by Brandt Legg
The question was a minefield. Obviously, if a country was behind NorthBridge, it was a clear act of war. However, if the country was Russia, or China, then they’d be talking about World War III.
Hudson stumbled badly through a series of hypotheticals, stipulations, and conditional answers. Newsman Dan struck a sharp contrast, with facts, clear ideas, the appointment of secret commissions, intelligence issues, covert plans, special forces operations, and decisive answers about stopping NorthBridge and punishing their backers, but avoiding a nuclear standoff.
Hudson stood there looking weak, twice a victim of NorthBridge, a group who had so far escaped punishment. America’s biggest fear, and it seemed clear that Hudson couldn’t handle them, but Newsman Dan could.
With just days before the country voted, Hudson lost his first debate.
Chapter Sixty-Six
At seven p.m. on the night before election day, Hamilton found Hudson coming out of the restroom on the campaign bus as they headed to a late rally in the incredibly crucial state of Florida. Hudson still had a limp from the stadium attack, and although he had full use of his injured arm, there was constant pain. Hamilton noticed Hudson grimace as the bus jostled over a pot hole.
“You won’t believe this,” Hamilton said. “Fonda Raton wants an interview.”
“Now?” Hudson laughed. At the same time, his stomach clenched. “You’re joking.”
“She probably wants to take one last shot at you.”
Hudson nodded absently, thinking. “Set it up,” he said.
“Funny.”
“No.” Hudson grabbed Hamilton’s shoulder with his good arm. “Do it.”
“Fitz would kill me.”
“You don’t work for Fitz. You work for me.”
“Actually, I work for the campaign, and Fitz is the campaign manager, so technically I do work for Fitz.”
“Well, after tomorrow the campaign is over. If I lose, you go back to Iowa. If I win, I’ll have a job for you in the White House.”
Hamilton smiled. “Consider it done.”
Four hours later, Hudson, wearing a long, dark, wool coat, walked onto an outdoor observation deck at the Miami Airport. It was an unusually cold November night for southern Florida. The candidate had twenty minutes to spare. If all went well, he’d be sleeping in Ohio tonight with his wife, voting in his hometown in the morning, and then back to North Carolina to continue campaigning until the polls closed. There was still a chance that twenty-four hours from now, he could win the presidency, although the most recent polls had him slipping further—down ten points.
“You really do look battered,” Fonda said as he walked out, limping. The area had been cleared and secured by Secret Service agents. Its elevated location and high walls on three sides made it relatively safe. Hudson liked it because between the jet noise and open air, it would not be an easy place to bug. “I’m so sorry you had to endure another attack.”
“Are you?” Hudson asked, wondering if she meant the stadium, or her last anti-Pound post on the Raton Report.
“Of course I am.”
He stared at her for a minute, searching for sincerity, and thought he might have seen a glimpse of genuine concern. “Why did you want to see me? Maybe a story about some assignment I didn’t finish in elementary school, a past due library book, or the time I let my pet goldfish die?”
“Hudson, we don’t really have time for this type of banter, do we?”
“What do you want?”
“Let me teach the history teacher some history,” Fonda said. “Do you recall what happened in the 2016 election?”
“Of course.”
“No, you don’t. You only think you do.” Fonda smiled, enjoying her set-up. “Your party, the Republicans, had finally fielded a decent slate of candidates. In fact, from a standpoint of those who actually had a chance to win, it was their best in decades. Hillary Clinton was terrified of all of them.” Fonda looked back toward the building, as if expecting someone. “Hillary definitely hadn’t been expecting Bernie to surge, but she never doubted she’d get the nomination. Only the Republican nominee could stop her final ascent to power.”
“What about the missing emails, the FBI . . . ?”
Fonda waved a dismissive hand. “Please, are you kidding?”
After all he’d seen in this campaign, Hudson felt foolish for believing Hillary’s nomination might not have been a foregone conclusion.
“The Republicans,” Fonda continued, “had another Bush. Actually, the best Bush—a real governor of a big state, brains, fluent in Spanish, on and on. Then there was Rubio, a Hispanic Republican—young, energetic, good-looking. Kasich, the folksy, gentleman governor of Ohio—”
“He endorsed me,” Hudson said.
“Nice for you.” She patted his back mockingly. “But even before you, waaay back in 2016, the GOP had legitimate outsiders like Fiorina, a businesswoman, and Carson, an African-American surgeon, not to mention a solid pool of lesser-knowns. So how did they end up with Trump winning the Republican nomination?”
“Easy. The voters spoke. The electorate wanted a rebel. They were tired of the status quo,” he said, still hoping that somehow history would repeat itself.
“Wrong.”
“I watched it happen.”
“You only think you did.” Fonda shot another condescending smile. “You saw what they wanted you to see. Trump didn’t win. They rigged it.”
“Why would ‘they’ want Trump?”
“They didn’t want him, they wanted him to lose to her. Trump was the only candidate in the Republican field who couldn’t beat someone as polarizing as Hillary Clinton. She had the highest negatives of any nominee in history except for one other person . . . Trump.”
“But if they can rig the primaries, they can rig the general, so why bother with the Republican primary? That seems like an awful lot of trouble. If what you’re saying is true, with that kind of power, they could just hand the presidency to Hillary in the end anyway. And that didn’t happen, so your point—”
“The voters wouldn’t buy it. The people I’m talking about can make the outcome whatever they want, but they have to sell it to the masses. If Hillary won, and not nearly enough people had actually voted for her, the game would be up. We’d know—”
“What?”
“That none of it is real,” she said, giving him a hard look. “During the 2016 election, even in those final weeks, you could go to any major news site online and not even see anything about Hillary. But there would be dozens of anti-Trump stories. They wanted us to hate him more than her! And we did, because they found the most atrocious, egomaniacal, disaster of a human they could, to put against their atrocious, egomaniacal, disastrous candidate—and then they made him seem even worse. No one could stand the clown, even if they wanted to like him.”
“I do recall hearing that Trump and Bill Clinton had a lengthy phone conversation about the election just weeks prior to Trump announcing.”
“Coincidence?”
“So you’re saying the voters are—”
“Irrelevant.”
“If it’s true, you should do something about it.”
“Such as?”
“You’re the most feared woman in political journalism, and I should know,” Hudson said. “Why haven’t you posted this story?”
“It’s too big,” Fonda said, suddenly sounding as if she were discussing a terminal illness. “Even if I had all the proof I needed . . . ” She hesitated.
“What?”
“I wouldn’t survive.”
“You think they would just kill a journalist of your stature?”
Fonda laughed, but it trailed off into a weak, sad kind of chuckle. “They kill governors, they kill senators, political candidates . . . they even kill Presidents.”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Hudson stared at the journalist who had caused him so much trouble during the campaign, wondering what he should do. In a matter of hours, polls would beg
in opening around the nation, and the voters would decide if he or Dan Neuman should be the next president.
But would they really be the ones deciding? He didn’t know anymore. Many of the things he’d believed before that day Arlin Vonner first entered his life, he now knew weren’t true. They both knew they were talking about the REMies and the CapStone conspiracy, but what was the point? In a matter of hours, it would be decided by whatever means, and he couldn’t do anything unless he won.
“Can I trust you, Fonda?”
“Oh, honey, don’t you get it? You can’t trust anyone.”
He couldn’t help but laugh, but it was a sad, ironic sound. She’d been as big an adversary through the campaign as any of the candidates he’d faced. It was a huge risk even talking to her this close to the voting. One post from her and tens of thousands of votes could sway—maybe a lot more. But hadn’t he already lost the campaign?
Unless she knows something.
“What did you come here for?”
“Not to ask you anything,” she answered. “It’s your turn to ask the questions.”
“Are you setting me up?”
She laughed. “Someone set you up, but it’s not me.”
“If what you say is true, and the voters don’t decide the outcome, who does?”
“You know it’s the REMies.”
He didn’t want to talk about the REMies on the eve of the election. “Who specifically?”
They were standing less than two feet apart. She moved even closer to answer, and spoke softly. “There are many groups vying for control . . . Omnia, Mirage, the Aylantik, Techtrains, and others, but this time it’s the REMies who are the biggest threat. They’re the ones looking for the CapStone.”
Hudson felt like he did when he found out Zackers had been killed and Schueller was still out there exposed. While relieved she still apparently didn’t know the truth about Rochelle, this was much worse. Fonda Raton, probably the most feared, and certainly one of the last truly honest journalists in the country, was working a story about the CapStone conspiracy, and she knew a lot more than he did.
Who are these other groups?
Fonda had been watching him closely when she spoke. As an experienced interrogator, she saw the recognition in his eyes. She knew he knew. The tightening of his facial muscles, the quick grimace, it all told her what she suspected. He did know, but might not be part of it. That was a subtle, yet massive difference.
“Go on,” he said, a little too urgently.
“These groups, and the different factions within them, have been slowly consolidating their power and control for generations. They think of it as building a pyramid.”
She knows everything. Incredible! he thought. She must know far more than I do. What if she thinks I’m in on it? That’s why she’s here. Dammit, this will be all over the internet in the morning!
“Sometime in the past, they got to the CapStone, meaning each group had built upon the work of those who came before, and built it to a point where they could actually claim it all—total control. Whichever group or individual put the last piece in place—the CapStone—would win.” As she spoke, she continued to read him, still certain he knew this much. “You can imagine that many people would want this power, so they began to fight for it. Not just against all of us in the unwitting masses, but each other!”
He nodded noncommittally.
“CapWars,” she announced in a forceful whisper. “These are messy, brutal conflicts between titans wielding weapons we can’t begin to understand—manipulations of economies, policy, and thought. Entire societies are used, controlled; epic struggles, and consequences be damned.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“You know why, Hudson.”
“No, I’m not sure that I do.”
“Because you’re the final pawn.”
He knew he should deny it. He wanted to laugh and pretend she was crazy. It’s a test. She wants to see if I know, and how deeply I’m involved. He should have ended the meeting, he should have told her she was crazy, he should have done a lot of things. Instead, he just stared at her.
“It’s hard to know how bad it will be this time, because of their Three-D system,” she looked around until she spotted the closest camera. “Not the surveillance system, although that’s definitely part of the escalation. But they have long used a different Three-D system: Deception, Distraction, and Division.”
“How?” Hudson asked, trying to get information while only staying on the fringes of the conversation.
“Through the traditional media, and now social media, they manipulate and create events to distract us and, more importantly, divide us. Conservatives versus liberals, Democrats against Republicans, capitalism and communism, the US threatened by Russia, China, North Korea, Iraq, a constant rotating array of villains—Al Qaeda, Taliban, ISIS, whatever flavor of the week.”
“Okay,” Hudson said, unable to take it anymore. “You think I’m a pawn. I suppose you think Vonner is part of this—what did you call it?—‘CapStone’ conspiracy. And that he wants me in the White House to advance his agenda, to obtain the CapStone? Ridiculous.”
She looked disappointed. “I understand you have to be this way. You want to trust me, but with the stakes, our history, the fact that voting is set to commence in mere hours, you can’t. But it’s more than that . . . isn’t it?”
Test me? I can test, too.
“My point is, I’m somewhere between eight and eleven points down. I’m going to lose this election. So, what does that do to your theory? The all-powerful and dangerous REMies, these evil men building a pyramid, their pawn is lost, and they are defeated.”
“I can tell you this much. If Neuman wins, then this is all just about another attempt at the CapStone.” She stepped even closer to him now. “But if you win, then we’re in a CapWar, and not just any CapWar, but the finishing CapWar.”
“Finishing?”
“The pyramid will be complete, like it or not, whether the population knows it or not, and the winner of this CapWar will rule like an emperor with total control. That’s what obtaining the CapStone is all about. Control.”
“Control over the money?”
“Of course money, but control over even more important things . . . food, pharmaceuticals, and our minds.”
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Hudson woke up in his own bed for the first time in months. The blue glow of the clock pierced the darkness. How many hours of sleep had he gotten? It couldn’t have been more than four. His mind, already crowded with conspiracies, fear, and doubt, was further invaded by Fonda Raton’s words and warnings. Everything she had said echoed like drumbeats, and his regret amplified at not pushing her to name the REMies. How far had she gotten? Why was she alive when they had killed Zackers?
He rolled over, his arm still aching from the gunshot—the doctor said it might always. Melissa lay next to him, still asleep. She had been a champion during the endless months of campaigning, complicated and worsened a hundred times by the danger, threats, and violence.
And all of it was for nothing, he thought. She’s not going to be first lady after all. Vonner, Bastendorff, Booker, REMies, they’ll all go on without me. The world will keep spinning, but I’ll just be selling hardware. Sure, there’ll be a book deal, maybe even a decent advance, some speaking engagements, but the people will forget about me soon enough.
Then he realized that the worst part wouldn’t be missing out on all that power and the chance to push back against REMies; it would be letting down Rochelle yet again. She’d die in prison. Hudson would lose the election, but Rochelle would lose the most, her role as victim stuck infinitely on rewind and repeat. And, once more, it would be his fault.
“Is it time to vote yet?” Melissa said, without opening her eyes.
“Did I wake you?” Hudson asked, looking at the clock again—4:26 a.m. “Sorry, I’ve been restless.”
“Any particular reason, or just the whole ‘decidi
ng if you get to be leader of the free world’ thing?”
“I have a confession,” Hudson said.
“If this is about a campaign trail affair, let me at least have coffee first,” she said, her eyes still closed.
“Do you want to know the real reason I want to be president?”
“You mean it isn’t because you’ve always wanted your picture on a postage stamp?”
“I grew up poor, you know that much, but you’ve probably noticed I never really talk about it.”
“Of course I have, and every time I ask you why, you change the subject.”
“There were three of us; inseparable best friends. Gouge, the Wizard, and me.”
“The Wizard?”
“A nickname because he was so damned smart. He’s the one trying to crack Zackers’ encryption.”
She nodded.
“We grew up together, hanging out at Gouge’s dad’s tire shop. As you know from the Raton Report, Gouge and I are actually cousins, but my dad didn’t really get along with his brother, so I wasn’t supposed to hang out with him. We did anyway, up in the parts loft of the tire shop. Our little secret club, complete with our ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ flag.”
“Cute.”
“We’d drink, smoke cigarettes, get high, play cards, talk about girls, whatever.”
“Why didn’t your dad and Gouge’s dad get along?”
“I don’t know, happened before my time.”
“Did they ever resolve their differences before your dad passed?”
“No,” Hudson said, the single word dripping with regret, as if his father’s feud had infected his life. “Anyway, one night, like a hundred others, we were up in the loft. I was seventeen, and we were stoned. Gouge’s dad and a bunch of other guys were down below drinking and playing poker as usual. They had no idea we were in the building. We’d always listen to their jokes and stories.”
“Sounds exciting,” she said sarcastically.
