A Triple Thriller Fest (51 page)

“At least, sir. If an indefinite assignment is possible, I would appreciate that contained in his orders.”

“Is this by direction of the president?”

“It is, sir. Verbal orders of the president.”

Tomlinson rose and stepped to his door, speaking to the officer seated just beyond, then returned to the seating area. Pug had also risen when Tomlinson stood. “Consider it done, Colonel. I’ve just asked Captain Black to provide you with a copy of Castro’s service record. I think his recent academic achievements, if you’re unaware, will surprise you. When will you need Sergeant Major Castro?”

“If he’s still at 1
^st
Recon, Camp Pendleton, have him remain in place, General. I’ll contact him in the next seventy-two hours.”

“Anything else, Colonel?”

“No, sir. Thank you, Commandant, for seeing me so quickly this afternoon.”

“Call this office if you need something further. The captain knows how to reach me.”

“Yes, sir.

Chapter 35

Oval Office, The White House
Washington, D.C.
September, 2012

For three days Senator Malcolm Turner had tried to come to grips with his mortality, afraid to discuss the matter, even with his wife, or to seek a second medical opinion for fear of public disclosure. He drifted through each day, physically present at his committee meetings, but mentally absent for all but the most direct confrontation from one of his honorable senatorial associates.

President Eastman had been strangely silent. Even his staff had not presented any insurmountable problems. Other than the visit from Jean Wolff, who had presented Turner with visions of a place of honor in California history, both as originator of the secession movement and actuator of the removal of one of the largest impediments, it had been a politically uneventful three days. Wolff’s implied action—assassination of the president—had brought more people infamy than notability. Still, Turner contended with himself as he wrestled with the possibilities, there were those who had turned the course of history by the assassination of a national leader. It all depended on one’s retrospective point of view. Above all, from Turner’s perspective, being brought down in a hail of bullets from the Secret Service was better than enduring a disgraceful, slow death from some debilitating disease.

The call from Eastman’s chief of staff, asking if the senator would have a few moments to meet with the president prior to the joint congressional assemblage, surprised Turner. The meeting could indeed be about the president’s address, scheduled for that evening, but Turner, in leaving for the White House, held no such illusion. John Henry Franklin always knew what was happening, and John Henry Franklin had said the president was going to go public.

Turner entered the Oval Office and found President Eastman there alone. Eastman rose to greet his old friend and occasional political sparring partner.

“Good of you to come, Malcolm.”

“Mr. President, it was kind of you to ask. It’s a big evening for you. How’s tonight’s message coming together?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Eastman said. Taking a seat across from Turner, Eastman had a sympathetic look in his eyes, a calm tone in his voice, and a conciliatory demeanor, all of which confused Turner, who had expected retribution at the least.

“How long have we been climbing this hill together, Malcolm?”

“Ah, too long to count the years, Mr. President. And I a bit longer than you, I suspect.”

“You’re probably right,” Eastman allowed, smiling briefly. Then he adopted a serious, fatherly posture, and his voice took on a new tenor. “Malcolm, you’ve been ill-used in this mess.”

“Excuse me, Mr. President?”

“John Henry Franklin—that’s who I’m talking about. He’s manipulated everybody associated with him, and, as in the case of Rodrigo Cordoba, he’s discarded them when he no longer found them useful.”

Turner’s caution flag went up. So that was it. Eastman was going to play to his soft side—appeal to their long association and sidle up to him, trying to change his position and co-opt him onto the president’s team. Well, it was too late, Turner concluded, instantly aware of Eastman’s game.

“Well, that’s politics, isn’t it, Bill? We’ve dumped a few associates along the way in our time, haven’t we?”

“Not in the morgue, Malcolm. This man’s dangerous.”

“They’re all dangerous if you’re not careful. I believe in what we’ve been doing out west, Mr. President, and I’m sorry that it doesn’t agree with your view of things. But there you have it.”

Eastman stood and walked back to his desk, retrieving a folder from a stack of papers.

“I’ve got to expose this fraud, Malcolm,” Eastman said, waving the folder, “and from where I stand, you’re caught in the firing line. You were out front leading the troops, and while I now know you were unaware of the nature of the conspiracy, you allowed yourself to be used by evil intentions. You got bamboozled, Malcolm.”

“The secession of California isn’t evil, Bill. It’s the nature of evolution. It’s casting off the shackles of bondage and getting off the road to incremental federalism that this nation’s been on for over two hundred years. You know how intrusive Washington has become in our lives, right down to regulating the mom-and-pop grocery on the corner in Modesto.”

“I have no intention of being drawn into a philosophical debate on the merits of secession, Malcolm. Tonight I intend to sing my swan song. I intend to lay it out for the nation—to display our findings regarding rigged elections, congressman and senators who were vaulted into office through corporate conspiracy—most of whom, Malcolm, as in your case, didn’t even know they were part of the conspiracy. They actually thought they had been elected by popular support. That’s the shame of it. Many of these people are honest, upright citizens seeking a chance to serve their country, as you always have. But someone must stop this chicanery in its infancy. And the California secession, as important as it has become, is only the tip of the iceberg. I’m opposed to it, you know that, and I’ll do what I can to stop it, but …” Eastman again took on a softer, gentler tone, “… my old friend, you’ve been caught in the middle, and the press, heaven forbid—you know how they’ve roasted you over your stance. Once they find out it’s all been a sham and you’ve been duped …”

Turner stood, smoothed his hair back, and buttoned his jacket. Affecting a smile, he said, “Mr. President, this is an issue on which we each have to follow our conscience. I wish you well, sir, and may history provide the telling.”

President Eastman put his hand on Turner’s shoulder, smiling at him and shaking his hand gently. “Thank you, my old friend. I’m sorry you see it that way, but may God go with you.”

“With us both, Mr. President.”

* * *

“Mr. Speaker,” bellowed the Sergeant at Arms to the House of Representatives, “the President of the United States.”

The large, ornate double doors opened and the president and his entourage flowed in through the entryway. Seated in the upper gallery, Daniel Rumsey Rawlings leaned slightly forward, arms resting on the polished brass railing, watching intently as five hundred and sixty-eight senators and representatives, about a hundred various other cabinet officers, military leaders, foreign ambassadors, and invited guests all took to their feet in thunderous applause. Colonel Pug Connor sat immediately to Dan’s left. Dan thought again how the pomp and ceremony of government always had the power to give him chills.

President William Eastman, former Florida senator and the nation’s chief executive for nearly eight years, was in his full glory in such a setting. He moved gracefully down the aisle, accompanied by his ever-present security cadre. With two full terms as president behind him, Eastman still commanded considerable respect, and his popularity polls, currently at fifty-eight percent if taken east of Denver, were higher than any other president in history this late in his term of office. Given the recent events in California, however, his popularity had dropped precipitously in the West, ranging from thirty-nine percent in Utah to an abysmal seventeen percent in California.

He stopped at each row briefly to mingle with those fortunate enough to be close to the aisle, chatting briefly to this or that congressman, receiving the accolades and affectionate physical gestures that were so much a part of his public appearances. Rawlings watched with admiration, feeling out of place in this elite gathering, but pleased to be there at the president’s personal invitation.

The applause continued long after President Eastman reached the podium, where he shook hands with Vice President Prescott and Speaker Frank Redman before assuming his place on the stand. When the applause began to diminish, House Speaker Redman stood and pounded his gavel for attention. “The House will come to order!” he cried.

Sensing the moment, the audience responded to the announcement by renewing the chorus of applause, during which the Speaker stood silently, smiling for another several minutes. Finally, with repeated raps of the gavel, a semblance of order crept over the House.

“The House will be seated. Honored Senators, fellow Representatives, and welcome guests, it is my high privilege and a distinct honor to introduce to you the president of the United States, the honorable William Baldridge Eastman.”

Again the full house took to its feet, reviving the thundering applause, which continued unabated for the following three minutes, an ovation that gave Daniel Rawlings a prickly sensation down his spine. His hands were beginning to numb from the constant applause, which had lasted nearly fifteen minutes since Eastman’s entry.

Off to Rawlings’ right, the First Lady and her two sons, plus their wives, stood, the entire family smiling as the president accepted this acknowledgment of his accomplishments. During the annual State of the Union address nine months earlier, Eastman had announced the admission of Puerto Rico as the fifty-first state of the Union, and added two senators and one representative to the ranks of national legislators, who were biannually elected and sent to Washington to facilitate the acquisition of a “fair and just share” of the redistribution of wealth—a dubious accomplishment for which Washington D.C. had become known worldwide.

As the president stepped to the podium, Rawlings thought of Nicole and regretted her absence. She belonged here even more than he did. But for her actions, he wouldn’t be alive to be here at all.

Connor must have caught his wistful gaze because he leaned toward Rawlings and whispered, “I’m sure she’s watching on TV.”

“Probably, Colonel. I talked to her an hour ago, but the nurse in charge cut the call short.”

“It’d take more than a bullet to stop her, Dan. She’s tough,” Connor commented.

“How well I know,” Dan replied, a quick, bone-chilling vision of that dreadful night when he had come face-to-face with his mortality filling his mind.

William Eastman stood behind the lectern, surveying the room and the assembled legislators. He smiled briefly at his family and glanced upward toward Connor and Rawlings, momentarily catching Rawlings’ eye and nodding slightly.

“Americans all,” the president began. “Indeed, Americans
all.
For nearly four hundred years, Europeans, Asians, Africans, Hispanics, Polynesians, and many others from around the globe have migrated to this blessed land to join our Native American brothers and sisters in forming this nation, built from many ideals. Their work was inspired and, yes, occasionally flawed. Nevertheless these ideals have brought us a long way in the past four hundred years.
Americans all,”
he repeated boldly, and was again greeted with a standing ovation.

A skilled and inspired orator, President Eastman always had been able to find the right chord in his audience. He had the uncanny ability to touch the patriotism button and enlist support for his goals, a talent Dan Rawlings had recently observed firsthand. He motivated people as much by his fervor for the cause as by the relative importance of the event.

“I thought that perhaps tonight, given our current state of national disunity, I would dispense with the usual presidential political hyperbole, discard the pre-distributed speech—which, by the way, should completely destroy the media analysis which has already been prepared to debunk most of what they think I intend to say—and simply lay it on the line, speak from the heart. Perhaps, since this is my last opportunity to speak to this august body, and I no longer have the need to consider reelection, this occasion lends itself to a candid appraisal as well,” he said with a broad smile, invoking a burst of laughter from the assembly.

“As the idea of an independent America began,” Eastman continued, “we had the opportunity to avail ourselves of the combined knowledge and best thinking of the previous centuries. Certainly, we had to fight our way free, and in the heat of that battle, we formed the basis for our new nation: Freedom and equality for all, even if it did take us another hundred years to extend that freedom to all who lived here. ‘
E
Pluribus
Unum,’
the Founding Fathers declared. ‘Out of many, one!’

“And now, it seems one of the states in this blessed Union has made that determination for itself, has given us reason to pause, has caused us to consider our diversity and our increasingly intrusive federal system—has sought to bid us farewell.”

This was unlike any previous presidential address Rawlings had ever heard. Almost a history lesson, absent party rhetoric contrived to take the credit and shift the blame. Indeed, Rawlings sat enthralled as Eastman seemed to throw caution to the wind and speak what he perceived to be the truth. It was evident that Eastman was building to something, and it wasn’t just the traditional regurgitation of accomplishments during the prior year.

“Americans all,” he reiterated, “‘with malice toward none, with charity for all,’ as President Lincoln said. And as Alexander Hamilton once said, ‘Here, sir, the people govern.’ Mighty words, if true. But are they still true? Or have we abandoned the principles for which this nation once stood? How did we get to this point in history? A cursory study of history will show us. We’ve allowed secret combinations of devious men, and occasionally women, to meet together in clandestine gatherings, to undermine the very fabric of our society. Don’t for a moment think it is only the criminal element. More of those secret meetings were held in
this
building than were convened on Wall Street.