The Brad West Files

by Fritz Galt

  “We don’t have time for other methods, nor can we accept ambiguous results.” Liang had a president to install. Two actually: one in China and the other in America.

  Which reminded him. He needed to call the next President of the United States.

  “I must reach President…I mean ‘Professor’ Richter at once.”

  Yu bowed his head obediently and began to concentrate.

  “I don’t need your help, old fool. I have a cell phone.” Liang pulled the gadget from his pocket and punched in a number.

  While he waited for the international call to filter through his company’s encryption system, Liang studied the old man. What a remarkable mind the scientist had. He could switch effortlessly between the major scientific debates of the day, first discovering the origin of the human species and now making tremendous strides in a different field: parapsychology. “What do you mean we don’t need my company’s brain implants?” He was slightly offended, but curious.

  “To make a subject respond to your commands, you must follow a set procedure.” Yu enumerated the steps. “First, you must place yourself within close proximity of the subject. Then you need a totem, or symbol, to commune with the subject. In this case, the bullets worked fine. Subjects then have to be made receptive through drugs or meditation. And lastly, you need to activate a psychological stimulus-response mechanism.”

  “We inflicted pain,” Liang said.

  The old man winced. “There are alternatives. The conditioning could be as simple as inducing pleasure or a knock on the head to associate the pleasure or discomfort with responding to my commands.”

  Liang was proud of the microchip his biotech firm had developed. He had implanted one near pain-communicating cells at the base of each soldier’s brain. If a soldier disobeyed an order that the scientist issued, there would be a painful electro-chemical reaction. What was wrong with that? But he did see the simplicity of what Yu was suggesting and filed it away for future consideration.

  The phone began to ring on the other end. “Make them hop.”

  Yu regarded the bullets, the totem he used to reach the soldiers. He bowed his head, and the troops began to hop about, each on his right foot.

  “Jump.”

  The men squatted and then sprang into the air like frogs.

  “Skip.”

  Within seconds, the building was filled with the sound of clunking boots. The men skipped around each other like schoolchildren. Yet the same blank look remained on their faces.

  The phone picked up.

  “Silence!” Liang said.

  Yu raised his head with a relieved look, and the men snapped to attention.

  “Don’t scream at me.” It was Professor Richter on the phone. His deep voice sounded muffled as if covered by gauze.

  “Sorry.” Liang drew in his breath. “But I have excellent news.”

  “The experiment worked?”

  Liang allowed a smile. “Better than I could have ever imagined.” If their plan succeeded, America would close her borders to trade and her economy would come to a screeching halt. “Your country needs your political leadership so that it can sink into oblivion.”

  “No, my country will need me after it sinks into oblivion,” Richter corrected. “And you must take some credit, my friend. I modeled my plan after yours.”

  Liang nodded. It would take more than economic ruin in China to elevate him to power. He observed Dr. Yu, who believed in his power over nature without contemplating how he could capitalize on it personally. He could create a tidal wave that would cripple China’s coastal cities, for example, and create the conditions for Liang to assume power. “We will both be like the phoenix,” Liang said. “Are you ready to drug your subjects?”

  “After tomorrow when this bandage comes off.”

  Liang paused to imagine Richter’s new incarnation. Could the former anthropology professor pull off the transformation? “I have a hard time imagining you as a religious zealot.”

  The voice rumbled with laughter. “Oh ye of little faith. Didn’t you know that the Reverend Terrence Smith is my very own twin, though we were separated at birth?”

  Liang had to give his partner credit. Liang had the inspiration for great things, but Richter had the ingenuity to pull it off.

  “There’s only one problem,” Richter said. “You have to get rid of my stepson, Brad West. He landed me in the hospital where I had to undergo all this plastic surgery. He’s more than an anthropologist. He’s an assassin trained by the CIA.”

  “No problem, I’ll have a soldier track Bradley down and dispose of him.” Liang had his own problems with Richter’s stepson. For one thing, Bradley West had stolen Liang’s girl, the petite and beautiful May Hua. “And you get rid of your twin.”

  “Once this surgery is over, nobody will see me knock him off and take his place.”

  “I’ll see you shortly, Mr. Future President,” Liang said.

  “And you, too, Mr. Future President.”

  Liang put the phone away.

  He turned to study the soldiers standing at attention. Soon, China’s entire army would be saluting him. And together they would lift their nation to great prominence on the world stage. With a military to match China’s economic clout, nobody would invade or bully her again. In fact, China would create a new world order.

  Only one thing stood between him and his ultimate happiness: Bradley West. Dr. Yu’s enchanting daughter had given her heart to the young American. But Richter was right. Bradley West was employed and trained by the CIA. That innocent-looking graduate student would have to go.

  “I want you to send one of these soldiers after Bradley West.” He stared at the old man with a commanding air.

  “Never. I will not use these powers to kill.”

  The old man would only cooperate within limits. “I’m only doing this for Bradley’s sake. You don’t have to kill him. Just ensure he stays off our trail. He has a nasty way of sniffing me out and finding me, and it would be dangerous for him, especially now.” He signaled Yu to go ahead and transmit the command to a soldier.

  Yu nodded, yet his eyes darted around for a means of escape.

  “Don’t try to bolt, old man, or I’ll hunt you down and kill you. Your precious global warming will turn these icy streets into a swamp, and your daughter will come crawling back to me on her knees.”

  Yu bowed and selected a particularly tall soldier with hunched shoulders like a bird of prey. He was grinning at the others with a set of broken teeth. That was the soldier he would send after his daughter’s deeply cherished boyfriend, Brad West, who was on an archeological dig in north central China.

  He opened his fist carefully as if the bullets might explode in his face. Then he proceeded to implant in the soldier’s mind the order to detain Brad West.

  Chapter 2

  Meanwhile half a world away, Barney Boone adjusted his titanium-frame spectacles and peeked through a curtain at a vast ballroom. Campaign banners were oversized and patriotic. Traditional American songs thundered over enormous speakers. The stage was a masterpiece of understated grandeur. The lectern resembled a pulpit, only this time graced by an official-looking presidential seal.

  Barney shielded his eyes from the glare of television lights. Beyond the brooding press, an army of devoted followers stood shoulder to shoulder. They had been prepared well by a church choir, an evangelist, a moving testimonial by a veteran in a wheelchair, and a Christian rock band whose lyrics were drowned out by the crashing riffs of their lead guitar.

  Clouds from a fog machine dissipated around the stage, and spotlights swiveled to center stage.

  Barney adjusted his tie. It had been hard work getting here, but it would pay off. He would have the audience eating out of the palm of his hand. He stepped solemnly from behind the curtain and into the pool of light.

  The crowd welcomed him with a roar. They had begun to pick up on the subtle shift from religion to the highly charged world of national politics. The event
had turned from a religious revival into a political pep rally. And their hero was about to be introduced.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” Barney said into the microphone. “I give you the Reverend Terrence Smith.”

  The band launched into a stirring gospel piece, and the faithful broke into a spontaneous chant. “Terr-ence, Terr-ence!”

  The familiar, dapper figure of the televangelist Terrence Smith stepped from the wings onto the stage. He was a tall, strongly built man with an ease of movement that projected power, poise and self-confidence. His twinkling blue eyes engaged his flock, and the sleek gleam of his silver hair commanded their respect. He walked assertively toward Barney and took the microphone.

  “That will be all.”

  Barney stepped back and stared out at Smith’s legions. For a brief moment as Terrence Smith’s campaign manager, they had all been his.

  It took the reverend several minutes to quell the boisterous crowd.

  At last, the noise abated to a point where he could be heard.

  “My fellow Americans!” he intoned with statesman-like gravitas.

  The crowd couldn’t contain themselves and roared back a cheer.

  “Bless you!” he cried with a pronounced Southern drawl.

  Several women fainted. And the roof nearly lifted off the rafters.

  “We’re gonna win!”

  Barney swallowed his pride and stepped off the stage. He had worked on many lower-tier candidates before. But this one was it. Not only did he bring an enormous following, but Terrence Smith knew how to stay on message. And the formula was simple: America = God = Football.

  The Reverend Terrence B. Smith was off to a wonderful start. But after that day, his name would not appear as such in the press. Barney watched his candidate remove his robe and clerical collar and roll up his shirtsleeves. The transformation was dramatic and would be rerun on television news programs for days to come. He was a man of the people now. He was Terry.

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” the large man said, his voice and physique strong. “I’m Terry Smith, and I’m going to be your next president!”

  The man’s timing was superb. People erupted with jubilation. Terry knew how to work a crowd. The declaration was simple and assertive and even sounded prophetic. Barney surveyed the eager faces. Older men embraced the pronouncement as if it came from above. Elderly women thought they were looking into the face of their savior. The younger generation, of whom Barney was a part, suddenly saw their businesses booming, their dreams within reach. Youngsters too little to comprehend the enormity of the moment simply soaked it all up.

  It was time for the clincher. Barney cued the soundman, who adroitly selected the correct track. A cascade of drums ended in the crash of cymbals, and the full blast of a pipe organ ushered in “God Bless America.”

  Terry Smith directed his followers to sing along.

  …land that I love.

  Stand beside her, and guide her,

  through the night with a light from above.

  From the mountains, to the prairies,

  to the oceans, white with foam,

  God bless America, my home sweet home.

  Barney Boone closed his eyes and offered a small prayer of thanks.

  The crowd was moved to tears. And Terry Smith had emerged the man to beat in the race for the presidency. In their hearts, the people knew that they were looking at the man who would save their way of life. He would lead them to a brighter future, touch each and every heart, and build a stronger nation.

  Twenty minutes later in the pressroom, the crowd’s elation had been eroded by the natural cynicism of the press. Barney still felt a palpable buzz in the air, but it was like that of bees zeroing in for the sting.

  Controlling the press would be the most difficult part of the campaign. A born orator, Terry Smith simply had no experience in fielding questions. And no matter how hard Barney had prepared the man, Terry could torpedo his candidacy with a single gaffe or slip of the tongue.

  Barney eavesdropped on a television reporter broadcasting live from the scene. “In the past few minutes, the Reverend Terrence Smith of the People First Party has announced his candidacy to be President of the United States.”

  Terry Smith was working the small reception area backstage with a stiff smile. Playing the part of a true politician, he waded through the crowd of reporters and took time to respond directly to their questions.

  “What’s your story, sir?” one reporter inquired, pencil poised over his notepad.

  It was a question they had anticipated and Terry recited his prepared response. “My story is this: I was raised by a single mama in Athens, Georgia, and learned to walk among the gods.”

  “So you consider the presidency to have god-like stature?”

  Okay, here things would get tricky. A pastor had never won the White House before. During mock press conferences, Terry had merged the roles of preacher and president, and Barney had coached him to draw a clear distinction. He held his breath and waited.

  “In today’s world, the president has enormous power,” Terry said. “But as all men, he is subject to the will of God.”

  Whew. Terry had phrased it nicely. He had a tendency to wing it and come across as preachy. But not tonight.

  Another reporter shouldered his way to the fore. “How do you respond to charges that you’re an adulterer?”

  Okay, Barney had demanded to know all the skeletons in his candidate’s closet. And that one hadn’t come up.

  “If you’re going to make such accusations, I say, show me the proof.”

  Ouch, Terry was falling into the Gary Hart trap.

  “Let’s start with how many illegitimate children you’ve fathered.”

  “Shame on you!” Terry said. “No child is illegitimate in the eyes of the Lord.”

  Okay, ease up on the religious talk.

  A shrill female voice pierced the air. “Speaking of the Lord, how will you maintain the separation of church and state?”

  Here was the big question they had both expected and gone over many times. Terry hesitated.

  Barney loosened his collar. How many future Q&As could he take with this candidate? But he had to fucus on the question at hand. How would Terry divorce himself from the church? “Pledge of Allegiance,” he whispered to Terry.

  Terry stiffened his spine and issued a curt declaration. “Just check your Pledge of Allegiance and the chief executive’s Oath of Office.”

  Barney let out his breath.

  Another torrent of questions followed, all unrelated and drowning each other out.

  “Did you ever smoke grass?”

  “Are you still calling for the CIA to assassinate the President of Venezuela?”

  “Will there be a First Lady in the White House?”

  “Have you ever denounced white supremacist organizations?”

  “Will you let the Federal Elections Commission scrutinize your church’s accounts?”

  The questions were turning overtly hostile, and that sent up a red flag in Barney’s mind. Time to draw things to a close. He caught Terry’s eye and motioned toward the door.

  Terry began to phase out the questions by smiling handsomely and waving at the crowd. Barney intervened and steered the press aside for his man to make a graceful exit.

  A final summation by the television reporter caught Barney’s attention as he left the room. “In the eyes of this commentator, if this candidate can avoid tripping over all his personal baggage, he has a good shot at becoming the next President of the United States.”

  Barney stood at the door for one last look around the press area. He wanted to savor the moment.

  The night had launched Terry’s candidacy with unstoppable momentum. Electricity still lingered in the air from the professionally orchestrated event. Reporters turned to their notepads eager to write up the story.

  Sure, there were the hard-nosed questions and Terry Smith's flimsy answers to report, but how could they ignore the overwh
elming enthusiasm of the audience? As such, two major stories had tumbled into their laps. There was the new three-way race for the White House and the irresistible story of a flawed candidate that everyone loved.

  A campaign manager had to work with what he had. Barney sighed, then turned to the door where Terry had passed. He twisted the knob and looked in. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw.

  It was almost as if Terry Smith were standing before a mirror.

  But the man who stood opposite Terry did not move with him. And the double, whose features were identical to Terry’s in every way, wore a business suit, whereas Terry had put on an argyle sweater and a pair of leisure slacks.

  It was as if Terry Smith were staring eye to eye with an even more impressive, handsome and imposing form of himself.

  “Ah, the Secret Service has sent you!” Terry said.

  Barney finally put all the pieces together. The Secret Service Presidential Protection Division must have sent the man to serve as a double. Barney wanted to enter the room, but the stranger’s arrogance gave him pause.

  “Welcome,” Terry said to his stand-in. “I’m Terry Smith. And you are?”

  The rigid lines on the ringer’s face were frozen with what almost seemed like contempt. “I am Terry Smith.” His voice was an exact match of the candidate’s, right down to the drawl.

  “That’s perfect!” Terry said. “Only…your expression isn’t quite right.”

  Instantly the broad face warmed up. An ingratiating smile broke over the mouth and a twinkle danced in the man’s blue eyes. The tremendous shoulders sagged good-naturedly and the guy stuck out his hand to Terry. “I’m so pleased that you could make it this evening,” the double said. His voice matched Terry’s perfectly. “How wonderful to meet you.”

  Barney felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Not only did the man have the appearance and voice down pat, but he had the ability to move people. He was larger than Terry. Larger than life. He would make an outstanding candidate in his own right.

  “I’m sure you’ll come in handy from time to time,” Terry said, and headed for the exit. “Time to take the limo home.”