The 47

By B.D. Boone

They say history repeats itself. In the near future, Jim Proffitt leads a group of
men loyal to him. When a false ally from his past becomes his greatest adversary,
Jim is the only one who can stand against him. In a selfless act of sacrificing himself,
he puts a daring plan into motion to save the world. It will be up to his sons to
continue the fight after he is gone. But to do so, they must choose their own path
without their fathers help. Without that guidance, will their fate continue on the
path that Jim has laid before them, or will they fall from grace and side against those
who still follow their fathers will? One above all others knows the final outcome.
But will he choose to meddle in the affairs of man or stand idle and let fate decide
the outcome? The difference will either be hell on earth or peace for a thousand years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 5, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462802517

B.D. Boone

This is the first book by B.D. Boone. He lives with his wife and daughter in Billings, Mt.

Book preview

The

47

B.D. Boone

Copyright © 2009 by B.D. Boone.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

SPRING

WINTER

FALL

SUMMER

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank my wife, my daughter, and my son—all of whom have helped in my evolution as a person and in this tale. My mom and dad. My sister and her family, aunts and uncles, friends, instructors, bosses, students, and anyone else I cannot think of who has touched my life. Especially my Grandparents.

I would like to thank those of you who might recognize a name here or there in this book of fiction even if I know you or not and vice versa.

If after reading this story you have been offended, inspired, made to laugh, cry, or think, I have done what I intended to do. Thank you, reader, if for nothing else, for your time put into this book. Parents please be aware that this book has sex, violence, some rock & roll and cuss words galore.

The events, characters, places, firms depicted in this book are fictitious. Any similarities to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events, places, or firms are purely coincidental. I do jest with a kind heart. If you do recognize something here or there from another form of entertainment, I did it as an homage.

I also want to thank Martha Sanford, a saint in grandma’s clothing, for helping me put the proper inFasis on the right sallalible.

This book was based on Chushingura, the 47 Ronin.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

SPRING

April 2056. This was the first reunion in almost ten years for the Proffitt family. Jim’s eldest son, David, planned the gathering with his wife, Kyla. Everyone began to gather on the small ranch that Jim owns outside the city over the last few days. David knew that his father hated to be the center of attention, which was the top reason why he organized it. This afternoon, most of the attention is coming from Jim’s wife, Mary Ann. One o’clock was inching closer and the outdated propane gas grill had not been ignited. Oblivious to anyone else’s comments, Jim pushes his youngest granddaughter, four year old Delia, in the homemade swing set he had made for all his grandchildren. Sith (pronounced Seth—long E sound) has the Net playing classic rock from the turn of the century. Insects of all shapes and sizes join in on the picnic as do feathered and woodland creatures.

David watches his father and daughter with a smile. Mary Ann pours them another round of lemonade from her exo-chair. Tony, the very sugared-up nephew, runs eagerly after the volleyball which has bounced errantly out-of-bounds. Retrieving the ball from Mary’s feet, he looks up at her and shouts, Where’s Uncle Dan?

The air thins as everyone within earshot gasps, cringing at the bluntness of the innocent boy. Mary, unfazed, looks at her watch. He won’t be getting out for another five or six months, I’m afraid.

Darn, he was supposed to give me a dollar each time I fart ’cause he said I burp too much, the young boy blurts out with all seriousness.

Without missing a beat, Mary replies, Sith is in the house. I think he’d enjoy it if you go play with him. Bounding off toward the house with excitement, the young boy shouts, Yah, Uncle Sith can listen to me fart. Family members laugh, giggling at the knowledge that even though Dan is not in attendance, his influence reaches out in spirit. Listening to the distant laughter, Delia pulls Jim toward David. Looking at him with her large hazel eyes, she asks, Papa Jim, is Grampa gonna be here? Jim points to the sky, replying, No, baby girl, he won’t. But I’m sure he’s watching us right now. Waving toward the sky, Delia says, Hi, Grandpa, love you.

An unusually large multicolored butterfly flies past, catching her attention. Forgetting what it was she was doing, Delia runs after it. Landing just beyond her outstretched arm, it rests for a few seconds before flying to a nearby cherry tree. Landing on a blossom, it seems to watch the busy humans.

A stern leathery faced man stands in front of the largest flat screen of several which line one of his office walls. The nameplate on the man’s desk says only one word: General. Looking past the images that flash by, he sees his reflection. Staring into the mirrored eyes, he wonders—is he an old man with the wisdom to match or is he a crazy man who has wrecked havoc all over the globe? Whose to say.

Focusing his eyes back to the image, he watches Delia’s smiling face waving toward the sky. Knowing the little girl cannot see him, he waves back at her. I love you too. He presses several buttons on the flat panel in front of him.

At that moment, the butterfly lands on the little girl’s nose for a brief second before it takes off again. Smiling, his attention flits back and forth to other monitors from newscasts to aerial views of the world to individuals going on about their day.

To the typical observer, the insect looks and acts like any other of its species. But if one would be able to catch and study the insect at the micro-cellular level, they would find that it is an atypical insect. It’s has the same qualities of a real butterfly, but if examined by technology equivalent to which made it, one would find it is actually a highly sophisticated robot.

Seeing nothing of consequence, the General returns his attention to the picnic, silently wishing that he could be there in person. He focuses on Jim Jr. and two other men talking by the grill as if he was a fly on the wall. More to the point, a butterfly on the wall. The two men are Jim’s brothers-in-law, Peter and Andrew. Jim married their sister despite the ball busting they had given him during his courtship.

Trying to start the burner on the very old Weber propane gas grill, Jim continue his conversation with Peter. A head taller and twenty pounds heavier than his brother, Peter continues his questioning. If we weren’t hired for security at the conference, who’s doing it?

Without looking up, Jim states, Jack Johnson.

Being a pretentious smart-ass, Andrew makes his usual colorful remark. Beautiful. The Gog man and the know-it-all team. Perfect.

I didn’t tell you this. Smith offered ten times the fee for providing security and—Jim winks—recreational security.

With being a straightforward-no-bullshit outfit, Jim’s security business is successful. More so than the few others around. The General has an uncanny ability to find work for them during times when it is scarce. Private security contractors, a social class by itself, really have no function in this day and age. Each government’s military and private security forces police their own over the last several decades. A few other security outfits are active in the private sector. But they too struggle to maintain a sense of themselves.

Andrew asks rhetorically, Didn’t the great President Smith get busted by Mrs. President the last time he had ‘recreational security’? Everyone chuckles. If it had been one of them that got caught with another woman, they wouldn’t be enjoying their lives that day.

That’s one hell of a bribe, Peter continues, getting back on track as he takes a big gulp of beer.

From the picnic table, Mary is conversing with Jim’s brother, Tim and his wife Nicki. They have come to the conclusion that they are now starving instead of being hungry. From across the yard Mary watches Jim fumble about with the very simple task of creating fire. Yelling at her husband, she watches as he and her brothers become live versions of the three stooges. Jim!

Bumping his head on the underside of the grill, Jim steps back stomping on Peter’s shoeless foot.

I need you or one of your cronies to go get the steaks out of the fridge.

Peter grabs his foot, hopping on one leg. Adding insult to injury, Mary slaps the table with an open hand adding, We’re getting hungry here.

This scares Peter even more causing him to bump Andrew into the small kiddie pool.

After the grown men gather their dignity Jim replies, shouting back to save face, In a minute, babe.

NOW. And don’t call me babe.

Sitting in the grass rubbing his foot, Peter whispers to his brother, Who’s she calling cronies?

Under his breath, Jim says, Don’t go getting your panties in a bundle, Mary.

Making sure they get her message, she raises her voice one last time. I heard that.

Like frightened children, all three men freeze in mid-stride. Quickly snapping to attention, they salute. Rolling away, she shakes her head, Knock it off, smart-asses. In the distance, a small squeaky voice can be heard from Delia, the little human parrot. Asses.

Each man bows slightly, showing the proper respect they should have done in the first place to the woman of the house. Peter and Jim start their journey to retrieve the steaks as Andrew begins to tussle with the grill.

Jim continues the conversation with Peter as they head to the house. The bribe wasn’t just for him, but to supply the VIPs with the certain ‘amenities.’

Peter shakes his head, I can’t stand a man who compromises his work ethics for money.

That’s why I refused.

Think we’ll get another job soon?

Looking around the busy yard, Jim says, Probably. Something always comes our way. Turning a complete three sixty, scanning for a member of his crew, he asks, You seen Priest? He is supposed to bring more beer.

Peter replies, opening the sliding glass door, Fucker’s running late as usual. He seem tired to you lately?

In his apartment, Oscair J. Sudait is scurrying around his apartment. Try as he might, he can never get to domestic gatherings on time. Missions and difficult situations, no problem. He’ll be there early. Grabbing this, holding that, he’s close to getting organized for the party. Oscair has always liked to be called by his call sign Priest. The name Oscair has never commanded confidence. Being of Middle Eastern descent and a Muslim as well, his call sign was given to him by a drill sergeant with a cruel sense of humor.

Priest, like many of Apoc’s men, has worked religiously for many years under Jim. Unlike the other members of the crew, Priest has always been the one to question many of Apoc’s orders. Borderline insubordinate, but not intentionally malicious, a quality Apoc admired knowing he wasn’t a yes-man.

Priest’s family always came first, which was a Jim rule. But the team came in at a very close second. Three years ago, Apoc put him on a forced leave of absence, not because he wanted to but because he needed to. His wife was diagnosed with an inoperable cancerous brain tumor. When Apoc found out, he put Priest on leave with full pay and a per diem if they went anywhere.

They traveled the world, any place she wanted to go. He doted on her night and day. Whatever she needed, he was there to provide even if it was just a hand for her to hold on to when she was in pain. Apoc knew he loved her with all his heart and wanted him to spend the time she had left together. And that’s what he did. Their son, Matthias, also spent many a day hanging out with his parents, which delighted her. Watching him follow in his father’s footsteps was heart warming. Priest’s son knew when to be there at her side and when to leave them alone. They raised their son with the proper manners, which have been lost on many offspring over the decades.

On her last day, she and Priest spent the entire day together. Before she passed away, she was determined to hear that Oscair would find another to love. She knew that after she had died, his work would consume him. An unhealthy way to live. Find someone when I’m gone, she had said. Well, he wonders if she would approve of the woman he’s been seeing. Love isn’t the issue with this one. Lust is a better word.

Emptying his fridge of beer, he checks his watch, spurring him into high gear. Having his hands full on the way out, he manages to open the door with the skill of an acrobatic contortionist. Balancing on one foot, he kicks the open button with the other. A very attractive red haired woman sporting an ankle-length trench coat stands in front of him. Her fist is in the air, just about ready to knock. Without a hello or nice to see you, she pounces on him, kissing him long and hard causing him to stumble back into the apartment. Forcing him backward into the kitchen, beers drop from his make shift basket as if they were bread crumbs. The fridge stops his momentum. Releasing her lips from his, she picks a beer off the floor. Opening it with one hand, she takes a long pull from it, causing her coat to open wide. Priest’s eyes move slowly down from her mouth, watching the beer spill down her perfectly sculpted feminine body. The liquid runs down between her firm bare breasts, down her flat slightly six-packed stomach to the inside of her thighs to the floor.

Breaking the silence, she states, Lick it off, bitch.

Coming out of the surprised shock, he manages to slur, Yes, ma’am.

His prior commitments quickly fade as he latches onto her leg. Like a little horny puppy, he begins to lap up the beer starting at her ankle.

Seconds pass, heavenly seconds, as he makes it to her knee. Moving up her leg, his tongue becomes slower. Feeling intoxicated, he reaches her midriff. His sight begins to blur.

As his lips begin to crest her left breast, he seizes up, dropping to his knees. Unbalanced, he tips forward. Luckily, his face breaks his fall.

Reaching down, she flips him onto his back. Priest’s body twitches randomly lying on the floor. A side affect of the drug on her lips. His hands grope the air for a body that isn’t there. His tongue flops up and down out of his mouth like a fish out of water. Completely incoherent, his eyes roll back with only the whites of his eyes showing. The woman takes out a syringe and inserts it into his belly, extracting several milliliters of fluid.

I’ve noticed, Jim answers Peter as he opens the fridge. After finding and removing the plate of meat, Peter stops Jim. I need to talk to you about something else, boss.

As if knowing what the subject is, he says, exhaling, Dan.

He’s becoming… uncontrollable.

Jim nods, allowing Peter to continue. A small fly lands stealthily on Jim’s shoulder as if it was a very small pet.

Ever since he moonlighted for Smith, he’s growing more undisciplined and his lack of following orders.

The insect makes a break as Jim moves, landing on Peter’s bare arm with the grace of a snowflake. You and I both know that sometimes orders should not be followed. Case in point, the actions of why he is where he is today and not here.

I agree. But this… this is getting out of hand. He does what he wants, when he wants. He does not care what the consequences are. He definitely takes after your goofy old man.

Watching and listening to Jim and Peter, being the literal fly on the wall, the General chuckles as he presses a button on the console in front of him.

Peter screams, slapping his arm. Barely missing the insect, the fly darts safely away. Jim lets Peter regain his composure before he continues.

I’ve seen it. He is rough around the edges, and he will always be that way. Have faith in the boy. I’m sure he’ll surprise you.

Easy for you to say, Peter says, itching his arm.

Knowing he does need to say more, Jim adds, I guess it is time we have a sit-down with him.

In the General’s office, the lone man watches a timer countdown to zero. A flash erupts on a different monitor. As if waiting for just this event, the General calmly says, Visual. Salt Lake City. Aerial five miles. Ground level every mile. Several monitors change to the General’s specifications. He watches intently at each one. As seconds tick by, the live video feeds at ground level systematically go blank one by one. The view from orbit shows a mushroom cloud rising into the atmosphere. Twenty-four men enter the General’s office, making a half circle behind him. These elite warriors, the Elders, are his personal bodyguards. The General raises his hand, stopping them in mid-stride. Whispering to himself, he nods in sadness. So it begins.

Sitting in the Chair, he interfaces with his computer. Melding man and machine together, he immediately begins sending and receiving information at the speed of thought. Inside the CPU, a buried file is shunted to his desktop. A colorful butterfly icon flies over to the file and opens it, revealing another seven files within, each bearing an archaic and ancient symbol.

Behind him, a screen shows President J. C. R. Smith giving a speech in what used to be Germany. He just finishes his oration on being newly elected and his promises for the future when several secret service men rush to his side, covering him from all angles. As quickly as they appeared, the agents spirit the president away to his helicopter.

Within nanoseconds of each other, David’s and Jim’s phones begin ringing. The phones are housed on specialized wristbands. A miniature holographic projector, or HP, is designed for visual communication. Other accessible technological tools are built within each person’s wristband utilizing the HP. A special report comes into view, chronicling the bombing in Salt Lake City. As both men watch the event, other alarms begin to sound off.

Jim whistles, catching everyone’s attention. He raises his hand, index finger tracing a small circle in the air. A dozen plus men and women immediately stop what they were doing and disperse. Jim follows Peter to his skycar. Several vehicles lift off and literally disappear into the sky. Their exit time is under sixty seconds.

One week after the explosion, the president is back home. Looking out of the thirteenth floor of Babel Tower, J. C. Smith stands tall, secure in knowing that nothing can touch him in his impenetrable building. Behind him, a man sits in the far corner of the room. His hand swirls a scotch glass. The crystal container disappears into the shadows, which seem to bend unnaturally, masking his identity. He passes the glass underneath his nose, inhaling the pungent, but semisweet odor of the liquor.

That was a very nice display.

The seated man, taking a sip, replies, Thank you. It was the least I can do.

Both men contemplate their next moves in their own grand schemes. The president trusts no one, even his friend sitting across from him. Eventually he will have to get rid of his oldest comrade. As of late, the president has noticed something different about the man. Something slight. A mannerism. A stance. Then again, it could be him. Setting the final stages of his legacy in motion may be throwing his perceptions off. Making him see enemies where there aren’t any.

Shifting in the old Victorian chair, the other knows as if by telepathy what is going through the president’s thoughts. At the moment and for the immediate future, he isn’t concerned about the disreputable nature of the president. His nature will be his downfall. Back to the present the mystery man continues, Project Fallen is ahead of schedule. The first model should be rolling off the floor within a week, well before the conference.

The president replies, "Excellent. Soon we can begin the next chapter in history. Creating a new god. A human god. A god with a physical presence. Those clinging to the one true ‘God’ still have authority on certain councils. It will tip the balance even without the use of our ‘persuasion’. They will not like our idea of the future of religion. The Purians are the largest conservative group whose beliefs can seriously affect our timetable. Even with the actual facts that now flood the religious community, they hold on with a death grip to their ridiculous thoughts and precious ideals which they hold so near, to their hearts. A dying faith…

When their leaders become more ‘open-minded’ due to our cloning research, playing both sides of the fence will become less of a factor. Even clones have a soul, right? Our god will agree.

Standing gracefully, the mystery man floats upright, revealing a scarred face. To most of the world, his identity is unknown. But to the circle of world power, his name is San Jinn Ta, the president of China.

China has been the leading world power and has been for the last twenty years. In the past, China has kept the United States at arm’s length. The only saving grace the UCA has had is Joseph Charles Russell Smith. Many years have passed since Smith had saved San Jinn Ta’s life. Or so he made Joe believe. His political climb to office has been fully endorsed, and advanced silently by the Chinese government.

I concur. You’re preaching to the choir. The clones’ Right to Life group was a stroke of genius in the right direction. The generic clones being created in the private sector do have rights. You managed to evoke a national response. Taking another sip, San Jinn Ta continues, You’ve managed to keep the wealthy Purians in check by the distraction.

"I couldn’t have done it without K’Ali and her book. It is the new bible."

What was it called? the man in the monitor asks.

"Closer to God. The general public has bought it hook, line, and sinker."

"Yes, I heard that it is actually in its fifth printing.