The Generals of October

By John T. Cullen

The Generals of October--a political suspense thriller centered on two young Army officers who uncover a plot to seize power in the U.S.--anticipates the worst U.S. crisis since the Civil War. And it’s right around the corner, as vivid as tomorrow’s scary headlines.

This is not some wild, imaginary tale. There is a ticking time bomb in the U.S. Constitution, called Article V, which one day soon will spawn a nightmare that has been more than two centuries in the making.

Young Army officers David Gordon and Victoria ‘Tory’ Breen must unravel a conspiracy of the treasonous Hotel Generals, who plan to hijack the Second Constitutional Convention (CON2). David and Tory must bring together the forces of tradition and reason—and help restore the original and true U.S. Constitution.

Cpt. David Gordon is on a military intelligence mission, under cover as an Inspector General officer. Lt. Tory Breen is Executive Officer of the most ultra-secret military computer operations unit in the nation’s capital. As prelude to a coup, her unit is highjacked by military extremists for a take-over of the United States, using CON2 as a Trojan Horse. One of her chief NCOs disappears—and may be brutally murdered by the extremist commandos of a long-dormant Government of Occupation reserve unit. Tory and David are sucked into the undercurrent of an investigation that leads to the coup plotters. The conspiracy bears the code name Operation Ivory Baton—and an image of Napoleon I, astride a horse, waving his imperial baton.

Such U. S. military organizations are real. They exist in a gray network of shadowy, little-known reserve units. They were originally intended for U.S. forces occupying conquered foreign nations, like Germany after Hitler, but now they are employed to help the military govern a post-Constitutional U.S.

Along the way, David and Tory fall in love. If their passionate but scattered wartime romance is to thrive, they must solve a terrible personal secret from her past life.

This is the first book (fiction or nonfiction) to really think through a lot of the major issues. The government will be crippled overnight as the Constitution is so weakened as to be constructively suspended. The delegates will have a form of diplomatic immunity, putting them above the law (which is based on the old, crippled Constitution), and run wild. And then there are the Generals of October, who restore order by forcing their own unbending, tyrannical document on a nation exhausted by civil war.

Several leading law school libraries have accepted this book for their reference collections--a rare honor for a work of fiction that hits home and is the most important thriller since Seven Days in May and The Manchurian Candidate.

The time for CON2 is rapidly approaching, given the current climate of incivility, partisan destructiveness, and media brawling. The Generals of October is both a rousing, entertaining thriller, and a cautionary tale. The recipe for doom is right there, enshrined in the U.S. national contract.

Can today’s shallow, self-interested politicians really do better than the Framing Fathers who created our fundamental national document during the (First) Constitutional Convention, in Philadelphia, during the long hot summer of 1787?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clocktower Books
• Release date: Feb 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9780743312646

John T. Cullen

John T. Cullen is a San Diego author of both fiction and nonfiction. He lives with his wife, son, and cat in the 1870s town of Grantville, within San Diego city limits. Find more information at his author website (www.johntcullen.com). His nonfiction specialties include history and science writing. With the nonfiction book Dead Move: Kate Morgan and the Haunting Mystery of Coronado (2008) he became the first researcher to plausibly explain the 1892 true crime at the Hotel del Coronado, which gave rise to one of the nation's premier ghost legends (erroneously called that of Kate Morgan). More on this below. He is the author of an acclaimed virtual tour of ancient Rome, titled A Walk in Ancient Rome (first authorized edition due out 2015 from Clocktower Books). His fiction includes historical (The Spy's Daughter, Lethal Journey) and suspense thrillers (Doctor Night, Vanished Flight 777). His political thriller Autumn of the Republic is a thriller and thought experiment based on the terrifying premise: "What if we invoked Article V of the U.S. Constitution and called a Second Constitutional Convention (CON2) to revise or even discard the 1787 Constitution?" His novel, written as an entertaining thriller, is the first book to actually think through many of the details and ramifications; it has been adopted by several major university law school libraries as hypothetical reference material. Likewise, his acclaimed June 2014 novel Vanished Flight 777 is a thriller and thought experiment based on the premise that Malaysian Airlines Flight MH370 may not have crashed into the Indian Ocean, but was hijacked by Islamic terrorists, is being weaponized, and will be used in a horrifying attack that may trump those of 11 September 2001. Vanished Flight 777 is currently on an official recommended reading list for U.S. Navy personnel (Master Chief Petty Officer of the Navy's reading list) and is being considered for inclusion in other military and intelligence reading lists. He is recognized as an early pioneer in online science fiction publishing, both for his writing and publishing under the pseudonym John Argo, and for editing and publishing the acclaimed pioneering online speculative fiction magazine Deep Outside SFFH, later Far Sector SFFH (1998-2007). John T. Cullen is becoming known for his ground-breaking discoveries about the 1892 true crime at the Hotel del Coronado near San Diego. Like the Mission, this Hotel and Resort is a U.S. National Landmark. John is the first person to plausibly explain the ghost legend associated with the violent and mysterious death of the Beautiful Stranger at the hotel, thus solving a cold case well over a century old, even after it had been laid to a very uncertain and dubious rest. The author followed his true crime analysis with a noir period novel (Lethal Journey) that is very closely based on the true analysis in Dead Move. As a history writer and a transplanted European (born a U.S. citizen), John T. Cullen is intrigued by the venerable history of his U.S. home area. Humans have inhabited the San Diego region for well over 12,000 years. Europeans discovered the great natural harbor in 1542, calling it San Miguel. The San Diego name was given in 1602 by another Iberian explorer. Grantville was founded in the 1870s as a U.S. Civil War veterans' retirement town with its own mayor and post office. It was until the 1950s located among the dairy farms of Mission Valley near 1769's la Misión San Diego de Alcalá, (relocated from the Presidio area to Grantville in 1774). Grantville was swallowed up in the sprawling post-World War II expansion of San Diego and Southern California. The mission area, including central fountain amid then-ruins, is described in Richard Henry Dana's 1836 Two Years Before The Mast.

Book preview

Chapter 1

U.S. Vice President Louis Cardoza and the man licensed to kill him actually once came within 25 feet of each other. This happened at a reception in the White House, a year before the option needed to be exercised.

There was nothing accidental about this near-meeting.

It was a cold, calculated exercise by the Second Service, the shadowy intelligence arm of the equally shadowy government-in-waiting in Washington, to show that they could penetrate what they called the Rots at any level, any time, at will.

A preppy-dressing man of 35, Cover had a bland, unmemorably youthful face that could belong to any serious but impish graduate student, and could blossom into a warm if somehow distracted grin. His blond hair was cut short around the ears, and was already receding from his bulbous temple ridges. Only the thinning hair, a certain slouch when he relaxed, and hard lines around his eyes, gave away his real age. He preferred to wear custom eyeglasses with thin steel rims, because he could kill a man with them if all else failed.

At a reception in the East Room for diplomats and their wives, Cover posed as a Swedish correspondent. The Swedes were naive and open, and he slipped in among their party as they left their embassy for a row of limos. The Ambassador’s wife wore a leather coat and smelled of a faint, expensive violet perfume. Cover hovered by her side, speaking sufficient Swedish to impress her. When the Ambassador noticed, Cover smiled disarmingly, and the man nodded and smiled back with a bit of a confused look--was this an old friend whose name would come back to him? Cover nodded and smiled, and the Ambassador smiled back.

At the reception, Cover held a sturdy saucer in one hand and a steaming coffee cup in the other. A waitress in black, with white apron, offered miniature blintzes from a silver tray, and Cover accepted one. Behind the thin lenses, his eyes twinkled cornflower blue, and his cheeks dimpled in a smile. The woman gave him a lingering look of appreciation before moving on.

Cover sized up his man. The Vice President, Louis Cardoza, was a former boxer. Light-skinned for a Mexican-American, and sandy-haired with gray sidewalls at 48, Cardoza was movie-star handsome. Cardoza’s beautiful wife stayed by his side, a smallish brunette from immense old Anglo wealth, with a model’s picture-perfect face. She looked stunning in a little black dress that complemented her tanned, firm breasts and well-exercised thighs. Cover could easily understand the charm these people had upon a nation mired in the Second World Depression, with all its poverty, homelessness, crime, and despair. A nation waking up from nearly 200 years of uninterrupted rule by a two-party cabal that used billions of dollars of taxpayer money as a reelection slush fund each year--roads to nowhere, bridges over nothing, ships the Navy didn’t need, planes the Air Force didn’t want, to bring tax dollars to one’s district, and get votes--grand larceny, felony theft in Cover’s dictionary. He was reminded of the Romanovs--300 years in power, and nobody had believed there was any other way to rule the country. Soon, America would awaken from its long sleep.

Cover was a moral man. There was a job to do. Actually, these people were so pretty, he hoped they would not get in the way, because then he’d have to do fearsome things to them.

Wiping sugar dust from his lips as Louis Cardoza moved within 25 feet of him, Cover beamed. The Secret Service Rots hovering out of earshot from their man had no idea the Second Service was at all times moving among them, as Cover’s ideological arch-enemy Chairman Mao had said, ‘as a fish swims in the sea.’

One of them even brushed Cover’s sleeve, and mumbled, Excuse me.

Cover shrugged matter of factly, waving a napkin, and said: think nothing of it.

A year passed.

Chapter 2

Vice President Louis Cardoza received a visitor late one December evening at the Vice President’s House on Observatory Circle in Washington, D.C. The Secret Service detail did not detain the visitor long: Senator Donald Taunton, M-Va (Middle Class Party, Virginia). Taunton was an important committee Chairman. The Senator got out of his car and lumbered through the early dusting of snow on the asphalt driveway. Snow glittered yellow-orange under street lamps.

Meredith Cardoza and the children were at home--at the moment, the house was in an uproar because the Cardozas were getting ready for their annual Christmas vacation in the Cascades Mountains, courtesy the Middle Class Party. Party founder Robert Lee Hamilton had donated a large chalet there on private land to the Party Steering Committee, to be used for VIP vacations and various planning functions.

At three p.m., Senator Taunton rolled up in his black limousine. Meredith was chasing around the house after one or another of the children while maids scurried about and butler-types carried suitcases down into the garage.

Louis, wearing sweats and thick fur slippers, stepped down into the entrance way wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. Oh, Senator. I am just making applesauce pancakes at my daughter’s demand. He noticed that Taunton looked tense.

We need to talk, Louie. Taunton was a heavy set 70ish man with straight white hair that hung just over his ears without seeming messy or too long. As always, he wore conservative clothes--a dark suit and a white shirt, neither of which seemed to fit very well, and a dark red necktie.

Of course. Louis led him upstairs into his small library on the second floor. He waited until Taunton was inside before closing the thick, sound-proof door.

I know this is unexpected, Taunton said, shifting his bulk uncomfortably in a large, ugly brown leatherette easy chair that Louis hated and never used because it made his skin sticky.

Not at all, Senator. I appreciate your visit. He sat down and waited.

It became clear after a minute that Taunton was under some great stress. His skin was flushed, his breathing was thick, his eyes seemed wide and glazed.

Let me get you some water, Senator.

Yes, please.

Louis felt puzzled as he stepped to the wet bar, went through the motions, and handed a clean glass full of ice cubes and water, veiled in condensation, to Taunton. He noticed Taunton’s hands trembled as he coaxed a sip to his mouth.

Taunton nearly dropped the glass. He set it down abruptly and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Well, I’d better get to the point of my visit.

Louis plopped into his chair. Take your time.

There isn’t time. Taunton took a pair of heavy-rimmed glasses from his inside suit pocket. He fumbled with the glasses, opened them, propped them on his nose. You have to do something. He pulled some folded papers from his other inside suit pocket. A small recording disk fell out and rolled across the carpet.

You keep that, Taunton said sharply. It’s priceless information, but only if you act in time.

Senator, this is very puzzling. Louis scooped up the silvery plastic disk.

I know. Look at these papers. He extended the oft-folded sheets to Louis--three of yellow legal pad paper, three of standard letter size laser printout paper.

Louis glanced at the documents, some written, some typed. And this is--?

Taunton stirred in jerky motions, unable to settle down. Important enough, I think, that you go patch things up with your old party and get to the President. I think you’re the only one who might really make an impression on him. He likes you even if his party has you roasting slowly on a spit. Having spoken, the Senator fell back in a tired slump.

Louis read the documents slowly, and sat gaping as their significance became apparent to him. I have to say I agree with you, Senator, he said after a long silence.

Taunton said: I envy you, because you have been kept in the dark. You’re not part of this. I’m in over my head, and I didn’t realize how serious this was until I found out that I’ve outlived my usefulness. Hamilton’s not giving me another term. I’m out the door like a worn out shoe, and it makes me pretty bitter. But I’m beyond that now. He pointed to the documents. I got that through another member of a committee I belong to. My source is unimportant, because he was killed in a car crash this morning, and I don’t know if it was an accident.

Louis gasped. Senator, are we down to--?

Taunton nodded funereally. I’m afraid it’s come to that.

Then it is the moment truth, Louis said, setting his apron aside. Just as quickly he picked it up again and dabbed at the sweat on his forehead. He looked at the disk. Those are the names?

All of them, Taunton whispered. Every one of the top players.

Geez. Louis felt something icy in his gut.

Louie, Taunton wheezed, this is where you show your true colors.

Louis nodded. I thought I had it all under control. Turns out I was riding a tiger and didn't realize... He and the President were a split ticket, from opposing parties. He'd been isolated like a cyst within this Administration, which had gone its own way on most things.

Taunton chuckled darkly. Robert Lee Hamilton has kept us all walking into walls for too long. He referred to the founder and guiding light of the Middle Class Party, which had propelled Cliff Bradley into the Presidency. Louis was a New Democrat, and an uneasy fit the MCP's bridge between Old Conservatives and Moderate Republicans.

What will be the tipping point? Louis asked.

The Constitutional Convention, CON2, next year. First one was in 1787, and there hasn't been one since. Too risky. It's allowed per Article V, but theoretically the convention could rewrite the whole thing. The people on that list are going to strike during CON2.

Louis saw it now. Hamilton put bumbling old Cliff Bradley and me in office. He destroyed the Democratic and Republican Parties so he could put his Middle Class Party in place. But he's had bigger designs all along.

Taunton nodded. God help us all.

Louis lowered his face into his hands. He'd spent his life building his career to this point. He was the first Hispanic in the Executive, a heartbeat away from the Presidency. The President himself was n elderly caretaker pope with little personality, manipulated by his party and given to spending his days on the golf course. Louis had taken California by storm as a Hispanic, as a Progressive, riding hot on health care issues. He'd quit the Democrats and gone over to MCP at Robert Lee Hamilton's personal invitation. It had been a huge gamble, and it had seemed to pay off, but his term in Washington turned out to be stymied and powerless. It was a pivotal moment, when the Legislative branch seemed to coalesce into the nation's primary power. It was a perverse penalty of the States' Rights delusion. It was a time of decentralization and disorder. The nation was weakened on the international front, Calcuttafied as jobs poured out and debt poured in, as the Third World rose and the First World sank. The ghettoes and Appalachias of the USA blossomed. Ordinary Americans who had not ridden the gravy train of globalism were on the outside, looking in, in their own country, noses pressed to the window while foreigners ate in the best restaurants and held jobs and drove cars fewer Americans could ever hope to own. It was a time, as a leading economist put it, of back to back serial recessions with no relief in sight. In that chaos, opportunists inevitably rose to the surface. Robert Lee Hamilton had succeeded in destroying the old order, but now it was chillingly apparent MCP and business as usual were not going to be his new order.

He has used us, Louis said of their party's leader.

We see him for what he really is, Taunton agreed. By the time the rest of the country sees it, we may be too late.

There was a silence, in which they could hear the Cardoza children running in the hallways and Meredith's cheery but sharp voice calling them to order.

Louis said: I will make a decision up at the chalet.

You do that, Taunton said. He rose and extended his hand. Good luck, Louie.

Louis rose and shook the old man's hand. Thank you, Senator, for being my friend.

Taunton smiled grimly. I know you will make the right decision, Louie, for yourself, your family, and your country. You know what you must do, and I believe you have the courage. Only you have the clout.

Thanks for coming. Louis absently picked up his apron and saw the Senator out. The Senator was chauffeured out of the Naval Observatory complex in his limousine. Louis waved, then returned to the kitchen to join his children in their laughter and fun.

Chapter 3

The next day, the family flew across the North American continent in Air Force Two. They landed in Seattle, and a smaller plane took them to MCP's chalet in the Cascades Mountains. Meredith was pregnant again, and never looked lovelier.

Louis wanted to spend a day or two with her in blissful enjoyment before all hell broke loose--before he could no longer delay acting on the Taunton papers and the recording. In his private office upstairs, he had a little inner sanctum. It was a converted meeting room that could hold a dozen persons at a long table. He'd had the table removed and a desk put in. There was a beautiful gray granite fireplace in one corner with a beveled chimney flue, and a large plate glass window to the left of that, which afforded a breathtaking view of the mountains and of the valleys below. Aside from the desk, the only furniture was a half-empty bookcase with old law books and a few odds and ends. From the cabinet below the bookcase, Louis took a velvet-lined case with a well-oiled .38 Magnum Smith and Wesson and a spare cylinder of bullets. He wouldn't need the spare. One bullet would be enough. He set the case on the table. From a liquor cabinet outside, he brought a bottle of excellent scotch whiskey, and a glass. Locking himself in, he opened the case and looked at the gun inside. He did not pour himself his first shot--yet. Drenched with sweat, shaking, he took a long hot shower, dressed, and rejoined his family. He went through this ritual several times that week, but each time stopped short of starting on the bottle.

Louis and his family played on the snowy slopes around the MCP chalet. Meredith’s cheeks glowed and she was full of energy. She was eating well, and she had stamina. In a snowball fight, she actually made him cry uncle. When he was out of breath, she was still running circles in the snow. Louis Jr., Annie, and Albert yelled as they tried to catch their mother.

A couple of times she asked: Are you okay, Louie? Are you okay, sweetheart? Is something bothering you? and he’d deny it each time. Then she’d look hurt, and he’d comfort her. He smothered her with cocoa and love and love making.

You are a real romeo, she said laughing one time as he pulled away from her.

I’ve got it all under control again for the first time in a long time, that’s why.

Louis and his family stood sight-seeing on the helipad, watching the black ocean of an Arctic storm wheel in. Dark gray snow clouds rolled silently across a brilliant tapestry of stars. A fog reached the helipad and crept around their ankles. The temperature dropped a few degrees, and the fog was replaced by thick, whirling snow flakes. The Cardozas went inside.

Louis sat with his family by the roaring fire. He held Meredith in his arms, while Louis Jr. demonstrated his guitar playing skills and Annie fought with Albert. To tame the situation, Louis laid out a Monopoly game from the Ready Room downstairs, and for several hours the family lost themselves in a game. Louis Jr. and Meredith were the last ones in the game, until Meredith landed on Boardwalk, where Louis Jr. cleaned her out.

For two and a half wonderful days, Louis almost forgot the hell that was Washington--except when he withdrew to his private office, telling Meredith he needed time to think. Her frowning, thoughtful glances told him she was halfway on to him. She already knew what a crook Robert Lee Hamilton was. She just had no idea in how much hot water everyone around Hamilton was.

4:30 p.m. The sun, a swollen marble wrapped in frosty breath, winked out. The baby blue sky turned black, speckled with a million points of light. There were so many stars that one could not recognize any of the constellations. They might as well be someplace a million light years from home.

High in the Cascades Mountains, Bryson Airfield had gotten a foot of new snow during the past 24 hours. As long as the Vice President was in town, the airfield had to be kept open. As long as it snowed, a special Air Force detachment kept snowplows, sanding trucks, and hummers running up and down the main runway. The Vice President’s twin-engine jet sat in a hangar awaiting his command while he spent what was supposed to be a two-week winter vacation with his wife and children at the Middle Class Party’s secure chalet.

Five p.m. At Bryson Airfield, argon aviation lamps sketched lines of light across the valley floor, growing more noticeable as night fell. High above the airfield, cliffs towered from horizon to horizon, topped by pine forest.

At a point on the edge of the cliffs, the Middle Class Party’s chalet glowed like a cozy yellow lantern. The chalet’s upper floors gave an illusion of being airy and light, though composed of bullet-proof glass, and of missile-deflecting steel beams made to look like wood. The lower structure was an undisguised concrete redoubt anchored in mountain granite, capable of sustaining a small army of Secret Service personnel and military advisors during a siege, if necessary. All day long, wind-borne snow looked like white fog over wooded ridges. Snowflakes plummeted past mountain walls, past pines at the edges of cliffs, down into a black abyss, into valleys that were not only the lair of wolf and bear, but also of people with a relentless hatred of the Government--and the means to strike. In the concrete redoubt, narrow slits covered in thick glass formed observation windows. Telescopes oscillated back and forth all day and night, sending streams of visual data to the chalet’s central data processing unit, where pattern recognition engines churned the pixels at multigigahertz clock speeds, looking for predetermined threat patterns--anything from an incoming missile to a human figure approaching from where it shouldn’t. On top of the chalet, by the helipad, in a glass cube, were two other lookouts--human, with powerful wide-field binoculars, backing up the machines.

In the chalet sat the Vice President. He had told his wife he needed privacy upstairs. He'd kissed them all good-bye and locked himself into his office and further locked himself into the private room. Cranking the top off the bottle with a determined twist, he sat down and poured himself a shot. He downed it, and exhaled a fiery, peppery breath. His eyes teared as he overlooked the beauty of mountains and valleys with their drifting clouds of frosty air. Downing his second shot, he unlatched the case at his elbow.

5:30 p.m. As evening deepened into night, the snow storm passed by leaving blanketed and stunned silence under a night sky.

Louis downed a third shot, and then a fourth. He began to feel the numbing effects of the scotch. He took out the gun, intimidated by how heavy it felt. He touched the glint, the hardness, of its dully burnished surfaces as if it were hot rather than cold.

He downed a fifth shot and tested the hammer mechanism by lightly cocking it back a quarter inch with his thumb. He felt the trigger stir against the tip-pad of his index finger as if it were eager to shoot, the way a fine horse is coiled like a spring and eager to bolt on a run. It was a fine weapon, this.

Louis poured himself a sixth and last shot. Six in the glass, six in the cylinder. It seemed appropriate, especially since the six o'clock hour was approaching--and there was that biblical thing about 666, who turned out to be his boss. It was time to put an end to his private hell.

Outside, someplace, he heard the piping sound of a small child laughing at play. Glass halfway to his mouth, Louis paused. The child's voice was like that of an angel. Then he heard Meredith calling to the child in that voice of hers, mellow like melted butter pouring over pancakes, with a laugh built in like sunlight trapped in a jar of honey. The angels were telling him something.

6:00 p.m. The storm outside had died away. Louis stared through the second-story office window across a pristine landscape of pine forests and rugged mountains smothered in snow. Like the passing of the storm, his anguish evaporated. He pushed the full glass aside and closed the gun case with the weapon shut inside like Gabriel's trumpet deferred.

He spoke into a collar com button, asking his aides to order a jet from Bryson to Seattle, and thence Air Force Two to Washington D.C. within the hour. He ordered a service of strong coffee. The storm had passed.

6:30 p.m. The storm blew away into Idaho and points east. The clear night air was crisp and still like ice water. A full moon’s mercurial light glowed on snowy mountain peaks which in turn illumined surly cloud bottoms. About nine p.m., the helipad atop the chalet received a phone call from the Secret Service chief special agent on station. The Vice President wanted to fly out immediately. The helipad control center replied that the helicopter would be grounded for several hours because water had gotten into the fuel. Could another chopper be flown up from Bryson, the chief special agent asked. No, was the reply, because there was only one helipad, and the disabled chopper sat on that. Next, the chief agent called the motor pool. Yes, he was told, two vans would be available immediately. It was five miles to Bryson by the winding, switchback road, which could be done in less than hour, provided the road were plowed.

In a sky the color of blue ink, a few stars seemed dipped in silver and left to float. A stray snowflake drifted down, but the rug of clouds was moving east. From the chalet’s garage, a county snowplowing truck started down the winding road to the airport.

7:00 p.m. A plow scraped as the truck crawled along, piling snow on top of older snow to one side, while the sander left circles of grit on the road. The truck’s headlights and red warning lights looked lost amid mountains of piled snow.

7:30 p.m. Louis finished speaking with Meredith in their family quarters. He could not tell her everything--only what she needed to know to keep herself and the children safe. She was visibly shaken, but prepared not to reveal her fear to the children, who played in another room. Do you want us to come with you?

No, he said. For now, you’ll be safest here. I want you to stay here the whole week. By then this will be over one way or the other, and we can return to Montecito.

He returned alone to his office, locked the door, turned on a microphone, and walked to the window. Looking at the clear black sky, he wished it would snow again. He remembered snow sleeting down silently and constantly like a cosmic morphine, and he wished time would stand still. But it didn’t, and he began to speak. His hands were cold, and trembled as he held the mike. Mr. President, I must speak with you about a matter so grave that I am going to fly out from Bryson tonight to see you. I cannot call ahead because I don’t know who is listening. I am going to forward this message to my personal computer in Washington so that I can be sure it’s there. I’m also going to carry the message on disk in my pocket. We must talk tomorrow. It’s about the Second Constitutional Convention, or CON2. I have definite and provable knowledge there is a grave conspiracy in the air, and I have documentation about it, plus a list of names of men who are involved. These men must be watched closely. And, Cliff, the coming constitutional convention must be stopped. I know you all see me as a defector, and we both understand the atmosphere. That is not important anymore. This is not about my party or yours. This is about the country, and it’s very serious. He finished the message and forwarded the file to himself at Observatory Circle.

As Louis sat on the couch putting on his winter boots and ski parka, there was a knock on the door. Come in! he shouted in a fresh voice.

Special Agent Archie Cooper of the Secret Service stepped inside, holding an Ablass 414 Spider assault rifle pointing up, the frame-only stock resting on his hip. He wore an olive green wood watch cap, and white winter warfare camo and gear. We’re ready, Mr. Vice President.

No more time to waste. Louis zipped up his heat-retentive middle garments, and pulled white camouflage overall over those. Let’s go.

As they rattled down the huge circular staircase into the main lobby, Archie said: I’ve got two vans out front and two six person details including myself. We are fully armed and ready to roll, Sir. Airport’s open, and the Lear Tandem is being warmed up on the runway.

Good work, Archie. Keep slugging.

We’ll wait for you under the portico, Sir. Cooper clomped out the door, the assault rifle looking toy-like against his long frame.

Meredith, wearing jeans, a sweater, and jogging shoes--she’d primped a little, knowing she’d be seen, bless her--ran out holding something. Honey, your hat! She wrinkled her nose. You smell like a distillery. She pulled the wool watch cap down and zipped his overalls up. He kissed her passionately, then hugged Louis Jr. and Annie. Albert was already in bed, asleep, and Louis took the time to go plant a kiss on his sleeping son. Then he ordered the two older ones: Go to bed, kids. I’ll see you in a few days. Have fun sledding in the morning.

Yay Daddy! the children said clapping. We’ll miss you. We love you.

Meredith gave him a desperately tight hug and whispered through gritted teeth: Please be careful, darling.

He squeezed her and whispered: I will.

In the horseshoe drive stood the two vans to take him back down to civilization. A dozen Secret Service men and women waited for him, dressed similarly to Archie. They bore nylon ammo belts and quick-loader ammo cylinders looped over their snowsuits. Each carried an assault rifle with night scope and flash suppressor.

Archie stepped close as running engines blew milky vapor from trembling tail pipes. You and I go in Van Two, Sir.

Okay. He climbed up into the spacious van. It was a shell game--no one must know, until the last minute, in which vehicle the VIP would be.

7:50 p.m. The ride down was slow but smooth, in contrast with the numbness and chaos in Louis’s mind. Snow muffled bumps in the road. The van smelled of machine oil, upholstery, leather, aftershave. It was warm and dark with glowing green and amber dash displays. Layers of plowed snow formed walls on either side of the narrow road. Louis sat in the middle seat of the rear van, flanked on all sides by agents. Archie sat in the other aisle, his weapon between his knees. His eyes were on the road behind, scanning for any signs of danger.

The agents around Louis kept a wary watch. The heater was on, and Louis was a little drowsy now from all of his frenzied deliberation. He felt worn out from worry, and was glad this would not go on much longer.

It was quiet in the van as it crunched gently down the dark slope, blackness enveloping them on the sides as the cones of the headlights probed on ahead.

The red lights of the van in front flicked on and off as the driver feathered his brakes on slippery spots.

8:01 p.m. Suddenly, Louis was stunned by a bang and a flash on the road.

Rocket! shouted an agent.

Mountain men! Louis heard Archie yell into his lapel com. Base! Base! We’re under attack!

Louis cringed amid a rattle of gunfire.

Louis heard another bang, saw a flash as a second rocket found its mark and the van before him exploded. Louis’s eardrums rang, and his head felt as though he’d been punched. In a daze, in a dream, he noticed the agents snap into blurring motion around him. One agent jumped to his feet, Colt AR-115 in the air. Another agent sprang forward, speaking into his collar button. Several agents clicked the safeties off on their assault guns and formed a wall crouching around Louis on the floor. Archie stood towering above them, shouting orders, holding his assault rifle ready. Get down, Sir. Get these doors open, on the double. Let’s all bail out.

All around outside, dark, heavy objects rained down, that turned out to be car parts, guns, shoes...

Archie kicked open the door and jumped outside, swallowed up by the darkness. Come on! he yelled to Louis.

A rear half-axle from the front van, with the wheel and the tire gone, came down and hit Archie in the back. He went down with a crunch of bones. His eyes were open, but empty, and he did not stir again.

Dreamlike, Louis felt cold.

Streams of assault rifle bullets made pinging noises as they streamed into the vehicle from all sides, even through the thin metal skin.

Louis tried to move, but he couldn’t. He felt the weight of four or five dead agents pinning him down. He could hardly breathe.

Louis heard a shouted command, everything got very still.

The air smelled sweet, like a bread or a candy made of fresh snow. That was how winter had smelled during his childhood in the San Bernardino Mountains.

Figures in white snow suits advanced out of the forest. With their helmets under white