The Patriot Endeavor: A Novel

By Jack Spectre

The Patriot Endeavor

What would it look like if a third-party upstart tried to take back our government from lying thieves in Washington?

Navigate the labyrinth of corrupt election year politics at their most heinous in The Patriot Endeavor. Unabashedly broaching hot buttons, like racism, illegal immigration, and homosexuality that includes Capitol Hill sex scandals and a beautiful transgender seductress, The Patriot Endeavor is teeming with political intrigue, dirty police, assassinations, and tragically lost love. It features a third-party upstart protected by an ex-CIA rogue who tangles with an elite black ops team of killers. Lies, betrayal, government-sanctioned bombings, shadowy characters, and poignant romantic interludes—The Patriot Endeavor has it all as it races to election day and its stunning conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524510770

Book preview

PATRIOT PEOPLE

BEN WESTWOOD–Middle aged, part-time college student. From his home in La Jolla, he hatches an ambitious plot to overthrow America’s two-party system.

ABBY SNOW–The good girl. Ash blond beauty, classmate of Ben. Helps bring the American Patriots into existence at a great personal and emotional cost.

LAYCEE ENGLISH–The quiet conservative. Classmate of Ben and Abby battles her fears and insecurities as a public figure while trying to tame bad boy Adam Maguire.

TORI NOBORU–MIT grad and American Patriots IT wizard. Meets her match in complex computer battles with government and international cyber-hackers.

INDYA BRYANT–Beautiful, black, brilliant and from Atlanta’s slums. A born leader, will she become the face of the new political force?

NICK SUMMERHAYES–Ex con who served 17 years for a wrongful rape/murder conviction. As the party looks to him for legal guidance, he looks within himself for answers.

MARIO SEGURA–Third generation Mexican-American with an off-beat sense of humor. Offers an immigration plan that promises to divide the nation.

ADAM MAGUIRE–Slacker surfer dude. Must choose between the beach, booze and babes galore or responsibility, both personal and professional.

THE CABAL

BLAKE CONNORS–The one with a conscience. Chairman and CEO of retail giant ConMart is willing to risk everything to stop them—even his life.

PIERCE GRAYSON–International media mogul and ruthless patriarch of the cabal. A powerful force behind world politics and financial systems.

JONATHAN KATZ–Senate Majority Leader. Grayson’s only friend and the governmental inside man to whom party politics are meaningless in the Washington game of big money.

DANIEL JANSEN– Cocky, unscrupulous CEO of Wall Street’s mightiest investment bank, Cohen Stein. Sacrifices his soul on the alter of greed.

ZACHARY HOFF–Director of National Security Agency. A cunning traitor with troubling proclivities who sells out his country at a steep personal price.

SHANE QUALLS–Ruthless killer and leader of a freelance team of mercenaries. No job is too dirty for Ebony Ghost—even the massacre of Americans.

THE PROTECTORS

KYLE ‘MAC’ MCCONNELL–Retired legendary CIA castoff who assumes the role of American Patriots defender. Known to few and always operating from the shadows, he fights Ebony Ghost and the cabal at every turn while battling inner demons from his violent past.

TUCK BLANCHET–Former special forces and CIA agent now with the NSA. He aides McConnell in his battles with the forces trying to maintain power over Washington and the nation.

LESLIE TEBBLEMAN–A high ranking NSA cryptanalyst and McConnell’s former paramour. Her intel is vital to his success—unless she gets caught.

*     *     *

If a group of citizens finally said Enough! and organized to take back our government from the lying thieves in Washington and the rest of the nation, this is what it might look like…

PROLOGUE

A late night rain lingered on the streets of Queens as daybreak pierced the Atlantic horizon. Walking briskly but quietly, three figures smudged the burgeoning glow as they passed bodegas, walk-ups and ethnic restaurants. Casting furtive glances, they entered a tiny storefront with whitewashed windows that was leased for this lone event. Other than a time-worn desk, its edges cigarette scarred, several metal folding chairs and months of dust, it was vacant. They immediately went to work.

As seven am approached the street was alive with children off to school and their parents to work. Proprietors swept or hosed off sidewalks and codgers drank steaming coffee as they prognosticated the fortunes of the Mets. Ensconced in the shop was Cameron Drosner who had labored as a makeup artist in Hollywood for eleven years before the FBI contacted him. During his time with the bureau he taught several others agents his craft, thereby making him dispensable. Because of the sensitive nature of this assignment and need for operational secrecy an exotic, slow-acting poison was killing him as he worked. As the appointed time approached he hurried to finish.

There, a perfect overweight businessman. The transformation from a 170 pound man of middle eastern descent into an obese Caucasian was remarkable. Moshen’s black hair was straightened and parted on the side, the facial hair gone and all of his exposed skin was typical New York pasty white. Prosthetics gave him jowls, a couple of extra chins and a waddle commensurate with his sizable girth. He was the common fat American appearing to weigh some 300 pounds and his huge faux gut was packed with PVV-5A, a Russian plastic explosive mixed with steel balls and woodscrews. His oversized leather briefcase, similarly laden, promised an explosion on a grand scale with maximum human carnage while causing significant structural damage. Drosner did a final check of his charge, moving a strand of hair, spraying it in place, dabbing powder on an ear, a wrist. He fussed over Moshen’s pale, freshly shorn skin where his thick, black beard once resided, evenly blending the makeup to hide its recent existence. His attention to detail gave him a perfect record—his creations had never been detected.

A half hour before show time Shane Qualls gave Moshen half a blue Valium to counteract nervousness and keep his gait relaxed and fluid despite the extra weight burdening his midsection. The dua ran through Moshen’s mind, the prayer for supplication which could be offered when in peril as Qualls reminded him, If you get to the platform and the train hasn’t arrived, keep one hand on the newspaper, pretending to read, the other working the lollipop. And watch for canine patrols—those dogs will smell the explosives.

Moshen, whose name meant One Who Does Good, lurched to his feet. Khcoda Chkoob e, Allah is great, he mouthed in Farsi dialect.

Don’t say that or pray, or even move your lips in silent prayer, Qualls ordered in Farsi. "Why can’t he say Allahu Akbar like all the other dune coons?" he muttered in English.

He’s Persian, Shane.

They all look the same to me, Qualls growled as they wiped the shop clean and except for the dust disturbance, removed all evidence of their brief occupation. Donning their disguises, they left, the Ebony Ghost leader to a nearby hotel suite, the makeup man to his approaching death.

Shane Qualls was the kind of man most people looked at and immediately said, This guy’s an asshole. You met him once and remembered him for ten years. His swaggering walk, cocky, impudent air of superiority and aggressive speech patterns further cemented that impression and he often referred to himself in the third person as The Alpha Male, The Dominate One, or The Big Swingin’ Dick. Qualls was built like an anvil and at five foot seven he suffered an extreme affliction of short man’s disease, always driven to prove himself the equal of taller men. His dark eyes were set tightly together in a close cropped, flat-top head on a thick weight trainers neck with massive shoulders and arms, his movements quick and cat-like with no wasted effort. He enjoyed being a direct participant on ops like this because as a self-described adrenaline junkie, he liked to be in on the kill. It gave him a sense of omnipotence and he derived sordid pleasure from looking into a man’s eyes as he died. Death for Qualls was a deeply personal matter, their last breath a catharsis. For the rest of his team, killing was strictly a business decision made without hesitation or forethought as long as the price was right and western governments always had the right price.

Qualls was the leader of a freelance, covert operations team that worked exclusively for the U.S., Britain or their NATO allies. Ebony Ghost, as they called themselves, would take on any job no matter how distasteful. Whether laying siege to a terrorist training camp in Yemen, terminating a link between an arms dealer and al-Qaeda or blowing up a school bus full of children in Chechnya, they never batted an eye. They were ruthless, disciplined killers operating with the skill of a surgeon and the conscience of a hyena. As was SOP for most clandestine units, laws, treaties and morals were meaningless impediments.

The op they worked now was a rarity—it was on American soil. Much of what they did created unrest in third world countries with strategic resources and occasionally in more civilized environs. They were experts at inciting hostilities among opposing factions and using diversions and civil disobedience to foment instability in governments. They swayed elections and in extreme cases eliminated candidates to insure western-friendly regimes came into power or retained control. Sometimes these plans backfired, like the monumental Arab Spring failure. The ops were often messy with high body counts but collateral casualties were an afterthought and most of these ventures never saw the light of day, blamed on terrorists, rebels or insurgents. This operation, however, would be a front pager as Qualls liked to called them because it would land on the front page of newspapers and the lead on every newscast. Like many of Ebony Ghost’s shadow ops, this one wreaked death and destruction and it was aimed at the very heart of America. The blame would be placed where needed while producing the desired effect and here it was outrage and fear.

Qualls would normally smuggle people in through unofficial government channels, but his instructions insisted this guy have a paper trail connecting him to Iran, so Qualls arranged for Moshen Aghassi’s visa to travel from his Iranian home to visit his terminally ill brother in New York. If required checks had been made it would have shown that Moshen was not related to his brother, who was an only child. As Qualls explained, "The easy part was going to sand land and finding some asshole with his laundry on his head and Death to America emblazoned on his heart," he said, laughing.

*     *     *

Tess Humphries couldn’t possibly have known.

She would not have made such a fuss over her thinning white hair or dated, ill-fitting pantsuit. The chipped red nail polish and scuffed black shoes would have been acceptable, along with the flawed eyeliner and too much rouge.

Such things are irrelevant to the dead.

Now 66 years old, she looked into the mirror that showed still more weight loss.

I’m just so tired, she thought, making a futile attempt to smooth a wrinkle. As she stepped through the doorway of her seedy, second floor Bronx walkup and tugged on the sagging door, she was grateful the rains had been chased out to sea by the warm, dry winds. Tess Humphries twisted the key in both of the dead bolts and was struck with a sudden, nearly overpowering longing for the safe serenity of her now lost Connecticut home, where locking doors was an afterthought. Each morning as she coaxed her balky knee down the stairs, the scarred, dirty hand rail her trusted aide, she lamented returning to the work force. It seemed like yesterday that she had retired after 39 years with the same company only to see an under-funded pension plan revealed when the economy tanked and the skillful accounting that kept it hidden for so long exposed. The perpetrators served less than three years in prison while Tess lost most of her pension, her lovely home in the countryside and much of her dignity. She fretted about what they had done to her life, the government, the bankers.

They’re all in cahoots.

Ruined was her leisurely stroll through the golden years, precious time with children and grandchildren, dalliances with artsy pursuits and impulsive trips to exotic lands. Those dreams were gone, swirled away like a leaf down a storm drain, along with her medical insurance and a desperately needed knee replacement. Gone, like the prescription ointment she could no longer afford for a persistent rash, its itch a constant reminder of her hopeless situation. In its place festered a roiling rage and intense hatred for those responsible. She limped on the sidewalk, slowing to carefully navigate the subway stairs one step at a time, making her way down into the bowels of the city. New Yorkers disgusted her and she despised the commute, especially the subway where vulgarities and incivility ruled the day.

She caught the 6 train to Grand Central Terminal and disembarked, willing herself up the stairs to catch the 7 train into Queens. The air was warm and heavy as she struggled to ascend. Young professionals and brusque blue collars brushed by her, none offering to help or even make eye contact. Topping the stairs, she clung to the wall as she made her way through the tunnel, feeling vulnerable and alone. She pulled herself inward, striving to become small and unnoticed as hurried urbanites sped past and street urchins eyed her purse. Relief from making it to the platform was quickly replaced by anger and bitterness. A neighbor told her it was easier to catch the 7 on the way to Times Square, before it returned to GCT. He was wrong. The crush of people was repulsive and the dank, acrid smells stomach turning. God, what a pathetic existence, she muttered.

*     *     *

Shane Qualls and his men had planned it well but without the help of the NSA they never would have found the Iranians they needed to pull it off. Mahmoud Bahar and his boyhood friend Khashen Dashti had immigrated to the United States with their wives ten years earlier and were living the American dream. They all shared a large suburban home east of Chicago, had good paying jobs, were accepted by their neighbors and were proud to be Americans.

They were also devout Muslims.

NSA did a good job finding these patsies, said Qualls with his usual indifference for human life.

The Imam of their mosque was viewed by American intelligence as radical and was on the watch list. Of late he had been very vocal about the U.S. government’s posture towards Iran. The U.S. government is looking for any reason for conflict with Iran so they can invade and occupy another Muslim nation. We as a people must not tolerate these overt acts of aggression, intoned the Imam.

Qualls loved him. He’s the perfect piece to the puzzle, the connection to radical Islam and the public will eat that shit up. We needed two and they got us great subjects.

When the fathers left with their sons for a soccer match, they were pulled over by police. You have outstanding warrants for your arrests for failure to pay your taxes, but I can assure you this is just a formality. As soon as you sign a form at the station promising to appear for an audit, you will be released. It all sounded so harmless. We’ll even let your boys ride with you.

Three hours later Ebony Ghost operatives had letters to their wives written in their own hands. They detailed a plot they were involved in to blow up the Willis Tower. If they failed they were likely dead. In that case, their wives were to obey a man named Taqi and join them in paradise.

Sabria Rahmani and Narges Yazdani were watching a daily TV soap program while they waited for their husbands and sons to return. The programming was suddenly interrupted with a news flash.

We have breaking news. The FBI, acting on an anonymous tip were attempting to apprehend two Iranian émigrés in a secluded area off LaGrange in rural Pioneer Woods. The men, believed to be Mahmoud Bahar and Khashen Dashi of suburban Chicago, were heavily armed and despite having two young boys in the vehicle with them, began shooting at agents, who returned fire. Agents said they believe the men were transporting explosives because of the blast that occurred when they careened into a tree killing all the occupants. Initial reports say the men were involved in a plot to blow up the Willis Tower and that their wives were involved in the plot.

Pictures of the men and their wives flashed on the screen. Sabria and Narges looked at each other in stunned silence, broken by a knock at the front door.

A man speaking their native tongue said, My name is Taqi Mohammadi and I have information about your husbands. He showed them the letters, the authorship beyond doubt.

We must hurry, he said. Agents of the U.S. government will soon arrive and arrest you. Both of you will spend the rest of your lives in a maximum security prison. The women looked at him as if in a daze. Come now, leave everything. Taqi took them to a CIA safe house in Rockford and went immediately to work.

Damn he’s good, said Qualls to Zachary Hoff as they watched the feed from hidden cameras.

Taqi is an Arab infiltration specialist who has extensive training in, well, to use a layman’s term, indoctrination, said Hoff. He speaks perfect Farsi and has convincingly altered his speech to match the Alvari dialect of the Markazi Province in Western Iran, from where the two families emigrated to the U.S.

Ebony Ghost members and Hoff watched with rapt attention as Taqi showed the women news clips of agents tearing up their home and the media splashing their names and pictures across the screens on every station.

Narges and Sabria you must accept this. You are the subject of a nationwide manhunt and they will stop at nothing to find you, Taqi said solemnly.

Qualls marveled, He keeps hammering home the desperation of the situation, making sure they see multiple newscasts each day where they are public enemy number one. He intersperses these with internet speeches by radical clerics who advocate violence against the United States, the evil Satan.

In less than a week, Taqi was prepping them for jihad.

Moshen made the short walk to the Hunters Point Avenue subway station to catch the 7 train to Grand Central Terminal. He made his way gingerly down the stairs and waited on the platform with dozens of others. He loosened the top button of his coat, purchased at a second-hand store like his shoes and the oversized briefcase. Qualls had been clear. Suck on the lollipop constantly because it will help with nervousness and give you something to do with your hands. It’ll also make you look like just another fat American slob who can’t get enough sugar. And whatever you do, don’t nod, pray out loud or even move your lips—they’ll be looking for that and know you are shaheed. Focus on the lollipop and the newspaper.

The blast would be epic and Qualls couldn’t wait to see the damage reports. As he settled into his suite a block away, he prepped his victory cigar. He had a steady supply of excellent—and still illegal—Cubanos, the best cigars in the world. Whenever an operation came to fruition he stoked one as a victory ritual. Looking at his watch, he hoped his boys in Chicago and Seattle were on schedule.

Getting Moshen past the crowds on the platform would be the hardest part so timing his arrival with the train was crucial. Even at this stop there would be well trained spotters, skilled at detecting terrorists. He waddled onto the platform and stood with his briefcase between his legs, casually working the sucker and staring at the paper, marked with a small arrow so he held it upright. The train squealed to a stop less than three minutes after he arrived and he stepped on to a spot just inside the doors as instructed. The next stop was his, in Paradise.

The 7 train roared into the station, the rush of air intensifying the offensive odors. Before the riders began their exodus, some on the platform surged towards the doors, pushing and shoving to get to the train. Tess cringed, nearly losing her balance as bodies pressed against her and briefly looked into the eyes of a man standing in the doorway. He shouted something—to her?

Moshen allowed a dozen passengers by him as the doors slid open to Grand Central Terminal. He looked directly into the eyes of an old woman on the platform and yelled, Khcoda Chkoob e!

Then, for the briefest of moments Tess saw the brilliant white light.

It was a spectacular morning in the sunlit city. Qualls leaned on the sill of the open window of his suite watching the ebb and flow of the traffic and listening to the sounds of city life echo through the cavernous buildings. The urbane serenity was suddenly shattered by a WHUMP! followed by a low rumble felt for several blocks. He turned up the volume on WWN, stoked his victory cigar and waited for the first reports to roll in. He didn’t wait long. A dozen people on the train closest to Moshen were virtually vaporized by the tremendous force of the blast. As the wave of destruction shrieked outwards, another 97 on the platform were splattered over the walls. A small twisted, limbless body lay splayed over the end of a bench. The child’s face was missing and the reek of high explosives and burning flesh hung in the air, seasoned with metallic blood and death.

The first responders described the macabre scene, reminiscent of an animal slaughterhouse gone horribly wrong. I passed people on the stairs who were killed by the concussion, others with the blank stares of scrambled brains. He took a deep breath, sighing heavily. On the platform there were body parts strewn about with everything coated in blood and chunks of human flesh. I looked down and a young girl’s head was at my feet, my daughter’s age. His composure crumbled and another officer continued.

There are huge fractures in the ceiling and cave-ins where the dirt has rushed down to fill the void. The side of one train car is peeled back like a tin of sardines and there’s nothin’ but particles left of some people except for some femurs and jaw bones. Tears filled his eyes. Jesus, I worked the 9-11 site and I gotta’ tell ya this is worse if not as big. It’s the most grisly, sickenin’ thing I’ve ever seen.

It became known as the Manhattan Massacre. Within minutes a recording of Moshen’s farewell statement was playing on Jihadi websites. Also within minutes, two other events were occurring that would evoke the catch phrase from 9-11, that these have Changed America forever.

Sabria Rahmani said, Goodbye my friend, as tears poured down her face.

Narges embraced her for the last time. Until we meet again, soon. The choice is easy. We can do some good, something to stop the evil ones and most importantly, be with our husbands and sons. Taqi said the only way to immediately join them in paradise, in Janna, is to be martyred, said Narges. Sabria remembered their conversations at the safe house when they would stay awake into the wee hours of morning.

It is the only way, Narges had said solemnly, as they sat huddled on the bed they shared in the tiny room.

Perhaps we can sneak out on a boat or a private plane, Sabria said hopefully.

And go to what? The oppression our families experience in Arak? I could never return to that. Narges took her friend’s hand in hers. Taqi is right Sabria. Shahada, death for Allah, is the only way out for us."

But I don’t want to die, she said, her voice trailing off as she considered the finality of death.

You must believe. Then, becoming shaheed is a beautiful thing. We can join our husbands and sons and be ushered into a wonderful paradise.

Where I am competing for Mahmoud’s affections with 72 houri? Sabria asked stubbornly.

Narges did not have an answer for the beautiful young virgins. It’s an easy choice. You can sit in a prison for the rest of your life or do your duty to stop the persecutions of Muslims by the U.S. Look what they did to our families!

Sophie did not know what to believe. Were Mahmoud and Khashen really trying to blow up a building? She couldn’t fathom their being involved in something like that without her or Narges knowing. Her choices were stark. Prison or jihad on the off chance she might actually be reunited with them in paradise.

I will believe, Narges. Help me so I can be with them.

Narges smiled and hugged her. It will be for the best. We will be heroes to our families and martyrs to Allah.

Sabria had convinced herself she believed and intently studied the Koran and Hadith, especially the Medinan Suras, since that night. She was convinced her husband and son had sure-footedly crossed the blade-thin bridge over the Jahannam into paradise.

Now she would join them.

As the private jet sped through the night towards Seattle she felt relief that it would all be over soon. They landed at Sea-Tac International Airport and she was allowed a few hours sleep before preparations began. The plan for each woman was eerily similar. About twenty minutes before Moshen arrived at the ill-fated subway train platform, Sabria and Narges each walked out of urban laundromats wheeling carts seemingly filled with clean, neatly folded clothing, sheets and towels. Each appeared to be average American housewives and each was a walking deathtrap carrying even more PVV-5A than Moshen in their laundry carts. They climbed aboard their respective transit vehicles and rode towards their destinations, their dates with destiny.

As Sabria’s bus lumbered up Federal Way and neared Sea-Tac Mall, it groaned, sighed to a stop and began filling with children. A woman, whose name tag identified her as a teacher said, Behave and stay quiet until we get to the Mall.

Sabria choked up as images of the steel balls and woodscrews shredding their little bodies flashed through her mind.

All these babies will die

But she remembered what Taqi had taught them. It is far better children die now or they will grow up to be evil infidels fighting against us. It is the will of Allah.

As they pulled to a stop in front of the mall, she thought of little Aziz playing with his father in Janna and began to cry. Deciding she couldn’t stand another moment without her precious Mahmoud and her son, Sabria did not wait to exit the bus as planned. She pushed the button, unleashing a cataclysmic explosion, its metal-infused fury destroying everything in its hellacious path, ripping through steel and glass, flesh and bone.

Narges rode the el train into the appointed stop in the heart of the Chicago business district and never hesitated. The blast was of such great force the tracks buckled and entire cars came crashing down from the elevated track to the street below. Train parts were hurled helter-skelter with bodies and limbs strewn about like match-sticks, the scene speckled with human blood and tissue.

Shane Qualls looked at his watch when the reports from Seattle and Chicago came on. The blasts had occurred within four minutes of each other. Not bad, boys, he said to himself. Not bad, and blew a plume of cigar smoke to the ceiling. Ebony Ghost had spliced together a workable farewell speech for the Jihadi websites using recordings from their week with Taqi. Homeland Security went to their highest threat level and shut down all public transportation, including the airlines, but only for two days. They knew there was no real threat of other bombers out there.

Americans were outraged and screaming for action and President Paul Goldberg promised retaliation was forthcoming. As Pierce Grayson and John Katz waited in the gallery for the start of a news conference, Katz said, Behind the scenes evidence tying the bombers to the Iranian government has been fabricated and is being ‘discovered’ as we speak. Croft is going to deliver the news.

Tolliver Croft was Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. A tall, graying man with large hands strode to the podium with a formality to his bearing and in a deep bass voice detailed the findings that squarely implicated the Iranian government. These two families were sleeper cells, who were inserted into this country over ten years ago and then activated for these murderous tasks. There can now be no doubt that they were sent by the government of Iran.

President Goldberg then took the podium. "The failure to intercept the New York, Seattle and Chicago bombers were a direct result of lapses in the Homeland Protection Agency. Let me be clear, if Congress had voted to retain the more stringent provisions contained in the Patriot Act since nine-eleven, these bombings would have been prevented. I implore the appropriate committees to craft a bill that incorporates those provisions as well as others, get it passed in both houses and on to my desk as soon as possible. We cannot and will not tolerate this mindless carnage and this administration will do whatever it takes to protect our citizens."

After the President’s media appearance he met with Jonathan Katz and Tolliver Croft in the Oval Office.

There you go, John. Put every intrusive provision you can think of in this one because you know it will pass, said Croft.

And load that bitch up with as much pork as you can pile on. Disasters equal rubber stamps, none more so than this one, added President Goldberg. And this time don’t send Joe Wilson to confirm anything.

Katz’s eyes gleamed as Croft said, But what about the damn ISIS problem? They’re making big headlines so I don’t think we can continue to minimize it.

That’s exactly what we do, said Katz. Eventually they will attack America and they’ve already attacked our allies, with the French taking it hard. Soon we go in, rebuild the Iraqi army yet again and commence another war in Iraq and Syria. We just steer clear of the Ruskies.

Mr. President you said no boots on the ground against ISIS.

So I back off it. I’ll give the usual crap about how the situation has changed, how our way of life is imperiled. Then we run so more shots of the refugees, their kids becoming floaters that wash ashore. Emotion is a powerful thing, gentleman, if you’re swayed by that kind of shit.

In the end, a powerful group of politicians and financial titans set the wheels in motion and cajoled the citizens into allowing virtually unfettered access into every aspect of their lives. With constitutional rights further watered down by fear induced legislation, Big Brother took a few more strides toward a police state. And their second wish was fulfilled.

For the foreseeable future the nation would remain on a war footing.

*     *     *

The meeting was part business, part celebration. The Chairman of the Federal Reserve, Tate Knebel raised his glass. I can’t believe we pulled this off! he said incredulously. He was instrumental in the bill’s implementation and had leaped numerous, seemingly insurmountable hurdles en route to its passage. The economic stimulus, troubled asset relief, corporate bailout—it had different names depending on the beneficiary—was worth almost a trillion dollars.

The world’s economies will crumble! they shouted from the rooftops. At least that’s what the public was told. As several others raised their glasses in a toast, they were all well aware the actual far reaching cost over time and various economic sectors was much greater and that TARP was not just a quick fix. It would live on for a long time, birthing programs like PPIP, TAF and TALF that gave tens of billions of dollars in deferred tax assets to financial institutions and corporations, thereby offsetting future profits—yet another ingenious tax dodge—but controlling the media and thereby shaping what the American people believed was an integral part of the deceptions. These were renewable scams perpetrated by the most powerful men in the world, elitists lacking scruples, remorse, or empathy. Jonathan Katz, a six term Senator and Majority Leader, had been privy to these tactics for decades, long before he won his seat, a position bought and paid for by corporate giants and facilitated by political insiders. As he reminisced about that meeting he recalled his initial shock when some of this was revealed to him. He was visiting at his father’s Texas ranch when Secret Service agents suddenly surrounded the house.

POTUS is dropping by, the lead agent told his father. POTUS was President of the United States, an acronym long used by the Service for whoever was in the White House. The Department of Defense had also assigned him the code name Starlight because of his penchant for watching the heavens with a powerful telescope. President Craven’s private estate was just three miles from his father’s residence and he often visited when he was in town. Usually he was drunk and this time was no exception.

Your Granddaddy and my Granddaddy seen that this country was ripe for a pluckin’, the President said, so they made up the Federal Reserve to take control.

Ben was embarrassed for the President as he stumbled through the words and noticed his eyelids drooping almost closed.

"That was 1913. By ’32, the depression was upon us and people were desperate for hope and open to anything. So they took everybody’s gold! Got ’em to hand it over voluntarily. He started laughing uncontrollably. When they pulled that off…well, they knew anything was possible, he slurred. It was the start of many beautiful things," he said and slumped over sideways.

The leader of the free world had passed out.

Katz, now familiar with how things truly worked, had read about the gatherings early in the twentieth century on Jekyll Island that changed the world forever and marveled that such blatant fleecings had continued unchecked for so long. It was a testament to their ingenuity and adaptability… and the ignorance of the American people.

I

1

Pierce Grayson had been the unchallenged patriarch of the cabal since the 1950s. Never a robust figure, he appeared thin, wan and now leaned cadaver. He had a face like an axe, with pewter hair furrowing back from a widow’s peak, deep set glaring eyes and a thin, lipless mouth that lived to say No. Captains of industry and political leaders had been meeting for over a hundred years but before 1900 their focus was on improving the country and the lives of its citizens.

That focus had changed.

The original group consisted of captains of industry, bankers and a few politicians, men of vision who saw the immense wealth that could be generated by a nation so rich in natural resources, with many keen, inventive minds and a staggering industrial might. They wielded their power with virtual impunity, the only accountability, fellow cabal members, the parameters, furtherance of their power and wealth. Many current members had been selected in the 1980s and 90s and thus were subservient to the hierarchy and adhered to an unremorseful, ruthless business paradigm and a nearly total disregard for life. Strict secrecy was a given.

The Grayson media holdings were by far the most extensive on the planet, with World Wide News as the crown jewel of the vast, unrivaled media empire. Through shrewd, compromising dealings, Grayson had established a form of WWN or similarly controlled holdings in 76 countries with more being added every year. Parent company Grayson World Media owned thousands of newspapers and Pierce Grayson sat on the boards of several major corporations. Where antitrust laws impeded its growth, GWM created untraceable shell corporations and acquired newspapers, radio stations and telecommunications at will. And where fifty major companies controlled the media as recently as 1983, now there were just six and GWM had its tentacles into all but two.

Grayson was a multi billionaire, but it was GWM’s ability to sway minds through persuasive propaganda that made his power unmatched and he operated in an echo chamber of Yes. During his tenure, men who were already well to do became wealthy and powerful beyond their dreams. The trickle down effect to other CEO’s was significant and won him the devotion of captains of industries and politicians. With these favors and wealth came indebtedness and reciprocity after millionaires became multimillionaires and many of those billionaires. On the other side of the ledger, the amount of money that rolled into Washington through lobbyists, donations, charities, gifts, trips, insider tips and outright bribes, was incalculable. That’s how things worked: the age old formula of quid pro quo.

Ben Westwood, by his own admission, was an affable gent yet an oddball loner. He considered his physical attributes to be overly average. Average height, build and weight. The one aspect in which he excelled was hair loss, a condition he became acutely aware of when a small bald patch began to migrate north and south simultaneously at an alarming pace. Decidedly liberal, his foray into politics began with a political science class he took in Southern California, at San Diego State University where he took one or two classes each semester so that he could maintain campus privileges. He owned two fast food franchises, the first inherited from his parents along with their spacious La Jolla home. He gutted the house and transformed what he called clutter gauche to an open, airy plan that focused every room on the ocean. French doors and movable exterior walls let cool sea breezes flow throughout, the existing pool was modified to an infinity style and a spacious deck added. Trees lined the periphery while numerous flowers and low lying ornamental shrubs provided color and maximized the ocean views. It gave him the nature effect he prized without having to deal with, well, nature.

As for his business side, Ben trusted his GM’s and seldom visited his stores. He refused to call them restaurants much like he refused to eat their food. Although he loathed them, they provided Ben with a good income so he could do as he pleased. He played golf, always as a single, preferring to join a threesome and meet new people; he liked people but did not want close friends who inextricably infringed upon his schedule. A voracious reader and current events hound, he despised politicians for what they were doing to his country.

Ben was frequently at loggerheads with Dr. Hartwick, the professor and Teri Vlk, his student pet. Vlk was fat, pasty white and wore a bad, overgrown perm that spilled onto his well pimpled face. Ben disliked him, saying, "He’s a sycophant for the Republican’s agenda and a leg rider on the good doctor’s extremities. And any man named Teri who spells his name with an i, well, let’s just say there’s some things going on. And buy a damned vowel. Ben made a strong argument for placing the current economic malaise on the last few administrations’ cavorting with bankers and big business. They have spent like crazy in all the wrong areas, started needless wars and enriched the wealthy at the expense of fiscal sanity. The collapse of the housing market was their doing and then we rewarded them? Are you nuts to think they’re not ramping it up again?"

The good Doctor was the rare collegiate instructor who leaned right—far right in Ben’s opinion. Now Ben let us not forget the importance of a strong corporate structure as the bedrock of this economy.

That’s right, chimed Vlk. We cannot allow these big businesses to fail, especially banking and auto. Not only would we crash the world’s markets, but studies show a dead GM would cost 1.5 million jobs. You’ve got to be more realistic Ben. His nose was up, an air of superiority present as he chastised Ben, who muttered, Suck ass, under his breath.

Keeping his cool, Ben continued, It was the lack of oversight that allowed the credit default swaps to be bastardized and many downright criminal procedures to be approved by the Fed. And don’t even get me started on sub-prime loans. As usual Teri, you are involved in a debate without sufficient facts and spewing sound bites right off the fat cats’ manifesto.

Well you’re a communist who advocates the violent overthrow of the U.S. government! Vlk’s voice growing louder.

Keeping his tone level, Ben said, Actually, it is something completely bereft of violence, but I do advocate a coup of sorts.

The good Doctor cut in. Okay gentlemen, let’s move on. After this contentious debate a couple of students invited him for coffee.

Ben had been working on it for some time and he meant to shake the foundations of government. He read Glub Pasha and other treatises on the demise of empires and learned that most great societies followed a similar path to destruction, seemingly inexorable fates repeated time and again, failing miserably to follow history’s golden rule. Why did the progression always end in decadence, decline and dystopian collapse?

He recognized there was little government could do about the profligacy and debauchery of America’s insatiable appetite for consumerism, sex and violence—that ship had sailed. And social media had invaded their lives with a cultural imperialism that would wreak havoc on societal norms and interpersonal mores, not to mention the damage it was doing to the youth. But could we stop reveling in it? Supporting it? Other research revealed that entitlements and special interests were responsible for the financial perils that infected so many great empires along with a monstrous war machines and ever expanding obligations to utilize them in foreign lands. The vast Roman empire was the model the U.S. emulated more closely than any other, their confluence at decline and fall, mirrored in their prosperity, materialism, moral decay and denigration of the family unit. Perhaps it was too late, but he refused to cynically surrender and withdraw to mindless humanistic pursuits that occupied the lives of far too many. Holding government accountable and achieving reform was a start, something attainable.

There exists but one solution.

The coffee shop was like most college area businesses, with Aztec black and red predominating, including checkerboard linoleum. Replete with memorabilia, signed jerseys of past star players Tony Gwenn and Marshall Faulk hung ensconced in glass covered frames with megaphones and mascot effigies dangling from the ceiling. The scent of fresh pastries enveloped them as they gathered at a corner table.

That was good stuff, Ben, said Laycee as they settled in.

Yeah, you kicked butt, agreed Abby. They had discussed Ben’s take on politics before, were intrigued by his ideas and thought there was a lot to be learned from him. They were, however, a little intimidated because he was at least 20 years older than them. The campus was sprinkled with 40 and 50 something’s who seemed to attend classes so they could lord over the younger matriculates. Most of them were unapproachable, unless you wanted to ask for their amazing though somewhat dated insights. They decided to ask Ben to coffee and were surprised at how humble and receptive he was.

I feel your passion as you speak about the scourge of government graft and waste perpetuated by the old guard Washington elite, said Laycee.

Why do you suppose people will spend millions of their own money for jobs that pay less than two-hundred thousand a year?

Because it’s not about the salary," said Laycee.

Bingo.

It’s about connections, insider information and controlling the laws that govern banking and business so they can amass wealth and help their cohorts do the same, said Abby.

Well I have an idea for ending this lunacy, but it is so radical that I fear most would find it unacceptable. Laycee and Abby were spellbound as Ben took a sip of his coffee and continued. Every two to four years the voters have seen the latest change agents violate every campaign promise they made and continue to spend like Beverly Hills housewives on a pork binge. The party in the minority screams from the rooftops about the fiscal irresponsibility of the majority and how they are the party of restraint. Then they get into office and continue the same policies and spending that further inflates the deficit and enriches the wealthy. All the while, the other party now denigrates them.

It’s almost like they are saying ‘Okay, my turn to screw the taxpayers,’ said Abby

Right, agreed Laycee, and then they never get around to really changing anything they promised.

It’s sadly comical how the American people buy into their deceit time and time again and always get left high and dry, said Ben, shaking his head. Oh, and that last bunch, the New Whigs was nothing more than repackaged Republicans, but once again the voters bought in. They came into office rattling their sabers a little for show but then the Democrats won the presidency and in the end the budget is trillions deeper in the red and the gulf between the rich and poor grows bigger.

The ladies nodded their agreement.

At least the Contract with America clan made a few changes when they rolled in. And, I believe some of them really wanted to change things, particularly how Washington is run, but they were too few and eventually got swallowed up by the monster, he said with a matter of fact grimace.

That’s when we were kids, said Laycee, looking to Abby, but I’ve read a couple of books by those guys and was really impressed with their ideals if not their tenacity.

Well we need people like that, but to pull off what I’ve contemplated we’ll need hundreds.

What is it? asked Abby, almost whispering. Ben leaned in and the ladies followed suit.

It would require unseating the entire House—all four hundred thirty-five—in one election. He sat back gauging their reaction, so absorbed they were barely breathing. Then at the same election the first thirty-three of the one hundred Senators, plus those retiring, must go. There may be a few first-termers who would be acceptable, but not many.

What then? asked Laycee.

Yeah, how do we know the replacements wouldn’t just continue down the rabbit hole once they got into power, Abby questioned, like with the Contract guys?

Ben held up a finger. The Contract with America started out strong with what seemed like major reform, but too many power players were still in D.C. when Republicans came into a House majority for the first time in four decades. These power players were able to overcome the efforts of the few who were truly dedicated and when I say few, I mean out of fifty-four non incumbent congressmen elected in 1994, only a handful were true change agents. This tells me many were just posing as reformers to get elected with no intention of disrupting the status quo. The only way to end the stranglehold the old guard has had is to rid Washington of all the vermin and that includes the President.

Wow, talk about ambitious, what do you think, Laycee?

It sounds good, but how do you establish what specific changes need to be made, get a consensus and then enforce it?

We let the American people decide, up to a point. We can’t have knee-jerk legislation driven solely by emotion but for the most part a true government of the people, by the people and for the people is possible. As for enforcement, each candidate would sign a promise unlike any other devised. It would be hundreds of pages long and would have the stamp of approval of the citizens. If a candidate or elected official violates or refuses to vote for an agreed upon provision, he would be subject to an immediate vote by the party members for expulsion from the party rolls. Obviously the people could not vote on issues that arise between elections and the party mission statement ideals would govern the representatives’ responses and voting. Each year the promise would be updated.

This is amazing, Ben. Do you have anyone besides you working on it? asked Abby.

"No, but after the bailout debacle and their latest round of corporate handouts, the greatest scams ever devised, the 19 trillion dollar debt, et cetera, et cetera, I believe the American people are finally fed up enough to embrace something like this. And remember ladies, the true scope of their deceit runs much deeper and the best weapon we have is informing the public about it. So how would you like to be part of a