The Final Proclamation (An America Reborn Thriller Book 2)

by Carlton James

  . . .

  Ronald Reagan National Airport

  0900 Hours EST

  Eli Fredericks sat in the back of his black Cadillac Escalade limo that had just picked him up from the airport. Per instructions, his assistant had handed him a one-page synopsis of his most important investment positions as he entered the Escalade, which was driven by a former Navy Seal.

  A cursory review of the daily brief sheet showed him that the U.S. economy continued a steady decline rivaling, and possibly worse than that seen during the Great Depression. Any additional jolts could seriously affect his financial positions. Moves made just before the two trillion dollar stimulus package was announced yesterday had appeared to have the potential for profits of over twenty percent. A quick in-and-out of the green companies would also ensure he was able to get out with those profits before they went belly-up.

  At least Katherine had arranged to have only half of the stimulus money steered into areas benefiting her radical left base. The other half she had directed toward infrastructure projects such as roads and bridges. For the first time since the Chinese had initiated the crisis, a significant number of Americans would be going back to work, albeit being paid with borrowed money. Printing money had continued to drive up interest rates to the point inflation was exceeding two hundred percent, despite what the government claimed.

  Eli began thinking of his upcoming meeting with Chen. With his influence in the White House and Chen’s influence with the Chinese Politburo and General Secretary Song, they could run the world – at least for a few years. The simple meeting with Chen in Singapore the second week of January could make it happen.

  . . .

  Washington, D.C. hotel

  After-New Year’s Eve Party Fundraiser

  2015 Hours EST

  Don Stetson sat down on the loveseat in stunned silence watching the President depart the fundraiser. Before leaving, she had jovially shaken his hand and whispered in his ear, “I know everything that you did to get me elected Don, and soon you’ll see what true power can do. None of this better see the light of day, or your future might be quite short and maybe even painful. Do you understand me, Don?”

  Don had nodded his head. She gave his eyes one last glare and then departed. He had no idea why she found the need to address the subject. In his slightly inebriated state, it was all he could do to refrain from wetting himself.

  Taking a few minutes and multiple deep breaths, Don ordered two double scotches from the bartender before grabbing his phone and calling Marc Baxter. This was his third and fourth round, and he could tell that he would not be stopping until he lost consciousness. Don rarely drank alcohol anymore, but today was an exception.

  The party was organized at the behest of the President for the highest-level staff to hobnob with the party’s largest donors. The banquet hall was only a few blocks from the White House at the International Hotel in what was affectionately called the Old Post Office. Even with the country going to hell in a hand basket, Katherine continued to court donors. It was a command performance for all White House staff personnel, who were to ‘make nice’ with party money people who just might continue to give the Fontaine Foundation money.

  Drinking had sufficed to dull Don’s annoyance and pain.

  Marc answered his cell phone on the second ring, seeing that it was from Don.

  “Hey, buddy,” Marc said cheerfully.

  Don slurred his voice into the phone. “The Chief of Staff is asking about you. The President her-own-self even noticed you, I mean, you not here. If you don’t want to catch a load of, well, ya’ know, better get over here. No tellin’ what I may say.”

  “I’m about to walk in the door now. And Don, please don’t talk to anyone.”

  The line was dead for several seconds before Don noticed. Ten minutes after arriving, greeting and sharing brief words with a few of the donors Marc went in search of Don.

  Marc found Don sitting on the loveseat against a wall near the corner of an out-of-the-way room. Five highball glasses sat on the coffee table, one of which contained a double bourbon for Marc. Don held another half-empty glass while staring at the ceiling above the crowd. Marc took the chair next to and very near the loveseat and reached to touch Don’s arm, causing him to start and nearly spill his drink. The party noise made it possible to have a private conversation, just out of earshot of the nearest guests.

  “Don, old buddy, what have you done to yourself?” Marc asked the question with true concern on his face.

  Don slowly focused on Marc before answering, “God almighty, this is why I don’t drink much. Don’t have trouble with morals, except when Mr. Scotch gets ‘a hold of me.”

  After a quick look around, Don grabbed Marc’s wrist and in an almost sober voice said, “I took a lot of money from a lot of shitheads over the years, Marc, but none of them holds a candle to, well, you know.”

  Marc knew he was talking about Katherine Fontaine.

  “Damn, the money was good, and with young punks like you around, it was easy.”

  Seeing the look that flashed momentarily over Marc’s face, Don blurted, “Marc you know what I mean. The campaign wrote itself.”

  “You mean the lies we put out about the Afghan widows watching Donnelson’s men massacre their husbands?”

  Marc let just a little emotion seep into the question. Being personally involved in that one still pissed him off, even if he didn’t know it was a lie at the time. The lie, coming out as it did just before the election, had been sufficient to tip the scales to elect Katherine to the Presidency.

  “Awwww, come on, Marc. Getting her elected was our job. She couldn’t do all the great stuff we just knew she would do if she didn’t get in. That’s what they hired us to do.”

  Don’s voice softened even more as he said, “They hired me to do even more. I laid hands on a lot, and I mean a LOT, of money to spread around to get her elected, to the tune of a couple or three hundred million!”

  These last words were hissed in a hoarse, suppressed voice to add emphasis. “I never told you, or anyone for that matter, but we paid organizers in every single swing state, at least those without voter ID laws, to take thousands of busloads of illegals around to vote in multiple precincts. Nobody knew where the money came from, but I knew.”

  Looking around, Don said, “And you know most of the money came from that black devil or his flunkies.”

  Before the words were completely out of Don’s mouth, Marc began to stand up and said, “Okay, Don. I think you’ve had enough.”

  Don caught Marc’s arm and pulled him down.

  “Marc, Katherine musta’ found out what I did. A few minutes ago, she whispered in my ear that I better keep quiet or bad, painful things would happen.”

  He looked pleadingly into Marc’s eyes. “You need to see what really happened.” Don’s eyes seemed to lose focus briefly before he continued, “In every major city across this great land, my operatives made sure the votes got out. Without me, Katherine woulda’ got three, maybe four million less votes. Don’t ya see? The end justifies the means.”

  With that last statement, Don seemed lose all the wind in his sails before passing out on the loveseat. A quick look around found that everyone in the vicinity had discretely distanced themselves from the obvious drunk while his friend handled it.

  Marc flagged down one of the servers and arranged for Don to be taken to his hotel room by private car. Such things were not unusual at these parties, and the staff took it all in stride.

  . . .

  Two hours later Marc lay in his bed next to Susan Cassel, who usually crashed at his place to save the forty-five minute commute to her own apartment. They had a f
riends-with-benefits arrangement and enjoyed being able to talk to each other freely, without violating classification laws.

  Susan had made love without the usual passion typically brought on by her always extreme stress. She lay in the bed with exhaustion showing on her face, but was not able to close her eyes.

  “I know we’re both exhausted,” Marc said with just a tinge of humor in his voice, “but was I really that bad?”

  After a deep breath, Susan rolled over on her side to look Marc in the eyes across the pillow. Over the past few months Marc had literally been her lifeline. He was the only person she could completely trust.

  After a few seconds, she said with growing fear, “I think she’s really trying to drive the country further into depression.” The shock on Marc’s face surprised her. “Marc, haven’t you been listening to me? I mentioned this before.”

  “I know, but I really thought you were either joking or just plain wrong.”

  After a pause, “Why would she do something like that?” The exasperation was apparent in his voice.

  “I really think she wants to declare a State of Emergency, so in her own mind she can do what needs to be done by issuing Executive Orders.”

  The words came out in almost a whisper. “She hasn’t been able to get anything through Congress, and she seems to be hell-bent on disarming the public. Food riots keep reoccurring in Detroit and Philly, and I think she wants more. Anything for an excuse to impose a State of Emergency so she can start issuing edicts.”

  The enormity of what Susan was saying was not lost on Marc. His anti-gun campaign was all part of her plan.

  Finally, Marc and Susan fell asleep as exhaustion took them away from everything.

  Chapter 14

  The New Year - Plus Five Days

  Lisa McIntyre’s Apartment

  Washington, D.C.

  2130 Hours EST

  Su Ling had gotten lost in the college crowd outside of the diner where she had eaten dinner and appeared to finish up on some homework. Within a few minutes, she slipped into the apartment building where Lisa McIntyre lived and knocked quietly on the door. Lisa opened the door quickly and nodded as Su walked noiselessly through the door.

  As the door closed, both young women immediately hugged with relief. Lisa even began to cry softly, which surprised Su enough for her to break the embrace.

  “Why you cry, Lisa? Su asked the question with empathy and suspicion in her eyes as she looked at the only true friend she ever had. It was a testament to how comfortable Su was that she let her normal command of the English language slip.

  “Oh, I’m just being silly,” Lisa said while walking toward the small apartment kitchen. Music was playing from Lisa’s MP-3 player to mask their conversation, just as her father had taught her.

  Lisa turned and tried to be casual as she said, “Truth is, I’m scared to death for you and really upset that you have to do the things you have to do.”

  The words came tumbling out in a very untypical manner for Lisa.

  Su surprised Lisa with a hesitant smile. “I have never had anyone care for me like that before.”

  The awkwardness lasted for only a couple of seconds before Lisa turned and poured two glasses of wine from a bottle on her kitchen counter.

  They both settled into Lisa’s couch and Lisa couldn’t help but ask, “Considering all of your training, how could you possibly trust anyone at all?”

  “When I was in school,” Su always used this opening when she was about to talk about the horrific experience that was the MSS’s Charm School, “I could convince anyone of anything. However, when I took my mind out of it and only listened to my heart, I could always tell when someone was lying to me, even those trained to lie. I don’t know how, but at that, I am never wrong.”

  After a pause, “And when I met you for the first time, I knew I could trust you with anything. I have survived by trusting that skill, and it has never failed me.”

  To change the subject, Lisa began to tell Su about growing up in Central Kentucky outside of the small town of Cronin. When her dad wasn’t around, she had the benefit of having been protected and taught many practical things by her godfather, Peter. Falling into her Kentucky drawl, she said, “Peter was partial to us young’uns and seemed to like me special, you know?” She drew out the word “like” for almost a full second.

  At Su’s questioning look, Lisa said, “Partial to, you know, like, he really liked me.” This explanation gained a dubious nod. Lisa launched into describing three rapid thoughts using a thick Kentucky drawl that Su barely recognized as being related to American English. “Y’all, I ain’t nuthin’ but a hick girl from Kaintuck. Shoot girl, should have me a passel of young’uns and only a few good teeth by now. Billy Bob would run shine and smokes in his ole beater pick-em’-up truck.” It brought an immediate round of chuckles from both.

  “I would like to see Kentucky someday,” Su said while looking closely at Lisa.

  Lisa broke the look between them and quietly said, “Maybe someday you will be able to.”

  Lisa turned away and walked toward the wine bottle on the counter.

  “Maybe someday soon?”

  Su’s question elicited only the barest quick shake of Lisa’s head before she changed the subject.

  “Here, did you see what Dwight wrote on Facebook?” Lisa approached Su again with the wine bottle in one hand and her smart phone in the other.

  Lisa sat down next to Su and whispered into her ear, “Dad said you should be ready to leave at a moment’s notice with only what you have with you. Is this okay?”

  Su’s normally blank look changed to cover a variety of emotions, all in the space of two seconds. She couldn’t believe this was really going to happen.

  Su gave Lisa only the briefest of a nod and silently mouthed, “Okay.” She then switched to a soft laughter at partially reading what poor Dwight had said about Lisa on Facebook. Professionally putting on a false feeling of ‘girl time’ talk was easy for Su. All the while, her mind spun with the very real possibility she might escape from slavery with her life, and possibly even a best friend.

  . . .

  Mountains of Southeast Afghanistan

  0600 Hours The Next Morning

  Ahmed reveled in the crisp, early morning hours. It was before dawn and very cold, but mercifully the wind had temporarily stopped blowing, and the stars were shining brightly. He had completed his pre-dawn routine. When he had awakened, a premonition had come to him that all of the planning with the Chinese demon Cho would actually work. He had been staying in the second-most secret cave complex for the past several days and decided it would be his home for the next year or more. It would soon be stocked with food, water, and communications equipment for at least eighteen months. A year after the martyrs do their work, he would stick his head up out of his hole and decide if it was time to bring the word of Allah to the survivors.

  The most secret cave complex, only a few kilometers away, had been turned into a laboratory equipped with everything needed for this divine mission.

  Many items had proven difficult to acquire, but with several months and much money, all was now ready. In three days Jasmine’s brother, Ali al-Hadiz, would arrive in Kabul and would get the facility functioning. He said he was bringing two others who were trustworthy. Ahmed would determine whether that was, in fact, true.

  . . .

  Covert FBI Location

  Washington, D.C.

  2215 Hours EST

  The Director of the FBI walked into the off-site on the heels of his protection detail. Over twenty-five FBI personnel were packed into the small office space. All but two of
the total number of people aware of the Walter Fontaine espionage case were present. The two missing men would be briefed by the Director the following morning.

  “Good evening, everyone,” the Director said. “Thank you for coming in at such a late hour. Also, I want to thank each one of you for your participation in this investigation, especially in light of the very unusual level of secrecy it demands. And,” he paused for a moment to choose his words carefully, “and frankly to be involved in this level of risk.”

  Hugh, the two specially detailed surveillance teams, and the two administrative secretaries briefly glanced at each other before refocusing their attention on the Director.

  “Yes, I said there was a level of risk involved in what you are doing and, unfortunately, that risk could come from within our own government. I’ll get into exactly what that is in a moment. First, I want to share some intelligence with you. In a report squirreled away in a back paragraph of my daily briefing this morning, was a note from both the CIA and NSA liaison officers. In passing, they mentioned some highly classified chatter that Walter Fontaine might, in some way, be compromised. There were no additional details. At this time, I have no way of knowing if this information is related to your work, however, we cannot take the chance.”

  He gave everyone a few moments to digest the intelligence.

  “Because of this information,” the Director continued, “and because I have decided this thing has progressed as long as it should, tomorrow night’s scheduled meeting with the Chinese girl will be the last. I don’t know that I’ll be able to provide answers, but what questions do you have?”