Feet of Clay

By Joseph R. Trudel

The year is 2014. America is no longer the industrial or the military dynamo that it had previously been.

Inside its own borders, minor disputes over national issues are accelerating beyond the comprehension and management of both the American public and among its political leaders.
In the fog of distance, a phantom cargo ship drifts hauntingly alone on the Pacific Ocean. Its crew mysteriously murdered by someone... or something... thats too horrible to explain...too eerie to reveal its forbidden truth.

Some six thousand miles away, covert activities and treasonous acts against the United States now send rippling consequences that will soon be felt throughout the entire world.
America itself will not be left untouched, for it is this country that will now strain and struggle against itself as it attempts to elude the coming Armageddon that will inevitably test its willits spiritand even its founding principles, towards remaining the true leader of the free world.

Yet, another era in history is quickly emerging. And with it a new nations leadership that truly believes that its time has come.
Its iron-will belief system is so strong, that its success will ultimately come not from its own military might, but rather from an unraveling of the international stage towards a veiled co-existence.

Against this background, a sinister plan for a nuclear holocaust has been conceived. Its chief architect is not a person of self-control, but rather a psychopathic madman intent on becoming the most powerful and feared individual of all time. His weapon of choice is neither guns nor direct threats, but rather the devils very own deception of coy innocence.

Anarchy in America....Armageddons arrival.... Ascension of a Dark Horse nation
the end of days....is about to begin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 28, 2008
• ISBN: 9781465323071

Joseph R. Trudel

Joseph R. Trudel is a writer of several other novels and books (‘Of Seasons Known’; ‘Bonanza Bits’) and has appeared previously on radio talk-shows, has participated in public issue’s forums, and has routinely addressed several journalism seminars throughout the United States. In addition to his current interests of creative writing, he has also written contemporary articles on vacation travel, personal finance, and public affairs issues. An appreciated admirer of the American Southwest, he currently resides in Arizona and is presently in the process of writing his next novel…‘Twilight To War’.

Book preview

Chapter 1

There she sat . . . a rusting, yet sturdy cargo vessel labeled the Crimson, now seemingly isolated some 227 miles off the coast of Molokai, in the Hawaiian Islands.

It had been sighted by native fishermen just three days earlier, yet it had taken the US Coast Guard, several days to pursue the matter. This was primarily due to other high security issues that were being increasingly emitted from the communist nation of North Korea.

Captain Danvers, of the Coast Guard Cutter Tri Star, had tried repeatedly to radio the Crimson crew for several hours before finally approaching it. Yet, when no response resulted from those efforts, he quickly feared the worst—namely, that its crew might be dead from scorching-like sun dehydration or even worst, from possible starvation. Of these two scenarios, Danvers gut instinct told him, it was most likely the former. Ironically, the weather over the last few days had been only slightly above normal for mid-April. Still an unyielding, haunting-like feeling advanced towards a morbid like outcome, which had now begun to threaten his usually optimistic mindset.

As a top graduate of the Coast Guard Academy in Connecticut, he had been taught many lessons on intercepting and seizing the various drug running and illegal arms vessels, which his command had often encountered on the open seas. Such illicit vessels, had often times coyly disguised themselves as a harmless fishing boat or even a passive cargo ship, much like the unresponsive Crimson now appeared to be.

This time however, there appeared to be stark differences about the mysterious ship. First, there was no record of a ship being registered under that name, either in the US or anywhere worldwide. Danvers now wondered if possibly the owner had simply changed the vessels fading name., so as to conceal its true purpose.

‘Not likely’ he thought, as such identification would have instantly been noted in the Universal Marine Database.

The fact that it didn’t have a valid identity left Danvers unable to explain to himself, this unique situation. The second mystery that emerged was that no refueling station had any recollection whatsoever of it stopping at any of the local fuel depots.

That also was puzzling since the distance involved from the closest port was too far away for the Crimson to have traveled unassisted to its current location.

Try as he did to explain the ships unexplained position, he was now baffled about what he saw immediately before him.

Certainly, another refueling ship could have aided the presumed distressed ship, except that is for one fact . . . it was also verified via satellite reports, that no other ships had recently been anywhere close to the Crimsons location.

Still the most curious event of all to Danvers, was why her crew hadn’t radioed a ‘May-Day" (emergency signal) cry for help.

Clearly, they should have relayed for emergency assistance, if they had in fact, been in some sort of trouble . . . yet for some unknown reason they didn’t.

Danvers mind was now engulfed with additional questions. One that seemed most troubling to him, was that even if the ship’s communications equipment had been inoperative, then the required distress flares on board, should have been set off, thereby also signaling an emergency situation.

Such flares would have been easily seen from several miles away—especially in the busy sea corridor, in which the Crimson now found itself. Yet none of these unexplained circumstances seemed to make any sense to Danvers, who had professionally spent the last seven years on the world’s oceans, and was certain that he had seen just about ever type of crisis situation—that is, until now.

Captain . . . the Crimson is within sight . . . . we should be on its deck within fifteen minutes, sir. Suddenly, Danvers puzzling look began to change abruptly, upon hearing the yeoman’s words. He profoundly hoped that within the next half hour, he would also have an explanation as to the Crimsons mysterious set of circumstances.

But for the moment, thank you, sailor was all he could say to the enlisted seaman.

On the upper bridge of the Tri Star, Captain Danvers now focused his rigid binoculars on the distant ship.

Once again, it simply remained motionless . . . except for the occasional rocking that commonly resulted from the oceans shifting waves.

Standing somewhat vigilant, he quickly scanned the Crimsons deck for any signs of life . . . any indication of physical movement, but there was none.

Then suddenly, a bizarre feeling . . . an eerie feeling of evil . . . now seemed to run down his spine.

He quickly changed his standing position, as if by doing so, he could hopefully shake off the uneasiness which he now felt.

It didn’t work.

He nervously then picked up the radio on the bridge.

Lt. Johnson, this . . . this, is the Captain, . . . radio the Crimson for permission to board.

Aye, Aye sir replied the junior officer.

Some thirty seconds went by.

Johnson then radioed back his commanding officer.

Negative response from the Crimson . . . sir.

Danvers once again looked thru his binoculars, this time letting out a gasp of frustration over the whole incident that was now taking his full attention.

Stand by . . . Lieutenant said Danvers, as he now hesitated over the presumed fate of the Crimson.

Once again, he seemed perplexed by the mystery ship in the distant.

Abruptly he then picked up the ship’s intercom.

Prepare a docking vessel crew to board the Crimson . . . once we get within a quarter mile from its location.

Johnson replied immediately to Danvers command.

Will do, sir.

The crew that was sent to board the Crimson was both young and naive; mostly nineteen or twenty year olds.

‘Raw recruits’ is what they had commonly been referred to, while training in boot camp, Yet any senior officer worth his salt quickly realized, that such men were of the ‘gung-ho’ type, and thus were clearly interested in the many dangers . . . and challengers of the open seas.

Certainly, Danvers crew was no exception to that belief.

Fourteen seamen now set foot upon the deck of the Crimson.

Immediately, they all noticed that the ships interior was literally frozen over.

It was as if some sort of eerie-looking ice shield was present everywhere.

Still there was no sign of its crew.

Instead, there were only the token ship amenities of furniture, beds, and several TV’s, all encased in this thin shield of ice.

The senior officer of the boarding crew was Lt. Clayton Hall.

He now directed the young crew to thoroughly search the fore and aft section of the Crimson, before he himself would report back to Captain Danvers.

Further investigation of the Crimson now revealed discarded food scraps, a few empty beer bottles, and a portable radio emitting only static.

Some five minutes later, a sailor then shouted out to Hall from the ships engine room.

Immediately, Officer Hall dashed into the small area where he was then confronted with a bizarre scene of horrific deaths.

The smell of several corpses—some still frozen while others were clearly charred, sent first bewilderment and then pungent odors to the officer’s nostrils.

Ironically, within this short distance of only a few feet, there appeared to be no other sign of fire to the ship or its surroundings.

Hall quickly drew his weapon and cautiously approached the other bodies, not knowing what to make of the contradictory situation.

It was as if somehow, a huge fireball had suddenly engulfed the Crimsons crew, while ironically, the nearby environment remained untouched.

Halls own experience could not explain the contradiction among the Crimson’s crew.

Thus, the uneven and contradictory setting remained somewhat frozen in time . . . without any sort of logical explanation—or even more importantly . . . any sign of life.

Hall feverishly searched around the room for some sort of clue, as to how all this could have happened.

Suddenly, he then detected a faint sound which was coming from nearby one of the charred bodies.

Looking down, he then noticed a small Geiger-counter. He immediately picked it up.

Its sound now amplified itself, as he moved it closer to one of the burnt body.

He then took out his pocket pager to radio Captain Danvers as to what he had found. The words sir . . . there are . . . burnt . . . frozen bodies were erratically broken up, as an increasing static overtook his message. Still Danvers had partially understood Halls few words, but little else from the erratic sounding message.

Some two seconds later, the Crimson suddenly exploded killing Hall and the full boarding crew.

From the nearby bridge of the Tri Star this volatile explosion stunned Danvers, and his watchful crew.

He quickly realized, that the answers which he initially sought about the Crimsons buoyant vagrancy, were now of secondary concern.

Danvers felt an immediate rush of both anger and despair at having lost these men.

In just a few hours, he knew that he would have to recall it all over . . . again and again. Initially just to his superiors and then finally to himself, as he would then have to prepared a list of the casualties, for the sailors next of kin.

In many ways . . . this report would serve as an eerie testimony as to the fate of the Crimsons demise—and for Captain Danvers, unanswered questions.

Chapter 2

Outside Beijing province, the young missionary kept a careful watch along the dusty path that led his followers to their secret meeting place.

The man’s name was Abraham Mc Call. His parents had given him this name, after they had been inspired from the Old Testament character known as Abraham.

Both of McCall’s parents had long been born-again Christians, and often felt that there was something unusually different in their only son.

Growing up in Augusta, Georgia, the young Mc Call had showed early on an intense inclination towards helping those in need to turn their barren lives around.

Accordingly, he soon became known by his adopted nickname, Hope.

Yet, that had been some 23 years before. Now as a missionary, he had been sent to Communist China to help those there and who also wished to accept the Christian faith. In so doing, he fully realized and accepted, the fact that his own life was constantly on the thin line that so often times, bordered between life and death.

In divinity school, he had been taught extensively about the communist’s ill response to those who were caught preaching such presumed ‘anti-government’ beliefs, as religious worship.

The dire consequences of such outlawed actions had been previously exhibited to others and routinely consisted of severe torture, and was usually then followed by an excruciating slow and often, very painful death.

Still Hope McCall was not the type of man, who was easily shaken in either his personal beliefs or in the evil threats of others opposed to his spiritual message of personal salvation.

Rather, such challenges seemed to represent an ever expanding experience towards advancing his own efforts in helping mankind. That along with his own personal appreciation of Gods daily presence had now given purpose to his own destiny in life.

Now here he stood, some 13,000 miles away from the scenic shores of coastal Georgia. He often wondered if he would ever see it again.

For a brief moment, he remembered the beckoning call of the regions black crows, as they seemed to seemingly greet one another each morning, and with a sort of mysterious awe he could almost see the ruby-like sunset as it descended into the distant horizon, so precious and yet so fragile. Clearly, ‘the gifted handiwork from the one God above’, he often thought.

He then quickly dismissed these nostalgic thoughts as being somewhat selfish.

No, he had long ago chosen to deny himself many of life’s earthly rewards, by instead deciding to follow his one and only true savior . . . Jesus Christ. Thus his own life, . . . indeed his own survival, now had little remaining significance to him. In its place, spirituality had literally become his new life’s journey . . . especially here in the arena of its arch enemy, the atheist domain of communist Red China.

It had now been some twenty minutes beyond the group’s scheduled meeting time, and still none of his anticipated followers had appeared.

He began to wonder, and then he began to fear, if perhaps they had been arrested by state officials or even worst, might even had been killed by them, for not confessing their coerced allegiance to the brutal communist government.

He quickly checked his wristwatch and then decided to wait three more minutes before leaving the appointed and secretive meeting place.

Then suddenly, as if seeing a mirage, he saw several old men appearing in the distance. One walked erratically with a limp, while the others tried to help him along.

A few moments later, a second group of other followers were sighted. All of those folks, however, seemed to walk briskly, as if knowing that they were indeed late for McCall’s scheduled sermon.

Soon there were some 31 people huddled inside the medium size cave, which for tonight at least, would serve as their own cathedral.

McCall had greeted each of them personally . . . even though he had never seen many of them before. Yet each of them were to be among the new converts of the Christian faith.

Then before starting his sermon, McCall somewhat anxiously asked them why they were late in coming. The consensus from the trembling group was that the state authorities had required all the areas population to witness a public execution.

McCall quickly shook his head in disgust, as if the devil himself were suddenly present in that morbid area of death

He then thanked them all for coming, and then quickly began his sermon.

Tonight, he would talk not only about the newcomers welcomed conversion to the Christian faith, but also about the evil in the world and how the saved would ultimately be victorious over it. He soon read several passages from the New Testament. The new parishioners whom had previously felt alone as individuals, now suddenly seemed to be filled with an uplifting inspiration.

Finally, McCall then talked about the betrayal of Judas, and cautioned the group that they also must always be vigilant for similar people even today . . . even those, who might also be among their own.

Within the hour, the inspired group would disband. Each eventually destined for a different location . . . a different home . . . in which to find their own calling in their new life.

In a few days, Mc Call would contact each of them, as to where the next service meeting would take place.

It certainly would be in a different location, as it always was.

He realized, that by doing so, made both himself and his followers that much harder to be discovered by the provincial police.

Once the group had left, he opened his worn bible and gave personal thanks to God for giving him the chance to once again preach to others.

He then blew out the few candles, and immediately the cave returned to utter darkness. For a brief moment, he saw the darkness as not only the evil within communist China, but also firmly residing in the hardened hearts of a dispirited . . . and broken mankind.

Chapter 3

Kim Yang, sat in his opulent laden office, staring at the wall map that showed the countries of South Korea, Japan, Taiwan . . . and the United States.

As the leader of communist North Korea, he had often thought about his country becoming the lone superpower in East Asia.

Yet, those ideas now quickly vanished as he quickly read the international paper that cited the number of famine deaths (presently some two million) of his own people, and a stifled economy that never really got started.

For a brief moment, it seemed that his own selfish guilt had affected him over the unnecessary deaths. Yet just as quickly, he now shook his head, in an effort to dispel any such feeling of remorse for their insensitive demise.

Inside his office were all the trimmings that were so often associated with being that country’s head of state. From Moscow, there was a statue of the Soviet dictator Lenin. On the nearby wall was a self portrait of Fidel Castro, the past and brutal tyrant of communist Cuba, and finally on the mahogany polished table, stood a prized chess set which had been handmade from ivory and had been presented to Yang, by Duc Chou—the current (and sadistic) leader of Communist China.

As he now picked up the nearby cup of potent green tea, he looked about his office once again . . . as if looking for something that was certainly even more important to him, than all of those special gifts were combined.

Then, as he glanced to his far left, he finally saw what he had been looking to find—a glass enclosed newspaper article that detailed North Korea’s seizure of the USS Pueblo (an alleged spy ship) off the Korean coast on Jan 23, 1968.

Yang, now emitted a radiate smile to him self, sensing the satisfaction that the ship still remained docked in a North Korean harbor. Even though its 73 crew members had long since been release to the US, after having spent some 11 months in foreign captivity.

He now felt an adrenaline rush from the international incident. To him, it was perhaps North Korea’s greatest hour, since his forefathers had confronted the most powerful military force on earth—and literally won that showdown, . . . at least in the eyes of world opinion.

He then took another sip of the tea, savoring it as though it was a glass of fine wine.

He now abruptly lit a cigarette, heavily inhaling its flavor before slowly exhaling its woodsy odor, and its choking-like potential.

Once again, he thought about the four country maps set before him, and contemplated the fact that all of them had in one way or another, now become obstacles to achieving his own country’s emergence as a world superpower.

He also realized that although his army had well over a million troops, they were clearly no match for either Japan or the US’s own advanced technology might.

Yang then turned his manipulate thoughts to the two other countries of Taiwan and the republic of South Korea.

Almost instantly, a now urgent sense of certain victory seemed to fill his darken consciousness.

He then shouted the word ‘yes’ to himself, as he quickly envisioned a dominance first over one country, and then the other.

Still, these were the two countries which he had viewed as merely stepping stones as to what his ultimate goal was to be—namely, to snare the US into a shooting war with that of Japan. After which, Kim Yang would seize the day’s fallout and shortly thereafter, then invade South Korea. Taiwan was to be the key that would unlock Kim Yang’s madness . . . to the world.

Once that scenario had occurred, Yang had envisioned himself to be in a prized position, so as to achieve his goal, of having then risen to international prominence, by the simple fallen domination theory of occupying both Taiwan and South Korea.

Indeed, once both of these countries were attacked by Yang’s troops, only China would remain a regional superpower . . . and a likely future opponent as well.

Since Peking’s leaders were already on good terms with Yang, he saw such an initial alignment as being especially beneficial for both countries. Yet in time, he realized that even communist China would not be allowed to stand in his way towards becoming the world’s most powerful and feared leader, and which he now envisioned himself to be.

But for now, China served Yang’s imagined vision of the future as a dependable allied.

In addition, unlike North Korea, China had many laborers to work its own rice fields . . . its torturous sweat factories—and in time, would provide even greater numbers of conscripted soldiers to fight its wars. In Yang’s mind, all three elements were perceived as vital assets for a leader, who suddenly seemed destined for greatness.

In return for that alliance, North Korea now had something which Red China lacked and very much desired to have—a long-range missile capability. In fact, Peking’s leaders knew that North Korea was very close to firing a test-missile that would likely reach as far away as America’s west coast. Thus, they saw Yang’s regime as vital to their own aspirations.

Yang fully realized that the stakes, in both the short and long term, were indeed risky for both countries futures.

Accordingly, he had recently ordered his senior military officers to provide him with a scenario for (a) creating economic chaos within Taiwan, so as to have a rippling monetary effect upon the US stock market (b) proposing and then forcing a military conflict between Japan and the US over their Taiwan business interests and (c) a crushing assault of the Korean peninsula by northern armed forces invading South Korea.

Yang now pulled out a small notebook from the top desk drawer.

With the several military scenarios that would soon be presented to him, he knew that he alone would ultimately decide the chosen course of action . . . and that this decision if carried out successfully, would certainly propel him and his country, onto the world stage.

As he now pondered that future, a static sounding radio broadcast was suddenly heard from one of the adjacent offices.

"It appears today, that Japan’s Premier Tho Listaki will soon visit

South Korea leader Yak Vin Anigh in order to discuss further weapons assistance to the South. Clearly, such a move is seen by other communist nations as a symbolic gesture to further counter North Korea’s perceived and growing missile threat.

Yet, this move by Tokyo is now perceived by many of America’s allies to be a further flexing of Japan’s own military might.

Accordingly, such aid, will likely keep South Korea under Japan’s military umbrella, even as it moves towards economic superiority, over the West

Traitors . . . damn them all shouted the emotionally and increasingly unstable Yang.

Those bastards . . . in both Tokyo and Seoul think they can isolate me from the rest of the world. Hell . . . by the time I’ve finish, they will both be on their knees begging me for their own survival.

Once he had then controlled himself, he then pressed a small intercom button on the side of his desk.

Almost instantly a somewhat sullen and mean-faced woman officer appeared at attention before him.

Yang studied her demeanor as if wanting to probe . . . to reveal, her devious inner thoughts.

He passively inspected the officer’s appearance and then briefly wondered about the many men she had killed while on special assignments over the past few years. Yang then looked directly into her morbid-like eyes, and saw only an emptiness of any emotion.

Comrade Tsiz has scheduled a meeting for this afternoon at 5:30 with senior officers Spectiv, Orvitz, and Martuni. You are to see to it, that no other officers in the high command know of this meeting . . . is that clear?

The woman officer stood rigid, absorbing his every word as if he were a father talking strictly to a daughter who had somehow seriously disobeyed him.

Yes, Premier Yang . . . of course, was her only reply.

He, then lifted his frail looking hand to her, which was both a salute and a signal to her, that she was now dismissed.

After returning the salute, she did an about face and walked briskly out of the room.

Yang now lit another cigarette, while sensing rather proudly, that sometime in the near future, a new day for both his country . . . and himself, was both inevitable . . . and one which the whole world would surely notice.

Chapter 4

Outside the newly opened National Hispanic Museum in El Paso, Texas, a crowd of some 3,000 people stood somewhat impatiently in the scorching 107 degree heat.

Among the many speakers that day, were those whose public ideologies spoke of America’s cultural diversity, yet privately had systematically advocated the reclaiming of the American Southwest by Mexican subversives and Marxist revolutionaries.

Such iconic ‘leaders’ clearly saw America as a weakening giant. A country which no longer had a national cohesiveness in maintaining its own native language, its unique culture or even a serious concern regarding its increasingly porous and broken borders. This inevitable demise was also evident, as shown from the absence in the public schools of its once proud history. In its place was the ‘dumbing-down’ policy of the next generation via a Leninist-oriented, indoctrination system.

In city after city, the turning signs of this multi-culture conquest now seemed to appear everywhere.

Recently, in Tucson, Arizona, naturalized citizens took their oath of allegiance in their native Spanish, rather than in the country’s official language of English.

Meanwhile, in the other small towns of Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas, Caucasians, were routinely discriminated against . . . by all levels of their own government.

Unemployment among whites now stood at 43%. Even those fortunate enough to find jobs, found only menial ones, while their destitute families remained faceless to the elitist rulers of the day.

Gone also were the technological professions of years past.

Engineers, scientists, teachers, lawyers, doctors, and many other white collar professionals had now been denied employment by the state-sponsored racist form of government.

Ironically, in their own country, whites had suddenly become social pawns by politically correct politicians, who sought the bogus and illegal votes of such Marxist groups as La Mexicana, as a way to easily seize and thus increase their own political power.

Tom Barclay was a local TV reporter, who had occasionally worked at the nearby station (KERO), on a freelance basis.

Like so many other professional, he also found himself to be a victim of state-sponsored discrimination against the white race.

Ironically, he had not even been interested in covering this event, except for the fact that a close friend of his had been unable to make the assignment, due to a sudden illness.

Barclay however, needed the extra money. So with a family of four to support, he immediately jumped at the chance to make a few hundred dollars for his spare time in recording the opening-days festivities.

On this day, he had arrived early, as did most of the other local media personnel.

Now as he prepared to scout out the best position for a video recording of the various scheduled speakers, he also observed the many Mexican flags on vehicles with Mexican license plates, which reminded him of the changing demographics occurring here in the city of El Paso.

By now, the outside temperature had risen to a scorching 110 degrees. He was glad that he had worn both a wide-brimmed hat and had applied ample dollops of sunscreen to prevent his sensitive skin from any likely blistering.

Then after a few minutes of scouting out the focus area, he soon found a position that he knew would give him the right mix of shade, light, and camera angle.

The position chosen was just before a small picket fence, and some 100 yards away from center stage.

He was glad to have discovered this location first, as it now allowed him some valuable time to set up his recorder, adjust the equipment for the expected overcast weather, and to then check his cramped video bag for all the items, which he would likely need for today’s event.

Within just a few moments, the mariachi sound of a Mexican fiesta, suddenly began to amplify throughout the surrounding area. An ensemble of tailgate parties consisting of tacos, burritos and prohibited tequila now seemed to add a cultural identity as to what the participants had come here to reflect upon—namely, the opening of a national Hispanic University, here in ‘Aztec America’, as many of the participants had now called the southwest region.

Looking around the immediate area, Barcley also noticed many blatant signs of Mexican dominance. Some were in the form of bumper stickers that read—‘Mexico Today—The Southwest Tomorrow’.

Another showed the image of Uncle Sam being dragged away by two men in sombreros. A poster boldly quoted a communist revolutionary that said: ‘The Southwest Belongs to Mexico’. Directly below those words were these: ‘We will reclaim the American Southwest and then change it . . . according to OUR national heritage.’

Barclay convincingly felt that he was in old Mexico, rather than in America itself. For a brief moment, he even felt threaten by the anti-American crowd since he saw so few other whites in the now expanding audience.

Then he noticed the list of today’s speakers on the press notice that he had been given. Ironically, most of these had European names.

He suddenly let out a little sigh, which seemed to be somewhat symbolic of the inner relief he now felt.

To Barclay, it seemed like a cultural lifeline in the mass of diversity, now set directly in front of him.

He then suddenly turned away from the crowd and began to concentrate on why he was here today. Both money and friendship appeared as answers . . . indeed, the only answers.

He abruptly focused his camcorder, adjusting for the distance of the speaker’s stage, and then made certain that its amplified microphone was also set to the proper volume.

Everything appeared to be correct. In another twenty minutes, the first of several speakers would be introduced.

As he once again scanned over the speaker’s guest list, he clearly did not recognize many of the recipient’s names on it.

As a freelance professional, he had dismissed such matter as being somewhat irrelevant to the event itself. After all, it was the acceptance of the speaker by the audience that was the issue, rather than his own personal knowledge of that person. His sole objective today was simply to record the event, and then to write its relevance, nothing more . . . nothing less.

He now checked his watch. It showed 12:38pm. His stomach then made a growled, reminding him that he had skipped breakfast, primarily due to his last minute notification so as to get here on time.

He then looked around the parking lot for anyone who might be selling some good old-fashioned American food.

He quickly spotted a small eatery stand some 100 yards away. Knowing that he still had time before the event started, he now walked towards it.

Near the vendor counter, was a low rider motorcycle on display, which was also the only prize being awarded for a contest today. As a few young men gathered around the illuminating prize, others seemed to be totally uninterested in it.

Barclay distant himself from the two and now ordered a ham and egg sandwich. The vendor’s helper then said something in Spanish to the cook while staring at Barclay. Soon the two men began to laugh, as though they were intentionally humiliating him

Barclay then took the food and gave the man some money. Sensing their hostility towards him, he didn’t bother to wait for his change.

A few minutes later, he was back in his chosen position. By now, the sun had all but vanished, replaced by a misty grey cloud cover that had not been anticipated by the local weather forecast, until just a few hours later.

Now searching somewhat frantically thru his equipment bag, he pulled out a cloud filter for the camcorder, in order to adjust for the declining level of daylight present.

He then checked his watch once again. It showed 1:03, and now wondered if the speaker was late or if his own watch was just wrong.

A few seconds later, a man dressed in a tuxedo appeared on the stage. At first, he spoke in English by saying:

Good Morning Ladies and Gentlemen and welcome to our special opening of the National Hispanic University here today.

He then continued.

My name is Hector Villanova and for the next two hours, I am proud to present several speakers, who will soon tell us, just how honored they all are to be attending this dedication today, and how proud they also are of their ongoing relations with their true homeland . . . Mexico.

The speaker then said something in Spanish and the crowd, responded with chants of VIVA MEXICO along with the wavering of several small Mexican flags.

Villanova then spoke again in English.

"And now my friends let us begin today’s festivities with the introduction of our first speaker.

This is a man who had come to America illegally some seventeen years ago, yet still managed to overcome the many racist obstacles he endured here to become both a millionaire . . . and an inspiring figure to his own people.

So now . . . without further delay, let me now introduce Felix Consuelo, the founder and president of Solma Electronics."

The crowd quickly responded in unison, with a thunderous applause.

Consuelo smiled, and then went into some detail about how America was both a land of opportunity and a symbol of hope for so many improvised in the world today.

Ironically, his direct and honest words were met with both approval and opposition.

Many of the latter and obscene words were sporadically being shouted out by several intoxicated men, who then also began to holler at him in Spanish. Most of the crowd however, seemed to ignore their foul and obscene vulgarities.

By way of contrast, Barclay had focused in on their discontent and wondered if KERO’s editor would possibly want to use it. To himself personally, it really didn’t matter. His assignment was simply to stay objective by recording what was happening in the here and now. Accordingly, what the TV viewers finally got to see, was simply beyond his control.

Soon a few more speakers appeared as scheduled and then quickly departed the stage after telling the audience of who they were, why they had come today, and how fortunate they were to have had the opportunities presented to them while living in America.

After almost two hours of this, Barclay then looked down at the list of remaining speakers.

Only three names remained.

He clearly recognized two of them, but wasn’t quite sure if his memory was accurate, as to each man’s specific background.

The first name that appeared on the list was Wesley Rudman. He was one of the areas most influential businessmen, ever since inheriting his partners company, and turning it into a financial empire.

Rudman had of course, become its C.E.O. (Chief Financial Officer), and as such, had also recently propelled this electronics company into immense profitability for its many shareholders.

The company became known as Royal Enterprises, and specialized in the import/export business as it related to government contracts.

The other speaker whose name sounded somewhat familiar to Barclay was Herman Presnor.

Like Rudman, he had come from an economically poor family, yet still managed to arrive to the top of a retailing business thru shrewd business dealings with his international suppliers.

Both men it seems, had certainly fulfilled the American Dream.

The fact that both successful men were here together, clearly indicated their sincere desire to give something back to the community for their own hard fought and inspiring success story.

The third speaker was totally unknown to Barclay. In fact, this speaker was listed as a first year owner to a new and emerging business. As such, Barclay wondered if he might conclude his own assignment early today, by simply eliminating the last speaker from the filming.

Previous experience had told him that by the time the last footnoted speaker appeared on stage, most of the audience had either departed or no longer had much interest in his words.

So unless the final speaker was well-known, it was doubtful that most film editors would be interested in his words either.

Barclay now noticed the large tower clock that was positioned nearby.

It showed 4:18, which ironically, was several minutes beyond each speakers starting time, according to the listing schedule.

By 5pm, Tom Barclay knew that he would have to leave the premises, regardless of whether or not the event was concluded, in order to have the film edited for the 7pm newscast.

He now prepared to focus his highly technical camera lens on Wesley Rudman.

Barclay hoped that the speakers expected comments would not be too long.

If they weren’t, then maybe he could film Presnor’s talk as well.

Rudman then appeared on stage. He had a smile, even a charisma about him that the audience seemed to instantly accept.

"Greetings . . . ladies and gentlemen. Thank you all for allowing us today to serve you once again and to give thanks for the chance to prove to each of you that America is truly one of the last great beacons of freedom and opportunity remaining in the world today.

Ever since I began my business, I have sought to . . ."

Then suddenly, and without any warning or disruption in his speech, a loud and echoing gunshot rang out.

Tom Barclay instantly knew that it was likely a high caliber bullet, due to its explosive noise.

The high-velocity bullet, traveling at some four thousand feet per second quickly found its designated target and upon impact, immediately exploded the head of Wesley Rudman into a fine red mist.

The totally paranoid crowd now scrambled in panic, first running . . . then colliding into one another, while trying to save themselves from the resulting chaos.

Soon chairs and tables became token obstacles in their path, as they now tried to escape from the witnessed carnage. Nearby, nervous looking security guards had quickly drawn their weapons and taken off in different directions, in a vain attempt to find the shooter.

Barclay himself was also shaking, having never experienced such public mayhem before. As a result, he soon lay somewhat cowardly on the ground with his face peeking up among the nearby debris . . . and the horrific scene that he had just witnessed.

Yet, all he now saw was a mass exit of the frightened crowd below his position point.

He immediately looked around for his camcorder . . . and discovered it several feet away, lying randomly on its side.

Barclay then remembered how it got there—the gunshot had startled him so much, that he had carelessly dropped it, from his own initial feeling of panic.

‘Totally unprofessional’ was his immediate thought. A reporter, even a freelance reporter