National Burden

by C. G. Cooper

  “No, you three are the first.”

  “And you called us because…?”

  “I knew I could trust Marge. It helps that the company was founded by a Marine who knew how to keep secrets.”

  “Wait, did you know my dad?”

  Martindale nodded. “I did. He did some work for me in the late nineties. Helped with a few security analyses for companies I was looking to buy. Good man. I’d like to think we were friends.”

  Cal’s father had never mentioned Leo Martindale, but then again, in those days Cal was wrapping up high school in Tennessee and heading off to college. He wasn’t part of SSI other than the occasional take your son to work day. “That still doesn’t answer the question. Why didn’t you take this to the authorities, the SEC or the FBI?”

  Martindale looked uncomfortable, not like he was trying to hide anything, more like he was trying to decide how honest to be with Cal. “Look, I know those guys are around for a reason, but the second I raise even a discreet flag, they’ll be all over me. I’d rather not have the attention, if you know what I mean.”

  Something wasn’t making sense. SSI didn’t specialize in this kind of thing. Sure, they had Neil Patel, who could hack into anything and build technology that only Stephen Hawking could fathom, but they were still a company full of warriors, doing what former military contractors did.

  “Leo, I appreciate you telling us all this, but I’m just not sure how we can help. We’re not really built for this sort of thing. I’m sure I can ask around and find a company that specializes--”

  Martindale cut him off with an emphatic shake of his head. “No, it has to be you guys. I need people I can trust, a company with brains and muscle.”

  Cal stared at the man, trying to read his expression. “What are you not saying? Is there something else?”

  Martindale’s body seemed to deflate like a balloon, his shoulders slumping, the confidence gone and replaced by a look Cal had seen too many times. “I thought I could take care of it, or at least that my head of security could, but, well, I’ve gotten a couple threats.”

  “From whom?”

  “I don’t know. It was somebody who found out that I’d been looking into these stock dips. They said if I didn’t back off they’d kill my family.”

  “What about your security guy? What did he do about it?”

  “He started looking into the threats a week ago…” Martindale’s voice trailed off as he stared at the coffee table stacked with pizza boxes.

  Cal moved closer, placing a hand on Martindale’s shoulder. “What happened, Leo?”

  Martindale shook his head, pain etched into his face as he looked up. “I found him hanging from a noose in my garage yesterday morning.”

  Chapter 28

  Paris, France

  8:15 a.m., March 7th

  Secretary of State Geoffrey Dryburgh almost spit his orange juice all over the news summary one of his staffers had just delivered. He couldn’t believe it. He read the headline again: Senate Majority Leader Senator Milton Southgate appointed Vice President by President Brandon Zimmer.

  What was that crafty old man up to? Had this been part of his plan all along?

  Dryburgh resisted the urge to crumple the five page report, instead grabbing a half-eaten croissant and flinging it across the posh hotel suite, narrowly missing the mirrored chest of drawers.

  He used me.

  The thought played in his mind over and over, only serving to incense the jet-lagged secretary of state even more. He had a meeting with the French prime minister in fifteen minutes or he would’ve gotten on the phone that second to wake up Southgate and give him a piece of his mind.

  “Vice president. You sure as shit won’t be for long.”

  +++

  Jonas Layton took his time getting ready. He’d already been to the workout room for a jog and a couple rounds on the elliptical. Feeling re-energized despite the six-hour time difference, Layton logged into his company’s secure server and scanned his emails. A master of productivity, the wunderkind deleted, forwarded or replied to an assortment of close to one hundred messages in just under ten-minutes.

  His morning routine complete, Layton settled in for his daily commute, a two-hour jaunt through the veins of the internet. The public didn’t yet know about the new American vice president, but Layton found out quickly thanks to a high-level insider he kept on retainer. It was good to have informants who knew their way around governments, both foreign and domestic. It wasn’t that he particularly cared about Zimmer’s choice for his number two, but it did seem odd.

  No matter. In a split second he’d moved on, carefully sifting through stock reports, doing his homework before his next meeting with Dryburgh. He would have the answer ready, but not in the way he’d thought.

  +++

  By the time Dryburgh’s meeting with the portly French prime minister finished, he’d had enough time to consider the Southgate situation. Where at first he’d taken offense, thinking that the senator had gone behind his back, he now believed he could use the situation to his benefit.

  Sitting in a quiet corner of the hotel’s preferred club, watched discretely by his security detail, Dryburgh mulled his options, wondering how far he should go.

  His greatest fear had been that Zimmer would ask him to be vice president. Yes, it was closer to the Oval Office, but only by geography. No, he would stay his hand, play along with Southgate’s intrigue and bide his time. In Dryburgh’s, and most other politicians’s minds, there was much more prestige associated with being the American secretary of state than being the vice president. You had very little power as the supposed second-in-command unless the president willingly gave you more as a matter of policy. Dryburgh didn’t believe for a second that Zimmer would have given him free reign.

  As the master of foreign policy, however, Dryburgh could pretty much come and go as he pleased. So long as he didn’t deviate too far from the President’s agenda, he owned his fiefdom.

  At least this way he wouldn’t have the straight-laced Southgate on his tail. He’d be too busy doing the President’s grunt work.

  Dryburgh smiled at the thought, putting the pieces together in his mind like knights on a chessboard. That was him, a knight. Not a rook or a bishop and never a pawn. A knight moved erratically, never in a straight line, always unpredictable in the hands of a master player. Yes, that would be his strategy. Bob and weave. Shift and slide. He’d done it to his competition in business, easily outmaneuvering the lumbering behemoths, and he could do the same now.

  The image of the white knight solidified in his brain as he sipped his herbal tea patiently, letting the tendrils of steam run up his face. How had he been so perturbed earlier? Now, the possibilities were endless. The only problem was deciding which weapon to use.

  +++

  The White House

  3:30 a.m., March 7th

  The clacking of his keyboard was the only sound in the heavily cubicled office, except for the hot air coming out of the overhead vent in regular intervals. Santos Lockwood sat glued to the screen, a stack of Styrofoam cups on his desk, crumbs of his last snack on his wrinkled grey wool pants. He hadn’t been to his apartment since being rehired, opting to nap under his desk, something many of the lower level staffers did when they were slammed with work.

  He stopped typing and sniffed the air, realizing a moment later that the smell of warm stilton cheese was actually him. He hadn’t showered in two days.

  Between learning the ins-and-outs of his new lower paying job, and keeping McKnight abreast of even the most mundane White House goings on, Lockwood knew he would soon reach his limit. He had to sleep, but he had a job to do. Two jobs, actually.

  It wasn’t just the work that kept Lockwood from going home, it was also McKnight. At least if he stayed at the White House he couldn’t be touched. If he went home, well, he only had so many fingers left and his old college roommate was getting anxious. An anxious Tony McKnight was not good news for Santos Lockwoo
d.

  Yawning despite the ample supply of caffeine running through his veins, he cracked his neck from side to side and refocused on the mundane report he was transcribing. Finished, he clicked send and off the document went to the guy who would be taking credit for Lockwood’s work.

  Closing his word processor, he clicked on a shortcut on his desktop labeled Food Schedule. One of Lockwood’s previous duties at the White House had been to assist the kitchen staff in the event that more help was needed, typically when a large group of foreign dignitaries were in attendance.

  Over the past year, Lockwood had become friends with the talented cooking staff and their small army of runners. He’d at first volunteered just to get away from his cramped cubicle and because he’d grown up helping his mother, a first generation immigrant from Honduras, in the kitchen as she’d cooked the meals passed down through generations of Honduran women. His father, a former missionary who’d met his mother on a mission trip to Honduras, had always come home raving about his wife’s cooking, often throwing a loving wink to his beloved son.

  His mother still lived in Texas, but his father had died while twenty-year-old Santos was in college, the victim of a drunk driver. The smell of cooking still reminded him of his dad and the precious meals the three Lockwoods had shared around their modest kitchen table.

  He was ashamed to think what he was using his talents for now. His mother would be devastated if she knew. But he didn’t have a choice. McKnight had him by the neck, barking commands like he was some kind of slave. The thought made Lockwood frown until he realized what McKnight would do if he saw his face, so his blank stare returned. He’d perfected it, sensitive to McKnight’s mood swings. Lockwood’s paranoia was reaching a critical level. Sometimes he felt like the congressman had a secret camera videotaping him 24/7, watching his every move, monitoring his every action.

  After perusing the day’s meal schedule, Lockwood rose from his desk, peering around cautiously, although he knew no one would be in for at least two hours. That gave him time. After checking to see he had what he needed, he picked up his backpack from underneath his desk and slung it over his shoulder. After another quick look around, he turned for the door and headed toward the White House kitchen.

  Chapter 29

  The White House

  6:45 a.m., March 7th

  President Zimmer scooped a spoonful of the brown sugar crust off of the top of his oatmeal. He didn’t know how, but one of the chefs had figured out how to make it taste almost like the rim of a crème brûlée, only better. He liked to eat healthy, but allowed himself the small indulgence knowing that he’d need something positive to start the day. Maybe next time I’ll just order the crust.

  Sunlight streamed in from behind, casting a bright glare on his computer screen. He avoided checking his messages, instead reading the day’s headlines on a variety of news websites. A voracious reader since childhood, Zimmer skimmed as he ate, casting aside news that he either knew to be false, based on his earlier brief from his national security advisor, or just didn’t matter, like the latest splits in Hollywood power couples that some reporter had obscurely tied to politics.

  The situation in Lithuania had surprisingly been dropped from headline news, something that deeply concerned the president. Were the American people, and worse, the media, so war-weary they could simply ignore the posturing of a former enemy like Russia? Zimmer thought back to the days after 9/11 when Americans had rallied around their government and taken the fight to the enemy. They were scary times, and yet, had shown the best of what Americans had to offer: grit and determination.

  President Zimmer didn’t want to go to war, but he’d learned the hard way a strong U.S. military front was all that would keep large and small nations alike from making rash decisions. It was Teddy Roosevelt who’d famously said, “Talk softly and carry a big stick,” when describing his view of the American policy. The new president couldn’t disagree, only that in certain cases he’d decided it would be better to yell AND carry a big stick.

  On the world stage, the United States was still a relatively young nation. Zimmer had no doubt that countries like Russia were waiting patiently for their opportunity to fill the void of one less superpower. The same had happened to countless countries in the past, losing their status as if overnight, including France, Great Britain and Spain, all former mega-powers, now middle players in the global game.

  He’d spoken at length with Secretary of State Dryburgh, and the two men were in agreement that the Russian incursion along the Baltic Sea would not go unanswered. Through back channels, they’d dispatched their warning, stating in no uncertain terms that the Americans would not stand by and allow Russia’s blatant disregard for international law to go unpunished. The warning shot had been fired and U.S. spy satellites had recorded what looked to be the initial stages of a troop withdrawal. Zimmer didn’t want the fight to get ugly, but he was ready should it go so far.

  His breakfast finished, Zimmer pushed the empty bowl aside and leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands across his chest. He turned to look out at the brilliant day, watching as Marine guards made their duty changes precisely, not a word being uttered between the Marines who looked to be no more than twenty years old. So entranced was he by the thought that so young a man could be part of such a grand spectacle as the White House, he didn’t even hear Travis Haden walk in.

  “Mr. President?”

  Zimmer swiveled around, still half lost in thought. “Hey, Trav. Sorry, you caught me daydreaming. What’s up?”

  “I just got a call from General McMillan. He says the Russians are loading their transport ships. He’s also gotten confirmation from the CIA, through their local assets. It looks like they’re keeping their word. They should be out by midday.”

  “And we still have Sixth Fleet contingents moving that way?”

  “We do.”

  With the recommendation of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, his national security advisor, and a loose majority of the cabinet, Zimmer had ok’d the deployment to the Baltic Sea of a small task force from the U.S. Navy’s Sixth Fleet, who’d coincidently been headed that way for a joint training exercise. It seemed that the added pressure had worked.

  “I say we let them keep going. What do you think?”

  “I agree. It’s not the prettiest time of the year over there, but until Russia pulls all their troops out, it’s the right thing to do.”

  Zimmer almost felt like he could breathe a sigh of relief. Southgate was now in their corner and Russia was coming around. Thanks to his team, challenges were being thwarted in an impressive manner. He’d have to bolster their efforts, and get more like-minded, yet conversely talented, members in place. He could think of at least two cabinet members he could replace this second.

  “How’s Senator Southgate settling in?” asked Zimmer.

  “You can tell he’s not happy, but he’s already got his staff working like a well-oiled machine. I’ve gotta give it to the guy, when he puts his mind to something, no one’s getting in his way.”

  “That’s why he’s been around so long, Trav. Let’s make sure he feels welcome. I don’t want him thinking we hate him. I’m still pissed about what he did, but he can be a powerful ally.”

  Travis nodded. “Don’t worry, I’ve spread the word. I also told him not to hesitate to ask me if he needs anything.”

  The olive branch lain with care, Zimmer and his chief advisor moved on to more important topics, namely bolstering the U.S. economy.

  +++

  Santos Lockwood looked like a recovering alcoholic. Tie askew, wrinkled shirt still showing signs of a coffee sip gone wrong, McKnight’s lackey peered through the Waffle House window. He waved when he saw McKnight, who ignored the motion, instead perusing the menu.

  The door slammed behind him from the gust of wind that had literally pushed him in the door, customers looking up at the disheveled man in annoyance. He mouthed a silent, Sorry.

  The diner was almost ful
l, the smell of grease and batter hanging heavy in the air. Luckily the place no longer allowed smoking. Lockwood hated the restaurant chain, but for some reason Tony had always loved the place, despite his attraction to upper-crust establishments. They’d spent countless midday meals, nursing gut-wrenching and head-pounding hangovers, trying to douse the pain with platefuls of meat and carbs, grease and syrup.

  McKnight didn’t look up as his friend sat down, his ball cap-covered head bowed, staring at his ever-present phone. “What took you so long?”

  Lockwood hesitated, knowing that McKnight hated excuses. “A lot of work to catch up on. They’ve got me doing some--”

  “I don’t care. I’m having waffles and bacon. Order for me while I go take a piss.”

  Lockwood nodded subserviently, averting his gaze to pick up the menu, sticky to the touch. He wasn’t hungry, at least not around his tormenter.

  By the time McKnight returned, Lockwood had placed their orders, he opting for an egg white omelet, hoping to be spared the ribbing about his weight, although his old pal would probably find a way.

  McKnight, looking rather pleased with himself for some reason, took a slow sip of his coffee. “So what’s new?”

  Lockwood shrugged, trying to be nonchalant even though his insides were tangled in knots and he felt like he had to take a dump. “You heard about Southgate?”

  McKnight nodded, not wanting to give anything away. Privately, he’d been furious, much like Dryburgh, until he realized that the senator was now probably in a place less likely to do him harm. The congressman had wondered if the senator had mentioned his name to the President, but in the end he didn’t care. At the moment, Florida Congressman Antonio McKnight was a nobody. But that was about to change.

  “Do you know how it happened?”