STORM RISING
Gary Naiman
SPECIAL SMASHWORDS EBOOK EDITION
published by Fideli Publishing, Inc.
ALSO BY GARY NAIMAN
THE TENTH AVATAR
P.P.M. (PARTS-PER-MILLION)
OMEGA
THE RESPONSE
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
© Copyright 2010, GARY NAIMAN
All Rights Reserved.
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Cover Art by: Todd Aune
Spokane Valley, WA
The smallest insect can bring down the biggest tree . . .
Chapter 1
Freedom Square
Makely crawled against the cracked wall and glared at the sunlight beaming through the collapsed doorway. He clutched his M-16 and huddled against his four comrades. Nothing was said. Nothing had to be. The only sound was their strained breathing.
His nostrils stung from the acrid stench drifting into the gutted room, a toxic brew of cordite, charred wood, and roasted human flesh. He would never forget that stench. He would remember it to his dying day.
His fingers dug into the M-16. Dying day? Quit dreaming, soldier. The way things are, you’ll be dead before noon.
He dragged off his helmet and rested his head against the wall. Hard to believe everything was so quiet. Forty minutes ago, the ground shook from artillery blasts and rocket hits. Debris rained down from the night sky. Star shells ignited the darkness, accompanied by bursts of small arms fire.
And there was that other sound, barely audible through the explosions and sniper fire. A terrifying sound. A heart-wrenching sound. The muffled screams of men, women, and children.
He glanced at the four men crouched beside him. Forty minutes ago, there were seven. Yesterday, nine. A month ago, twenty-six. Now just Joey, Edgar, Rafael, and Terell. Four marines trying to survive another day.
He took a nervous breath and wiped the sweat off his face.
Twenty–two men snuffed out like candles, their surviving brothers cowering on the floor of a gutted house in the middle of hell.
For what, dammit? To shoot at ghosts darting between burned buildings? To hit the dirt with every burst of small arms fire, praying it wasn’t your last second on earth?
He buried his face in his hands. No more, goddammit! I’m not an animal! I’m a human being!
“On your feet!”
Makely’s head snapped up. Sergeant Hoffman had ducked through the blown out doorway, his black eyes glaring at them.
Hoffman slung his M-16 on his shoulder and shuffled into the gutted room. “You guys deaf? I said on your feet!”
No one moved. They stared at him from the debris-strewn floor, trying to regain their senses.
Hoffman lunged at them, his face seething with anger. “Move!”
For a moment, the only sound was the small arms fire echoing off the buildings. Then a grunt as Joey pushed off the floor on shaky legs.
It took a few seconds for the others to follow. They rose to their feet and leaned against each other, their eyes fixed on Hoffman.
It was a miracle they could stand. None of them had slept more than a few hours since their chopper landed on the city’s outskirts a month ago. Not easy to close your eyes in a fire zone. That’s when you relive the artillery concussions, tracers, and charred bodies. If you’re lucky enough to doze off, some ghost opens up from a rooftop and your eyes snap open to the bitter truth. The only way to sleep in Tehran is to die in Tehran.
Hoffman knelt down and yanked a map out of his shirt pocket. He spread it on the floor and waited until the five marines gathered around him before shining a penlight on the map. He aimed the beam of light at a red circle and stared at them with those shark eyes.
“This one’s gonna be rough. G-2 says we got eighty insurgents holed up in this mosque.” Hoffman tapped the red circle with his finger. “They got AK-47’s, RPG’s, and hell knows what. We got orders to take them out before they deploy their weapons to neighboring cells.” He paused and eyed the marines. “No prisoners. You see any wounded, smoke the bastard.”
Hoffman ignored their muffled curses. “We’re going in at 0700 with six squads from A Company. The strike signal will be . . . ”
What was wrong? Makely could see Hoffman’s gnarled finger jabbing at the map, but he couldn’t hear his voice. Everything was spinning. His gut churned. He gripped his forehead and took a deep breath, but the nausea kept coming. He couldn’t hold it any longer. He broke away from the circle and bolted for the doorway.
“Hey, where are you going?”
Makely gripped the splintered wood and dropped on his knees. Then came the puking and firm hand seizing his Kevlar vest.
“What the hell’s wrong with you!” Hoffman jerked Makely to his feet and spun him around, his black eyes aflame. He jabbed his gnarled finger into Makely’s chest and spit out the words. “Damn you, soldier! Don’t you ever walk away from me!”
“Sergeant, I—”
“Shut up!” He shook Makely’s vest. “You tryin’ to cause trouble? You tryin’ to shake the men? Damn you, Makely! You walk away like that again and I’ll blow your head off!”
Hoffman shoved Makely to the floor and glared at the trembling marines. “Now listen close. You grunts volunteered for this. Big heroes and all that. Bet you thought it would be like them recruitin’ ads. Well, it’s too late now. No turnin’ back. You’re in it up to your scrawny necks—and I’m gonna make sure you don’t disgrace me, your country, or the corps. Now get ready cause we’re movin’ out!”
Makely crawled off the floor and felt his finger slip over the M-16’s trigger, and something weird happened.
He wasn’t afraid. It was like a wave washing everything clear. If he was going to die, it wouldn’t be in a fire fight with a bunch of brainwashed beggars. Not after a year crawling around the Middle East with its suicide bombers and roadside mines.
He wiped the puke off his mouth. What a joke. We elect a president to change things and four years later I’m stuck in Iran because some fanatics blew up a skyscraper in Chicago. So much for the war on terror. A hundred thousand GI’s fighting a bunch of madmen in the most God awful place on earth. Don’t our leaders know what’s going on? Don’t they care?
His finger tightened on the trigger. That’s it, fool. They don’t care. They never cared. That’s why they sent us here. Forget the patriotic crap. It’s the fucking oil and those hefty reconstruction contracts for the fat cats. They’re the puppet masters and we’re the fucking puppets!
He stepped away from the others and raised his M-16. Well, this puppet’s had it. They’re gonna care from now on cause I’m gonna light a fire that’ll burn those fat cats out of their trees. It starts right here, dammit. The shot heard round the fucking world. Right here. Right now. Compliments of Corporal John Makely.
“What are you doing, Makely? You crazy or somethin’?”
Makely aimed the M-16 at Hoffman. “Go to hell, Sergeant.”
Hoffman stepped back and unslung his M-16, his eyes on fire. “You better lower that weapon or so help me God, I’ll blow you away.”
Makely’s face twisted in a sneer. Yeah, it’s real clear now. The enemy is standing in front of me with his weapon raised. Another pawn in the fat cat’s army, protecting their investment while they stuff their pig wallets with the spoils of our blood.
Our blood, dammit! Joey’s blood! Edgar’s blood! Rafael’s blood! Terell’s blood! My blood! Young men that will never see their families because a perverted scum named Hoffman carries out orders from his pig masters!
Hoffman stepped toward him. “You got three seconds, Makely. One! Two!”
Someone slammed into Makely, but he was already shooting. The last thing he saw was a shadow crouching in the doorway as the sergeant’s bullets ripped into him.
____________
First word of the incident reached GHQ in the Elburz Mountains at 0714 hours. Sergeant Waldo Hoffman had been assassinated by one of his own men while conducting a pre-strike briefing in Tehran’s Freedom Square.
General Malcolm Taylor put down the e-mail printout and stared at Lieutenant General Farley Morell who was standing across the desk. “You’re sure about the reporter?”
“Yes, sir.”
Taylor stroked his chin. “This is bad. We can’t let it leak out.”
Morell looked down at the printout. “Sir, maybe we should contact the Pentagon.”
Taylor’s head snapped up. “Are you nuts? That’s like putting a gun to your head. The top dogs don’t like bad news, and mutiny tops the list. They’ll fry us both.”
Morell nodded at the three red flags on the map behind his commander. “Sir, that’s the third incident in twenty-four hours. We have rumors of more trouble in Qom and Isfahan. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s spreading.”
Taylor snatched the printout and read it again. “What about the reporter?”
“He got the whole thing on a digital camera. Carnage shots of the two dead soldiers, their guns still smoking. Interviews with the four witnesses, the whole nine yards.”
Taylor glared at Morell. “For God’s sake, how?”
“He was embedded with a fire squad from A Company across the street. They were getting ready to hit a mosque when he heard the shooting and broke for shelter along with the others.” Morell shrugged. “Bad luck for us. The reporter crawled through the doorway in time to see Makely and Hoffman blasting away at each other. That’s when he started taking pictures.”
“Damn.”
Morell rested his hands on the desk. “There’s more, sir. The reporter was a real pro. Got damaging interviews from the four marines before our guys broke in and dragged him out.”
Taylor crushed the printout in his fist. “He broke the rules!”
“Yes, sir, but the media boys don’t care about that. In a court room, they always fall back on the first amendment. Besides, that recording is a dagger.”
Taylor slammed his fist on the desk. “Confiscate the damn thing!”
“We did, sir, but the reporter transmitted a copy through his palm top.”
Taylor’s face went blank. The only sound was the warbling coming from the communications equipment on the table beside him.
Morell looked at his commander. “Sir, we only have a few hours. By noon, this mess will be on every TV screen in the world.”
Taylor nodded and took a deep breath. “Thank you, Farley. You can go.” He stood up and returned Morell’s salute. When the door closed, he turned toward the red flags and listened to the message coming in from Isfahan—
“This is Lieutenant Manuel Bogart. We have an incident at intercept 0933-C114. At least seven dead from friendly fire. The shooter has been taken out. Situation tenuous but stable. Need medical assistance for nine wounded. All wounds inflicted by M-16 rounds from deceased marine. No explanation at this time. No warning. Consider situation volatile.”
Five minutes later, General Malcolm Taylor placed an urgent call to the Pentagon.
____________
Sid Rubin was in the midst of a typical twenty hour work day when his cell phone went off in WNN’s front lobby. He sank into a guest chair and yanked the phone out of his pocket. It was pushing midnight in Atlanta.
He frowned, his eyes squinting at the ID on the phone’s illuminated screen—
"Ambrose"
Rubin had learned phone calls from that name meant trouble. He pressed the talk button and held the plastic phone against his ear. “Go ahead.”
“That you, Sid?”
Rubin glanced at his watch. “Make it quick, Perry. I’m short on time. I have a midnight briefing with Carlton.”
“I was just thrown out of Tehran.”
Rubin stiffened. “You what?”
“I managed to transmit a video recording before they took away my palm top and camera. You can access the images from our data bank.”
Rubin’s frown became a scowl. “Dammit, Perry, quit talking in riddles. What happened out there?”
“I walked into the biggest story since we started this bloody war. The whole thing’s coming apart. A corporal assassinated his sergeant and died in the exchange. I have video of the bodies and interviews with the witnesses. It’s all in our data bank.”
Rubin lowered the cell phone and stared at the empty lobby. He’d fought the executive committee’s decision to assign Perry Ambrose to the Iran campaign, but was overridden by CEO Franklin Carlton’s fascination with Ambrose’s blind ambition. Just the guy we need for the sweeps, Carlton had told him. Now, Carlton and his committee would pay for their decision.
“You there, Sid?”
Rubin raised the cell phone. “Do you know how hard we worked to get you in there? You just cost us our eyes and ears in Iran.”
“Listen to me, Sid. It’s the beginning of the end over here and I’ve got it on video. No other network has what we have. We need to go live with it before they catch up.”
Rubin clenched the phone. “You done?”
“Yeah.”
“Then listen close. I want you to write a formal letter of apology to the military and fax it to me. I’ll see about erasing your video and submitting a written guarantee of nondisclosure to the joint chiefs.
”Rubin waited for a response. “Perry?”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. This thing’s huge, Sid. We can’t back down now.”
Rubin ignored him. “Where the hell are you?”
“Waiting for a chopper outside Tehran. They’ll probably drop me at the border.”
Rubin glanced at his watch. “Tell them you talked to WNN and we’ve arranged your transfer out of there. Tell them we’re contacting the Pentagon to resolve the misunderstanding.
“Misunderstanding? Sid, do you know what you’re saying?”
Rubin pressed the phone against his mouth. “Listen, dammit. You just cost us embedded news coverage of the fight for Tehran. Do you know what that means? We have the sweeps coming. We need those fire fights on the evening news. I have a meeting with Carlton in twenty minutes. What am I supposed to tell him?”
“The bloody truth, dammit! We’ve got footage of the first break in our ranks. It’s mutiny, Sid. Biggest mutiny of all time. People will be glued to their TV’s when that footage hits the screen. Our share points will go through the roof.”
Rubin fought his anger. He knew a blockbuster story would quickly fade without follow-up. A few days after it broke, the government’s public relations apparatus would squelch the damn thing. Without embedded reporters, viewer attention would quickly shift to other networks covering the latest firefight or suicide attack while WNN sat on the sidelines. All because an overzealous reporter tried to make a name for himself by creating a story that was over the top.
“Sid?”
Rubin stared at the WNN logo above the lobby. “I have an idea. We’ll edit your story to take out the mutiny. I’ll work out the details with the Pentagon. Just get me that letter of apology and throw in an admission you stretched the truth.”
“What?”
“Do it!”
Ambrose hesitated. “Sorry, Sid. I can’t do that.”
Rubin pushed out of the chair, his face hot with anger. “Mark my words, Perry. This assignment is your last chance. If I don’t have that letter in twenty minutes, you’re finished at WNN, and every other news organization.
”The phone clicked.
“Perry!”
No response.
Rubin jammed the cell phone in his pocket and headed for the elevators. It would take three minutes to reach Franklin Carlton’s office. It would be the longest three minutes of Sid Rubin’s life.
____________
“Mr. President, may I speak with you?”
The President nodded at his chief of staff and pushed up from the most powerful desk on earth. He raised his forefinger and smiled at his secretary of commerce who was seated across from him. “Hold that thought, Peter. I’ll be back in a minute.”
But the President didn’t come back. He was too shaken by the news from the Middle East. Fire fights were raging in Tehran, Qom, and Isfahan, but not with the insurgents. Shooting had broken out between American soldiers. Over a dozen incidents of outright mutiny had been recorded in the past thirty hours, and the number was increasing.
The President stared at the top secret communiqué in his hands, unable to accept what he was reading. He looked at the television monitor on the conference table and lifted the paper toward the military officer on the screen. “What is this, General?”
General Augustus Cook took a deep breath and forced out the words. “At 0655 this morning, one of our men went berserk after a fire fight in Tehran’s Freedom Square. Before we could intervene, he killed his sergeant and was himself killed in the exchange of fire.”
The President leaned forward. “But why? It says here Corporal Makely was a good marine. He’d fought in the Afghan campaign for nearly a year before we transferred him to Operation Scorpion.”
Cook shook his head. “I don’t know, Mr. President. Makely crossed a line that’s different for each soldier. No warning. No symptoms. The killing and carnage suddenly become too great to cope with, like a pot of overheated stew boiling over.”
The President dropped back in his chair. “Stew?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the others?”
“Same thing, sir. With our moves into Iran and Syria, we’ve been forced to extend duty tours by several months.” Cook hesitated. “We must be hitting some kind of threshold.”
The President looked down at the paper. “Do you know what you’re saying? If you’re right, the whole Middle East campaign could collapse.”
Cook folded his hands and glared at the President. “I’m sorry, sir. We asked for additional funding to beef up recruiting and psychological counseling, but we were shoved behind the education stimulus program. We’ll just have to clamp down until this mess blows over.”
The President crumpled the paper in his fist. “Are you telling me there’s no solution?”
Edwin Hammel cut off Cook before he could respond. “We’ll manage, sir. The city is almost ours. In thirty days we’ll occupy the country from Tabriz to Bandar Abbas. We just wanted to let you know before this mess hits the news.”
The President felt an icy chill while staring at his secretary of defense. “News?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What news, Edwin?”
Chief-of-Staff, Jack Wiley leaned toward the President. “One of their reporters smuggled out a video of the incident. It should hit WNN’s global network within the hour.”
The President stood up and flung the crumpled paper on the table. “What’s the bastard’s name?”
Wiley looked down at his notes. “Perry Ambrose, sir.”
“I want their CEO on the line!”
Wiley raised his hand in a calming gesture. “We’re already in contact with Franklin Carlton, sir. It sounds like he wants to cut a deal.”
“Deal?” The President eased down in his chair after hearing the magic word that soothes the savage political breast. He watched Wiley dismiss Hammel and Cook while shutting off the video screen.
The President leaned toward his chief of staff. “Jack?”
Wiley sighed. “Good thing we caught them before the sweeps. Gives us a large bargaining chip.”
“Go on.”
Wiley held up a piece of paper. “This is an apology from WNN. They’re prepared to work with us to edit the recording so it doesn’t impact national security, if you get my drift.”
The President breathed a sigh of relief. “What about the reporter?”
“He’s a loser, sir. An egomaniac searching for a Pulitzer Prize.” Wiley put down the paper and looked at the President. “They’ll cut him a deal and cut him loose. All they’re asking is reinstatement over there in time for our big push.”
“And their sweeps?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who replaces Ambrose?”
“Josh Barden, sir. A real patriot. He’ll rally round the flag and do us proud.”
The President nodded and pushed up from the table. “Well done, Jack.”
“Yes, sir.” Wiley stood up and shuffled his papers into a folder.
The President was almost out the door when he turned around. “One thing, Jack.”
“Sir?”
“That jerk, Ambrose. I never want to hear his name again.”
“Yes, sir.” Wiley watched his boss leave the room.
Chapter 2
Perry Ambrose
“What the bloody hell!” Perry clutched his throbbing head while listening to the high-pitched beeps. He groped for the alarm clock on the nightstand and slammed his fist on the snooze button.
He leaned toward the clock and squinted at its blurred digits. Seven twenty. The alarm had been beeping for twenty minutes.
“Blast!” He crawled off the bed and hesitated when his hand struck something. He looked down at the empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s lying on the blanket. “Great—just bloody great.” He sat on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands.
This had been the worst nightmare yet, a suitcase nuke vaporizing the nation’s capital while he stared helplessly at the timer’s final countdown.
Two nights ago, he was having a drink in the John Hancock Building’s ninety-sixth floor Signature Lounge when a hijacked 767 slammed into the famed Chicago skyscraper. Just enough time to guzzle his martini and activate his camera while the building shuddered under him. Pulitzer all the way, a breathtaking video of the restaurant’s eleven hundred foot plunge to hell.
Three nights ago, he was covering a Mideast peace conference in the United Nations Building when terrorists broke into the general assembly hall and began assassinating the attending world leaders. He was almost to the exit when one of the terrorists opened fire on him with his AK-47, and he woke up in a cold sweat.
He stood up on shaky legs and stumbled to the dresser. The unshaven face in the mirror wasn’t pretty. He stared at the face and stroked his tangled black hair. Blast, it’s getting worse. Used to be a nightmare a week. Now it’s every bloody night. You need help, man. You’re at the end of your rope. He tore off his briefs and headed for the bathroom.
He was stepping out of the shower when his cell phone went off. He wrapped the towel around his waist and snatched the buzzing phone off the dresser. “Yeah?”
“That you, Ambrose?”
He winced. “Mr. Caliento?”
“Where are you?”
He hesitated. “Just pulled up to the Mount Oread campus. The place is packed.”
“Bull! You’re still at the motel.”
“Motel?“
“I called the motel to see if you checked out. The manager said your car is outside the door, along with a do not disturb sign.”
“I can explain, Mr.—”
“Damn you, Ambrose! You get to the university and catch her when she steps out of that limo or our deal is off!”
“Mr. Caliento, I—” He grimaced from the loud click.
The next twenty minutes were a blur. He remembered slipping on some deodorant and clothes. No time to shave or brush his teeth.
His rented Toyota skidded out of the motel parking lot and sped toward downtown Lawrence and its tree-covered hill known as Mount Oread, home of the University of Kansas.
The media was there in force when he pulled up to the security blockade on Massachusetts Street. He was about to drive around the blockade when a scowling state trooper stepped in front of the Toyota and pointed a hard finger at the windshield.
He fumbled through his frayed sport jacket, praying he hadn’t left his press badge at the motel. Thank God, it was nestled in his pocket. He let out a sigh of relief and extended the plastic badge to the trooper.
With no parking left, he had to abandon the car and make a dash for the approaching caravan. His ears filled with sirens as Minton’s black stretch limo pulled up to the sea of reporters, accompanied by a phalanx of motorcycle cops.
He caught a glimpse of her exiting the limo and made a futile rush toward her, but was pushed back by the secret service agents. She waded into the crowd behind her wedge of state police, en route to the university’s auditorium atop the hill.
In that brief moment, Perry Ambrose realized Claire Minton was no longer a political curiosity. Her unexpected performance in the primaries had triggered mandatory secret service protection. At eleven percent, she could no longer be taken lightly.
She was clear of the reporters now, standing at the auditorium’s glass doors behind her protective screen of state police. She waved to the cheering crowd at the base of the hill while Perry adjusted his zoom lens and snapped away.
Her photos didn’t do her justice. At a slender five foot nine, Claire Minton conveyed the stature of a leader. Her short black hair was cropped neatly above her ears. She wore little makeup and her deep-set blue eyes burned right through you. Add the taut lips and military countenance, and Claire Minton was the perfect warrior.
Senator Adam Clayborn had learned that painful lesson on national television last year. Claire Minton was wearing a uniform then, its army green plastered with medals from her heroics in both Gulf Wars. Clayborn was hammering her with innuendos about her lack of patriotism in light of her recent attack on the President’s bungling of the Iran campaign.
When Minton dodged a loaded question, Clayborn rose to his feet and pointed a trembling finger at her, accusing her of selling out to the anti-war movement. She gave him a minute to vent his wrath before spotting an opening and firing back.
“You look like a puppet standing there, Senator. Who’s pulling the strings?”
“What did you say?”
“You heard me. Please zip up your fly and act like the man your constituents voted for.”
Clayborn was caught off guard by Minton’s bold retort. As it turned out, his fly was quite zipped, but his downward glance was enough to turn him into a buffoon on national TV. He collapsed in his chair amidst a rush of laughter, and all the while she glared at him with those penetrating blue eyes, the perfect sound bite to launch her campaign for the presidency.
Perry watched her disappear through the auditorium’s opened doors followed by a select band of reporters, each flashing their VIP badge at the security guards. He looked down at his restricted press badge and frowned. Six months ago, that badge would have been stamped with the same “VIP” initials, but times had changed. He sighed and snatched the buzzing cell phone out of his jacket pocket.
Caliento’s voice crackled in his ear. “Well?”
Perry watched the auditorium’s doors close.
“Ambrose?”
“I’m on it. I’ll get her when she comes out.”
“You didn’t get her going in?”
Perry hesitated. “Better to wait until she comes out. I can intercept her at the limo.”
Caliento’s voice sharpened. “You didn’t get there in time?”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered.”
“Damn you!”
The phone clicked. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know the Caliento deal was off.
Perry collapsed against a tree and stared at the reporters scrambling down the hill with their video cameras and cell phones. By the time Minton exited the hall, the world’s television networks would have ample video footage to broadcast the event on their 24/7 news.
He heard cheers and looked up at the loudspeakers on the auditorium’s roof. A retired general named Harland was introducing her to the auditorium’s eight thousand roaring supporters.
Perry spent the next five minutes listening to her speech on the loudspeakers. Clouds had moved in and a light rain was falling.
He was about to call it quits when Minton’s voice rose in a fiery condemnation of the President, both political parties, and the apathetic American public.
“It’s more than an unjust war. We’re at the most important crossroads in our nation’s history. The planet’s last great hope for democracy is about to fade into oblivion because YOU DON’T CARE! My fellow Americans, you have given up! They’re taking away everything you have, AND you don’t care!”
Perry stared at the loudspeakers in disbelief. Was she daft? She had just condemned the voting public for their apathy. Claire Minton had just committed political suicide.
He pushed away from the tree and heard the roar. They were cheering, dammit—cheering.
Her voice rose above the cheers. “Listen to me, all of you! I didn’t enter this race to win a hollow victory. I entered it to get the message through, And here it is! Our nation has been sold out to global corporations. They control the media, the government, and the courts. They will do anything to advance their quest for power—ANYTHING!”
Perry listened to the cheers. The sky flashed with lightning. His ears rang from a deafening thunderclap, and the cheering went on.
“We spend more on cosmetics than education for our children. We spend more on perfumes than clean water. Our richest billionaire has more money in his pocket than the poorest twenty million Americans. Both spouses work, but we’re falling deeper into debt. Our health insurance is almost gone. They’re replacing us with machines. We can’t even afford a decent burial. And you still don’t care!”
She waited for the cheers to subside. “Well, I care! We can stop this mess before it’s too late, but I need your help. There are still good people in government who will rally with me to confront the President, the Congress, and their fat-cat puppeteers. But we can’t do it without YOU!”
She hesitated, her voice drowned out by the cheers. Then came the chant.
“Minton! Minton!”
She milked it before throwing in the clincher. “They call me an imposter, an egomaniac who’s only in it for the short haul. Well, my friends, the March primaries are over and we took eleven percent. So much for the short haul!”
The auditorium exploded with cheers.
“I’ve come home to my native Kansas and my beautiful Lawrence to ask your help in the days ahead—and to make you a promise. I’m going to stay in this fight right up to the November election.” She raised her voice above the screaming crowd. “Yes, my friends, I’m in it for the long haul! With your help, we’ll take our country back and set a new course for a better world. May God give us the strength and wisdom to pick up the torch and carry it to the White House!”
“I’ll be damned.” Perry collapsed against the tree and stared at the booming loudspeakers.
Minton was nearly to her stretch limo when she noticed a man waving a small placard. Not very creative from the scribbling. She was about to duck into the limo when the words caught her eye—
I have something you need.
“Please, Ms. Minton. It’s getting hard to keep them back.”
She ignored her security agent’s plea and stepped toward the man holding the sign. He extended it toward her and nodded at the small envelope clipped to the placard’s lower corner.
She snatched the envelope just in time. The man was shoved backward and bullied away by two secret service agents.
Minton’s limo was almost to the Eldridge Hotel when Jess Wilkin leaned toward her. “What was that about?”
Minton smiled at her campaign manager and glanced at the small envelope in her hand.
Wilkin looked down at the envelope. “We should check that.”
Her smile became a grin. “Why—anthrax?”
Wilkin frowned. “You’ve entered dangerous ground, Claire. You’re a celebrity now. Never know who’s out there trying to strike you down.”
She slipped the envelope into her jacket pocket. “I’ll be careful.”
Claire Minton didn’t open the envelope until later that night. She’d retired to her penthouse suite at the Eldridge Hotel and was about to crawl into bed when she recalled the folded envelope in her suit pocket. A quick trip to the closet and she was carrying the innocent looking white envelope to the bathroom sink.
She slipped on the mask and gloves provided by one of the secret service agents while recalling the agent’s warning when she refused to hand over the envelope.
Open it under a faucet, Ms. Minton. Use this mask and gloves. Douse the envelope with cold water. Same for the contents. Then close the bathroom door and call us.
How can I read it?
Please understand, Ms. Minton. We prefer you let us handle it. This sort of thing is routine for us. We just want to screen it for germs. We won’t read the contents. We’re holding the man who gave it to you. He seems okay, but these people are well-trained in terror tactics. Please, Ms. Minton. Let us handle it—
She took a deep breath and ripped open the envelope, exposing a small business card, which dropped into the washbasin. A quick check of the torn envelope revealed nothing else. She stared at the name—
Perry Ambrose
Journalist
She reached down and picked up the white card, and read the scribbled writing on the other side—
Are you for real? If you are, I can give you the presidency. I have a video of the Tehran mutiny.
Perry Ambrose (999-313-9499)
She read the card several times before yanking off the mask and gloves. Claire Minton would not sleep tonight.
Chapter 3
Panic
It was a beautiful spring day in the nation’s capital. The cherry trees were in full bloom, their brilliant reds and pinks luring the city’s bureaucrats from their stuffy offices to a pleasant lunch in the warm sun. Plenty of grass and park benches to relax with friends while wolfing down a sandwich and beverage before marching back to the grind.
For the power brokers, it was more exotic with lunch at one of the swank restaurants lining Embassy Row, or perhaps a raw steak at the Capital Grille, or something more intoxicating at the Monocle.
For the nation’s elected officials, a light workout and massage were in order at the Capitol’s gym, followed by lunch in the congressional dining room, or maybe a touch of intrigue over martinis at The Watergate with its sweeping view of the Potomac.
Unfortunately, the President wasn’t enjoying the sun today. He sat at his desk in the oval office, his brown eyes glaring at the television screen beside Lincoln’s portrait.
“Don’t break it, sir. Our furniture budget’s exhausted.”
Jack Wiley waited for a response, but the President ignored him. “Mr. President?”
No response.
Wiley snatched the remote off the desk and pressed the “off” button.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“It’s over, sir. That’s a commercial you’re watching.”
The President frowned and sank in his chair. He had spent the past hour watching a rerun of Claire Minton’s impassioned speech at the University of Kansas. At one point, he turned off the volume to silence the cheers and applause while calling her every name in the book. Not very presidential for the nation’s leader.
Wiley watched Lincoln’s portrait slide over the darkened screen. He looked across the desk at his friend of thirty years while forcing a smile. “Well, at least she’s declared herself. Now we have something to work with.”
The President shook his head. “Damn her to hell.”
“Yes, sir.”
The President eyed his chief of staff. “What should we do?”
Wiley leaned back in his chair. “Face facts. At the rate she’s going, she’ll take sixteen percent.”
The President glared at him. “And I’ll be history.”
“Not necessarily.”
The President’s glare softened. “Come on, Jack. If she gets sixteen percent, three fourths of it comes from me. I’m only ahead of Hawley by four percent.”
Wiley shrugged. “It’s only April. She still has to get on the ballot in twenty states. That’s not going to be easy. Lots of things can happen between now and November.”
The President pushed out of his chair and turned toward the window. The only sound was the clock ticking on the mantle. He folded his arms and looked down.
“Nice picture.”
“What?”
“You look like Kennedy in the missile crisis.”
The President shook his head. “Not funny, Jack. If that bitch gives Hawley the election, everything we’ve built goes down the drain. She’ll set the clock back fifty years.”
The next five minutes were dead silent except for the ticking clock. The two men seemed frozen, the President standing at the window, his chief of staff gazing at him.
The President sighed and turned toward his friend. “What about the debates?”
Wiley shrugged. “From the look of things, there’ll only be one and she’ll be in it.”
“There’s no way to stop her?”
Wiley patted the desk. “Maybe we shouldn’t try.”
“Are you nuts? She’ll eat me for lunch. You saw what she did to Clayborn.”
Wiley shook his head. “This is different. She’s in the big leagues now. The gloves are off.”
The President waved his hand impatiently. “Cut the hyperbole. Do we have anything?”
Wiley smiled. “Remember Nixon?”
“What?”
“There are no recorders running, right?”
The President gave him a puzzled look. “Of course not.”
Wiley leaned toward his boss. “I always figured Hawley would give us a good fight. Probably beat him fifty-two to forty-eight.” He paused. “Minton changed that.”
The President frowned. “That’s it?”
“Not quite.” Wiley looked his boss in the eye. “She might have an Achilles Heel.”
The President’s face brightened. “Yes?”
Wiley shook his head. “I’m still unclear, but if my sources come through, it could cost us some money.”
“How much?”
“Three million.”
The President dropped back in his chair. “For what?”
Wiley glanced at his watch. “We’d best not discuss it further.”
The President glared at him. “What the hell do you mean? You’re not going to leave me hanging?”
Wiley raised his hand in a reassuring gesture. “I’d better get going. Damn League of Women Voters is trying to push their way back into the debates. I have a meeting with their reps in five minutes. No sense ruffling any feathers.” Wiley turned for the door.
“Jack?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Give me something for God’s sake.”
Wiley smiled. “We want her in the debate, forked tongue and all. When the time is right, you’ll crush her in front of the nation while Hawley looks on like a bump on a log, and we’ll spend the next four years in this really nice room.”
The President watched his chief of staff disappear through the oval office’s double doors. He turned toward the window and stared at the south lawn.
___________
“You’re free to go.”
Perry squinted at the blue-suited man standing at the cell door. He recognized the man’s gaunt face from last night’s interrogation.
The man pulled the door open and waved his hand impatiently. “Let’s go.”
Perry crawled off the cot and stretched his aching back. He slipped on his shoes, tucked in his shirt, and shuffled out of the cell into the shadowed corridor.
The man handed Perry a small plastic bag. He watched Perry pull out his cell phone and wallet before shaking the empty bag.
Perry held up the empty bag. “Where are my car keys?”
The man frowned. “You won’t need them. We paid for your car rental and motel room.”
“Paid?”
The man glared at him. “You only had twenty dollars in your wallet and your credit card was spent. Now let’s go.” He gripped Perry’s arm and led him toward a metal door at the rear of the corridor.
Perry felt a chill. “You’re secret service?”
“Not important.”
“Show me your ID. I have a right.”
“Shut up.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“The bus station.”
“Bus?”
The man reached into his pocket and handed Perry a white ticket. “One way to St. Louis.”
Perry gawked at the ticket.
“Good place to consider your future. There’s three hundred bucks in your wallet to cover your expenses while you figure things out.” He jerked Perry’s arm. “I suggest a new career.”
The man led Perry through the jail’s rear security door to a waiting black sedan. A light rain was falling and the morning sky was blanketed with gray clouds. The rain felt good on Perry’s face.
A second man stepped out of the sedan and opened the rear passenger door.
Perry froze. “Where’s my camera?”
The blue-suited man nodded at the car. “Lying on the back seat with a nice clean memory.”
Perry glared at him. “You scrubbed my pictures?”
The man shrugged. “What pictures?”
“Damn you!”
The man seized Perry’s collar and yanked him close until they were nose to nose. “I don’t think you get it, Mr. Ambrose. Now listen good cause I’m not gonna repeat myself. If you try to contact Claire Minton, you’ll spend ten years in a maximum security prison.” He gave Perry’s collar a hard twist. “Clear?”
“Quite.”
“Good, we have an understanding.” The man released his death grip and retreated into the jail.
Perry felt a firm hand on his shoulder as the second man pressed him into the car. He slid across the rear seat beside his camera. It was eight a.m. in Lawrence, Kansas on Friday, April 15th, 2016.
____________
Perry’s bus pulled into St. Louis’ 13th Street terminal at four p.m. It was raining hard and there was talk of severe weather.
He grabbed a map at the terminal and checked out the nearest cheap motel. With three hundred bucks to his name, it was time to tighten the old belt.
Not the greatest location, but the Hi-Huckleberry Hostel had warm water and a bed. He grabbed a sandwich down the street and headed back to room “111” with a pint of Jack Daniel’s.
Six months had passed since the incident in Tehran. In that time, Perry Ambrose had been blacklisted by every major news organization in the country. Of course, it was done with the utmost subtlety to avoid legal reprisal, but the results were devastating. The best Perry could do was a series of contracted assignments with four paparazzi sleaze rags, with no money given until the required photographs and interviews were delivered to the editors.
Bad choice. In his four assignments, Perry had been paid once, and that was half the amount promised. The other three rags were still “reviewing” his submissions.
The deal with Caliento was Perry’s first venture into the world of political action groups. Whoever Caliento represented, one thing was clear. Caliento’s backers were out to nail Claire Minton. Had Perry succeeded in getting that interview with her, Caliento’s technicians would have distorted her words and image into a hate commercial for release to prime time television. So much for 21st century journalism.
Perry went easy on the booze while watching the news on his favorite network. Josh Barden had become WNN’s top news anchor after his stellar performance at the Iranian front. With the face and frame of a movie star, Barden had just published his best selling book, Memoirs from Hell, a stirring account of the battle for Iran and Barden’s front line heroics with our gallant troops.
Perry had purchased Barden’s five hundred page masterpiece at an Indiana book store en route to Lawrence. He almost got a chance to confront Barden who was doing a signing at the store, but the famed reporter fled the store in a huff when he spotted his old friend glaring at him from the purchase line.
Perry took a swig of Daniel’s while recalling the scene at Higgin’s Bookstore when Barden ducked out the side door with his agent. Barden must have left fifty unsigned books on the signing table, with at least that many people standing in the purchase line. Perry could still see their stunned faces when Barden rushed out the door.
Perry took another swig, his eyes trained on the TV. Blast, all he needed was another five minutes. Just five more minutes and he would have been in Barden’s face. Oh, what a story that would have been. Imagine the crowd’s reaction when a stranger assailed Barden with battlefront questions the famed war correspondent couldn’t answer, and for good reason.
Josh Barden was an imposter, a sycophant who replaced Perry when the military ran him out of Tehran six months ago.
Barden was in Iran only one month when WNN pulled him out after their successful performance in the sweeps. In his brief stay, Barden was sheltered in protected areas except when flown to battle locations for contrived interviews with the weary troops. There were even rumors of make up artists smearing Barden’s face with dirt and grease before the interviews were recorded. Gotta look like you just crawled out of a bloody fire fight, right?
It worked like a charm. WNN cleaned up in the sweeps and Josh Barden rocketed up the promotional ladder until he was named WNN’s top news anchor only two weeks ago. Hell of a ride for the ambitious dirt bag.
Perry took a swig of Daniel’s and pressed the remote’s off button. The only sound was the rain spattering against the hotel room window. He put the bottle on the nightstand and stared at the ceiling.
You really messed up, chum. You’re lying in a bloody flop house with two hundred sixty-four bucks, an exhausted credit card, a used bus ticket, and an empty camera. Twenty years of hard work for nothing. So much for the great American dream.
He took a deep breath while recalling his dad’s pub in Whitechapel. Not the best locale, but it was honest work and a father’s legacy to his son. He could still see the Welshman’s scowl when he told his dad he was off to the states to seek fame and fortune.
His old man socked him good when he pulled out the offer letter from the Hartford Courant. Bloody near took out the whole line of bar stools when he slammed into the counter.
Can’t blame the old guy. Perry’s dad was dead set on passing the pub to his son. Instead, his namesake was headed for America with stars in his eyes and no money in his pocket, and of all things to become a parasite reporter who would make his money off the pain of others.
His dad cursed him plenty on that Sunday in Whitechapel. Perry’s ears still rang from the old man’s tirade that America was a deteriorating nation that had seen its best days. That he was about to give up everything his father worked for to become a slander merchant.
And that final warning when his dad chugged down his glass of bitters and shattered the empty glass on the counter.
You’ll be back, Perry, but it’ll be too late. Mark my words boy, you’ll be back with your bloody tail between your legs, but it will be too bloody late!
He was nearly asleep when his cell phone went off. He fumbled with the ringing phone and felt it drop on the floor. Hell with it, probably some bloke trying to collect a bill.
He tried to close his eyes but the bloody thing kept ringing. “Blast.” He rolled on his side and groped for the annoying phone. When he finally snatched it off the floor, the ringing had stopped.
He rolled on his back and placed the phone beside him. If the cursed thing went off again, he’d throw it at the wall. Nothing but bad luck anyhow. Like when Sid gave him the axe at WNN. Or when those sleaze bag editors told him they were still reviewing his work. Or when Caliento chewed him out. Bastards! Scumbags!
He felt his eyes closing. Get some sleep, man. Tomorrow’s another day. You’ll figure something out. Just go to sleep. Nothing like beautiful...numbing...sleep........
His eyes snapped open. The phone’s message alert was chiming. He sat up and snatched the phone off the bed. “That’s it, phone! Go to bloody hell!”
He was winding up to throw the phone at the wall when the speaker went off. He listened to the garbled message and slowly lowered his hand.
“If you’re interested in picking up where you left off yesterday, I’ll call back in five minutes.”
Perry looked down at the phone. He didn’t recognize the man’s voice, but it might be one of Caliento’s stooges trying to make amends.
Blast, no surprise there. Hard to find a washed-up reporter at the end of his rope. Maybe Caliento had reconsidered his ultimatum. After all, Minton would be in Denver next week. With a little luck, he could still get that interview.
He stared at the phone. Blast, that’s it. The bloke’s reconsidered. Well, this time it’ll cost him. No more promises, Mr. Caliento. This time we play it my way.
The phone rang five minutes later and Perry Ambrose stepped into hell.
“Yeah?”
“Hello, Mr. Ambrose. Were you serious in that card?”
Perry looked down at the phone in shock.
“Mr. Ambrose?”
“I’m here.”
“Were you serious about the video?”
Perry gripped the phone. “I have some questions.”
“So do we. Where can we meet?”
Perry froze while recalling the agent’s threat at the jail.
“Mr. Ambrose?”
“Who is this?”
“An interested party. Where are you?”
“St. Louis.”
The caller hesitated. Perry could hear him mumbling to someone in the background.
“Didn’t expect that, Mr. Ambrose. It will take us a couple of hours to get there. Where are you staying?”
Perry hesitated. It’s a bloody setup! It’s that goon at the jail checking on me. Watch it, Ambrose. One wrong word and you’re toast!
“Mr. Ambrose?”
Perry struggled for words. “I need to know who you are.”
“Can’t say.”
Perry glanced at his watch. “Meet me at the thirteenth street Greyhound Terminal at midnight. Front entrance.”
The man mumbled something in the background. “Can you get there without being spotted?”
“What?”
“We think you’re being tracked, Mr. Ambrose. It’s critical they don’t trace you to us. Very bad if they do.”
“Bad?”
“For you, Mr. Ambrose.”
Perry felt a chill. “You’re with Minton?”
“Can’t say. Please answer my question.”
“Not until you answer mine.”
The man hesitated. “It’s your decision, Mr. Ambrose. If you’re not at the terminal at midnight, you’ll never hear from me again.”
Perry sighed. “You’re not giving me much.”
The man chuckled. “About the same as a card with a promise scribbled on it.”
Perry hesitated. “I’ll be there.”
“One last thing. Before you come, check your clothes for a bug. It’ll look like a pin or staple. Maybe a laundry tag or shirt button. If you see anything like a black dot or filament, rip if off and leave it behind. Check your personal possessions too. Remove anything that looks out of place. It’s imperative they don’t trace you to us.”
Perry slumped on the bed. “You know this is hard to take.”
“Believe it! You’re playing with fire.”
Perry listened to the click. He lowered the phone and stared at the rain spattering against the window.
He spent the next hour probing his clothes for the phantom bug. Nothing so much as a loose hair. Even his underwear was free of anything resembling a transmission device.
At 10:45, he got desperate and started checking his camera. It would take an hour to reach the bus station on foot and he still hadn’t figured how to pull that off.
He was detaching the lens assembly when he glanced at his watch.
“Hell with it.” He slipped on his sport jacket and jammed his wallet in the inside pocket. Then came the camera. No time to check it for bugs. No time for anything. He reached in the closet and snatched his raincoat.
He was nearly out the door when he realized his shoes were still in the closet. He took a nervous breath and ran for the closet in his stocking feet.
He was slipping on his left shoe when it hit him. His shoes! They had taken them from him at the jail. He stared at the shoe. Was he going paranoid? Put on the bloody shoe and get out of here.
He started to slip on the shoe and stopped. What the hell was that bloody rattling? Next thing he knew, he was yanking at the heel. He ran into the bathroom and slammed the shoe on the toilet bowl. Again, dammit! He slammed the heel against the porcelain and watched it fly into the bathtub.
What's wrong with you, Ambrose? You’ve lost your bloody marbles. That’s your only pair of—
He stared at the exposed sole and the black, metallic object dangling from it. “Blast.” He slumped against the toilet bowl and held the object in his hand.
____________
The black sedan had been parked on 12th Street for three hours, its two bored occupants trying to stay awake while monitoring the Huckleberry’s front entrance. A small black box rested on the console between them, its screen emitting a flashing red dot.
Agent Shackleton poked his snoring colleague. “You still with me?”
“Huh?”
Shackleton frowned. “Wake up.”
Agent Kravetz yawned and reached for the cup of cold coffee on the dashboard. He took a sip and squinted at the tramp staggering through the Huckleberry’s glass entrance doors.
Shackleton nodded at the tramp. “Bet they throw him out.”
“Why?”
“They’re full. The last guy barely got in. I saw him pleading with the desk manager.” Shackleton focused his night vision scope on the Huckleberry’s glass doors. He couldn’t see the tramp, but the desk manager was yelling at someone.
Kravetz stared at the glass doors. “Bet they keep him.”
Shackleton gave his colleague a dirty look. “Never mind the tramp. How’s our friend doing?”
Kravetz glanced at the screen. “No change. Take my word for it. Our man’s fast asleep from that bottle of booze. He’s not going anywhere.” He squinted at his watch. “Another hour of this crap and I can see my wife and kids.”
“Think they’ll recognize you?”
“Not funny.”
Shackleton lowered the scope. “I win.”
“What?”
Shackleton nodded at the tramp backing out the front door. The poor creep yanked up his parka hood and headed north on 12th.
Kravetz stared at the staggering drunk. “One more hour, dammit. That’s all I can take. Think of it, Phil. All that money out there and a flop house turns away a homeless drunk. And I’m sitting here watching it like some kind of sicko.” He frowned. “Makes me want to get out.”
Shackleton patted him on the shoulder. “Better wait for that pension before you get brave. You don’t want to end up like that poor dude.”
The two agents watched the pathetic creature fade into the rain while their beeper continued its boring ritual. And while they sat in their car, a nameless tramp stretched out on the vacated bed in room “111”, his hand clutching the fifty dollar bill Perry had given him for his parka and shoes.
The drunk took a swig of the half-empty pint of Jack Daniel’s Perry had included in the trade. He smiled and looked down at his toes poking through his torn socks.
No need for shoes. Easy enough to pick up a pair at the shelter. Yeah, it felt real good snuggling in a warm bed on a night like this. And with a TV too.
The drunk drifted off to sleep, unaware of the broken shoe under his bed, and the tiny micro-transmitter lying beside it.
Chapter 4
Key to the Kingdom
The wind had picked up, driving the rain into his face. He turned away from the stinging drops and squinted at his watch. Ten minutes to midnight. The bus terminal was thirty minutes away.
“Blast!” He tightened his hood and ran up 12th toward Tucker Boulevard where a yellow taxi sat beneath a lamppost. The light had turned green for the oncoming traffic, but this was no time for caution. He sprinted off the curb and dodged two speeding cars.
“Watch it idiot! What the hell’s wrong with you!”
He ignored their blaring horns and curses while charging across Tucker toward the parked taxi. He dodged a third car and ran alongside the taxi. The service light was off.
He crouched beside the driver’s window and peered at the man asleep behind the wheel. He rapped on the window, but the driver didn’t budge. An empty pint bottle lay on the seat.
“Wake up, you bloody lush!” Perry yanked the door open and glared at the stunned driver.
“What the hell?” The driver leaned away from the opened door while fumbling for the wrench under his seat.
Perry leaned toward him. “I need a ride.”
“Go to hell.” The driver held up the wrench and waved it at Perry. He tugged the door closed and started the engine. He was about to pull away when Perry flashed a twenty at the windshield. The driver eyed the twenty and gunned the engine.
The second twenty did the trick. The driver rolled down his window and poked his head into the rain. “Where to?”
“I need to make the Greyhound Terminal by midnight.”
The driver snatched the twenties. “Get in.”
Perry was halfway into the taxi when the driver floored the accelerator, sending his passenger sprawling across the rear seat.
“Hey, watch it!”
The driver glanced at the rear view mirror. “You want to get there or not?”
The yellow cab skidded away from the curb and raced up Tucker Boulevard toward North 13th Street and the Greyhound Terminal. Seven minutes later, it splashed to a stop at the terminal’s deserted entrance.
The driver glanced at the mirror. “You got one minute.”
Perry crawled out of the cab and backed away from the curb as the cab skidded away, spraying him with dirty water. He pulled up his hood and scanned the rainswept sidewalk. No one was in sight except a homeless dude lying beside the terminal’s glass entrance doors, his body covered with cardboard and plastic.