The Loyal Nine

by Bobby Akart

  She stood up and politely dismissed the security team. Sarge showed them to the elevator and sent them to the ground floor.

  “Abbie, would you like coffee or juice?” asked Sarge.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” said Abbie. “I’m excited about catching up with everyone. I imagine we have a lot to cover.”

  Sarge knew their meetings would have to become more frequent. The world had changed significantly since their last gathering. In another nine months, it might be unrecognizable. As the day progressed, he would explain the dire necessity for making serious changes to their lives. A heightened sense of awareness was required moving forward. He motioned them towards the study, eavesdropping on the ladies. I hope they don’t compare notes. His brother shook his head as Sarge closed the door behind the women.

  “You’re screwed, dude,” said Steven. “There will be no place to hide when those two are finished with you.”

  “No doubt,” said Sarge.

  Julia gave him a wink.

  “Greetings, Senator,” said Donald. “Polls seem to be strong.”

  “Thank you, Donald,” said Abbie. “When I ran six years ago, the campaign was very intense at this point. There was a lot of hostility among the electorate, especially against the rising voices of the Tea Party. We’re not seeing that yet. Everything seems to be on track for November.”

  “What are your chances of being selected by one of the presidential candidates as a running mate?” asked Susan.

  The question was bold, but they were a family and a team. Everyone spoke freely and honestly, without fear that their words might surface in public.

  “It’s difficult to predict this early,” said Abbie. “The big government Republicans are starting to ease up on us, but we may still be a few election cycles away from an alliance outside of the traditional Republican mold.”

  “I suspect you’re closer than you think,” said Julia. “I don’t see the Republican Party pulling off a presidential victory without a shakeup. Grabbing the libertarian base might be their only hope.”

  “I can tell you guys this, if my father wants me on either ticket as Vice President, it would happen. I honestly don’t know if I want that yet. Hyper-partisanship is still out of control. The Founding Fathers tried to warn us against the creation of a two-party system. One of my ancestors, John Adams, said he dreaded the division of the republic into strong parties. He predicted it would become the greatest political evil under our Constitution. He was right, and the polls show that a majority of Americans agree. The constant bickering and gridlock has poisoned the country.”

  “The two-party system has fostered an environment of division between Americans,” said Sarge. “I have never seen people so polarized.”

  “I agree,” said Donald. “Lincoln said America would never be destroyed from the outside. If we lose our freedom, it will be because we destroyed ourselves.”

  Donald reached for one of the parcels labeled number one. He handed it to Sarge. “For you, my friend—a gift honoring the great success of your new book.”

  Sarge removed the brown-paper wrap, taking in the first of the marvelous paintings. He remained speechless while Donald explained their significance.

  “You’re looking at hand-painted reproductions of a five-part series of paintings created by Thomas Cole, an English artist that reached his pinnacle in the 1830s. The series is called The Course of Empire. They depict the rise and fall of an imaginary city.”

  Donald and Susan quickly unwrapped the rest of the paintings and gave them to the others to hold for viewing.

  “Imagine an ideal world in its natural state, untouched by mankind,” said Donald. “This first canvas is called The Savage State. It’s symbolic of our planet in its pristine, unblemished condition. It features a beautiful valley, wildlife, a pristine river and only primitive people.

  “The second painting is called Arcadian,” continued Donald. “This painting reveals the development of the land, but with a slow, controlled approach. Notice the structures are very primitive, and the scene is sparsely populated.”

  He took the third painting from Steven.

  “Next in the series is the Consummation of Empire. Obviously, ancient Rome is the subject of this work. This painting exudes luxurious self-indulgence, much like the Roman Empire at its peak in around 100 A.D. Notice the ornate architecture and the elaborately dressed inhabitants. The harbor is bustling with ships and the marketplace is full of activity.

  “The fourth painting is called Destruction. Art historians believe this painting suggests the fall of the Roman Empire around 400 A.D., at the hands of the Vandals. The dark storm clouds envelop the city as the seas rage, rocking the ships back and forth. The towers have fallen, and the city is generally war ravaged. Notice the dead and injured who have fallen as a result of the destruction.”

  Donald handed this painting to Julia and then lifted up the last canvas—turning it for everyone to see its detail.

  “Finally, the artist referred to this painting as Desolation, which represents the empire years after its destruction. The city is in ruins, and natural vegetation has taken over the majestic structures. The imaginary city depicted in Cole’s artistic works has come full circle.”

  Sarge surveyed the room as everyone hung on Donald’s last words.

  “I prefer to call it TEOTWAWKI—The End of the World as We Know It.”

  “All empires collapse eventually—there have been no exceptions,” said Sarge.

  “That’s why we are all here,” added Donald.

  Chapter 53

  April 18, 2016

  Top of the Hub Restaurant

  Boston, Massachusetts

  “Welcome to the Top of the Hub Restaurant, gentlemen, and may I wish you a splendid Patriots’ Day,” said the tuxedo-clad maître d’.

  Morgan nodded as he entered the restaurant with Walter Cabot. The Top of the Hub occupied the upper floors of the Prudential Tower and offered breathtaking views of Boston’s skyline and beyond. On clear days, the Atlantic Ocean glistened in the distance beyond the inner harbor. Closer below, the Charles River dominated the cityscape, giving upscale diners unobstructed lines of sight to many of Boston’s iconic landmarks. Foremost among them, the ornately constructed Longfellow Bridge stared up at the most connected or lucky patrons seated near a window in the northeast corner. Inspired by European design, the bridge opened in 1906, featuring eleven steel arch spans supported by ten concrete piers. Four ornamental stone towers flanked the central span, providing the bridge’s most notable feature. Today, the splendor of the Boston landmarks would take a backseat to the Boston Marathon, which was unfolding just below them along Boylston Street.

  Morgan was in good spirits. His choice of the Skywalk Observatory for this private meeting was a change of pace from the usual venue at 73 Tremont. Lofty goals require a lofty locale. Without exaggeration, he knew that today’s discussions would shape world events. The maître d’ led Morgan and Cabot into a private room with seating for nine. A long rectangular table had been positioned next to the window—elegantly adorned with white tablecloths, candles, crystal glassware and fine china. In addition to sparing no expense for their endeavor, he had insisted on total privacy for the meeting. The restaurant’s management understood that once lunch was served, they were to remain outside the private dining room until summoned.

  They were greeted upon entry by Lawrence Lowell, who was seated closest to the door. He set his cocktail on the table—after finishing it with a long swallow. Never too early for a cocktail, right, Lawrence?

  “John, it’s good to see you,” said Lowell. “Cabot old man, you are looking well.”

  Lowell was heartily shaking Cabot’s hand. The Lowells and Cabots were the epitome of New England aristocracy—New England First Families.

  “Thank you, Lawrence, and you look well also—for an old man,” said Cabot with a deep-throated chuckle.

  Morgan surveyed the room over the two men, each of whom stood se
veral inches shorter. He was pleased to see that everyone was present. Tardiness was a sign of personal weakness, a trait that could not be tolerated in this circle. Especially today. The attendees, in addition to Morgan, included the eight members of the executive council—all descendants of America’s Founding Fathers. Endicott, Tudor, Winthrop, Bradlee, Peabody, Adams, Cabot and Lowell. Morgan wanted to have a brief chat with each of them before delving into official business.

  “Hello, Henry,” Morgan said to the great grandson of former Secretary of War William Crowninshield Endicott. “I hope all is well.”

  “Yes, John, of course it is,” said Endicott.

  He leaned in to whisper in Morgan’s ear. “Thank you for arranging the meeting with the Saudi prince. We have formed an excellent working relationship. They have quite an appetite for our advanced weaponry. Perhaps they will use it on the Iranians since our commander-in-chief won’t.”

  The Endicott family name was synonymous with warfare throughout the world.

  “I was glad to help you, Henry,” said Morgan. “Please give my regards to your blushing bride.”

  The men laughed at Morgan’s reference. Endicott was on his third wife. The new Mrs. Endicott was younger than most of his children. He approached Samuel Bradlee, who had just retrieved another cocktail from one of the waiters.

  “Samuel, you old codger, how’s your golf game,” greeted Morgan.

  Samuel Bradlee was a former Secretary of Defense and a direct descendant of Nathaniel Bradlee—one of the key participants in the Boston Tea Party. He was very well regarded among the group and had taken on the unofficial role of social coordinator.

  “Still hittin’ ’em straight, John,” said Bradlee. “I nearly got a hole in one the other day. I guess if one plays enough golf, he’ll get lucky. Even a blind squirrel will find an acorn once in a while, right, old friend?”

  “And a broken clock is right twice a day, Samuel. Glad to hear all is well,” said Morgan.

  “Listen, John, I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for my nephew,” said Samuel. “He’s thoroughly enjoyed his tour as 1st Battalion, 25th Marine Regiment’s commander, but the Marine Corps has a tendency to move its personnel around—and Brad is due for a reassignment. My brother likes having him close by, and I think you will agree his position could be advantageous at some point.” I know, Samuel, who do you think put him there in the first place?

  “Do not concern yourself with this, Samuel,” said Morgan, patting his friend on the shoulder. “I’m sure he’d make a fine commanding officer for the 25th Marine Regiment, located right at Fort Devens. Brad will have a long tenure at Fort Devens.”

  “John, it goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway. Thank you,” said Bradlee.

  The catering manager approached and stood inconspicuously to the side, waiting courteously for them to finish their conversation.

  “Give me a moment, Samuel,” said Morgan, acknowledging the manager’s presence.

  “Sir, is there a particular time you would like lunch to be served?” asked the manager.

  Morgan looked at his watch, noting that it was 11:40.

  “Begin your preparations now, and have all courses except dessert delivered before noon,” said Morgan.

  “Very well, sir. We will commence immediately,” said the manager.

  Morgan wanted to speak with one more guest before lunch was served. He found Paul Winthrop stuck in a conversation with Lawrence Lowell.

  “Lawrence, may I borrow Paul for just a moment?” asked Morgan. “Lunch will be served shortly.”

  “Yes, absolutely, John. It is so good to see you again, Paul,” said Lowell before he flagged down the waiter for another cocktail.

  Morgan turned his attention to the descendant of one of Massachusetts Bay Colony’s earliest settlers, and its first acting governor.

  “Paul, thank you for coming,” said Morgan.

  Winthrop’s cousin, Henry Winthrop Sargent III, was Morgan’s best friend, and father to Morgan’s godsons, Sarge and Steven. Morgan felt a special kinship with the Winthrops and Sargents.

  “I want to apologize for not keeping you in the loop regarding the matter in Switzerland last month. You do understand why the course of action was necessary?” Morgan examined Winthrop carefully while he answered.

  “Of course I do, John,” said Winthrop. “I would prefer to keep abreast of these matters, but I understand the need for secrecy.”

  “The direction of the talks had taken an unexpected turn, and I needed to take immediate action,” said Morgan. “This will benefit us all, despite the ruffled feathers.”

  “Absolutely, John,” said Winthrop. “Ah, it appears our lunch is on its way.”

  In a room full of men accustomed to occupying the power seat in board meetings, diplomatic talks and other high-level functions, John Morgan strode unopposed to the head of the table as their de facto leader—a title none of them had ever disputed. He waited patiently for everyone to gather around the table.

  The business ahead of them was nothing short of monumental. By the time they emerged from the room, the next President of the United States would be decided. These nine men, representing the wealthiest and most powerful families since the country’s founding, would once again shape the nation for years to come.

  In reality, Morgan knew today’s luncheon was a mere formality. Their course of action had already been decided, but tradition demanded the formal meeting, which had taken place since 1860. The group’s presidential nominee had won every election for the last 156 years, except for one. 1992. Ross Perot represented the one case in history where no amount of money or promise of power could sway the result. They had briefly considered other methods, but the group decided that either incumbent would favor their interests. As it turned out, the Clinton years represented one of the group’s most prosperous eras—money and power held great sway in that administration.

  A small cadre of waiters simultaneously placed their lunches on the table, making final adjustments before withdrawing from the room. Morgan looked to Malcolm Lowe and nodded for him to secure the doors. They were ready to begin.

  “Gentlemen, as is customary—a toast,” said Morgan.

  Everyone stood, raising their glasses.

  “To Boston,” said Morgan. The room echoed his words—To Boston.

  “To our forefathers,” said Morgan. To our forefathers.

  “To God and Country,” said Morgan. To God and Country.

  “To the Boston Brahmin,” said Morgan, raising his glass high. To the Boston Brahmin came the reply.

  “Now, let’s get down to business,” said Morgan.

  For the next forty-five minutes, the executive committee of the Boston Brahmin discussed the fate of the presumed nominees for President. Hillary Clinton was the front-runner for the Democratic nomination, and it was widely anticipated Mrs. Clinton would effectively secure the nomination next week during the “winner-takes-all” primaries in her adopted home state of New York, and in Pennsylvania, Connecticut and Rhode Island. Morgan had to reassure them that she could be controlled. She’d focus on domestic issues and allow them to advance their geopolitical goals when the need arose.

  On the Republican side, the nomination was undecided based on early opinion polls. Primaries in the northeast favored the underdog, Senator Rand Paul, while most of the contested states favored Jeb Bush. None of the executive committee members favored these two candidates. While their politics favored Jeb Bush, the committee did not see him as a viable candidate against the powerful Clinton campaign. Senator Paul was a candidate the average American could understand, but his position on auditing the Federal Reserve, combined with his dove-like approach to the military, excluded him from consideration—immediately.

  So it was settled, Hillary Clinton was the choice of the Boston Brahmin for President. Status quo—effectively a third term for the present occupant.

  Once they agreed and everyone pushed away from the table, the waiters wer
e allowed back in to refresh drinks. Bradlee pressed his face against the window and recoiled, pointing toward the streets below.

  “My God, what’s happening down there?” exclaimed Bradlee.

  Morgan checked his watch—12:45 p.m.

  “It’s a riot or something. Look below,” said Winthrop.

  From the Skywalk Observatory, fifty-two floors above Boylston Street, they saw throngs of people scattered in all directions in Copley Square.

  This is what mayhem looks like.

  Chapter 54

  April 18, 2016

  Copley Square

  Boston, Massachusetts

  “Black lives matter! Black lives matter!” shouted the group marching westbound on Beacon Street.

  Jarvis Rockwell—J-Rock to his boys—held his hands high over his head. He knew this was a waste of time, but when the good Reverend Al asked folks to come out and make their voices heard, he felt obligated to stand with his brothers from Mattapan, Roxbury and Dorchester. Protesting was not his thing, but he agreed to lend his support. The time for talk was over.

  The crowd marched arm-in-arm past the fancy clothing stores on Boylston Street. More than a thousand men, women and children approached the Clarendon Street interchange, where they collided with the orange and white barriers blocking the entrance to Copley Square. J-Rock’s instructions were clear—march through and do not stop; let your voices be heard.

  J-Rock was the leader of the Academy Homes gang located in Roxbury, one of several Boston gangs heavily invested in drug dealing, gunrunning and human trafficking. The gangs of Boston were divided by ethnicity—Asian, Hispanic and black. The Asian gangs were united by their leader, the White Devil, and ruled the area south of downtown Boston—Chinatown. The Hispanic gangs were controlled by the Central American cartel widely known as Mara Salvatrucha—MS-13. They predominantly operated in the East Boston ghettos, though they had recently started to spread wings and appear all over the city. The black gangs of Boston outnumbered both of these rival ethnicities, but they lacked unity.