Patriot's Farewell

by Bobby Akart

  “Gentlemen, please come take a seat. I don’t intend to keep you long on this occasion.”

  “Mr. Lowell, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” said the young congressman from Louisiana’s third congressional district. He was a charismatic young man of Cajun descent who spoke with a distinctive accent. He’d been elected three times by twenty-plus percent margins and was widely considered a staunch ally of the Sargent administration.

  Likewise, his companion, a former governor of Louisiana who chose to run for Congress after the collapse, was from a solid red district, which included Baton Rouge. He’d run virtually unopposed in the last two re-election campaigns.

  The two men sat in wing chairs across from the sofa. Gardner, however, remained standing.

  “Sir,” said the former governor, who carried a heavy Southern accent. “As you must surely be aware, there is an important vote in the House shortly that requires our attention. We are here because the leadership of our caucus said it was absolutely necessary. Perhaps you’d do us the honor of telling us what this is all about.”

  Smug bastard, Gardner thought to himself. I’ll show you what this is all about.

  He picked the folder up off the glass coffee table and began to spin eight-by-ten photographs of the two men into the air. Some landed on the table. Others slammed into the chests of his guests.

  The images depicted the two degenerates in various states of undress with the nude young girls. The younger of the congressmen was photographed snorting two lines of cocaine off the buttocks of one of the girls. The former governor was seen in one image, fully naked, diving into the water off the side of a boat dock, holding the hands of two nude consorts. Both were shown engaging in sexual acts with the girls.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” demanded the former governor.

  “Well, Congressman, I think the meaning of this is pretty clear,” said Gardner as he continued to send the images at the man like he was tossing Frisbees.

  “Enough, Mr. Lowell, you’ve made your point,” said the young ragin’ Cajun. In response, Gardner grabbed the rest of the photos and threw them in the man’s lap.

  “Now I’ve made my point!” he shouted. The outburst caused his mother’s butler to stick his head around the corner from the dining room.

  “What do you want?” asked the former governor, resigned to an expected fate of endless apologies and probably a divorce.

  “Not what you think, Congressman. Each of these images and, I might add, the ages of these young girls will remain forever locked in my vault alongside similar dossiers of those you rub elbows with every day.”

  The two men looked at one another, sensing a glimmer of hope that their careers and lives would survive their indiscretions.

  “Provided,” Gardner said with emphasis, “you do as I say when I say. It’s very simple, actually. When Gardner Lowell or my designate calls, you jump. But rest assured, this will not necessarily be a one-way relationship. You will gain a powerful, wealthy ally, which can allow you to remain in your House seats for years to come.”

  “What is it that you expect from us?” asked the younger of the two after he removed his balls from his throat.

  “Just remember, do as I say,” replied Gardner with a growl.

  “Absolutely, Mr. Lowell,” said the young Cajun congressman. He began to rise off the sofa, eager to get out of the Trump Townhouse. His fellow congressman didn’t, or couldn’t say a word, but gathered himself to follow the young man’s lead.

  “Sit down, gentlemen,” Lowell barked. “I’m not finished.”

  The two men looked at one another and lowered themselves back into their seats.

  Gardner continued. “In an hour, you will vote for the Pacific Statehood Act.”

  “But, Mr. Lowell, nobody would believe it,” protested the former governor. “I’ve voted in lockstep with every initiative proposed by President Sargent. They’d think I was drunk or off my medication and simply pushed the yea button by mistake. Nobody will buy it.”

  Lowell slammed the rest of the file on the table. “Oh, Congressman, you’ll do it and they’ll buy it! I don’t care what you two pedophiles tell the media, your constituents, your wives, or your God. Remember rule number one, which governs our new relationship. You two will always do as I say! Got it?”

  The younger man dropped his chin to his chest and shook his head. The former governor glared at Gardner and then nodded. It was the look of conquest and defeat. He took his young charge by the arm.

  “Come along, young man. We’ll give the man what he wants. Mr. Lowell, we’ll find our way out.”

  Gardner shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded toward the door. That’s two more. Now, let’s see where we are.

  Chapter 36

  1:30 p.m.

  The Trump Townhouse

  Trump International Hotel

  Washington, DC

  “That sounded like the conversation went well.” Constance chuckled as she emerged from the bedroom. Her butler was busy picking up the dozens of photographs that had landed throughout the plush living area.

  “Indeed,” responded Gardner. “They’re scum, and at some point I’ll cut them loose. Is it too early for a cocktail?”

  “Not from where I’m standing.” Constance stood at the windows and watched the sun begin to peek through the clouds. Pennsylvania was bustling with activity.

  “I agree. I’ll pour. The usual?”

  “Of course, dear. What time does the next congressman enter your lair?” she asked with a giggle. Her late husband, Lawrence, had always excluded her from this aspect of the family’s business affairs. It wasn’t until after his death that she inserted herself more and more into the affairs of the Boston Brahmin. Historically, the executive committee of the Brahmin was a boys’ club, and Constance found herself uncomfortable during their meetings. She also sensed they’d prefer she not hold a seat at the table, which made it easier for her to elevate Gardner into her place. It was what she wanted all along.

  Gardner delivered his mother a dirty martini cocktail, which was heavy on the gin and light on the vermouth. He had his customary Tanqueray and tonic. They clinked glasses, provided each other a silent toast by way of a smile, and took their first sip when the doorbell rang once again.

  The butler attended to the door and their guest entered the room empty-handed. Dispensing with the preliminaries, having kissed the rings of the Lowells already, the gentleman spoke first.

  “I trust your meeting with the gentlemen from Louisiana went well?”

  “Yes, very well,” Gardner replied. “You can count on two more votes for passage. Where does that leave us?”

  “I called in a chit on the final three we need. I hope you don’t mind an additional contribution to a few war chests.”

  “Not under the circumstances. How about their loyalty in the future?” asked Gardner.

  “These three are squeaky clean. For them, it’ll be all about money and committee positions in the future. More importantly, they were never on anyone’s radar as possible defectors from the party line. Accordingly, they cannot be traced to anyone within the House leadership, or you, naturally.”

  Gardner sipped his drink and glanced at his mother, who had studied their guest from the moment he walked in. After an awkward silence, he responded, “That’s good, and you can let them know their new benefactors can accommodate their needs, political or otherwise, in the future.”

  “Good, then it appears we have the votes secured. This will send shock waves through the White House, which will make your task all the more difficult in the Senate tomorrow.”

  Gardner set his empty glass on the glass table and slipped a piece of paper out of his pocket onto the corner next to it.

  “One step at a time,” he said quietly and extended his hand to shake the congressman’s firm grip. “Thank you for your help, Congressman. I look forward to a long and prosperous future for us both.”

  “And I as well, Mr. Lowell,” the man
replied as he picked up the paper. “Mrs. Lowell, it was a pleasure seeing you again. I’ll be going now.”

  With that, Congressman Billy Trent from Virginia, House Majority Whip and longtime ally of President Sargent, turned for the door with a smile on his face and a check payable to his political action committee for two million dollars.

  Chapter 37

  2:00 p.m.

  The Oval Office

  The White House

  Washington, DC

  Sarge pored over the maps and charts provided by the Pentagon. Brad had just delivered a new intelligence report, which indicated an increase in troop movement and equipment activity in the Nanjing Military Region directly across the Taiwan Strait. After Sarge had reviewed the documentation, Brad provided him a summary.

  “For a nonmilitary guy, you’ve got pretty good gut instincts, Mr. Commander-in-Chief,” said Brad as he patted Sarge on the shoulder.

  “Very funny, General,” Sarge said with a laugh. “I did a pretty good job back in Boston. Besides, I’ve learned a thing or two about subterfuge in the last eight years. Give us the details of what the spooks have learned.”

  Brad pushed some of the maps out of the way and found the one that identified the Chinese military bases under suspicion. “These images are based upon the NSA’s most recent flyovers, as well as CIA operatives reporting from on the ground. This area outlined in red is designated as their Nanjing Military Region, one of seven scattered across Mainland China. It stretches from Hong Kong in the south to Shanghai in the north.”

  Sarge slid another aerial reconnaissance image next to the one referred to by Brad. “This appears to be a close-up of an area closest to Taiwan.”

  “Correct. We’ve isolated Fujian province and the PLA’s 31st Group Army, which was based here.”

  “How do you pronounce this?” asked Sarge, pointing to the city of Xiamen.

  “Jow-min,” replied Brad. “Do we need to call Julia down to interpret?”

  “Smart-ass.” Sarge laughed. “She’s got bigger problems on her platter, like Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “And hosting the Boston Brahmin,” added Donald. “She’ll have to muster all of her diplomatic skills to keep the peace.”

  “No doubt,” said Sarge with a chuckle as he turned his attention back to the images. “Brad, I don’t want to split hairs, but you said was based here with an emphasis on was. This looks like an active military base to me.”

  “That’s the thing. In late 2017, Beijing announced it was redeploying its motorized infantry divisions and the 3rd Artillery Brigade to the North Korean border to prevent an influx of Korean refugees in the event a war broke out there. Reportedly, all they left behind were four elements—an amphibious assault group, an air defense brigade, an aviation regiment, but most importantly, their renowned Flying Dragon Special Ops unit.”

  “I’ve heard of them,” interrupted Donald.

  “They’re legendary,” said Brad. “The PLA handpicked them to conduct rapid reaction combat in a limited regional war scenario.”

  “Like the invasion of Taiwan,” interjected Sarge.

  “Exactly,” said Brad. “The PLA strategists know that a ground invasion isn’t going to bring Taiwan back into the fold. It’ll take commando operations, intelligence gathering, and cyber warfare. That’s why Beijing was confident to move its traditional infantry units to the north and leave them there.”

  “An invasion would not look like the beaches of Normandy,” said Donald.

  “That’s right,” said Brad. “Our concern needs to be the Flying Dragons.”

  Sarge studied the activity on the images again. “Brad, what’s their troop strength?”

  “The analysts estimate between seven and fourteen thousand. My hunch is that many of them are already in Taiwan, waiting to be activated.”

  Sarge pulled out the CIA report just received from their operatives on the mainland. “These numbers suggest a far bigger presence on this base than your estimate.”

  “They do, but they’re also preliminary. If they’re correct, then I have a theory.”

  “Let’s hear it,” said Donald as he looked at a text message that just came through.

  “The 31st Group has participated in war games with other special forces units in Nanjing. I’ve studied the recon photos provided by our analysts. They participated in the maneuvers, but never left to return to their bases. The build-up of troop levels, especially within the Flying Dragons, was done over time and barely noticeable by our people unless they were specifically looking for it.”

  Sarge sat in his chair and stroked his chin. “Are you saying they’ve been building up for this operation for some time?”

  “In a way, for years. But, with respect to the escalated troop buildup, for at least eight months.”

  “Which leads me to the question, why act now?” asked Sarge.

  Brad set the maps and images down on Sarge’s desk. “This operation has probably been on the drawing board for years. I suspect they hoped for an opening during the switch in administrations. Lame-duck presidents don’t usually make big moves militarily.”

  Sarge reflected on the information he’d been provided the last two days. If he was going to back the Chinese down, he’d need to exhibit a show of force. That was all that bullies understand.

  “Brad, implement option B. Redeploy the USS Petersen strike group around the east side of Japan and send them toward Okinawa. Raise our alert levels in the theater and call back the USS Ronald Reagan from Singapore. Donald, contact the State Department. Have them issue a travel advisory to Taiwan based upon the political unrest. Further, issue an alert to American nationals on the island to shelter in place during the evening hours.”

  “What about tomorrow’s ceremony with Ambassador McBride?” asked Donald.

  “Let the schedule stand, but I want Jimmy on that plane back to Beijing as soon as it’s over. We can’t afford for the Chinese to advance on Taiwan before our ships are in position. As for Jimmy, tell him to be ready to call on President Xi Jinping as soon as he returns to the embassy in Beijing.”

  “I agree, Sarge,” said Brad. “Let me get started. Good luck with the vote today.”

  Sarge laughed nervously. “Oh yeah, you mean the vote that starts in about an hour? I’d rather do battle with the Chinese.”

  Brad said his good-byes, leaving Donald and Sarge alone in the Oval Office. “Sarge, I should probably bring the president-elect’s transition team up to speed on this.”

  “How is that going?” asked Sarge.

  “Not as difficult as it was for us,” quipped Donald. “We had to start from scratch. First, we had to decide where to house the government while we restored order in Washington. Then we had to see who was still alive to work within said government. Finally, we had to determine who would be loyal to the Constitution and us, as opposed to the tyrant who ran off to Hawaii.”

  “You don’t have to remind me. Now that it’s business as usual, what does it look like?”

  “They have to fill almost two thousand positions, over two thousand less than transition teams prior to the collapse since you eliminated agencies like the Environmental Protection Agency, the Department of Education, the Interior Department and sixty-two other bloated bureaucracies that expanded the federal budget.

  “The idea, of course, is to ensure a smooth transfer of power. But we also need them to stay up to speed on geopolitical events. They don’t get to insert their opinions, but they are entitled to an update.”

  Sarge walked toward Betty’s office. “Donald, you’ve got enough on your plate. I’ll have Betty get Stanford on the phone. I haven’t spoken with him for a week or so. I’ll use the occasion to wish him and his wife happy Thanksgiving and let him know that we’re about to go to war with China.”

  Donald started laughing. “Yeah, it’s like, good luck with your future endeavors, Stan. See ya in the funny papers!”

  Sarge continued toward the door to his secretary’s office, lau
ghing along with Donald. “Exactly. We’ll drop a hot war with China, a cold war with California, and a nuclear war with Congress right in his lap. I hope you enjoy your new job!”

  Chapter 38

  2:30 p.m.

  The Hart Senate Office Building

  Washington, DC

  It had been a little over twenty-four hours since the meeting with that arrogant Congressman Sánchez had concluded. He’d cancelled dinner plans last night with his wife, citing the worsening weather. In reality, Senator Rutledge had too much on his mind. The luncheon with his mother earlier didn’t help his cluttered mind as he tried to sort things out.

  While it was true that Congressman Sánchez was arrogant on most days, his hunger for media attention was a testament to that. No, this was different. The young man was extremely confident in his assertions

  The Civil War-era clock ticked methodically on the corner of his desk as the veteran politician replayed the conversation with Congressman Sánchez over and over. Then he weighed the options before him.

  At first, his mother scoffed at the idea of intentionally setting the stage for the secession of the Southern block of states, repeating the events of the 1860s. But as the evidence began to mount regarding the fate of the House vote, Senator Rutledge had to consider all contingencies. If the House could be swayed, so could his domain—the United States Senate.

  He called upon his trusted chief of staff to make some inquiries. Before he took his next step, Senator Rutledge decided to get the final update on today’s vote count. He called his aide into his office.

  “The House starts voting in thirty minutes. What’s your opinion?” asked Senator Rutledge.

  “I’ve looked into this from all angles, Senator. Trust me when I tell you that the bill is going to pass. I’ve never seen such smug self-assuredness on the part of the minority leadership.”