At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1)

by Mark E Becker

  “Mr. Masterson, you are in grave danger.” Pryor took the lead, owing to his substantial seniority over his companions. Even though they rode to the Masterson estate in the same motorcade, they rode in separate limousines, reflecting the unspoken competition between their government agencies.

  Max chose not to respond to Pryor, waiting for someone else to volunteer more information. There was a long silence as they waited for him to speak.

  Postlewaite took the cue to step in. “Max, I know how you feel about crowds, and, I especially appreciate your zealous regard for your privacy . . .” he looked at Pryor, who suddenly began examining the artwork in the room. “But we need to talk this out. I made a promise to the senator to get you through this campaign, but I can’t do that if you are lying on a slab in a morgue someplace. All your potential gone . . .” his eyes became distant as he slipped into the past.

  Betty Swift had been uncharacteristically silent for longer than she could endure. Not known for her diplomatic skills or social refinement, she stood up as she spoke. She often explained that she couldn’t think when sitting down. When testifying before Congress, she was known for demanding the right to stand, and her detractors had unsuccessfully tried to make her sit while she talked. “Look kid, you think that you can do things in private without me and my agency knowing about it, but I can tell you this. I can get pictures of you screwing or taking a shit if I ask for them, so don’t get all noble on me about protecting your privacy. You don’t have any, and neither does anyone I choose to pay attention to. Just the idea that you can run for president and think you have any way to get away from my prying eyes makes me question your intelligence. Now they tell me that I have to save your pretty butt,” she snapped in her Boston accent. her glare shifted to Pryor, who smirked behind his right hand. “And someone is trying to kill you. I had a hell of a time getting my people out there on such short notice.”

  Max furrowed his eyebrows. “What do you mean, Betty? I’m out here in the middle of nowhere surrounded by friends . . .”

  Two well-muscled bikers stood in unison behind Max’s chair within arm’s reach. “Max Masterson, meet Gary and Mike. Gary, would you tell Max who you are and show him what you have hidden underneath your leather jacket?” Betty’s face had acquired a certain confidence.

  “Max, sir, I and my partner here, Mike, are Navy Seals assigned to you for your protection. I am here to keep you alive. I answer to you and the director there and my little friend here.” he pulled back his jacket to show a holstered handgun and machine pistol, while Mike revealed a disassembled sniper rifle and scope, as well as a small black electronic device. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Mike boomed in a soft baritone.

  “Mr. Masterson, have you wondered why people always know where you are and what you are doing?” Betty continued. “We think that your security has been compromised.”

  Mike stood and pressed a button on the black device, which emitted an electronic voice.

  “Object detected,” it spoke in a clear female voice.

  he moved toward Max, and the box flashed from blue and green to orange and red. “Subdermal GPS with audio surveillance capabilities,” said the voice.

  Mike placed the device against Max’s neck. “hold still. I’ll get it.” Making a small puncture slightly above Max’s jugular vein, the device beeped twice. Max felt a slight suction and pressure, and the lights went from red to green. A small window on the side of the device showed what looked like a black-pointed stinger.

  An attractive biker chick who bore a close resemblance to Rachel walked to the center of the room and removed her wig and sunglasses. With a dramatic flair, she plucked the device intact from Mike’s cradling hands. “I’m going to insert this baby into a guy who looks a lot like you, and we’re going to take a long trip until the election. I’m going along as Rachel’s double, and we get to have fun while you’re out doing whatever you politicians do.”

  “I’m not a politician. I—”

  “I know, you’re just a guy running for president,” she chuckled. She looked down at her tank top, which ran his slogan across her unrestrained breasts. Without another word, she walked out of the tent. her harley came to life and she rumbled toward the road.

  Max wasn’t looking in her direction. he was studying the face of Jason Bland. The Intelligence Secretary hadn’t even said hello.

  u ChAPTER EIGhTY-FOUR

  Max was humbled by all of the attention the government was suddenly paying to his survival, but he would not be deterred from the mission that had brought him to the Rocky Mountains. he was out snowboarding with some of his hard-core constituents, who considered him an icon. Max Masterson was the political equivalent of some of the cooler older dudes that they hung with, according to Ricky and Sage Frangipani, hawaiian surfers who were incidentally brother and sister. They had come to the Rockies because snowboarding on Mount Kilauea was getting “too mundane.” They would be back on Maui by spring when the waves were totally awesome, but now they were standing at the bottom of the lift line, waiting for their next ride to the top.

  “Don’t let them tell you what to do, Bro,” said Sage. Ricky nodded in the background, not sure of who she was talking to, but from the attention of all of those haoles around him, he must be a movie star or something.

  “I’ll bet you won’t be voting for me in November,” replied Max. “Why? I’m tellin’ all my friends to,” she replied.

  “Because, you don’t know squat about politics, and you probably

  don’t vote, anyway.”

  Max was tired of talking and saying nothing, and he was tired of answering questions about how it was going to be if he was in charge. he wanted to say, “I don’t know, and I’d be lying if I spouted the bullshit my opponents are telling you, because they don’t know what will happen next, either.” he’d traveled for twelve hours by motorcycle to get here, and he was cranky. As soon as he got off the bike, it started again. “People want the president to be the Great Poobah of Everything, an all-seeing, all-knowing leader who will solve all of their problems and look good, besides,” he announced to nobody in particular.

  he waited for the cameras to be adjusted, fidgeting in his red, white, and blue ski outfit. Andrew had bought it for him at a local ski outfitter, and he felt like it made him look too much like Captain America. Secretly, that was the image that Andrew and the staff wanted to convey, but they didn’t tell Max that they had the ski outfit tailored to show off his physique.

  “I’m here today to talk to you about terrorism. We seem to be far away from the world’s problems when we are away from the big cities of America. But just last week, terrorists were captured not far from this spot crossing the border from Canada. They were headed to the Space Needle in Seattle, where they intended to explode a dirty bomb. They would have succeeded in killing thousands of people if good Americans like Rory and Phyllis Trueblood hadn’t spotted them and alerted authorities.”

  The camera panned back, and two figures dressed in identical Captain America ski clothes were slaloming down the hill. They performed two flawless stem-christie turns and stopped to either side of Max in a spray of spring powder. They removed their hoods in unison, revealing an elderly man and woman. The man exclaimed, “We’re watching out for our neighbors, and we’re voting for Max, right, Phyllis?”

  Phyllis Trueblood looked straight into the camera. “Right, Rory,” she said matter-of-factly as she turned quickly and kissed Max on the cheek, to the appreciative roar of skiers who had passed up their chairlift to witness history in the making.

  The film crew had hiked miles to the top before they found snow, and the weather was nice to them. The ambient temperature at the top was sixty-five degrees, but the snow lingered, replenished at night from the flurries that managed to keep the top white with fresh snow year-round. The finished message that was broadcast over the internet was classic Masterson; short, direct, and visual. Words scrolled up the screen and the mountain panorama faded to b
lack:

  Max Masterson For

  America.

  The Time is Now.

  u ChAPTER EIGhTY-FIVE

  The League of Women Voters was once a perennial sponsor of the presidential debates, but in keeping with their mission statement, they withdrew their sponsorship when it became apparent that the candidates were attempting to dictate every aspect of the debates. They could no longer remain nonpartisan if the candidates controlled not only the questions that were to be asked, but even the height of the podium and the placement of lighting that most flattered their profiles.

  In 1988, the League of Women Voters issued the following statement: “The League of Women Voters is withdrawing sponsorship of the presidential debates, because the demands of the two campaign organizations would perpetrate a fraud on the American voter. It has become clear to us that the candidates’ organizations aim to add debates to their list of campaign-trail charades devoid of substance, spontaneity and answers to tough questions. The League has no intention of becoming an accessory to the hoodwinking of the American public.”

  Over the next three decades, the League of Women Voters stayed out of the debate business. In the meantime, the major political parties took over the debates under the guise of the Commission on Presidential Debates. The parties took control of a process that voters had previously used to assess a candidate’s electability, and America lost a valuable tool. The debates became stale, repetitive, and rehearsed, and the viewership steadily reduced to next to nothing. The backlash started when the television merged with the internet, and the public regained control over what they watched and when they watched. Along with this shift in content control came the ability of the voter to design a debate that answered their questions about the person they wanted to lead their nation.

  The League got their debate back, but before they agreed to assume this responsibility, they had to do two things; first, they had to return to their basic precepts on which the League was founded, and second, they issued a mission statement that assured that they would remain nonpartisan: “The League of Women Voters, a nonpartisan political organization, encourages informed and active participation in government, works to increase understanding of major public policy issues, and influences public policy through education and advocacy.”

  At the annual meeting held in Washington D.C., the local chapters of the LWV reaffirmed their goals and regained the prominence that they lost in 1988, provided, however, the participants in the debates relinquished control to the League. As a prerequisite to their running of the debates, the parties were required to sign an agreement that they would not attempt to control or exert control over the format of the debate or of the process. Whatever the League established as rules, they agreed to comply. No longer would the parties design the questions in advance, and the candidates could only prepare for the big day by trying to predict the questions that would be asked. The League zealously guarded the process. The voters submitted questions

  AT RISK OF WINNING

  that were screened by computer for interest level, and a list of questions was generated minutes before the actual event. Nobody knew what would happen until the live event, and the excitement returned to the debate process.

  The incumbent’s team of advisors prepared him for answers to possible questions for a week prior to the debate. In the last campaign, they wrote the questions that were submitted a week prior to the debate and had avoided any subject that would reveal the weak or unpopular positions held by the parties. This time, though, Blythe was debating under enormous pressure and would be forced to defend the failures of his administration.

  “Mr. President, we met with Masterson’s senior advisor, a Mr. Postlewaite, with whom you are most familiar. I am told that you have been butting heads since he worked on the John Anderson campaign in 1980.” Presidential Advisor Ted Schoolcraft paced as he talked, silently hoping to avoid the wrath of Blythe, who was showing sure signs of cracking. his indiscretions and recent fencing incident were being whispered about by his staff, and it would take only one wellplaced call to the press to sink all hope of his second term. Party Chairman Richard Portman and White house Chief of Staff Roscoe Walsh stood silently in the background as Schoolcraft waged his preemptive attack.

  “We warned Postlewaite that Masterson’s little performance in his first debate wasn’t going to be tolerated by the American people, but now the League of Woman Voters has imposed rules that will allow him to do just that.”

  “You mean to tell me that he can stand up before an international audience of billions of people and recite his little nursery rhyme policies, and I can’t do a thing about it?” Blythe’s neck began to turn red. he was about to blow.

  “I think Masterson will abandon that tactic. It worked when it was a surprise, but it can’t possibly do him any good now that he is playing with the big boys,” drawled Walsh in his best booming Texas voice. he held his eternal glass of bourbon on ice, which tinkled as he moved to sit in his customary chair. “I bet he’ll come out swinging at the failures he will promise to fix and that’s what you need to prepare for.”

  Portman demurred. “I agree. You need to go on the attack from the time you open your mouth. The questions don’t have anything to do with the message you are trying to get across. To hell with the issues. Go after his lack of experience. Call him names that people don’t like. Attack, attack, attack!” The party chairman was known for his imposing and abrasive personality, but he quickly sat down in silence. As a strategist, he was better suited to fund-raisers than debate strategy, and he decided to leave the details to be discussed after he was safely out of the Oval Office and away from the president.

  Blythe shifted uneasily, contemplating the words of his advisors. he would debate dirty in the hope he would come out of the mess with more votes. he only wished he had more dirt.

  u ChAPTER EIGhTY-SIX

  huffington had just about had enough of being kept in the dark. After his much-publicized humiliations at the hands of Max Masterson and the early encounters where Max had further destroyed his reputation in front of millions of people, he had been reassigned. he no longer covered the leaders in this presidential race. he sat, day after day, reading news feeds and calling his legion of sources for tips. his official beat was covering the lone straggler in the campaign, Scarlett Conroy, who was reeling from the untimely death of her running mate. his obsession, though, was bringing Max Masterson to his knees.

  “Bultosky, I haven’t heard from you in days. Where is he?” huffington had the kind of voice that bore into you and created fear. he could be heard over the crowd noise at political conventions, and his early assignments had been mostly crowded rooms and hurricanes.

  “his GPS is still pinging, but I have him in hartford, Connecticut and I just saw him on TV talking to the president of Brazil, you know, about the rainforests? And . . . and they said—”

  “Yeah, I know. he was in Brazil. You’re worthless!” he slammed the phone shut, wishing that he had a big, corded receiver to slam down for effect like in the good old days. he realized that the only way to follow Max Masterson was to really follow him, and he began the process of scheduling flights to any public appearance that he could find. That would be child’s play for any other candidate, but Max didn’t play by anyone else’s rules.

  his phone rang again, and after the last call, he dreaded that this one would be more of a string of bad news. he decided to let it go to voicemail, preoccupied with combing his hair over his bald spot and spraying lacquer to keep it in place. When the phone beeped, he retrieved the message. “Greg, Masterson is sitting in the back row of the League of Women Voters speech. Where the hell are you?” The frantic voice of his assistant, Vivien, screeched from the speaker as huffington grabbed coat and tie and scrambled out the door.

  u ChAPTER EIGhTY-SEVEN

  Scarlett wasted no time in informing the public of her decision to run as an Independent. She had scheduled a speech before the League of Women
Voters on her limo ride from the airport before the meeting with Miniver, and her surprise appearance successfully bumped both national party chairmen from the agenda. The League organizers were only too happy to substitute her speech for what was already shaping to be a dry primer on procedure in the wake of the death of Cunningham. Scarlett was determined that her message became the news of the day before Miniver had an opportunity to put his own spin on it.

  On her way to the Washington hilton where the luncheon speech was to be held, she ordered the driver to erect the privacy screen so that she could change from her black mourning clothes to her favorite red dress with blue and white lapels. With her red pumps and matching red purse, she was almost ready to go by the time the black limo pulled up the circular driveway. Waiting inside were her staffers, makeup girl, and speechwriter, none of whom had a clue that she was no longer the party’s candidate for vice president. She kept that information to herself. They all chattered in seemingly oblivious abandon, none of them listening or caring if their words were heard. They were excited to see her and equally excited that she would soon be announcing her candidacy for president.

  Scarlett took her speechwriter aside and spoke to her in a quiet whisper. her assistant began gesticulating in protest, raising her voice. Suddenly, she dashed toward the stage to perform last-minute changes to the teleprompter’s computer controls as Scarlett settled into the chair to groom in preparation. “I like being the woman in charge,” she said to nobody in particular.

  Max’s information-gathering staff had received a quick phone call from an unidentified attendee of the Miniver/Conroy flare-up. he was only too pleased to report to Bill Staffman that Scarlett was no longer running as the party’s choice for president and that she and Miniver almost came to blows over her misplaced assumption that she would succeed Cunningham as the first seed in the race. As the informant went into great detail about the fiery exchange minutes before, Staffman was furiously passing the information to Max by e-mail. Before the message was complete, Max was sliding into the driver’s seat of the Jaguar and winding down the driveway toward the capitol, personally driving the senator’s favorite car for the first time since his death. By the time Scarlett had changed her clothes, put on her makeup, and choreographed her entrance, Max was securely situated in the back row of the conference room.