The LieDeck Revolution: Book 1

by Jim Stark

  "How's my very favorite nine-year-old pumpkin in the whooole wiiide wooorld?” he bellowed as he swung Julia to his hip and tried to give her a kiss and a tickle.

  She turned her head away from the kiss and brushed off his tickle finger. “I want to go back to school, Daddy,” she pouted, and that was all she could manage by way of a greeting.

  "Ooookay,” said Daddy. “How about ... in a week? We can mark off the days on the calendar, like we always do for your birthday."

  "Okay,” said Julia, whose mood inverted all the way to its normal giddy state. “Can we play ping-pong now?"

  "Not tonight, dear,” he said as he put her down. “We have company, and Daddy's tired. Hi, Sarah. I was wondering where you were. How's about a big hug for the old man?"

  Sarah dutifully embraced her father, but got only a C for effort and a D for spirit. Doreen had accepted the unhappy task of telling Sarah she wouldn't be going to school tomorrow, and for a while, “for security reasons,” she had explained.

  "I'm really sorry for taking you out of school,” said Randall, “but I hope we can all get back to normal in a week or so. You're old enough to understand."

  "Just because I understand doesn't mean I like it,” whined Sarah, as she abruptly broke off the hug. “I think the LieDeck sucks, big time."

  "Well, you're not alone there,” said Randall, ruefully, “although I think you might have phrased it a little better."

  "Hello Mr. O'Connor,” said Sarah, as required, with her blue eyes turned down to match her mood.

  "Hi sweetheart,” said Doreen, with a kiss for Randall. “Good to see you, Cam. I hope you're both hungry."

  She usually asked “How's business?” whenever Cam was a guest in her home, that being one topic of conversation that didn't annoy the man. But today, she couldn't, didn't want to, and didn't need to. She knew the answer too well. Whiteside Technologies was getting stinking rich from the collapse of civilization.

  "Steve will be over shortly,” she said to her husband, “and Michael will be back in a minute. He's out front, saying goodbye to Becky. Her parents are in a major snit over the LieDeck ... and about Becky's involvement with the LieDeck Assessment Program. They asked her to quit the L.A.P., even though the Prime Minister bought her idea of putting a LieDeck in all schools. It's a shame, really."

  "Their idea,” corrected Randall, “hers and Mikey's ... and yeah, it is a God damned shame."

  Randall thought of mentioning the new money he was planning to give to the Destiny Foundation, but decided to wait. He knew this act would help sort things out, but in truth, money was the easy answer for the well heeled. It didn't even sting to part with $22 million, although Randall held out no hope of ever convincing Cam O'Connor of that.

  "You saw Godfrey's press conference?” Doreen asked, certain that they had. “What did you think of his anti-suicide program?"

  Cam struggled to find a response to the question, but settled for a glance at the boss, a helpless look that said, “This one's all yours, boss."

  Randall walked over to phone book and began flipping the pages. He wasn't ignoring her ... this was his answer. Doreen knew that her husband often preferred to speak with actions instead of words, but she wasn't certain what he was doing. He punched numbers and waited.

  "Yes,” he said, “this is Randall Whiteside. We're just sitting down to supper, but I'll be over to volunteer in ... yes, the Randall Whiteside.” There was a pause, during which the patriarch's forehead and face moved in what seemed a series of conflicting emotions. “Very well,” he finally said. “I'll be there in ten minutes."

  Explanations were given to the children, and arrangements were made for Grant Eamer to fly Cam O'Connor back to the office earlier than expected. For now, however, the pilot had to ferry Randall and Doreen up to the roof of the Pontiac Regional Hospital, to deal with a young man whose life might already have flickered out had it not been for the Prime Minister's plea. He was the first person in Pontiac County to respond directly to Godfrey's anti-suicide program, and Randall Whiteside was among the first people in his area to call up and volunteer.

  Whitebird III landed on the rooftop pad that Whiteside Tech had paid for a few years earlier. Randall and Doreen went down the elevator and walked through the lobby to the hospital cafeteria. It was a small operation, with six tables, four vending machines plus a change-maker, a coffee percolator, and a grill that closed in the late afternoon. At one of the tables, a young nurse sat with the troubled and even younger man, holding his hand.

  "My name's Randall,” he said plainly. “This is my wife, Doreen."

  The man was more of a boy. He seemed to be about nineteen years old. He smelled of booze, and by the cut of his clothes, he looked like he'd been cast in the musical Grease. His jeans were worn through at the knees, as prescribed by teenage law, and his cowboy boots hadn't been polished in months. He'd obviously been crying, and he wasn't up to any hand-shaking or eye contact.

  "This is Bobby Thompson,” said the nurse.

  Chapter 61

  THE ROMANIAN CRISIS

  Randall tried to dive right into the pudding with Bobby Thompson, as if getting to the point was the best way of getting to the point ... an amateur's mistake. “What seems to be the problem?” he tried. “What has to change for you to change your mind?” he asked.

  Doreen watched her husband fumble the catch and noticed that the young nurse was becoming concerned. Then she remembered a bit of wisdom from her own youth. “The way to a man's stomach is through his mouth,” her mother had frequently told her, with a wily wink for the botched aphorism. “We were just about to eat dinner,” she said to the boy. “I vote for going to the house and pigging out. What do you say, Bobby?"

  "Sure, why not,” said the lad disconsolately. “Might as well have a last supper."

  "Ever ride in a helicopter?” asked Randall.

  He always was a quick study, mused Doreen.

  Bobby wasn't in a mood to let anything about life excite him, but he was too young and immature to prevent his reaction from showing. He sat up front, beside Grant Eamer, and although he was determined not to speak, his eyes kept wandering over towards the controls, wondering which gadget made the craft do this or that. Eamer looked back to the compartment where the Whitesides were, and Randall made a sort of “roll cameras” action with his hand, meaning “by all means, go with whatever works.” The flight back to the manor ended up with more spins and swoops than either Whiteside would have liked, but if the pilot could get through to the boy, it was worth it.

  "Jeeze ... thanks, Mr. Eamer,” said Bobby, as the helicopter landed at the Patriot compound.

  "You're okay, kid,” said Eamer. “I gotta take this guy O'Connor back to his office in Kanata, but maybe we'll go for another ride, say tomorrow? I could even show you how to fly this contraption. What do you say?"

  "Can I, Mr. Whiteside?” asked Bobby, hopefully, as he opened the door.

  "Sure,” agreed Randall. “Why not? Maybe in a couple of years you could even get your license and be a pilot, if you want."

  Doreen smiled. This wasn't a bad boy, just a lost soul, living with a pain they had yet to understand. “I'm starving,” she said lustily. “Let's go eat."

  Cam O'Connor had heard the helicopter land and was leaving the house as the Whitesides and their guest came up the back walk. “I've eaten,” he said to Randall. “We'll finish up that business back at the office tomorrow."

  He was hoping to be spared an introduction to the suicidal punk, but to no avail. He shook the boy's hand reluctantly, and as he turned away for the short walk to the waiting helicopter, he rubbed his right hand on his suit jacket, trying to scrape off whatever creepy-crawly things might have hopped across during their brief physical contact.

  Supper, which they decided to have in the kitchen, was saved by Julia. She sat right beside Bobby and badgered him relentlessly with questions he could easily answer ... plus a few suggestions about personal grooming. Privately, Mrs. W
hiteside had asked Lucinda, the maid, to call the pro shop at the Royal Oaks and have them send over a few items of clothing that Bobby might wear without feeling that he'd been bought or maybe adopted, including a leather jacket. Sarah and Michael made few allowances for Bobby's emotional crisis, teasing him at times, but also setting the stage for minigolf and perhaps horseback riding, perhaps tomorrow. Randall sat back and watched as his family worked its magic. No way this lad wants to die, he said to himself. He just wants to live, and he doesn't know how.

  Steve Sutherland arrived just as dessert was served: crêpes with frozen yogurt and a dollop of low-cal chocolate sauce. At the front door, Lucinda had filled him in on the Bobby Thompson situation. When he arrived in the kitchen, he found himself recruited to take over as surrogate father figure while Randall excused himself ... “to make a call,” he said, checking his jacket pocket to see that his LieDeck was turned off. “And Michael,” he added, “if I could see you in the den for a minute or so ... about your schoolwork?"

  His intention was to ask his son if he had any ideas that might help him reach this boy on the level that counted, meaning the despair that had to be raging within. Out of what had become habit, he reached for his shirt pocket and flipped his LieDeck on again. But before he had a chance to say anything, Michael spoke.

  "Dad listen,” he whispered as he closed the door. “While you were at the hospital in Shawville they said on TV that there's a war started, a big one, between Romania and Russia. CNN is on it full-time. The Communists in Romania launched a coup to take back the country from the democratic government, with backing from Russia and with some Russian troops too, but it all went wrong. The Romanian government then used a LieDeck and found out about the coup just before it started, and the coup leaders were all executed! In the streets! Then the Romanians sent planes to bomb these Russians that were retreating. The Americans say that the Russians are gearing up their missiles for a nuclear attack on Romania, and with President Barker still in a coma and the generals in charge, they say that maybe the States might use nuclear missiles on Russia if it uses nukes on Romania. They said it's something like the Cuban Missile Crisis, but worse."

  Randall turned on the TV, with the sound on very low so that Bobby wouldn't hear ... or Doreen, or the girls. It seemed from the commentary that in the last half hour or so, Romania had broken off its bombing raids, faced with the threat of nuclear attack from Russia. But there were still fierce firefights within Romania, and no one was taking bets that this conflict would be resolved any time soon. Various governments were discussing emergency food aid to alleviate the terrible famine that had ravaged Romania for the last two years, hoping that full bellies might silence the guns, if not the outrage of the masses.

  The story behind the coup was chilling. Apparently, the Communists in Romania had their own LieDeck, and had used it to unearth evidence that when the first Cold War had ended back in 1989, the WDA had virtually seized control of several Eastern European governments, including theirs. There was also some strong evidence that the WDA had controlled the Russian government between the two Cold Wars, lending credence to the rationale that had been offered by Russian Communists for their successful 2012 coup d'état. American TV analysts—mostly civilians, in spite of the martial law decree—were reviving the domino theory with regard to all the formerly Communist states of Eastern Europe. “And this time,” they all agreed, “it's more than just a convenient theory."

  Randall muted the sound and turned an ashen face towards his son. “Michael,” he said, “my father built that fallout shelter out at the lodge when I was about Sarah's age because of the Cuban Crisis. I thought the whole thing was a crock, but ... when he was dying, he made me promise two things: first, that I would keep the place shipshape at all times, and equipped with the most modern technology, just in case, and second, that if we ever got close to the brink again, I wouldn't wait too long before getting ready. So we go with the plan tonight.

  "You go over to Becky's. Tell her parents that I need to see them, and Becky, here at the house, right away. Tell them it's a matter of—uh—of considerable urgency, but don't tell them what it's all about. They'll stay here tonight. We're only four or five minutes from the lodge, and they'll come with us if we have to use the shelter. In the meantime, I want you to stay with this Bobby Thompson character out at the lodge tonight. Look—don't give me any guff on this, okay—I know he's a jerk, but I promised to try to save his life, and my word has always been my bond, so—"

  "You mean you're going to let him in the shelter if—"

  "Yes,” said Randall to his son. “You two can sleep in the servants’ quarters tonight. Don't go to your cabin, in case everything breaks loose and your boat won't start. And I don't want you to watch television at the lodge, okay? Bobby's already in a bad way, and God knows what he might do if he panics. I'll make sure we've got lots of agents in the bush, a few yards away, in case Bobby stops coping or something, and we'll have audio surveillance—you won't be in any danger from the boy.

  "Now you'd better get going. I have to instruct Patriot and tell Victor and Winnifred that you and Bobby will be staying at the lodge. Don't show any fear, son. It's okay to be scared. I'm scared too. If Bobby finds out about our decision to prepare ourselves for the shelter, make like it's simply a wise precaution, okay? I'll make sure he's delivered over to the lodge before you get back with the Donovans."

  Michael got up to go, but hesitated long enough to get a thought off his mind. “I think ... because of the LieDeck ... all this is partly our fault,” he said.

  "Beep,” went Randall's LieDeck.

  "I'm really glad you don't believe that, Michael,” he said as he put his strong hand on his son's shoulder. “Now go. Hurry. This isn't the kind of thing we want to arrange over the phone."

  MONDAY, APRIL 28, 2014

  Chapter 62

  DEFCON-ONE

  "What about me and my wife?” demanded Cam. “What the hell are we supposed to do? Tuck you and your kids into bed and then walk quietly over to ground zero and get fried?"

  Randall scratched the back of his neck and stared out the window of his top floor office. It was 10:15 a.m. on a rather cool April morning that stank of fear. The head of Whiteside Technologies realized that he'd never figured out what the procedure should be if the bomb shelter was ever needed for real. Patriot Security was a company he had built himself. It was like a miniature army, with training similar to that of the regular military. The loyalty of the Patriot machine had never been seriously questioned before. But if a nuclear attack was imminent, the Patriot personnel at the estate would certainly want to get into the shelter themselves, with their families, just as Cam was demanding now. If push came to shove, Patriot had the power to take over. And if they did, and a nuclear war ensued, there might not be any Whitesides left to protest by the time these traitors emerged into a post-holocaust world.

  "How much do I pay you?” Randall asked his chief of security.

  "Three hundred and forty thousand a year, plus bonuses,” said Cam. “Why?"

  "So you could have afforded to build a shelter of your own, on your own property, and you didn't. Am I right?"

  "Yeah, but—"

  "And because you didn't, you want me to promise that you and your wife can share ours?"

  "Jesus Christ, Randall, I've been with you for over thirty years,” said Cam. “We're like family, you and I, and if they do attack, you're going to need me afterwards ... to control things, to ... keep the crazies away. I'm as good as I ever was, Randall, and...” There was no point in continuing. The boss wasn't buying any of this, and Cam correctly guessed that his old friend had a LieDeck on his body, set on the pin mode, tapping out the truth. “Never mind,” he said bitterly as he stood to leave. “Forget I asked."

  "One question, Cam,” said Randall. “Have you considered using Patriot to capture the shelter, to keep us out ... and use it yourself?"

  "Of course not,” said Cam angrily. “What the fuck
kind of ques—"

  "You're fired,” said Randall calmly. “I'll have accounting send your severance pay to your home this afternoon."

  * * *

  It was a beautiful morning. The Royal Oaks was crowded with early-season players, but they all had portable radios with them on the course, and cars standing by, with full tanks of gas and trunks filled with rations, clothing, medicine and weapons. No one wanted to believe that politicians were once again playing dice with life on Earth, but everyone over sixty recognized the atmosphere as something they'd known before, back in October of 1962, when humanity had threatened to commit suicide en masse ... or had it decided for them by their “leaders” ... and one would have to use that term loosely.

  Helen Kozinski had been up all night, monitoring CNN, and she had briefed Randall on the world situation at about 8:00 a.m., before Cam had called demanding a meeting. Apparently the Romanian crisis was only a small part of a grand design by a resurgent Communist Party to win back all of Eastern Europe, all of what used to be the Soviet Union, or the Soviet empire. Coup leaders had been found and summarily executed in Poland, Hungary and Bulgaria, where Communist cells had bombed key communications and transportation centers. Armenia, Georgia and several other republics that were part of the former Soviet Union had recalled their ambassadors from Moscow, and if you added up all the armed clashes, it amounted to a major war.

  The North Koreans had used the occasion of the superpowers’ intense concentration on Europe to make a bid to win back South Korea by force. Hundreds of American troops were among the dead—never a good omen. American citizens had begun fleeing major U.S. cities, in a trickle at first, but now in a steady stream. Some cottages in resort areas had been taken over by whoever got there first, and the Army had lost control in the New England states, and in California. American grocery stores were being emptied. The guns stores were already empty. No one was predicting nuclear war with any certainty, but the people who had options were not in the mood to take chances. Canada had been spared some of this panic, but the Army was quietly resupplying the government bunker at Carp, and military helicopters were parked on Parliament Hill, ready to evacuate the country's leaders, if need be.