No Corner to Hide (The Max Masterson Series Book 2)

by Mark E Becker

  u

  CHAPTER 52

  M

  ax ascended the stage in two- step bounds, not stopping to shake hands with the picket line of dignitaries who lined the sidewalk that led from his Corvette. There would be time for that later, and he was anxious to get his message

  out and be gone. Rachel was escorted behind him, still in her flight suit. In keeping with his purposeful lack of convention, this inaugural would be a visual message that would endure long after the words were forgotten. He had no place for meaningless tradition.

  “America, thanks for electing me,” he began. He paused and waited for the applause to die down, looking out at the faces pointed in his direction as far as he could see. It seemed that the crowd had swollen to double the previous size in the time that he was gone, and he realized that the Washington insiders who normally disdained political events in favor of the comfort of their living room had been forced to witness the event live. There was no power on the public grid, and they had nothing to do. Washington as usual had become a single-event city for the time being.

  “It’s been quite a day for all of us, hasn’t it?” he continued.

  “The difference is, when I woke up this morning, I knew it would be a big day. I didn’t know that someone planned to mess it up for the rest of you and keep me from being your president in the first few seconds. I thought they would at least wait until after the party…” Laughter rolled through the attentive group like a wave.

  “I ran for this office to help my country be great again. I stand here today to tell you that I will not, cannot, be kept from that goal.” Those who were sitting stood. Those who were silent clapped and cheered.

  “You’re the one, Max!” The chant spread, and he waited. Pulling Rachel to his side, he gave her a tight hug as she looked in his eyes in adoration. They held each other, the image preserved by the few cameras spared from the gamma radiation of the EMP blast. He returned to the microphone and continued. “I was elected to be the president of everyone, not just a few. There are people who are intent on keeping me from doing the job you elected me to do, content with our present stagnation and malaise. I promise you; they failed today and they will fail tomorrow, and they will fail every day after that. We will return to greatness as a nation. The United States of America will not be defeated.”

  The applause was deafening. It continued for long after the thought of continuing had left Max. He had no teleprompter, and no notes. Just the heartfelt words he chose to speak. He had no intention of making a long-winded speech, and by the time Scarlett had completed hers, his words would be remembered, and her words would be largely forgotten. Too much information turns off the mind to the core of the message, and I have said what I came here to say. I need for them to remember. Not just today. Every day.

  “There will be other days and other topics to speak about, and you know I’m not a politician.” Scattered laughter came from his audience. He had used that phrase thoughout the campaign for the presidency, but he had never articulated the meaning. It was time. “The president of the United States should transcend politics. The one person you elect to serve you is the representative of our entire nation, every man, woman and child. I pledge to do just that. I will leave the politicking to the legislature. That’s what you elected them to do, and frankly, they are better at it than I am. I am focused on making America great again, and to making your lives better than ever before.” I need to inspire, to give them hope.

  After the applause had subsided so he could be heard once more, Max concluded his brief statement. “I will not always follow the tradition of politics, but I will not shirk the responsibilities of my position. I chose Scarlett Conroy to serve as our vice-president for a very good reason. She is a politician, and she is the best there is. She will make the speeches and she will attend the hearings and she will be our link to Congress. She will communicate the thoughts and desires of our nation to your elected Senators and Representatives, and together, the United States of America will lead again.” I present to you, Scarlett Conroy, our Vice-President.”

  As quickly as he had ascended the stage, he left it. Scarlett pulled a stack of cue cards from her pocket and approached the podium. Scarlett began her prepared speech, but paused when she realized that every member of the audience had turned their attention to watch Max take Rachel’s arm and walk slowly toward the White House. Her distress at the lack of attention was revealed in her facial expression. Her moment in the center had been replaced with envy. The speech did not resume until they had disappeared in the crowd of admirers. Regaining her composure, Scarlett resumed the speech.

  By the time she concluded, Max and Rachel had been at the White House for an hour, busily reviewing the digital record of the inauguration and directing the distribution to the press, who rushed it to the nearest operable computers that they could find. There was no time to edit. The broadcast was presented in a 24/7 continuous loop, with no voice-overs, no commentary, all as Max had intended.

  u

  CHAPTER 53

  I

  have silenced Max Masterson with the push of a button,” exclaimed Adam Pryor with delight. “His new ideas are threatening to our way of life. We must band together to rid ourselves of this menace once and for us all.”

  A silver-haired man stood in a corner, quietly assessing the situation. He and the privileged members of the group had pledged to never refer to the membership by name, but he was known by all as the Chairman of the Board of Universal Petrochemical, a conglomerate of oil and gas companies that had a virtual lock on the price of petroleum and the multitude of products produced by petroleum.

  Three generations before Doyle Effingham IV was born, his greatgrandfather had single-handedly began the first purchase of oil from the Saudi royal family, and the organization immediately amassed enormous wealth that rivaled that of the sheikhs themselves. As Pryor spoke in his high, annoying tone, Effingham quietly placed his martini on a (antique French) table and purposely spilled it, causing the attention of the membership to be momentarily turned in his direction. Without a word, he strode confidently to the front of the room and stood several feet in front of Pryor, well within his comfort zone. “I assure the membership that Masterson will be cast from office and we will regain…” Pryor stopped in mid-sentence.

  “Why don’t you just kill the Son of a Bitch? It’s not entirely unprecedented, you know,” said Effingham in measured tones that betrayed his Yale background.

  “My esteemed colleague,” began Pryor, his voice rising to match his exasperation, “…surely you recall that Masterson received over eighty percent of the popular vote in the general election, and I am certain you remember what happened when Kennedy was dispatched on your father’s watch, and how his death elevated him to martyr status, and how…”

  Effingham interrupted again, betraying his lack of respect for the former Director of Homeland Security. “You will not pawn your incompetence on me, my family, or the esteemed members of this assemblage.” Effingham’s cheeks reddened with anger. “We pay you an enormous amount to ensure that our interests are protected, and in my estimation, you are a blundering idiot. Did it occur to you to have someone on the ground to report to us what happened after you set off that device? Did you?” His anger had turned into fury, and murmurs spread throughout the room. The membership had begun voicing their concerns in hushed tones.

  “That’s the problem with disruption of cell transmissions,” Pryor responded. They won’t have any way of transmitting a signal until they repair the cell towers. That should take days, and if the Secret Service is following established protocol, Masterson, Conroy, and a good portion of Congress are in a hidey hole under a mountain somewhere, cut off from the inaugural for days. I set out to illegitimatize the Masterson presidency. It’s Phase One.”

  The assembled elite stood silent for a moment, watching the darkened screens, oblivious to the flurry of activity at the inaugural. The detonation had deprived the world of the del
ight of being electronic witnesses to history, but all unshielded electronics had been fused by gamma radiation, and that included all broadcasts from the National Mall that had been terminated when the electronics were fried.

  Effingham strode purposely to the table that held the remote and activated the screens. Glenda Reasoner was the first to appear, with the footage of Max waving to the crowd from a candy apple red vintage Corvette, with the Washington Monument looming above a mass of humanity who were smiling and clapping. Masterson’s girlfriend was seated next to him in a flight suit. “Our new President, Max Masterson, makes a grand entrance to the inaugural celebration, not thwarted by…”

  Effingham changed the channel, and Glen Aspect appeared, with footage of Max standing at the podium in front of the Jefferson Memorial, the Presidential Seal prominently displayed on the front. In a voiceover, Aspect commented on the “Inaugural Event”. “It may be an apt description, America, but Inaugural Disruption may be more accurate. Within an hour of the detonation of a device that we are only beginning to understand, Masterson had power restored and made a glorious return to his place on the podium.” The camera zoomed into Max’s confident face. The screens went dark again. Effingham threw the remote to the marble floor, where it shattered with dramatic effect. “He doesn’t look like he’s in a hidey hole to me. Your perfidy will not be rewarded. Fix it.” He turned briskly and walked out of the room.

  u

  CHAPTER 54

  A

  fter the festivities subsided, Max retreated to the Oval Office as Rachel slept in president’s quarters, exhausted. The Oval Office lacked Max’s brand, so he installed a plaque on the credenza behind his desk. It was a gold list, the Maxims. Created

  by his father and followed to the letter, the rules by which he would govern were a reminder of how the office of the presidency would transcend politics:

  The informed will of the people dictates what is right. Maintain what is right and right what is wrong. Educate the people before asking them to decide an issue. American interests must prevail over foreign interests. Make Americans aware that they are a part of the world. It is better to confess that you don’t know than to lie. Don’t quote a statistic unless you can back it up with facts. Persuade, don’t deceive.

  Combine strength with compassion.

  Measure each decision by what is best for America. Above all else, be a patriot.

  Max sat alone, gazing at the gold plaque absent-mindedly. It was his first time in the Oval Office without the web of people that went with the job, and for once, he could relax. His time alone was brief, he knew, but it was his time, and he knew how he would spend it. He opened the concealed drawer and pulled out the gilded diary, turning to an early entry written in the familiar cursive of Thomas Jefferson. It seemed to glow, and in his mind’s eye, it spoke to him in a resonant voice, using a dialect that he was certain was Jefferson’s.

  “Thy mind is troubled with the concerns of state, I see.”

  Max closed the book quickly, and the image of Jefferson disappeared. He opened it to the same page, and Jefferson returned to his mind.

  “ Thou art connected to the universal intelligence as was I, and those who legitimately came to this office before and after,” said the genius of Monticello. Max was perplexed, and strained to understand what was happening. Without uttering an audible sound, he spoke to Jefferson.

  “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, and thee can hear me.”

  “But how is it that I am talking to you, after being dead for hundreds

  of years, ” Max questioned. “Are you a ghost?”

  “Where does one go after death? The mortal flesh may depart, but the

  spirit remains in those who wish it so. The diary channels the thoughts

  of the spirit to those who are fit to receive. Thus it has been and will

  be until the last word is written,” he responded with a clarity that

  resounded in Max’s heart.

  Jefferson continued his advice with an urgency that Max could

  feel inside of his mind, prompting him to focus with an intensity

  that he had not felt before. “You can see those who came before

  you, who occupied this oval office and who wrote these words.” He

  pointed at the diary, which glowed with increased intensity. “You

  need only to be alone in this room and in need of wisdom. We can hear

  the words that trouble your mind.”

  “There are many issues I would like to discuss, but time is short. You

  know my concerns, so I will listen to what you have to say,” Max spoke

  tentatively.

  “Thou must speak thy mind,” Jefferson responded. “Thou art fearful

  of enemies in the mist, who may strike from places hidden from your

  sight. Your concerns are not for yourself, but for our nation. The enemies

  have different names and occupy a different time, but they have always

  been lurking, regardless. Thou must resist their attempts to remove thee

  from favour with thy countrymen.” In their internal discourse, Max

  noticed that Jefferson’s manner of speaking was becoming more

  contemporary as he spoke.

  “What should I do about my enemies?” Max’s mind was preoccupied by Pryor, who had disappeared from office the day before the

  election, and prior to his briefing by Roger Sinclair.

  “You have but one enemy, but he wears many disguises. Your single

  enemy is composed of many parts. When you cut off but one part, your

  enemy lives on, manifesting in others. There is no single person to defeat.

  Focus on defeating ideas that threaten your presidency, and the rest

  will follow.” Jefferson stood, examining his shoes. His appearance

  was evolving in Max’s mind’s eye. There was no powdered wig, and

  no leggings. It was the visage of Jefferson, but he sported modern

  clothes.

  “I know not what animal gave its skin to make these, nor what color

  its hide, but my aching feet are pleased.” He bounced around the

  room in his plastic soled shoes, transformed from the high riding

  boots he wore in his time. Once he had reveled in his comfort to his

  satisfaction, he sat again. “The enemy is an idea, and in that idea there

  are many linked common beliefs. The key to defeating this gargantuan

  beast is in numbers of like-minded warriors of your own enlistment, but

  remember,” Jefferson shifted in the chair and leaned forward. “It is

  as useless to argue with those who have renounced the use and authority

  of reason as to administer medication to the dead.”

  Having imparted as much wisdom as he chose for the moment, Jefferson sat back and marveled at his appearance. “These trappings are light and airy. Wool can be so scratchy,” he commented on his new appearance. “Why is my hair not like yours?” Jefferson inquired. He touched his red hair, still long and tied at the back.

  “There are a lot of men still wearing your style in my time,” Max replied.

  There was a knock at the door to the Oval Office, and the image of Thomas Jefferson vanished.

  Max recovered from his dream state and quickly deposited the diary in its secret drawer. Luke Postlewaite shuffled into the room, looking rumpled and exasperated. Without bothering to sit down, Luke approached the ornate desk and placed both hands on the edge. Peering at his life-long student with the grayed eyes of age, he wasted no time with formalities.

  “You’re fucking up,” he said without the slightest hint of reverence for the office.

  “How?”

  “You need to get your ass out from behind that desk, get out of this political museum, and go out there and do your job.” He paused to catch his breath, and continued. “I have been sitting awake, watching the major ne
ws programs, three at a time, Max, three at a time, and they are starting to turn on you.” He was agitated, that was definite. “Somovich and Aspect, and Glenda, who is an old friend of mine, to boot, even she has been sniping at you. Your popularity will never be higher than now, Max, and I’m not going to sit back and watch you squander your only opportunity to accomplish your destiny in the way you have been taught.” He sat hard in the leather chair and scowled, gasping for breath.

  “What are they saying about me?”

  “You’ll see, you’ll see,” he muttered, fumbling his communicator to produce each video clip in succession. “You aren’t making any news, and they have to report something, so they have turned on you already.”

  The holographic image appeared above the desk in 4-D. The Willie B. Somovich program, “Willie B Right” came on first, his lacquered helmet hair shining in the studio lights. Music heavy with percussion instruments preceded the appearance of the host, followed by a close-up of Willie’s reddened shining face. He was in his element, and gauging from his smile, he had his distorted version of news to tell.

  “Max Masterson is in his first weeks of the four-year term in office, and I gotta tell ya, America, he sucks.” Canned cheers and applause followed his opening statement as intended. “I want you to know, America, that Max has let us down, and he hasn’t made it a month. Our nation’s capitol has yet to recover from the Inauguration Day Event, and the rest of the nation, me included, want to know; “ Max, are you going to be just like the rest? When you address the nation in two weeks, I want to hear, Hell, all of us want to hear, how are you going to lead this once-great nation? I will open the lines to our callers, but first, a message from our sponsors.”