The Steal

By Jack Burch

For decades a secret group of Global Power brokers have attempted to drive America to her knees. Using economic catastrophe, political assassination, and the greed of modern politicians, this group has tried numerous times to control the political leadership of America. This time, a new pandemic, tech-savvy leaders, and far-left groups have come to

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Hiram Burch, II
• Release date: Dec 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781087938349

Book preview

The Steal

Book one of the Reclaiming America Series

Jack H. Burch, II

It is a daunting task to write a first book. No doubt many have begun the process and failed to complete it. This time I made it to the end of what I hope to be another beginning.

Dedications are often lofty and cumbersome.

I would like to make mine simple and brief.

To my Savior, without whom I would be

nothing, I owe all.

To my wife, who has faithfully borne with me for some seventeen years. Through all the ups and downs in life, she has remained true and steadfast.

To my kids - yes, Grace, the Jeep is yours. And Matthew, I hope your dreams of becoming an NFL player come true.

Jack H. Burch, II

December, 2020

The only foundation of a free Constitution is pure virtue, and if this cannot be inspired into our people in a greater measure than they have it now, they may change their rulers and the forms of government, but they will not obtain a lasting liberty. They will only exchange tyrants and tyrannies.

John Adams, Philadelphia, June 21, 1776

1

Selma Hernandez had lived on the streets for 23 years. Selling what she could steal and buying what little food she could afford. She had no memory of her parents, only the hard-skinned woman named Rosa. She cared not for the old ways the woman tried to teach her – those would bring neither food nor money. But Saul could bring both. Saul had money, power, and a way for her to escape. She was to meet him at 3:00 on the corner of Frey Servando Teresa De Mier and Boulevard Jose Maria Pino Suarez. Today she would move in to Saul’s home - the first real house she had ever slept in – and take his name.

As Selma turned the corner, she did not notice the dark van sitting by the curb. She did not see the door slide quickly open, nor did she fully understand what was happening when four strong hands grasped her and pulled her inside. She felt the prick of a needle and the sudden sensation of floating as her mind drifted into darkness.

The pain returned, sharp and piercing. At least it told her she was alive. If you could call it that. As Selma opened her eyes she tried to move and found her wrists strapped to a chair, her legs bound together. And three men staring menacingly at her.

Do not speak. If you wish to live you will do as you are told.

The fear began to creep into her mind then, a paralytic fear consuming her – shaking her, ravaging her senses. She began to cry out and was met with the sharp pain of a man’s hand across her face. She could feel the tears, knew she could not hold them back. Who were they? What did they want? Where was the old dusty woman who would always hold her close and make the fear go away? Why had she been so adamant to leave? A thousand questions raced through her mind.

A well-dressed man in a dark blue suit with a lavender tie entered through a door she could not see. He spoke quietly to one of the rough men and made a quick gesture towards a small table in the back of the room. Selma was offered a glass of cool water.

I am sorry for the inconvenience, but there really was no other way. You see, these men are paid to bring me what I need, but unfortunately they are – shall we say a little rough around the edges?

She stared blankly ahead with no thoughts, a primal urge to flee was welling up inside of her even though she knew it was useless. She could never make it past the toughs.

My name is – well, you can call me El Patron, eh? You will be helping me from now on – to do some business transactions across the border. Some more water? No?

2

Pitkin, Colorado

Philip Stone had been raised to love the outdoors. Shotguns, handguns, hunting, and fishing were as simple as breathing and walking – and he would say just as important. He had enlisted in the Army when he was 18 immediately after graduating high school. He spent an uneventful 6 years in the service and returned to civilian life as an auto mechanic – using the knowledge he learned while working on M1-Abrams Tanks as a turbine mechanic – and enlisted in the National Guard. He enjoyed his two weeks every summer and one weekend a month – and the pay helped, especially after he met and married that crazy red-head waitress Samantha. Four years of weekend warriors and two sons later Philip was living what could be called a normal American life – or normal to those who lived in the small Colorado town. Then 9/11 happened – and nearly every member of his National Guard unit re-enlisted.

                Philip was sent to Ft. Hood, Texas, this time – and was back fixing turbine engines on the M1A2 MBT – the smooth bored sister of the original M1 which housed a 105mm rifled cannon. In March of 2003 Philip was sent to Iraq as part of the initial buildup for Operation Iraqi Freedom. He spent the next 2 years fixing engines, treads, and just about anything else that happened to go wrong with the Abrams.

                When his term of enlistment was up, he decided it was time to go home – he missed his wife and children and didn’t want to miss any more first steps and first words, but things happened that kept him there another six months – six months he did not want to stay and six months he would never forget.  Then his time was finally over, so Philip Stone went home to Colorado, got a job working at the local Chevy Dealership, and re-joined the National Guard. For the past four years he worked nine-hour shifts Monday Through Friday – sometimes a four hour on Saturday – and spent the rest of his time enjoying his wife and children.

                At 37 years old the father of two boys – and don’t forget the firecracker Sally – had grown fearful of the path his country had taken over the past 20 years. The wrong direction if you asked him; but nobody did – at least not until old man Sheppard called him to the shop one day in August. It was there that Philip met 23 other men – all raised to live off the land.

                The old man cleared his throat and began…

                I’m glad all of you could come up here on such might’ short notice. I’ve been meaning to get things started, but you know with the weather and all….

                Yeah Shep, Tom Bukund – a young National Guardsman just back from Afghanistan spoke up – what’s the weather got to do with an old cuss like you?

                Just mind your manner, boy, or I’ll teach ya a few things those pansy Guardsmen were afraid to.

                Philip saw Tom’s face turn red but didn’t know if it was embarrassment or anger. But nobody said a word when the old man went on.

                "Men, I’m asking you that if you can’t keep your mouth closed about this meeting to everyone – and I mean everyone – to just leave now. What I have to say isn’t for the weak minded or soft bodied."

                Nobody moved. Many men glanced around the room to see if anyone would have the guts to walk out on the old Man – but nobody in Pitkin walked out on a man who had looked death in the eyes and lived to talk about it. The Old Man was a World War II vet – fought in the South Pacific when MacArthur was using Marines to soften up the Japs – and to this day he’d wake up in cold sweats from the nightmares. Liberty dreams he called them, because it was memories like those that reminded him of the price paid for Freedom.

                You all know about my years in the Big War and you know that I don’t take lightly the price our brothers paid so we could sit here and speak our minds. Time’s coming though where speaking our minds just isn’t going to do it. You’ve all seen how things are getting in the cities – especially back there in the capital – and it isn’t a pretty sight. Now these tree huggers and socialists elected one of those rag-head terrorists. Well, I don’t like it. And I know you don’t either.

                The air grew thick with anticipation and excitement. Philip had heard some rumors that some old boys were going to get something together in case the government tried to reach too far. Maybe this was it? Maybe it started here with these men? But there had to be others across the land who felt the same way. Didn’t he just hear on the AM station about a group of men in Kansas that were stockpiling weapons? Yeah, that was right – the feds raided and rounded them up. He remembered that day in the store when the Old Man simply said:

                They won’t get my guns. It’s my right – my God-given right fought for by generations. I hope they try. They’ll see what America really is then.

                Anyway, the Old Man continued, You all know about the raids down in Kansas and over in North Dakota? Seems this crew in Washington thinks the Constitution doesn’t apply to them – or us – anymore. Men, it’s time we started preparing for the next revolution. It’s time we started preparing for the shedding of patriot’s blood like ol’ Tom Jefferson warned us about. This tree of Liberty is being ripped up by its roots and if we don’t bite back, they’re going to rip the whole dam thing up and burn it to the ground.

                A quiet murmur spread across the room as each man simply nodded in agreement.

                Men, it’s time we showed those freedom-haters in Washington that we’re not going to sit back and watch them take our freedom, our liberties, and our lives away without a fight. Next week we’re meeting over at Almont with some men who feel the same way. There will probably be about a hundred or so of them. I’m asking that any of you who still believe in Liberty and Freedom come with me.

                Nobody said a word, but Philip saw the excitement in the other men’s eyes. He felt his heart begin to race and the sensation of fearful happiness begin to overtake him. He felt like he did when he was boy on the opening day of hunting season – part afraid of what was out there, too excited about the hunt to leave.

                Men, it’s time to fight back. To take this nation back from the greed and evil of those politicians. This is where it starts, boys. It’s got to start somewhere, and that somewhere is right here, right now.

3

New York City, 9:00 EST

Awarm mist hung in the air as the dark sedan pulled into the concrete structure. The vehicle paused for only a moment as a security guard dressed in black fatigues checked for identification. The barricade arm lifted and the vehicle surged forward. After four turns and 2 levels, the sedan parked in an eerily empty concrete sub-structure. Located below ground the entrance to Smith & Samson lived in the yellow and red glow of two translucent bulbs, bare and cold. The driver stepped out – along with two other bulky men in dark suits – and walked around the vehicle. The two men quickly scanned the parking area and with a nod let the driver know all was clear. When the heavy armor-plated door was opened a white-haired man in his late 80’s stepped out.

Roger Caldwell was a fit man – weighing only 175 pounds and standing 6 feet 3 inches tall – who bounced when he walked. Sixty years of working both with and for his family had treated him well. When he was only 30 years old, he left a brief stint as an economics professor at Cambridge University upon the sudden death of his father to take over the banking firm his family had run since the early 1800’s. A man who found what worked and then stayed with it, Roger Caldwell still managed to run 3 miles every morning – although he did so now on a treadmill and under the constant watch of a live-in nurse. His lean form took three long steps towards the double doors and walked inside.

The ride to the 34th floor was shorter than he remembered – new elevators had been installed since his last visit nearly 2 years ago and they were both highly efficient and very quiet. With a whisper the door opened and Roger stepped into a brightly lit and warm office, Mozart was quietly playing in the background. Two steps and Roger met the young secretary.

Good evening, Mr. Caldwell

Evening Miss Chase, how are you today?

Very well, sir. Thank you for asking. The gentlemen are all here and awaiting your arrival. If you would like I can bring you coffee once you are seated.

That will not be necessary, Miss Chase. Thank you.

Roger Caldwell opened the solid mahogany door and was greeted by eleven men seated around a large oak table. The table was old – nearly 200 years – and had a unique design burned into the center, a massive winged-lion surrounded by twelve crescent moons halved by thin scimitars. Each man was similar in build to Roger – the shortest among them was six feet tall, the tallest was six feet four inches – and ranged in age from 52 to 88. Roger was the oldest by six years. The man at the head of the table stood and welcomed Roger.

Good Evening, Mr. Caldwell, we are glad you could join us.

I was unaware I had a choice in the matter, Stephen.

There is always a choice, my dear friend.

Stephen Hammond was young – at least to Roger Caldwell he was. At 58 years old Stephen Hammond was the head of a large shipping corporation which ran nearly 100 cargo vessels between Asia and America. At a net worth estimated to be over 100 billion dollars, the shipping magnate ran his company with an iron fist. His family had immigrated to Boston in 1767 and began building ships which were sold to the English Crown. After the American Revolution Hammonds Ship Builders contracted to build the first four naval vessels for the fledgling nation – and made a handsome profit. When the Civil War broke out it was Hammonds Shipping – now operating three shipyards – who convinced Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles to invest in iron-clad vessels. During the 1940’s Hammonds shipping was awarded massive government contracts to build nearly one-third of all the naval vessels which flew the American Flag in WWII. Every single Aircraft Carrier built since 1943 came