The Interregnum Conspiracy

By Carolyn Usher

The Interregnum Conspiracy is a fast-paced political thriller. The country held its collective breath as voters went to the polls in unprecedented numbers. Days later, with no clear winner, protesters poured into streets, claiming fraud. The FBI's Domestic Terrorism unit was working around the clock monitoring extremist groups for signs of trouble.
FBI Special Agent Brian Shaver received a tip from a small-town journalist regarding a plot referred to as "Operation Succession." This plot was not coming from known extremist groups, but from an unlikely group that was being directed from the highest levels of the government.
President Raymond Turnball was determined to stay in power at all cost. If litigation and faithless electors failed to change the outcome of the election in his favor, he had devised a foolproof plan to ensure that 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue remained his home address. And he found willing supporters to carry out his plan.
With the young reporter in FBI protective custody, Special Agent Shaver finds his desire to keep her safe is becoming more and more personal for him. With the clock ticking, members of the FBI Domestic Terrorism unit, risking their lives, race against time to stop a conspiracy which could take out the top levels of the incoming administration, and put the former President back into the Oval Office.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098349271

Book preview

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Chapter 1

The J Edgar Hoover building sits on prime real estate between 10th and 11th Streets on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington D.C.

In his office on the 6th floor, Special Agent Brian Shaver popped a k-cup into his Keurig. He watched the coffee trickle out, sprinkled some powdered creamer into the cup, and returned to his desk. It was eight in the morning and few others had arrived in the office. But Brian was expecting a call from an agent in the field and he wanted to limit interruptions.

Brian, now 29, had joined the FBI right out of college seven years earlier. His rimless glasses, and button-down shirts gave him a preppy look, likely left over from his days at Yale. He was tall, with a build that screamed hours in the gym. But anyone assuming that would be wrong. He hadn’t found time to enter a gym in years.

In graduate school his interest had been in counterterrorism with a specialty in Middle Eastern politics, so he had initially been disappointed when he had been assigned to the domestic terrorism unit. But as shifts in the geopolitical world had elevated domestic terrorist threats, Brian had come to appreciate what turned out to be a prime assignment. He had thrown himself into his work with an all-consuming passion. He had just become Assistant Director and the unit’s go-to man on matters relating to militias and white supremacists, and now Antifa and QAnon.

The phone on his desk broke the silence. Checking the number, he picked it up.

Morning, Chuck. How’s your day going? he smiled into the phone, knowing it was five in the morning in Grand Rapids where Chuck was.

Very funny, replied Chuck. You know me. I’m a night owl. I had to set the damn alarm to get up and, even then, I almost slept through the God-damned noise.

So how are things in Grand Rapids? asked Brian, ignoring his complaints and getting down to business.

I’ve got my ear to the ground and have been talking to a lot of Nationalists. I’ve been scoping out the usual online sites. So far, I expect large demonstrations across the country if the president loses the election. Many may be waving AR 15 rifles but, so far, I haven’t heard a whiff of a plot to cause violence, and no evidence that groups are forging an alliance to cause chaos or do real damage. Right now, it looks like we are in for a few days of demonstrations which should fizzle out once all the votes are counted, especially if the count isn’t close. But I don’t need to tell you, Brian, the situation could change so I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.

Thanks, Chuck. That coincides with what I’m seeing on the Deep Web. I should sleep at night, but I won’t breathe a sigh of relief until the election is over, a winner has been certified, and both sides have calmed down. Many of these people have been primed to believe that Turnball will win and that, if he doesn’t, it will be due to fraud. If polls start show him losing, the emotional temperature could reach fever pitch and violence might seem like their only recourse. So let’s stay alert, Chuck. And, as always, be careful and watch your back. And we’ll talk again next week.

You got it, said Chuck and the connection was ended.

Chuck Stewart had been born and raised in a small town outside Grand Rapids, Michigan. He was valedictorian of his high school class and received a full scholarship to the University of Idaho, graduating with high honors. When he was approached by the FBI to join the organization he had agreed. No one in Grand Rapids, not even his family, knew he worked for the FBI, which provided an option for working undercover. Several of his classmates from high school had joined militias or white supremacist groups in the area, giving him ready access to these groups. He had received training for a year in the Washington DC office, and then last year, at the age of 23, he was sent back to Grand Rapids to reconnect with his high school buddies. As cover, he worked in his father’s store which supplied feed and grain to local farmers.

Chuck had been one of the agents who had infiltrated a right-wing extremist group which had planned to kidnap the Michigan governor, put her on trial, and kill her. His undercover work had helped stop the plot and result in the arrest of the entire group. Another FBI agent who had also infiltrated the group, had come out publicly after their arrest and testified against them. That had allowed Chuck to remain undercover and continue his work.

A gentle knock on his open door startled him. Come on in, Ray. I just got an update from Chuck.

Ray Bradburn was a fellow agent in the domestic terrorism group, and a close friend. He was in his early 60s and had joined the FBI 15 years earlier after a successful career as a police officer in downtown DC. While most agents wore dress shirts and khakis to the office, Ray continued to sport a jacket and tie, although even he was beginning to ditch the tie, on occasion. He was a large man, one of the few African Americans in the department. He took a seat on the chair in front of Brian’s desk and waited for him to speak.

Brian summarized his conversation with Chuck regarding what was going on in the Grand Rapids area. For weeks the FBI had been on high alert, working long hours, and monitoring various domestic groups and individual players to identify and snuff out any violent plots before they could be carried out. Emotions were high and any spark could turn into a raging fire in a matter of hours…one of the unforeseen consequences of social media in the 21st century.

Things seem OK now, said Ray, but that may be due to the fact that they believe the president will win re-election. But what happens if he loses? I’m concerned the situation could go downhill fast.

Given the political climate in the country today, I think it’s a given that there will be demonstrations in the street no matter who wins. Either way we are in for a few rough weeks following the election, with some sleepless nights. But our institutions have served us well up until now, and I have no evidence to suggest they won’t continue to do so.

During his years at the Bureau, Brian had built a reputation based on keen intellect and a passion for reason and data. Never one to be swayed by emotion, he valued fact over feeling. Whether in meetings at work or casual conversations with friends, he was never one to avoid gently confronting those who were guided by gut feeling alone. Over the years he had seen people drawn in by cults, following cult leaders even to their death, give their life savings to televangelists who used the money to live lavish lifestyles, or invest in complicated pyramid schemes which left them broke. He had observed how easily people could be led to adopt the most the outrageous beliefs …facts be damned.

At 7.00 that evening Brian packed up his briefcase and headed home, or should he say his second home. Especially since his divorce, the Bureau had become his primary home. His work was the love of his life, as his ex-wife Sandra took every opportunity to point out. His long work hours, travel away from home, and almost obsessive focus on work left Sandra alone with time on her hands. With no children, and no career of her own, she finally took Brian’s advice and decided to go back and finish her college degree. To fill her lonely days, she registered at George Mason University in nearby Fairfax Virginia.

As luck would have it, she was able to fill her lonely nights as well. Within a few months she was having an affair with one of her professors, a man 15 years her senior, whose wife had died of cancer several years previously. Theodore Martin the Third was a full professor in the department of Religious Studies. He had published a number of books on religion, including two books on the Evangelical right. With an established career, he was in a position to welcome the company of an attractive woman in his life. He doted on Sandra, and she blossomed in his attention. Sandra and Brian divorced, and Theo and Sandra married seven months later. That had been three years ago. Brian had come to appreciate Theo and the three had remained friends.

On his way out of the building Brian passed the large insignia of the FBI emblazoned on the foyer wall. In large letters it displayed the FBI motto which Brian had spent his years at the Bureau striving to live up to: Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity. He began the 20-minute walk to his small brownstone apartment. As he walked, he was hit by a nagging feeling that the country was not going to weather this election as easily as it had those in the past. Raw gut instinct was telling him something bad was going to happen. But with no data to substantiate that feeling he dismissed it from his mind, focused on the warm weather and pleasant breeze, and continued his walk home.

Chapter 2

The Church of the Second Coming is located in the bucolic countryside outside the small town of Allway, Texas. It is a grand, although some may call it grandiose, house of worship which would look more at home among the cathedrals of Paris than the backwoods of Texas. Surrounded by fields and forests, this testament to the Almighty boasts a bulbous marble tower that stretches upward toward the heavens, topped by a magnificent golden cross. In the sun its polished surface creates a radiance that some say can be seen as far away as Houston, some 13 miles to the west.

If one were to closely observe the landscape surrounding the church, one could see that in the recent past the deciduous trees and evergreens had fallen prey to a raging fire. New growth now covers the once-charred forest floor. One might say the Church of the Second Coming literally rose from the ashes.

Like the forest around it, the town of Allway had also been destroyed by the fire. Industries had shut down and moved elsewhere. Schools and stores were shuttered. The population had dwindled. But while many saw hopelessness and moved to greener pastures, Reverent Joshua Bainbridge saw opportunity. In 2005, he moved to Allway with his wife and son and became pastor of the local Baptist church. Reverend Bainbridge was a tall, charismatic man with piercing blue eyes and an engaging smile. His boundless energy and fire and brimstone sermons brought new life to the restored church, and in turn to the entire town. As word about his sermons spread to neighboring towns, his small church was filled to capacity each Sunday. Crowds came from as far away as Houston. They lingered in town, ate in local restaurants, and shopped in local stores. Soon Allway experienced its own resurrection.

Within six years, three services on Sundays were no longer sufficient to meet the demands of growing throngs of worshipers. It was time to build a bigger church, one more suitable for a pastor of Bainbridge’s growing standing within the Evangelical community.

Three years after breaking ground on the new building, the new church opened its doors and parishioners swarmed into its cavernous sanctuary. They were met by an elaborate interior, with rows of pews carved out of Brazilian cherry wood, enough to seat 2000 worshipers, and Murano stained glass windows imported from Italy. Even more wondrous was the fact that contributions to the building fund had covered the entire cost of the project, with enough left over to build a parsonage that was the home of his dreams…a six bedroom, six bathroom mansion with a three-car garage, build on a small hill overlooking the church. And behind the church, on a small landing pad, sat a Sikorsky S-76C++ luxury helicopter, which boasted a custom bar, snack cabinets, satellite phones, and seating for eight. Its Quiet Zone technology allowed for a comfortable ride. Nothing but the best for his guests.

On the oversized screened-in porch that spanned the entire width of the back of the house, Reverent Bainbridge and his 18-year-old son, Wayne, sat around a round glass topped table sipping iced tea. Wayne was the Bainbridge’s only child and the two had a complicated relationship. Wayne was a personable young man, with rugged good looks. This summer he had been working for his father, updating the church’s website, and maintaining the church’s online social media presence. It was mid-October and Wayne would soon be returning to Liberty University to pursue a business degree. Liberty had not been Wayne’s choice. He had applied on his own to the University of Pennsylvania and had been accepted, but his father had nixed that option, and his father always prevailed.

Mom’s really enjoying the pool, Wayne commented motioning to the 30-foot pool with hot tub and pool house in the back yard. Barbara Bainbridge, at 44, could have been mistaken for a woman half her age. She sat in a lounge chair in a two-piece suit, running her hands through her long brown hair with one hand, and talking into her cell phone with the other. Bainbridge smiled to himself as he thought about the pool boy he had hired. A 55-year-old man with a pot belly who spoke little English

There’s something I want to talk to you about, said Reverend Bainbridge, getting serious. Wayne shifted his gaze from the pool to his father’s face. It was rare for his father to discuss anything of importance with him.

He continued. The election is several weeks away. I know the president is behind in the polls. But given the fact that the Covid 19 vaccine, that had been fast tracked, was now widely distributed, ending the pandemic nightmare, I expect those polls to change. President Turnball is a fighter. He’ll win. But we have a lot to lose if by some chance he doesn’t. He’s placed more Evangelicals on the federal bench in the last three years than we’ve had on it in the last 30 years. He’s put two of us on the Supreme Court with another likely to be confirmed soon, finally giving us the votes to overturn Roe vs Wade rather than just chip away at it. Half his Cabinet members are now Evangelicals, putting Biblical law before civil law. By taking a wrecking ball to many secular institutions he’s getting us closer than we’ve ever been to becoming a Christian nation. We will never get someone in the White House who has done as much as Turnball to bring the Bible and Evangelical beliefs into the mainstream. I honestly believe that God works in mysterious ways, and that this ungodly man was sent by God to help return this country to its Christian roots.

From what I’ve heard on social media, there are supremacists and militia groups that are threatening protests across the country if Turnball loses, said Wayne.

They can protest all they want. Protests won’t put Turnball back in office if he legitimately loses the election. Bainbridge continued. No. We need a specific plan to ensure Turnball remains in office, no matter what happens. I’m setting up a meeting here with four or five other top Evangelical leaders. We need a small, trusted group with leaders who will be willing to do whatever it takes to keep this man I power. Whatever it takes. We can’t lose. We have come too far and too much is at stake.

Wayne was taken aback by the tone in his father’s voice. Is there anything you want me to do to prepare for the meeting? he asked.

I’d like you to check the social media pages of a few people for me. And, Wayne, we need to keep word of this meeting from getting out.

The ring tone of Onward Christian Soldiers reverberated on Reverend Bainbridge’s cell phone.

Hello. Yes. This is Joshua Bainbridge. He listened for a few minutes and then said, Tell President Turnball I would be honored to come. October 28th at 10:00 at the White House. I’ll be there.

That was the President’s office. He’s having a meeting of top Evangelical leaders and I’m invited, he beamed. So no need to have the meeting here…for now.

Chapter 3

The Twin Pines complex comprises six blocks of two-story brick townhomes. In an end unit on Walnut Hill Drive, Sherrie Wadlow stood in her new kitchen and sighed as she faced a wall of boxes waiting to be unpacked. Three boxes down, 20 more to go, she thought. She searched out a bottle of wine and poured herself an early drink. It was two in the afternoon and she wanted to get as much done as possible before her brother came.

Sherrie was a slim 5-foot, 8-inches tall, with long light brown hair. Swimming was her favored sport, which was one reason she had chosen Twin Pines, with its indoor and outdoor pools. She had just received her master’s degree in journalism from the University of Texas in Austin. Although she was at the top of her class, entry level jobs in journalism were hard to find. Eventually she received two offers from small-town newspapers and opted to accept the one in Allway where her brother lived. They had once been close but had drifted apart as their lives took different paths and their political and religious leanings had increasingly diverged.

The doorbell rang, and Sherrie struggled to get through a pile of wrapping paper to reach the door. She opened it to find her brother. Sis, he cried, throwing his arms around her. You look great. He entered with a bag of groceries in one hand and a large pizza box in the other.

Stephen, I’m so glad to see you. You look great, too.

After putting the groceries away, they sat on the sofa eating pizza and sipping wine, using the coffee table as a dining table. Stephen looked around and commented on her sparsely furnished new digs.

"I’ve been a poor graduate student living