545 Resetting America Book One

By Augustine Sherman

Overwhelmed by the far-left and far-right of the democrats’ and republicans’ far-reaching extremism, majority of American voters finally purchase into the philosophical politics of a new breed of independent. His name, Jeffery Robert Commonwealth. He will take the country by storm, dramatically altering its economic, political, social and racial dispensation. After twelve years of this benevolent leadership, most Americans are convinced he is their savior, and now cry out for his eternal reign.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781716147425

Book preview

545

Resetting America

Book One

Augustine Sherman

This book is a work of fiction. Any person or persons living or dead closely or seemingly resembling its character or characters are purely coincidental. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication of this work is a violation of applicable laws in the United States of America, and under the international copyright law. Written permission of this literature work for reproduction, excerpts or brief quotations must be secured from the author or publisher.

©

Copyright©2021 Augustine Sherman

ISBN 978-1-716-14742-5

For any information on the book or the author, please contact the following address:

Augustine Sherman

H/NO. C21/18 Abelemkpe

Tevbibian Rd. Accra-Ghana

Tel: [phone] or 233-242272888

Email: [e-mail]

Printed in the United States of America

DEDICATION

This book was inspired by Charley Reese’s final article for the Orlando Sentinel. May his soul rest in perfect peace.

My deep appreciation goes to Miss Felicia Nimley, whose undying devotion and love have been the driving force and support behind every book I have ever written. Without her, none of this would have been possible.

THIS ISN’T OPEN TO ARGUMENT. CONSIDER THE LAST HUNDRED YEARS AND YOU WILL SEE WHY RESETTING AMERICA IS A NECESSITY

TABLE OF CONTENT

Introduction                                Providence College

Chapter One                                        Unlikely Bond

Chapter Two                                                Surprise

Chapter Three                                    The Revealing

Chapter Four                                  The Commitment

Chapter Five                                        Submergence

Chapter Six                                              The Debate

Chapter Seven                                    The Gathering

Chapter Eight                        General Pak Thae-song

Chapter Nine                                  Atlantic City, NJ

Chapter Ten                                          The Kalahari

Chapter Eleven                            Operation Genesis

Chapter Twelve                        A City under the Sea

Chapter Thirteen                                          The Rise

Chapter Fourteen                                      Suspicions

Chapter Fifteen                                            It Begins

Chapter Sixteen                          The Plot that Failed

Chapter Seventeen                                    Preambles

Chapter Eighteen                              The Opposition

Chapter Nineteen                          A Cloudy Season

Chapter Twenty                              Warning Signs

Chapter Twenty-One                        Randolph Black

Chapter Twenty-Two                            Carrie Levitt

Chapter Twenty-Three                A Hint to the Wise

Chapter Twenty-Four                        Clare Sebastian

Chapter Twenty-Five                  Ezekiel and Adeera

Chapter Twenty-Six                        The Third Term

Chapter Twenty-Seven                              The Probe

Chapter Twenty-Eight                    Wrath of a Child

Chapter Twenty-Nine                      The Amendment

Chapter Thirty                                Signs of Change

Chapter Thirty-One                                            2037

Chapter Thirty-Two                                The Choice                   

Chapter Thirty-Three                  The Crop of Death

INTRODUCTION

Providence College - January, 1998

Leaning against the stand relaxed, Magnum Rockefeller sighed, I don’t know. Maybe some of you will decide to enter politics in the future and endeavor to become, he gestured with both index fingers, ‘great politicians’. That is if your negligible description of great politicians, which I find laughable―"

Why is that Professor? inquired a sandy haired young man. You don’t believe there are great politicians?

No. Not in the frame of the last seventy-eight years where the strategic orchestration to dismantle this country’s debt-less economy has turned it into a deficit-ridden liability for our young people and the generations to come.

Wow! pondered Christopher Stokes at the turn his question had taken.

Directing his attention at the young man, Rockefeller asked, Tell me, who do you know in this entire world that consistently and deliberately creates problems and then turns around to complain about them? Before the student could answer he added, Five hundred and forty-five brazen crooks spend every waking moment convincing you that what they do isn’t their fault. And this disgraceful behavior is a code of honor rooted in both the republican and democratic parties, which they religiously practice―

Just politicians? inquired another student sitting in the front row closest to the rugged-looking older man. He was Jeff Commonwealth.

Used cars salesmen and religious leaders, replied Rockefeller. When five hundred and forty-five people contemplatively and intentionally create laws to endlessly inhibit and control more than three hundred million Americans, while repeatedly taking no responsibility for their actions, there is nothing honorable or great about them.

Isn’t that a broad judgment of politicians? Christopher interjected again.

Agreed, a third student assented. When you really look at it, all politicians are definitely not the same. In this country and around the world, I believe there are good men and women in politics, which has always been the case throughout history.

The professor smiled. Because I’d like to maintain an arrowhead focus on the last hundred years in this country and our present dispensation, let’s keep in mind our politicians and their political decisions regarding power and industry that have economically brought us to where we are today.

By economics, Christopher Stokes joined. You mean the increasing gap between rich and poor, working class and powerful industrialists?

Precisely.

And you believe you have the answer to it; I mean, this vast disparity? This came from the mild-mannered Jeff Commonwealth.

Certainly no one man has all the answers to this country’s social, economic and racial problems. But on the economy, if we go back a hundred years, the United States had the largest middle class in the world and no national debt whatsoever―

Of course, it isn’t mind boggling politicians are responsible for the current runaway deficit, the increasing gap between rich and poor, the working class and big industries. But to suggest there hasn’t been any great politician within the last century is rather… he hesitated."

Go ahead, Mr. Commonwealth. You may as well speak your mind. This is what being here is all about.

Singular minded?

Rockefeller raised a brow. And?

Historians and political scientists believed Franklin D. Roosevelt, Harry S. Truman, Dwight D. Eisenhower and John F. Kennedy were some of the highest rated presidents, Commonwealth insisted. In my opinion, they were great politicians.

Erecting himself the professor said, Which of you agrees with Mr. Commonwealth’s assertion that historians and political scientists’ assessments of politicians’ achievements are determining factors to their greatness? In the context of this argument, keep in mind these achievements must go to the uplifting and improvement of people’s lives over the last hundred years.

Christopher Stokes and a few others raised their hands.

Mr. Stokes. Help us better understand Mr. Commonwealth’s argument that the four mentioned past presidents are considered great because of their contributions to restoring the largest middle-class in the world and a deficit-free society. Don’t forget the economic context in which this discussion is coined―

Like the widening gap between the rich and poor, the working class and big industries? Stokes inquired.

Right.

Getting to his feet the young man smiled and said, If we are going to narrow this discussion to economics alone to define great politicians and omit their other achievements, you can understand why Jeff accused you of being single-minded. During the first half of this century, Franklin D. Roosevelt, who won a record four presidential elections was also actively effective in many worldly events. He kept his stare locked on the professor. I mean; it was this politician that led the federal government during most of the Great Depression. And mind you, which was synonymous with economic failure―

It appears, the professor cut in. Some of you are still hung-up on character achievements and not policy initiatives brought on by the very characters responsible for altering the status quo of zero debt to what it is today―a runaway deficit and well-engineered plan to endlessly tax the working class to the grave and beyond.

CHAPTER ONE

Unlikely Bond - August, 1963

The genesis of a friendship that would span five decades and develop into an unshakable bond, built on mutual trusts and ambitions was guided by the belief patience and time are two accelerators to achieving one’s dream.

Magnum Coldwater and Nangolo Shivute met in nineteen sixty-three at Harvard in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Both in pursuit of a political science degree, the two soon developed a relationship through their common interests in the Civil Rights Movement. Although a foreign student from then South West Africa, benefiting from his father’s successes and business ties to British settlers in Johannesburg, Nangolo, nevertheless felt compelled to join the civil rights march. Tall, Jet black and statuesque, Nangolo cut a startling picture wherever he went. His bright eyes and brilliant white teeth were stunning contrasts against his ebony skin, adding to the lure of his appeal.

On the chartered bus to Washington DC that Monday morning, an excited Caucasian American turned to the black student seated next to him. Magnum Coldwater, he offered extending his hand.

Nangolo, replied the African reaching out to the white man, lending him a pleasant smile.

Your accent tells me you’re from Africa. Am I right?

Nangolo nodded. South West Africa―

That’s where you guys are demanding your independence too, right?

Yes.

From apartheid South Africa, who’s been on a crusade to also annex you guys?

Nangolo chuckled. I see you are committed not only to your domestic cause, but universally as well.

Coldwater shrugged. It’s the humane thing to do, my friend. It eats at me whenever I see one group of people brutally raining down injustice on the disadvantaged―

Which explains why you’re on this bus for the great march on Wednesday?

Damn right. We’ll be making history in two days, my friend. We’ll force those useless politicians to see how serious we are about black equality in this country―

And passionate too, Nangolo observed.

Aren’t you?

Of course I am. But to see a white guy this committed, gives me hope that not all white people are lost to this perpetual evil some men continue to unleash on others.

Coldwater raised a brow. Hmm, philosophical too. He chuckled. You know, what most people seem to forget is a lot of white people fought and died to end slavery. At six-five, Coldwater’s long russet hair lay free and unbound behind him. He had a hard rugged quality about him and a low gravely baritone underpinned by faint traces of surprising benevolence.

The bus merged into Route Three.

When the African didn’t reply to his remark, Coldwater asked, Will you be sharing the same motel with the rest of us?

If it accepts blacks―

Hell yeah! Our organizers made sure cash for this trip went to the right kind of people. We’re not in the business of patronizing white racists you know.

Nangolo smiled and said nothing.

Maybe we could share a room and save a few bucks if you don’t mind.

Not quite sure what to make of his engaging seatmate, the African stared silently at Coldwater.

What? You’re too good to share with me?

That’s not it, Nangolo replied. It is just I never had a white person ask to sleep with me in the same space before―

Oh well, there’s a first time for everything. So what you say?

Okay―

There you go. Coldwater tapped him on the shoulder, turning his attention out the window. Northbound route was going through some sort of road construction and he wondered if they’d be all done on their return in three days.

So, what are you studying? Nangolo finally asked.

Completed my bachelor of Arts degree in political science. Now I’m working on my doctorate in history. And you?

Political science. He shrugged. Maybe International Relations after―I don’t know.

Planning on going back and raging hell are you?

I am interested in fighting for my people’s freedom―

Same thing I’m trying to do here. Maybe now we have something in common, you and I can team up to confront the status quo in our respective countries.

Sounds exciting from up here on cloud nine. I’m sure once we get back to earth, reality will be waiting to tell us where we’re really going.

Coldwater chuckled, saying, The more you talk, Nangolo, the more I like you. Tell you what. If you ever need a real friend, you can always count on me.

I’ll hold you to that.

You better. And remember this. We are the masters of our destinies. They were going through the township of Fox Borough.

Augustine Sherman

Coldwater and Nangolo weren’t prepared for what August twenty-eight, nineteen sixty-three had in store for them. The sheer multitude around the Washington Monument, extending as far as the eye could see left both young men feeling out of their league. Leaving their motel with few of the guys that had travelled down with them, there were a number of incidences that left Coldwater worried about his African friend. They saw cops brutally going after minorities for no apparent reason.

Maybe we should sit this one out, he said.

Why? We’ve come this far, why chicken out now?

Coldwater wasn’t concerned about his own safety. However, he couldn’t tell Nangolo it was his security that he most worried about. While the size of this particular march was astronomical, protests weren’t new to him. As a member of the antiwar movements, he’d been in several peace marches and protests over the years. He’d even participated in the University of Chicago protest a year earlier after its president signed a segregation housing policy, separating Caucasian students from Negros. Now finding himself faced with this number of people gathered in one place, the news nineteen thousand troops were on standby in surrounding suburbs and an extra twelve thousand among them, he repeated his advice to Nangolo.

We should go back. It was noisy and he had to raise his voice.

Not yet. Nangolo seemed oblivious to the possibility he was as vulnerable as the nearest black man walking next to him.

Arriving in DC late Monday and checking in the Honey Bee on Sixteen Street with fourteen other protesters from Harvard, the two signed up for a single and shared the same bed. After a bite and briefly exploring the neighborhood, they settled in for the night, getting to know each other and discussing how Nangolo ended up at Harvard.

I received my earlier schooling through the Bantu Educational System, he explained."

What system is that? inquired Coldwater curiously.

A scheme establish by the whites in South Africans to ensure segregation, where blacks are deprived of the proper facilities necessary to obtain a sound foundational education.

Wow!

Even the universities are made tribal. Most mission schools are closed, because the government refuses to support them.

And I thought we had it bad over here, the restless Coldwater noted.

But I was one of the lucky ones, Nangolo reminded him. I ended up in Augustineum for my secondary studies―

Augustineum? probed Coldwater.

A secondary school established in 1866, one of the oldest in my country. Three years ago I was expelled for taking part in a march protesting against the poor quality of education. And because I was ahead for my age, with the help from some of my father’s white friends, I ended up at Harvard.

Chuckling, Coldwater said, It seems you and your father have a thing for attracting white people. He chortled again. Look how I suddenly took to you the first time we met this morning. And I already think you’re a great guy.

Nangolo threw him a quick glance. You do?

Hell yeah.

I’m sleepy. We’ll talk again tomorrow. Good night. And just like that Nangolo turned his back and went quiet.

Good night, replied Coldwater taking in the abrupt behavior change of his new found friend.

Augustine Sherman

The blunt object across his temple brought Nangolo tumbling to the sidewalk. He was out cold. The cop that landed the blow stepped over him in pursuit of the roughnecks who’d thrown stones at him and his squad. Attempting to shield his friend from the advancing crowd and officers, Coldwater firmly balanced his legs over Nangolo’s unconscious frame. The rushing sole of someone’s booth crushed the African’s face to the concrete and Coldwater immediately dove down and lifted his unconscious friend to his shoulder. Assisted by his well-built six-five trunk, he hustled Nangolo to the nearest storefront. He figured getting an ambulance through the enormous herd would be difficult if not impossible. Scratching the idea of calling 911, he again raised Nangolo to his shoulder, carrying him against the advancing mob. The closest hospital was his best bet and so he edged against the wave, towing Nangolo all the way to Columbia Heights. Covering a dozen blocks, he arrived at Children’s National, placing the unconscious man at the door to the emergency room.

By the time Nangolo came to, his vital signs stabilized, it became clear to the doctors that he was suffering from temporary amnesia. On informing Coldwater, he called his mother right away and asked if he could bring home his African friend. The woman reluctantly agreed after understanding the young man was a foreign student that recently returned from Africa to resume his fall classes.

Seven days later, Coldwater had just left for the motel to freshen up and change into something clean when Nangolo began to regain his memory. It was the nurses that informed the patient what had led to his hospitalization and transpired since. Now anxious to see Coldwater, the last thing he recalled was the loud roar and a painful thud before blacking out.

I heard the good news! called Coldwater standing in the door. Please tell me you remember my name―

Magnum Coldwater―

Thank God! breathed Coldwater. Edging in the room, he stood over his friend. You scared the hell out of me, you know.

Thanks again, Nangolo offered, smiling at him with a painful expression.

Head still hurts, huh?

Excruciatingly.

You take it easy and don’t worry. I called administration and we’re covered for the last four days we’ve missed.

I can’t thank you enough, Magnum.

That’s what friends are for. He dropped in a chair at the head of the bed.

I was told you carried me all the way from Sixteen Street to here.

Yep. Didn’t know I had it in me.

Nangolo stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. I don’t remember what really happened.

Remember the sudden loud chaos that rang behind us just before the stampede?

Yes?

The result of some idiots stoning the cops we passed seconds earlier. And you unfortunately, were one of those that got the worst of it. But try and recover so we can leave by the weekend. And we’ll be flying by the way―

I’ll have to pay you back―

Think nothing of it. Just try and get well, my friend.

Can’t believe I’ve been in here for seven days already.

At least you’re remembering again, you should thank God for that. By the way. I talked to my mother and she agreed you can stay with us until you’re fully recovered.

Nangolo stared at him confusingly.

Yeah I know. But it’s only until you’re fully healed.

CHAPTER TWO

Surprise - 2013

After tossing of the hats and the celebrations, a Bachelor of Science degree to his credit, the mild-manner, Jeff Commonwealth was commissioned into the army as an infantry second lieutenant. Training in officer basic course at Fort Benning, he acquired his badge in parachuting, followed by his first assignment as platoon leader. His extraordinary performance soon earned him a commission as an executive officer of E-company, second airborne battle group―hundred and eighty-seven airborne infantry regiment―hundred and first airborne division at Fort Campbell in Kentucky.

On September twenty-six, two thousand and one, Second Lieutenant, twenty-one-year-old Jeff Commonwealth was among an elite group of CIA operatives stealthily descending from a Mi-17 into the Panjshir Valley, north of Kabul. The team commander, Samantha Rochelle, tall, assertive, no nonsense and strong-willed, had earned her stripes captaining more than a half-dozen special ops. Less than attractive, her broad face, high cheekbones and flat plank-like forehead left much to be desired. Jet Lang, a