We Will Rule the World

By Bob Sands

“The flame of democracy sometimes flickers under misguided leadership, but it will remain lit because good commanders, solid mentors will prevail.”
— Declaration by Brock Mullinix

The large, imposing Texas oilman chomps on his second Big Mac, then chugs from a bottle of Diet Coke. The intense and to-the-point Russian President dabs at his porridge and slurps two raw quail eggs from a cup. Sergey Orlov’s steely eyes stare sharply at Luther Tex Lofton and vows, “We will pull this off; we will rule the world.” Lofton wins the presidency in a landslide, whipping a Social Democrat, viciously smeared throughout the 2016 campaign. A nude photo helps turn the Oval Office into a den of sin. Can a liberal Democrat, Brock Mullinix, quash this reign of tyranny? A presidential election in 2020 looms as a righteous pathway.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664161139

Bob Sands

A long-time journalist, Bob Sands covered stories from high school sports to state attorney general drug busts. While reporting and editing, he received numerous awards. He grew up in Kansas City and after graduating from the University of Missouri with a Bachelor of Journalism degree, he joined the Kansas City Star, then worked at newspapers in various capacities throughout the Midwest and Las Vegas. He has written three other published novels, A Question of Justice, The Killer Knows and Mob Rule. He also co-authored From Worst to First … Kansas City Major League Baseball 1955-1985

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

T HE LARGE, IMPOSING Texan chomped on his second Big Mac, then drank from a bottle of Diet Coke. The intense and to-the-point Russian President dabbed at his porridge and slurped two raw quail eggs. After a bite of tvorog, the President looked at the Texan with steely eyes and said with nonchalance: We will pull this off; we will rule the world. The Texan fluttered his bushy eyebrows at the succinct observation and responded, That’s what we’re here to discuss. Then he added sternly, First, I need to be elected President.

Here is a swank golf and country club coastal resort near Aberdeen, Scotland. The two are eating in a large lounge and card room, full of golf memorabilia, ornate wooden chairs and tables and a scenic view of the coast. The September morning is crisp, with a breeze blowing off the North Sea. Aberdeen, a port city in northeast Scotland where the Dee and Don rivers meet the North Sea is home to an international population. It’s known as the Granite City for its many enduring grey stone buildings.

Instead of golf resorts, you should have ventured into hotels like you talked about when we last met in Moscow. Sergey Orlov finished the tvorog and pushed the plate aside. His English was broken but easily understood. His blue eyes focused sharply, boring into whomever sat across from him. His short-cropped blond hair came to a widow’s peak on his high forehead. Even through the business suit and dress shirt, the 56-year-old’s well-toned pectoral muscles made an impression.

His last name means Eagle — a misnomer to many because eagle is symbolic of the importance of honesty and truthful principles. Instead, his infamy as a former KGB agent and now the brutal leader of Russia reflected a tyrannical and authoritarian demeanor.

While six bodyguards might escort him to the bathroom when he’s on a diplomatic mission, today his two closest associates, oligarch Alexander Zenochka and bodyguard Ilia Sabaelnikov, who also is Director of Rosgovardiva, the National Guard of Russia, are the only ones accompanying him at the meeting. Of course, Loren Tex Lofton realized security probably was nearby and surely back at the boat that brought him to shore. Orlov’s associates sat near the entrance two tables away from the President.

I tried to get a hotel built in St. Petersburg, but you put too many obstacles in front of me, Lofton answered after downing the rest of the Coke. He swiped across his curled lips, then pushed back in the chair. The United States hadn’t had a fat president since No. 27, William Howard Taft, but Lofton was vying to break the streak and become No. 45. Although now he could compete for the world’s tallest fat man, he was an agile tight end at Southern Methodist University that went 11-0-1 in 1982 and was second in the final Associated Press poll; he mainly was a blocker for the Pony Backfield of Craig James and Eric Dickerson.

The point of his tie, longer than a reata at a rodeo, always pointed to his fly, which usually produced wise cracks, like it was pointing to his brain. He certainly was no ladies’ man; however, he managed to bed many women in his younger days. The old saying is that women gravitate toward money, power, personality or good looks. Two out of four worked for him.

He coveted to be President of the most powerful country in the world and the wealth came with his numerous oil wells and other investments. Between his junior and senior years at college, he received a deed to an oil well in the Permian Basin of Texas from a big-time SMU donor and after graduation, he used that as a launch into a lucrative oil business, Lofton Exploration. He had grown up in Lubbock, Texas, the son of a cattle feedlot maintenance worker. Times were tough. He laughed that for enjoyment the family sat in the backyard and watched what the folks were doing in Amarillo, 120 miles north over land flatter than corncakes.

He also had two close associates with him at the golf resort, one his son-in-law, Barry Cantor, and top political advisor, Austin Samuels. Cantor had intelligence but his overbearing personality made him a bore. Samuels was to the right of Genghis Khan and pushed white supremacy like a Grand Wizard. Both had Lofton’s ear and effectively used their advantage.

What do you think of my little place here, Lofton said, gloating like a narcissistic bloviator he is. I’ve got ‘em all over the world.

Not as much money as hotels bring in, Orlov cut in. But you and I have bigger ideas, right. Lofton nodded. We can have the power to rule over anyone. China would buckle under our pressure.

And that North Korean twerp can shoot off all the missiles he wants right now, Lofton said, pushing back in the chair. But we would put the kibosh on that.

That would end. For sure. Orlov said while nodding.

We need to get you elected first. Then we take over. His snarky smile reflected that well-known omnipresent, devious character. We have to be careful. Very careful. You were wise in setting up this meeting, away from the hustle and bustle of busy cities and nosy press. You seem to have a lot of trouble with the media. I don’t have that problem.

Lofton didn’t appear affected by the statement, musing that he knew how to handle the media. But he agreed that this meeting needed secrecy, avoiding speculation of collusion and a closeness. After all, Russia has been a long-time adversary. For Lofton, this is simply a golfing trip.

Able to slip away without anyone noticing, Orlov had control like Lofton desired. An admirer of authoritarian leaders in the world, Lofton wanted the power of a dictator, an oligarch without disturbances. He didn’t trust Orlov but he needed what the President could produce so they could create an allied thrust that controlled the world’s business and culture.

The means to that end? The tandem power that they could unleash.

Orlov and Lofton had discussed several of the pertinent issues during Lofton’s trips to Moscow. Later, Lofton learned that he had put himself in a compromising position – it was true that the Russians had microphones, cameras and video machines in many hotel rooms. When Lofton became a bit feisty in a conversation with Orlov during one trip, the response was swift and to the point. Orlove told him he was in Russia and to watch what he said.

His cunning, his devious intentions galvanized behind his stoic demeanor. On the surface, his offered to set up two Russian prostitutes – long-limbed with stunning good looks – for Lofton to enjoy in a hotel room sandwich and the surveillance equipment surreptitiously recorded it all. Lofton soon learned of Orlov’s underhanded chicanery. Orlov, in a telephone conversation after Lofton returned to the States, warned Lofton that he didn’t want to make the sexual interlude public but that he thought it would be a good idea to keep the photos and tapes in a safe place if something unpleasant would arise. Lofton got the message. And he knew that he was at the mercy of what Orlov would want. He hated to have this hanging over his head, but he let it slide simply because of the goals he had in mind to wield power over the U.S. and the rest of the world.

When the campaign reached high gear, Orlov said he would need incriminating and solid information from Lofton’s campaign staff, acknowledging that he was sure that Lofton would be the presumptive Republican candidate.

You should win the presidency, at least we’re counting on it, the President said confidently.

Lofton agreed, acknowledging that Lamont Schaeffer probably would win the Democrat primaries because of his strong organization with dedicated young people going all out to support him. However, the young Illinois representative described himself as a Socialist Democrat. Lofton’s staff repeatedly said all they had to do was tag that label on him every time they mentioned his name and the voters would reject him out of hand. Socialist! In America, that was a nasty word to many — a cuss word, an outrageous word.

The information was a key, Lofton offered, and he would set up a proper and efficient covert system. He asked who the Russian contact would be: You, President Orlov?

The answer was direct: I will know what’s being forwarded but your man will get in touch with our Director of Communication, among others. I will provide the how-to when the time comes.

Lofton had someone in mind as his messenger – a long-time friend who delved on the dark side of life and had numerous contacts throughout the world. Yeah, no problem there.

Lofton glanced at the empty plate and the image caused him to turn up his nose. How do you eat that, uh, whatever that stuff is? And, for that matter, how did you get here without anyone knowing you were even in the area? Lofton was impressed how stealthily the President could move around the world.

Orlov shot him that steely gaze again before responding. You should maybe consider what I’m eating. His eyes traveled the length of Lofton’s physique. The food? I had someone prepare it beforehand. That simple. He paused, then looked squarely at the last half of the second Big Mac. McDonald’s is everywhere for you, I guess, huh. I know Aberdeen has three of them. He rubbed his hands together and said, As for the travel, well, I like the way I travel.

Lofton shook his head slowly after the observation about McDonald’s. The man scouts everything. He probably even knows Aberdeen’s average ambient temperature, the exact population and the name of the Lord Provost’s secretary. He looked at Orlov and with an ornery bent uttered, You eat your breakfast; I’ll eat mine. Actually, it was 2 a.m. in Houston – a late midnight snack, Lofton joked to himself.

But, hey, just how did you get here?

The Orlov smirk appeared again. He folded his arms, sat back in the chair and explained that he often traveled by submarine when he wanted secrecy. And, as you might expect, I have contacts in many ports, many cities. He unfolded his arms, then continued, A boat met me a few kilometers offshore and a car was ready for me when we docked. And here we are. And I can assure you, no one that I don’t want to know I’m in Aberdeen knows that I am here.

He praised Lofton for doing a splendid job of clearing the golf resort so they could meet without any kind of unwanted audience. Lofton also had dismissed any security attention. He wanted freedom to roam. After he made the announcement he was running, he knew he would have to acquiesce, simply to adhere to protocol.

The conversation returned to peripheral items in handling various details of the furtive endeavors planned for the campaign. After a few more topics and a few more minutes, Orlov brought up the 50-meter pool, elated that Lofton had included it at the resort, noting that many guests would be pleased to have such an amenity. With that, he excused himself and headed for a swim. Lofton said he would get in 18 holes of golf and they would meet again in three hours for dinner. After swimming, Orlov could work out at the exercise facilities near the pool. Lofton deemed that the preliminaries would expand after dinner. He knew more questions would arise. Most of the information interchange, as Orlov mentioned, would be set up later. This was a meeting to establish primary actions. The session after dinner would cover more details.

The three Russians left through a large door on the left. Lofton followed them to the locker room to change into golfing attire while Cantor remained sitting with a fresh cup of coffee. Samuels joined Lofton, almost skipping as he caught the door with his hand.

Samuels had diligently watched over the two conferees as they talked; he so admired Lofton and would do anything for him. No one, absolutely no one, could say one bad thing about Tex Lofton.

A rising star on the far right for several years, the youthful Republican operative made headlines with his polarizing conduct. Lofton’s cadre of backers pushed hard for Samuels to have a close association with the presidential campaign. Because Lofton paid more attention to making money than he did political tactics, staffers pushed Samuels’ political acument, and he certainly filled the void with his attention to detail and novel ideas to push the doctrinal message.

Supporters, yes, but detractors aplenty. Leaked emails showed he supported white-nationalist ideology; he proudly wore the badge. The Republican establishment questioned his right-wing ideology and continually criticized him; however, Lofton cherished Samuels’ grit and determination.

A New Yorker through and through. Samuels was born to an Italian mother; his father was Jewish. Studious, Samuels was smart and won several forensics contests as a senior in high school. He was graduated from New York University with a degree in political science. He quickly moved up the political ladders, becoming communications aide at different times for two representatives and two senators, all four right-wingers. Early on, he rode the anti-immigration band wagon, pushing the conspiracy that the Muslims would make inroads in the U.S. and establish Sharia Law. He veered to all immigrants after that, blaming them for importing diseases, drugs and violence.

While monitoring the high-level conversation between Lofton and Orlov, he periodically doodled with a focus on getting his man elected; a key would be to get a strong base filled with those who thrived on volatility and reacted positively to name-calling and spiteful rhetoric.

In many ways, his personality mirrored that of Orlov. Brash and outspoken. He had similar appearances: short-cropped hair with a widow’s peak, slight of build (but without the muscles), a tight-fitting European suit and a determined outlook to get things done.

Samuels decided to wait inside the resort until Lofton finished playing golf. Lofton used to carry a 5-handicap, but now at age 58 the distance off the tee waned and the putting touch faltered, and the handicap rose to a 10. His short game too often cost him. He enjoyed playing alone on occasion, mainly because he was able to gather his thoughts and go over aspects of a particular issue. He also enjoyed playing golf courses like this one, with its splendid scenery. During this round, his focus switched in and out on Orlov. He cussed that the Russian had the photos to hold over him. He wondered how he would handle being positive about their relationship when the press began asking questions. The hell with it; he could handle the media. He would give ‘em a few Texas aphorisms and if that didn’t work, he would bellow, as he was wont when matters didn’t go his way. His physical stature obviously provided a dominant presence. He took no shit from anyone. He had a thin skin and reacted with fervor when anyone questioned his decisions.

Oh, the press retaliated, but in a less malicious manner. They pointed to his numerous fabrications. A pathological liar, he never saw a statement he couldn’t conform to a mendacious response. He could have been P.T. Barnum’s partner; what a wristwatch salesman he could have been on the Atlantic City boardwalk in the old days. The comparisons had often been put to him. He always answered that Ed McMahon worked his way through college as a pitchman on the boardwalk – pushing vegetable slicers — and look where he wound up: the long-time announcer for Johnny Carson. Lofton would accentuate the statement by slamming his fist into the palm of his hand. He never directly addressed the charges that he was an inveterate liar. He tells so many lies that he thinks he is telling the truth.

He often spoke at petroleum conferences and he was a spellbinder, holding the attention of affluent businessmen with his off-handed humor and incisive business knowledge. And that Texas gool ol’ boy demeanor. He attended numerous political functions involving conservative movers and shakers.

He finished the golf round in less than three hours, taking a little longer because he took practice shots with his irons. He parked the cart, leaving his bag there; the general manager would be showing up later and he would take care of everything. He walked into the locker room, took a shower and changed clothes. He felt good. After spending time talking to Samuels and Cantor in the locker room, he spryly strolled into the lounge.

Orlov was already seated, deftly slicing into steamed sole; the plate was also filled with peas and boiled parsley potatoes. Generally, he had a food taster along, but he had sent his bodyguard out to a restaurant to bring him the food and he felt confident everything would be good. When he was in a foreign country, he often ate what the local cuisine offered. Lofton opted for fast food again, KFC chicken tenders and coleslaw. And, of course, more Diet Coke. Cantor had made the food trip.

How was the pool and the workout?

Orlov puffed his chest and blurted, Splendid.

Oh, how he loves to show off his physically imposing self, continually boasting of his great feats of exertion and his love of extreme sports. The Russian propaganda machine assiduously promotes his image as a man’s man, an adventurer, a soldier and thinker and a dominant leader on the world stage.

Orlov enjoys showing off his outdoor skills, like shooting a rifle and horse-back riding. Those actions come after a usually detailed routine. After his standard breakfast of tvorog and quail eggs, he drinks a cup of coffee. Then it’s to the pool for two hours of swimming. Russian journalists say he does his best thinking while in the pool.

We have been here almost all day and you haven’t mentioned Obama once. What’s going on? Orlov snickered.

He’s all hat and no cattle. The mere mention of President Barack Obama’s name caused Lofton to hyperventilate.

He told Orlov that he had been in long discussions about the President with his associates and the words weren’t pretty. One thing he felt that was off kilter was that everyone thought Obama would become a far-left President, but in Lofton’s opinion that just wasn’t so.

He’s progressive, for sure, way too progressive for me, but look at what he has done. Deporting immigrants, skeptical of sweeping changes, bullish on the markets, associating with the department of defense, high on individuality, old-school values – and, interestingly, he seems paranoid in boosting black independence. With eyebrows raised, Lofton explained, No matter what he was able to push through for policy, Obamacare, regulations and laws, I will eradicate each and every one. There will be no Obama legacy. He pursed his lips. I just don’t like the black son of a bitch.

That caught Orlov’s attention. You’re not racist, are you? The words came in a mocking tone. I hear you are somewhat attached to white nationalist leaders in America and elsewhere. He nodded toward Samuels. That young man is a white supremacist. You can mark that down.

Lofton didn’t respond. Instead, he alluded to Mitch McConnell, the Senate majority leader from Kentucky who pushed all things Republican and no things Democrat. Ol’ Mitch is as crooked as a barrel of fishhooks when it comes to politics. He smiled. Made that bold prediction that his one job was to make Obama a one-term President. Didn’t work out, huh! But Ol’ Mitch is pushing through every conservative judge he can come up with, or whichever the ones the Federalist Society suggests.

You know, we could amass enough wealth to make the Ministry of Finance of the Russian Federation look like a piggy bank. Orlov was beaming. I’ve got a lot of money now and I understand you are well off, too.

Lofton frowned. Maybe not as much as I blow off about. Substantial but I’m not money bags. That’s why we need to get all this to work. I want all that money. He laughed out loud. I have a high maintenance wife.

Betty Lee is that and more. Before they were married, he asked her whether she wanted a trip to Paris or a $25,000 diamond. Without hesitation, she chose the diamond. She is tall, slim and good looking without showing the age. She was homecoming queen at TCU during the game with SMU and Lofton made a move on her in the second half. He pushed for an up-and-out pass during the play-calling, a route that would put him in front of the queen and her court. He tumbled right to her seat, rose, winked and said he would pick her up at 7. He turned and went back to the huddle. He arrived at the Tri-Delt House at precisely 7 and there she was, all agog at this guy who made such a move on her. They were both seniors and after graduation, they dated for six months before getting married.

He quickly added to his inherited oil well and was making lots of money in the oil fields soon after college; Betty Lee loved spending as much as he could grab. The wedding was a huge social affair in Houston – the football star now in the oil business and the beautiful daughter of old money parents in Fort Worth.

As life moved on, she became the social belle of Texas, making Perle Mesta look like a hostess at a DAR convention. They had a boy and a girl, both growing up in a proud manner. The daughter married Barry Cantor. Billy Jack ventured into other investments besides oil and continued to make the big bucks.

Tex’s business ventures thrived; he found that money and standing in the business world put women into play. The temptations were too great, and he satisfied a new-found voracious appetite. Did Betty Lee know about Tex’s roving eye? She never let on. Lofton loved being around beautiful women, but when he was home, he devoted his time to Betty Lee. Now, in his later stages of life, the womanizing opportunities disappeared, and his appetite subsided naturally.

Back at the meeting, he started to ask Orlov about his love life, but decided to lay off, knowing all the details of his messy divorce three years ago. Reports filled the air that he had a girlfriend, a ballerina, Polina Lacasheva. She reportedly was pregnant. No, Tex wouldn’t bring this up now.

Orlov looked down at the clean plate and said the plan to control the world must be thorough, yet flexible. He pointed to Lofton and emphasized that wealth was important, but that power in the world would provide them with added pleasure. Playing by yourself, you must have given all this a lot of thought. He didn’t wait for an answer, but continued, During the swim and the workout, I was able to give this more intense attention.

Yeah, certainly, I could run things through my mind while driving the cart to the next shot. Afterwards, I checked with Barry and Austin and they provided input.

Orlov, stretching his arms with the palms pressed firmly on the tabletop, started throwing out ideas. The words came in a staccato tempo, so much so that Lofton held up his hand and offered in a soft voice: Whoa. Let’s slow down. Let me absorb what you’re saying.

Orlov’s eyes grew wide and he nodded slowly. But let me get this one thing out now. I have two wonderful agents, both women, who are well-versed in intelligence gathering and I want them to tour America, get a feel for the mood of the country. They can then return home and provide us with ideas on what tack to take in disinformation. How does that sound?

Lofton said fine, then offered, I have been very, very successful in, well, for lack of a better way to explain it, I’ve been very successful in conning the communication outlets, from texts to emails to print and electronic media. We need to control social media, get across disinformation, distractions. We have considerable disenchantment in the country, and many are susceptible to ideas that can free them from their bonds.

Orlov took notice and added, You can create a strong base of those who feel disenfranchised.

Nodding fervently, Lofton continued, We can tap into negative feelings, like immigration.

Indeed. You have those in the press who believe strongly in gotcha journalism – and they continually dig for the hot scoop. He smiled sardonically. See, I know all this jargon. He smiled proudly. We can take advantage of their eagerness. I have more than 100 agents and hackers who can provide information to steer American voters. We can sabotage an election.

Lofton had wondered often why Orlov was so intent in getting involved in the election. After many discussions with him and his cohorts, the reason became simple to determine: Orlov seethes at the American successes against Russia and he ardently wants to retaliate. Lofton was upset that he allowed himself to become a pawn of the effort with the presence of the vilifying photos. Why should he be so concerned with them? After all, he knew many stories abounded involving his numerous liaisons, his philandering. What was one more story? Well, this one involved Russia and the reverberations would produce too many problems to overcome. Plus, they are very, very provocative. He let out air, then shoved the negatives aside when he considered all the money and power they could develop.

They continued to discuss the impending campaign in more superficial ways but agreed they would have the specifics ironed out before they met again. Both believed the face-to-face meetings should be held at a minimum and that they should communicate by other means; messages carried by aides and telephone calls would be better.

They continued to discuss policy, usually involving how the two countries were at odds on how to work toward a productive alliance. They talked so long the sentences became repetitive. Orlov finally said, We need to absorb all this and fine-tune what we have. He pushed away from the table and said, I’m happy. We did well. He motioned to his two associates, said good-bye and left.

Lofton waved at Cantor and Samuels to come sit at the table. Samuels was excited, as if he had been inducted into the White Nationalist Hall of Fame. Lofton asked him what he thought of the meeting and he responded that he hadn’t heard everything but that merely being present provided him with a terrific buzz. He was really impressed with Orlov’s presence, noting that he reminded him of G. Gordon Liddy.

You aren’t old enough to recall him, Lofton said with incredulity.

But I can read.

Cantor looked puzzled, adding that he had never heard the name. Samuels frowned at him while Lofton shook his head knowingly. Cantor was interested in making money and developing power, not recalling history – he made good grades at SMU in economics. He married Lofton’s daughter, Mary Ann, because of her closeness to money – and she was an easy lay. Mary Ann was gorgeous and promiscuous at SMU. The joke was that if she had as many sticking out of her as were stuck in her, she would look like a porcupine. But to her credit, she devoted herself to Barry, culture and charity work.

Samuels wanted to discuss Liddy, an FBI agent before becoming an aide to Nixon. He spearheaded the bungled burglary of the Democratic National Committee headquarters at the Watergate Hotel in 1972. He was born fragile and fearful. As written in his autobiography, Will, in 1980, he had respiratory issues as a child, and devoted himself to overcoming his softer human instincts.

I read that, Samuels chimed in. You may find this coincidental and maybe over the top, but I carry his autobiography around in my briefcase. He reached in and pulled it out.

Lofton sat back in his chair, not surprised that Samuels would covet such a book. Maybe a review of Liddy would help him better understand the anomalous nature exhibited by Orlov. However, President Richard Nixon called Liddy a little nuts and Orlov certainly was not that.

Samuels was impressed that Liddy was the top ratfucker. This was a term for someone who carried out Nixon’s dirty political tricks. Lofton smiled at the word, thinking that it would take on more meaning down the campaign road. He had ideas on just how that would work.

Samuels adored the quirky stories of this eerie, unearthly figure. He placed the book on the table in front of him and asked if it would be okay to read an excerpt. Lofton waved his hand in approval. Samuels began rubbing his hands together in excitement, then he explained how Liddy had overcome his fears by facing them head on, adding that the Nixon loyalist wrote that to conquer his fear of rats, he would pick up one that his cat had caught, take it outside to a fire he had built. Samuels began reading: For the next hour, I skinned, then cut off and ate the roasted haunches of the rat. The meat was tasteless and stringy. I smiled as the thought occurred to me: from now on, rats could fear me as they feared cats; after all, I ate them, too.

Cantor gagged. Lofton winced. Samuels grinned.

But this is the incident that says it all about Liddy and what we must consider when we move into the heart of the campaign.

The candle trick! Samuels said the words gleefully. You could overcome pain and no longer fear it. Samuels began reading again what Liddy wrote: I had begun using lighted cigarettes, then matches and candles, progressively increasing the time I exposed my body to pain as I built up my will, much as one might build muscles by lifting increasingly heavy weights. Then I made a mistake. I burned the underside of the second joint of my left index finger so badly it required surgical attention Samuels paused for effect. Since my will was so strong, I could endure a long, deep, flesh-charring burn without a flicker of expression. I wasn’t concerned. Lofton just shook his head at the observation. Samuels finished reading: I was ready for anything.

Samuels said he liked what Liddy told a reporter later: Resisting the pain of the game helped him build the psychological strength to resist all three branches of the federal government during the Watergate investigation.

We will need this kind of dedication and will during the campaign, Samuels exclaimed.

Lofton struck a pose of determination, thinking that he would have to instill the fortitude in every one of his organizations. He wanted loyalty, he wanted that lack of fear, that adversity to suffering. He wanted elation. He wanted everyone to head into the campaign as if they were soldiers. Samuels may be a bit squirrely, Lofton said to himself, but he is loyal and ready to fight all enemies.

Samuels looked at Cantor and pursed his lips. What’s the matter? Liddy a bit much for you?

Nixon had it wrong. The man isn’t a little nuts; he is flat out nuts. Cantor then looked at his father-in-law. No candle tricks. That’s out.

That brought a smile to Lofton.

He began thinking about the trip back home. The Mustangs were scheduled to play East Carolina. He remained a fan, but the team sucked, already losing three of the first four games. Betty Lee chided him all weekend when TCU whipped them 56-37. He was a big donor to the SMU Mustang Club and was still livid how the NCAA socked the Mustangs with the death penalty. The date would live on in his mind as a day of infamy, February 25, 1987. David Berst, the NCAA Director of Enforcement, fainted moments after handing down the sentence – in full view of the assembled media. When Lofton told the story, he added that it was too bad he wasn’t dead. Many of the listeners didn’t know if he was kidding.

The payments from a slush fund went to the players, pay for play. Lofton told everyone he never received a penny, but he knew several of his teammates did. Lofton was upset that Ron Meyer quit after the 1981 season when they won the Southwest Conference and were 10-1 overall. His successor, Bobby Collins, never skipped a beat the next season, going 11-0-1 and winning the Cotton Bowl in Lofton’s senior season. What a party that season was.

Lofton told himself that he would set up a similar slush fund in running the campaign. Instead of paying the staff from that pile, he would dip into it for his everyday use and, of course, pay for the rudiments of a presidential campaign. He could add to his wealth with money coming from the Republican National Committee and other donations. He would run a lean and mean machine, figuring out ways he could receive free media attention. He had given that part considerable input.

He received lots of advice on what to do with his holdings, what to do about revealing his income tax returns. Nothing. Yeah, that was his answer. He would bully his way through without putting his various business holdings in a blind trust. He would tell everyone he had turned the holdings over to his family and it was against the law for an outsider to reveal his income tax returns. He was prepared, indeed. And he would fight to the very end to keep them secret.

Lofton heard the door open and the resort’s general manager entered the room. Lofton just waved as the general manager went to his office.

Well, me laddies, as the Scots would say, I think it’s time to break this up, relax a little and get a good night’s sleep. We’ll be leaving in the morning. The jet is scheduled to leave at 8 a.m. Be ready. The other two nodded and left.

Lofton continued to sit in the room, alone with his thoughts. His mind careened to an image of Barack Obama. He wanted to outdo him so bad. He was still livid with what Obama had said often about the oil business. Yes, he reflected, many may consider Obama a moderate and pro-business President, but he knew better: No matter the arguments, Obama is an out-and-out progressive who hates those with wealth.

What really pissed Lofton off about Obama was how he attacked Republican presidential campaign rival John McCain as a tool of big oil companies. Lofton was a big donor to the McCain campaign, for one thing, and, for another, McCain was obviously a pro-business candidate.

But Obama, seeking to tap into anger over soaring gasoline prices at the time, ran an ad that opened with a driver pumping gas and referring to huge profits made by oil companies in the past year – with the addition of how big oil was filling McCain’s coffers with $2 million in contributions. Lofton didn’t consider himself big oil, but he certainly made his fortune in the oil business. Then the ad showed McCain next to George W. Bush with the admonition that Americans couldn’t afford another president in the pocket of big oil. The ad also touted Obama’s plan to offer American families $1,000 tax breaks to help offset higher energy costs; he would also push for a tax on windfall oil company profits. That last item really riled Lofton.

What was lost, Lofton recalled in measured tones, was that the Republican campaign staff said the ad was misleading and failed to mention that McCain voted against a 2005 bill that provided billions in tax breaks for energy producers, including oil companies aimed at offering incentives for domestic energy production.

Lofton sat in his chair and fumed. Oh, he was going to get even, oh, indeed.

That will come another day. For now, he needed to get some sleep to be ready for the long trip home.

The morning came quickly, and the sun greeted the three as they walked out the front door of the resort. The scene was breath-taking: the coast, the landscape, the verdant golf course, the bushy knolls. The bile Lofton had built up thinking about Obama dissipated as they climbed into the limo for the trip to the airport.

The Aberdeen International Airport actually is in Dyce, a suburb about six miles from Aberdeen. The airport is a base for Eastern Airways and Loganair. Lofton had been to Aberdeen often, checking out his offshore investments – and the construction of the golf resort. The airport serves as the main heliport for the country’s offshore oil industry. One main passenger terminal handles all scheduled and charter flights. However, a small terminal adjacent to the main passenger terminal is used for oil company charter flights.

Growing tired of chartering flights, Lofton worked out a deal with drilling and exploration companies to buy a Learjet 85 for $21 million. He figured that in the long run, he would save money compared to chartering all the time. He figured that with the other companies, they would fly the requisite hours to make the deal worthwhile.

The three all seemed to be in good spirits as they climbed into the jet. They had plenty of room to sprawl and relax. Lofton looked over at Samuels and marveled at his energy and his devotion. Then he grinned, looking over at the briefcase – with the Liddy book inside. Lofton muttered, You can take his loyalty to the bank.

Lift-off was smooth, but Lofton’s mind was grinding. The meeting with Orlov put him into a pensive mood. He would have much to do when he arrived back home.

CHAPTER 2

B ROCK MULLINIX SAT in his favorite recliner in the den, engaging in one of the routines he loved best: Solving world problems with Terry Sommerville, Santa Rosa’s long-time mayor, and Phil Brezniak, the grizzled reporter for the Times-Democrat . Mullinix, a three-term Democrat in the U.S. House of Representatives, was lamenting how difficult it was to get anything passed in Congress with the Republicans controlling the legislative agenda in their despise of Barack Obama as President.

Rumors floated that John Boehner was going to step down as Speaker of the House and Paul Ryan would take over.

Obama just hasn’t been the President I thought he would be, allowing the Republicans to make such a strong display of power, Sommerville, a Republican, offered after taking a sip of coffee.

What do you expect with the opposition he has in Congress, Mullinix fired back.

Brezniak had covered politics for more than 25 years and he had watched the pendulum swings of the two parties. But he was worried with the country’s recent direction – too much divisiveness and too much control by the affluent. I agree that Obama has grating opposition but, in some ways, he reminds me of Jimmy Carter, trying to be all things to all people. I think he’s a bit concerned that he will be seen as a black President and not one for all the people. I really believe that everyone thought he would come in and be an all-out liberal, but he’s far from that. Oh, he’s a progressive, no doubt, but he always strives for consensus instead of flat-out helping those who need help the most.

Sommerville agreed, to a point, but opined that bringing Blue America and Red America together was a worthy endeavor.

Of course, it is, Mullinix interjected. But I think Phil has a relevant point. Yes, he pushed hard on the Affordable Care Act, winning against all odds, but look at other issues where he bowed to Republican projects, simply to get something done, something done that really wasn’t in the best interests of the country.

I’m surprised you are so hard on him, Brezniak said with a puzzled look.

Hell, I’m not hard on him. I just think he could have done more things, better things. He wanted to straighten out his critique of Obama. Look, we were on a precipice when he took the reins from Dubya; the economy was ready to tank. So, in that part only, he was a very valuable man in the presidency. I hate to think where we would have plummeted if he hadn’t done the right things monetarily. That alone produces high marks for his administration. He stopped, then said, He’s a good President, one I admire. He has done a lot for the country. I’m just making my points.

Sommerville moved forward in his chair and offered that Obama once said that the average American didn’t think he had to tear down the system and remake it.

Nodding, Phil recalled a quote by former House Speaker Newt Gingrich where he praised Obama’s second inaugural address – what amounted to a conservative document, underscoring equality of opportunity as opposed to equality of outcome. I don’t recall the exact quote, but it was something along the lines of: Almost a hundred percent of the speech he thought was classically American, emphasizing self-reliance, emphasizing doing things together.

Chuckling, Mullinix was bemused by a thought that crossed his mind: He would hate to be a candidate that would have to compete against Obama’s wife, Michelle; she would be a formidable adversary in a political campaign.

Brezniak pointed his finger at Mullinix and wagged it, saying, You should be running for President. You, indeed. Mullinix quietly shook his head. I mean it. You’ve paid your political dues; you’ve climbed the ladder from city councilman to state senator to congressman; you’ve received accolades at every step.

Mullinix conceded he had given the run a long look, but he couldn’t make himself go against Schaeffer.

You’re too nice a guy to step aside and give Schaeffer a free run, Sommerville said with firmness. Look at what you have achieved. You were president of the Stanford student body; you have three wonderful children, a beloved wife and an excellent political record.

Gerry works in the Department of Energy in D.C., Susan is a microbiologist in Hawaii and Timothy is getting his doctorate’s degree in computer science at California-Berkley. No politics for them, Mullinix said.

His wife, Peggy, came to Stanford from Columbia, Missouri., on a basketball scholarship. She always told the story that her high school, Columbia Hickman, was called the Kewpies. Really, she would add, laughing.

They didn’t meet during their college days at Stanford. Mullinix became an attorney and she was a high school coach in San Jose. However, they did run into each other – literally — at a Stanford post-game football party. He turned quickly after getting a Scotch and water at the no-host bar and bumped smack-dab into Peggy, spilling half the drink on her dress. He apologized profusely and in a slick move said he would take her to dinner to make up for his social faux pas. They hit it off immediately and were soon married. They made their home in Santa Rosa and she became an assistant coach at the high school. But as soon as her husband moved into national politics, she quit her job and became a dedicated worker to the cause of making the world a better place.

She so admired her husband — he’s handsome, intelligent and caring. When they were married, he looked so sharp in his tuxedo, his black curly hair topping a cherubic face. His hair is now displayed in a salt and pepper style, the gray providing a distinguished look, she would praise. A perfect size 40 when they were married, he now has a bit of a paunch – oh, not enough to be called a beer gut, no way, just enough to reveal he’s no longer a young whippersnapper. She used whippersnapper a lot, picking it up from her father, who had grown up on a farm between Columbia and Jefferson City.

Brock’s father died in his first term and his mother in the second. His father had worked his way up the post office ladder to become the postmaster of Santa Rosa. His mother taught history at the high school. They were hard-working middle-class parents who doted on their son, their only child. As he grew older, Brock bragged to any and all that he had supportive parents and a wonderful environment that established a good foundation for his entry into adulthood.

In his political speeches, he often referred to that upbringing in a solid home.

Santa Rosa, Sonoma County, is a great place to grown up in, nice weather, beautiful and close to the Pacific Ocean. He crows about that, too. Just to the east is Napa Valley, famous for its wineries. Mullinix always points out, though, that Sonoma also produces excellent wines. He tells everyone that the Charles M. Schulz Museum and Research Center is dedicated to the famed Peanuts cartoonist. Known as Sparky in the area, Schulz worked in Santa Rosa from 1969 until his death in 2000, claiming Sonoma County as inspiration to fuel his international comic strip. The airport is named simply Charles M. Then there’s the Luther Burbank Center for the Arts where big-name musicians perform.

I love Santa Rosa dearly, Mullinix enthused.

Yeah, so do I, but I can recall the days when we didn’t have so darn much traffic, Sommerville groused.

Mullinix’s thoughts returned to the campaign for President. He was satisfied as a Representative, explaining that this was Schaeffer’s time. He had made his decision after looking at all the angles, being a thorough and contemplative man.

Look, Brezniak cut in, Schaeffer is a self-acclaimed Socialist and the mere mention of that label and he has lost the race.

Mullinix argued that Schaeffer called himself a Social Democrat, unlike what Conservatives throw around for the term, socialist.

That comment threw the discussion into a tumultuous airing of what socialism would mean in the country. Brezniak continued to stand by his long-time sentiment that the Republicans would pounce on the socialist tag and beat Schaeffer in a landslide, like Lyndon B. Johnson did to Barry Goldwater in 1964, hammering him as a dangerous right-winger Goldwater was painted as a dangerous figure by the Johnson campaign, which countered Goldwater’s slogan In your heart, you know he’s right with the lines In your guts, you know he’s nuts, and In your heart, you know he might, needlessly pushing the nuclear button.

First, let’s define socialism, Sommerville said.

Muilinix clapped his hands, got up and went to the library shelf where he pulled out one of his old history books from college. Socialism is defined as a political and economic theory of social organization that advocates that the means of production, distribution and exchange should be owned or regulated by the community as a whole.

Well, then, what is a Social Democrat? Sommerville asked. Sounds like the same to me.

Mullunix turned a page of the history book. The person is a supporter or advocate of a socialist system of government achieved by democratic means.

Still sounds the same to me.

Mullinix sighed. He ran his finger down a page. Well, this is kind of a strong look at the difference but let me read it to you. ‘A Social Democrat wants to keep our market-based capitalist economic system but wants to have a lot of federal government social programs such as Social Security and Medicare to help the people. A Socialist wants to abolish capitalism and have a socialist economy. What is so hard to understand about this? They are not the same thing.’

Sommerville just shook his head, saying, That is a nuance that does not compute in present-day politics.

Agreeing, Brezniak conjectured, "Yeah, and conservatives connect socialism with Marxism and denigrate any and