The Providential President

By Vern L. Alford

The worst terrorist attack since 9/11 forces a newly elected president thrown into office by unusual circumstances to act. Watch as he defies political correctness and strikes against Americas enemies both at home and abroad, taking the nation by surprise. Sticking to his vow, President Hudnall intentionally deceives the public, ruins his reputation, and causes his family pain, all the while using his secret resources to bring ultimate justice to the world of the jihadist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781503512917

Vern L. Alford

Vern L. Alford, pastor and teacher. Since 1983, my wife, Betty Jo, and I have founded three churches as well as Corner Stone Christian Academy. I am an avid fan of mystery novels, and I love to tell stories. I attended a San Diego State University writer’s conference, the Antelope Valley writer’s guild conference as well as Barnes and Noble’s author forum, which helped me in the formation of this novel.

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Chapter 1

On Sunday May 9, dedication and revenge were rolling toward the same parking lot.

The Rev. J. M. Carlson pulled into his personal parking space by the church office. As he exited his car, he was pleased as he scanned the surrounding scene. Last-minute flowers were being delivered, parking lot personnel were placing cones and barriers, and the grounds and buildings were immaculate as usual. This was no normal Sunday. Today was one of the three most important days of the year at Morgan Valley Baptist Church: Easter, Christmas, and, today, Homecoming Sunday. Morgan Valley Baptist Church had established Valley View Baptist College some fifteen years before, and this day all 490 college students, plus their families, alumni, and spouses would gather for a special homecoming service in the gymnasium.

The overall view of the church, college, and school grounds presented a picture of genuine success. The contrast of white tents and colorful flags against the perfectly groomed grass brought to mind images of the celebration that would take place inside the buildings and the feasting in the temporary tents later that day. This was a high day for Morgan Valley Baptist Church.

Two hours later the sun sparkled on the windshields of row after row of cars. Twelve white buses had unloaded their cargo of Sunday worshippers and were parked in a neat row. The college students and their visiting families were streaming into the Willard J. Cole Memorial Gym, as their special alumni service would take place during the first worship time.

Just north of the church property ran Cooper Road. Miguel Alvarez, formerly Emir Tallos of the Philippines, turned his truck into the far west corner of the church grounds. Miguel had rehearsed his plan a hundred times in his mind. What he hadn’t planned for was all the traffic. It was much heavier than the Sunday morning he had visited several weeks ago when reconnoitering the campus. As he turned into the drive, parking attendants would not allow him close to the main sanctuary and those profane-stained glass windows. His plan was well laid out, yet his heart raced as he wheeled the box truck with lettering which read Dalton’s Yard Supply. He was alone felt alone and had decided to put his plan into motion. Over three months he had waited for a response from his only U.S. contact; no one answered, no one cared, and now his closest friend had deserted him and their cause. His position as supervisor for Dalton’s Yard Supply gave him access to the truck and the ability to secretly purchase enough diesel and nitrous fertilizer to build a bomb twice as devastating as the one detonated in Oklahoma City.

Gabriel Alvarez whose real name was Fadil Londl walked into church that morning accompanied by a young lady, Marcela Marcos, and her mother and father. Her family gushed with excitement that Gabriel would be baptized on this special Sunday. While they were finding their places in the six-thousand-seat auditorium, Gabriel listened as Mr. Marcos spoke with pride about their sanctuary.

The platform for the ministers is one hundred and sixty feet long, a pointing mister Marcos said. In a few minutes the orchestra will be seated in front of the raised platform.

Gabriel nodded politely as her father continued his verbal tour of the church.

The choir, did I tell you they are two hundred members? That’s where they set. He was again pointing beyond the stage to the stadium style seats that towered behind the platform to the ceiling.

The beauty of soft lines and perfect decoration made this a remarkable place of worship, but what held Gabriel’s attention was the south wall. Stained glass, seventy feet high depicting realistic scenes from the biblical history, touched his once-hard heart. The service began shortly after. The music was magical and touched his soul. Softly he prayed that his friend Miguel would come to know the peace he had found in this place and with these people.

Miguel was angry, scared, but determined to complete his mission. The gymnasium was straight ahead, and hundreds of young people about his age were pouring into it. Instantly his plans changed. He wanted to deliver a blow to those who mocked him, his people, and his religion. Personal revenge would also be swift against his one-time friend and comrade. Surely his enemy, Gabriel, would be included with the others moving into the gym. A gentle prodding of the accelerator, and his rolling bomb continued southward past the east wall of the sports center, turned right on a service road, which ran within feet of the south wall of the overcrowded gymnasium, being used as a worship center on this fateful day. Sweating and breathing hard, he opened the door, pulled out a prayer rug, and placed it toward the east. He was hoping no one would see the wire running from the truck to his hand as he knelt in prayer.

Jerome Couture was the chief sheriff of Morgan Valley. He had just finished his Sunday ritual of enjoying the breakfast buffet at Marie Callender’s Restaurant. Suddenly he gripped the table as the building swayed, and a deep, deep thud shook every heart in the restaurant. Many panicked and ran outside, but Jerome studied himself and remained seated. He first thought it to be just another California quake and wondered where it was centered and how much damage might have been inflicted. But the moment he stepped outside and saw a massive dust cloud pluming upward, followed by billowing black smoke, he quickly understood that something awful had taken place in his valley. He raced toward his patrol car. Four miles east of the Sunday brunch, hell had opened its door and blasted those of Morgan Valley Baptist Church.

In every terrorist attack in the past, two things were radically different than this blast from hell. First, the attack was not aimed at U.S. military might like the marines in Lebanon or our economic power represented by the slaughter on 9-11 but directly against our rich Christian heritage. Secondly, when reviewed afterward, the facts would cause most to say it could have been worse if this or that had been different. The investigation, which would unfold over the next weeks and months, would not even hint that it could have been worse. Exploding with the force of ten thousand pounds of TNT, the blast blew the south wall of the gymnasium through the youthful bodies and those of their loved ones all the way to the north wall causing it to collapse. Those few who were not killed by the initial concussion died when the ceiling rafters and roof crumbled on top of the dead and dying. The force continued through the gym building northward converting anything in its way into a missile of destruction.

The church was located on the outskirts of town, and because of its location, the heating system ran on propane gas since the natural gas service stopped at the city limits. Morgan Valley Baptist Church’s propane tank was five thousand gallons. It was full and located just outside the north wall of the gym. The continued power of Miguel’s bomb destroyed the entire gym. It ripped the huge tank from its mooring, lifted it into the air, and launched it toward the south wall of the main sanctuary and those precious stained glass windows. Gabriel Alvarez, Marcela Marcos, and her parents died in a split second. Tons of debris blasted through the beautiful wall of windows turning the glass itself into projectiles of death.

The propane tank crushed bodies as it slammed into the sanctuary’s north wall. Many had survived the initial blast, but a microsecond later thousands died as the tank exploded buckling the north wall, which caused the balcony filled with worshippers to collapse. Those who had not died in the first blast and miraculously survived the tank explosion died of smoke inhalation or the fire that was raging in this once-beautiful building. The damage caused by the dual explosions disabled the sprinkler system, and the few survivors were too shocked or wounded to help those trapped in the sanctuary. Heat from the blast had caused the temporary tents to burst into flame and billowing black smoke. This was the blackness that Chief Couture had witnessed rising in the east. Even before he got his car started, his personal cell phone rang. The police radio demanded his attention and fear spread across everyone’s faces as they listened to the first reports of a terrible gas explosion at Morgan Valley Baptist Church. Morgan Valley had prided itself on disaster readiness; but no amount of planning, training or practice could have come close to what faced those who were responding to call after call for help that was flooding into their communication center.

Captain Mike Colletto stared in shock and horror as he jumped from his bright red captain’s car arriving ahead of the slower trucks. Captain Mike had served in Vietnam and had seen enough combat to know he never wanted to return to war again. Upon returning home, he sought a way to help others and save as many lives as possible. As he looked over what had been a peaceful assembly of Christians, the carnage and destruction reminded him of Vietnam all over again. Racing to get back inside his car, Mike began crying and was still crying when he keyed his communications system that connected him with every station in the valley.

His command was simple to say but hard for the hearer to comprehend. Send everything you have. Hold nothing back. Empty the house!

Procedure always required someone to stay home to man the station. The one exception being those ten words, but no one at the fifteen firehouses ever thought they would hear them in their life time.

Chief Couture slammed on the brakes barely avoiding the bright red car of Captain Colletto. The smoke was thick and hot as the chief sprinted towards the sanctuary. He had visited these grounds many times and was trying to comprehend what had happened here. The heat waves from the wreckage of the sanctuary pushed him stumbling southward toward the area where the gymnasium once stood. The wind was blowing northeast, so that after a few more steps, Chief Couture was able to see the twisted heap that had once been the gym. The bodies, which just minutes before had been vibrant and whole, were now still, twisted, and in pieces.

After a moment Chief Couture spoke clearly but not so calmly over his police radio.

"Hundreds, maybe thousands, are dead; unknown number of injured; fire raging in three buildings; two buildings collapsed, car fires near the buildings.

Contact the FBI. This was no gas explosion. This is a terrorist attack.

Instantly information poured into every fire, rescue agency, police, and sheriff departments. The FBI received the first call about fifteen minutes after the explosion. Immediately the National Security Agency received an update and passed it onto Alex Praster, the chief of staff to President William Culley Hudnall. The skies over and around the blast site were full. Helicopters from the news agencies were first to arrive and, with their powerful lenses, began broadcasting pictures over the airwaves that would change the world as we know it.

Military and police air support soon drove the news reporters to a distant perimeter. All government agencies seemed to lose any sense of competition or self-importance as the magnitude of the attack unfolded that afternoon. The police soon secured the area for miles in every direction and stepped back as the fire and rescue departments continued the overwhelming job of separating the dead from the dying and the dying from those they might realistically help.

Newly elected president Hudnall placed a call to the joint chiefs and ordered the military to assist state and local authorities with any aid that was required. Homeland Security had people on the ground and others on the way within hours. The first reports that began to trickle in from the director of Homeland Security and the field agents of the FBI were wrong. At first the investigation focused on the smoldering sanctuary building where firefighters had finally controlled the fires and search-and-rescue squads helped by local citizens worked like mad men to rescue and assist the injured.

The military arrived with a flurry as a line of helicopters set down south of the collapsed gymnasium and unloaded supplies and, most importantly doctors, and triage teams. It had been decided early on that local hospitals were ill equipped to handle a tragedy of this magnitude. The military team set up a hospital field unit on the adjacent baseball field with its supply of water and lights that would be useful later. Within minutes police and fire departments began to realize that they were seriously shorthanded. The realization slowly dawned on them that more than likely six police officers and nine firefighters were themselves victims of the blast.

On 9-11-2001 triage units were set up along the Hudson River, but after several agonizing hours, it became apparent that there would be very few wounded; most had died. On this day in May, many were wounded and scarred for life, and many of those being treated would die. But the sense of complete loss was first sensed when Bill Greenwood, assistant secretary of Homeland Security, arranged to meet with the families of those killed or wounded. His caravan of security people arrived at the Eastside High School Auditorium where family members were asked to assemble. It was too dangerous and ugly to allow these grieving yet hopeful people into the blast area. All day long they watched the news reports, listened on the radio, or went online only to feel utter despair as the words and pictures depicted a darker-than-dark scenario.

The magnitude of today’s loss was brought into clearer focus when Secretary Greenwood expressed his dismay at the much smaller crowd than expected by turning to an aide and whispering, Where are the families?

An aide quickly leaned close to the secretary’s ear and whispered ever so softly, Sir, most of the families died together today in church.

A shaken secretary Greenwood left two hours later after fielding many questions for which he had few answers but promised to share all information as it was made available. The whos, the whys, and the hows hopefully would be answered someday; but Secretary Greenwood knew it would not be this day.

A command center was set up in the college lecture hall, a large rectangular room with little damage from the day’s events. Equipment was brought in by different government agencies, each staking out a part of the hall. Homeland Security working with the FBI, and the NSA would head up the investigation which had already been in progress since the first wave of G-men began to roll onto the MVB Church grounds. In the first hours, the fire and police investigators determined what had been first spoken by Chief Sheriff Couture. It was a bomb or possibly two different bombs. The search was already gearing up to find those responsible for what was sure to be the worst terrorist attack in U.S. history. They might never know why, but they would know who.

The numbers game had begun with those confirmed killed outright in the attack, then those being treated at the mobile military hospital and other hospitals in the area. Identifying the victim’s remains would go on for weeks and in some cases months.

At 9:00 p.m. Pacific Coast time, Commander Merl Hill, head of the Homeland investigation to this point, stepped to the bank of microphones. Somber, dreadful feelings caused Commander Hill to hesitate before speaking. Never in American history had an event so terrible been revealed to grieving families and press gathered together in a high school auditorium. Just as he started to speak, the first of the bodies were being laid on the school’s gymnasium floor across campus. The commander raised his right hand, and the entire crowd went silent. In a voice filled with a determined rage and speaking on no given authority but that of an outraged American citizen, Commander Hill started in a quiet manner.

The report I’m about to present to you is exactly what President Hudnall received about an hour ago. He is on his way as we speak. At 9:31 a.m., an unknown person or persons detonated an explosive device on the south side of the church facility near the gymnasium and possibly one inside the sanctuary. At this point, we are sure of the first bomb, but the exact nature of the second is yet unclear.

Commander Hill took the deepest breath of his life and started with the numbers. The room was dead silent as the commander continued to speak.

As of 8:00 p.m. this evening there are 2,162 confirmed to have died in the gymnasium. Moaning, gasps, and anguish did not even come close to the words that were needed to describe the wave of horror that swept over the crowd. Some fainted.

I am sorry to report that the confirmed death toll in the church is 3,701!

My god! My god! seemed the most repeated words of the anguished crowd.

The commander continued, We are also treating over eight hundred people at the temporary army hospital and in local hospitals at this hour.

The attack now had a number, 5,853 dead with over 800 wounded, and more would succumb to their injuries during the night! The congregation of Morgan Valley Baptist Church had been assassinated! The response from the families and gathered reporters was as varied as the people present. Screams were heard; crying ruled the night. Unbelief was voiced, anger was present, and many so overcome by grief and despair dropped to their knees in prayer. Questions were being shouted in Commander Hill’s direction. He waited, stepped back to the microphones, wiped tears from his eyes, and spoke powerfully.

Friends, I do not have answers to your questions, especially concerning who died and who survived, but I promise you from the depths of my heart that everything humanly possible is being done to keep you informed. May God bless you and may God bless the United States of America.

Commander Hill was shaking with grief and rage as he stormed off the platform to his waiting car. Across campus in the gymnasium, bodies were being tagged. It would be weeks before some would be identified. His limousine left the school campus headed away from the blast site toward an area being secured for the arrival of the president’s helicopter. The commander was now faced with the biggest trial of his life. Question after question rolled over one another in his mind. Before one could be answered another would crowd its way into his thought processes. After a few minutes of travel toward his rendezvous with the president, his mind cleared, and like all men who get things accomplished, he formed a priority list. All the time knowing that the newly elected president could, and probably would, have a list of his own.

The magnitude of the morning blast and the uncertainty it was causing became apparent when the VH-71 Kestrel neared the landing site. It was accompanied by five Apache attack helicopters. This show of strength underscored the severity of the hour. The commander watched as the president left the copter and was quickly escorted inside a hastily constructed military command post.

President Hudnall insisted on coming to Morgan Valley as soon as he was notified of the bombing. The landing site was remote enough that it could be secured without too much advance time. Commander Hill greeted the president, gave him the latest update, and then escorted him to a local hospital on the way to the church. The secret service asked for the side trip to the hospital to allow them more time to secure the area for his arrival at the blast site.

They were met at the Methodist Medical Center by a horde of reporters and security personnel who quickly ushered them inside where the medical supervisor Dr. David Campbell escorted them to an emergency ward where some of the survivors were being treated. Commander Hill was impressed as he watched the president move from victim to victim realizing again that most were alone. Somehow these wounded had survived the blast from hell but would now be faced with the knowledge that their loved ones would not be by their side. He spent his life leading men into and out of dangerous situations, but this was completely different. He watched as his new president spent just the right amount of time with each patient, amazed at the calmness and sincerity that President Hudnall demonstrated. What he couldn’t know was the private battle the new president was going through. William C. Hudnall, president of the United States, was trying his best not to lose what little food he had eaten as he was consumed with the anger and despair he felt.

Mr. President, I hope you will have time to see one more person that is in the burn ward, said Dr. Campbell.

Yes, of course, said the president bracing himself for the worst as he neared the burn ward. Every eye was on him as he was escorted through the facility. The presidential party stopped before a closed door where once again Dr. Campbell spoke to him.

Sir, the young man inside is not burnt badly, except for his hands. My concern is for his mental condition. You see, from what we’ve been able to gather, he survived the blast inside the gymnasium and somehow retained enough strength and courage to rush to the rubble of the burning church. He was able to locate his parents who were pinned under the debris, but rescuers had to pull him off the twisted girders under which his family was either dead or dying. He suffered extreme burns to his hands and arms and has not spoken since he was brought here.

A sense of complete helplessness engulfed the new president as images from his own past flooded into his mind. How well he remembered his own ordeal when on a spring day just after his twelfth birthday, his mother suggested he go with her into Grover Woods where she would enjoy the day painting. He didn’t want to go but was enticed by the promise of a picnic lunch and the possibility of getting to go hunting for part of the day while she painted. She also promised he could drive the back roads coming and going. He remembered his excitement at the thought of being able to drive and hunt all in one day.

They parked near the river bridge and carried her painting supplies and the picnic basket along the winding path, which brought them to a popular meadow where the spring flowers were posing their new color, the perfect site for his mother’s easel. After placing it in just the right spot, his mother suggested they eat an early lunch, which pleased Bill, since he remembered the promise of hunting after lunch with his new .375 Winchester. The rifle was a gift from his father on his birthday, and Bill was excited. Lunch was terrific; among the beauty of the meadow and its surrounding woods, the carefully prepared food tasted even better than usual. Bill looked lovingly at his mother as she returned the leftovers to the basket and realized she suggested the early lunch so that he would have more time to hunt.

Within five minutes he was making his way back up the winding path toward the bridge. As he entered the path, he turned and watched his mother sitting in a sea of flowers opening her precious paints. Everything was perfect. Soon he retrieved the Winchester from the car and was heading for the rolling hills across the river. Bill was more than familiar with these woods and surrounding countryside, for he was been raised here and hunted many times with his family and friends. Today he hoped to spot one of the local black bears, which lived in the area. He loved the hunt but not the kill, and today would be no different. If he was lucky enough to spot a bear, he would only observe. The Winchester was only in case it turned on him.

An hour later, no more than a half mile from the bridge, he caught a glimpse of a bear ambling through the Mississippi pines. Being careful of the wind direction and his shadow, he tracked his unsuspecting prey. The .375 Winchester felt good and balanced as he put the stock to his shoulder and brought the well-oiled barrel into a level position. Looking down the sights, he could see the bear pulling at a deteriorating log. Bill had accomplished his goal. He knew if he pulled the trigger the bear would die, but once again the thrill of the hunt was all he needed. Before he could lower the gun and remove the cartridge, he heard the scream. In an instant, he understood it to be a cry for help from his mother.

His imagination ran rampant as he sprinted though the woods back toward the bridge. Was it possible that while he hunted the local bears, one had somehow attacked his mother? Maybe a cougar, which were no longer common here, but were sighted occasionally, had caused her to cry for help? He was in good shape and covered the distance to the bridge in less than three minutes. As he neared the bridge, he could see their car. The doors were open, and he began to yell for his mother. As he neared the center of the bridge, fear gripped his soul a shabbily clad man came out of the car. At that instant he heard his mother scream again, but this time her plea was for him to run. It was too late. The intruder pulled something from his waistband and was running toward Bill.

Over the years his mind struggled to remember the events on the bridge that day. Why, as he was about to give comfort to a young man who had desperately tried to save his family but failed, were these thoughts flooding into his mind? Even as he questioned his own thoughts, deep inside him he knew the answer.

The man running toward him that spring afternoon was unaware that the easy prey he was rushing toward somehow sensed the danger and had slipped another cartridge into his Winchester. As soon as the charging attacker removed the pistol from his waistband, a deadly bullet pierced his heart. He stumbled and died, and his body fell from the bridge into the rushing water below. His accomplice sprang from the car at the sound of the shot. His last vision was of a small figure crouching on the bridge, and a millisecond later he died. Bill dropped the rifle and raced to the car to find his mother unconscious. With tears streaming, he drove her back home. He began sounding the horn well before turning into the long drive, which led to the main house. By the time Bill stopped in front of the house, two ranch hands and his uncle Butch were close enough to realize something was wrong. Bill jumped from the car crying and shouting for someone to help his mother who was still unconscious. Seconds later his father and Aunt Barbara came running from the house and quickly carried his mother into the downstairs bedroom where Aunt Barbara and the two housekeepers were able to bring her around using smelling salts and cold water applied to her neck and head.

Dr. Nelms was called and was on the way when Bill’s dad, Nute, wrapped his arms around Bill’s small frame and asked, What happened, son?

Between the sobs and crying, Bill was able to recall the terrifying events in the woods. His father listened, asked only a few questions, and, when Bill had finished, wiped a tear from his eye and called Sheriff Milam. Bill rode with his father back to the woods where the sheriff met them at the west end of the bridge.

How’s Grace? asked the sheriff.

She seems okay but hasn’t spoken, said Nute.

You okay? questioned the sheriff looking directly into Bill’s bloodshot eyes.

Yes, sir, answered Bill trying to keep his composure in front of the sheriff.

Bill, I need you to tell me everything that happened here today, okay? said Sheriff Milam.

Nute Hudnall looked on with pride as his son bravely gave the same account that he had given to him earlier. As the sun was beginning to descend over the spring hillsides, Sheriff Milam finished inspecting the area where the car had been parked, the bridge, and, of course, the corpse of the second assailant. Slowly he made his way back to Nute and his son; with every step, it was obvious that something was troubling him.

Mr. Hudnall, I’m certain the two attackers were Clyde and Henry Dobbins from Crowley Corners. They killed a security guard in Poshnita in a failed robbery attempt. We found their abandoned car about a half mile downriver. Evidently they were looking for a replacement when they came across your wife.

Turning to face Bill, the sheriff continued, Son, what you did here today was very brave, and if you had not responded so decisively, both you and your mother could have been killed. I’m sure Grace needs you back at the house.

Bill remembered how desperately frightened he had been that day and apologized to his dad for not being able to save his mom. She was never quite right again.

As President Hudnall entered the room to comfort a young man who tried to save his family, he recalled that after the day on the bridge, his life had never been as peaceful. He was sure life would not be the same for the young man he was about to face.

He felt a light touch on his shoulder. Mr. President it’s time to leave, sir. He turned to see agent Baker opening the door.

Chapter 2

The pressure of being president can break a man. One year ago President Fadir Woodley announced he would not seek a second term. Entering the White House four years earlier, he seemed destined for greatness; but bad ideas, poor planning, and terrible implementation soon revealed a petty man out of step with most of America.

As the motorcade moved toward what was left of Morgan Valley Church, the president reflected on how he had rejoiced at President Woodley’s announcement not to run again. The Republican Party would not benefit but the nation could return to its basic design. The reason the party would not benefit was in the form of one person.

Elizabeth K. Miller was