by Glenn Beck
ALSO BY GLENN BECK
FICTION
The Christmas Sweater
The Christmas Sweater: A Picture Book
NONFICTION
Arguing With Idiots: How to Stop Small Minds and Big Government
Glenn Beck’s Common Sense:
The Case Against an Out-of-Control Government, Inspired by Thomas Paine
An Inconvenient Book: Real Solutions to the World’s Biggest Problems
The Real America: Messages from the Heart and Heartland
THE
OVERTON
WINDOW
GLENN BECK
with contributions from
Kevin Balfe, Emily Bestler, and Jack Henderson
THRESHOLD EDITIONS-MERCURY RADIO ARTS
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
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First Threshold Editions/Mercury Radio Arts hardcover edition June 2010
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Designed by Joy O’Meara
Manufactured in the United States of America
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ISBN 978-1-4391-8430-1
ISBN 978-1-4391-9011-1 (ebook)
DEDICATION
Faith: To David Barton, a man who knows that the answers were left everywhere in plain sight by our Founders.
Hope: To Marcus Luttrell, a man who has shown us all what it really takes to never quit.
Charity: To Jon Huntsman, Sr., the man I hope to be someday. You are a giant in a world that seems increasingly small.
Never give up, never give in.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to …
All of the VIEWERS, LISTENERS, AND READERS, including the Glenn Beck INSIDERS. We’re not racist and we’re not violent … we’re just not silent anymore.
All my PARENTS; my wife, TANIA; and my wonderful CHILDREN for their continued love and support, even when I’m up at 3 a.m. working on projects like this one.
CHRIS BALFE, KEVIN BALFE, STU BURGUIERE, JOE KERRY, PAT GRAY, and all of the other remarkable people behind the scenes at MERCURY RADIO ARTS for never laughing at my ideas (at least not to my face).
JACK HENDERSON for pouring his heart and soul into this project. And to Jack’s wife, LORI, for letting him.
EMILY BESTLER, a world-class editor and, more important, a world-class person. Thanks for getting what this is really all about. And to LOUISE BURKE, MITCHELL IVERS, CAROLYN REIDY, LIZ PERL,
ANTHONY ZICCARDI, and everyone else at SIMON & SCHUSTER for continuing to help turn my dreams into reality.
PATRICIA BALFE, for sharing her love of thrillers and mysteries with all of us. I realize I’m no David Baldacci or Robert Parker, but I still hope this book costs you some precious sleep.
Everyone at PREMIERE and CLEAR CHANNEL, including MARK MAYS, JOHN HOGAN, CHARLIE RAHILLY, DAN YUKELSON, JULIE TALBOTT, and DAN METTER, who have helped bring the radio program to more listeners then we’ve ever had before.
All of my friends at FOX NEWS, including ROGER AILES, BILL SHINE, SUZANNE SCOTT, JOEL CHEATWOOD, TIFFANY SIEGEL, BILL O’REILLY, NEIL CAVUTO, along with my extraordinary STAFF that has helped me purchase almost every chalkboard in the greater New York City area.
My agent, GEORGE HILTZIK, who “doesn’t do content” yet still loves to give me his opinion on every piece of content we create.
All of my friends, partners and coworkers who support me both personally and professionally, including KRAIG KITCHIN, BRIAN GLICKLICH, MATTHEW HILTZIK, JOSH RAFFEL, JON HUNTSMAN SR., DUANE WARD, STEVE SCHEFFER, DOM THEODORE, SCOTT BAKER, RICHARD PAUL EVANS, GEORGE LANGE, RUSSELL M. BALLARD, along with ALLEN, CAM, AMY, MARY and the whole team at ISDANER.
EVERYONE ELSE who has fallen victim to my ADD—sorry, I focused on this page for as long as I could.
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
I’ve been a fan of thrillers for many years. While nonfiction books aim to enlighten, the goal of most thrillers is to entertain. But there is a category of novels that do both: “faction”—completely fictional books with plots rooted in fact, and that is the category I strived for with The Overton Window.
As you become immersed in the story, certain scenes and characters will likely feel familiar to you. That is intentional, as this story takes place during a time in American history very much like the one we find ourselves living in now. But while many of the facts embedded in the plot are true (see the afterword for details), the scenarios I create as a result of those facts, along with the way things are tied together and the conclusions that are drawn, are entirely fictional.
Let’s hope they stay that way.
I know this book will be controversial; anything that causes people to think usually is. In this case, I hope that you are forced not only to think, but also to research, read history, and ask questions outside of your comfort zone. It will ultimately be up to each of us to search out our own truths.
While this may go without saying even once, I feel the need to say it again: This is a work of fiction. As such some of the characters in this book express opinions that I not only disagree with, but vehemently oppose. I included them in the story because these views, like them or not, are part of the current American dialogue. Ignoring them, or pretending that radical ideas don’t exist in society, does all of us a great disservice. Silencing voices or opinions only pushes them to the shadows and darkness, where they can fester and grow even stronger.
You may also notice that the words Republican or Democrat rarely appear in this book, and when they do, it’s in an equally unflattering light. We also never meet the president of the United States or learn what party he or she is affiliated with. Those were conscious decisions, and it reflects the fact that what is happening to our country is not about a political party or a particular person, it is about a course of destruction that we have been pursuing at various speeds for the last century. Every day that we scream “Where were you four years ago?” or “It’s your party’s fault and not mine!” or “I didn’t vote for him!” is a day we move closer to the end of America—or at least the America our Founders envisioned.
As I write this introduction, weeks before this book will even go on sale, I already know that my critics will be fierce and unforgiving. They will accuse me of being every kind of conspiracy theorist they can invent—and they will base it all on the plot of a novel that they likely never even read.
Fortunately, none of this is about me. It never has been. I’ve been called every hateful thing there is to call someone and I can handle it. But when all is said and done and people look back at this time in the history of our great country, there’s only one thing I hope that everyone, critics and fans alike, call me …
Wrong.
Enjoy the book
; I hope that it costs you as much sleep reading it as it cost me creating it.
Freedom had been hunted round the globe;
reason was considered as rebellion;
and the slavery of fear had made men afraid to think.
But such is the irresistible nature of truth,
that all it asks, and all it wants,
is the liberty of appearing.
—THOMAS PAINE,
The Rights of Man, 1791
PROLOGUE
Eli Churchill was a talker. Once he got rolling it was unusual for him to stop and listen, but now a distant noise had him concerned.
“Hold on,” he whispered.
He cradled the pay-phone receiver against his shoulder, glanced down the narrow, rutted Mojave dirt road he’d traveled to get here, and then up the long, dark way in the other direction.
In this much quiet your ears could play tricks on you. He could have sworn that there’d been a sound out of place, like the snap of a stalk of dried grass underfoot, even though no other human being had any business being within twenty miles of where he stood, but he couldn’t be sure.
The moon was bright and his eyes were well adjusted to the darkness. He didn’t see anyone, but with the kind of guys Eli was worried about, you really never do.
When he put the phone back to his ear an automated message was playing; the phone company wanted another payment to allow the call to continue. He worked his last six quarters from their torn paper roll and dropped them one by one into the coin slot.
He had just three minutes left. In a way, it was ironic. After years of planning, he’d brought all the evidence he needed to back up his story, but not nearly enough change to buy the time to tell it.
“Are you still there, Beverly?”
“Yes.” The signal in the phone was weak and the woman on the other end sounded tired and impatient. “With all due respect, Mr. Churchill, I need for you to get to the point.”
“I will, I will. Now where was I …” As he riffled through his pile of photocopies a couple of the loose papers got caught up in a gust and went floating off into the night.
“You were talking about the money.”
“Yes, good, okay. Two-point-three trillion dollars is what we’re talking about. Do you know how much that is? From sea level that’s a stack of thousand-dollar bills that would reach to outer space and back with thirty miles to spare.
“That’s how much Don Rumsfeld told the nation was unaccounted for in late summer of 2001. Don’t you see? Two-point-three trillion dollars is three times the amount of all the U.S. hard currency in circulation. You can’t misplace that much money. That’s not an accounting error, that’s organized crime.”
“Mr. Churchill, you said in your message that you had something to tell me that I hadn’t heard before—”
“I know where they spent that money. Or at least some of it.”
A brief rush of static came and went on the line. “Go on.”
“I’ve seen the place, one of the places where they’re getting ready for something—something big—planning it out, you know? I got a job inside in maintenance, as a cleanup man. They thought I was just a janitor, but I had the run of the place overnights.
“I saw what they’re planning to do. They’re building a structure.” He checked his notes to make sure he was getting it right. “Not like a building, but like a political and economic and social structure. They’ve been working on it for a long, long time. Decades. When they collapse the current system, this new one they’ve put together will be all that’s left.”
“I’d like to meet with you, Mr. Churchill,” the woman said. “Where are you right now?”
“I can’t tell you on the phone …”
“Say that again. You’re fading in and out.”
The dry desert wind had been steady and cold since he’d arrived, but he noticed now that it had died down to almost nothing.
“They’re changing the books so that in a generation from now almost nobody will remember what this country used to be. They’ve got the economy set up to fall like a house of cards whenever they’re ready to tap the first one at the foundation. They’ve got the controlled media all lined up and ready to carry out their PR campaign. And they’ve got people so indebted and mind-controlled and unprepared, they’ll turn to anybody who says he’s got the answer.”
“Where can I meet with you, Mr. Churchill?”
“We don’t have the time; just listen now. They’re going to stage something soon to get it all started. Just like that two-point-three trillion dollars that’s missing, there are eleven nuclear weapons unaccounted for in the U.S. arsenal, and I’ve seen two of them—”
A glint of brilliant red light on the wall of the booth caught his attention. He turned, as the man behind him had known that he would, and let the phone drop from his hand.
Eli Churchill had enough time left to begin a quiet prayer but not enough to end it. His final appeal was interrupted by a silenced gunshot, and a .357 semi-jacketed hollow point was the last thing to go through his mind.
PART ONE
“It is the power which dictates, dominates; the materials yield. Men are clay in the hands of the consummate leader.”
—WOODROW WILSON IN Leaders of Men
CHAPTER 1
Most people think about age and experience in terms of years, but it’s really only moments that define us. We stay mostly the same and then grow up suddenly, at the turning points.
His life being pretty sweet just as it was, Noah Gardner had devoted a great deal of effort in his first twenty-something years to avoiding such defining moments at all costs.
Not that his time had gone entirely wasted. Far from it. For one thing, he’d spent a full decade building what most guys would call an outstanding record of success with the ladies. Good-looking, great job, fine education, puckishly amusing and even clever when he put his mind to it, reasonably fit and trim for an office jockey, Noah had all the bona fide credentials for a killer eHarmony profile. Since freshman year at NYU he’d rarely spent a weekend night alone; all he’d had to do was keep the bar for an evening’s companionship set at only medium-high.
As he’d rounded the corner of age twenty-seven and stared the dreaded number thirty right in the face, Noah had begun to realize something about that medium-high bar: it takes two to tango. While he’d been aiming low with his standards in the game of love, the women he’d been meeting might all have been doing exactly the same thing. Now, on his twenty-eighth birthday, he still wasn’t sure what he wanted in a woman but he knew what he didn’t want: arm candy. He was sick of it. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to consider thinking about getting serious.
It was in the midst of these deep ruminations on life and love that the woman of his dreams first caught his eye.
There was nothing remotely romantic about the surroundings or the situation. She was standing on tiptoe, reaching up high to pin a red, white, and blue flier onto a patch of open cork on the company bulletin board. And he was watching, frozen in time between the second and third digits of his afternoon selection at the snack machine.
Top psychologists tell us in Maxim magazine that the all-important first impression is set in stone within about ten seconds. That might not sound like much, but when you count it off it’s a long damn time for a guy to stare uninvited at a female coworker. By the four-second mark Noah had made three observations.
First, she was hot, but it was an aloof and effortless hotness that almost double-dared you to bring it up. Second, she wasn’t permanent staff, probably just working as a seasonal temp in the mailroom or another high-turnover department. And third, even in that lowly position, she wasn’t going to survive very long at Doyle & Merchant.
They say you should dress for the job you want, not the job you have. That’s especially true in the public relations business, considering that that’s where appearance is reality. Apparently the job this girl wanted was head greeter at the Grateful Dead Cultural
Preservation Society. But that wasn’t quite right; she didn’t strike him as a wannabe hipster or a retro-sixties flower child. It was more than the clothes, it was the whole picture, the way she carried herself, like a genuine free spirit. An appealing vibe, to be sure, but there was really no place for that sort of thing—neither the outfit nor the attitude—in the buttoned-up world of top-shelf New York City PR.
At about five seconds into his first impression, something else about her struck him, and he completely lost track of time.
What struck him was a word, or, more precisely, the meaning of a word: line. More powerful than any other element of design, a line is the living soul of a piece of art. It’s the reason a simple logo can be worth tens of millions of dollars to a corporation. It’s the thing that makes you believe that a certain car, or a pair of sunglasses, or the cut of a jacket can make you into the person you want to be.
The definition he’d received from an artist friend was rendered not in words but in a picture. Just seven light strokes of a felt-tip marker on a blank white page and before his eyes had appeared the purest essence of a woman. There was nothing lewd about it, but it was the sexiest drawing Noah had ever seen in his life.
And that is what struck him. There it was at the bulletin board, that same exquisite line, from the toes of her sandals all the long, lovely way up to her fingertips. Unlikely as it must seem, he knew right then that he was in love.
CHAPTER 2
Can I help you with that?”
Noah’s opener, not one of his smoothest, was punctuated by the thunk of his Tootsie Roll into the metal tray of the candy machine.
She paused and glanced across the otherwise deserted break room. It was a cool, dismissive gaze that took him in with a casual down-and-up. Without looking away she hooked a nearby footstool with her toe and dragged it close, stepped up onto it, and then went back to pinning her flier in place high up on the corkboard. The gesture made it clear that if all he could offer was a few extra inches off the floor, she would somehow find a way to live without him.
