When Rome Stumbles

by David Kershner

  In the event of chemical torture and coercion, however, they had been instructed that the trick was to train the mind to speak in circles, riddles, or half-truths. They used mental acuity and sleep deprivation drills to work on this scenario.

  Suhrab walked over to where Gregg was seated and stood directly in front of him. He paused for a moment before saying, “Mr. Chastain? Where were you? Where did you go? I’m curious; did you return home to you wife, Emily, and your unborn child? Perhaps you just visited your parents in Boone. Where ever you went, it will do you no good. I am well versed in your training techniques.”

  He observed Gregg for a while and then reached into his folder. He removed a picture of Emily and held it up for him to see. The photo had been taken while she was out on her daily walk and Suhrab let out a long slow whistle.

  “My, my,” he started. “She really is a very pretty woman. Blondes aren’t my type though. I’d hate for anything to happen to her, Gregg.”

  The interrogator placed the image closer to afford him a better look. The picture was grainy, but there was no mistaking that it was Emily. The fire and rage building in Gregg needed to be, must be, contained or it was over for him. Gregg made a show of trying to focus his eyes on his wife as he let out a little chuckle. He began to suppress the anger welling inside of him. Gregg continued to feign indifference before finally replying.

  “Hmph. Nice try. If your intel was any good you’d know that the kid in her belly isn’t mine and we are in the process of getting a divorce. Do with her what you will.”

  Suhrab didn’t flinch at the remark. He simply turned and started walking back to the desk in the corner. As he began to retake his seat, Gregg followed with, “Amateurs.”

  This caused the man to pause momentarily and take in the comment. Before sitting, he replied, “I see.”

  He began leafing through the other pages in the folder and looked up. Very calmly, and with no emotion or remorse betraying his voice, he switched back to Farsi and said, “Aban, please continue.”

  * * *

  Josh was laying prone across his bed with his head hanging over the edge. The room wouldn’t stop spinning. He had enough foresight to fetch the trash can from the bathroom before he belly flopped into the queen sized mattress.

  At the funeral, his former sister-in-law had handed him an unassuming envelope. She said it was from Amanda and he scoffed. He didn’t pay it any attention given the author. Josh forgot he even had it until the damn thing fell out of his coat pocket a few days later.

  He read and re-read the letter not believing what she was admitting. Layla and Katherine could visibly see that whatever it said shook him to the core. They didn’t think anything of his first drink. It wasn’t uncommon for him to have a beer or a ‘Seven and Seven’ after a day on the farm. The sisters did, however, become concerned on his third. The two were downright livid on his fifth.

  They became so enraged that their father would recklessly consume alcohol in front of them that they called Evan and had him take them back to school. Given their mother’s substance fueled issues, the girls were extremely sensitive to anything done in excess. The two had verbally berated him before departing for OU. Layla, the bolder of the two, had waited for Katherine to be fully loaded into Evan’s SUV before heading back into the house. She used the pretense that she had forgotten something.

  Before she stormed out and slammed the door shut one final time, she had screamed at him and called him a pathetic cliché. She had even slapped him in the hopes that he would ‘wake up’. Josh hadn’t recoiled from the assault or snapped out of it like she had hoped. He simply turned on his heel and headed to the bar to freshen his glass.

  Evan had told the girls that he’d keep an eye on him while they were away. ‘I’m content to let him drink himself silly. The booze would run out sooner or later,’ he had said.

  They took little comfort from the words.

  Josh lay there in his bed crying out to God. “Why did you saddle me with such a wretched woman!” he screamed at the floor. “How could you conceive of anyone so evil?”

  The spinning seemed to slow when he opened his eyes and his only thought was, I need another drink.

  He couldn’t move though. He was paralyzed from the knowledge he now had. “Despicable whore!” he groaned as he reached out for the can and puked.

  Between the agonizing throws of emptying his stomach contents, the driveway alarm chimed.

  “Screw you!” he bellowed. “Damn kids! Go get high somewhere else,” he said and heaved again.

  When the second and third alarms went off, Josh shot out of bed screaming, “Invaders! Invaders! Take your positions!”

  There was no one there to heed the call. He’d run his daughters off with the bourbon.

  As he stumbled his way toward his Beretta, he tripped and crashed into every piece of furniture seemingly along the way.

  “Who the hell put this here!” he yelled to the empty cabin. If he could have recalled anything about the last several days, he’d have known that the end table landed there after he threw it across the room in a drunken rage.

  Josh grabbed the pistol and spun recklessly toward the CCTV monitors. He desperately tried to focus on the screens. Is that one person or two? Is that a 4-door Wrangler or a Cherokee?

  He watched as the car pulled up to the front of the cabin and stopped. Josh waited for the man to exit his vehicle and then sprang through the front door, gun at the ready.

  “You’ll never touch them again!” he screamed and began firing wildly at the car.

  Dirt and gravel flew through the air as the bullets missed their mark and ricocheted off of the frozen ground. The man threw himself headlong back into his car and quickly started the engine.

  “Get back here and fight, you coward!” Josh screamed at the tail lights as they sped across the field.

  He could only watch as the car made its way back onto the driveway and disappeared into the darkness. The drunken lunatic that he had become felt the rumbling again in his gut. He stepped over to the railing and began retching again.

  Between dry heaves, off to his right, he heard a car door shut.

  Before he could get fully upright and train his weapon in the direction of the noise, there was a familiar voice.

  “Señor Simmons, it’s me, Basilia. Are you okay?” she asked with a slight Spanish accent from the darkness.

  “Basilia,” he groaned. “What are you doing here?”

  “I stopped by to check on you. I was about to get out of the car when you came flying through the front door. You’re not going to shoot me, are you, Señor?” she asked.

  “No, I won’t do that,” he slurred as a trail of spit dangled from the corner of his mouth. Then he chuckled and said, “I’m out of bullets.”

  Basilia Martinez was his farm manager’s wife and a doctor. She had been raised by her rebel father in the jungles of Columbia. The woman had seen her share of drunken gunplay. When her dad had been killed in a shootout with the Columbian police, she and her mother had fled the country. Her years spent treating all manner of wound and infection in the jungle camps provided an aptitude and doorway into the medical field. One she happily took advantage of.

  “Let’s get you inside, Josh,” she said compassionately as she ascended the steps to the front porch.

  As he attempted to stand fully upright, Basilia caught sight of him. “¡Dios Mío!” she exclaimed. “Señor, you not wearing any clothes!”

  He just stood there scratching his temple with the barrel of his empty Beretta. Josh slowly looked down as her comment registered and half laughed while his eyes rolled back in his head. Without warning, Josh fell backwards and passed out.

  Headlights began bouncing down the rutted farm road and from the clatter of the vehicle Basilia knew it was her husband, Juan. She waited for him on the front porch trying to decide what to do with the inebriated, two hundred pound, butt naked man passed out just outside the cabin door. She wouldn’t have to wait
long as Juan came screaming off the tractor trail and through the hedgerow.

  He quickly brought the dilapidated truck to a halt in front of the cabin and exited the driver’s side with his Glock in his hand.

  “I heard the shots! Where’s the Señor?” he hurriedly asked his wife in Spanish.

  Basilia cleared her throat to get her husband’s attention and directed him to the prone man on the porch. Juan took the steps two at a time. He turned the corner, caught one sight of Josh, and immediately started laughing.

  His wife punched him in the arm and said, “Help me get him inside before he freezes his ‘Pepe’ off.”

  Chapter 5

  January 17th, 2022

  Samantha Jameson excused herself from the executives meeting and headed to the restroom located in her posh, but rustically appointed, bedroom. She and the other heads of the three GMO’s were the weekend guests of the founder and CEO of Tomason Industries, Edward Tomason. Of the four institutions, his was the largest. None of the four had ever voted or conferred on the arrangement, but Edward had assumed the defacto ‘Don’ role among the top brass. The executive art of deferment had expertly landed Edward at the head of the table. That and everyone knew if he wasn’t the leader of the group, he’d make life miserable for whoever was trying to lead. Behind his back, he was often referred to as the Napoleon of the GMO’s

  Samantha had been told as much by her late father before his death. He had said that Edward could behave like a petulant child if he didn’t get his way.

  After using the restroom, Samantha washed her hands and then discreetly poked her head out into the hallway. She looked around for any valets and maids, none was present. Sam quickly went across the room to her luggage and retrieved her secure satellite phone. She dialed one of the two numbers she had memorized and a woman answered on the second ring.

  “Mara, this is Sam. Is your uncle, I mean, is Secretary McInerney in,” Samantha asked in a hushed tone.

  “Hey, Samantha!” she replied very enthusiastically. “How are things in Montana? I hear it’s beautiful up there in the winter.”

  “Mara!” she scolded in a hushed tone. “I don’t have a lot of time.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “Yeah, he’s in. Let me connect you.”

  There were several clicks and then she heard Elias’s Texas drawl come through the line. “How the hell are ya, Sam? What’s the skinny from Montana,” Secretary McInerney asked.

  “Hey, Elias. I can’t say for sure, but Edward is up to something. He’s more cagey than usual, even for him. I think he knows something,” she replied.

  “Nonsense girl. We’re locked up tighter than a snare drum on a January morning round here. You’re on edge because you’re feeding us intel and about to turn states evidence on those old boys. That’s all this is. I wouldn’t worry about it. Just stay calm.”

  “If you say so,” Sam replied as she sighed. “The Senators and Congressmen should be arriving in a few hours. I might not be able to call again until 1:00 or 2:00 AM Mountain time.”

  “That’ll be fine darlin’. I’ll be sleeping on the sofa here in my office. You give this ol’ boy a ring when you can. Relax, have a drink, and act normal. Okay?”

  Samantha sighed and replied halfheartedly. “You know this sucks, right Elias?”

  “Intel always is the hard part. We need to tie collusion in a nice pretty bow around these boy’s necks or else the entire case is a lab experiment played out to a Congressional hearing. There’s nothing an American viewer hates more than boring ol’ science talk. We either collect some meat for the mob or the nation tunes out.”

  “So, you’re really going to go through with that? You’re gonna send a report to the Hill and hope that they haul the heads of the GMOs in front of a Congressional body?”

  “You bet I am, but I want to sweeten the pot with some things they can’t turn a blind eye towards. Trust me. It’ll force ‘em to act.”

  “Good. Those bastards have been poisoning this country for over thirty years. I’m glad my dad got out when he did. I gotta go. Call you when we’re done,” she said and hung up before waiting for a reply.

  She had heard Elias’ words about being on edge. There was something more to it than that though. Her intuition told her that Edward was up to something. He had to have found something to make him this guarded. Bowing to her instincts, she dialed the second number she had memorized.

  “Hey, Mike. It’s Sam. Where are you guys?” she asked her company pilot.

  Mike Lawson was a former fighter pilot who had flown hundreds of sorties during numerous campaigns. He and Samantha’s father, Peter, had been stationed at Andersen Air Force Base in Guam when they served together. They struck up an easy friendship and it had lasted over the years. The one and only call Mike had made when he retired was to Sam’s dad. ‘Mad Dog Mike’ was hired right then and there. The two aging pilots had been inseparable until the company founder’s death six months prior. His daughter, Samantha, had taken over the company shortly thereafter.

  “Oh, we’re at thirty thousand feet fighting the jet stream, but we should be on the ground in about an hour. Then they have that drive to the ranch from the landing strip so I’d figure this idiot will be there in about ninety minutes. What’s up?”

  “I don’t know. Something. Edward’s off. More ‘off’ than usual,” she replied.

  “Ah, the ‘Jameson Intuition’ then?”

  “Something like that. Go ahead and have the jet serviced and refueled as soon as the Senator disembarks. If I have to, I want to be able to get out of here as quickly as possible.”

  “Roger that,” Mike said out of habit. “Hey, Sam,” he asked.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do this old pilot a favor an’ be careful.”

  “Roger that,” she replied emulating his preprogrammed response. She then paused for a moment and added, “Hey, can you double check my rig for me? I have an idea.”

  “Oh, Lord,” he replied with a sigh.

  * * *

  The sun had already set in central Montana as the four congressional representatives began arriving. The guests were comprised of Senators Chad Bainbridge and Mitch Hightower, as well as, Congressmen James Abernathy and Judith Martzen. Their respective offices were under the impression that they were enjoying a much-needed break from the rigors of D.C.

  The entire Legislative Branch had foregone their typical winter break and worked through the holiday season in an effort to get a number of bills and various pieces of legislation passed for President Rayburn to sign. Instead of flying immediately to their loved ones though, they each boarded separate private jets to a remote airstrip fifteen miles north of Great Falls, Montana. They too were to be the weekend guests of Edward Tomason.

  The twenty five hundred acre Tomason ranch was located just west of the Benton Lake National Wildlife Refuge. The primary family residence resembled a giant hunting lodge. The motif of the décor was extravagant, but rustic. The exterior was comprised of river rock and stucco and a special foundation had to be installed to support the massive two-story oversized stacked stone fireplace. All of the exposed trim, inside and out, was un-sanded, un-milled, rough-cut lumber. This just added to the pastoral and homestead inspired nature of the house, as if that were even possible. The extensive wood shingle roof was supported by enormous reclaimed cedar beams. All of the banisters and pickets were fashioned out of similar logs and limbs as well. On the walls were the mounts of the various hunting pursuits of the Tomason clan. There was an assortment of moose, elk, and caribou, as well as a variety of migratory birds throughout.

  The animal Edward Tomason was most proud of was the Red Stag. He had spent a week tracking and stalking the large beast on a Wyoming preserve during one of the worst winters the region had seen in a decade. Above the immaculately appointed dining room table was an enormous chandelier fashioned out of antlers from any number of species.

  As the politicians began to disembark their vehicle
s, Edward, and the executives, briefly greeted them just outside the ten-foot tall solid oak front doors. The other executive visitors for the weekend were the North American President of Ruhr Chemical, Mr. Thurber James, NFCC Chairman, Mr. Michael Monahan, and the newly appointed CEO of Hyloset, Ms. Samantha Jameson. The seven guests, and their host, made their way into the foyer where several of the house staff took the new arrivals’ luggage from the drivers. The butler took their coats. The Senators and Congressmen were instructed to follow their respective valets to their rooms and freshen up before dinner. They were notified that it would be served promptly at 9:30.

  Idle small talk and banter was exchanged over drinks prior to the meal. Edward and his new, and very vivacious, fourth wife made the obligatory rounds, shook hands, and welcomed their guests to the ranch. At the appointed time, the butler rang a small dinner bell and the guests all took their seats. The servers began placing the first course on the table in front of the seated guests.

  Always the showman, Edward informed the guests that they would be enjoying a four-course meal. He then rattled off each course like an accomplished Executive Chef trying to pitch his newest restaurant. The small talk and banter, which began over drinks, continued through the first course. As the plates were cleared in preparation for the remaining courses, Edward announced that it was time to discuss why they had all been assembled.

  Without any preface or preamble, he stated, “A little bird tells me that Secretary McInerney over at the USDA has a report. Apparently, he plans to make a presentation to a Congressional Review Board next week. Anyone care to guess what’s in that report?”

  Samantha tensed at this pronouncement and began to slowly place her hands on the table. She instinctively made sure that her right hand was directly on top of her table knife.

  Thurber James was the first to reply when he guffawed Edward’s statement, “That crusty old bastard has been trying to tie us to every ailment under the sun for three decades. The Bt killed the bees. High Fructose Corn Syrup (HFCS) is making the country obese. It really pisses me off that no one seems to want to take responsibility for the fact that we didn’t cram that processed crap, fast food, and soft drink down their throat. We provided a product that was approved by the feds. Other companies put it in theirs. It’s like saying we are somehow culpable when someone uses a handgun because we made the firing pin. We can’t be held accountable for that. If the population is so pissed off about being fat, then they should get some exercise and stop consuming all that junk with HFCS. What the hell.”