Almost Treason

By Frederick Meyers Jr.

A portfolio of highly sensitive TOP SECRET EYES ONLY documents has been compromised. The Chief of Staff to the President of the United States has disappeared. A deep state, shadow government is about to scrap American freedoms in a bloodless election coup and the Middle East is ready to explode. Presidential and Congressional elections loom and the democratic government of the United States is teetering on the brink of socialism.
The future depends on the action of three innocent bystanders who are unprepared for the magnitude of the task they face. Caught up in a spiderweb of political and international events by the hidden agendas of unscrupulous adversaries, they seek to preserve American freedom.
The clock ticks down to the elections which will determine the direction and future of the United States of America and change the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Dec 1, 2020

Frederick Meyers Jr.

“Bud” Meyers, as he is known to his close friends, holds a Bachelor and Master of Arts Degree from John Carroll University. A native of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, he also is a past holder of the Army Chair at the National Defense University, a graduate and former teacher at the prestigious Army War College in Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania, with assignments from Vietnam to Germany to Egypt and the Middle East.All three of his novels spin tales which mix a veneer of fiction over a foundation of more than thirty years of experience and participation in high profile Army and joint operations. In addition to two combat tours in the Republic of Vietnam, Meyers was involved in the on-the-ground execution of the Camp David Multinational Peace Accords in the Sinai Desert. He was also responsible for military logistics support operations for Asia, the Pacific and the Americas while serving as Director, US Army Security Assistance Command.Bud is the author of two other novels, “The Lazarus Connection” and “Cry Judas” both of which feature Matt Gannon as the lead character. He resides with his wife, Donna, and son, Matthew, on the Space Coast in Florida.

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Prologue

Do not be afraid; our fate cannot be taken from us; it is a gift.

Inferno, The Divine Comedy

~Dante, circa 1320.

Indonesia—January 1969

Most of the older men of the village considered Fadhlan Sanjaya, in his early thirties, too young to be deeply learned and experienced in the teachings of the Qu’ran. The disabled veteran’s selection as imam at the village mosque was driven more by a deep sense of appreciation and an acknowledgment of his sacrifices in the name of Allah rather than a confidence in his understanding of the teachings of Muhammad. In fact, it had been less than six months ago when Fadhlan had completed advanced religious training under the tutelage of revolutionary Islamic fundamentalists in Afghanistan where he had sustained serious wounds fighting the Russians.

Fadhlan was declared a jihad hero by no less than the Ayatollah himself who had visited the hospital in Pakistan to which Fadhlan had been evacuated. He was moved a second time to a better facility in Iran where he underwent surgery and further rehabilitation from his injuries. It was in Islamabad and Tehran during his evacuations that he was educated and further radicalized against all things non-Islamic.

Fadhlan was a taciturn man who smiled infrequently. He was, in fact, somewhat distant from his peers and community outside the confines of his religious duties and setting. Physically, he was scrawny, in fact almost malnourished in appearance, but he possessed dark, deeply set intensely piercing eyes. He wore an immature, ragged henna beard, and possessed a withered left arm. Perhaps most notable of his physical features was a jagged disfiguring scar from shoulder to elbow which continued on to the left flank of his body.

He had returned to his home—a slum village just outside of Jakarta, Indonesia two and one-half years after he had left on a noble quest to kill non-believer hordes of Russian invaders. He came back a bloodied warrior, disabled but proud. He owned only a faded kopiah cap, a tattered teluk beskap, combination Javanese jacket and sarong, worn kasut sandals, and a heroic aura. He had actually shed blood in jihad for Allah. He was a good man and for this, his ardor, and the frightening intensity in his devotion to dogmatic Shiite beliefs, he was respected, admired, and rewarded.

As an imam, Fadhlan fulfilled his younger students imagined fantasies. He was to them, more than others of the village, an exciting and brave warrior hero. One boy who was awed by his teacher was the last of the students to depart the mosque class on this day. From their first meeting, the boy was held spellbound by the intensity of the new imam who he thought to be stirring and courageous. Here was a man to be respected and imitated. More than a teacher he was a soldier—one who had traveled far, had shed his blood, and had demonstrated he was willing to die for Allah.

The child himself was of unremarkable appearance, excepting for his lighter chocolate tone of skin and a large nose. His features betrayed a mixed racial heritage which denied him the assignment to a specific ethnic caste in a caste-oriented society. The boy, however, was forced to attend the same basic Muslim religious training as all other youths of his age.

The boy was a mediocre student and Fadhlan viewed him only as another indifferent, eight-year-old Indonesian. At that moment in time, there was no way Fadhlan could have guessed the influence he, a wounded warrior and imam, would have as a role model on the child. Nor could he have ever wildly calculated the role which the child would have on the destiny of the most powerful nation in the world.

As the child walked alone back toward his home from the Mosque, the traffic along the irregular paving increased. The dusty roadway was poorly maintained and a jetsam stream of refuse and garbage. As with most of the rural communities in the area around Jakarta, the trash had just accumulated over the years, left by residents, foot weary travelers, and merchants alike resulting in a singular appearance of a never-ending field of debris. In short order, the outpouring of people all moving in his same southward direction became a jam of humanity, a mob that moved with a cacophony of noise and sound. It was an exciting time for today was the day and noon the hour of public sharia punishments. The boy was about to witness an execution, the first to be seen in his young life. The criminal, he had earlier learned from the imam, was to be beheaded for the most serious sin of sacrilege. He had converted to Christianity, an unforgivable offense against the Qu’ran and Allah himself.

The mob, smelling of sweat, hashish, heat, the toxic refuse in the streets, blood lust and the excitement of the day was too dense to permit a full view of the ritual as they gathered in the appointed place. The boy hunkered down on all fours and crawled forward, maneuvering between jerking legs, moving ever forward between the rough, calloused, often unshod feet of adults, to the forward edge of the crowd. Finally, slithering like a snake in the dust he gained a spot at the front of the multitude. Sitting squat legged on the street curb, his view was unobstructed.

A raised circular concrete dais sat within the center of a traffic roundabout, the mildewed monument to a forgotten event. A large red over white flag of Indonesia flew over the entire structure much like an official stamp of approval for the imminent proceedings.

The religious criminal’s body was already bent over, and he struggled weakly against his restraints. Both despair and terror were written across his feral face as he struggled to raise his head. He did not cry out but looked out over the crowd, searching for someone, anyone to rescue him. The prisoner, bony, wiry in build, was like most Indonesians, small in stature. A once white Sikh styled dastaar covered the crown of his head. His sun-browned, sweating neck was fully exposed. A gray flecked length of beard grew from his chin and unshaven stubble covered his cheeks. Both cheeks were streaked with blood and spittle. His breath, which was forced and labored, came through thin split lips which revealed what remained of crooked and decaying betel nut stained tooth stubs. Among his injuries was a large purple contusion. It encircled his left cheek where a trickle of blood flowed from his ear and nose. There was also a swollen red bruise on his forehead above his right eye.

The offender was forced to his knees and there held in place by two cruel looking guards in threadbare, soiled mismatched uniforms. They held his extended arms in vise-like grips. With one hand on the victim’s wrists and the other locking the quarry’s elbows in place, they forced the kneeling man further forward into a bowed over position. A large muscled bald man with a substantial black mustache stood behind the victim. He, himself, was a spectacle and wore only a sleeveless green vest across his vast chest and back while his thighs were encased in light blue pantaloons topped by a scarlet sash. A huge scimitar was gripped in his thick hands, its point resting in the dirt and concrete, a foot from the man’s head. A cleric dressed in white stood off to the side and motioned the crowd to silence as he announced death as the punishment for this defiler of Allah’s law.

With the proclamation concluded, the executioner bent one leg at the knee raised the scimitar above his head and prepared for the downward stroke. As if in slow motion, the boy watched in wonderment as the wide blade descended, softly moaning in the warm air to caress the victims exposed neck, severing the head from the torso with a slight meaty ka-chunk. Torrents of bright red pulsing blood gushed forth in a forceful stream from the trunk of the body. The skull bounced once against the concrete platform and rolled to the dusty earth stopping mere inches from where the boy sat, close to his awed face. The eyes of the corpse, wide in astonishment, shone with a fading trace of life, staring inexorably into those of the boy. Then they blinked, not once but twice. A trickle of perspiration escaped from the victim's matted hairline and carved a slow canal toward his eyebrow across the acne scars of his brow. Slowly his top lip curled ever so slightly to one side in an almost disapproving sneer. The boy child was mesmerized, transfixed by the skull and only vaguely aware of the riotous mob surrounding him. Locked on the boy’s eyes, the irises of the victim dimmed and became more opaque until finally they became rigid, bolted in a fixed stare of death. For the youth it was a defining, never to be forgotten moment in both time and memory.

Chapter One

Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great; some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.

~Act II, Scene V, Twelfth Night, William Shakespeare.

Washington, D.C. January 20, 2009—40 Years Later

The knock at the door was a discrete tapping. It was followed by the sober face of one of his now permanent security handlers. The earpiece in his left ear and distinctive lapel pin affixed to his suit jacket identified Mike Chatnik as a member of the Secret Service detail permanently assigned to the president-elect. Mike was about to become a daily part of the president’s life, an ever-present shadow, almost one of the family, and the one member of his entourage most likely to take a bullet for his charge. He was to be the ever-present agent, the body man of the security detail who worked the rope lines with the president. But for the moment he stood by the door of the secured and secluded suite of rooms isolated for the inaugural event, hands folded in front and below his waist.

Mike was a big man who had served with the Navy SEALS before joining the United States Secret Service. Originally from New York, he was a solidly built, buff 240 pounds, over six foot two inches tall with thinning ginger-colored hair. He was intelligent with a dry wry wit, large hands, and big feet. His work uniform was a conservative dark blue suit with a barely discernable bulge beneath the suit jacket under his left arm. He projected an assertive, calm aura that conveyed a message of confidence and competence which quietly said Don’t fuck with me. I am all business and I will kill you if I must.

"They are about ready, sir. Big day, today. You okay?’’

Yes, yes, I’m fine, thank you, Mike. The president-elect smiled.

Hold the hounds at bay for a bit will you, Mike? Please send my tribe and the others on ahead. I’d like to have few quiet moments.

Yes sir, of course.

The handler exited the room and the door clicked shut with a solid finality.

The president-elect turned his attention to the mirror which hung above the sofa table in the living room of the suite. He critically looked at the reflection and then practiced his smile ...once, twice, and then again. He thought himself handsome but was acutely aware of his large nose, a target of the press cartoonists during the long course of the campaign. He stood, still unshod, dressed in a crisp French cuffed, long-sleeved white shirt, dark blue pin striped suit trousers, and a contrasting solid blue tie. The tie was the color of his political party and a subtle nod to his leadership of that party. The jacket to his suit was draped over the back of a nearby chair. He repositioned himself to present a three-quarter view to the mirror—body erect, shoulders back, head up, chin out, solemn-faced, fingers curled in a fist on his left hip. He thought of it as his confidence pose, his Mussolini look. It captured, his critics said, A natural aura of egotism and disdain for his detractors.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes to let his mind wander without restraint.

He silently laughed.

More than anyone in this world he realized he had fallen into a magnificent candy store. He also knew without the sponsorship, mentoring, and financial support of George Prpic and the political guile of Lyle Slotto he would, at this moment, probably be living in the slums projects of Harlem, hustling for food stamps and looking to score enough money to keep himself in weed for another week. He stared into the mirror and a grin split his face. Life was good—really, good.

Satisfied, he turned from the mirror, crossed the room, and locked the door. He moved to the large window, the one with the view of the Washington Monument and only window to the room. It faced to the east. He considered the direction symbolic. On the wide windowsill, he gazed upon a simple framed black and white photo of a man about his own age. He had carried it with him to this place today, a symbolic keepsake. Aside from his clothing, it was the only other of his personally owned items in the room. He softly ran his fingers over the top of the frame, studying the photograph with a soft, loving intensity, his eyes growing misty. After a moment, he cleared his throat and, setting a sterner countenance, turned, and walked to the side of the king-sized bed. Careful not to damage the razor-sharp crease of his suit pants, there he knelt. The upper half of his torso stretched across the mattress, his hands covered his face, the fingers of his right-hand pinching at his brow. He remained in this position, trance-like, and unmoving for more than a few moments. He felt the imagined spirits of his black ancestors fill the room, looking down on him and smiling. The sensation was vivid to the point of reality. The aura of his father was strong in the otherwise empty room.

This will be the last time today I will have time to speak with you father, the kneeling man said. Still, I know your spirit is always with me.

From a silent place, deep within his own soul, the president-elect generated a dialogue.

"Yes, I am here, son. You must hear me well. Keep all things about yourself private. Knowledge is power and your enemies will use their knowledge of you against you," his father’s ghost advised. The utterance was so real he felt the timbre and cadence of his father’s voice in the ethereal words.

Yes father, the man replied aloud. I understand. I know they will come after me.

"You will have to be more careful, my son" his father said to the figure kneeling by the bedside.

Yes, father, the man said aloud.

So far, he had been lucky. His foes and rivals had not quite focused on him during the primary campaigns, dismissing him exceedingly early as an interesting but not profoundly serious contender. They made a tactical and strategic error by preferring to dwell on his opponents rather than the appeal of his grassroots political machine. The handicapping and hype of the contest had, at first, overshadowed the substance of his words. But as his popularity grew, the liberal media sought him out, proclaiming him a dark horse. They never looked further behind the promises of a better America, but chanted a new spin, a new philosophy and revival message; his message—change and hope.

"The proletariat masses will forget and move on ...just as they always have in the past," his father advised.

He knew it would be harder now. The charisma, the words, the smile, the spin ...they would all be diminishing resources. The nature of his early politics was socialism, pure and unadulterated. It was founded on bread and circus, with impossible promises for the working proletariat. Now those promises would have to be more carefully managed resources. He would have to confront, delay, and disabuse the proletariat’s awakening dissatisfactions. He smiled and thought about the future.

His enemies already knew too much about him, his youth, his Islamic roots, his college years, his socialist, radical, and racist friends, his mentors, and his deceased father’s Marxist ties. To hide his truths had already grown expensive, over eight million dollars in hush money and lawyers’ fees so far. He knew this would only grow as his enemies searched for vulnerability and grew more credible in their knowledge of his past. Still, he had successfully eluded a deep vetting of his persona during the campaign. Political correctness, ethnicity and indignation had served him well. Prpic’s dollars and connections would protect him.

He smiled again.

"Remember the lessons. Use Slotto and Prpic and the others whom Allah has sent to you."

I will remember, father, the president-elect said aloud.

He scrubbed his eyes with his fingers and again prostrated himself across the bed.

"You must live the kismet which Allah himself has ordained for you, my son. Remember there can only be one God and Allah is his prophet. In your heart of hearts do not be tempted by the false prophets and deceit of the Christian idolaters," his father finally advised as he faded into another and different reality.

The image vanished and the sight of the president-elect in the mirror snapped him back to reality. He stared at his image and attempted to refocus the vision but failed.

Yes, he thought. He would use them all—their naivety, Christian and non-Christian alike. Filled with meaningless ritual they lacked an understanding of the true God. Their teachings were only how they exploited and suppressed the true believers, the people of the Qur’an.

He smiled again.

Absently, a habit of ritual in moments such as these, he placed his right hand over his left dropping his arms below his navel, eyes closed, standing unbent beside the bed, in postured position of the Maya. He felt more comfortable with the customs of Islam than the rites of Christianity, not that he was unfamiliar with the latter. Chameleon-like, he could—as occasion or politics demanded—be either Christian or Muslim or both. Whatever played best to the audience.

Without conscious thought, the man softly began the poetic rhythm of the Farad, the ritual five times a day obligatory prayer of all Muslims.

God is great ....Glory to you O Allah and yours is the praise ... remembering how his father and the imams had instructed him those many years ago.

Islam was more than just a lingering influence from the days of his youth. Old habits die hard. He mutely ascribed to the tenets of Islam and the radical political beliefs of his father. Both were certain and present rocks of his philosophical foundation. They both fueled his ambitions and his controlled anger toward those who had destroyed his father, and his father’s dreams.

The president stumbled upon a political profession rather than preparing for it. It was a fast and easy buck for the glib of tongue, those who had a winning smile and disarming personality. It was also one of the two oldest professions in the world, except prostitution and was probably the less sordid of the two. He viewed politics as a pragmatic means to an end ...a necessary means, a means to be mastered, but still in the end, only a means. He was a quick study, well-schooled, and tutored until, at last, he understood and silently embraced the philosophy of Karl Marx as well as his socialist and communist college professors.

He also learned corruption from the Harlem political machine and its group of new, more practical teachers. He fit an eye for an eye and do unto others before they can do unto you into his ethic, his own needs, and his own justifications. In the end, his became much more than just mouthed words from the Qu ‘ran or the Bible. His faith became a practical functioning code of self-aggrandizement. It worked and served him well.

The man who was to be president had been crassly ignorant until Gligorije Prpic aka George Preston and Lyle Slotto had educated him. In a blind rush to the promises of change, they and the candidate had successfully hidden his birth origins as well as the education and accomplishments of his youth. He learned from Slotto what is politically delivered is far different and more significant than what is politically promised. It is the deed—not the promise—which in the end, ultimately defines and insures. But deeds come slowly and until the day of deeds, words must convey promises, words must manipulate, hide, and identify the desired scapegoats and targets, words must be the distraction and the source of confusion. Words ...lies ...are needed to show someone or something else to blame, to tamp down or misdirect discontent, at least until the foundations of permanent change are immutably in place. Words are the business of politics. Hope and illusions are key. Words create illusions to portray the Promised Land to the gullible or those dumb enough to believe the talking heads. Words are the lure, the subtle magician’s distraction, the political revenue suckers bet on. The lure is in the magic of the words which, recited and repeated enough—become truth ...what people want to hear. Tell the masses the good news and hide the bitter realities in the sugar of hope and change. Never admit to failure but blame it on an enemy, a scapegoat.

He remembered Lyle Slotto’s sage words when they had first met back in those early days in New York.

It’s not important who casts the ballot, my friend. What’s important is we own who does the counting.

He would use the Christian western world against itself. He would take their evil from them, restore the values of the Qu’ran to a corrupt, greedy society, and destroy their godlessness. He would turn their own meaningless rhetoric and Democratic farces into self-destructive political correctness. He would destroy corrupt capitalism and restore the wisdom of socialism to government. Such would be the power he would wield as president of the United States.

The lanky president-elect crossed the room, removed his suit jacket from its perch, and slipped it on. He showed the cuffs of the crisp white shirt to display the new presidential cuff links and smiled thoughtfully.

I will change the world, father, I promise ...and it begins now.

From rote memory, he began to silently recite the ancient words of the Fatiha. In the name of God, the infinitely compassionate and merciful ...praise be to God, Lord of all the worlds. He had been taught the prayer by his father, who never, even in death, grew feet of clay. He was the martyred hero of the son’s childhood whose memories, exaggerated in their purity, were cherished in their survival.

Brash, in-your-face, hardnosed, harsh and direct ...no need for subtlety now, he thought. New Yorker style. Harlem style.

There is no God but God, he