Enemy of the People

by Peter Eichstaedt

  Marvin struggled and shouted, “Do you want to spend the rest of your life in prison?” He fruitlessly tried to jerk his arms from their grasp. “Or maybe a firing squad is more to your liking?”

  ***

  The five US Air Force fighter jets had scrambled from Kirtland Air Force base in Albuquerque and now surrounded David Benedict’s private Lear jet as it streaked over the dry, flat prairie lands of eastern New Mexico. One jet above, one below, one jet each off the wing tips, and one behind.

  The fighter pilot off the tip of the Lear jet’s left wine waved a gloved hand to the pilot of the Lear jet, motioning for Benedict’s Lear jet to descend. “You are instructed to land immediately,” he said into the microphone embedded in his helmet.

  The Lear jet pilot, earphones on and his eyes shrouded by aviator glasses, lifted both hands in exasperation and shook his head, no. “No can do, pal,” the Lear jet pilot replied. “The boss says we stop at nothing.”

  “What is your destination?” the air force pilot asked.

  “I wish I could tell you,” the Lear jet pilot replied.

  “We’re under orders, pal,” the air force pilot said. “You’re going down one way or another.”

  The Lear jet pilot looked at the fighter pilot in horror and shook his head. “You can’t shoot down an unarmed civilian aircraft.”

  “I strongly suggest you land the aircraft immediately,” the air force pilot said. “Holoman Air Base is close. There are personnel on the ground waiting for you.”

  The Lear jet pilot looked back at the air force pilot and shook his head.

  The air force pilot paused for a moment, then said, “You are hereby ordered to land your aircraft immediately. This is your final warning.”

  The Lear jet pilot again shook his head.

  “Your choice,” the air force pilot said.

  Four of the fighter jets close to Lear jet peeled away, leaving only one air force fighter jet trailing it. A missile streaked from below the wing of the trailing fighter jet and struck the Lear jet, which exploded in a ball of fire. The flaming metal tumbled out of the sky.

  ***

  The sun was low in the sky and a soft breeze stirred the air as Raoul, Kyle, and Ariel stood on the stone patio amidst of the scattered and sheet-covered bodies. The grounds of the Vista Verde Lodge now swarmed with FBI and Secret Service agents, all of whom had arrived from the confines of their temporary outpost at the Atlas Global headquarters ten miles away.

  The president’s body had been loaded onto Marine One, which had lifted off the ground and quickly risen se into the sky. It circled the lodge then disappeared over the forested mountains.

  “The president’s body will be flown back to Washington,” Raoul said.

  “What about David Benedict?” Kyle asked. “He’s got to stand trial.”

  Raoul shook his head somberly. “His jet was just shot out of the sky.”

  Kyle stared at Raoul, considering the implications. “With Marvin in custody, charged with treason,” Kyle said, “that leaves Secretary of State Helen Carter as president.”

  Raoul shrugged. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

  “The two men most responsible for this, Hank and his father, are dead,” Kyle said.

  “I don’t feel sorry for them,” Ariel said.

  “Neither do I,” Raoul said.

  “It would have been good to put them on trial,” Kyle said.

  “And let the whole world watch?” Raoul asked. “Or give you more to write about?”

  Kyle smiled and shook his head. “I have plenty to write about, with or without a trial.”

  “What makes people do things like that?” Ariel asked.

  “They’re enemies of the people,” Kyle said.

  Raoul drew a breath, squinted and looked around. “I’m going home.”

  “You’re a freakin’ hero, Raoul.”

  “No,” Raoul said with a shake of his head. “I wasn’t able to save the president.”

  “You almost did,” Ariel said.

  ***

  Three weeks later, Kyle stood at the edge of Eagle’s Nest Lake, his fly rod in hand, his shadow on the water’s edge cast by the angular morning light of the newly-risen sun. Shadowy motions from a fisherman’s cast will spook the trout, but Kyle didn’t care. He just liked being there. And so did Ariel, who sat on a blanket ten yards up the slope.

  They had debated returning to the lake, not wanting to stir up bad memories, but they’d decided to confront the past and replace it a new memory. Kyle rationalized that it also was a one-time chance to spend time at this rich man’s lake and cabin, something he could never afford.

  They had risen before dawn and driven to the Vista Verde Ranch headquarters, arriving just after dawn and had used Ariel’s employee access ID card. The ranch had been closed to outsiders and would stay that way for the foreseeable future as the main building was refurbished. They had parked well away from the lodge, which was still being investigated as a crime scene. There was talk that the ranch might never again open to the public.

  The jihadi corpses were long gone, having been sent back to Syria by military transport presumably to be claimed by their families.

  Kyle had attended the memorial service for Carlito Miranda in the small village north of Española where his distraught mother, Antonia, had closed her wool shop indefinitely while in mourning. It was a somber event, of course, and Kyle felt badly for the woman. She’d lost three of the men in her life who’d meant the most to her.

  Allan Morris and his daughter Jennifer were buried in the Los Alamos cemetery in a quiet ceremony also attended by Kyle and a few of Morris’s laboratory colleagues.

  President Harris’ body lay in state in the rotunda of the nation’s Capitol. His closed casket had been taken by horse-drawn carriage to Arlington National cemetery where he’d been buried with honors. The slow moving carriage had been followed by Harris’s cabinet members and many of his former colleagues in the Senate. The bodies of Congressman Divine and Senator Blount, also lay in state at the Capitol rotunda and both men were also buried in Arlington.

  Life in Washington DC ground on.

  Kyle yanked the line from the water’s surface with a flick of his wrist and watched the water sparkle as it fell from his luminescent green line. He checked the rod as it reached the one o’clock position, and when the line nearly reached full extension, he flicked his wrist forward sending the line out and onto the lightly rippled surface. The wet fly being the last to land, it slowly dropped a couple of inches below the surface, where it stayed.

  A strong tug on his line and splash drew his attention to the water as a jolt of excitement coursed through his body. It was a strong strike, and the trout was at least a foot long, he guessed. The fly hooked in its mouth, the trout broke the water once, twice, and then a third time before Kyle finessed it to shore, and held it up as Ariel looked on. Ariel waved from the blanket spread on the grassy bank nearby.

  It was his fourth catch of the day, and he kept the trout on a line in the water, fully intending to eat them later in the day. Leaving the fish in the water for the time being, Kyle carried the rod up to the blanket, placed it on the ground nearby, and sat beside Ariel.

  “Nice day, huh?” he said, flashing a smile.

  She nodded, then knitted her brow, concern covering her face. “Something’s wrong. What’s bothering you?”

  Kyle looked at her for a moment, ever amazed at her ability sense his mood, even read his mind. It unnerved him sometimes, made him feel like his brain was being monitored, especially when he himself didn’t always know how he felt. But today he knew. “What they’re saying on talk show radio about how this all came down,” he said.

  Ariel nodded. “I didn’t know you’re a fan of talk radio.”

  Kyle shook his head. “I’m not. Sometimes I just like to know wh
at they’re saying.”

  “Which is?”

  “That David Benedict is innocent of any conspiracy,” Kyle said.

  “And that Hank Benedict is a hero for killing Jihadi John?” Ariel said, her voice laden with sarcasm. “Is that close?”

  “Yes,” Kyle said, “They’re saying he’s a hero even though he killed President Harris first.”

  “Well, they’re wrong,” she said.

  “I know. But the problem is a whole lot of people out there hated Harris and are glad to see him gone,” Kyle said. “They’re already spinning the story as conspiracy by the liberals to undermine the conservatives.”

  “Like the people at Wolfe news?”

  Kyle nodded and stared out at the lake.

  Ariel gazed at the lake as well, then back at Kyle. “There’s not a lot you can do about it,” she said. “People are going to believe what they want to believe, regardless of the truth.”

  “That’s what bothers me,” Kyle said, “because it’s going to be tough to prove the truth in this case.”

  “Why?” Ariel said. “It’s pretty obvious.”

  Kyle shook his head. “Not really. Raoul and I have already been doing some research. Hank and his old man did a really good job of covering their tracks. There’s virtually no electronic trail that proves anything they did was part of conspiracy.”

  “Seriously?”

  Kyle nodded. “The best sources, of course, are Hank and his father.”

  “But they’re dead,” she said.

  “And people like Jihadi John.”

  “Who’s also dead.”

  “And the head of the ISIS, al-Bakar ,” Kyle said, “was just killed by a drone strike.”

  Ariel slumped and sighed, then sat upright. “Wait! What happens now to Marvin?”

  “A lot of congressional hearings, of course,” Kyle said. “He’ll be put on trial. But he can always plead the fifth.”

  “The Fifth Amendment?” she asked.

  Kyle nodded. “The right not to incriminate yourself.”

  “Even if he’s guilty?”

  “You only need to plead the fifth if you’re guilty,” Kyle said. He looked at the lake and back to Ariel. “Those in Benedict’s inner circle have been arrested and interrogated, of course. They’re going to be tried. But I don’t have my hopes up that any conspiracy will be proved.”

  “Are you going back to Washington?” Ariel asked.

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “You don’t want to cover the trials?”

  “And sit in a courtroom day after day?” Kyle asked. “No thanks. Others can do that.”

  “To think that they almost got away with it,” Ariel said.

  “Yeah,” Kyle said. “The problem was that Marvin figured the cabinet would fall in line, no matter what. But they were loyal to Harris, even after his death.”

  “Marvin was wrong,” Ariel said.

  “Dead wrong,” Kyle said.

  They both looked at the lake for a moment, then Ariel opened her day pack and pulled out a bottle of wine and a corkscrew, which she waved at Kyle.

  “Well, look at that,” he said, a smile coming to his face.

  “I liberated it from the wine cellar in the lodge,” Ariel said.

  Kyle examined the bottle and furrowed his brow. “Another bottle of the good French stuff. You sure can pick ’em,” he said. Kyle peeled the foil away, pulled the cork from the bottle, and poured wine into two plastic cups. He gave a cup to Ariel, then raised his in a toast.

  “What are we drinking to?” she asked.

  Kyle frowned as if in deep thought, then smiled. “To us!”

  Ariel drank, then putting her cup down, reached out, pulled him close, and kissed him as they rolled back onto the blanket.

  THE END

  For More News About Peter Eichstaedt, Signup For Our Newsletter:

  http://wbp.bz/newsletter

  Word-of-mouth is critical to an author’s long-term success. If you appreciated this book please leave a review on the Amazon sales page:

  http://wbp.bz/eotpa

  ALSO AVAILABLE FROM PETER EICHSTAEDT AND WILDBLUE PRESS!

  NAPA NOIR by PETER EICHSTAEDT

  http://wbp.bz/napanoira

  Read A Sample Next

  Prologue

  Muffled shots broke the late morning stillness in the Northern California vineyard. Chao Ling dove to the ground, scrambled through a row of vines, leapt to his feet, and kept running.

  A man with a pistol fixed with a silencer trotted after him, barrel held high.

  Ling dove through another row of vines, and another, then crouched behind a post, his lungs aching.

  Holding the weapon at arm’s length, the gunman’s eyes narrowed and he fired again, the bullet ripping through a cluster of the ripening grapes, splattering Ling’s face with juice. He humped up the hillside vineyard, his chest heaving, and peered again through the leaves.

  The gunman was nearly parallel to him, separated by four rows, aiming at him.

  Ling ducked to his left as another thunk sounded. He cried out as his right thigh exploded with searing pain. He clutched his leg and tumbled to the ground, rolling onto his back. The bastard is crazy! Why did I get involved with this idiot? He looked up the row, searching for an escape. Keep moving! His leg on fire, he struggled to his feet and hobbled, blood soaking his pant leg. His left leg quivering with every step, he pulled out his cell phone. With shaky hands he tapped 9-1-1 and listened to the phone’s buzzing ring.

  “What’s your emergency?” a dispatcher asked calmly.

  “Someone’s trying to kill me!” Ling shouted.

  “Are you okay?” the dispatcher asked.

  “I’ve been shot!”

  “Tell me who and where you are, and what’s going on.”

  “My name is Chao Ling,” he yelled. “I’m at Morrison Creek Winery. It’s Bernie Morrison. He’s got a gun! He’s trying to kill me!” Ling sucked in one breath after another, his body shaking.

  “Can you get to a safe place?”

  “What the fuck? That’s what I’m trying to do!”

  “Hold on.” The line went silent for what seemed an eternity.

  Ling peered across leafy vines as Morrison crawled through a row, rose, and took aim, firing again, the muffled shot ripping through the leaves. “Aw shit!”

  The dispatcher came back on. “We have a unit in the area. I’m sending it now. You’ll see it soon. Stay on the line and tell me what’s happening.”

  Keeping his head low, Ling hobbled back down the slope and toward the winery, hoping the cops would get there before he’d be cut down. The phone slipped from his hand and fell to the dirt. He kept going.

  Three rows separated him from Morrison, who kept moving, staying parallel to him. Blinding pain filled his head as two muffled shots sounded. Ling stumbled to the ground. He touched the side of his head and felt the wet warmth flowing from a gash in his scalp. His hand was bright red. He struggled to his feet at the edge of the vineyard, breathing heavily. His eyes stinging from sweat, his head on fire, he scanned the highway in front of the winery. A black-and-white cruiser, lights flashing, headed toward the vineyard.

  Ling heard footsteps behind him and twisted around, his leg wobbly, and fell to the ground. His vision blurred, he wiped his eyes with bloody fingers, and squinted up at Morrison, standing over him, pistol pointed at his chest. “Don’t!” Ling cried, staring at Morrison’s bloodshot blue eyes, arms reaching up in appeal.

  Morrison glanced to the winery entrance where the sheriff’s cruiser swerved into the graveled parking lot and slid to a stop.

  Ling saw two officers leap out and draw their weapons, crouching slightly. They shouted for Morrison to drop his gun.

  Breathing heavily, Morrison returned his eyes to Ling and gla
red.

  “No, no, don’t!” Ling yelled. Three muffled shots slammed into his chest like iron fists. He wheezed a breath as the air crackled with the deputies’ gunfire. Morrison’s body shuddered, bullets staggering him backward and to the ground. Ling’s world went dark.

  Chapter 1

  Dante Rath massaged the ache in his stomach. Heartburn flared from the black coffee he sipped, having devoured a foil-wrapped breakfast burrito at his desk. He leaned against the fraying pad of the low-backed office chair and re-read the memo from management. Consultants were reorganizing the newsroom. Early retirements and buyouts were coming, along with new beat assignments. He had been down this road before. He drew a deep breath and tossed the memo on one of the piles atop his desk. He yanked open a drawer, shook a couple of antacid tablets into his hand, and chewed them.

  Dante crossed the newsroom to the drinking fountain and emptied his coffee mug, refilling it with cold water. He drank it down, refilled it, and looked out at the newsroom, empty but for a clerk with his feet up, reading the morning edition, and couple of section editors. Most reporters were on their beats. Dante wondered if he could survive another downsizing, or if he wanted to. He took a breath and returned to his desk.

  At forty-four, he’d collected state and regional journalism awards. Three times his work had been submitted for the Pulitzer Prize as part of a team of investigative reporters at the San Francisco Chronicle. They won once for exposing a web of corruption around government contracts for private prisons. The stories had sparked a federal criminal investigation resulting in jail time for a state senator and the prisons’ director. He ached to return to investigative reporting, but after reading the memo he knew his odds of doing it for his current employer, the Santa Rosa Sun, were in the negative numbers.

  A call on a police scanner near the city desk caught his attention. A female voice called out a “ten-seventy-one” at the Morrison Creek Winery. Sirens wailed in the background. Then a “ten-forty-nine.” Dante hurried over to the bank of scanners next to TV screens tuned soundlessly to local channels and listened closely to the calls. A ten-seventy-one was shots fired. What the hell? A ten-forty-nine meant a unit was proceeding to the scene. He sipped more water, his heart pounding.