Which Is the Clone

By Malcolm John Baker

He settles down in his bunk bed, and he enters that state before sleep overcomes. Suddenly, he is wide awake again, and in front of him is a hologram of his father. Tall, much taller than Julian, remembered him and with broader shoulders. His face is drawn, much older than Julian had remembered him. He said nothing; at first, he just stared as though he thought what to say, but ghosts can’t think, can they? Thought Julian.
“Well, there you are, what have you come to? I had such plans for you and your brother. One of you is a clone of me; you were meant to be President of the United States, not a dictator. Robert is now dead, and you will soon be dead to the world.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796072716

Malcolm John Baker

Malcolm John Baker was born in Salisbury, England, in 1945. By trade, he was a chartered surveyor and practised in South London, England. Now retired, he lives in the United States in Florida.

Book preview

WHICH IS

THE CLONE

Malcolm John Baker

Copyright © 2019 by Malcolm John Baker.

ISBN:                  Hardcover                        978-1-7960-7273-0

                            Softcover                          978-1-7960-7272-3

                            eBook                               978-1-7960-7271-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 11/29/2019

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter One

Wilson James, the president-elect, is sitting in the jet plane that he leased for six months, for the duration of his election campaign. With him are his wife Clarissa and two Secret Service security guards. The aircraft is essential in getting around the country, and he only has it for three more days now until he must return it. The plane has been waiting for takeoff on the taxiway for nearly half an hour; the pilot had come into the main cabin, telling Wilson the delay is due to the inclement weather. The frustration is showing on Wilson’s screwed-up face. He is looking out of the window, bored, when he notices his own reflection in the glass: a sad face, he thinks. He had not realized that in the past, it should be a happy face, having just won the presidential election at the age of thirty-six, one of the youngest presidents to be.

But it is definitely a sad reflection he can see; it is as though the representation is judging him. I have transgressed, he thinks, but that is all in the past now. I promise no more; I will respect women in the future. Oh, God, please help me, what made me like this? He had been a good son to his father, looking after him for many years when his father became disabled, but he realized now that he neglected to learn how to treat women in growing up through puberty. He is a good-looking man with a healthy body; he works out for an hour every morning, giving him strong muscles, to show off his six-foot-four-inch height.

His dark brown curly hair had attracted Clarissa when they first met; they have been married six years now, but for the last two years, they have been apart while Wilson has been traveling the country, in the hustings. He concentrates again on the reflection. Is it an evil face? He snaps his fingers and says out loud, No, it’s not.

What was that, dear? Clarissa says as she looks up from reading her magazine.

Oh, sorry, nothing, darling, says Wilson, but he couldn’t get the accusation of his reflection out of his mind.

It has been a cold December this year, and this morning, there was an ice storm, which covered the runway for an hour; no flights were able to take off then or since. The ice is clear now, the temperature has risen slightly, and some planes have been allowed to land; they needed to be dealt with first due to shortage of fuel. Aircraft taking off is second priority. His plane is nearly ready for takeoff now; the pilot is doing his final checklist.

Wilson says to his wife forcefully, I’ll be glad when we get Air Force One to fly in—there will be no hanging around then. I’ll see to that.

Don’t be so impatient, Wilson. Everyone is doing what they can, we will be taking off soon, and your followers at Carnegie Hall will understand. They love you all the way, and they will wait for you, my darling. You know how much they all put into the campaign, says Clarissa, trying to calm him down. She had always tried to calm Wilson down when he got into his rages.

She was worried, when they first got married, by his outbursts but later understood his frustrations, and he had never raised a hand to her. They had met nearly ten years ago now, just before Wilson’s father died. She was in her early twenties then, a very attractive girl, all the men agreed; she didn’t think she was beautiful, but she had to admit she had a presence in a crowd. Wilson had told her it was her long legs, which seemed to go up to her armpits. She thought it was more likely the permanent smile she always carried.

I know you are right, says Wilson, still looking out of the window; he is sidetracked by lights from a truck and two cars racing across the airport grounds toward them. His eyes are wide, concentrating; this does not look right. What are they doing here? The vehicles are still about a quarter of a mile away. I need my glasses. He thinks, Where are they? as he looks in his pockets. Clarissa, who can see them on the table, guesses what he is after.

Are these what you are looking for? she says, holding out the glasses.

Wilson puts them on saying, Thank you, you always seem to know what I want. Now he can see better.

Then suddenly, from below his aircraft, he sees flashing blue lights on top of five armored cars rush toward the trucks, with sirens issuing a raging sound. Without warning, the oncoming truck explodes into a fireball with no apparent reason; flames are shooting two hundred feet into the air in all directions. Wilson sees three men flying out of the vehicle like human cannonballs at a circus act, but this is no circus.

Wilson turns to Clarissa. Did you see that?

Clarissa looks up from the magazine in which she is engrossed. What, darling? she mumbles, not looking out of the window.

Look, for god’s sake, the whole planet is at war, says Wilson.

Don’t exaggerate, dear, she says, still engrossed in the story she is reading.

Look, Clarissa, please put that paper down; we are under attack, says Wilson, annoyed.

Wilson is transfixed, trying to get his mind around what is happening: the airfield is like a battlefield; secondary explosions follow as the truck is sent high into the air, in smithereens. Doors are blown sideways; the roof leaves its body. The cars immediately stop, and six men get out, all carrying Russian AK-47 automatic rifles. They spread out, heading toward Wilson’s plane. The windscreen of one car shatters as it’s by hit with a bullet from the security forces, and the driver punches out the shattered glass, only to be replaced with a shot that hits him over the eye, and he slumps back in the seat, he knew nothing more.

Wilson can see the blood spurt out and spread over the front of the car, or is he imagining it? The vehicle is still a long way away. The Secret Service guard in the aircraft says, Sir, please take cover. I don’t know what is happening. I’m waiting for instructions, but it looks like a terrorist attack to me. The Secret Service, a branch of Homeland Security, was initially set up by Alan Pinkerton, who had his own detective agency at the time. The service now protects all the presidents, past, present, and future.

At last, Clarissa is taking the assault seriously

What are we to do? Clarissa says.

It’s a little late to ask that now—we could be dead any minute, says Wilson sarcastically, as he is still annoyed with her.

The Secret Service agent is listening with his cellphone pinned to his ear, anxious to get instructions. Wilson, in shock and anxiety, moves back, away from the window but no farther than he needed to see the proceedings. His reflection has gone from the window now, and he is more at peace.

Underneath the plane could be heard more sirens blaring out as six more SWAT cars rushed to the scene to join the others, forming a line between Wilson’s plane and the terrorists, for that is what they had to be. Wilson’s agent said to him, I have now received instructions, sir. We are to stay put inside the plane—it is too dangerous for us to get off. In case of stray bullets, you should keep to the far side of the plane, sir. The army will take out the terrorists.

With a nervous laugh, Wilson says, That’s good to know; I presume they were after me. Thank God the bombs pre-detonated, I presume that was the explosions we heard. But he is still apprehensive; this is the first time his life has been in danger, and sweat is pouring off his brow. He said a private prayer to his maker, thanking him for his anticipated deliverance: I promise to be good in the future. How many times has God heard that before?

Outside, there is now a raging battle in progress, a dozen soldiers against eight terrorists, but reinforcements are on their way from the far side of the airport. The battle goes on for five more minutes; gradually, the terrorists are eliminated one by one. They are all dead, no prisoners taken; there had been nowhere for them to hide, but there were also casualties with the police. At least two officers had gunshot wounds, and the grass is now turning red as pools of blood surround the dead terrorists.

Although Wilson could not hear it, the lead terrorist had rushed forward, toward the plane, firing his AK-47 rapidly, hoping that at least one bullet would smash a window and kill the president-elect. It was a suicide mission, as he was shot in the stomach by the police. His arms went up in the air; his rifle carried on for another five feet before they both fell to the ground.

The terrorist shouted, Allah Akbar as he collapsed to the ground, dead. For the first time, Wilson can relax, knowing that the attack has been frustrated, and he takes a deep breath and lets out a sigh of relief, but trying not to let his concern show; he is, after all, the next president, he thinks, but he can smile now. But his reflection in the window has returned, glaring at him.

The security says to Wilson, We are given the all-clear now, sir, but we can’t use this plane in case a stray bullet has hit it—they are bringing around another plane now. The party leaves the plane and changes to the substitute, which is now in place. As Wilson walks down the steps, he counts seven bullet holes in the fuselage of the plane, one right next to the door, and Wilson can’t resist putting his finger in the hole. He doesn’t know why he did it, but it seemed the thing to do. But he thinks of the man who had just died firing those bullets.

It makes him think, It’s a good job we are changing planes; I hate flying at the best of times. The new aircraft, which was brought round from the rear of the terminal, takes off after a further delay of half an hour, while ground staff checked there was no debris on the runway.

The security guard says to Wilson, Sir, I have learned that they found propaganda of the Islamic State in the cars, so we must assume the target was you. All the terrorists are dead, and they found many leads inside the accompanying vehicles. They are confident that their colleagues will be arrested. We should be in New York an hour from now, sir. Sit back and relax. I know it’s early, sir, but let me get you a drink—it will help you calm down. I have sent a message to Carnegie Hall that we will be held up for an hour or so.

It’s never too early, officer. It’s five o’clock somewhere, you know, Wilson says, with a smile that he has to force out. He knew his blood pressure was high; he could feel his heart pumping fast. He spent ten minutes in the flight reducing his blood pressure with deep breathing. Clarissa went back to her magazine story.

Chapter Two

The auditorium at Carnegie Hall in New York City is full of followers of Wilson James, the new president-elect of the United States of America; they have waited for over an hour, cursing that Wilson is late. The hall was built by Andrew Carnegie in 1891, to the high standards of the Victorian era. The beautiful facades both inside and out are exemplary.

It is standing room only at the rear of the hall, and still, they come in until the doors are finally closed. Those left outside will have the television screens to watch the proceedings inside. The room is decked in flags of the republic, together with Republican flags of red and white. Bunting is draped all around the stage. Massive paper carnations hang from the ceiling. The loudspeaker system is broadcasting patriotic songs; the audience is joining in the choruses. They are told that the president-elect is delayed at the airport, but they were not given details of the terrorist attack.

The purpose of this rally is to thank Wilson’s supporters and boost them up for the battles that he knew would be forthcoming in Congress, which is in the hands of the Democrats. The audience wants to see their next president and maybe shake his hand.

As they arrive an hour late, Wilson and his wife Clarissa are shown directly into the arena, Clarissa to the first row of reserved seats and Wilson to the podium at the front of the stage. He is smiling now and feeling good with himself. As he enters the scene, there is an enormous cheer, and clapping that sounds like thunder comes rising from the now-standing audience. Wilson lifts his arms toward the roof in acknowledgment and punches the air. He bows several times deeply, as though he was bowing to royalty, not that Wilson had seen any in his life, although he is looking forward to that when he takes office.

His security guards are standing behind Wilson on the stage, watching every movement. They have joined the ten other guards already in the auditorium, walking around, looking at everyone. Their eyes are transfixed on searching out anything unusual, watching to see any sudden movement, and all the time talking to their supervisors. Everyone who entered the hall was hand searched for guns and knives.

One father in the audience says to his young son standing next to him, See that man over there, son, the one in the dark suit—he is a security guard for the new president.

How do you know that, Dad? says the boy, thinking his father must be a magician.

Because he is talking into his sleeve—he has a microphone up there and is talking to his boss, says Dad. The boy pretends he is a guard now and talks into his sleeve as well.

The compere, dressed in his Uncle Sam uniform with the red-and-white striped top hat, with matching pants and blue jacket, calls the audience to order and introduces the new president-elect. Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to introduce to you Wilson James, the next president of the United States of America, our great country. He throws his top hat in the air like the circus ringmaster.

That releases a further cheer from the audience. The compere waves to Wilson to come to the microphone, which he does, and delivers a first-rate speech thanking everyone for their help in his coming to this office. Wilson says he is humbled by this great crowd and calls for the national anthem to be played; he has arranged for a beautiful young singer to sing it. The whole audience is on their feet with their hands on their hearts.

An hour passes during which the audience is on its feet more than sitting down. Wilson is entirely relaxed now; the stress of the morning had passed. At the end of the speech, Wilson beckons to Clarissa to come up on the stage. She gracefully walks up the stairs to be beside Wilson, again to a great ovation. Clarissa had managed to change clothes on the plane, and she wore a formal low-cut cocktail dress of blue satin with a red sash and white carnation. Clarissa does not speak, but she waves to all sides of the auditorium; the pair of them stroll offstage, waving all the time to the audience after the national anthem is performed again, this time by a ten-year-old boy who has the voice of an angel.

They are shown to their bulletproof limousine waiting outside the auditorium. More crowds line the sidewalk, all clapping and cheering; he is a popular figure today. They sit in the back seats of their car, while their driver closes the interior glass screen, and they are now in their capsule at the rear. Wilson was surprised about the bulletproof car but thinks he must get used to that now, and after the earlier airport attack, he is grateful. The windows are dark, so they feel very secure in their rear cocoon. The difficulty is that the colored glass enhances the reflection; again, he sees the disapproving face.

Wilson is now beginning to unwind from the stress of the electioneering and says to Clarissa, I think it’s time we had children. I have a maximum of eight years in power, and the White House is a good place to bring them up. One of them will hopefully take over my role in due course of time, and I know you will make a good mother.

Thank you and yes, and it seems such a long time since we have had personal time together, and I have missed your body at night. Wilson has been traveling for six months on his election bandwagon, during which time there was very little time for sex, although he was offered it on many occasions from his young lady followers.

He is a tall, handsome man with dark blue eyes. The ladies found him very attractive to look at, and the fact that he is to be president as well made the situation quite tricky at times. He knew that an affair would be disastrous with the press following all the time, and when all is said and done, he loves his wife.

Wilson is somewhat concerned about children, though; he thinks his genes are impeccable, of course, although lately he has thought maybe not. He is definitely not so sure about Clarissa’s; she comes from a family that at one time was with the mafia. Wilson knows in his mind that evil lies within genes, and he thinks Clarissa’s might be tainted. There are no options though; he realizes that and hopes that his genes will prevail in the struggle once her egg is fertilized.

Tonight’s the night, then—after this morning’s episode, I need it, says Wilson with glee and wanting showing in his eyes. Clarissa squeezes Wilson’s hand in compliance, thinking, I need it more than him. She knows she is getting to the age where she needs to have a child, or it will be too late.

That night in their hotel suite, after all the entourage have left, Clarissa heads to the bedroom as she says, Give me five minutes to wash my face. Wilson smiles and gives her ten, then opens the door of the bedroom. Clarissa has come out of the bathroom and is standing at the end of the bed, dressed in her special robe, the sheer one, which reveals all. Her long red hair is flowing down her back, and at the sight of Wilson, whom she adores, she feels ready for sex. Her nipples are pressing hard on the sheer fabric, standing out like rocks,