American Dictator: Changing of the Guard

American Dictator

Changing of the Guard

A Novel

by

Rick

Ainsworth

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents portrayed in this novel are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Published by VRA Publishing of Las Vegas www.vrapublishing.com

American Dictator. Copyright © 2015 by Rick Ainsworth. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address VRA Publishing, 5836 South Pecos Road, Las Vegas, NV 89120.

ISBN: 978-0-9770376-2-9

Library of Congress control number: 2015952152

CAST OF CHARACTERS

M. Spencer Howell's Team

Jeremy Holt (Chief of staff)

Margaret Sinclair (Campaign manager)

Professor Paul Trudeau (Senior advisor)

Terri Jean Samuels (Press secretary)

Zachary Taylor Morton's Team

Peter Parker (Chief of staff)

General Jonathon Budreau (Campaign manager)

General Alexander James Longstreet (Advisor)

Horatio Tremane (Advisor)

Rebecca Samuels (Press secretary)

Sergeant Ed Big Ed Ostini

Hortense Preston's Team

Miriam Hard Ass Hardcastle

Joshua Adler

Paul Norris

Nancy Miles

U.S. Congress

Senator Simon Grievy (D-New Mexico)

Senator Emile Wilson (R-Wisconsin)

Senator Willis Craig (D-California)

Senator William Conklin (R-Colorado)

Rep Georgia Hamilton (D-Florida)

Russia

President Vasily Zubenkov

General Nicholai Kobokov

Prime Minister Olga Verigin

Boris Ivan Podovsky

Chicago

Andrew Abel Anderson

Jamaal Naseem

Albuquerque

Abdul Aleem

Abu Bakr

Ahmad/Arnold Johansen

Captain George Fulton AFD

Barton Braxler's Team

Grace Cummings (Chief of staff)

Todd Murphy (Press secretary)

Hunter's Lodge Montana

Colonel John Red Raeder

Colonel Marshall (Wyatt) Anderson

Las Vegas

Special Agent Jerry Nolan

Special Agent Paul Bristol

Deputy Director Bradford Keyes

Fadl Ullah (Village Antiques)

Sayf Udeen (Sword of the Faith)

U.S. Navy

Capt Richard Farragut (On the Reagan)

Cdr William Hancock (On the Reagan)

Cdr Tom Walker (On the Halsey)

Cdr Larry Cline (On the Halsey)

Lt John Davis (On the Halsey)

Lt Jerry Cvetkovic (On the Halsey)

QM-3 Billy Muncy (On the Halsey)

Mexico

President Carlos Quintana Juan Diaz (Confidante)

General Pablo Montoya Captain Pablo Contreras

Lieutenant Ramon Garcia

Media

William Birnbaum On the Air Miami

Cynthia Moore New York Times

Lydia Carmichael, The Morning Show

United Nations

John Wesley Cavanaugh U.S. Ambassador

Secretary General Adriano Agostinho

Rio Grande City

Mayor Phillip Ortega

Colonel Davis USMC

SSGT Tim McCarthy USMC

PROLOGUE

Underground Bunker

Nevada Desert

June 24

0600 Hours

The sun had created a false dawn and the Nevada desert responded with brilliant colors and shades, constantly shifting, changing, creating new landscapes from the old as sunlight began to peek over the horizon.

Suddenly, the sky exploded, lighting up with all the colors of the spectrum, billowing up and out, boiling and bubbling and turning the desert into a vast canvas of colorful turmoil. Then the sound wave hit, and all in attendance flinched. Soon, it was over and the desert once again became quiet.

Three generals, all in uniform with their caps held under their arms, stood side by side in the small bunker, buried two stories beneath the Nevada desert. Behind them, a diminutive man in civilian clothes sat perched on a stool against the back wall, his small hands folded across his knees as if he were there to watch a recital.

Four scientists in white lab coats sat at computer stations in front of the generals. All were watching through a Plexiglas blast shield, tinted slightly green.

The three generals had donned dark glasses against the blast, though they had been assured it would not be as overpoweringly bright as an atomic explosion, nor would there be any radiation. The generals decided to err on the side of prudence. The little man in the back of the room eschewed the dark glasses, and concentrated his black eyes on the scene through the blast shield.

For several moments, no one spoke, the scientists busy with their computer programs, and the generals seemingly stunned. Only the little man in the back of the room seemed nonplussed by the events. The only reaction he showed was his dark eyes getting wider as he continued to stare out into the desert.

One of the scientists spoke as he studied his computer screen. Direct hit, he said without looking around. The target drone was intercepted at thirty thousand feet and has been... he turned to look up at them, ...vaporized.

The generals stared straight ahead. The senior of the three was the first to speak.

Gentlemen, he said, turning and nodding to the little man in the back, we need to talk.

He marched out of the room, followed by the generals and the dark little man, who scurried along behind them.

The lead scientist looked at the others and shrugged. Well, what the hell, he said, turning back to his computer.

Six Months Later...

Hay-Adams Hotel

Washington, D.C.

Saturday, December 29

Election Year

8:00 EM. EST

You can smell the power in this town, M. Spencer Howell, the president-elect, said to no one in particular. He stood outside on the balcony of the hotel's presidential suite, stooped forward on the railing in his shirtsleeves looking out towards the southeast and the place he would call home for the next four years. You can smell it, you can feel it, hell, you can even taste it. He grinned to himself. And it tastes good. Damn good.

It's a little cold out here, isn't it, sir? Jeremy Holt stepped out with the president's jacket, which he shrugged off.

Behind him, several staff members and friends milled about in the presidential suite, passing papers back and forth and conversing softly with each other as they glanced out expectantly at their boss on the balcony.

Colder than Tallahassee, that's for sure. The president-elect stared out across the city to the White House and Capitol beyond. I have always been impressed with Pennsylvania Avenue. It seems to go on forever.

Yes, sir, Jeremy agreed, draping the jacket over the president-elect's stooped shoulders. It's a long road to the White House, right, sir?

The president-elect chuckled and turned to his campaign manager and valued advisor. Jeremy Holt was only thirty five, but had managed to compile an impressive resume in those short years. Four years in the Navy and a lieutenant in the reserve, masters degree in government from Notre Dame, successful lobbyist for several Fortune 500 corporations, advisor to Governor M. Spencer Howell of Florida, and now the chief of staff for the next President of the United States. His political acumen was augmented by his handsome, almost boyish good looks. Over six foot two, with an athletic physique, unruly sandy hair and piercing, intelligent blue eyes, Jeremy Holt was considered at the top of the list of the most eligible bachelors in the state of Florida. It was expected by all that he would ascend to the same lofty heights in Washington, D.C.

A long road indeed, Jere. The president-elect nodded toward the hotel suite. Getting anything done? He ran his hand through his silver hair, an unconscious habit.

Well, sir, it would be a lot easier if you made a statement, Jeremy replied. Keeping silent about this crisis is making people nervous.

The president-elect smiled and patted Jeremy on the shoulder. If the American people aren't already nervous after four years of Madam President, I don't think anything I could do now would make them nervous.

Yes sir, but the people are going to want to know how you'd handle the crisis. It is a very volatile situation.

I agree. However, I am not yet the president, and we already have a sitting president. This is a situation she must deal with quickly and without hesitation. If she does not, in a little over a month WE are going to inherit the shit storm. He sighed and looked back over his shoulder to the city of Washington D.C. A light snow had dusted the trees and the roads and the buildings of the capital, making the city seem untainted, almost pure. He shook his head and stepped into the suite, Jeremy coming in behind him and closing the double doors. Conversations in the suite diminished as all eyes turned to the president-elect.

I don't think many people have faith that President Preston can or will handle this situation, Jeremy observed sotto voce. The country is looking to you, sir.

The president-elect nodded and looked around casually at the expectant faces in the suite. Good friends and loyal staff members, he thought. And they thought I worked them before.

We have to give her the chance, Jere, he said softly, while smiling broadly at his people. I don't think I should be critical right now, not in the face of this attack on our soil. He turned to his press secretary, Terri Jean Samuels. T.J., I want to release a statement saying I have complete faith in President Preston's ability to deal with this crisis with speed and alacrity, and I wholeheartedly support the use of military force to deal with these foreign invaders.

Yes, sir, Terri acknowledged, writing down quick notes while brushing her dark hair from her eyes. Is that all, sir?

Yes, for now. The president-elect turned to Jeremy. Jere, contact the vice president-elect. I think he's at the Four Seasons. Ask him to join me here in an hour.

What about the secretary of state and the national security advisor appointees? Jeremy asked, flipping open his cell phone and punching the proper speed dial number. I take it we are going to prepare a response….just in case?

The president-elect shook his head. Not yet. Just the vice president. I'll be in here. He stepped into the small library, closed the door and sank into an overstuffed chair, deep in thought. He knew President Hortense Hamilton Preston would waffle on this crisis just as she had on difficult issues for four years, creating the climate of anxiety and distrust which now permeated every level of American life. No, President Preston was not the person to bring a conclusion to the current disaster. The humiliation the country had suffered since the attack three days prior lingered like a bitter taste in the mouths of most Americans, who demanded immediate action. For forty eight hours President Preston had huddled with her advisors, trying to find a way to open a dialogue with the attackers so they could reach a peaceful accord. No, Madam President was not the best person to handle this. The best person for the job was on his way over from the Four Seasons, and this particular man, because of his national stature and military resume that included being the former commander of all NATO troops in Europe, made the president-elect slightly uneasy. Well, he thought to himself, we saw this coming a few months ago.

A soft knock on the door drew the president-elect's attention. Jeremy Holt poked his head into the library, his eyebrows arched dramatically.

Sir, the president is on the phone for you.

Howell stood and walked in his familiar slouch to the small desk, picking up the secure phone line. Yes, Madam President? he said cheerfully into the mouthpiece. Fine, ma'am, thank you for asking...yes, of course I've been following the news reports, and.MY advice? He shrugged toward Jeremy, who nodded firmly. Well, Madam President, the first thing I would do is send in that Marine division from Pendleton to clean those scum out of that town. That'll give you at least ten thousand sets of boots on the ground...what?...no, ma'am, I don't think it's overkill, not at all. Something must be...well, thank you for calling, I appreciate. He looked at the phone and then at Jeremy. Cut me off and hung up on me, he said incredulously. He dropped the phone into its cradle and stared down at it, a small smile on his face. That was rude. He looked at Jeremy, shrugged and added, University of Missouri, you know.

Jeremy chuckled. She just wants to be able to say that she consulted with you, sir, he said calmly, a small smile on his mouth. She probably thinks it makes her look bipartisan.

The president-elect nodded thoughtfully. Said I was talking overkill, he said, snorting to himself.

She's not going to exercise the military option, is she, sir? Jeremy asked, concern in his voice. She's just going to keep talks open?

The president-elect grunted and sat back down in the overstuffed chair. She doesn't know how, he said wearily. She's a political hack, a shameless opportunist who always finds a way to cover her butt. She's not a leader. A leader would deal with this situation quickly and harshly because that's what the American people want. And I'm going to give it to them, he thought, nodding firmly to himself.

T.J. Samuels poked her head in the door. The vice president-elect is here, sir.

The president-elect looked up quickly and stood. Show him in.

PART ONE:

The Campaign

People and nations are forged in the fires of adversity.

...John Adams

CHAPTER ONE

Tallahassee, Florida

January 25

Election Year

Almost a year earlier

M. Spencer Howell

...and I say enough is enough! No more kowtowing to foreign interests. No more backing off in the face of threats to our security. No further concessions to terrorist and fascist regimes. It is time America stood up to special interest groups, to race- and gender-based organizations, to religious fundamentalist fanatics, to politicians who suck the life blood out of us and to evil Muslim extremists who want to destroy our very way of life. Enough, I say! Enough is enough!

Thunderous applause followed from the gathered crowd and Governor M. Spencer Howell took a sip of water and smiled broadly at his constituents. He ran his hand through his silver hair and adjusted his reading glasses, glancing down quickly at the text of his speech.

Jeremy Holt stood to one side on the steps of the state capital and watched admiringly as his boss, Florida's third-term governor and favorite son, delivered the speech that would announce his candidacy for President of the United States. Governor Howell wasn't the first Republican to throw his hat into the ring. Two other candidates had announced months ago, but Jeremy knew he would become the clear front runner, and that's why the team waited until after the State of the Union address and before the New Hampshire primary to announce. Whoever won the Republican nomination would surely become the next president; that was implicit in the 20% approval rating for President Hortense Hamilton Preston.

The New Hampshire primary, to be contested on February 1, now had three Republicans vying for its plums; Representative Barton Braxler of Virginia and General Zachary Taylor Morton, with Braxler leading but not by much, and Governor Howell. Jeremy smiled to himself. To outsiders it might seem that Governor Howell had just decided to get into the race, but Jeremy knew that the Howell team had been in New Hampshire for months, recruiting and organizing the people it would take to form the machine that would drive Howell all the way to the White House.

President Preston has had four years to rebuild this country after the disaster of Iraq. And she's made things worse!

More applause.

Regardless of what the President said in her state of the union address last night, America is not safer today, we are more threatened. Our economy isn't booming, it's deflating. Illegal immigrants swarm over our borders with impunity and the Preston administration ignores it. Our representatives in Congress are more interested in feathering their own beds than looking out for the American people. Our military is demoralized and weak, the basic tools and equipment denied them. The United Nations mocks us and passes resolutions demanding we abandon our ally, Israel. Our enemies are emboldened and are attacking American interests throughout the world. And what does our President do about it? Nothing! That's why today I am announcing that I have formed a campaign committee and as of right now I am a candidate for President of the United States!

The crowd cheered and chanted and waved Howell for President signs in the air. It had taken Jeremy Holt and his team only two days to organize this spontaneous demonstration of adoration for the Governor of Florida. The young chief of staff was pleased with the results. It hadn't been that difficult, really. After all, M. Spencer Howell was indeed Florida's favorite son.

Sixty-eight years old and almost six-foot-three, he walked with a prominent slouch, a condition he often referred to as the Abe Lincoln Stoop, and had to be constantly reminded to stand up straight during public ceremonies. Born and raised in Tallahassee, he had served two tours in Viet Nam as a Marine captain, receiving a Silver Star and two Purple Hearts. After the war, he returned to Tallahassee, opened an insurance agency, and began his political career as a precinct organizer for Richard Nixon in 1972.

Elected to the city council on his first attempt, Spencer Howell quickly became a darling of the Florida Republican party. Two terms on the city council resulted in a run for the Congressional seat being vacated by a six-term Democrat who was resigning for health reasons. Spencer Howell won in a tight race and spent ten years in the House of Representatives until he was appointed ambassador to Great Britain by President George Herbert Walker Bush.

Relieved of that post after the reelection of Bill Clinton in 1996, M. Spencer Howell returned home and retired from political life, opting to write, play golf and leave the politicking to others. He ignored the people in his party who urged him to run for something, anything, and after a year languishing in relative obscurity, Spencer Howell changed his mind, much to the delight of the state party, and decided to run for governor of Florida. He was swept into office on his first try, and the people of Florida out-voted term limits so they could elect Governor Howell to a third term.

This is not going to be an easy job, Governor Howell cautioned his audience. Bringing back America's pride will be a very difficult, very arduous task because so much damage has been done to our national dignity over the past four years.

The crowd grew silent, many of them nodding solemnly.

But I'm a Reagan Republican, which means I'm an optimist and I believe in the American spirit!

More cheers and chants.

I believe in the goodness of America, in the goodness of our people, in the hard-working, honest faces I see among you. The American people are the strongest, smartest, finest and most generous people in the world! But when we get attacked, when we get angry, when we come together focused on a cause, we are invincible!

The crowd erupted in cheers, their 'HOWELL FOR PRESIDENT' signs bouncing up and down over their heads.

Now it is time for that old American work ethic. Now is the time for American values and traditions to be restored to our society. Now is the time to stop the whining and waffling of the Preston administration once and for all! We have had enough! Enough is enough!

The crowd picked up the chant as Governor Howell beamed down at them, pointing and waving to friends among the crowd.

ENOUGH IS ENOUGH! ENOUGH IS ENOUGH! ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!

Governor Howell held up his hands for quiet, and the chanting subsided.

From here we will launch the campaign to rescue our country from the weak-kneed leadership of the present administration. From here we will begin the campaign to take back our country. From here to the White House!

The crowd erupted again and Governor Howell stood at the podium, smiling his winning smile, waving as he was escorted back inside the Capitol building by Jeremy Holt and two security men.

I thought it was a great speech, Governor, Jeremy said, standing next to Governor Howell's desk. Right to the point we are trying to make.

Yes, but remember, Jere: it's a long road to the White House and the presidency won't mean much if we don't gain control of Congress. Spencer Howell sank down heavily behind his desk and leaned forward in his chair.

Yes, sir.

And I don't just mean a simple majority, more Republicans than Democrats. We need Senate and House candidates who will support our platform, support our philosophy, support our goals. You know what that means? It means sixty or more Republican senators, and by Republican I mean people who will stand with us, people who.

My goodness! I thought the speech making was over. Jeannie Howell, wife of the governor, came sweeping into the room like a fresh breeze, dressed in a smart pants suit and silk blouse. She put her arms around the governor and kissed him on the cheek.

I guess I was preaching, the governor said, grinning sheepishly and standing to greet his wife. Occupational hazard.

Jeannie Howell smiled at Jeremy Holt. Spencer, this young man is going to burn out before he's forty if you don't quit working him so hard.

That's quite all right, Mrs. Howell, Jeremy replied. He winked at the governor. It's not like I've got a busy social calendar.

That's another thing, Mrs. Howell went on. We've got to find you a suitable young lady. It's not healthy for a young man like you to spend his entire life working with absolutely no time to yourself. She kissed the governor again and breezed out the door, calling behind her, I'm off to address the Audubon Society and tell them what a great president my husband is going to be. And Spencer?

Yes, my dear?

Take your blood pressure medicine. She was gone.

M. Spencer Howell watched his wife leave, an affectionate smile on his face. At fifty eight she was still a very beautiful woman and even after thirty five years of marriage, she still made him feel like a clumsy teenager in her presence.

Sir, I don't want you to think I've been complaining about the work, Jeremy said.

No, no, Governor Howell replied. He sat down behind the desk and motioned Jeremy to one of the two overstuffed chairs facing him. I have been working you too hard, Jere. This campaign is going to be tough as hell for the next several months, and I think you should take a little time off. Go fishing, lay around by the pool, get a massage, meet some young ladies.

Jeremy looked at his watch as if he wanted to change the subject. We have an hour before they get here, Governor. The campaign team was set to meet in the governor's office for a strategy session.

Governor Howell looked at his watch and nodded. I think we're ready, but I would like to steer the conversation to the immigration issue. Let's pin down our policy in that area. It will be the major plank to our platform. He put on his reading glasses and accepted the file from his chief of staff. And Jere, the governor added, peering over his glasses, I meant that about your getting some down time. I don't want you to burn out.

I'm fine, sir, Jeremy replied, pointing to the file in the governor's hand. That's a summary paper on President Eisenhower's 'Operation Wetback' in nineteen fifty four.

Governor Howell nodded thoughtfully, and leaned back, closing his eyes and resting his head on the back of the chair. Run it down for me, Jere.

Jeremy Holt nodded. The governor liked to have issues verbalized as he relaxed. His eyes were closed, and he looked like he was napping, but Jeremy knew very well that the governor was listening intently, visualizing the issue in his mind and soaking up everything said to him, so Jeremy picked up the file and began to run it down for him.

When President Eisenhower took office in nineteen fifty one, the country was facing a grave immigration crisis on the southern border. There were over three million illegal Mexicans in this country and hundreds of thousands more were pouring over the border every year, taking menial jobs, many of them as farm workers, and accepting a much lower rate of pay than American workers were being paid. Sometimes as little as half of what Americans would be paid. As a result, many Americans in the southwest were unemployed. Moreover, some of the higher-ups in the border patrol were in the pockets of the big farmers and ranchers, and conveniently looked the other way while these farmers and ranchers brought in illegals by the truckload. These ranchers and farmers, particularly in Texas, had a powerful ally. Senator Lyndon Johnson of Texas favored open borders, so the big ranchers and farmers would have an unending flow of cheap labor. Any time the border agents raided a ranch and rounded up illegals, Senator Johnson would get involved and the agents would receive word from their bosses to back off.

There's a lot of that going on now, Howell said without opening his eyes.

Yes, sir, there certainly is. Here's what President Eisenhower did to counterbalance the influence of Senator Johnson and others. In nineteen fifty four he appointed his West Point classmate, General Joseph 'Jumpin' Joe' Swing of the famed 11th Airborne as his INS commissioner. General Swing instituted Operation Wetback in June of that year with about seven hundred agents in California and Arizona. The goal was to round up a thousand illegals a day. By July they had captured over fifty thousand. But something unexpected and dramatic began to happen. Many illegals, not wanting to be arrested, fled across the border to Mexico on their own. In fact, almost a half million went home voluntarily in the first two months of the operation.

That's interesting, Howell said. Something to think about.

It is estimated that up to seven hundred thousand illegal aliens left Texas voluntarily during Operation Wetback. As far as the eighty some thousand captured, they were deported back to Mexico, but not like we've been doing it, dropping them off on the border which allows them to turn around and walk right back in. They were sent by bus and train deep into the center of Mexico. A couple of ships left Port Isabel, Texas and ferried tens of thousands of illegals to the port of Vera Cruz, Mexico. A trip of over five hundred miles.

Smart. Makes sense.

Immigration quotas and restrictions were put into place, Jeremy continued. And Eisenhower authorized a guest worker program which would allow for temporary jobs in the U.S. He limited it to four hundred thousand guest workers annually for jobs that would last from three months to a year. This program was strictly monitored and illegal immigration on the southern border dwindled to a trickle.

Howell sat up and leaned his elbows on his desk. How many illegal aliens are believed to be in our country now? he asked thoughtfully.

Jeremy leafed through some papers in the file. It's hard to pin down, sir, but estimates range from twelve million to over twenty million. He looked up from the file. Not all of them are Mexicans, however.

That would be a big job, rounding up and deporting that many people.

It could be done, sir. With the right people and the resolve to do something about it, it could definitely be done.

Hmmm, Howell pondered the information for a moment, and then raised his eyes to Jeremy. Especially if we can expect a majority of them to leave the country voluntarily.

Jeremy nodded and watched his boss go through the process of making a decision. He thought out every issue very carefully, and when the decision was made, it was always made emphatically. He never did an about face on any policy decision.

That's the platform then, Howell said firmly. Let's get this plank written up and let's start talking it up on the campaign trail.

It's policy, then?

Yes, my boy, Howell said emphatically. It will be our stated policy to round up and deport every illegal alien in this country within twelve months of my inauguration. That will be our priority upon taking office.

Gonna scare the crap out of some people, Jeremy remarked.

The governor grinned at him. You think?

And defense, sir? The president is proposing defense cuts again. That is also a priority, but we can handle that one a little less publicly.

Sir? Jeremy looked up from his notepad.

The governor stared at his chief of staff as if he wasn't sure how much to tell him.

It's in the formulation stage, Jere, he said reassuringly. Once I've got a good outline, you and I will work out the details, okay? He smiled pleasantly as if the subject had just been closed.

Can you give me a hint, sir? Jere asked, smiling mischievously.

Well, let's just say that many people will be surprised. Most of them pleasantly.

Jeremy nodded and made some notes. The policy decision hung in the air over the two men like clouds on an overcast day as each began to think of the consequences, expected and unexpected, which would ensue from the implementation of that decision. They were interrupted by press secretary T.J. Samuels, who knocked softly and slipped into the room.

Everyone's here, Governor.

Very well, Howell said, standing and coming around the desk to meet his campaign staff. Have them come in, and T.J., please have some sandwiches sent up. It's going to be a long session.

Before the others entered, Jeremy said quietly to the governor, You'll have to start thinking about a vice president, sir.

I have been.

Have you come up with a list? Yes, I have.

May I ask how many you have on the list? I'm asking because I know you'll want thorough investigations done into their past.

It won't be a problem, Jere, Howell assured him. It's a short list.

The door opened and the campaign staff began filing in and finding seats.

How many on the list, sir? Jeremy whispered.

Only one, the governor replied, turning and greeting his staff. Good day, everyone, I hope you had a good morning because we're going to work you hard this afternoon. He mingled among the staff, slapping backs, shaking hands and mentioning something personal to each and every one of them.

Jeremy Holt stood off to the side, unassuming as usual, and marveled at his boss' ability to remember little personal tidbits about people. Everyone loved him for it, of course. Jere could see it in their eyes as Howell passed by each of them. And then he remembered the conversation he had just had with the governor.

Hmmm, he thought. Only one candidate? Wonder who he has in mind.

CHAPTER TWO

The White House

Oval Office

Hortense Hamilton Preston

The president's closest advisors sat on the couch in the Oval Office, watching television. Conservative commentator and popular radio talk show host Will Birnbaum was being interviewed live by Fox News reporter John Pilgrim, another conservative commentator.

Talk about a huggy fest, Paul Norris, the president's chief of staff muttered. He blushed slightly at the twitter of laughter that ensued. I mean, all these two guys are doing is trying to bend over farther than the other. He ran a hand through his dark air and let his annoyance show in his serious brown eyes.

This is a time of civil strife not seen in America since the height of the Viet Nam war, Birnbaum's deep voice resonated as he stared seriously into the camera. And of financial turmoil unseen since the disastrous presidency of Jimmy Carter. He waited for the camera to pan in close before continuing. We are in dire straits here, Mr. Pilgrim, and the reelection of Hortense Hamilton Preston is the worst thing this country could do this year. I don't see how an incompetent, mean-spirited, wishy-washy fool like her could be reelected, but then I remember another incompetent fool who got reelected in nineteen ninety six.

John Pilgrim chuckled, obviously delighted with his witty guest. You saw the president's speech last night, I take it?

Her so-called state of the union speech? She talked for an hour and a half on a topic she could have summarized in two words: It sucks. That's how I would describe the state of our union.

And this morning, Governor Howell of Florida threw his hat into the ring.

Yes, he did, Birnbaum agreed, smiling smugly. That makes three powerful Republicans running.

What advice would you give the Republican candidates?

Birnbaum turned once again to the camera. I say to the three Republican candidates, any one of whom would easily be elected in this political climate: Combine your forces. The presidency is one thing, but to have both houses of Congress in your corner, then…THEN you can really get things done in this country.

The television clicked off and the group turned to see the president standing behind them with the remote control in her hand. Her face was red and her jaw set in a tight line, a stark contrast to her perfectly coiffed blonde hair and finely tailored pants suit, which camouflaged her wide hips. I'm sick and tired of that blowhard, she declared in her staccato voice. All he does is stir things up, he never accomplishes anything.

A lot of people listen to that blowhard, Miriam Hardcastle pointed out. She was President Preston's best friend and closest advisor. Stern in appearance at age fifty, with a thin figure and short-cropped dark hair, she cut an imposing figure in Washington politics. It was said that Miriam Hardcastle had more balls than two thirds of the males in Congress. Her Washington nickname was 'Hard-Ass Hardcastle', but few people called her that to her face.

It's just like the Republicans in the senate, the president complained. They block everything we try to do, but they don't offer any cogent alternatives themselves. They are the party of division. Surely the American people can see through that shit.

Paul Norris winced at the language. He could never get used to the president's proclivity to use vulgarity whenever she became irritated at something or someone.

So far they haven't, Norris said, reviewing a sheaf of papers in his hand. Your approval rating is under twenty percent while Morton and Braxler are showing well in the polls. According to the data, either one would prevail if the election were held today. Now Governor Howell has tossed in his hat. He looked up at the president wearily. But even more disturbing is the fact that most Democratic senators and representatives are falling way behind in their Congressional campaigns.

A nation of idiots, the president snapped. They go with the wind. They're listening too much to blowhards like Birnbaum, and they can't see what's happening to our republic.

Paul Norris looked around at the gathering in the Oval Office. The president's private secretary, Nancy Miles, dropped her eyes, averting his gaze. Paul watched her out of the corner of his eye for a moment, taking in her blonde hair brushed back into a bun, her lovely blue eyes, her soft, peach-like complexion, the way she had of looking at him with those eyes that left a hoarseness in his throat.

Bunch of braying asses, the president went on vehemently, all in the pocket of M. Spencer Howell. Shit!

The others shifted around and wished they were somewhere else. It was a topic of almost every conversation out of the president's hearing. They were going to lose the White House and probably control of Congress, and the president would not recognize or acknowledge the reasons.

That may be so, Madam President, Joshua Adler, senior domestic advisor chimed in, looking up at her over the rims of his reading glasses. He sat forward in his chair, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened and elbows resting on his knees. His carefully trimmed goatee, speckled with gray, contrasted his rapidly receding hairline. But the reality is, if you don't do something dramatic, you will spend next year back in Jefferson City.

Anger flared again in President Preston's eyes, and then quickly faded. Joshua Adler was her close friend and advisor. Of all her friends and advisors, only he could be so impertinent without finding himself unemployed.

I assume you have an idea, Joshua? she said, her brow arched, her arms crossed.

Do what we always do, Adler replied, as if the answer was plain and simple. And what is that?

Scare the crap out of them. Hit the Republicans hard on the issues of national health care and the entitlement programs. They're blocking everything you try to do because of that ill-advised filibuster rule in the Senate. You'll scare the old folks on social security, the poor people on welfare, the uninsured who can't afford health insurance and the disenfranchised who depend on government programs to survive.

And that's our base, right? the president asked, a sarcastic tone to her voice.

If you want to win. Adler smiled up at the president. You do want to win, don't you, Hortense?

The president glared at Adler as if she were trying to decide which type of execution would be appropriate in his case. She looked to Miriam and received a nod in return.

Write it up and I'll speech it, the president declared, turning and stalking out the door, held open by one of her staff members. Everyone who worked for Hortense Hamilton Preston knew her moods well, and learned to anticipate them. They were on display daily like a traffic light: first Green, then Yellow, then Red. There were only three colors, three stages of her moods. Go, Caution and Explode. That's when she would walk out of the room in an angry huff.

CHAPTER THREE

The Morton Institute

Alexandria, Virginia

Zachary Taylor Morton

In the boardroom of the Morton Institute for American Values, retired Army General Zachary Taylor Morton and his advisors sat around the big conference table, discussing the upcoming primary in New Hampshire and the entrance into the presidential race by M. Spencer Howell. General Morton sat stiffly, his hands resting on top of the table in front of him. Dressed in a conservative and well-tailored suit, his dark, searching eyes took in everyone and everything in the room. His graying brown hair was clipped short in a military cut.

I'm sure we all saw the state of the union speech last night, General Morton said, grinning his wide, winning grin, which made everyone at the table relax.

He sat at the head of the table. On the general's left, his long time chief of staff, Peter Parker, bookish and handsome, if somewhat disheveled, sat arranging papers for the meeting. On the other side of the general sat Rebecca Samuels, his personal secretary for twelve years, Peter Parker's fiancée, and older sister of M. Spencer Howell's press secretary, Terri Jean. Both sisters had long, dark hair and dancers' figures with bright brown eyes. Many people thought they were twins.

Next to Peter sat retired Army General Alexander James Longstreet, a direct descendant of Confederate General James Longstreet, one of Robert E. Lee's favorites. Alexander Longstreet was a West Point graduate who also had served two tours in Viet Nam. His piercing gray eyes flared with the presence of command. At six foot four and two hundred thirty pounds, he was a man used to having orders followed. He sat on the board of the Morton Institute, and was a close friend and confidant of both Zachary Taylor Morton and of M. Spencer Howell. All three had served together in the Viet Nam war.

I'll tell you what I didn't like about it, Longstreet said, leaning forward. She wants a two percent cut in the defense budget across the board to help fund her damn entitlements! He leaned back in his chair shaking his head. She's making us look weak and unprepared. Across from Longstreet was spit and polish Marine General Jonathon Bud Budreau. Shorter than Longstreet and Morton and possessing a stocky build, his almost black hair was cut high and tight in typical Marine Corps fashion. He also served in Viet Nam and had met Morton there. Since he was still on active duty status, General Budreau acted in an advisory capacity only. He did not sit on the board of directors.

We're prepared, James, General Budreau assured his friend. The Corps is always prepared.

Longstreet nodded grandly. Thank God for the Marine Corps.

Hear, hear, Morton exclaimed. Now, if we're quite through patting each other on the rump, can we return to the business at hand?

At the far end of the table, alone and isolated as was his habit, the enigmatic Horatio Tremane sat staring at the others with dark, almost opaque eyes that did not blink, did not tear up, did not waver. He stood only five foot six with flat black hair combed straight back. He wore a plain, brown double-breasted suit that was at least one size too large, making him seem even smaller than he was, which only enhanced his troll-like appearance. He sat very still, scanning the room with his dark little eyes poised over a sharp nose that had been broken more than once. His small hands, folded neatly in front of him, moved only in quick, jerky motions as he picked up his pen and made quick, jerky notes. Then he'd fold up those little hands again and stare blankly at the others, as if waiting for the next little morsel he could snatch up and scribble down.

No one was quite sure what service Tremane performed for General Morton, except that it was certain he was involved in something nefarious, and he was most certainly a dangerous man, even though he tried hard to appear gentile and sophisticated. Peter and Rebecca often laughed privately at Horatio Tremane's resemblance to the old time movie actor, Peter Lorre. Mostly, he just gave the others the creeps.

Outside the door, to insure privacy, stood ram-rod straight Marine Staff Sergeant Edward Ostini. Six foot five and built like a football lineman, which was what he had been at Allan Hancock College in Santa Maria, California, Sergeant Ostini struck an imposing figure. It was unlikely anyone would get past him and into the boardroom without suffering serious injuries.

General Budreau is correct about one thing, Horatio Tremane hissed from his perch at the end of the table. All eyes turned his way. Militarily speaking, we are much more prepared than others think. He grinned and added, Even more than Madam President thinks, I should believe. He turned his grin to Longstreet. "You've been very helpful with the Army, I'm told, General. You've saved them millions, redirecting funds to enhance technology while satisfying the politicians by accelerating the retirement of older weapons systems in the name of cutbacks. And you showed them how to...shall we say, reserve some of their funding for a rainy day. He made a quick, jerky note and returned his stare to Longstreet, who stared right back. I congratulate you, General, Tremane continued. Especially for your work on Project.I mean our recent endeavor." Tremane glanced quickly at General Morton who was affixing the little man with a cold stare.

Tremane realized that not everyone in the room was cleared for what he almost revealed, so he tried to cover by being gracious.

What I mean, General Longstreet, is that you have been very busy on the Army's behalf and you have saved them a great deal of money. I'm sure your efforts are appreciated.

Longstreet glared at Tremane as if he were trying to decide to shoot him, hang him or simply beat him to death. One was never sure if Tremane was being complimentary or accusatory.

That is correct, Mr. Tremane. We need to be thrifty in these dangerous times.

Which brings us to our main topic of conversation, Morton cut in, deftly resuming control of the meeting. I want to come out hard against these defense cuts. I want to hammer this point home on each and every stop. I want this to be the cornerstone of our campaign. After the election, people will see how well we can deliver on our promises.

And the immigration issue, General? Peter asked. We are going to need to address that.

Yes. Tremane sounded like a cobra ready to strike at the flute. And we must address it as soon as possible.

That will be our second priority, General Morton answered. We have the beginnings of a cogent plan which will be our stated solution to the problem.

As soon as possible, Tremane urged in his tinny voice.

The General stared at the little man for a few moments. His stare could bring a junior officer to tears and had intimidated many straying bureaucrats when he was commander of NATO Forces, but Tremane didn't even flinch, and his eyes were incapable of blinking. The only other man who looked at the general eye to eye, totally unintimidated, was Staff Sergeant Ostini. The general went on.

Our good friend entered the race this morning, he said. He sounded as if he were proud of Governor Howell for doing so.

Right on time, too, Longstreet said.

Things are starting to come together, General, Peter added. The timing is perfect with the New Hampshire primary on the horizon.

Right, Budreau said. Coordinate our dissemination of information for the maximum possible coverage.

Everyone nodded except Rebecca who looked at Peter questioningly. He looked away, preferring not to meet her gaze, knowing the issue would no doubt be addressed when they got home later that evening, but he had nothing to tell her. There was an undercurrent of secrecy between the board members and Peter was not privy to whatever was going on.

Our talking points will be the same on all three fronts, Tremane said quietly. The order of priority will be different in each address, but the points will be the same. He chuckled and it sounded like the cackling of a rheumatic hyena. By the time we get to the convention we should have an overwhelming lead on Madam President.

And we have to get out the vote, Peter interjected. It doesn't matter that people simply agree with us, they have to demonstrate their agreement at the polls.

You know what worries me most? General Budreau asked, looking around at the others. That we don't win the Senate. That will pretty much bollix up the whole plan.

We'll win the Senate, General Morton assured his friend. The issue is the sixty percent rule. We need sixty to stave off any filibuster attempts.

We have a campaign ad we would like to show you, Peter said, rolling a television over to the table. We included some news clips of troops arriving home from Iraq after President Preston illegally pulled them all out three years ago. I think you'll find it interesting.

Peter dimmed the lights and turned on the television. The screen came on and flickered a bit, and then the booming sound of General Zachary Taylor Morton's voice came on over news videos about soldiers returning from Iraq and walking through a gauntlet of screaming people, mostly college kids, who berated them for killing women and babies.

General Morton was saying, .not enough that our military was humiliated by the abrupt pullout, but to be welcomed home in this manner speaks directly to one of the biggest problems we have with the present administration. Young people don't respect the military because their politicians don't respect the military. Now President Preston wants to cut the military budget even more. I say we get her out of office and get someone in there who will protect this country. And I am asking you to vote for me. I will restore America's pride. I will face down those foreign despots who threaten our security. I will make certain that our Navy continues to control the seas, our Coast Guard our shores. I will increase the strength of the Air Force, the Marine Corps and the Army so that no head of state would consider challenging us militarily. Then, and only then, when we are at our strongest, will we sit down at the negotiating table, because if we aren't negotiating from a position of strength, we will be forced to negotiate away our rights. The images returned, and several of the returning soldiers stepped over and decked four of the male screamers who staggered back and landed in a heap on the airport terminal floor. Several other soldiers moved forward and the crowd picked up the injured students and moved out of range where they continued a half-hearted haranguing of the troops, who high-fived each other as they made their way through the terminal. These types of demonstrations must not be allowed to happen, Morton's voice continued. They do not represent Constitutional first amendment rights. They violate the sedition laws of our country, and when I am elected president, not one of our troops will ever have to experience this lack of respect again. I make that my solemn promise.

General Morton's image came on the screen. He wore his dress blues, his four stars shining brightly, his chest almost covered with multi-colored ribbons. The imposing Congressional Medal of Honor hung around his neck on a dark blue ribbon. His eyes were direct and cool, his face determined. The voiceover said, General Zachary Taylor Morton. The right man at the right time, and it's about time.

The image faded to dark and Peter turned up the lights and turned off the television.

Tomorrow we release the story about how those demonstrators lobbied the Army to punish those men who fought back, and the Army flat refused to do so, saying, 'We hope all our young men and women will account themselves just as well in such situations.' Peter sat down.

Tremane grinned his cadaverous grin at Longstreet. What did that little statement cost us, General? he rasped. Unprecedented, don't you think? The Army comes out in favor of beating up hippies?

Everyone around the table looked at Tremane incredulously, as if he didn't know the hippie age was long over.

It cost us the promise of improved weapons systems, which we were going to implement anyway.

Implement? Tremane chuckled hoarsely. It sounded derisive. Don't you mean propose to the Congress in the form of legislation?

Longstreet actually smiled. Sometimes he was amused by Tremane, though he would never admit it. I suppose that's a better way of putting it.

If we have those sixty votes. General Morton let the thought linger in the air, knowing that everyone at the table would come to the same conclusion: Sixty votes meant the ability to implement just about any policy they wanted.

How about a drink, people? the general asked, looking down at his watch, a vintage Rolex Explorer his father had given him new in nineteen sixty nine.

Rebecca went out for a moment and came back in. The liquor tray is on the way, she announced brightly. Then she got a twinkle in her eye and stuck her head back out the door.

Hey, big Ed, she cooed. Would you like to join us for a drink?

Sergeant Ostini remained staring at a point directly across the hall. A small smile appeared, then quickly disappeared from his lips. No ma'am, he replied sharply. Thank you, ma'am.

Rebecca held the door open as a young man in a white jacket wheeled in the liquor tray and expertly fixed the proper drinks for the staff. Scotch for General Morton, bourbon for General Longstreet, and Bushmills for General Budreau. Peter sipped water and Rebecca and Tremane both had white wine.

Budreau sipped his Irish whiskey and nodded. That's good. You know what gets my goat? Seeing those boys getting heckled like that when they got off those planes. Maybe we should let them carry their guns home.

Brings back bad memories, Longstreet said, sipping his bourbon. Remember that, Zack?

General Morton nodded sadly. Yes. I remember our people coming home from Viet Nam and arriving in San Francisco, he said, a bitter edge to his voice. I remember those brave young soldiers, getting off that plane, proudly wearing their uniforms, and all those people gathered there to greet them. Not with flowers and cheers, though, remember?

I do, General, Peter said softly. They were spit upon. Everyone who got off the plane wearing a uniform was spit upon. I remember because my father was one of them.

They spit on the coffins, too, General Budreau said bitterly. And they called the troops baby killers, he added.

They did it because it was trendy, fashionable in those days to oppose the war, Rebecca Samuels interjected. And they did it because they didn't have anything better to do, like attend class or report to a job.

General Morton nodded solemnly. I think they did it because they were too ignorant to understand that they were welcoming home heroes. The brave people they were spitting on were the very people who had been fighting, suffering and dying to preserve those punks' freedom to do so. He sat up, leaned his elbows on the table and looked around at his staff.

That was Hortense Hamilton Preston's group of liberal fanatics, he went on. When she led the opposition to the Iraq war six years ago, she was reliving her glorious hippie days at Berkeley when she and her drug-addled friends showed up at the San Francisco airport almost daily to spit on returning servicemen. The general's face took on a grim look. This country is sick and tired of the old liberal sophism. We need to remind the American public of what this president stands for. What she has always stood for.

The pendulum is swinging our way in the country, General, Peter observed. I think the pullout in Iraq, the manner in which President Preston has conducted herself in the face of the chaos and sectarian violence which has engulfed that country, plus her failure to connect with the people on a personal basis have all affected her ability to lead. Even the people in her own party are distancing themselves from her.

Because they want to be reelected, Rebecca said. Or hope to be.

Who can blame them? Peter asked. President Preston has made one huge blunder after another. We have illegals marching in our streets, demanding amnesty and access to entitlements. The United Nations spits on us every chance they get. They are debating a resolution that would eliminate the state of Israel's representation in that body, while they put despots like Assad of Syria and Khomeini of Iran on the Human Rights Commission. They are now demanding that the United States foot more of the bill for the operation of the UN. That body has been corrupt for years. One of the previous secretary generals started it all by siphoning off UN funds for his family's use. President Preston has crippled the border patrol and the National Guard. She has gutted the military. The rate of inflation is higher than it has been since Jimmy you-know-who and interest rates are rising like an angry tide. She has wasted billions in resources on her idiotic panel to develop a comprehensive health care plan, and has produced nothing but a bunch of excuses from incompetent and self-serving individuals who seem to think it is their right to waste taxpayers' money. She has supported the liberal agenda in our public schools. Our education system is worse now than it was before her election. Moreover, this political correctness thing has completely gotten out of hand. We are in trouble here, sir, and we need you in the White House.

General Morton, ever stoic, ran his hand over his close-cropped graying hair and looked up at Peter with clear, sharp blue eyes. His granite-like face was set tight as he processed everything Peter had said.

All of that is true, of course, the general agreed. But there is more to it than that. Our interests around the world are being challenged every day by any petty autocrat who gets a bug up his butt. He stood and began pacing the room.

We're talking about pride. We must restore America's pride. Our so-called allies are hedging their bets. President Preston is making America look like a toothless tiger. He stopped pacing and turned to look into the eyes of his advisors. We are going to put the teeth back into the tiger.

The room grew quiet, everyone alone with his own thoughts. Each realized that the current state of the union could not be allowed to continue. Dangerous grumblings had been heard all over the world, insinuating that America's days as a shining city on the hill were over. Now she was vulnerable. Now was the time to attack and destroy her. Radical Muslim organizations were emboldened by the weakness of the American president. Attacks had escalated all over the world and inside the country. In mosques all over the land, militant Muslim cells were planning to create chaos in every major city, knowing that the Americans had neither the will nor the resolve to stop it. It was their time at last, they argued, to turn the United States into the respectful Muslim-led country it should be. Those who became Muslims could live in relative peace under the law of Shari 'ah. Those who did not would forfeit their lives.

We're going to need some teeth, General Longstreet said, breaking the silence. The war on terror must also be a priority.

The war on terror, Tremane squeaked, must be addressed at the most local level. It will coincide with our immigration reform efforts. He smiled a cadaverous smile. Rebecca thought he looked like a corpse.

And that's the third prong of our battle plan, General Morton explained. Within a year of our inauguration, all three of these plans of attack will be well under way. The American people will be see the progress being made in the midterm elections two years later, and we will garner even more seats in Congress. The Supreme Court will, by that time, be on board and then...then, gentlemen. and lady. He smiled at Rebecca. We will have the ability to make some serious changes in our country's course.

I'll drink to that, General Budreau said, downing his Bushmills. He never had more than one. I better get back to work.

General Morton stood, indicating the meeting was over. The participants gathered up their paperwork and left one by one. General Budreau stopped outside the door and examined Staff Sergeant Ostini, who stood a full foot taller than the general.

Where are you from, Staff Sergeant?

Lompoc, California, sir.

Lom-poke? I always thought it was pronounced Lom-pock. Many people make that mistake, sir.

General Budreau chuckled. Yes, I suppose they do. He nodded his head up and down as he appraised Sergeant Ostini appreciatively. You are one squared-away Marine, Ostini.

Semper fi, sir.

The general nodded again. Hoo-rah. He turned and walked down the hallway, a proud smile on his face.

Rebecca was the last to leave, supervising the removal of the liquor tray and the cleaning of the boardroom. She closed the door and looked up at Sergeant Ostini.

Well, Ed, she teased, you missed a good party. She poked him in the ribs and giggled. His eyes never wavered as he stared straight ahead. Rebecca smiled sweetly at him and headed down the hall.

Staff