’ll need to reach me.”
Hudson didn’t trust Booker, he didn’t trust Vonner, and now he didn’t trust the Secret Service. I’m running out of people to trust, he thought as he caught up with Fitz, who always seemed to be in midsentence about their next event. Why would I ever need to contact Booker? Hudson wondered, glancing at Agent Pearce before getting into the vehicle.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Schueller didn’t want to tell his girlfriend about the call he’d just had. He didn’t want to tell anyone.
It had been his dream since he’d first picked up the guitar at age twelve to get a record deal, and now it had happened. Or, at least, the offer had happened. And not just some small-time indie deal. No, this was Warner Music—the big time! But Schueller had become jaded by all he’d learned in the past few months. He knew that Vonner’s reach was everywhere, that the music industry was just another tool for the billionaire to use to get what he wanted. He couldn’t tell his girlfriend because he’d have to tell her why he wasn’t going to take the deal, and then she’d want to know why, and he’d have to tell her everything. No way. Too dangerous for her and everyone else.
Instead, he called his sister. At Zackers’ insistence, they used burner phones now—disposable and cheap from big box retailers, and much more secure. Schueller knew enough now to understand it was all but impossible to beat the NSA. The government spy agency would still intercept and store the call, but if they were careful about what they discussed, it would be a long time before the NSA knew who was talking. Burner phones also meant Vonner couldn’t monitor them. At least they thought he couldn’t.
“How do you know it’s Vonner behind the offer?” Florence asked. “You’re a talented guy—videos on YouTube, great tracks on iTunes, Pandora, Spotify—maybe someone finally noticed.”
“I’d like to think so,” Schueller replied, “but the deal is too good. And they want me out in Los Angeles right away. No, it’s Vonner. He wants to shut me up.”
“Couldn’t he do that another way?” Florence asked, almost whispering.
“You mean like permanently shutting me up? I think that would be too messy, too risky given Dad’s situation.”
“I guess so. I hope so,” Florence said, thinking about Colorado. “Have you told Dad about this?”
“No, and I’m not going to. I don’t want Dad thinking he’s messing up my life. He doesn’t need one more distraction, one more stress.”
“Won’t Vonner get even more crazy when you turn it down? I mean, he’ll know that the only way you’d say no to a record deal is if you’re onto him.”
“Yeah, I thought of that.” He was quiet for a long time.
“So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
On the eve of Super Tuesday, Hudson was on fire. Wins in Nevada and South Carolina had given him a perfect four-state winning streak going into the big day. However, Governor Cash was expected to win his home state of Texas, as well as Arkansas and Georgia. Thorne even had a chance in Vermont and Tennessee. The Democrats were more competitive, with Morningstar acing Nevada and Governor Kelleher taking South Carolina.
“They don’t call it Super Tuesday for nothing,” Fitz said. “Come Wednesday morning, we’ll have a damn good idea who’s going to get the nomination.”
As it turned out, they knew by the end of Tuesday night. Hudson won seven of the states, and came in a close second on four more. It would be very difficult for any of his rivals to catch him now. Senator Celia Brown, the Florida congressman, and the Oklahoma governor withdrew from the race, and just like that, the Republicans were whittled down to three—Hudson, Cash, and Thorne. For the Democrats, a similar house cleaning occurred, leaving only the three governors—Morningstar, Kelleher, and Newsman Dan. During the next two weeks, a smattering of ten more primaries and caucuses were held with mixed results.
The first debate featuring the three remaining Republican candidates would be held in Miami two days before what Fitz called “the real Super Tuesday”, when Florida, Illinois, Ohio, and a couple of other states would vote.
The day before the debate, fresh off almost meaningless losses in the Guam, Washington, DC, and Wyoming caucuses, Hudson was in Florida readying for the face-off with Cash and Thorne. Staying at Vonner’s $70 million oceanfront estate, Hudson had much more on his mind than prepping for a debate he was sure to win.
Taking advantage of the rare chance for some outdoor privacy, Hudson joined Schueller and Florence for a walk on the beach. Melissa, flying in from North Carolina, would join them for dinner. Checking to see that the Secret Service agents were far enough away that they couldn’t be overheard, they talked about Zackers’ progress. Hudson had asked for space, said he wanted to relax with his kids, but after the agent Pearce/Booker restroom meeting, he was being extra cautious.
“It’s insane, Dad,” Schueller said. “Zackers uncovered this old post from a person using the screenname ‘Augusta30.’ I have no idea if that’s a man or woman, but I’m going to just assume it’s a guy.” Schueller, wearing rolled up jeans and a black tee-shirt, steered the group a little farther from the surf as the waves lapped his calves. “Anyway, Augusta30 must have been an insider working for one of the wealthy families.”
“The Wizard calls them REMies,” Hudson said, looking again at the four Secret Service agents, the closest about fifty feet away. Hudson, wearing shorts and a linen shirt, with a warm salty breeze blowing through his golden hair, would like to have relaxed, but looking the part was the best he could do.
Florence, in shorts and a tank top, stopped to examine a shell. “REMie?” she asked.
“Rising Emperors, or Empresses,” Hudson said. “The folks who are building an empire and fighting over the empire at the same time.” He was about to list some of the other theories for the strange name, but Schueller beat him to it.
“This guy, Augusta30, also refers to them as REMies. In his post he lists several possible reasons, but his favorite was that the elites have put us all in a sleep state, like REM sleep.”
“Brain activity as if we’re awake,” Florence said, “but we’re asleep.”
“Yeah,” Schueller added. “He said the REMies manipulate us all the time so that it’s almost impossible to know what’s true.”
“Like who’s the best presidential candidate,” Hudson said.
“Wait until you see what he wrote,” Schueller said, bending down to pick up a shell and showing it to Hudson to conceal him slipping a small flash drive into his father’s hand.
“Thanks,” Hudson said, making an overly obvious motion to drop the shell back on the sand. “I collect these things.”
“Zackers has been able to verify a few of the things Augusta30 wrote about, but it’ll take time to confirm the rest.”
“Do we have any idea who or where Augusta30 is?” Florence asked.
“No,” Schueller said. “Apparently, the post was made about three years ago, and remained up for less than eighteen hours. No word of Augusta30 since, but he provided lots of details and painted an incredible conspiracy by the elites, the REMies, to covertly rule the world. Everything we see in the media, that governments tell us, that multinational corporations do, it’s all lies directed by the REMies.”
“The CapStone conspiracy,” Hudson said, glancing over his shoulder.
“Right,” Schueller
said. “How’d you know?”
“An old friend told me.”
“Do Augusta30 or Zackers name any of the REMies?” Florence asked.
“Yeah . . . ” Schueller hesitated.
“Vonner?” Hudson asked.
Schueller stopped walking. “Yeah. Vonner is definitely a REMie.”
“Now we have corroboration,” Hudson said, his voice strained. “I can’t deny it any longer.”
“What are you going to do?” Florence asked.
“Expose him. Have him arrested,” Hudson said through gritted teeth.
“You’re joking,” Florence said.
Hudson stared out over the ocean, silent for a few moments. “No, I’m not joking.”
“He’ll kill you,” Schueller said, grabbing his father’s arm.
“I know,” Hudson said. “I’m dead if I do it now. I need real proof anyway.”
Obviously the fragments of a three-year-old internet post by some anonymous whistleblower combined with the testimony of a basically homeless guy called “the Wizard” isn’t going to get an indictment, Hudson thought as he stared into the frightened eyes of the two people he loved most in the world.
“That’s why I’ll have to wait until I’m president. Then, I’ll get Vonner. Him and all the others.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Hudson told Schueller to ask Zackers to keep going. “Get it all. Find everything he can on Vonner, Bastendorff, Booker Lipton, the Rothschilds, the Rockefellers, and any other REMies he discovers.”
That evening before dinner, Hudson asked Melissa to join him for a walk on the beach.
“You know how we’ve always been a little suspicious about Vonner?” Hudson asked as they stepped from the perfectly manicured grass of the billionaire’s estate onto the still-warm sand.
