Migration—A Consequence of Color: Book 1: Beginnings

Copyright © 2015 J. Murray.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-6949-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-6951-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-6950-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015908881

iUniverse rev. date: 8/21/2015

Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Epilogue

Appendix

About the Author

This book is

dedicated to Roz, Alex and Nikkie.

Without the daily support, suggestions and love, this would not have been possible.

Acknowledgments

I would first like to thank my mother and father, John and Lavender Murray. Providing the love and support necessary to ensure that I reached adulthood and to thrive was, I’m sure, challenging, but they succeeded beyond measure and I cannot fully express my gratitude and love with any of the words that I know. My wife, Roselyn, was there from the beginning when the idea was simply that, a thought. She helped me shepherd that thought into a few sentences and then into this wonderful combination of entertainment and dreams. My daughter, Nikkie, and my son, Alex, helped with the characters and gave them that youthful flavor and realism, and my sisters, Cassandra Bell and Michelle Artis, put in their two cents whenever possible, as sisters do.

I would also like to thank Stacey Kucharik, Marlon MacAllister, Sharon Honeycutt, and Judy Lillibridge for their tireless work in editing and questioning the monstrosity that was initially laid on their doorstep. They turned the ugly duckling of a first-time amateur writer into a swan, and any errors that snuck past their precise eyes were cleverly disguised and entirely my own fault.

I would be remiss if I didn’t offer a few kind words to the numerous friends along the way that contributed to the story in front of you. They included Kentry Kinard, Rob Gillligan, Anais Jojic, the gang taking the VRE to Washington D.C. in the morning, and Jumani Salim out in Texas. Kirika Mugo, a new friend, has already offered enough ideas to fill another book and so I’m mentioning him as well.

Lastly, I would like to give a shout out to my brother-in-law, Joseph Bowling, who contributed so much that I named a character after him.

Others supported the project in so many ways and I will make sure that I mention them by name in book two, or book three…

Prologue

Clifton

Fairfax County, Virginia

March 12, 2049

The cricket’s shrill cries cut through the night air. As the silhouette crouched nearby, its vague form appeared more like the merging of adjacent shadows than the outline of a man.

The shadow placed his hands in front of his face and could barely discern their outline in the darkness. Perfect. His old special operations instructor used to say, Make the night your own, and Geert DeWitt excelled at it. The elite Special Forces of the Royal Netherlands Army, the Korps Commandotroepen, or KCT, had taught him well.

Fairfax County, Virginia. At sixty-five degrees, the temperature was uncharacteristically warm for March. Geert loved the action and, like a mailman, could deliver in rain, snow, or sleet if necessary.

After probing for any movement, Geert crept toward the back door to the garage of the large Tudor-style house. Thirty feet away from the entrance, he paused, scouting for outside surveillance equipment. His intelligence report indicated that surveillance security would not be in place yet, and, for once, it appeared that the intelligence geeks were accurate. This same report mentioned that the owner did not have an operational legacy setup, so there wouldn’t be a previous system around to trip him up.

Geert continued on his circuitous path toward the door until he sensed motion on the right. He froze. It seemed too subtle to be an animal. His gut said there were others outside tonight, and he always trusted his gut. As a Special Forces operator, doubting your instincts was an efficiency killer.

There, at the corner of the house! Geert silently moved to his right to get a better view around a trimmed English box hedge. A one-man roving security patrol. Probably more of them inside, but how many? He knew the protective force would not have left the principal alone, but he had no idea how many—a gaping hole in his knowledge. Knowing that most plans do not survive first contact with the enemy, Geert remained calm and decided to go to work.

He continued to move right along the bushes until he came to the end of the hedgerow. The security detail continued slowly tracking left in front of Geert’s position, shining his flashlight in various directions. This placed the target ten feet away and left his back exposed as he passed.

Geert, still in a crouch, cleared the bushes, quietly reached down on his right thigh, and slid his black Ka-Bar knife out of its sheath. His blade pointing forward in his hand, he carefully stalked his target. The worst thing would be to alert the man to his presence. He couldn’t afford for this to turn into a fight.

Quick and smooth. Let’s not screw this up.

Geert mirrored the guard’s movement, edging closer with each step. When he got within a few feet, he whipped his gloved left hand out and around to cover the man’s mouth. Pulling the unbalanced sentry back against his chest, Geert thrust the serrated-edged blade into the base of the skull precisely at the junction where the head meets the neck. A quarter turn of the knife was all it took. Like flipping a switch. The sentry lived. Click. The sentry died. Geert held on to the man for a second longer to ensure that there was no doubt. When the lifeless man’s sphincter muscle relaxed, the stench wafted up to Geert’s nostrils, and he reflexively scrunched his nose in protest.

The body sagged, a mass of dead weight, and Geert caught him around the chest to prevent him from crashing to the ground. He quietly dragged the body behind a stand of bushes, extracted the bloody knife, and wiped it on the dead man’s suit jacket before calmly sliding it back into its sheath.

Someone might notice their missing man or inquire about his patrol status. Since Geert didn’t know the communication patterns set up for the security detail, the mission clock started now.

Intuiting no additional security presence, he maneuvered his muscular frame against the house next to the back door of the garage. As luck would have it, the door opened. There wasn’t even a lock. Geert shook his head in wonderment at the weak security. A fair number of Clifton residents had fences and gates, dogs, and electronic surveillance, but as a consequence, they became lax about locking every door and window of the residence itself.

He pulled his silenced Glock out of its customized holder under his left arm and slid into the garage, smoothly shutting the door behind him. Geert immediately crouched and listened as he regained his bearings.

Peering into the dimly lit garage as his eyes adjusted, he identified the vehicles inside, which confirmed additional security personnel. Damn!

A second car, a black Suburban-H SUV with Federal Protective Service insignia, sat alongside the target’s hover Mercedes. Look at this! Machine-gun ports, bulletproof glass, armor….

His intelligence briefing mentioned that there might be one or two technical advisors with a special agent on-site, but not much more than that. Now, the best-case scenario contained a minimum of at least four agents since that Suburban battlewagon never carried fewer than three.

The old, familiar mission profile questions bubbled up to the surface. How many are here? Where are they? Geert had no idea, and he frowned as the mission quickly turned into a trial-and-error assignment. A mission with improvised planning was right up there with underestimating your opponent and could quickly send an operator home in a box. Considering the high likelihood of death if he had to tell his handler that he failed, Geert decided to focus on the only option available. Less stealth, more speed and accuracy. Just take ’em down when I see ’em. What choice do I have?

As he slowly edged toward the door leading to the mudroom, Geert had the sense this night’s events would send ripples far beyond his control or understanding. He decided that he couldn’t help that and would leave it for his benefactor to ponder. Taking a deep breath, he reinforced his grip on the Glock 17M and slowly turned the doorknob, silenced pistol at the ready.

*     *     *

Jason Small strutted into the kitchen and moved directly to the refrigerator. As usual at this time of night, he went looking for a little snack before refocusing on the Washington Post on the full-wall screen in his office. Along with The New York Times and the Wall Street Journal, they represented his trio of mandatory daily reading material. He called them the big three, and perusing their articles was his preferred method of relaxation in the evening. He needed the relaxation today.

So, the media have proclaimed 2049 as The Dawn of the New Majority, thought Jason, recalling the Post article. The news media focused on the subject in their latest cycles, and it became the broadcasters’ favorite euphemism for the year in which minorities in the United States outnumbered whites. Funny, it certainly doesn’t feel like it. He thought about the phone call he’d had earlier and wondered if he should think about things differently now. "There definitely has been a lot of change lately," Jason whispered to himself.

Even though the long-awaited promotion to partner occurred eons ago, it still remained fresh in his mind since he and Brenda celebrated the new lifestyle for so long. Then White House Chief of Staff David Paine contacted Jason a month ago with an inquiry into his life plans. David disguised his real motive by treating the conversation as a simple, congratulatory call about Jason’s birthday. Not until Calvin Tobias Jackson, the president of the United States, reached out this morning did Jason understand the magnitude and purpose of David’s earlier query.

Jason’s father, Jacob Small, and President Jackson had been good friends since they were Harvard students together. Their friendship continued as freshman senators from Illinois and Virginia. Calvin Jackson had visited Jason’s parents’ home often enough as a senator that Jason could say he knew the president personally. Still, it was totally unexpected to receive a direct call from the leader of the free world outside his father’s orbit.

Well, Bob, I guess timing’s everything, huh? asked Jason as he picked up and nuzzled Brenda’s British Shorthair grey cat.

The cat relaxed a bit and purred, and as Jason dropped him back on the ground, he hurried to his bowl. Jason brought over some cat food that resembled beef stew and spooned it in. Wow, I must really be hungry, Jason said aloud. This stuff actually smells pretty decent.

Chuckling to himself, Jason washed his hands and finished placing smoked salmon slivers on a few Watercress crackers. Carrying a full glass of Chardonnay with his snack, he headed back to his office. Approaching the den, he looked in and continued to marvel at the variety of security equipment. One-inch magnifying cameras and their flat-wall monitors, wireless integrated motion detectors, discrete microphones, cloud recorders, proximity sensors, and every other conceivable tracking device were laid out to be installed. The men responsible for physical security from the Federal Protective Service were reviewing protocol while the FPS technicians were busy stripping and cutting wires to be used for the surveillance equipment.

How’re things going? Jason asked the nearest agent.

We’re making good progress. By this time tomorrow, the final deployment phase can start, but before we leave tonight, a few of the monitoring systems will be online. It won’t take us much longer to complete what we have to do. As the senior man on the team, the marshal was the only agent that spoke.

The agents didn’t appear to be pissed off about working late. Jason had received word that they were coming only a few hours ago, but he accepted it. Luckily, Brenda had taken a business trip and would be gone for the next week. Although ecstatic when she heard about the offer from the president, her mood would have changed had she found out that all of these men were traipsing through her house, her bedroom included. To keep the peace, Jason didn’t mention that part.

Your name is Hodges, right? If your guys get a little hungry and want a snack or something, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m betting that listening to stomach growls on your sophisticated equipment wouldn’t be good, joked Jason.

Sure thing, Hodges said as he smiled. We’ll contact you if we need anything. Thanks for offering. The technicians appeared to stay totally focused and completely oblivious to the conversation. They didn’t even bother to raise their heads from whatever they were doing.

Jason left the den and continued down the hall to his office. Sports memorabilia from his college days filled the space, even though intramural pickup games in basketball had been his only real sports participation. At six feet and relatively healthy, he could hold his own on the court and enjoyed his unofficial trophies of a worn basketball, large foam pointed finger, and school pictures with his friends.

Except for the wall hosting the massive 4D TV, bookshelves lined the remaining space, jam-packed with Jason’s law books and the hardcover novels that he still enjoyed when he found the time.

Monitor for reading, Jason said aloud as he dropped into the leather chair at his desk. The internal house computer found and tracked his retinal movements, altering the TV screen content through the Washington Post articles. Jason traced down to where an editorial detailed the latest majority/minority census figures.

After all our time in this country, African Americans still don’t make up more than 14 percent of the population. Incredible, thought Jason as he read to himself. I’d have thought we would’ve gotten to 20 percent at least. I guess that’s another example of The Man holding us back. Even banging is under lockdown! Jason laughed aloud and continued reading while crunching on his salmon-covered cracker.

Jason’s eye movement forced the next article to scroll into view. Hmm, increased violence in Fairfax County over last year’s figures. I hope it doesn’t make its way into Clifton.

*     *     *

Geert turned the knob leading into the mudroom, slowly opened the door, and peered inside. The light automatically came on and he spun, startled. Damn automated systems. Looking around, Geert took in his surroundings. Nothing except a few lockers, dirty boots, and hooks with muddy sweaters and jackets. He walked to the door at the far end of the tiny room and paused to pick up any sounds coming from the kitchen. The delay allowed his eyes to fully adjust to the light. Once I open that door, I have to be ready for anything.

Geert didn’t hesitate this time. He opened the door and quickly stepped through the lit kitchen, moving in a clipped rhythm. A grey cat was eating something out of a bowl on the floor. He walked past the refrigerator, skirted the center island, and continued toward the first light down the hallway to the right.

With the gun always pointing in the direction that he looked, Geert expended a minimal amount of effort as he shuffled forward, eventually hearing voices as he neared the first doorway.

We’ll give him a few more minutes to check in. I’m not expecting any issues. Nobody knows we’re here except for the Secret Service and our guys.

Okay, sounds like a pl—

Before the man could complete the sentence, Geert rounded the corner of the doorframe and put a bullet into the side of his head. Brains and blood flew against the wall as his head lurched sideways from the impact of the nine-millimeter round. A muffled but deadly pfftt came from the Glock’s silencer.

As quickly as humanly possible, Geert twisted to the right and fired rounds into the remaining three people. The shot placement on the second marshal especially pleased Geert; the round hit Hodges dead center in his forehead. He collapsed straight to the floor in a heap. Both technicians had their backs turned to him and were too slow to react properly to the threat. They died without fully turning around. Geert put a final shot into their heads as he stood over the bodies.

Four in six seconds, eight bullets. Hell, I think that’s a new record, even for me. He smiled at his efficiency.

Geert quietly reloaded a fresh magazine. He left the room and proceeded farther down the hall toward the office. I hope he’s there. This house is too damn big for hide-and-seek. Geert reached the office door on the left side of the hallway and listened for movement. Good. He slowly eased the door open, walked into the office, and pointed his handgun right at Jason’s head.

*     *     *

Jason thought he heard something hitting the floor but didn’t think too much of it. He figured one of the guys must have dropped something.

But then Jason heard another sound similar to the first, and a steady tinkling of metal hitting the wood floor. He stood up and stared at the door, somewhat concerned, and then outright alarmed as a large white man with dead eyes strolled into the office.

The man looked like a Viking in SWAT gear and definitely didn’t work with the Federal Protective Service. He was well built with a scraggly beard and a scar down the right side of his face. He wore black camouflage clothes with a black tactical vest and a knife attached to his right thigh.

He pointed a gun at Jason.

What the hell? Who are you? What are you doing? I have security here in the house! What do you want?

What do I want? Your life, boy. But don’t worry. It’s for a great cause, Geert said in a deep, scratchy voice.

Geert DeWitt fired three rounds point-blank into the face of the next attorney general of the United States.

Acknowledging the complete loss of contact with Jason’s shredded retina, the computer chirped in a female voice Jason had personalized to his tastes, Eye contact terminated.

You got that right, Geert said aloud. Stepping gingerly so that he didn’t track any blood back through the house, Geert collected his spent shell casings from the office and the den. He hadn’t thought to attach a small bag to capture ejected shells, and it pissed him off a little, but it satisfied him to know that he didn’t leave any evidence that would directly implicate him.

For his final task, he reached into a vest pocket and extracted a small can of black spray paint. After scrawling a racist message on the office wall, Geert retraced his steps, exited through the back door of the garage, and merged again with the darkness.

Chapter 1

Arlington National Cemetery

Arlington, Virginia

March 21, 2049

Arlington National Cemetery. The name conjured up memories of John F. Kennedy’s casket-laden wagon trailed by the mourning contingent, representative of an entire nation of lost hopes and dreams. The twin, emotional echoes of grief and sorrow penetrated the graves equally, from ancient wars such as the American Civil War, to the dead and honored from the latest conflict, the Iran Uprising of 2042.

The cemetery grounds had been expanded twice to accommodate the increasing number of final resting placements, and they now contained the newest grave for forty-four-year-old Jason Christopher Small.

A deep voice cut through the cool, crisp morning air. An advocate for the downtrodden and the poor, Jason Small respected his fellow man and sought to assist those in need. Wise beyond his young years, it is with great sadness that he did not have the opportunity to show the world his ideas or realize his potential. The Lord called Jason home way too soon, and he will not be forgotten. Bless Jason in his new life in God’s Kingdom, and God bless these United States of America. President Calvin Tobias Jackson concluded his eulogy, signaling the somber wail of Taps to be played for the melancholy assembly.

A single tear rolled down the president’s mocha cheek as memories of his best friend’s only child rose to the surface. As the coffin descended into the earth, a holographic image of Jason’s face projected above the site. Calvin hugged Jacob, whom he loved like a brother, and told him of his sorrow. After the embrace, Calvin wiped his eyes and then looked around for any potential microphones. He whispered into Jacob’s ear, No father should have to bury his child. We’re going to get the sons of bitches that did this. I promise you.

Jacob nodded. President Jackson gathered his wife, Stephanie, and together they moved to console Jason’s wife and his mother.

With a former senator for a father and having been tapped as the next attorney general, Jason Small’s service drew a diverse crowd at Washington Cathedral and in Arlington, a mixture of his family and friends, law practice associates, clients, various cabinet members, and members of Congress, not to mention Vice President Joanne Benedict, Secretary of State Ruth Meynard, and various other department heads. Chief of Staff David Paine was also there. No one smiled.

The senators and congressmen and women knew and had worked with Jacob. They had witnessed Jason’s growth from grade school through his college years and into a professional career, and began the process of lining up to pay their respects to Jason’s wife and family. To no one’s surprise, Republican Speaker of the House John Saxby was moving quickly and pushing forward to be near the front. Kyle Griffin, his young, ever-present staff aide, accompanied him.

We’re so sorry for your loss today, said a publicly contrite Saxby as Kyle looked on. Jason’s wife and parents were still exchanging hugs with President Jackson and each other, but they thanked the Speaker and the staffer for their kind wishes.

Having performed his obligatory duty and looking to quickly resume a routine, Saxby, with Kyle in tow, left the group, said goodbye to a few other popular or powerful government officials, and avoided the press. The distant location of the auto-hover limo’s parking spot highlighted their late arrival at the cemetery, and it encouraged the Speaker to increase his pace.

What a waste of the taxpayers’ money, Saxby croaked when he knew they were far enough away from the crowd and the mics. I’m as sorry as the next guy, but this goddamned funeral probably cost a few million dollars, with all the Secret Service and press running around! Taking the president down the damned street for lunch these days could fund a school for about six months! And the worst part is that it’s all for some black man who hadn’t even been through the confirmation hearings yet! I only came because it would’ve looked bad if I didn’t, his father being an ex-senator and all. Un-fucking-believable!

Kyle, rather tired of hearing his boss rant and rave, couldn’t care less what Senator Saxby really thought about most things. He silently wished he’d accepted the staff job with Senator Hollins of Maryland, but his father, a Republican and a prominent businessman, talked him into joining the Speaker’s staff, under the guise of learning more.

Kyle, who deeply regretted having listened to the prevailing logic, quietly shook his head at what the Senator stated and gave a lackluster response of Yup.

White House

Oval Office

Washington, DC

March 21, 2049

Returning to the White House with Stephanie and his chief of staff, President Jackson parted ways with both, immediately strolled into the Oval Office, and stated clearly for the virtual network to initiate a holographic session with Benjamin Hilliard, the director of the FBI. Calvin knew that Ben would head to his own office after the funeral, and Ben, or Big Ben as his friends called him, would be expecting contact. The computer constructed the 3-D image of Ben just above the surface of the president’s desk.

Intelligent and well-liked by the cabinet members and the media alike, Ben carried his mother’s fair complexion and dirty-blond hair, maintained in a short but precise hairstyle that some considered military-approved. At well over six and a half feet, Ben was one of the largest men Calvin knew. His moniker, referencing Parliament’s tower in London, was apropos.

Through the years of schooling and government work, Ben remained a key member of the president’s inner circle. The close-knit group that met at Harvard consisted of Calvin Jackson, Jacob Small, Ben Hilliard, Brandon Yoshikawa, and Stanley Rodriguez. Each had been successful in his own area of expertise, and it had been an easy decision for Calvin to include them in his first administration without appearing to be stacking the deck with no-talent friends. The group’s diversity didn’t hurt matters either and served to buttress their congressional approval. Commonly referred to as the Rainbow Coalition Revisited, Calvin and Jacob were African American; Stanley, the second Hispanic attorney general; Ben, Caucasian and now considered a minority; and Brandon, the first secretary of Homeland Security with a Japanese heritage.

Ben, what the heck’s going on with the investigation? Calvin stated as the holographic construct of the director filled up a portion of space on top of the president’s desk. Calvin knew as soon as he saw his friend’s pained expression that his phrasing was too direct and perhaps a bit too harsh. But Calvin wanted answers, wanted to get to the bottom of what happened, especially in light of telling Jacob that he’d find the bastards that killed his son.

Well, as you know, we’ve kept some of the details out of the papers regarding the racist messages that were spray-painted on the walls, but recently confirmed evidence supports the theory of a small assassination team—probably just a single shooter.

How do you know that? the president asked.

Well, we know this because we were able to determine that the bullet fragments were from a single weapon, which eliminates your normal gang-level event. Gangs aren’t sophisticated enough to carry out something like this and would’ve brought in more triggermen to get the job done. Another key bit of evidence is the autopsy result highlighting the method used to kill the FPS agent found outside. A professional hit all the way, which on its face, didn’t jive with the spray-painted messages.

Okay, so what does this boil down to? the president asked as he moved forward in his chair.

For starters, the shooter didn’t care if we recognized it as a professional hit. He was careful enough to remove his spent brass, making it harder to identify what weapons were used, but at the same time, he killed the agent in the yard using a method very few people are capable of. That speaks to the level of training involved, and it leads in specific directions. Some Special Forces units use that method, plus they’re the only ones that shoot that damn well under pressure. Agent Hodges died from a perfect forehead shot, probably while reacting to the threat. Now, where it gets more interesting is the combination of the timing of the attack, the method of death for the agent in the yard, and the overt racism. Usually these elements don’t show up in the same package. All of these facts lead to a single conclusion. Ultimately, it was made to look like an inside job. Ben looked at the desktop in his office, as if searching for a better way to communicate what he implied. What I’m saying is that the attackers wanted us to believe that someone sanctioned the assassination, perhaps even from our own government, and by scrawling racist remarks on the wall, they were publicizing their ideology. Jason died specifically because of his African American heritage.

Bullshit! Calvin couldn’t stop the word from coming out of his mouth, even though he thought about it before saying it. You’re telling me it’s target practice on African American cabinet members—perhaps even by folks from our own government? In 2049?

Well, like I said, the timing of the hit is leading us in that direction.

I don’t follow you. That’s the second time that you referenced the timing. What’s relevant about the timing? the president asked as he shrugged.

Ben linked his underlying facts so that Calvin could see the full picture. "The first point. Bottom line, if they wanted to kill Jason for some other reason, they could have done it a while ago. As a normal citizen, they could have gotten to him at any time. As it turns out, you made up your mind to pick him for attorney general on March 12th, the day of the attack, but you never made it public knowledge. In my mind, that leaves out a random hit. It’s just too coincidental.

Second point, Ben continued. "As soon as you signed the papers, the ball got rolling with the Federal Protective Service, and that night the agents were providing him with the initial components of a state-of-the-art home-security system. The assailant somehow knew of your decision. That left the night of March 12th as the night to kill Jason before the security and surveillance were in place.

"The third point. They had to receive some inside intelligence to even target Jason in the first place. They had to know about your bid to make him attorney general, along with the information necessary to pull it off—they had to know that the FPS were going to be providing protection.

Last point. Nobody moves that fast and is able to deploy such a capable elimination asset unless they’re pulled from the CIA, DHS, military, or are privately contracted.

All of which leave out anything random, just as you said, Calvin repeated. When you lay it out like that, it makes perfect sense, and now I understand about the graffiti too. They really were serious. They did this because they have an issue with black folks, especially in the president’s cabinet.

Ben nodded. Precisely. At least that’s the way it reads to me and my colleagues right now.

Okay, so now that you’ve gotten this far, who did it?

Ben didn’t mince words. No idea. We had to start with, ‘Who knew about your official decision to make Jason attorney general?’ Whoever knew that had to be in on setting it up. It could have even been an indirect news leak. Nobody would have known to target Jason specifically on March 12th without that bit of information.

I see your point, said Calvin. Luckily, the list isn’t that long. I spoke to you about it earlier. I mentioned it to Jacob too. I called him before I called his son to offer him the job. Then I spoke to David about it. As White House chief of staff, he would start the process of coordinating the pre-hearing spin. Next, I chatted with Stanley as the current attorney general, and I spoke with Speaker Saxby last. I wanted to get an idea where his pain points were and feel him out to see whether it would be a difficult congressional hearing from the Republican viewpoint.

Ugh! That short prick, Saxby! Every time I think of that pasty-faced bugger I feel like I need to take a shower! Ben groaned as he mimicked shivering.

A wry smile crossed Calvin’s lips. So I’m not the only one …. Calvin sadly trailed off his last thought, remembering the subject matter and the events of the day. Do you really think that John could’ve been in on it in some kind of way?

Frankly, I wouldn’t put it past him. Everyone on the Hill knows that he’s less than pleased with African American progress and would love to turn back the clock a few hundred years.

Probably more than a few hundred if you ask me, the president quipped.

Yeah, well, I bet it burns his guts out every time he sees you—especially since it was his butt that you kicked in the last election. It certainly didn’t go over well with his old boys’ club electorate. In his mind, the worst thing that could possibly happen occurred when the butt-kicking took place so publicly, and at the hands of a tall, charismatic, articulate black man.

Yeah, well, don’t forget intelligent, Calvin happily volunteered.

I didn’t forget, Ben said with that same dry wit and poker face that came to him so naturally in college.

You better watch out. I know your boss, Calvin said.

Ben gave a sly smile. He’d achieved his goal.

Okay, Calvin added getting serious again. I’ll let you get back to doing what you were doing before I interrupted. Find the ones responsible for this, Ben. If we don’t get to the bottom of this—and soon—your head is probably going to be the first one folks yell for. And I may have to give it to them, Calvin sadly thought as his shoulders slumped a little.

I will, Mr. President. I want them as badly as you do. We all knew Jason.

Okay. I’ll check in with you later, the president said as he ended the call. The virtual meeting session ended and the director’s 3-D image construct faded.

Calvin sat back in his chair, contemplating what the murder could really mean.

Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of the Congo

Prime Minister’s Residence

March 22, 2049

The rather sizable man put the phone down and stared at it like it had accosted him. His meaty hand wiped his oily forehead, and his dark skin glistened under the shine of the bright lights in the great room. Thomas Milango, the prime minister of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, sat stunned.

In his gated house near the presidential compound, Thomas had answered the phone himself, which was not unusual for the middle of the day on a Saturday. However, the incredible information his investigative team leader had just passed on to him made the phone call special. His informant, a respected member of the Congolese National Police, detailed the discovery of a mass grave in South Kivu, the eastern-most province. The gravesite contained up to two thousand mutilated corpses—men, women, and children.

South Kivu had witnessed similar slaughter before. Considering the history that the DRC had endured, this recent discovery would not move the collective-conscience needle one bit. But this gravesite had not originated decades ago in some historical Congo war; it was only a few days old. The bodies were only now beginning to putrefy in the humid weather.

Thomas could not comprehend yet another massacre, especially in these times. I lost my only son to this same ugliness. Haven’t we learned our lessons yet? What makes these rebels believe that this is normal behavior?

After a few minutes of prayer and silent contemplation, Thomas called Christian Makelo, his diminutive chief of staff, to inform him of the findings. Thomas valued Christian’s mind, especially as a third-generation lawyer from a family of chiefs of staff going back to the presidency of Laurent Kabila, decades earlier. Even so, neither man needed law nor any vast business experience to understand what occurred. This kind of activity was all too familiar, and catastrophe always followed in its wake.

Another play for control of the